day of happiness

So I haven't posted in almost a month. Oops.

But today is basically The Perfect Day, so I figure I must post.

Today is the first day of Fall, which is my favorite. It is also Hobbit Day, which is also my favorite. It is also International Curly Hair Day, which is also my favorite. How lovely is that?

...it also happens to be my 20th birthday, which is all kinds of weird. I've been alive for a score. I am in my third decade of life. I'm a twenty-something, ouch.

So how about a fun game of Never Have I Ever In Twenty Years? Okay. Never have I ever:

• Watched Star Wars
• Eaten and enjoyed pickles
• Grown my hair past my waist
• Had a whole conversation with someone in a language besides English
• Done anything actually physically risky
• ...or even run a mile
• Drunk more than half a sip of anything alcoholic
• Driven somewhere out of town by myself
• Traveled abroad without 'grown ups'
• Read War and Peace
• Slept under the stars
• Played a convincing chord on a guitar
• Been to Boston (in the fall or otherwise)

These are all things that I mean to change sometime in the next decade of my life. We'll see. A couple are a stretch, but I think I can probably manage most of them. Most doubtful? Pickles. Definitely the pickles.

God has blessed me a lot, like massively, these twenty years. I'm happy with them. Now I figure it's time for me to be, like, an actual adult. We'll see how that goes.

с соусом неудачника

Translation: with sauce of failure.

I am now back at Notre Dame (glory, glory, hallelujah!). In the past 72 hours...

• My laptop has been opened 5 times total, including this time.
• I have stayed up until 3:30am once.
• I have woken up without an alarm at 7am every single day.
• No gluten has passed through these lips.
• I have only skipped one meal.
• My rector encouraged all of the hall residents to be bitches this year (... meaning, obviously, Babe In Total Control of Herself. We ignore the O.)
• One of my classes learned that our professor is not only cute, Irish, and old, but also the uncle of Evanna Lynch, a.k.a. Luna Lovegood.
• I have attended 2 ISI meetings. (2 more in the next 36 hours! Just like old times. Except more.)
• I have only worn a skirt once. To Riley's chagrin.
• I have developed a healthy fear for the last 2 weeks of the semester (so. many. backloaded. classes.)
• I have been re-convinced of my desperate need to study Russian. Because... соус неудачника.

I got to Russian class yesterday, my first class of the semester, and my professor begins spouting out 20 minutes of fluent, rather fast Russian. Which would be a bit of a shock to begin with, even if she did not keep calling me Катя (Katya), which is traditionally not the name I have gone by in Russian class. She asked us what we did this summer. My response? ...видно, забыла всё (apparently, forgotten everything).

The other classes yesterday were more promising. Children's Literature looks like the best English class EVER EVER EVER, and did I mention it's taught by Luna Lovegood's uncle? Yeah, he's adorable and brilliant. And the booklist is fantastic. The one problem is that the only real assignment is a significant paper at the end of the semester.

I was late to my Brother's Karamazov class, which was embarrassing, but okay. It'll be good. The prof is my favorite, and I know a lot of people in the class. Again, the only problem is that the only real assignment is a significant paper at the end of the semester.

Today I am visiting different classes, and I will decide which one to keep, because TWELVE CREDITS YAY. This morning was a Theo class on the Psalms, which I'm a little unsure about. The professor is all kinds of intelligent, but it felt kind of like he was teaching a class of middle schoolers. I don't know if he is quite comfortable with a level of student that is neither child nor super motivated grad student. But they are reading Bonhoeffer, C. S. Lewis, Isaac Watts, Thomas Aquinas, and other cool people... and the whole Psalter in 2 weeks. Which is never a bad thing.

I love life here.

unnecessary things I pack for school

Packing takes me a long time. This is a reality caused by several factors, the main ones being (a) I have a lot of stuff, (b) I know that I don't actually need all of this stuff but want it anyway, and (c) what stuff I bring to school must be packed to maximize space perfectly.

What are these things, you ask, that you do not actually need but insist on bringing regardless?

1. 12 pairs of purple socks.
   Most of the socks I own are purple, and I just can't bear to leave more than two pairs behind at home. Wearing purple socks just brings so much joy to me and the people around me. At least, that's what I like to think.
2. More weird hippie skirts than pants.
   Skirts are just so much more interesting than pants. So what if I could only bring myself to part with one of my five paisley skirts? 
3. Pleasure reading.
   What kind of literature major wastes time reading books that aren't even for class? This kind. This semester's list includes Glory, by Nabokov, and The Cost of Discipleship, by Bonhoeffer.
4. Lending reading.
   Last year I had a fully operational C. S. Lewis Lending Library in my dorm room. It got quite a bit of use. This year I (alas!) cannot fit the whole collection, but I'm bringing a couple of those along with some other books I've found myself lending to lots of people (Walking on Water, by Madeleine L'Engle; Bonhoeffer, by Eric Metaxes; Desiring God, by John Piper).
5. All of my class textbooks.
   'But you need those, Katie!' Yes, and because I'm an idiot, I had them shipped to home instead of straight to school. 'Great way to add 20 pounds to the load, Katie.' Sorry.
6. My unicorn-rainbow-hearts-stars beach towel. With my name on it. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
7. Like three journals.
   I'm afraid that I'll run out of pages in the middle of a crisis. Woe. Also, what if I come up with a new category of thought that needs journalling? I can't put life analyses in my quote journal, and I certainly can't make to-do lists in my prayer journal.
8. Acrylic paints and chalk pastels.
   Sometimes even the most obnoxiously task-oriented among us need to take a rainy Sunday afternoon to make art.
9. A jar of Nutella.
   Because, Nutella.
10. Approximately 23 hairbows.
    Friends, I'm a little obsessed with hairbows, and I have a whole box full of them. I can justify it because I've never bought a hairbow in my life: they have all been hand-me-downs from friends who grew up in the nineties and realize just how ridiculous they are OR bows that I have had since I was 4. (Yes, I have been wearing the same hairstyle for as long as I've had hair to style.) Proof:

Me, circa sometime-in-the-nineties, wearing a fabulous white hairbow.

the gag reflex

In light of The Gospel Coalition's recent post* about how we should take advantage of our gag reflex in arguing against same-sex marriage, and the four posts on my blog feed reader in the past six hours responding to it (that's 50% of all of the posts on said feed reader in said time frame)...

I am going to leave it up to all the people who say it better than I could to talk it out. And then I am going to do a perhaps-inconsiderate and un-serious thing and talk about an indisputable application of the gag reflex, one that I saw for myself that time my cat pooped in my sister's lap.

Friends, I have been dying to tell you this story.

When my family went on vacation a few weeks ago, none of us had any ideas about taking the cat with us. So we left him with my grandparents, who live about a half-hour away. Very conveniently, my sister had an end-of-the-summer party near them, the day after we got back from vacation. The plan was:

• Katie drops Kristen off at party
• Katie reads The Idiot at grandparents' house for 5 hours
• Katie packs up the cat and his paraphernalia in the car
• Katie picks up Kristen and takes everybody home

And it was going swimmingly. The plan was very streamlined and fine with everybody involved. Except, apparently, the cat.

Historically, Hummer has been an excellent traveller (along with the darned cutest feline I ever did see). He has always done well on car trips. Sometimes he would even sleep on the dashboard.

But this time, he was not having any of it. Because I have a heart, I couldn't keep him in his crate in the backseat. I let him roam the car, as is his wont.

When I got to Kristen's party and picked her up, Hummer began to wander between the back dashboard, where he had been sitting, and my sister's lap. He would lie down one place for a while, get up, move to the other, lie for a while, migrate back, etc. Kristen and I ignored him, having our merry conversation about her party and whatever else we were discussing.

All of a sudden, I heard from the passenger seat,

Wait, Hummer, what-- what are you do--

OH MY GOSH HE POOPED ON ME.

KATIE PULL OVER. PULL OVER RIGHT NOW.

So, laughing hysterically, I scanned the road for a place to pull over. It was a little after midnight, so the local warehouse parking lot was deserted. We parked there, Kristen hyperventilating and almost throwing up. I went around to the back of the car to get out the roll of paper towels... to discover, of course, that he had also gotten carsick all over the back of the car. Sigh. C'est la vie.

I shoved the little monster in the crate, ignoring his woeful plaints, and proceeded to clean up my car and my sister. Laughing, still. (What kind of cat decides that a person's lap is the best place to do his business?? REALLY.)

After I collected the pile of nasty paper towels, I began to search for a place to dispose of them. Not a trashcan in sight. But as I wandered around the warehouse building at midnight, I guess I triggered something, because next thing I know,

KATIE. We've been caught.

There was the police car pulling in behind my car. Wheeee. I giggled at the absurdity of the situation. Kristen still looked like she was going to throw up.

What's going on? Is everything alright here?

Yes sir. We just pulled over because the cat pooped on my sister.

The cat?

Yes. We're bringing him from my grandparents' to home, and he had an accident.

Ew. Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you all were okay.

Thank you, sir.

I deposited the paper towels in the litter box, which was situated in the trunk (woe! ah, alas!). I got in the car. We drove away. And I laughed. And Kristen spent the next 20 minutes punctuating Hummer's cries from the backseat with exclamations of,

HE POOPED ON ME.

What a day.



...anyway, here are some cute pictures of my kitty, just for fun.

*Warning: the Gospel Coalition article contains some obscene language. I didn't read the whole thing.

that part when hard things happen

My friend Sam and I have a long-running joke about the dining hall at school. Every time, both of us circle the room, looking for something that appeals to us-- and inevitably end up back at the pasta line. 'And while he was still a long way off...' we intone, because we love taking Bible verses way out of context.

It would seem that for the next few weeks, at least, this will no longer be the case. Because I, the girl who has 'Carbs' listed as one of her 'Activities' on Facebook, think I might be gluten intolerant.

Yeah. It's pretty terrifying.

Ever since last fall, I've been suspecting that some things I was eating in the DH were causing me trouble. Particularly after eating a meal like pasta stir-fry or a grilled ham & cheese sandwich, I would feel lethargic, distracted, and uncomfortable for the rest of the day. I just chalked it up to chemicals in the lunchmeat, because really, that stuff IS kind of gross.

But after a summer living at home and eating pretty safely, especially since my mom has gone on a health food kick thanks to the Vitamix (ALL the green smoothies!), I can no longer blame bad processed meat. No, I think the fault lies somewhere else.

Like gluten.

The thing that tipped me off was actually a celiac Facebook friend's post with 10 Signs You're Gluten Intolerant. I had never seen gluten linked with skin problems before, but that was a major, major red flag. So I did some more research, which froze my face into a shape much like the one pictured.

I have had eczema for as long as I can remember. Eczema is... awful. The best way I can think to describe it is layers upon layers of tiny little blisters that perpetually feel like blisters do right when they're about to fall off (read: intensely itchy). The more you scratch at them, the more layers of blisters build up, and the deeper the itch runs. Parts of my body have come close to losing all feeling because of so many years of this... the nerves are dead to everything but insatiable itch.

Eczema has been not only a physical trial for me, but also a social and spiritual one. It's hard to be a 6-year-old in a gymnastics leotard or a 16-year-old in a bathing suit when you have rashes and scars all over your legs. And it's hard to pray when your whole consciousness is being constantly tugged to an itch that does not go away, unless you lather it with cream that instead makes the whole area burn so deeply that you literally can't think about anything except how much it hurts.

And it turns out that, for a lot of cases which, like mine, didn't go away at puberty and don't have any other immediate links, gluten intolerance can be a factor in the flaring up of eczema. Who knew?

So I'm going to try the elimination diet for a few weeks and see what happens. Could be rough going; we'll see. (By 'could be' I mean 'absolutely will be'-- I am an unrepentant carboholic, so I don't know if I will actually be able to make it longer than a few days. erk. haha)

in which katie is a magnet of awkward

I spent this past weekend in Buffalo, NY, visiting friends. Ladies and Gentlemen, I humbly present myself to you as one who is for some unknown reason highly attractive to Awkward.

Allow me to paint the scene... Actually, a few scenes, selected from the weekend.


LOCATION: a Greyhound bus terminal in Cleveland, OH. 
TIME: 8:30am.
ATMOSPHERE: sketchsketchsketch.

Our protagonist, a certain 'Katie,' has just watched her father exit the bus terminal in order to go to work. She begins to feel very conspicuous in her yellow Snoopy t-shirt and bright red hoodie with a giant paisley-printed pretzel on the front. She grips the book she is reading (Bad Religion, by Ross Douthat) a bit tighter and concentrates on the pages a bit more intensely, convincing herself that she will be able to disappear into the walls if she assumes a posture of nonchalance and I-could-hardly-care-less-that-I'm-in-a-Greyhound-terminal. Finally, she is called to load onto the bus. She is one of the first to board and finds a window seat in the middle. She hopes that no one will sit next to her.


LOCATION: a Greyhound bus from Cleveland, OH, to Buffalo, NY.
TIME: 11am.
ATMOSPHERE: desperation.

Our protagonist has been joined by a man of about 30 in bluish pixelated camo pants. He smells of cigarettes and sweat... or maybe that is the Amish family sitting across the aisle. He decides that a 4.5-hour bus ride is a perfect opportunity to share his life story, including discussion of past romantic relationships and drug use, all the while cursing like a sailor. We find Katie about halfway through the ride, staring furiously at her fingernails.

STRANGER: So my sister is getting married. Her engagement party is September 22!
KATIE [whose birthday is the same day]: Oh! that's... Hobbit Day.
STRANGER: ...Hobbit Day?
KATIE: Yes. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins' birthday.
STRANGER: You are such a dork. [Katie wonders what gives him the right to say this.] --But it's cute. You're cute. You look like a princess.
KATIE [wishing to exit the bus]: Umm...
STRANGER: Am I making you uncomfortable?
KATIE: Well...


LOCATION: a park in Buffalo, NY.
TIME: 9:30pm.
ATMOSPHERE: doom.

Katie and her friend Rebecca have met up with Rebecca's high school friend, Kelsey, to see a free performance of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure in the park. It is intermission.

KATIE: Where are the bathrooms, do you think?
REBECCA: There are port-a-potties up over there.
KATIE: Thanks!

Katie finds said port-a-potties. There are two rows facing each other. The closest source of light, other than a very smart woman's headlamp, is about 20 yards away. Katie enters a port-a-potty... and soon finds herself unable to exit. She begins to feel claustrophobic in the pitch-dark, 4x4' square that kinda smells bad. She runs her hand frantically over the door, attempting to find the latch while keeping her hair from falling into the urinal to her right. She considers what a port-a-potty rescue mission might look like.

KATIE: God help me.

Katie eventually finds the latch and exits the Place Where Light Goes To Die.


LOCATION: a house in a Buffalo suburb.
TIME: 8pm.
ATMOSPHERE: slap-happiness.

Katie has gone to visit her friend Mary Kate. They have just feasted on a lovely pasta supper, and they plan to make raspberry puff pastries. (By 'make' we mean 'take out of a box and bake on a cookie sheet.') They retrieve the pastries from the freezer. Somehow the pastries have managed to thaw and re-freeze, rendering them permanently attached to each other. Katie and Mary Kate proceed to put the whole block of them on a sheet and hope for the best. They have just been discussing relativism and are much more interested in their conversation than in digging up an ice pick to dislodge pastries from each other.

KATIE: They might not look like puff pastries, but I'm sure they'll still be good.
MARY KATE: If they don't look or taste like puff pastries, are they still puff pastries?
KATIE: Of course not! They can claim whatever they want, but saying they are puff pastries does not make the puff pastries.
MARY KATE: They are still useful, but they are not the fullness of puff pastry!
KATIE: The heretics.

Katie and Mary Kate at this point decide that keeping a straight face is no longer important, and summarily dissolve into peals of laughter.


LOCATION: a wings restaurant in Buffalo.
TIME: 6:45pm.
ATMOSPHERE: hope.

Katie, Rebecca, and Rebecca's mom have gone to get wings for dinner. Katie has never had wings before. She is a little frightened, knowing that Buffalo Mild Wings will still probably be too Wild for her. She is slightly placated by promises to get the mildest of the mild, even a step milder than Rebecca usually gets. Their order of Mild and Parmesan Garlic wings arrives.

KATIE [tasting a mild wing]: Hey! This isn't... too bad.
REBECCA: Good!
KATIE: Oh just kidding. My lips are burning.
REBECCA: You can eat the parmesan ones...
KATIE: Holy smokes my mouth hurts. Water!!


We also did things like talk, watch Gone with the Wind (for my first time!), and visit Niagara Falls. But let's be honest, the above scenes are probably more amusing to the general populace.

Also, pictures:

Niagara Falls

Relativist Puff Pastry with a side of Heresy

summer vacation + young adult fiction

Last week my family went to The Middle Of Nowhere, MI. We stayed there for a week. It was great for me. Books, fudge, and a 32-mile bike ride. For my sister... well...

The showers were a little short.

The water was a little cold.

But she's still really pretty.

I began and completed two books over the week (aside from A Year of Biblical Womanhood and most of The Idiot: Lois Lowry's Son and Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game.

It's been a while since I've let myself read popular fiction, but I liked them both. Why? They don't answer all the questions.

Lots of people on goodreads have been throwing fits over both books, because both leave lots of annoying open room at the end. They don't tie off all of the fraying ropes. There are things you want for the main characters that you just don't get. That they just don't get.

Both Lowry and Card, even within the context of weird, futuristic worlds where kids have unprecedented 'powers' and all of civilization depends on a teenager, stay true to reality. There is no deus ex machina. No implausible solutions to insoluble problems. This is probably more true for Son than Ender's Game, but I'd say it holds for both.

And even though there was no crazy 'perfect ending' that answered every question I might ask, there were... endings. Endings that resolved the main tension that had driven the plot to that point. They fulfilled my list of ending requirements that I came up with on the spot back in June. So I'm happy.

My biggest beef with Ender's Game was probably that the thing identified through most of the book as The Real Enemy is left completely undealt with and undiscussed after the climax. Hrumph.