Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Get Custard

Well, I guess I'm out of the running for NaBloPoMo, although since I started five days late, I suppose I was never actually in the running, but still. Yep, I missed posting yesterday. My failure is as ashes in my mouth.

Such is life.

Back to the pumpkin spice! (Ah yes, just when you thought you were off the hook.):

3. Pumpkin spice custard: I learned this autumn that the Historical K and I share a love of all things pumpkin spice, so it was with delight that I listened as she raved about the fact that one of her favorite treats was back for the season. She insisted that we leave immediately to gain a delectable and I, all curious and unknowing, eagerly went along for the ride. Where do we arrive at but Rusty's. Rusty's and I are old friends, I have long had a passion for their chocolate raspberry concoction as well as a short, illicit affair with a chocolate marshmellow delicacy. In the three years that I've lived in Norman, I never knew that Rusty's had pumpkin spice custard in the autumn. I felt betrayed, wounded, slighted - and then I tried the custard.
Rusty's is forgiven, I have been bought off by sweet, sweet custard, but the sting still lingers in my heart. There were three autumns that I could have been enjoying this custard - nine months of pumpkin custardlessness! The custard melts bitter-sweetly in my mouth even now.
I guess I'll have to get the large size from now on. Just to make up for lost time, of course.

"How to Outrun Maniacs in 5 Simple Lessons"

I'm honestly too tired to have much to say tonight - the pumpkin spice posts are on hold until tomorrow, so much for that 12-step program - so this will be a short entry. Actually, it's just going to be a question:

What book could you not do without? (Feel free to make up your own situation. Stranded on a beach, locked in a cell, outrunning a crazed foot fetishist. Your call.)

Till tommorrow!

Spiciness Part II

Yay, I'm actually continuing this post! I sometimes have problems finishing things I start, most notably papers, so I feel this is something like the first step of the 12-step program for procrastinators. But onward to the real point of the post!

2. Pumpkin spice lattes: I actually didn't discover these amazing creations until last Christmas with one of my dearest friends, Redhead. I was visiting her in St. Louis and we were wandering through the mall, not really Christmas shopping so much as window-shopping as something to do while we talked, when we ran across a Starbucks. Normally I avoid Starbucks, if I'm going to pay $4 for coffee, Id really rather actually be able to taste coffee, but Redhead began talking about needing intravenious caffeine and got in line so I went to keep her company. So we're standing there and suddenly I see a festive chalk sign for their seasonal drinks - now I may not like their coffee, but I'm always up for sugar - so we decide to split one. Choice? Pumpkin spice. (Of course. Don't you remember the donuts?) We sit down on a bench and drink and chat; it was a very special moment, reconnecting after so many months of hit-and-miss phone calls. So I suppose Starbucks can keep on existing, even with their weak coffee. At least during the autumn.

Pumpkin Spice!

I was recently reminded of my love of all things pumpkin spice by Rebecca, so you get to hear me ramble about that for a bit. Hey, it's Day 9, people, the bottom of the barrel has just begun to be scraped. Enjoy the coherent entries while they last.

I feel the need for a list for this:

1. Pumpkin spice cake doughnuts: Krispy Kreme clearly decided that I was eating too healthy one year when I was in high school and came out with these delectable beauties for the autumn. On weekends I would actually make up errands to my parents that were located in the vicinity of the Krispy Kreme just on the off chance that they would stop by when the Hot Doughnut sign lit up. If they ever read this, there will be a sudden lightbulb atop their heads, "Oh! That explains all of the times she needed pens. And notebooks. And staples. And shoes." Then I would be killed. On the bright side, I'm only now running low on pens.

One of the saddest moments of my college years, well a sad moment at the least, has been when the Krispy Kreme in Norman shut its fragrant doors. This was the place that, when my roommate at the time, the Best Roommate Ever, was set to take her seven hour practise MCAT [Edit: Practise GRE? What? Oops, changed.] we went to at ridiculous-o'clock in the morning to convince her that she was not going to come home that night a failure, that she was indeed brilliant, and that all right just-in-case we could totally move to California and become beach bums for a living if she failed miserably. Plus we had to make sure she had enough caffeine and sugar to survive the ordeal. Seven hours?! For that long, you should make it into a med program if you survive and don't run off into the night shrieking, "Chromosomes! Neutrons! Photosynthesis! Ahhhhh!" To add insult to injury, they replaced Krispy Kreme with a BBQ place. BBQ. They really think that's going to help the sense of loss?

What other pumpkin spiciness thrills my soul? Find out tomorrow! (Why yes, a cliffhanger did just occur to me. Look, I need time to come up with another topic or you'll be subjected to monologues about the awful shade of carpet at work. And no one wants that.)

Why Movies Should Not be Allowed in Our House

Conversation upon discovering that our copy of Stigmata has an alternate ending:

Historical K: In the first one did the priest and the chick end up doing it at the end?
Bad Vegan: It was really vague. They were in the park with the birds and then he found the scroll-thing.
Sunny: But he wasn't a priest in the scroll scene, right? No collar.
HK: Maybe in the alternate ending there's hot priest sex!
S: But he wasn't a priest anymore...
HK: Hot priest sex!

- We watch the ending. Girl dies. -

BV: Well, I guess that means no hot priest sex.
S: Unless he's into necrophilia.
BV: Hot priest necrophilia!
HK: Wait. She died? But she was with the birds... no hot priest sex?
BV: No, HK. No hot priest sex. I'm sorry.

A Depressing Post for Those Interested in Columbian Expeditions

I was searching for lost books in the stacks on Monday, an activity akin to searching for a pointy needle in a barrel full of other pointy needles organized by a blind chimpanzee on crack, when I realized one of my greatest pet peeves. I hadn't even known it was a peeve until this point, which I didn't think was possible. Can you be annoyed by something even if you don't know you're being annoyed by it? Hm, very zen, like that whole 'tree-falling' conundrum. In any case, I have unilaterally decided that, yes, I can be annoyed without knowing it for years. To hell with years of philosophical debate; I say yes, and yes it is.

Back to my point, however, I hate that I wasn't born knowing every written language on the face of the earth. And, really, what were my parents thinking?! They should have been inundating me with every known language since I was born, instead of focusing on that pesky 'learning-to-walk' thing. What prompted this stunning realization, you ask? The Chinese literature waiting patiently in the stacks. There I was innocently trying to find a book about Columbian expeditions, while wondering who actually intentionally found it to lose it in the first place, when I run across these books, hundreds of books, that I cannot read.

Telling me I can't read something? Apparently major pet peeve.

I love books, a fact that I'm sure you with your genius level skills of intuition have picked up on by now, and there should not be any book on this planet that I cannot read. It violates the laws of physics. Or something. Which led me to thinking about all those people in the world who have never had the opportunity to learn how to read in one language, let alone every language. Which led me to wondering how it must feel to pick up a book, any book in the world, and not be able to read a single world. Which led to incredible feelings of frustration, a decision to teach the entire world to read, and the recollection that I am a terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad teacher. All of which basically meant that I spent quite a bit of time on Monday morning standing on the first basement level of the library, staring at a piece of Chinese literature (I assume), and growing increasingly maudlin.

(In case you actually kept up with the plot, I did eventually go back to working, although I did not manage to find that blasted book. Though I did find two others that had gone missing. So does that count as a success?)

In conclusion, (yep, there are occasional conclusions, but don't get too used to it) I learned yesterday that the Historical K has been accepted into Teach for America, where she will go to Houston's inner city to teach kids how to read, so I now know where I'm going to donate my money once I'm rich and famous. Or maybe at any point where I have money that doesn't go directly to keeping me alive. If I can't teach, I can at least help those who can, right?

And I enrolled in a beginning Chinese course for the spring semester. One language at a time, I will take over the world! Muah, hahaha. And then I will institute mandatory literacy for everyone. And tea. Tea for everyone. Whoo, I've already gone mad with power!

Is It Better to Show Up Late or Not at All?

Well, I apparently missed the beginning of NaBloPoMo. (An acronym that I have yet to figure out, though I assume it's somehow related to NaNoWriMo. Or there are two people in the world who like to make me giggle over random syllables that sound like they should be an actual word to the point where I've tried them out in sentences. Which led to more giggling.) In any case, I've decided that will not deter me from attempting to post an entry every day for the rest of November. I only missed - what? - five days? I can so catch up.

Well, I could if I had anything to say.

Oh, wait, I do have news! I'm moving on December 1st to a lovely little efficiency that is begging me to sign lease papers. Yes, I will finally have a home all to myself, so I will no longer begin the 'five-block-prayer,' an apt phrase for the way that I begin praying that there is no one in my house for the last five blocks before I can see the driveway. It has changed over time, moving from the 'five-step-prayer' in the dorms to the 'five-stairs-prayer' at my last two apartments until its current incarnation, but the presence of such a desperate pleading at least once a day for the past three and a half years has led me to believe that I am perhaps better suited to living on my own. At least until I can find a roommate who believes in the sanctity of silence, particularly when one's roommate has to get up at insane-o'clock and it's already after eleven and who the hell cleans the kitchen at eleven-o'clock at night anyway with the added sin of very loud country music? As perhaps too-convincingly evinced by that last sentence, I need to move before I consider offing my current roommates. They deserve better. After all, she was cleaning the kitchen. And then the bathroom, the living room, the hallway, the hall closet, and her own room. Cleanliness should be encouraged. Particularly after my last Roommate-From-the-Lower-Depths-of-Hades. But honestly, eleven? Midnight? One? Ad infinitum?

Okay, deep breaths.

I am very excited about moving. Partially, of course, because I'm going stark raving mad, but also because I just like to move. It's the perfect excuse to go through my belongings and organize, to clean out all the useless stuff I've accumulated, to make lists of what to pack and where to put things like books and shoes. This is the point where my friends begin looking at me like I'm speaking a rare dialect of Swahili, but I know precisely who to blame. My mother. Not only did she teach me how to move with every military order my Dad received, she also passed along the genes that cause one to take an unholy delight, generally reserved for a fully stocked dessert bar, in a completely organized room. She's also the one who taught me to read, sew, cook, stress, worry, and panic prematurely. My Dad taught me to procrastinate and got me addicted to the internet and rock music. The combination of these elements has often been disastrous.

I think I derailed my topic, but my initial points were:
1. I'm going to be blogging through November.
2. I'm moving!
3. I'm currently being driven to slowly mad.
4. But I'm moving!
5. And I'm excited about getting to pack!
6. Wow, that was a really short list for the amount of words it took to express those ideas.

Right, so I'll see you tomorrow, with absolutely nothing to say. Again. So at least you're used to it, right?