Where has the summer gone?

“Where has the summer gone,” I found myself asking this morning. The question was only somewhat rhetorical. Part of me really wanted to know: “What the hell happened to my summer??”

I glanced at the big-eyed beagle lying next to me, the one who sighs when he sleeps, just like I do.

Then, with a certain amount of irritation, I eyed the pile of books behind me—that cluttered Borgesian collection of knowledge and confusion, order and chaos. Shared stories and a lifetime of solitude.

I’ve been searching for months, to no avail, for a means of shelving the books. They are stacked on the floor in no particular order, partly because I can’t afford a decent bookcase, and partly because I secretly appreciate the aesthetics of disorder.

This time it was I who sighed, not Buddy. I know exactly where my summer has gone.

Tomorrow, at exactly 12pm, I will begin the first round of my qualifying exams, that sanctimonious dividing line between being just another grad student and taking a step toward becoming a professor—between just beginning and almost being there. I’d tell you I’m not nervous, but then, in the same breath, I’d also have to admit that I’ve had two bad dreams in as many weeks. The first resembled a torture session in which the proctor (my 7th grade teacher) demanded I answer a question to which I had no response—no response I wanted to reveal, anyway. In the second, I couldn’t save my work, a tragedy so real and so grave that, as a consequence, I’ve compulsively saved this blog post every 90 seconds.

More than nervous, though, I’d like to think I’m energetic and exuberant. Confident. Clear-thinking. I’d like to think I’m ready for the future, and that I finally trust the present’s influence over things to come.

More importantly, I’d like to think I’m hopeful. I’ve spent my summer constructing, well, a bookcase of sorts, one that reunites all the disparate volumes of my knowledge. Grouped together, they form a library of the last ten years of my life and a pursuit that has always manifested itself as much intellectually as it has geographically—sentimentally—, and which has shaped the direction of my life at every turn, always giving me the tools I need to document this journey.

Tomorrow represents just another turn and another step forward—toward, and not away. In the meantime, as long as the bookcase I’ve been searching for all summer is housed within me—neatly archiving knowledge among all the fibers of my being--, the real books can stay exactly where they are: in a pile along the wall of my office.

In response to the question: What did you see today?

Last night's walk home

The Comeback Column

The world of Fabulous Debauchery is the brain child of Rebbecca Pittenger ’04, and Kelly Ridener ’05. Their topics have included “Top 10 Fashion Icons of the Hiram College Faculty” and “Gifts for Gender Warriors.” The authors invite you into their world--a world of owning one’s baggage and laughing at the mundane, the ridiculous. A world chock full of Fabulous Debauchery.

Excerpt from "Debauchery," printed in the Hiram College Decline:

"Suddenly, you’re back to where you started. This time, though, pangs of guilt punctuate your newfound freedom, especially when said overbearing mother reminds you that she really does want grandchildren someday… seriously… in the near future… or at least before she dies, please. Then there’s always her favorite reminder: “You ARE nearing 30, aren’t you?” You start taking it to heart when the whole family makes bets that your younger, far-less-responsible sibling will get married and have kids before you do… not to mention a new house, a new car, a well-paying job… shall I go on?

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, they start introducing you as the smart but complicated one.

At this juncture in life, you start believing that you will meet your soul mate while studying at the university library, where you make only occasional late-night appearances—often donning oversized sweatpants, a sweat-stained shirt you stole from your best friend’s brother in seventh grade because you thought it made you look cool, and a bandana—, and where your audible recitation of Latin declensions has been mistaken, more times than you care to admit, for incoherent mumbling.

But then something happens. You suddenly remember that life, like a good martini, should be delicious, intoxicating, and preferably, very, very dirty--served with at least a few Spanish olives. And, like a new pair of Manolos, even when life is a little uncomfortable and rubs you the wrong way, it should always make you look sophisticated and stylish.

This prompts you start taking stock in life, and so you work to pay off all those emotional debts, seeking out only new dividends. You realize that time has actually made you better and that you actually do look great in short skirts. With the help of some whisky and a few trusted friends, you burn ALL of your grandma panties. And the next time a family member casually mentions over lunch that you're a spinstress in training, you’ll remember that your baggage is exclusively Louis Vuitton, that you really ARE the fearless woman your mother warned you about, and that one word alone can describe you: fabulous."

Fabulous - By Kelly B. Ridener

The Hangover (aka My 5-Year College Reunion)

Ohio.

I finally found Kelly. We are fabulous.

So are these people.

Especially when they sing in the rain.


And feel like "caca" the next morning.

The Remains of the Night

Salsa is Spanish for Sauce

Everyone assumes I know how to dance salsa. The thought alone is laughable to me, but then I stop to think: they’re not entirely incorrect. I can successfully dance with chips and salsa in hand, and still keep spillage to a minimum. I often dance a little while I’m making salsa. I’ve even been known to accept, on occasion, an offer to partake in that lighthearted Caribbean groove. Regrettably, my dance partner discovers, all too soon, that the only sauce I can really mix up is hollandaise.

And that hardly constitutes dancing salsa.

For some reason—it must be because I’m working on a PhD in Hispanic Studies—people just suppose that all those twists and turns, all those graceful pasos to the left and right, front and back, all that subtle (and not-so-subtle) hip swaying, and (who could forget) the grand-finale, back-arching, appear-as-if-I-were-Gumby’s-stunt-double dip are just par for the course.

“Not so,” I reassured a friend of mine once, as we nervously watched everyone around us succumb to the seduction of salsa. He took a swig straight from the can and nodded, only somewhat convinced. I don’t know if my friend would be upset if I told you he’s a bit of a wallflower. Something tells me he might actually revel in that distinction.

“You see,” I went on to explain in my best I’m-the-daughter-of-an-academic tone of voice, “we’re no less interested in the Spanish-speaking world just because we don’t dance salsa and, quite frankly, don’t even care to learn. We spent time in Argentina and Uruguay, and everyone knows they worship the same minor gods we do: beer and the Rolling Stones. They, my friend, are our gente.”

He chuckled and nodded in agreement once again—his thoughts drifting to the shores of the Rio de la Plata—this time more convinced that sometimes salsa is just Spanish for sauce.