The Nana Diaries

Nana R. / Nana E.

I drove down to Pennsylvania the other day to say goodbye to family, especially these two hot chicks. Neither of them recognized me (though Nana R. did refer to my mom, so she was in the right ballpark...). I had a good time talking with both of them- when you get old and forgetful, you also get a bit silly and you like to disclose scandalous information. For example, which Nana do YOU think got married when she was SIX MONTHS PREGNANT? Which Nana's sister married (she shudders) "a catholic"? And which Nana took her teeth out while I was sitting NEXT TO HER and handed them to my great-aunt?* Good times, people, GOOD times.

I topped the trip off with a little visit to Muhlenberg to see the newest and hottest RA in Walz:

This picture is an old one. You can tell because Steve's face is visible. His new hairdo looks something like this:

I'm not one to rag on a long-haired boy (hell, I'm dating an ex-long hair), but I will mention that there was no making-out until he blindly stumbled into some scissors and came out with appropriate-length bangs.
* Answers: E, R, E


I should have titled that last one: This Too Shall Pass.

Because that's the optimistic and comforting thing to say, that others have been through this before (ummm, myself included... twice) and it's going to be a little rough, a little rocky, but:

This Too Shall Pass.

Uh oh

Ok, I think it's starting to hit me. I spent the past five days in the city with friends, living in museums and plans for brunch. But it occured to me while I was riding the subway up to Columbia this afternoon: one week from today, these people will be riding the A train and I won't even be in the country.

Every good decision I've ever made has always felt like a huge mistake for a second. I keep telling myself this.


Note to self:

Do not get hair cut at Danbury mall. Ever again. Because while the cutting process may go off without a hitch, the use of TWO cans of hairspray during the blow dry is: 1. excessive and contributes to the hole in the ozone and 2. will cause your head to LITERALLY STICK TO THE COUCH PILLOWS when you are trying to watch a movie.

On the other hand, chances have most definitely increased for the Little Miss Sunshine pageant...

Fitting In at BR

To celebrate the sale of my car (and thus a significant check), I decided to make a visit to the local Banana Republic.

Usually I walk quickly, my head down through the "new" section and plant myself among the sale racks. But tonight I hesitated a second too long in front of a chocolate knee-length skirt. "Can I help you?" Caught! This guy was good. For the next 20 minutes, he had me acting like I had won a damn shopping spree... I looked at colors and styles (and NOT price tags). When I finally grabbed a sale sweater off the rack, he matched it with $118 pants from the front of the store. You have to admire persistence.

The bad luck came in two waves in the dressing room:
1. The realization that 6 weeks of free Ben and Jerry's ice cream now lives on my ASS.
2. The loser in the next dressing room was having a loud conversation with her Mom about her new internship in London. She punctuated every sentence about this upcoming internship with "wow, these pants look FABULOUS! but they might be a little too big..." These punctuations coincided with my attempts at zippering up pants that did NOT look fabulous.

In short, a dark gloom set over dressing room 3.

"HOW ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?" Mr. BR yelled for the 17th time in 10 minutes. I opened the door, wearing jeans that were literally 7 inches too long. "Um... do you have petite jeans?" He summoned the resident hemmer. And SHE was fabulous.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaamn, those look great!" she said. "What's the occasion?" "I'm moving to Paris." With these four magic words, she had me up on a platform in front of three mirrors, wearing brown leather heels. Then she proceeded to hem my jeans FOR FREE.

Important Memo: Apparently, if you buy jeans at full price at BR, they hem them for free. Though no one sane buys jeans at full price, it is nice to know that, during moments of insanity (and despite new cellulite issues), BR has your back.


If Toby was a fat baby in a famous French painting... he would look like this:

Home Alone

I'm house sitting for my parents, who have taken off to Atlantic City for a couple of days. After living with a roomate in a dorm built for 250+ all summer, the silence is eerie. I spent the afternoon watching movies and have now filled the void with the crooning of Ben Folds. It feels good to have voices in the house; the cats haven't been much help in that area.

In some ways, the alone time is welcome. I eat pasta for dinner at 10pm. Or cheez-its. The TV is mine, the background music is my choice, and I can wear (or not wear) whatever I want.

On the other hand, home alone is not a good situation for someone with an overactive imagination. Shadows in the living room could mean hidden burglers. Leaving the outside light off might encourage thieves. I'll stop beating around the bush and admit that:

I'm afraid of the dark.

Yes, I'm 25 years old. Yes, I am an educated person. And yet an empty house without using every kilowatt possible freaks the hell out of me. The electric bill might be a little higher this month, but at least I'll have survived two nights without massive panic attacks.

And what will I do in Paris you may ask? Luckily for me, I'll be living with MasterMan:


All Good Things...

Well, you know how it goes. I returned from the Middlebury French world last night and we all know what that means: countdown to next Friday. I have lots to say about this experience and I'll try to write about it this week, but for now, I'll leave you with the pictures from the banquet:


Dream Team

It felt good to be in North America, yet not under the rule of George W... Saturday in Montreal

... the metro copies Paris...

... one of many churches...

... cathedral fits 4,000 and the architect converted to Catholicism after it was finished...

... people that M. Champlain met (a few hundred years later)...

... and according to the US border, Parrot is the new white meat.