Temptation

If given the chance, I think that Ali and Oliver would become fast friends.

I'll admit that at first glance they don't seem to have a lot in common. Ali's a fashion major; Oliver studied trees... or nature... or whatever it is that those Environmental Science and Public Policy folks actually study. Soong can manipulate all manner of technology using only a paper clip, a piece of string, and a few good wishes; Ali knows how to program the VCR. "What would they talk about?" you ask bemusedly. The answer, my friends, is kleptomania.

Yes, Ali and Oliver share a love of redistributing resources, specifically those belonging to others. While Oliver is a master of the grandiose, impressive theft (chairs from our high-security freshman dining hall, anyone?), Ali prefers the more subtle artistry of the tableware heist (coffee cups, spoons, sugar packet holders, and the like). Put them together and you can tastefully redesign your dining room for free!

Or, at least, you will be able to come mid-April. Ali's on the wagon, you see; she's given up stealing for Lent. Here's to resisting temptation, at least for a few weeks...

The After-Effects of Toddler-Taming

If you spend five hours each morning with several pint-sized people who speak in babbling screeches occasionally interrupted by discernible words like, "No!" and "Apple!" and "[S]top!", you may very well find that your inner monologue at times presents itself in limited-vocabulary conversation, such that upon turning out your bedroom light you become guilty of thinking, in all seriousness, "It is night-night time."

Night-night.

The Ides of March

Shakespeare tells us (well, Julius Caesar, really, but aren't we all little Roman dictators, to some degree?) to beware this day. "Why, oh Bard, why?" we ask bemusedly. "Why should we fear when spring is nigh, offering respite from the long and chilling winter?"

It's not because the Ides of March 2006 have granted Minnesota its second snowstorm this week, nor is it due to a certain, shall we say, madness (heh!) for sport that sweeps the nation around this time each year. No, the Ides of March are to be dreaded since they signify the anniversary of the birth of JASON!... and that - friends, Romans, countrypeople, dictators - is an event of awesome significance that should indeed be feared.

"These Wrinkles Masterfully Disguise"

Pat to Michal, on aging gracefully together:

"When we are old, will you promise not to talk to me when you're in the other room?"

The Stuff of Bad Slumber Party Films

Such is the level of procrastination in Caza fon Almily that when I, propelled by an utter loathing of the prospect of further bonding with Microsoft Word, whined, "I want someone to blow dry my hair," not fifteen minutes ago, Ali, propelled by a complete hatred of the idea of continuing to thread her sewing machine, replied:

"Sure!"

with sincere enthusiasm.

We have now moved that much closer to living the slumber party cliché; goodness knows we already giggle madly while jumping on a small trampoline in our living room. I'm just awaiting the inevitable pillow fight that seals our fate.

That About Which I Am Not Well Pleased

Every morning, I drive through a tunnel. It's a little tunnel - three lanes, one curve, approximately two seconds of interrupted radio signal. The lanes are separated by solid white lines that begin and end a few meters beyond the tunnel's physical structure. In my mind, the meaning of these lines is clear: pick a lane, and then stay in that lane until you've emerged at the other side of the tunnel, blinking as the sun reappears. The minds of many of my co-commuters, however, seem to process the message of the white lines in a slightly different manner: "Pick a lane, and then disregard the fact that solid lines might indicate anything other than, 'Go ahead, frolic among lanes to your heart's content.'"

Each time I approach the tunnel, I contemplate changing lanes. Each time, I am physically prevented from doing so, so strong is my reaction to the appearance of the solid white lines. Meanwhile, the cars around me blithely flash red blinkers and cross the ineffectual painted barriers left and right.

I mean, seriously, people of Minnesota? You really find the thought of remaining behind the pickup going fifty for the half-minute it takes to traverse the tunnel so repugnant that you are compelled to scoot over a lane into the tiny sliver of space behind the sedan going fifty-two?

Well, apparently you do. Glad we had that talk.