The One Who Birthed the Reason for the Season

Had my Christmas songs on shuffle as I drove home from a half-day of work, getting in the mood for tonight and tomorrow, looking forward to taking off from work until Jan 4, and one of my top five Christmas songs came on. I decided to link to it on the blog as a way to get back into this swing of this here online journal. But I was utterly disappointed with the versions of the song I could find on-line.

Back in 1996, I attended the Notre Dame Glee Club's Christmas concert and was absolutely amazed breathless by their rendition of Franz Biebl's Ave Maria. Unfortunately, the versions now available by the NDGC, while pretty, lack all of the punch that the 1996 crew managed. In fact, the song sounds almost like a dirge in the current production. I'm not sure if the director changed or what, but in 1996, the song built to a powerful crescendo that brought tears to my eyes and made me want to thank every single man on that stage for giving me one of those musical experiences that I carry with me and treasure. (This is the version, much to my delight, immortalized on the CD I bought while a student but no longer available for ya'll to enjoy.)

Instead, I shall share another of my top five Christmas songs.

Things to Make You Smile, In Case the Long Weekend Isn't Enough

1. Mark had an interview yesterday that went very well. Keep those fingers crossed and the prayers and good thoughts comin' as they're obviously working.

2. #5 Michigan just lost to Appalachain State. At Michigan. For the season opener. During the innaugural broadcast of the Big Ten Network. Understandably, the Big Ten Network announcers are now all over themselves, talking the game up as the biggest upset in college football history (which, if you've gotta go back to the 50s to get anything comparable, it likely is) in order to put some sort of spin on their first broadcast of the Big Ten's marquee team. Warms my heart it does. I feel for whomever Michigan is playing next week. That's going to be one ugly game.

3. Notre Dame's star QB recruit was injured over the summer and isn't starting, and the starter fumbled the ball not two minutes into the game. This makes me smile because, win or lose, we're playing Georgia Tech, a team with valid Top 25 aspirations just like us. If we lose, we still get to laugh ourselves silly at the Wolverines.

4. In case the International Pixel-stained Technopeasant Wretch Day kerfuffle wasn't enough to amuse you about how some science fiction writers seem to fear the future, read up on the latest from the Discover-endorsed standard-bearer of science fiction and fantasy writers in America.

5. #4 would be even more entertaining were it not for the fact that it seems there is a trend that writing orgs have internet slapfights that seem extraordinarily ironic for their genre. Every year or every other year, there seems to be a big RWA scandal involving authors who dress a bit too naughty at conventions or try to sell their much-too-steamy books. I predict the Mystery Writers of America will have some sort of huge falling out in the ranks about the identity of a writer satirizing them under a pseudonym within the next five months, just for parity's sake.

6. We're going camping starting tomorrow morning (have a family BBQ this afternoon), so we should have more pictures of the Drew Monster getting crazy dirty while roughing it soon.

Have a great Labor Day Weekend.

Bit o' Stress*

Last week Operation Find New Job (Part Deux) took its toll on the household. Beginnings of depressions, bruised egos, flaring tempers, insomnia. The Works. The goal for this week is to try and fold in this piece of insanity a bit better so we can function as a family to support each other through it. Blogging may continue to be sparse to non-existent.

*Likely because I needed a touch of happy ridiculousness today, thinking up this title reminded me of that god-awful candy Bit 0' Honey. (I would say it's a refreshingly true product name except for the fact that they don't tell you that the bit of honey is mixed in with sawdust.) This icky concoction is (or was; hopefully he's come to his senses) the fave sweet of former Fighting Irish Coach Lou Holtz. A group of friends in our brother dorm were Lou Holtz Fanboys to the Extreme!!! They made it a point every year (no matter that our freshman year was the man's last year coaching the Irish) to write him and ask if he, in his Magnificience, would be so kind as to watch an away game with their humble selves in their meager dorm rec room or if we would deign to come and impart his Noble Wisdom to their ignorant dormmates, or somesuch. They always had a bowl of Bit O' Honey candies (and Diet Coke, another reported fave) on hand just in case His Worthy might drop in unannounced despite sending very polite and often personalized "Thanks but no thanks" responses to all of their requests. I think one day he did drop in for a quick visit. If one of the group ever reads this, I'm sure I'll be labeled a heretic or blasphemer for not remembering the details of this visit down to the way he had his shoes tied.

An Argument My Cell Bio Prof Should Heed

Back in the terrifying academic year that was my sophomore year of college, I had a nemesis: my cellular biology professor. This guy threw everything but the kitchen sink at you in his power point slide lectures (he expected you to know about the kitchen sink by reading the course text book, which was a hefty 1000 pages). The slides were so overloaded that text and images often did not fully fit on them or were so small that, even sitting in the first row or five of the lecutre hall, you had to lean forward, squint, and argue with the guy sitting next to you if that word was "mitosis" or "meiosis." The professor also would not in general refer to the text, but talk tangentially to it, and we were required to know the information contained in his verbal diarrhea as well.

There were two ways you could pass that class: ace the lab portion (which wasn't separated like most other science classes) or track down people from previous years who had literally copied by hand every test after he posted them on his office window and memorize the answers (he never changed his tests; truly stupid in such a dynamic field of science). I didn't know about the latter until the day of the final, so I thought the former was the only way. Becaus I learned after the first test that studying and knowing the material wasn't going to get you far--there was too much of it to retain for the tests--I went with the former option and kicked the stuffing out of the lab portion.

Well, I was trolling Making Light's Particles for something interesting for my Sunday Grab-bag post, and I found something I would've loved to have shoved down that prof's throat. A very detailed and interesting breakdown of how NASA abused power point (not intentionally, but because of the same thinking that led my prof to abuse it similarly) in its discussion of the foam that broke off of Columbia prior to the shuttle's re-entry. Fascinating in that deer-in-headlights way to understand how knowledge dissemination and traditional teaching methodology/understanding can cloud an issue more than clarify it.

I'm crossing my fingers that the Graduate Teaching Program at Boulder wasn't the only one of its kind. It was focused on providing TAs with the tools and training they needed to be effective instructors. Hopefully it's required at Boulder and more universities are catching on. This is how vital such a thing is.

Where in the World was Kellie Hazell: Lourdes, France, 1996

The last spring break trip I took with my Catholic youth group was my senior year. We went to Lourdes, France, and it had been four years since this group had traveled to such a nearby pilgrimage site because of some interesting shenanigans on that last trip involving a set of brass knuckles with the words "Lourdes" stamped on them. Ah, the joys of teenage rivalry and tourist kitsch.

While our trip to Rome was the most intensive service trip of the Catholic Youth Tour of Europe Trilogy, Lourdes was next in line. We helped out at Our Lady's Hospital of Lourdes, or we were intended to. We were there, I believe, the week before Holy Week, and the pilgrimage season started Holy Week, and that's when the hospital gets a rockin'. We did what we could, but I think the hospital was a bit overwhelmed. Mostly we helped bring the infirm pilgrims to a candlelight vigil and to a rosary. We were a day late to bring them to the baths, which is apparently the most intensive service (other than care while at the hospital) provided. And Ragin' Hormones took the stage again because one of the male nurses at the hospital was tres hot. The show Animaniacs was popular at the time, so there was often a female chorus of "Hello, Nurse!" whispered as he passed.

The other interesting thing to note is that the hospital's name in French is Hospitalite Notre-Dame de Lourdes (and, indeed, the words Notre Dame were everywhere because, you know, it's French for "our lade" and Lourdes is the location of a Marian apparation). In thanks for our service to the hospital, we were all given neat little silver pins that had the letters "N" and "D" very ornately wrought. This was considered a sign for those of my friends who knew that I was still not quite sure if I wanted to go to Duke or Notre Dame or Northwestern that fall. I put the pin on my winter coat right by the top button and got a lot of comments on it during the long winter months at Notre Dame.

We did have some time for each of us to visit the baths ourselves, for those who wanted to go. (The water is famously freezing, and you pretty much get immersed in it only to emerge into the cold stone stall that is surrounded by other cold stone stalls that line up along the cold stone grotto where the cold cold water is. That's the physical reasoning. The spiritual reasoning is that the waters are intended for the sick and infirm, those truly in need of miraculous healing, not for Johnny Quarterback hoping to protect is passing arm.) As I didn't mind the cold too much (I was used to losing all feeling in my fingers and toes due to a suspected case of mild Raynaud's Disease) and had a bum knee that prevented me from running track and liked to make its presence known by mild but constant pain at the end of the day (thus preventing me from sleeping until the ibuprofen kicked in), I decided to go to the baths. I also wanted to make the most of the opportunity and offer my experience in the waters as a way to sort of heal-by-proxy others in my family who were having health problems.

And it was indeed very cold water. So cold that it scattered my thoughts and made it hard for me to concentrate on the reasons for taking the plunge. When I emerged, I was cold, shaken, and without any immediate sign of miraculous healing. And I was very grateful for the strong nuns who had held onto me the entire time. Then I was on my way out of the stone stall, into the changing area, and shivering while waiting for the bus to take us back to the hotel.

There have been 68 Vatican-recognized miraculous healings due to the Lourdes water. Things like broken bones mending, chronic illnesses vanishing, disabilities disappearing. For me, it was a fascinating moment for my faith, and it may have had healing consequences. The Raynaud's symptoms that were quite frequent while I lived in Europe continued on with a slight decrease while I was at Notre Dame, and became very infrequent while I lived in Colorado. My knee pain over the course of the past ten years has decreased so that it is no longer a nightly or even a weekly occurrance, instead it's something I experience no more than once a month, and more likely only 4-6 times a year. Of course, this could all be a product of my body getting more into adulthood or of moving away from Europe or of moving into semi-arid and arid climes or a combination of these factors.

(By the way, there's a mention in the Wikipedia article on Lourdes that the grotto site was originally a shrine to Persephone. There's no citation (except for a note to say that a citation is needed), but I thought it was an interesting idea. There's definitely a story there.)

Another side note to this trip was that I borrowed a friend's copy of Alanis Morissette's album Jagged Little Pill. I had heard some of the releases as I was still pretty much a slave to the Top 40 charts, but I hadn't though much of them except to note they were catchy. But listening to "Forgiven" and "Mary Jane" while returning home from a pilgrimage and preparing for a big decision about whether or not to go to Notre Dame...isn't it ironic?

Next week: The conclusion of the Where in the World series.

Resolved: Academic Freedom and Catholic Character

A while ago, I posted my response to Notre Dame's presidential address regarding what academic freedom means at a Catholic university, specifically in whether or not such things as The Vagina Monologues or a queer film festival should be allowed in a broad campus setting. A bit ago, we finally got the president's final word. Here's what I consider the money quote, as it was much my point:

Catholic teaching has nothing to fear from engaging the wider culture, but we all have something to fear if the wider culture never engages Catholic teaching. That is why the Catholic tradition must not only inspire our worship and our service on campus; it should help shape the intellectual life of the university. Our goal is not to limit discussion or inquiry, but to enrich it; it is not to insulate that faith tradition from criticism, but to foster constructive engagement with critics.

Through the various bits and pieces of rhetoric and such in his response, my first impression was that the president knew exactly what decision he wanted to make (keep whatever secular media and non-Catholic viewpoints in the campus setting, but get just as loud and broad with a counter presentation that shows the Catholic doctrine) and took this opportunity to galvanize the campus into such an action on their own without a top-down "you will do this or else" approach. Maybe that's giving him too much credit or making him sound Machiavellian, I don't know.

It's just good to be proud of my alma mater and be reassured that it is a place where I would be happy to send Drew to not only get an excellent education but also to learn more about his faith. Not to assume he'll either want to go to Notre Dame or that he'll necessarily care a snit about Catholicism at that or any point in his life. I'm not ever going to be one of those "Momma was a Domer, and so you will be" alums, and I hope he actively questions his faith before he gets to college age. And this all assumes that Notre Dame would even want the son of a lowly genre writer whose novels contain, to use a Simpsons euphemism, "adult situations."

Academic Freedom and Catholic Character

Several days ago, I received an email from the Notre Dame Alumni President regarding a series of discussions that had recently occurred on the Notre Dame campus. The new president is considering instituting a policy that would limit student access to material that is inconsistent with Catholic doctrine. One example of this policy already in place is that The Vagina Monologues, a theatrical piece that has been performed in a campus-wide setting for the past four years along with a publicity campaign and auction to end violence against women, has been relegated to a classroom setting only and the concurrent campaign and auction cancelled. The president's address to the faculty explained the reasoning and invited discourse as he begins the process of creating a broader policy on Notre Dame's Catholic character and how that relates to academic freedom. The following is my response.

I've debated how best to frame my response to the concern of academic freedom and Catholic character, how best to relate my position on these matters as a Notre Dame alumna, a Catholic, a wife, a new mother, and a woman. I can share my experiences of Catholicism both within and beyond the grounds of Notre Dame. I can share my difficult journey to accepting my own sexuality--a journey that might have been easier had there existed a forum anywhere in my life for frank and open discussion. I can express my profound grief at how matters of sexuality are handled by the Catholic church and at how such a remarkable institution as Notre Dame is continuing that mishandling.

Instead I'll pose three simple questions that should be considered before any long-term policies are made: Where does sponsorship end and censorship begin? Why deny a community of scholars and students such perfect forums for conversations about significant issues? Who does the University truly serve? I'll focus on The Vagina Monologues as I am familiar with it and was unsure of the exact trouble surrounding the Queer Film Festival and of its potential fate.

Several times in the faculty address the distinction was made between censorship and sponsorship. Censorship is the deletion of, among other things, morally objectionable material from media. Sponsorship is the vouching of an event, usually by monetary means. I can understand the need for the University not to be seen as supporting an event that is not compatible with its Catholic character. What I can't understand is when such a need turns into the deletion of such objectionable events from media. In other words, there are many ways to make it clear that Notre Dame does not endorse the elements of The Vagina Monologues that run counter to Catholic doctrine. Denying the broader venue of this performance and its surrounding publicity is the most dangerous and damaging of those ways. It shuts down public discourse about important issues. It sends the message, however unintentional, that a public, frank, and open discussion of sexuality is not allowed at Notre Dame. It leads to limitation of freedom as students, faculty, and even alumni are bound to wonder if elements of their next performance or publication will be found objectionable and thus be removed from its intended campus venue.

Setting aside discussions of slippery slopes and fine lines between censorship and sponsorship, the greater disservice of denying the public performance of The Vagina Monologues is to the soul of the University. If we are truly about maintaining Notre Dame as an intellectually rich and vibrant university and about forming students' character, then we should not hide things that we find objectionable but rather bring them fully into the light and examine publicly why they are objectionable. The Notre Dame student body is exceptionally bright, containing many future world leaders. They should be exposed to as much information as possible so that they can make their own decisions about the values they choose to incorporate into their lives. Quite simply, if Notre Dame chooses to limit what the student body is exposed to by removing from public view that which is inconsistent with Catholic doctrine, Notre Dame is depriving its students of the necessary tools to reason in the world. I always understood faith and values as concepts to be exhaustively examined and actively chosen, not blindly followed and forcefully accepted. What sort of Catholic character are we instilling in the future if we do not trust young adults to determine what to accept and reject in a performance that contains both a positive message about sexuality and a graphic description of deviant behavior? I hope that The Vagina Monologues will be performed in a broader venue next year with the concurrent V-day publicity and auction. It is the perfect forum for initiating a conversation about societal expectations and views of sexuality and how that differs from Catholic doctrine. It is a remarkable way to allow the young adults of Notre Dame to respect their sexuality and make informed decisions about their bodies. This is something that should not be limited to the classroom.

Even should it be decided that The Vagina Monologues is too loaded a piece to ever again be performed in a campus-wide setting, Notre Dame's first obligation should be to its students, not to the perceptions of those outside the university. We cannot simplify, restrict, and otherwise limit the Notre Dame experience because some may not understand the distinctions between engendering a vital discussion of human sexuality and endorsing non-Catholic viewpoints.

With the precedent set by the removal of the The Vagina Monologues from a public forum, I must ask what is next? Will Elton John and the Indigo Girls no longer be able to perform at the Joyce Center? Will this weekend's Student Union Board showing of the movie Rent be cancelled? And if these things don't come to pass, why not? What sort of message does it send to our students that it is acceptable for Notre Dame to seemingly sponsor a movie with strong homosexuality themes or a concert by artists openly living a lifestyle counter to Catholic teaching, but it is not acceptable for Notre Dame to seemingly sponsor a theatrical production designed to end violence against women and encourage women to accept and celebrate their sexuality? If the Notre Dame administration wishes to acknowledge its Catholic character by limiting student access to various viewpoints and denying avenues for public discourse about significant issues, then it must be prepared to take such a stance to its fullest interpretation or risk confusing the student body even more.

I have never agreed with the stereotypical alumni threat of withdrawing monetary support as a means to change university policies. I see no reason to engage in an action that would result in penalizing the student body for the actions of the administration. However, should the thinking that relegated The Vagina Monologues to a classroom setting be applied to a broader policy, I will no longer be able to serve as an advocate for my alma mater. I will no longer be able to encourage my son to attend the institution that helped shape my character. I do not support the view that, in order to create a Catholic value system, our young adults must be limited in exposure to secular media that may run counter to Catholic teaching, and I cannot in good conscience promote an institution that does support such a view.

It's Not Just Revisionist History...It's Notre Dame Revisionist History!

I love The Onion. Notre Dame Football Announces Improvements to Its Storied History. My personal favorite is the adjustment to what happened at the USC game this year, although perhaps killing Matt Leinert might have taken it too far. Maybe. :) And they should have done a bit more research for their 1943 entry and had the women of Saint Mary's College take up the football fight while the Notre Dame men were in the war, seeing as how women weren't admitted to ND until 1975-ish.

College Degree = No Right to Complain?

I've encountered an attitude in several places and blogged about it before that because I went to a swank private college that I'm not allowed to be upset with my life or that I must have had some excessive life of privelege.

Bullshit.

I truly don't understand this attitude. Yes, I am the daughter of an Air Force officer (well, after the age of six, that is; he was enlisted before that, and do I really have to give my parents' story of the time before I was six to somehow validate myself in anyway?). Yes, I went to Notre Dame and the University of Colorado at Boulder. Yes, my parents took out some loans to help with ND's tuition. Yes, I am currently living a middle-class life. Yes, I also have the ability and freedom to indulge in a hobby that may one day allow me to work at home and raise my children. I fail to see how any of these facts (and I could present the other side of them that clearly shows that I fought my way, tooth and nail to earn every single one of them--well, beyond being the daugher of an Air Force officer; didn't have a whole lot of choice there, but I could go on about the negative impacts that had on my life) somehow negates any complaint I may have about the current status of my life.

In the past, the fact that I was going to ND has been used as the sole reason why I shouldn't be upset about my parents' divorce. It was inferred that my college experience was less because, since I went to ND, I obviously hadn't earned my degree as compared to someone who went to a state school and, just as obviously, had to work their way through it and fight every day for that degree. And it's also been implied that somehow I am less worthy as a human being just because I had successful parents who provided me with shelter, food, love, and material things beyond the basic necessities in life. Or rather, I am less worthy if I dare to complain about anything in my life because my parents gave me those things and I can provide myself with those things now.

Why should I have to explain myself? I'm very tempted to defend my fight to get where I am today. It wasn't easy. Sure, it could've been harder. Sure, it had nothing of the stress of wanting for basic necessities. But I'm not going to sit here and apologize because it wasn't. And I'm not going to detail my own little "sob story" to try and get other assholes to stop assuming shit about people because of a few random facts that in no way make the shape of any person. People who wear their lack of privelege or their sorrows as a badge of superiority over those who have the privelege and don't have the sorrows (at least based on those damned assumptions) just don't seem to get what it means to be human. Life is not a contest.

Bad Football Weekend

It started on Saturday when my beloved Fightin' Irish went head to head with Purdue's Boilermakers and lost 41-16. Ye-ouch. Because we were out and about on Saturday, I only had to suffer this loss via the radio and on-line updates. Sunday was a different matter. Mark was ecstatic because the Bills were on TV again! But they were going up against the Patriots (or, more appropriately, the StuPats; thank you for that moniker, Jaquandor) who were looking to beat some NFL record for longest winning streak or something. Bills lost 31-17. Yowza. We bought those new M&M Amazing candy bars or whatever their called as consolation. They were yummy.

At Least the Rally Cap Works...Sorta

Mark was pinging all weekend long because the Bills were playing the Raiders, and since the Raiders are big Bronco rivals, they'd be broadcasting the game here. And that means he can watch the game live instead of staring at a computer screen, waiting for the stats and scores to refresh. (One day we're going to have the money so he can do that NFL season pass thing with cable or an on-line radio deal, but that day is not going to come this season--or the next. Barring the sudden book deal, of course.) So we got to watch the game yesterday, and that was a mixed blessing.

Last week, Mark started watching the game by wearing the Bills cap my dad bought for me way back in 1994-ish. Then he put the cap on my head when he went to make lunch, and the Bills scored. He became convinced that the cap should be on my head during Bills games. Thus we started yesterday's game with Bills cap firmly secured on my noggin. The first quarter didn't go well, so we re-analyzed our luck-giving strategy. It was determined that I should still wear the hat but perhaps go into another room to work on my writing, and this might bring the Bills offensive glory (or, at the very least, a functioning offense). We went through two quarters that way to no avail. So Mark put the cap on sometime in the fourth quarter and dubbed it the "rally cap". And it did work so far that the Bills did indeed score a touchdown (and were a foot away from catching an onsides kick and winning the game). So the rally cap works of a fashion, and thus we've found one part of the Bills' winning strategy--from a fan perspective.

As for how the game actually went, let's just say it was a lot like watching the Irish play last year--fantabulous defense, shitty offense. Hell, I probably could've sacked Bledsoe yesterday just by blowing at the TV screen. Here's to hoping that the Bills at least don't lose the next game the way they've lost the last two--13-10. Of course, a W would be preferable, if only to make Mark smile once this early football season.

The SEB is Back Again

Last week just outright sucked. I read, I played video games, and I tried very hard not to think a whole lot because Mark wasn't around to help pull me out of nasty thought-holes. It worked to varying degrees of success: everything from "hey at least it worked for fifteen minutes this time" to abyssmal failure. You'd think reuniting with Mark and some college buddies at a wedding would cheer me right up, wouldn't you? You'd be dead wrong.

First, the wedding was in Wisconsin. Long-time sufferers readers of this blog know very well how much I despise the Midwest. So that was a definite strike against the weekend. Second, I was within spitting distance of my brother (his new company is in Madison, but he's not there anymore as they shipped out to California for training yesterday) and of my mother's family. But I had no time to spend with them. Had I known that I was going to be unemployed and interview-less last week, I would've flown out with Mark at the beginning of the week and spent the time he was at the conference with relatives. And, finally, simply stating that I was a college buddy of the groom was enough to stamp a glaring "SEB" on my forehead.

What, you ask, does "SEB" stand for? Super Elitist Bitch. I have no idea what kind of stories this college buddy told, but I suppose it has more to do with the popular impression of Notre Dame students being trust-fund babies or something. This is the second time in my life - that I know of - that I've been very much mistakenly lumped in with well-off kids who dropped $100,000 getting their degrees and still had money left over for a very nice SUV and a convertible. The first time, it was an ex-boyfriend telling me I had no right to be upset about my parents' divorce because I was a Notre Dame senior and therefore in the top 2% most financially stabile people in the world. That he said this as part of his seven-page email detailing exactly why he had dumped my ass didn't help anything either. And this wedding marked the second time. Had I known it would've been a problem, I would've introduced myself in the following fashion: "Hi, I'm Kellie, a college buddy of the groom. Before you go making any assumptions, I was only able to attend Notre Dame because I got a fair amount of scholarships. And I suppose now's a good time to mention just how much money my parents shelled out for the experience and how much money I'm still shelling out for those four years of educational bliss."

It was just a weird night all together. There were only three college buds there, and one was a groomsmen. So that left me, Mark and the other college bud to fend for ourselves at a table with some random cousins of the groom. One of said random cousins, on hearing that we were the groom's college buddies, said, "Well, I didn't go to college, so what does that mean?" And then he spent the rest of the night butting into our conversations when he had a nice undercutting thing to say about us. As soon as we got up to get some drinks at the bar, the random cousins invited quite a group to take our seats. And it just sort of continued on from there. The crowning acheivement of the evening occurred when the groomsmen/college bud introduced me to the bridesmaid he'd been cavorting with all evening. No, strike that, she introduced herself. And this, I quote, is exactly how she went about it (be sure to read this with a so-there-you-wanna-make-somethin'-of-it attitude): "Hi, I'm M-----. I went to a cheap state school." I didn't dash out her name to protect her identity. I dashed it out because I can't remember it. I'll probably bump into her again and go, "Oh, hi, Cheap State School. You must remember me. I'm Super Elitist Bitch."

Music Linkage

I can't remember if I blogged about this before. So if you're reading this for a second time, my apologies. People often associated certain sensory inputs with certain experiences. Perhaps the smell of grapefruits reminds you of Easter breakfasts at your grandparents. Or the feel of grass on your feet brings back summer visits to a friend's house. For me, music is a big association gold mine. I hear just a bit of a song and remember emotions, trips, conversations, life situations, etc. Here's just a sampling.

Enya: Enya's got some great music. I find it incredibly soothing. Unfortunately, the two times I needed a lot of soothing, I listened to Enya non-stop. And now whenever I hear her music, I think of those two things in my life. I used to listen to her Shepherd Moons album while I studied organic chemistry my sophomore year of college. I can't hear that album without thinking about where electrons would flow in predicting the chemistry of a reaction. Or about analyzing NMR spectroscopy readouts. When I was teaching high school, I needed Mega Doses of comfort on my drive to work each morning. I listened to A Day Without Rain during every drive. I can't hear any song on that album without choking on all the panic and doubt and nervousness I experienced with that job. I was caught quite off guard when one of the songs came over the loudspeakers while shopping at PetSmart. Damned if I didn't tear up.

A-Ha: I mentioned before that I listened to "Take on Me" and "The Sun Always Shines on TV" while waiting to cross over the border into East Germany in 1988. Those two songs remind me of the yellow, gray, and brown tones that pervaded the former East Germany, as well as the tension of being in that country, as well as the pining for a very cute guard.

Portishead: Their album Dummy has a very sexy, jazzy, unique sound. My high school buddy Matt played it for the gang after prom but before the bowling extravaganza (I think that's what we did after prom). I never bought this album, it was given to me. It was a gift from the guy who gave me my Last Piggy-back Ride Ever. See, Matt and I had this joke about piggy-back rides ever since he offered to give me one at a picnic and I hopped on his back before he was ready, causing us both to fall and Matt to hurt his back. So everytime we encountered an exceptional unpleasant surface, I would joke about having Matt give me a piggy-back ride. Ha-ha, had to be there kind of inside joke. Well, I made the requisite joke to Matt while he, our friend Gary, and I were walking to a party. The road was rather gravely and icky, so I decided that was my cue to tease Matt about giving me a piggy-back ride. Matt and I both laughed, but Gary wasn't in on the joke and thought I really wanted a piggy-back ride. He offered to give me one. I tried to beg off, but he insisted. And shortly thereafter, we crashland into the nasty road. Gary, sweet guy that he is, tried to protect my knees in the fall and his face took the burden.

It's hard to forget showing up at a party with someone unrecognizable due to the amount of blood on his face and ask to use the bathroom.

We had to take him to the hospital. My Last Piggy-back Ride Ever left a scar on Gary's face so apparent that it became a "distinguishing feature" on his Air Force record in the event someone had to ID his body without benefit of dogtags or some other form of recognition. I hope this is not the only way in which I leave my mark on this world. Anyway, what does this have to do with Portishead? Gary, a couple months after The Incident, decided he didn't want his CD any more and gave it to me. It's a great CD, and I've formed a great many more memories listening to it since then, but it's got this strange black cloud hanging over it everytime I see it in my collection and pull it out to play it.

Elton John: I recorded the song "The One" off the radio way back in the early 90s and played it incessantly one summer when we took a little trip to the North Sea. I hear that song and think of cold water and naked sunbathers. And this really weird peanut sauce we had at the Holiday Inn we stayed at. I also worked first aid for a concert he did at Notre Dame in 1999. I was at a station with my roomie (and First Aid Team pres) Nikki that was just twenty feet or so away from the stage. I spent most of the night watching Elton drink Diet Coke and spit into the little Champange chilling stand his drinks sat in. But at one point early in the concert, we had a first aid emergency near our station that required us to run behind Elton's stage to assist somebody. My foot was inches away from accidentally unplugging the show. So just about every other Elton John song besides "The One" reminds me of the look on the sound guy's face as Nikki and I hopped around backstage to get to the emergency. Poor man.

Hootie & the Blowfish: My very first concert was this band at some outdoor pavilion in Wisconsin in 1996. I will always associated Hoote & the Blowfish with getting drenched at their concert and having the sound short out when lightning stuck the pavilion at the beginning of "Hannah Jane", my favorite song of theirs. I will also remember my six-year-old cousin singing "Ti-i-ime, why you punish me" before we left for the concert.

Dexy's Midnight Runners: "Come on Eileen" at every single college dance I went to. 'Nuff said.

Sting: "A Thousand Years" from his Brand New Day album will forever bring up memories of Melanie Rawn's Dragon Prince. I bought that book and that CD on the same day, went home and listened to the CD - which has a very desert, middle-eastern feel - and read the book - which takes place much of the time in a desert. It was a wonderful blend. Made for a great reading and listening experience.

Fleetwood Mac: Their Greatest Hits album always calls to mind summer and drives in the sun with the windows down. It feels weird listening to that album in any other situation.

U2: The song "Electrical Storm" as played on their Greatest Hits 90-00 CD inspired a scene in Strings of Betrayal. It's impossible for me to hear that song without seeing that scene play out in my head.

And last (for now), but certainly not least...

Natalie Cole & Nat King Cole: "Unforgettable" was the first dance Mark and I shared as a married couple. I can't hear that song and not remember trying to teach Mark to dance in the weeks before our wedding, dealing with the church's Wedding Nazi, watching a bowl of soup dump into PJ's pocket at the rehearsal dinner, getting Matt's "Scent of a Woman" drawing in Pictionary in the big shindig we had the night before the wedding, finding out my brother's plane had landed just three hours before the wedding, reaching for Mark's right hand instead of his left when we exchanged rings, having everyone hold down my veil in the pictures we took outside in the wind, having to make three "oops, we forgot something" trips back to the apartment both before the reception and before we left for our honeymoon, having all the men at the reception at the DJ's direction sing "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" to me on their knees, trying three times to get a cosmopolitan from the bar and only succeeding on the third try and holding my "victory drink" as I danced with my brother, and watching a meteorite streak across the sky framed by the window next to our table at dinner during our honeymoon in the Southwest.

Priorities, Anyone?

OK, as a Notre Dame and Colorado alumna, I'm very used to football and athletic programs in general dominating a school. That's not why I went to ND, though. I went because I wanted to study biochemistry and ND has a great program in that. I went because I wanted to join a research lab as an undergrad and ND has an excellent undergrad research program. I went because I wanted a campus where I felt at home and ND has to be one of the friendliest and most welcoming campuses I've seen. Before I accepted ND's offer of admission, I had no idea who Lou Holtz was. I had no idea who Ron Paulus was (and, let me tell you, I would've been much happier never knowing about that piece of work). During the orientation weekend, Lou Holtz himself gave a speech to the incoming freshmen, telling us that the football players were just normal students like us. They ate at the same dining hall, they went to the same classes, yadda, yadda, yadda. I believed the man for two whole days until I went to work at the dining hall and manned the athlete's dining area (separate because the dining hall closed at 7 and practice for most if not all of the athletics on campus ended right about that time). The food was much better for the "training table," as it was called. I didn't think it was such a big deal, though, since working there meant that I got to gawk at Pat Garrity on a daily basis (the man was also a biochemistry major - up until his senior year, don't get me started on that - with at 3.7 GPA and an undergrad research project in addition to being the Big East MVP; unfortunately, he was dating a volleyball player, who I also got to see at the training table every day).

Anyway, I learned pretty quick that things were different for athletes. They had better scholarships, they could miss a lot of class and still pass (I'm sure they had to do the work for it), they had an entire squad of tutors I couldn't have access to, etc etc. But I still wouldn't trade those four years for anything. They were a great part of my life. And as soon as I have money to donate, I'll be sending some in that direction, though with the stipulation that it only goes to the College of Science. So when my alma mater struggles in a football season, sure I'll get miffed. But would I write and/or sign something like this? NO. What a waste of time and influence. I think of all the things that ND needs to make itself an even better university, and I don't think of things like criticizing the football program for "plac[ing] more importance on making money than winning games." First of all, as far as I've heard in college football, the only way to make money is to win games. The two can't be separate issues. So 400 of my fellow alums get points for stupidity. Secondly, of course the football program is focusing on bringing in cash. That's the name of the game at any university. Or are these Fabulous 400 thinking that in order to start winning games, the football program shouldn't concern itself with making money and that they'd be more than happy to pick up the bill should any revenue be lost?

I guess this (along with this, which led to my finding the letter in the first place) just makes me ask if they're scholastic athletes or athletic scholars. And if universities should be so focused on dollar signs that they are willing to sacrifice their educational mission to keep the booster, athletes, coaches, fans, and, apparently, storied-football-lunatic alums happy and donating. When I think about ND, I'm more worried about it's degree programs losing their punch then I am about it's football program. I don't know if that's supposed to make me a disloyal Fightin' Irish fan, or just smart.

A Tale of Shenanigans

I've tried to map out what I would post about this group. And more and more memories keep popping up. From the first time I saw the group perform until I got an email informing me that the group had gone bankrupt and was disbanding. Not quite the full span of my four years at Notre Dame, but very close. No matter what I think about the group and all the folks I sang and danced with in it, Shenanigans shaped my college experience.

This group took me to Florida for Spring Break my freshman year. There I got to rub shoulders with several important alumni and hang out with the Glee Club a bit as our Spring Break tours had some overlap (Shenanigans was created by several Glee Club members in 1980-ish). Because of Shenanigans, I sang solo and dueted a couple times - extremely nerve-wracking the first time, fun after that. As the group's treasurer for nearly two years, I got to see the inner workings of Notre Dame - right down to the bureaucratic red tape just to sell burgers before a football game. I also spent a decent amount of time with the President of the Alumni Association (a Big Deal, trust me) because he, through some odd trick dating back to the group's formation, was our club's sponsor and had to sign paperwork and approve things as such. Shenanigans also gave me two out of the three non-senior-portrait pictures I have in all of the four yearbooks I received while at ND (the third being one of me and my roomie playing video games; it was taken by a guy I was dating at the time who happened to be on the yearbook staff). The club also gave me a reason to hang out on campus for a week after finals because we performed for the seniors and their families during the week before graduation. And all that singing and dancing provided a nice break from my studies and kept me fit.

However, Shenanigans had the "Gay" stigma. After all, only fags would want to sing and dance, right? It didn't help the stereotype that a year or two before I arrived saw the outing of two men in the club. Thus we were a bit of a laughing stock with the student body. Thus we didn't get a whole lot of folks auditioning for the group. Thus we had to choose (among the men who tried out) from "decent voice, manageable rhythm" and "voice we can't mask, rhythm we can't hide" and a few shades in between. Thus my second year in the group we became all women for a semester. This was the same year that I took over being treasurer of the group and had to plan our Spring Break Tour (which was supposed to pay for itself and give us a profit besides). This responsibility put me in the Alumni Pres's office quite a bit - and gave me the disappointment of hearing that The Powers That Be frowned on an all-girls group going on a trip. In short, we had to cancel our Spring Break Tour that year. I was furious, indignant, and crushed at the time. Crushed because I hadn't believed that such a gender issue would rear its head among such people.

Remember that Spring Break Tour to Florida I mentioned above? That's also the trip where a Glee Clubber whom I hardly knew told me that I was a flighty bimbo (and other things) because I had only painted my big toe nail that day and my sandals displayed the quirk. That's also the trip where I learned the hard way why the halter top dresses we wore when performing required a safety pin to hold the halter top straps together (long story short: I nearly flashed the audience after standing up from a bow - thank God for long hair).

That last moment alone should taint my memories of the group, but let's not forget my fellow Shenanigans. The women were great. Except the one who wouldn't listen to my treasurer's advice and bankrupted the group shortly after I quit. The men provided me with two of my more assholish of exes, a dance partner who reeked of alcohol during every Sunday morning practice, another dance partner who couldn't dance and ended up wrecking me knee (seriously, I had to skip out on that year's Spring Break Tour in order to go home and have surgery), the only man who ever intentionally got me drunk (he then proceeded to give me unwanted kisses as he walked me home, a fact which sobered me enough to tell him I'd yell "rape" if he tried it again; he stopped), a stalker, and two great guys who are like older brothers to me still.

And if I had to do it all over again, I would still join the group. I would make different decisions about who I trusted in the group and who I dated, but I would be in the group all the same. Now, off I go to find some candy to get the taste of that near strip-tease out of my mouth.

Not Alone

Came home to a plethora of magazines stuffing our mailbox. A couple outdoorsy things (we like to see what they say about National Parks we plan on visiting), a science one, and one from my alma mater. I usually read only one thing in my alma mater's magazine: the briefs on what members of each class are up to. I actually know the guy who writes the one for my class, which means he'll use more space for my update. I get a full three lines instead of the one line "Kellie Hazell was recently married" summary or somesuch. So I like to read what he's gleaned from the Class of 2000. This time, I remembered a few names but couldn't place a face to them. Or, in one case, I knew one name, but couldn't for the life of me remember who his soon-to-be-wife was, though her name looked familiar. I was curious enough to drag out the yearbook and refresh my memory. Which led to me skimming the entire magazine, looking for names I might remember. Or at the least the "00" notation that indicated a fellow classmate. And I stumbled across this article.

I'm pretty sure Mary Beth roomed with a fellow former Shenanigan (I hunted and hunted for a link, but the group went bankrupt and disbanded my senior year, taking all web traces of their existence with them in their demise, apparently; take home point: Shenanigans is was a singing and dancing ensemble, a show choir). And if I'm thinking of the right gal, then Mary Beth was one of our biggest fans, at all the concerts with posters and cheers and the general support we all too often lacked (for a whole mess of reasons, some good and some bad, most unfair). That's an odd mess of memories - the group brought some of my best and worst moments at Notre Dame. Actually, come to think of it, most of them were bad. Hmmm...methinks I need to post about my Shenanigans experience.

Anyway, I read Mary Beth's article and suddenly realized I'm not the only Domer floundering in a job light years away from where I'm "supposed" to be. I'm not the only alumnae who fudges the "profession" blank a wee bit in order to hide the awful truth. Although one form I think I might have checked "other" and written in capital letters "ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT" just to see if I could piss anybody off or get my name removed from those donation mailing lists. And to make me feel even better, Mary Beth's got dreams of being a writer. She's also blonde with master's degree, working with a bunch of technical folks in a job that makes next to no use if any of her training. There the comparisons start to feel forced or diverge, so I suppose I'll stop. But it gave me a warm fuzzy all the same. I may write her an "I'm right there with ya, sistah" letter.

Another reason why I enjoyed my perusal of the ND Magazine: I found out that the infamous fan at the Cubs game who reached for the ball in left field was a Notre Dame grad (see the third bold name). Go Irish! I actually remember thinking about fellow Domers being at that game while I watched it on TV. It's a quick bus, car, train ride to Wrigley Field. I imagine some dorms even arranged treks to the Championship games. They did back when everyone was counting Sosa's HRs.

And there I go, getting all nostalgic. Which inevitably leads to dwelling on my resume and how woefully overqualified I am for my job. Which leads to remembering the dream I am chasing. And then I'm better. Until the next bout of nostalgia.

It's Still Not Friday?

I'm really wondering if I can just pretend that today is Friday and that it's already 4:30 instead of nearing 1:30. That would be nice. This week hasn't been very pleasant. I spent Monday mired in the hell that is an on-line ordering system for work. Then I had to drive home in snow. Then I had to drive (in snow again) to the bus stop to pick up Mark. Only he missed the bus. So I got to kill a half hour in the mall oh-so-conveniently located right next to the bus stop. While I'm waiting for Mark, the college buddy we were supposed to meet up with in Denver that night called to chat, since we couldn't visit (due to the yahoos who don't know how to drive in snow). Turns out my bud is getting married. The downside: he's getting married on the same day as my brother. Unless there's a stunning breakthrough in bilocation before June, I can't go to my pal's wedding.

On to Tuesday and my Misadventures in Satan's LCD Projector Playground. LCD projectors seem to be rarer than a lunar eclipse. I finally found one that would be available for a presentation. But here's the catch: this technological contraption resembled more an artifact from the 3rd Mingh Dynasty than it did a projector. As I lamented to Peg, I was quite certain I'd have to burn a stick of incense in the projector, pray to Vishnu, and have a Buddhist monk stand on his head and chant in order to get the thing to work. Luckily, at the last possible moment, another projector surfaced. One from the Common Era.

Wednesday, yesterday, should be dubbed "Kellie Runs Around the Site, Pushing a Cart Laden with Pizza." Strangely enough, this managed to consume my entire day. And then I went home to bake Christmas cut-out cookies. Ah, holiday baking. A time of mutated candy-canes that must be turned 180 degrees and inverted in order to see the vague hook shape. A time of de-haloed, de-winged, and decapitated angels. A time when Santa's boots look more like smelly slouch socks from the 80s. A time of squashed and distorted snowmen, stars, bells, and trees. At least icing helps them look like edible cookies despite the irregular shapes.

The positives: My buddy is getting married! Another college buddy and his wife are expecting their first child! I made progress in my revisions! And Friday is only a day away!

Close Call

Well, the Irish squeaked out a win for their season opener. I'm not your typical Notre Dame alum. I only froth slightly at the mouth when I watch games now - as opposed to the full-on rabid mania most seem to sport. Hell, I haven't even been back to ND for a game since I graduated. And I don't make it a point to watch every single game, either. In fact, I didn't bother to plan my wedding around ND's schedule, like a lot of other alums I've heard. I did remember to ask one of my college buddies at the reception if we had won, but that was about it. I'm really glad NBC plays all their home games. It's a chance for me to fumble down memory lane a good six times every fall. I find the thing I miss the most while watching the games is the big special meal in the dining halls. They rolled out all the good stuff for the after-game candlelight buffet. I'm still salivating a little thinking about it. I think it might be time for dinner.

Oh. Right. Vegas.

Mark and I drove to Sin City for the 4th of July weekend. As usual, I spent the first hour or so of the trip remembering all the things we had forgotten to pack. Including my glasses. Actually, I didn't realize I hadn't packed them until after I had taken my contacts out just before we stopped for the night. Try being a navigator while blind. All I could do was laugh when Mark asked me if I had seen a sign saying how far it was to Salina, UT.

We spent a couple hours in the Luxor casino, waiting for my college buds to show up. In three years, we had all managed to cut our hair, but that was about the only difference. Shortly before we went on the requisite casino crawl, a headache of Biblical proportions had taken up residence in my poor noggin. I spent the entire time we wandered that night rubbing my temples and curling into myself. All while keeping on a happy face for my friends. Then we went to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner. Luckily the headache decided to leave me then, as it was VERY loud in there. So I finally managed to have some fun.

Then came Saturday. Juliette, being the horribly jilted bride and, thus, guest of honor, wanted to see the Hoover Dam. I was all for this as I enjoy seeing the follies of engineering that purport to be miraculous successes for a while (granted, I probably won't be around to see the thing fail, but erosion is a force much like gravity - there's no stopping it; "Bureau of Reclamation" *snark* the only reclamation going on is the water reclaiming its former territory). But a couple of my friends didn't want to and made a big fuss out of being "forced" to go. They got a reprieve when we realized that the six of use weren't going to fit in our car. So the two whiners got to stay in Vegas while the rest of us journeyed to Lake Mead. I never get sick of the desert. Nevada is nowhere near as fascinating to look at as Arizona, but it still satisfied my desert craving. We paid $10 for the official tour mainly so we could look at the dam without being in the 122 degree heat that pounded the street above the dam. Finished the excursion with some ice cream. All in all, a very nice outing.

We got back with a decent chunk of afternoon left and the two nay-sayers were nowhere to be found. They took three hours to rejoin us, then did the "we had more fun than you did" routine and formed their own little club for the rest of the night - being sure to scoff at the things the rest of us wanted to do.

At this point, I should mention that my husband has remarkable restraint and is one of the most patient, tolerant people I know when it comes to dealing with others. One of our group (who isn't so much a friend of mine as a friend of a friend, you know?) was pulling the best snob routine I've seen since Angelica Houston in "Ever After". Mark does not take kindly to fake people or snobs and can usually sniff 'em out within seconds of introduction. If this particular "friend" is going on any other trip we'll be invited to, Mark will flat out refuse to come. She was that bad.

But we did have a good time. Really. The Venetian is beautiful. The Bellagio is amazing. The Samba Grill at the Mirage is wonderful. And Lady Luck was hanging around Mark at the roulette tables. She even hung out with me once. So we got enough cash to go to our fave restaurant, The Melting Pot (a fondue place) and enough for me to buy a really sexy red dress on deep sale at a posh Luxor shop and some stuff at M&M world. The dress is really great, and I'm sure I'll look stunning in it. Just as soon as I figure out how the straps are supposed to work.

So we left Vegas with a bit of relief. Mark had met the college pals and they had met him. They had approved of him, and Mark got to see just how far I've come in three years. :) Then we stopped into Zion and did a spot of camping and hiking (in 105 degree heat). And, of course, all throughout the trip, Ms. Muse decided to bug me with new characters, insights into the magic of Velorin (like that spelling better) and the culture.

But then we had to drive home. The one time I drove to relieve Mark, something had to happen. I'm a very good driver. Really I am. It's just the small handful of times where my attention wanders (we're talking maybe three times), something happens. But I don't really think my attention wandered in this case. I'm driving along I-70 at about 80mph. It's 3PM, the sun is hitting the highway very hard from behind me, and we're somewhat low to the ground in our little Saturn. I came up on a dark spot on the road. It looked like a big splotch of tar. And I saw some weird, stringy debris in front of said spot. I'm thinking it looks like tire blow out debris, but I can't see the scrap of tire anywhere. You guessed it. That big splotch of tar wasn't tar. It was the tire. It was on its "rind", curved away from me. I couldn't tell it was a tire until I was right up on it. In a mere second (or less), I had to decide if I wanted to swerve to miss it and risk the chance of the tire hitting one of our own wheels and sending us hurtling either into the car coming up on my left or just into the desert in general. Or if I wanted to hit the tire square so it missed both our tires and went under the car. I went with the last choice as it seemed, in that mere second, the only option that would relatively guarantee my and Mark's safety (and that was all I cared about in that mere second anyway). So we hit the thing, received a jolt, and kept going 80 doing I-70, seemingly no worse for the wear. The gas line appeared to be intact. The engine temp stayed normal, so the radiator appeared to be fine. We turned down the radio and heard us dragging something and figured we had did a number on the paneling under the car.

At this point it's key to remember that we're about 30 miles from the Colorado border in Utah and there is nothing near us. We get to an exit and stop the car to inspect the damage, pull of the dragging paneling, and let Mark take over. The bumper was cracked and the radiator had a slight ding. But that was it. So Mark starts driving and I call the insurance company to report the claim and get that ball rolling. The car drove us the rest of the way home (about 180 miles) like nothing had happened. I bring it into the shop, we get a sweet rental car at a very nice rate (we aren't covered for rentals in our policy), and everything seems to be going back to normal (except for our budget for the rest of the year, of course).

Then I get a letter from our insurance company (who I was praising to the stars at this point) saying that they had investigated the incident and determined I was at majority fault. I can understand that. They "cited" me for "failing to maintain a proper lookout" (well, I can't help it if the sun hides things, but if you gotta blame me for something, I can handle this) AND "failure to take the last clear chance to avoid an obstacle." WTF? You can't have it both ways. If I wasn't paying attention, then there wouldn't have been a "last clear chance" to avoid the obstacle in the road that I was failing to lookout for. OR I could've been paying attention and saw the tire, but failed to get out of the way in time. I couldn't have been both not seeing the tire and not avoiding it in time. But I guess this just goes back to society's sometimes illogical need to place blame, eh? :)