I learn by going where I have to go.

As Aslan (one of my favorite fictional characters even though I've long since left evangelical Christianity behind) says to Peter before he becomes High King of Narnia, "If you had been certain you were ready, it would have been proof that you were not." I think you cannot be ready for wealth until you are ready to live on what you have. I think you cannot be ready for success unless you're ready to accept the challenge of failure. And I think you cannot be ready to be married until you are ready to not be.

I've known some people who were dead-set on getting married, and I've had some friends who gave the "propose or leave" ultimatum. They could not imagine happiness without the ceremony, the certificate, the thin metal band that binds. For some of them, it's worked out; for some of them, it hasn't. But I think the key here is that, until you realize that marriage (at least, of the sort that involves choice) is nothing more than a ritual that cements a commitment already in place, you cannot be prepared for it. I see a wedding much like a commencement ceremony; yes, you'd graduate even if you didn't get handed that diploma cover, but it is a celebration of what you have achieved, and an encouragement that your dedication is worth it all. And, at least in my case, it's gonna be a heck of a party.

But it wasn't until recently, when I had a chance to examine my thoughts in this area, that I realized how much my opinions on this had changed in the past few years. You see, I used to be one of the ultimatum-givers, out of fear, or societal pressures, or biological drives; who knows? But I know now that I'd be all right not married to the man I love, because in the end it is not the wedding that cements my choice; it is the choice itself, and my continuation of it. You never choose anything just once, after all; if you stay, that is a perpetual choice. As a Wise Wren told me once, it matters less why you chose something in the first place than it does why you continue to choose it. And my choices are based on much more solid ground than they used to be, so I'm content.

At one point I was certain I never wanted to be married; now, I realize I don't want to be married for its own sake, either. It is still something I'd prefer; like John Lennon, I think that that ritual still has some meaning to it. (And when else does a girl get to wear a tiara all day?) I still have a lifetime of learning ahead of me, for sure. I am growing up, and losing some illusions...perhaps to acquire others. But I think that perhaps, just perhaps, I'm edging my way towards wisdom, too.

You have encountered an error and need to close.

Wouldn't be nice if life were like Internet Explorer?

I don't mean by that that we should all be products of a grossly over-rated corporate capitalist maniac, or that we should allow viruses and other insecurities into our existence on a daily basis. What I mean is that charming little window that pops up and reads:

"Internet Explorer has encountered an error and needs to close."

See, when I encounter errors, I have to push through them. Overslept and am now 20 minutes late for class? That's an error, but I still have to go to class or risk not knowing stuff for the final exam. Backed into another car in the parking lot? Also an error, but I still have to fix the scratches. I can't just go into hibernation and tell someone to try me again later when I feel better.

Though I wish I could, at times.

Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death by Heart Disease.

I think the reason so many other countries disdain us can be summed up in one Food Network show: Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. For those of you who don't watch the Food Network, this is a show that travels America and raises lofty paeans to greasy spoons. And boy, are they greasy.

One of the main difficulties I see with American culture is reflected in this show. It's not about concern for health; it's about the Horseshoe, a 6-egg omelet topped with cheese sauce (oh, yes, my friends, Velveeta cheese sauce), sausage, ham, and not one, not two, but three different kinds of potatoes (all fried, of course). This show praises the fact that you can get a "regular" order of corned beef hash that's three huge handfuls of meat and potatoes. Or deep-fried macaroni and cheese. Or deep-fried cinnamon rolls. It's not about getting enough to eat; it's about getting enough food to feed two or three on one "regular" plate. And we wonder why we have more obesity than (almost) any other country in the world?

The problem is that bigger isn't always better, but I think we've lost track of that in a sea of Baconators, Horseshoes, and Super-Size fries. We see nothing wrong with artery-clogging "comfort food," even though tying emotions to food is a dangerous thing. We think the bigger the portion, the bigger the love. We think it's better to get a heaping plateful of decent food than a bit of the truly tasty. We associate grease with good; grease is American; grease, my friends, works.

I want one of these!

There is a Hobbit moped for sale on eBay. How perfect is that? You can go There and Back Again at an approximate speed of 30 mph.

It's not just a pony any more.

According to this story, the new trend is spending upwards of $5,000 on a birthday party. For a three year old. To put this in context, this is twice what I'm spending on my wedding, and I have a chocolate fountain and a very pretty dress. Why should I expect to pay more for my child's birthday cake than I do for my wedding cake?

According to one party planner in California (of course, where else?), "We really promote a healthy balance of living year round, but it's OK to indulge your child once a year, because it's about making a memory."

My question is, is it really a "balance" if your bat mitzvah includes performances by Aerosmith, 50 Cent, and Don Henley? Aren't your standards going to be impossibly high for the rest of your guaranteed-to-be-less-interesting life? How will your future husband/employer/best friend compete with expectations like this? "Mummy, I want u2 for my wedding! Buy me a band now! Why don't you love me like you did when I was a kid?"

Perhaps the most troubling element of this article came at the end, though, in its attempt to rebutt this idea of the necessity of "excessive" spending. They quoted one mother of a six-year-old as saying "A $500 party doesn't mean I love them any less than if they had a $5,000 party, as long as they have a good time. And that's what it's all about." Five hundred dollars. This was their idea of budget.

I suddenly feel way poorer than I did before I read this.

I don't wanna grow up, I'm a Toys-R-Us kid.

I never understood Peter Pan, nor the appeal of that Toys-R-Us ad campaign, till now. The fact is, growing up is scary. Paying bills is depressing. The thought that even when I finish the next six or seven years of school ahead of me I have a 40% employment rate staring me in the face is terrifying. I like some of the things that come with growing up, like respect and autonomy, but I sure as hell miss the days when the only thing I had to worry about was finishing my homework. I think I wanna be a hobo.

On a better note, it was homecoming weekend at school this weekend, and I got to see many of my dear friends. I always get a little nostalgic after I've spent time with this great group, which could explain my anxiety. Right now, I'm just focusing on breathing, and watching Iron Chef.

Oh, guilty pleasures.

Stuck in the middle with you.

Recently some events have made it very clear to me that some people cannot be trusted to accurately judge a situation. In particular, that narcissism can blind people to what is right in front of them, and that everything they see and experience will be filtered through a perception of the world that is sometimes shockingly inaccurate, leading them to believe that they are victimized by everyone around them, and grandly misunderstood. I understand this even more because it used to be my very own situation, and I know where it leads if it's not constantly waged war against. The end of this road is unbelievable pain and separation.

I'm in the middle of this right now. On the one hand, I feel compelled by the sheer force of gut conviction to talk with this person, to correct his incorrect notions of what I have done and thought, to make him see that I did love him once, and that despite our obviously incompatible personalities I have tried hard to have a positive relationship with him, for both our sakes and the sake of others whom I value. He's made some assertions about me that are grossly unfair, downright hurtful, and potentially damaging to other relationships that I treasure. And he's made them to other people, rather than bringing them to me first. It stings, and the J in my personality wants nothing more than to set the record straight.

On the other hand I know that I can't do that; nobody can ever make anyone understand something that they are either incapable of or unwilling to see. This person is a classic narcissist, and I know now that anything I say to him will be twisted. The last time we spoke, he insisted I had borne a "dogmatic hatred" of him since we met some years ago, which is patently untrue, and I think he'd know that if he stopped to examine our history. It's such an oversimplification of a complicated situation, and one that relieves him of all blame because if I hate him dogmatically, then I haven't reasoned out my position, and he is not in the wrong. This is all terribly frustrating. I do not hate this person. I have never hated him. His actions have caused me intense frustration and sadness, but he is still a person who holds some emotional importance to me, for many reasons. I want him to understand this. But how do you fight something that is so ingrained in another person's consciousness? The simple answer is, of course, that it's impossible, but that doesn't stop the hurt when these accusations are then reported to other people whom I love. I can't rid him of these assumptions, but is it really okay to stand by and let him spread the cancer of his self-absorption to others?

The other difficulty compounding the situation is that there are other relationships involved in this, and other people whom I adore who this person has hurt. The N in me (there I go, Myers-Brigging again) wants very much to protect these people, to stand up in their defense, but again I know that that will do no good for the situation, and could make it worse. But it hurts terribly to watch the people I love suffering because of this person's selfish assertions, and it hurts even more to feel incapable of consolation or protection of those people. I have watched as relationships of a lifetime have rapidly dissolved, leaving only the bitter foam of memories and hurts floating in their wake, and felt incapable of offering any consolation or help to the survivors. I'm a fairly empathetic person, and this kind of situation wounds me deeply.

The thing is, this person still has admirable qualities that I have always valued in him, and I see those being overshadowed by his increasingly narcissistic behavior. He believes that everyone has wronged him, that he is wise and caring and grossly misunderstood and misused. That sort of perception of the world is dangerous. I worry for him, and I grieve for him and for those he has sundered himself from through his actions. I think one day he will realize just how much of an asshole he's been, and I hope sincerely that it won't be too late for him, or for the others he's hurt. One can only play the victim for so long.

Meanwhile, I'm struggling to keep my mouth shut. For those of you who know me well, you know exactly what a struggle this is. Keep me in your thoughts, darlings.

The not-so-Happy Meal.

Did you ever wonder why we're all so fat?

I'm pretty sure it's the Happy Meal's fault.

Examine, if you will, the nutritional value of a children's cheeseburger Happy Meal:

1131 calories, 62 grams of fat (23 of those from saturated fat), 1352 milligrams of sodium, and...3 grams of fiber.

What exactly is "happy" about those numbers? The calories in this meal alone provide over half of an active adult's daily intake. It's a day's worth of fat. For fewer calories, we could buy a footlong double-meat steak sub with extra cheese at Subway, or four chargrilled chicken sandwiches from Chik-fil-A. And yet, we buy it - why?

Because it comes in a cute little box with handles. It's a promise. A promise that if you buy it, it will make the screaming kid in the backseat fat and happy (literally). That happiness can be had for $2.99. That the way to contentment is not meditation or hard work or even hanging out with friends, but a cheeseburger and bleached, deep-fried potatoes, a quick solution as easy as driving through those golden arches.

I'm not buying it. But unfortunately for our kids, other people are.

So this is what death feels like.

Many people say that sex is the single most trust-requiring act on the planet. You are the most vulnerable you will ever be when you are having sex.

To them, I say clearly they have never had a root canal.

As I sat in the dentist's chair yesterday, his rubber-gloved hands busily sticking needles into my teeth, I thought about how much this didn't resemble sex, and how much it definitely required trust. I don't think you are ever in your life more vulnerable than when someone is grinding a power tool into your mouth, that magical cavity of speech and song and sandwich-eating that could be destroyed with just a slip of the wrist. Well, perhaps surgery compares.

But think about it. You are (one hopes) much more likely to know the person you have sex with than the person you give license to drill into your head, unless you found both in a phone book (Governor Spitzer, anyone?). You can tell the person you have sex with to stop if it hurts, and you can charge them with a crime if they don't. Not only do dentists just push right on through that pain, but nobody can accuse a dentist of assault because the drilling hurt like hell. That's expected. And unless you let your fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages, you don't have to pay for sex, but you are expected to lay out hundreds, perhaps even thousands of dollars for a few hours of the dentist's time. I'm paying a total stranger $1,875 to take a power tool to my teeth for two hours?

That's trust, baby.

Fernweh.

That's a German word I discovered recently. It has the same general sense as Wanderlust, although as I had it explained to me, it has more of a sense of "loving faraway places." I like the very sound of it; it sounds like something faraway, exotic.

I'm currently indulging in a No Reservations marathon. I love this show. It's hosted by chef Anthony Bourdain (who also hates Rachael Ray, hooray!), and he goes to some insanely interesting places. There's little gimmickry; he doesn't dive into maggot stew or pickled calves' brains at each turn, looking for the most stomach-turning dish in each country. And he's not exactly Samantha Brown: he smokes, drinks, and swears, and he doesn't pose jauntily with national landmarks. He doesn't retread the same tired tourist traps every episode: he's been to Moscow, Tashkent, Edinburgh, and yes, even New Orleans - but after Katrina. And he had some pretty harsh things to say, too. His is not a glossy show.

What he does do is engage with locals and attempt to understand their cultures, even when they don't necessarily reflect his own. I admire that. A recent episode dealt with Gaugin's French Polynesia, but rather than taking us to yet another beach with scantily-clad Americans holding neon drinks with umbrellas in them, Bourdain delved into the nightlife of Papaete with...Polynesian transsexuals. Yes, transsexuals. They're called Mahu there; men who desire to lead lives as women. It is something of a tradition there. Bourdain ate poisson cru - a raw fish dish that's "perfect hangover food" - with them and listened as they told him about their dreams; one wanted to find a husband, another wanted to be a doctor. He didn't crack jokes about their boob jobs or ridicule the one for wanting a husband; he listened as they explained what their culture was about.

This is the sort of thing I really want to do. No, will do, one day. I suffer from acute fernweh. I think we as Americans are too narrow-minded to truly appreciate what makes even our own country good, let alone anyone else's. I want to get past the Ugly American stereotype. I want to learn what makes someone on the other side of the world tick. I want to see the Cape York Peninsula before it's destroyed by tourists looking for a crocodile-populated Disneyworld. I want to learn Italian and order gelato from a shop that only the locals know about. I want to go for a hike in Crete and not worry about getting lost, because I am where I need to be. I want to live in London, because of all the places I've been, it's the one that feels most like home, even with the crazy fruit vendors and the constant if faint smell of damp paper.

I firmly believe it's important to appreciate what you have and make the best of where you are; I learned this the hard way. I've been in some amazing places and sometimes wanted only to go home again, and I regret it. And it's no good to just want another stamp in your passport, although mine's been feeling awfully neglected of late. You can travel the world and never actually see anything; I've been on trains next to people who talked about "doing" Dover, Windsor Castle, and Canterbury in one day, and I felt unspeakable pity for them, because I've spent a day in just the Tower of London and not felt like I've seen and understood it all. You have to travel with open eyes and an open mind (and, often, an open wallet, alas!), and that's what I like about Bourdain - I learn something about the countries he takes me to, even though it is only armchair travel. There is so much more in this world than my hometown, my state, my country, and I want to go, see, hear, touch, taste it all.

Well, okay, maybe not poisson cru.

My Own (Almost) 30-Minute Meal.

The fiance and I have decided that, in the interest of budgets and impending onslaught of expenses (namely, a move, grad school, a wedding, a honeymoon...all in the next year), we're giving up dining out for a while. However, since we're both budding gourmands, we don't want to abandon fine dining, so we've decided to try whipping up a fine new meal once a week. I began this tradition a few weeks ago, with a pomegranate-glazed chicken with caramelized onions and steamed broccoli with garlic, topped with a touch of goat cheese. Ohhhh, baby. It took an hour and a half, but it was superb.

This week, it was sirloin and chicken breast (red meat for him, white for me, due to my unusual beef allergy) marinated in red wine vinegar, molasses, chili flakes, garlic, and cracked peppercorns, served with caramelized onions, steamed broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms, and topped with some crumbled boucheron chèvre. We put the meat in the marinade around lunchtime and let it sit all day, which made it moist and insanely flavorful.

But here's the best part: not counting the marinating time, preparing the whole meal (including prep time!) took me just 37 minutes. That's right. I started the onions first (getting that delicious, melt-in-your-mouth golden result takes some time), put the meat on my trusty George Foreman grill, and steamed the veggies in a double-boiler. And this time included my demonstrating to the fiance how to properly wash and slice mushrooms, something he'd never done before. The pricetag came in at under $20, too. I couldn't believe it; a fine-dining meal that took less than an hour to cook and less than $20 to purchase! Take that, Rachael Ray! You don't have to make a "sammy" to have a delicious (and genuinely healthy - no buckets of "EVOO" here) dinner in around 30 minutes.

Here's hoping next week's birthday bash is just as successful!

I guarantee it.

Whatever happened to Martin Yan?

This video will explain my devotion.

I remember "Yan Can Cook" on PBS when I was growing up. It was more fun than pretty much anything else on TV, mostly because of those frenetic knife skills and his wacky humor. He always seemed like he was on the verge of exploding, but a hyper cook is a fun cook, if he knows what he's doing (hence why RR doesn't count in this category). And I liked his slogan: "If Yan can cook, so can you! I guarantee you!" His show made food accessible, especially good Asian food, and encouraged even average cooks to stretch their boundaries and try something new. It really wasn't that hard, and it didn't have to be expensive; he gua-ran-teeed it. He could tell you the difference between light and dark soy sauce, and when to use either. Plus, he usually used screaming hot oil in a very large wok. The possibility for disaster was huge, but miraculously never happened, because he clearly knew what he was doing.

He's humble about his skills, but not falsely so; the man's been named a Master Chef by the American Culinary Federation and has a master's degree in food science. The difference between Yan and, say, Ray, who also promotes the "I can cook and so can you!" attitude is simple: Yan makes food you'd want to eat, respects his ingredients, and brings with him years of experience and authenticity. And he's funny.

He hasn't been on public television in Mississippi for a while, and I miss him. Part of me would like to see the Food Network pick up his show, but I have a feeling they'd probably try and make him dye his hair platinum and come up with catchphrases like "Yum-o" or "money" while cooking duck pizzas with plum dipping sauce in under 30 minutes in a kitschy "Asianized" kitchen with a Buddha in the corner that matches the one on his apron.

Still, I have to think he'd be better than the cooktard likes of Sandra Lee and Rachael Ray. Why? Because Yan CAN Cook!

We love to fly, and it...costs.

Today I learned two dismaying tidbits about the airline industry.

The first is that Delta, my frequent-flier mileage-awarding slavemaster, has caved to peer pressure and announced that it too will be reducing the number of free checked bags per (coach) passenger to a mere one. This comes on the heels of similar announcements by Northwest, Continental, and United Airlines, all of whom appear to agree that passengers flying coach have fewer possessions than their first-class-cabinmates. First-class passengers on all four airlines may check up to three bags for free. For budget travellers like myself, who find it hard not to buy gifts for everyone we know when we're abroad, this comes as a blow; not only do we have to pay for the things we buy, we'll have to pay extra to get them home...assuming our flight isn't cancelled, that is.

My question is this: isn't this akin to giving away goodie bags worth thousands of dollars to celebrities, who could actually afford to purchase all that stuff? If you can afford to fly first class, can't you afford to pay an extra $25 to check a third bag? Why stick us poor steerage passengers with the fees?

And then there are people for whom no luxury is ever enough. For those discerning and non-monetarily-challenged travellers, Emirates Airlines presents their new fully private First Class suites. According to their very posh website,

"The new private suite is fully equipped with individual storage, a coat closet, vanity desk and personal mini bar. The extra-large seat reclines to become a fully flat bed, and the 23" wide-screen LCD screen features over 600 channels of ice entertainment.

Our award-winning, multilingual cabin crew provide an unprecedented level of personal service, including a la carte gourmet cuisine and an extensive wine list."

As if feeling like chattel wasn't easy enough when we're crammed into 28" of pitch space, we now have pictures of these homes-away-from-home to envy. These suites come complete with luxurious polished wood paneling, 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton linens on your fully reclining, twin-size bed, seven-course dining with a trained sommelier at your service, automated reclining seat - just press a button to nap! - and your own personal flight attendant. You even get doors to pull shut while you sleep, completely closing you off from the annoyances of other filthy-rich travellers. It's just like the Hogwarts Express, only without Draco Malfoy stealing your luggage. And the price for this luxury? Starting from a mere $12,626 for flights from New York-JFK to Dubai.

And I betcha they don't have to pay to check an extra bag, either.

Really, Food Network?

Those of you who know me know that I have a "thing" for the Food Network. It's often sort of akin to watching a train wreck: horrific, but impossible to look away from. It's a case of it being so bad it's almost good. So allow me to share with you the latest news in Food Network's programming lineup, straight from the horse's mouth, as it were:

"The Chef Jeff Project, an inspirational series in which drug-dealer-turned-chef Jeff Henderson works with kids who want to be cooks."

Because a former drug dealer should definitely be the one cooking our childrens' meals. Who wants to bet there are magic brownies on the menu?

In other Food Network news, Rachael Ray has decided to give us recipes for dog food. No, apparently she doesn't think the...well, let's be nice and call it "food"...she's been producing for the last five years qualifies. She means meals you can cook for the family and share with the dog. (Apparently, leftovers aren't good enough for your precious pup.) Recipes include "Power Pooch Smoothies" and "Real Dogs Eat Quiche." The latter includes half-and-half and breakfast sausage. Both recipes say they serve four. I'm guessing this is not based on Beagle owners.

And you thought your life sucked.

An acquaintance of mine recently introduced me to the world of mail-order brides, and I must say I'm appropriately terrified. On the other hand, it does make me feel one hell of a lot more normal.

So what exactly is so scary about these services? Well, have a look at Asianbridesonline.com. According to them, it's a fact that "Men seek youth and beauty. Women seek mature, older, healthy, intelligent, successful, financially stable men." This is so important that they repeat it. Four times. Word for word. Is it just me, or is there some adjectivism at work here?

Among their other helpful advice? Make copies of your letters. "By doing this, when a lady responds to you, you can simply refresh your memory as to what you initially wrote her." This will help you keep your lies about being a mature, older, healthy, intelligent, successful, financially stable man straight. It would really suck if one of those luscious ladies found out you were really a middle-aged office supplies salesman.

Then there's Anastasia Web Tours, which arranges "romance tours" (land-only, $4995 for ten days) that allow men to meet eligible "ladies" who have the qualities they're looking for in a wife. If you have a look here, you'll see exactly the kind of qualities he's looking for. He's even making the universal sign-language symbol for them.

But my favorite has to be Kiev Connections, run by an "American proprietor" who gives the following advice to prospective customers:

"We highly suggest you do not have a long correspondence! You can write ladies for ever and usually nothing will happen. You will just waste time, energy, effort, emotions and never get married. Why be alone another minute. Would it not be better to be happily married as soon as possible?"

Indeed. Why waste time trying to get to know one another and waste emotions - you know you have a finite supply - when you could race into a marriage with someone who won't understand a word you say? Do stupid things faster, for god's sake!

The best part of this website has to be the FAQ section, however. If these questions really are this frequently asked, then these morons - uh, men deserve all the mockery that can possibly be heaped upon them. For example:

"Will She run off after she comes to America? No! You are the sponsor of her visa and she must marry you and only you or return to her country before the end of 90 days."

Well, that's comforting. Because it's not scary enough that this woman's come to a strange country to see a strange person several decades older than she is. She has a full 90 days to realize the scale of her error.

"What about the age difference? Everyone knows that a beautiful 18 model is not going to love a overweight, 70 year old man with little hair for his great personality. You need to be realistic. Now, that being said, things are very different in the Ukraine than they are in the west. You will frequently see couples that are 20 years apart in age. It is natural here. Everyone is an individuals and individuals interact and react differently. There are no set rules or demarcation. You need to meet and see if there is attraction and chemistry."

This really is comforting to all those overweight, balding 70-year-olds out there; you don't need a great personality, just a shitload of cash. And apparently, Ukrainian women are a bargain. Each is "an individuals," which is essentially a buy-one-get-one-free situation. Now don't you want to come to Kiev?

But why are all these lovely 18-year-old Ukrainian women desperate to marry men 20 years their senior? The owner of Kiev Connections provides this insightful answer:

"There are decent marriage oriented men in Ukraine but there are many that are not. What is a man? A man is the breadwinner ,he earns the bacon and brings it home so the wife can fry it up in the pan. The man is the provider. Unfortunately, it is very difficult for a Ukrainian man to provide for his family. There are few well paying jobs in the Ukraine. How can the men here take pride in themselves if they can not provide for their family. The result? Ukrainian men bend to peer pressure and drink and drink."

Oh, peer pressure. And we thought you were just responsible for us wearing those puff-painted denim jackets in the '80s. Apparently you are also the reason for Ukrainian men being crappy husbands. The bright side to this is that these lovely Ukrainian ladies can come over to the US and marry American men 20 years their senior. Of course, their husbands will probably still drink and expect their wives to fry their bacon for them, but at least it won't be because of peer pressure.

Woad Rage.

I think I may have chosen the wrong profession. Why, you ask?

Because students make me want to beat them, viciously, over the head with something large and heavy. And this is not just the occasional, "had-a-bad-day" occurrence. I tutor composition three days a week, and the feeling is pretty much constant.

Take today, for example. I had a student bring in a history paper about the Woads in ancient Britain. This student's primary source was not her history textbook, nor the book of primary sources. Oh, no. She had rented "King Arthur" with Clive Owen, and had written as her "history paper" a summary of the movie. She had also, consistently, spelled it "Whods." How that even vaguely resembles the sound of "woad" I don't know. Maybe she'd also just seen "Horton Hears a Who" and gotten confused. I certainly was. I really was at a loss to help her.

And the thing that bothers me the most is that this is not the only student I have who is completely clueless. One instructor here apparently believes I'm there to teach her students for her, and sends them en masse to me for instruction. Frankly, I don't know why they pay her. I saw fourteen of her students today in two and a half hours. Of these fourteen freshmen, a grand total of two hadn't plagiarized or written a summary of something rather than a discussion. Two thirds of them ignored The Article entirely; one asked, "What's a article?" and I felt like screaming at her, "It's that word you just misused, you illiterate wretch!" Miraculously, I didn't. Another had blatantly plagiarized, which I could tell because her opening paragraph included the words "anthropomorphize" and "bombastic." I barely use that kind of language in my papers.

My great fear is that the vast majority of students are like this, and I have let myself in for a lifetime of frustration over the fact that these people don't care about grammar, punctuation, or the five-paragraph structure. I'm all about creative breaking of the rules, but shouldn't you know them first? How do you teach someone who doesn't care if she gets caught ripping her entire paper off the first page of Google search results?

The Ph.D. students I know say you become accustomed to it, and stop caring, but I'm not sure that's any better. In fact, it might be worse. I love the Oxford comma, the semi-colon, the thesis statement, and the day their abuse becomes something acceptable to me will be the day something precious dies. That's scary.

Life on Mars.

If it had been posted on April 1, I'd have marked it off as an elaborate April Fool's prank. But given the fact that wacky billionaire Richard Branson's behind it (the man who dared to believe in space tourism and - even more shocking - an airline that treats coach customers like people), I give full credence to the proposition, found here, that within 100 years there will be a fully-operational colony on Mars.

How, you ask? Well, someone's been watching Joss Whedon, because the answer is simple: terraforming. Specifically, they plan to introduce "halo-carbon gases (CFCs) and water vapour into the atmosphere, in part with energy concentrated from mirrors manufactured on the Martian moon of Phobos" in order to promote plant life that will eventually moisten the planet enough to support life. It sounds a little like Project Genesis from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. All they really need is some groovy narration by Leonard Nimoy. (And yes, I'm aware that referencing two science-fiction masterpieces in one paragraph labels me as a nerd, but I'm okay with that. In fact, I revel in it. I'm daring like that.)

Interested in being part of this brave new world? You can sign up to join "Mission Control," including doing fun jobs like designing space-friendly housing or the "Utility Space Pod." Engineering not your speed? Want to take things a little further? You can sign up to be a part of the colonizing community. You can even take an online quiz to test your "pioneering potential." I would, but considering half my wagon always seems to die before I reach Oregon City, I doubt I'm pioneering stuff.

Is it possible that this is all one elaborate advertisement for Virgin Galactic, Branson's space tourism venture? Planting a colony on another planet sure would give him a monopoly on getting there. Personally, I think he's been watching a little too much Firefly. But hey, Richard, if you happen to see Wash out there in the black, let me know. I'll sign up in a heartbeat.

cue Firefly theme song..."Take me out to the black, tell them I ain't comin' back...

100% real food.

Hold the presses, everyone. Hot Pockets now use "100% real ingredients" in their polystyrene-pasties-cum-"sandwiches," at least according to their latest television ads. This makes me wonder...what were they using before? Were they using the cardboard those outer crusts always tasted like?

For that matter, isn't any ingredient 100% "real"? It may not be natural - I'm willing to wager very little in Hot Pockets is natural now - but surely if it exists, it's real? Unless we were eating hypothetical polystyrene pasties, in which case they certainly shouldn't have had so many calories. And isn't this tantamount to a confession that they haven't always been "real food," that they used to be more fake than they are now, and that if you ate their crummy microwaveable excuses for lunch a year or two ago, you might be screwed?

I've noticed that a lot of my obsessions lately revolve around food. I am incensed that Lay's markets its potato chips as having "0 grams trans fat" as though that made them health food (and indeed, I heard a mother in Kroger last week agree to buy them for her five-year-old son for that very reason). Same for McDonald's.

It really bothers me that Sandra Lee comes out with "cookbooks" when all she ever does on her show is open packets of Italian seasoning, frost angel food cakes with cool whip, and make "tablescapes" that not only look like they probably cost a week's grocery budget, but leave no room on the table for the food. Surely the primary purpose of a table shouldn't be holding lace-trimmed buckets and raffia straw at the expense of the food itself?

And lately I'm truly offended by people who insist that parmigianno reggiano and parmesan are the same thing. They're not. It's like calling just any old sparkling wine champagne. I feel as if there's a kind of reverse snobbery at work in society, where people can feel superior about buying Velveeta and look down at those, like myself, who are willing to fork over $10 for a really divine round of boucheron. (I suggest you melt it over a chile-lime marinated chicken. Heaven.) But really, what is the point of eating something that is labeled as a "pasteurized cheese food product"? Cheese food product?! What self-respecting cheese would eat Velveeta? I understand that it's cheaper, but buying it doesn't make you a smarter consumer. Think about it. Consumer. You are consuming that stuff, putting it in your body. It has the taste and texture of melted tire rubber, a color that resembles nothing on this planet (maybe Mars?). Do you really want that in your gut? So why are you looking down at me, when I at least know what my cheese is made of? I defy anyone to tell me what's in Velveeta.

America is one of the most obese countries in the world. Why? Because we assume that potato chips with "0g trans fat" are health foods and buy them for our children. We eat Velveeta in massive quantities trying to capture some hint of taste, when an inch cube of a sharp cheddar or brie would do. We "eyeball" our ingredients a la Rachael Ray (you knew that was coming, didn't you?), resulting in salad dressings with more fat than a Big Mac. We order a double cheeseburger, super-size fries, and a Diet Coke, and assume we've done our healthy bit for the day. Do what tastes right, America. And by this I mean skip the Hot Pockets idea of "100% real ingredients" and dig into some real food, food that you think about, take time to prepare, and savor, without having that MSG-tainted guilt trip afterwards.

Acronyms, for your convenience.

Or not. It's no secret I'm not a big fan of Rachael Ray. For those of you who don't know who this is, have a look around. Really. Her Jokeresque grin is used to sell Nabisco products, Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwiches (really?), even my beloved Wheat Thins. Target carries her line of pots, pans, knives, and some odd-looking and entirely unnecessary device called a "Garbage Bowl." My local Kroger sells RR-branded olive oil - no, wait, "EVOO" - for a mere $14.99 for 12 oz. But more on this particular aggravation later.

She hasn't always been wretched. My mom and I used to watch her show a few years ago, when she made mostly simple meals that actually looked edible, and wasn't so reliant on gimmicks and gadgets. But now she's taken over the Food Network, and that's not a good thing (to paraphrase another overmarketed domestician). I actually enjoy several shows on the Food Network, mostly because they're on in the evenings and I like to have something on in the background while I complete mountains of homework. "Good Eats" with Alton Brown's a particular favorite; they tell you cooking's a science, but until you watch this show you have no idea how true that is. And I really enjoy watching "Iron Chef America," where two professionals take one ingredient and, in an hour, create a five-course menu featuring it. It's not exactly educational television, but it's entertaining.

But what distinguishes Alton Brown, the Iron Chefs, and even that Duff guy from "Ace of Cakes" from Rachael Ray is that they care about their product, and they know their food. Alton Brown can tell you why overkneading bread makes it tough (it's all about glutens), and the Iron Chef can tell you why he grilled oysters with mangoes (it's influenced by a Vietnamese dish he had. In Vietnam.). But when Rachael Ray "cooks," or rather throws things into a giant "stoup" pot (that's because it's thicker than a soup, thinner than a stew, geddit?), she spouts any nonsense that comes to mind, just to keep the noise level up. "I like using ground chicken instead of beef because you can eat twice as much!" she says, as she cross-contaminates her salad by not washing the hands that just shaped meatballs. Never mind that ground chicken contains as much fat and calories as 80% lean ground beef. "If you use whole wheat pasta you can eat more and still feel good!" she yells, after admitting that she didn't know that pasta came in whole wheat until she read the box. Apparently she didn't read the nutrition facts, though, because she'd have noticed that whole wheat pasta still has the same number of calories as its less-trendy durum semolina cousin.

And then there's her pernicious use of acronyms. She uses a host of them, most prominently "GB" (for garbage bowl) and "EVOO" (for extra-virgin olive oil). This last one, shamefully, made it into the dictionary last year. But Ray doesn't trust her audience enough to understand these, so she then defines them. I thought the point of acronyms was to save having to define them each time: you don't hear someone say "RADAR, that's Radio Detection and Ranging." But each time it's, "We'll slather this with EVOO, that's Extra-Virgin Olive Oil." It's painful, not only because if something has become so widely-known that it's in the dictionary, it doesn't have to be defined each and every time it's used, but because she uses "EVOO" in everything. I'm a bit of a foodie myself, and - ironically, largely because of the Food Network - even I know that olive oil comes in many kinds for a reason. Extra-virgin is the most delicate, it has a very low smoke point (meaning it burns easily), and it should only really be used in salad dressings and uncooked elements of the dish. So why are we using it three or four times in every dish, Rachael? Why is that grill pan you just slathered with it heating up to 400 degrees? Is it because it just doesn't sound cool enough to use "OO"?

What bothers me is not that she's boisterous. It's that she's ill-informed. She misuses her beloved "EVOO" in ways that harm the integrity of her ingredients and compromise the quality of her food. She insists that you can use "anything you like" in her dish, to the point of not even differentiating between Chinese duck sauce and plum sauce in a recipe. But if I can use anything I like, why do I need her recipe? What makes her such an authority? With Julia Child, I know where I stand. If I want coq au vin, I need to use strong red wine and full-fat bacon. Wine spritzers and turkey bacon won't cut it, at least if you're at all interested in the quality of what you produce. But this doesn't seem to concern Ray. She just goes right on making her "tacosagnas" and "sammies" (because I guess "sandwiches" isn't a cute enough name).

But perhaps more dangerous, and certainly more troublesome, she promotes her food as healthy to a widely under-educated America who will believe her. A recent dish, "Mini Cheeseburger Salad," was a bed of lettuce with cheeseburger patties on top and a ketchup-and-mustard vinaigrette. No, I am not kidding. The total fat for this dish, at over 32 grams, was higher than a Wendy's double cheeseburger. And yet, because there's some mistreated green under the mound of meat and cheese, it's "healthy." And nobody stops her. To the contrary, she is touted as "the next Martha Stewart," a savior of working women everywhere who provides healthy and fast recipes for the whole family. This is, let's not forget, the same woman who was just selling Nabisco snack cakes and Dunkin' Donuts on tv. There's a disconnect there that somehow strikes at the center of so much that is wrong with American consumerism: if it's fast and cheap, it's right. Don't read nutrition labels; don't take time to put thought and care into a dish that really tastes good, just whip up something quick. If you cover it with enough cheese, it'll taste okay. The important thing is marketing: package something in bright orange and give it a cutesy name, but don't worry about whether it will give you a heart attack a year later. It's the "Baconator" mentality in all its glory, and it's overtaken what used to be a fairly entertaining network supposedly dedicated to food, not just cheese-covered crap.

Why yes, we take American Express.

I just got an email from Delta Airlines, telling me their EATS menu has been expanded on flights over 1 1/2 hours. For the bargain price of only $5-$12, I can buy a sandwich, some hummus and carrot sticks, or a "Chicken Bistro Salad." Apparently it's bistro because it has nuts on it.

This bugs me. Flying and I have an abusive relationship to start with; I love the convenience and speed with which I get to the places I dearly love to go, but I'd really like to be treated like I wasn't a package to be shuttled about at the airlines' pleasure. In the past year I've flown on 22 Delta flights (yes, I am a hopeless travel whore, and I hope never to change). And on those 22 flights, I have not once departed on time. Often I have arrived at my destination hours late; twice I've been delayed overnight. For the pleasure of being shuffled through not one but two security checkpoints (yes, at some airports they make you take your plastic baggie through security to get it examined before the line where they run you through the metal detector), being forced to stand for some time barefoot and jacketless trying to balance a laptop, a purse, and your sneakers, and then hustled to your gate just in time to realize you've been delayed for an hour (or two, or six), you can expect to pay outrageous fares, fees, and taxes sometimes equivalent to a down payment on a new Kia. (Example: a recent fare search to Athens revealed the flight would cost $884, plus another $472 in taxes. This is actually more than the down-payment for my 2006 Corolla.)

But the delight doesn't stop there. On board you can expect to sit in sub-zero or Saharan temperatures, and don't expect that air conditioning nozzle to affect the atmosphere. The flight attendants come around offering you tiny bags containing 8 peanuts and, if you're really lucky, packets of cheese crackers, but only on flights longer than 45 minutes. If you're flying from Jackson to Atlanta, you're screwed, sorry...would you like some Dasani in a 3-oz. bottle? Apparently they expect passengers to make like camels and drink up ahead of time.

Having flown a few times in first class (always through no direct, paying action of my own), I can say that life is better behind that blue polyester curtain. They refill your drink without looking at you as if your request for another is somehow killing Somalian children, and they have Sunchips and chocolates in addition to the standard-issue peanuts. They offer to take your coat, and bring it to you along with your connecting information before you land. There is enough room to cross your legs without impaling your seat-neighbor with your heel.

My question is this: why the discrepancy? Would it really be that hard to extend the courteousness to the back half of the cabin? I understand we can't all eat Godiva, but surely we're all entitled to a smile, and maybe the whole can of Diet Coke? Companies are entitled to profits, sure, and if someone wants to pay the extra $500-$22,000 (yes, a Sunday flight to Sydney could set you back that much) for first class, then I see no reason to discourage them. My issue is with the coach mentality; it's too reminiscent of the Titanic, without the funny hats and Molly Brown. We're packages, to be loaded on and off as frequently as possible; our delays, our plans, our very lives are of little consequence in the grand scheme of making it into the black at the end of the fiscal quarter.

And now I'm being asked to pay $12 for a salad with nuts on it. But the bright side? They take American Express. So with enough of those I can earn frequent flier miles and do it all over again.

Palimpsest.

I went to post to this journal for the first time in over a month, and a "Saved Draft" popped into my screen. It told me "today was a pretty good day." I don't know why, but this made me smile. It meant that some other day I was happy, and that things are sometimes less confusing than we make them out to be. It gave me hope. Like those purple thistles along the roadsides right now. Yes, they'll die and wither and blow away into the wind, but right now they're beautiful and I can't see them without thinking that yes, this world is a remarkable place. Sometimes, even a moment of happiness is enough.

And then I got to thinking about that unposted journal entry, and what it meant in the larger scheme of things. Isn't it really indicative of our whole lives? We mean to say something, then forget about it, and it remains unsaid when it should have been thrown out there even if it was hard, even if it was terrifying. Or we say it and then it comes back to haunt us, a palimpsest we've written over, but can never fully erase.

Carrie says I'm having a mid-life crisis; I think this is probably true, or what John Mayer calls a "quarter-life" crisis. And perhaps we have those all along, but we're not told to expect them, so we don't label them as such, and then we glide over them and hit 50 and wonder why everything is so confusing and foreign. It's not because that is anything new; it's because we just never had a name for what a Mid Life Crisis is till then.

I've decided to finish in August rather than May. I was killing my mental stability worrying about finishing exams and things on time, and it was unhealthy. I also really need the student aid in order to move, which I don't qualify for if I've already graduated. This way I can relax, try to focus on the one thing that has been my nemesis for the past four years, make it through a month of summer classes, and then set about moving with the peace of mind - and Pell Grants - that I need to do so. I know it's not ideal, but I'm learning that very few things in this life are, and that sometimes we don't always know what is best for us. Sometimes the things we see as compromises or the "other option" actually work out in ways we didn't expect. If I had gone to Harvard or Colgate or even Ole Miss I'd never have met the remarkable women who have come to be such a great and rewarding part of my life. I wouldn't have known the support of Wrenegades or late-night panic relief from Carrie or sitting up proofreading someone's Capstone paper at 3 a.m. I wouldn't have met Stephen, and my life could be something completely different now than it is. That isn't to say it wouldn't have been just as good; merely that I like where I am at this point, I feel truly blessed in my friends and family, and I'm glad that I chose to stay here at the W. I'm hopeful that maybe, due to whatever cosmic force is in charge of this crazy messed-up universe, these decisions I'm making will turn out as well as that one. I'm trying to have faith. That is hard for the control freak cynic in me; the person who sees all this inexplicable, horrific muddle and pain in the world and finds it impossible to believe there could be a Bigger Purpose behind it, the person who thinks if she were god then she'd make damn sure people didn't suffer for no reason, the person who always wants a plan and then a backup to that plan, just in case. It's hard to just let go and make a final pronouncement that then carries you away with it. But that's what I'm working on. Hopefully it's a maturation process, because I'm certainly not there yet.

I've also made a decision about grad school. I'm not entirely happy about it, but this actually encourages me, because in the words of Aslan, that ever-so-wise metaphorical figure, "If you had thought you were ready it would have been proof that you were not." I like Athens as a town and expect I could be pretty satisfied there, at least for a while. The school is not all that I had hoped for, and it is not my dream program. Unfortunately, that school is in a tiny town in Florida where there is - and I am somewhat ashamed to admit this is actually a criteria for picking a place to move to - no super Wal-Mart within 30 miles, and one Barnes and Noble that is about the size of our Books-A-Million here in Columbus. The economy's depressed and I didn't see much evidence of things to do or available jobs. So while I loved the program and the faculty, I'm choosing Georgia instead, because I do eventually have to build a life outside of school. One day.

This isn't to say I'm thrilled about the move. I heard some fairly negative things about the English program, though I heard recommendations as well, and the graduate director is a sweeter, nicer version of Daffron (pleasanter, but just as punctilious). I liked the faculty and some of them have research interests that very much mirror mine. I'm excited about the chance to learn new things and interact with new people and prove myself to a new group of peers and faculty. But I have my reservations about this decision, and it was not an easy one. I'm consoling myself with the knowledge that it will be much easier for Stephen to move to Georgia with me than to Florida, and even if I were in a slightly better program, I'd still be miserable if I were in a small town 10 hours away from my friends and my family. And Athens does have 73 bars, after all. A town like that has to be worth living in. In the end it all comes down to compromise; you learn what's important to you and what can be set aside, what can be postponed and must be done now, what you're willing to give up to get what you really need. I'm hopeful I made the right choice. Right now, I'm trying not to think about it too much. I do have a tendency to overthink things, and then I panic. And that is the last thing I need.