What better motivation than mortification?

Way back in the fall of 2002, I decided at the last moment that I would apply for the Marshall Scholarship so that I could study literature in England for a year or two. Like so many goals I had that year, this one was hazy at best, and my application essay was fueled by the usual heady blend of caffeine and sheer panic. Nonetheless, I got called for an on-campus interview with a panel of five professors.

My preparation for the interview consisted of taking a nap, wearing eyeshadow, and making sure I didn't tuck my skirt into my underwear. In some ways, I'm glad I didn't spend too much time getting ready for what turned out to be THE WORST INTERVIEW OF MY LIFE.

Sometimes, situations are so overwhelming or horrifying that your instincts kick in, leading you to fight or flee. Sadly, my instincts are defunct, and I opted for giving the most inane, nonsensical, and borderline offensive answers to each of the friendly, yet penetrating questions asked by the panel. It's all a blur now, but as I think about it, I still feel queasy with shame.

The only part I remember clearly is being asked if I thought learning a foreign language was an important part of a liberal arts education. And I said, "No," which was perhaps the worst answer I've ever given. Regret instantly set in as I watched every professor scribble madly on his or her notepad (probably something along the lines of: "This girl is a waste of financial aid."). Needless to say, I was not a Marshall Scholar that year.

The silver lining of this story is that guilt and shame are tremendously motivating, as is that old desire to be at the top of my class. Which means that I have started to take my weekly Spanish class way too seriously, and am worried beyond reason about the fact that I cannot understand the grammar of indirect objects. Sadly, this is pretty much all I can think about, when I'm not thinking about food, sex, work, or that elusive five-year plan. I'm starting to feel a little conspicuous among my coworker classmates, all of whom are attorneys and/or engaged, and therefore too busy to think too much about their Spanish skills. So I find myself raising my hand too stridently, leaping a little too fast to answer the question, as though by getting it right, I could erase the mortification of THE WORST INTERVIEW EVER five years after the fact.

Or maybe I am just an incurable brown-noser. Hard to tell.


Listening to: "Poor Aim: Love Songs," The Blow.

Reading: The Labyrinth of Solitude, Octavio Paz; The Book of Disquiet (albeit very slowly), Fernando Pessoa (as Bernardo Soares); and Windflower, Nick Bantock.

Recently cooking: bean and cheese quesadillas on corn tortillas.

Tristeza

Update: No more tristeza! My friend eventually got in touch with me and we met up two nights later. Two bottles of wine and three pounds of Thai food later, our friendship was back on its feet.




I spent a few hours by myself this afternoon, walking around various Smithsonians in Washington, DC. Traveling by myself always makes me reflective in a way that I almost never am, even when I'm alone at home or traveling with someone. I feel kind of dreamy and melancholy; I walk slowly, thoughtfully. I wander into walls.

Around 5:30, after the Museum of the American Indian closed, I decided to walk down (or up?) 7th Street to the Gallery Place Metro Station. The sun was setting, and all the buildings seemed limned with hazy gold, like the "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" interlude in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It's the kind of light that makes you ache for a reason to be sentimental, because the sun is asking you to remember that last hour of light from every summer day since you were a kid.

Today, I was feeling down because an old lost friend had stood me up for lunch. I don't know if I would have been more upset if we were still good friends. I guess that somehow I expected a better effort because we had so much time to make up for. And when I walked out onto the National Mall, into a burning beautiful evening, I wanted to cry for the loveliness of it and for my own pathetic self.

Lunch of Champions

Vegetarian Shepherd's Pie a la Palatial Quarters

1) Find a tupperware-type container
2) Dump in some frozen mixed vegetables
3) Toss a couple frozen veggie sausage links on top
4) Add about 8 tater tots
5) Sprinkle in various herbs and spices
6) Microwave and mush together
7) EAT

If Deborah Madison ever needs some help, she knows where to find me. Let's do lunch, Debs!

Indie boys through the years and why I hate them

I was listening to Sufjan Stevens's Seven Swans a moment ago, when his twee little voice just started to piss me off. Just sing, man! Possibly, the Jesus-heavy content of his songs was also to blame for my insta-hatred. I'm getting tired of soft-voiced dudes and their sweet little songs--do you hear me, Sam Beam?! We're supposed to swoon for the humorless "poetic" imagery in these goons' songs, when in fact they're just tapping into the same hipster/yuppie collective unconscious that makes everyone name their kid Emma, Jack, Jacob, or Madeline. Ride the zeitgeist, fellas!

Anyway, my mood has improved with a heaping helping of Odetta. Hot damn, I love that woman. Give me a woman with a big voice and awesome songwriting/interpreting skills any damn day of the week.

Dork alert: Think of these indie white boyz as Wordsworth--popular and occasionally interesting, but ultimately irritating and unfulfilling. Eventually, you're tempted to smack him about the chops a bit just to make his pain real.

You're much better off finding yourself some Marvell or, to fast-forward to the 20th century, some Philip Larkin. Not only was Larkin a librarian (shout out to the Manfriend!), but he was a loner who wrote scathingly brilliant, sad, and funny poems. His earlier poems kind of rub me the wrong way, but once he gets going, watch out. I'll post my two favorite Larkin poems soon: "The Whitsun Weddings" and "Aubade." Melancholy and reflective, these have both affected me greatly over the past few weeks.

At long last

Oh, so many things have changed since August. For one, I got that job I was crossing my fingers for! And...that's about it.

Let's face it: drastic changes are few and far between in the life of a typical job-having adult in a steady relationship. Maybe too few and far between for my liking, but there you have it. I wonder sometimes what sort of adventures I ought to be pursuing in foreign lands, and if my ages 21-26 will simply be summed up in future years with a shrug and a, "Well, I guess I was spinning my wheels for half a decade."

So, a minor change for 2007 will be the reacquisition of semi-fluency in Spanish. De verdad.

And in the long term, it looks like grad school is on the horizon. Very exciting. Look for me in a Master's of Public Policy program, Class of 2010.

As far as Manfriend is concerned, well, he's a constant in the ever-changing equation of my future. So I've got that going for me.

Which is nice.