Foux Da Fa Fa

It doesn't get much better than this:

I do (and I really really don't)

Where is the line between « relationships » and friendships? When does friendly become flirtatious, and when does being playful equal being a tease? Was Harry right? Is it impossible for a guy and a girl to ever truly be friends?

It sometimes seems as though the minute one begins to contemplate the apparently fine line between friendship and that «something more,» the line immediately disintegrates, and one finds themselves in that messy, grey, dangerous area fraught with the emotional entanglements of the relationally-confused. However, as humans seem to be incapable of contemplating anything but that fine line, it seems as though the line has no chance of ever really surviving before it is contemplated right out of existence.

In an era where relationships are the fall-back topic of conversation, the subject that we jump to in order to fill even the briefest of conversational pauses, the line has been given an increasingly short shelf-life. In fact, we seem to be using the line as sour cream before it ever had a chance to experience life as milk. Do we create relationship issues with friends in order to avoid the banality of comfortable friendship? Or do others create relational conflict for us and our friends so that they can enjoy the angst without having to trouble with the emotional investment themselves? And inevitably, does this growing obsession with relationship dysfunction strip me of my freedom to be friends with a guy without having unreasonably romantic expectations piled on the relationship?

Heck, I’m terrified to even hug a guy now for fear it’ll be read as a come-hither gesture. What would they do if I pulled out some bisous?

This is just another reason why I love les Français!

A short walk from the bus stop

I stole
from a tree today

The ruby breath that was singing
around and through her slender throat
beckoned to me
and I to it

and so I stole
from a tree

and I smiled
as I did so.

9:15

The universe was designed to break your heart.

An unreasonable (& bloody understandable) chimera

I feel flat.

I should know better by now, in all my vast blogging experience, that post-midnight blogging is dangerous and leads to the spilling of secrets better kept tucked safely away. But as I can't even formulate an interesting thought, let alone a scandalous one, I think my secrets will stay safe for tonight.

The mind is an amazing thing. When I most depend on it, it abandons me completely. Instead, at the most inappropriate times, it manages to turn a seemingly innocuous road of thought barren of any overhanging branches of intrigue or romance into a brambly path of doubt, a breathless well of anticipation, or even a misty field of unfairly expropriated glamour.

Am I talking of my mind...
or my heart?

lurk /lɜrk/ Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–verb (used without object)
1. to lie or wait in concealment, as a person in ambush; remain in or around a place secretly or furtively.
2. to go furtively; slink; steal.
3. to exist unperceived or unsuspected.
4. Chiefly Computers. to read or observe an ongoing discussion without participating in it, as in an Internet newsgroup. –noun Australian Informal.
5. an underhand scheme; dodge.
6. an easy, somewhat lazy or unethical way of earning a living, performing a task, etc.
7. a hideout.


A hiatus is said to be healthy, even essential, as it permits a time of reflection and a gain of new perspective. In my hiatus from my blog, I gained one very startling new perspective: apparently, I have lurkers.

The notion that people actually read this blog was disquieting enough. But that people read it and don’t leave comments… It’s like being hounded by a stalker who doesn't want to invest enough effort to leave you sinister notes or potentially poisoned chocolates. It’s just a little embarrassing.

Then again, I know some of the comments I’m tempted to make to myself after posting an entry. Maybe a little anonymity, even more so than new perspective, is healthier for everyone in the long run.

Train the monkeys on my back to fight

How can the slam of a car door,
the click of a window shutting,
the dry snap of a turned calendar page
be equivalent to the change of an entire season?

Fall 2007 – I saw that written today for the first time on the cover page of the Travaux dirigés pour Chapitre I in my Chimie des elements réprésentatifs class. « Fall 2007 » is so much more than just a season and a date, it’s the beginning of something significant in the lives of students circling the globe. For me, it’s the beginning of Year 3 of degree, Year 3 of choice, Year 3 of stepping hesitantly and courageously and ridiculously forward into the world I hope… know… ache for… to one day be my own.

It’s a season of change. Fall always has been, and will continue to be. God knows us too well and sculpts us so intimately in each veined, embarrassed blush on each protective tree that hugs us in its shadow on our walk to wherever it is we’re devoting our next eight months.

I am devoted to here, and I feel that my choice to be here is an act of devotion to the One I believe has placed me here. And yet I rebel against being here because it means forcing my mind to stretch eight months in advance… and then what? I’m terrified that my choices now are slowly smudging away at the choices I thought I didn’t have to make. And though I revelled in the thought of not yet making them, now I’m aching at the thought that I may never have to. I’m hurting with incertitude. And tearing apart with frustration at the same time.

Happy September.

Happy May Day? April Fools! February Free Month!

February 28 2007:


After my Chimie organique miterme, I had two hours to study for my Physics test. It was not pretty. The test was not pretty . My fingernails after the test were not pretty. When I went to hand my paper in, Mr. Schraeder eagerly asked, "So, was it hard? easy?"

I just looked at him. Then I simply said, "I felt really dumb doing that test."

His face fell. Poor guy. He kept assuring me not to worry. I think he just felt guilty.

I sailed out of that room propelled by stress, exhuastion, some extreme frustration and also some brimming humour. I made rapidly for my car with one thought on my mind:

I'm getting home, getting Mom, and going to DQ.

While during the test I had been fighting tears of frustration, now I was merely fighting oncoming drivers in my hurry to get home. I pulled up, parked haphazardly and ran inside.

"Mom," I cried with an edge to my voice (impatience for a Blizzard, but apparently that wasn't as obvious to everyone else as it was to me.)

"She smashed the car," my brother ascertained.

"What is it?" Mom whispered anxiously as she bustled into the corner where I was unceremoniously dumping my Physics binder, obviously anticipating my need for emotional support.

"Can we go somewhere?" I asked.

"DQ?" she said immediately, her eyes brightening.

And that is why I love my mom.


We drove not to one, but to two locations, and both were closed. at 21h30!! Do they not realize that beyond-stressed students feel the pangs of ice-cream even at 21h30? Especially at 21h30!

I was getting desperate. Note: very desperate. So we pulled into a McDonald's. I oredered an Oreo McFlurry, Mom a chocolate sundae. Sean refused on behalf of his higher ethical standards in regards to the service at McDo's... or something. Whatever: ethical principles do not apply to ice-cream, my friend.

My salvation arrived and I took a bite...

Only to grimace.

Smarties. They had dared to give me a Smarties McFlurry. The one chocolate (besides macaroons and icy squares) that I actually hate.

So we circled back to the drive-in window.

"Hey!" I bellowed through the miniscule window. "You gave me Smarties!!"

"Excuse me?" the girl questioned timidly, looking a little confused.

I could not blame her. We sleep-deprived, study-drugged students are a perplexing bunch.

"SMARTIES!" I ennunciated, leaning across my complacent mother in the driver's seat. "I ordered Oreo and you gave me Smarties!"

Still bewildered, she instructed us to continue to the next window, where they would "take care of the problem."

We obediently pulled up and confronted yet another anxious employee.

"What is she doing?" I hissed. "It looks like she's making..."

"Here you go," she mumbled and quickly slid the window shut.

And on the last day of February Free Month, we scored not only a free McFlurry, but a free chocolate sundae as well. I suppose if part of our order was wrong, they didn't want to risk infuriating us with the other half!

Throat clears.

Please take note that the documentation of the inspiring finale to February Free Month will be arriving shortly.

I would like to thank the incompetance of the McDonald's employees.
Without them, this wouldn't have been possible.

Steps down to applause.

If you find yourself caught in love

February Free Month is rapidly coming to a close, and my bragging rights are growing fainter. My family would be ashamed of me. Free count for this month: a Corona from the bartender at Academy Lanes. Pretty pathetic.

But it was really good.

St. V's Day, one of my favourite, should-be-statutory holidays, was such a lovely day:
We leave the somnolent hamlet of Benito around noon (anticipated departure: 10:00am, not too bad) and arrive at my cousin's home around 18:30. I make the responsible decision to skip my class that night and stay the night at my cousin's instead. We make our way to the bowling alley, where we celebrate Hearts Day with some of the most inadvertently ridiculous bowling I have ever experienced. A bartender begins to poke fun at my bowling in a drawling, quasi-flirtatious tone. I am both amused and annoyed and ready to sharply reprimand him. Realize that bartender knows me from class. Ask bartender for free bowling, and when that is deemed unattainable, he offers free drinks instead. Good enough for me!

There is something about Valentine's Day that is so completely lovable. It may be the colours, the candy, the impractical tiny cards, or just the encircling sweetness of the day. All I know is that the Lilliputian envelopes emblazoned with curlicued names and bearing my signature will not be ceasing any year too soon.


If you find yourself caught in love
Say a prayer to the man above
Thank him for everything you know
You should thank him for every breath you blow
If you find yourself caught in love
Say a prayer to the man above
You should thank him for every day you pass
Thank him for saving your sorry ass...

Is it wicked not to care?

Do you know what I realized on today's grouchy, blustery, Monday-morning ride to school? 2 weeks til' Reading Week, baby. If I can survive past this Wednesday, I can make it until the end. And while I may not be flying off to tropical locales or even locales with more than 400 residents, I am taking a road trip with my favourite cousines and mi madre up to the sleepy town of Benito, whose old-timey charm and sweet exterior is only magnified by the vicious gossips peering out from behind lace-chintz curtains. Let's see if I can hold my head up after my last visit while still giving them all something to talk about...

In other news: I went out on a date Saturday night. I was just complaining to my sister last week how casual dating has all but disappeared, replaced by the notion that if you ask someone to coffee, suddenly you're courting and essentially engaged. And if not, then you're obviously promiscuous. Maybe that's only in Baptist circles.

Anyways, I was blown away by how clichéd the asking part was. While the words were struggling to climb from his mouth, I had very maturely covered the receiver with my hand and was giggling spasmodically. I didn't think it actually happened like that in real life. The date itself was surprisingly unawkward and extremely enjoyable. But a Round 2 would have to be firmly placed in "Friends Only" territory. A dating relationship at this point is just not worth ruining a beautiful biochem friendship over.

Just noticed how fast the widget is flipping those movies past. Wow. Going to give me a seizure. I really hope that calms down a little bit.

I left my washing in the launderette

What is wrong with all of you? I figure out how to post a widget on my blog - not only that, but I discover that the word "widget" exists - and no one even comments on it! This is a high-tech blog coming from an extremely technologically-challenged blogger! Show some appreciation!

My mother is holidaying in the East right now. In a museum, she stumbled upon a Orthodox celebration of Jesus' baptism (conducted in Ukrainian), and was able to console and distract an extremely bored French priest by translating the liturgy for him. What a mom: such a crusader in bridging the cultural gaps of our country!

I am attempting, for the umpteenth (literally umpteenth - count it) time, to stop chewing my nails. I've made more progress than ever before; I actually have visible nails! But now the skin around my cuticles has grown out to the dry, extremely-satisfying chewable stage, and it's so tempting. I can hear it tempting me. Today in microbiologie, I sat there and was so consumed with cravings to chew that I tried to console myself with imagining exactly how I would chew my cuticles off if I still actually chewed my nails - which I don't, of course. And then the temptation was too great and I chewed them ferociously for a good 10 minutes. Argh. Now I have bandaids over all my fingers to help myself along.

It's lunch (well, 10:45, so close enough), and time for some couscous. And thus endeth the entry that makes all other rambling entries look foolish.

The end.

To claim as love what could be emptiness

Happy 2007 to all my readers in absentia… and by absentia, I mean non-existence.

January 07 saw the annual advent of starched white shirts with flowing sleeves and crisp embroidery, parched onion-skin pages tucked inside the oily black covers of battered hymn books, groaning tables that differed in no way from any other holiday, birthday, or afternoon chi except for the glaring lack of meatballs and turkey:
It was Ukrainian Christmas. Христос Народився! Christ is born!

January 07 soothed my soul and filled me with the Christmas spirit I had longed for during the December holidays. And I think the shift in spirit can be found merely by looking at the traditional Ukrainian Christmas greeting: not Merry Christmas, which means so little to so many. But Christ is born. Christ is born. Why do we celebrate? Because he came. Why can we be filled with joy? Because he saved us. Christ with us. Christ mass. Christ is born.

And even though we didn’t throw kutya at the ceiling, as tradition demands, to see if the coming year would be prosperous, and even though (or I suppose because of the fact) we didn’t throw the kutya at my Baba, no matter how much she deserved it, I think this year will be a good one.

Christ is born. Christ is with us. And so we celebrate.