Monthly Archives: June 2012

CAMPING!

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(just kidding, I’m not going to talk about camping. HA! I AM THE MASTER OF DECEPTION! MAYBE I NEED A NAP!)

I love seeing the things people Google, hoping to find something useful and informative, and instead they find this blog.

On the WordPress.com dashboard, my little ego-homepage where I can obsessively check how many people have read my blog today (FOUR VIEWS! I’M INTERNET FAMOUS!), I can see the “top searches” that led to some poor schmuck accidentally reading this blog. Today, it was: mezien, can’t talk memes, morocco meme, arabic mint tea memes, is farting sexual harassment

I read the last one and WHAT?!???!?!! I HOPE not, JEEZ! If so, I’m screwed. I’ve written a personal statement about it and published it on the INTERNET. Wellp, there goes my life. Maybe I’ll get off because it was retaliatory, but probably not.

Another of my favorites was (I had to go back and find this in the draft of a post I never published) March 28: the 10 scary seconds when u trapped in the shower with the cold water running

Terrifies me too, those 10 scary seconds when u trapped in the shower with the cold water running

Anyway, I figured (since now more people are following this blog – OH HI WELCOME! – ) that I should continue to write and update you on bringing the Morocco experience back home. Well, here’s how it’s going: remember how I said that Morocco was hard to talk about because it was in a different universe? Not emotionally difficult or anything, just that Morocco resided in a separate sphere of existence that simply didn’t translate into life in the U.S.?  It was as though Morocco, Arabic, French, tea, and all of that just dropped out of my life all at once–oh, wait. It did. Well, that train of thought just derailed.

Well, anyway, Morocco has begun to turn from a cynical internal monologue (about the meaningless materialism of life in the U.S. and all that stuff) into stories. Anecdotes to pop into conversation here and there: an interesting factoid about something, an I-can-relate-to-your-stomach-problems-and-by-that-I-mean-one-up-them-HAHA story, stories that I keep short to avoid those awkward moments when everyone remembers that they don’t really care about Morocco. No, that’s a good thing. My friends doze off while I tell my usual stories, and there’s never even a good punch line. They call them Katie stories. Oop, derailed again.

Well, ANYWAY, long story long, it’s been great. I have fun facts to share. I wear poofy pants. This lack of Struggle and Emotional Journeys and all that stuff that I spent January through March writing about PROBABLY makes for much boring-er reading, but oh well. You’ve read nearly 487 words of derailed thought-trains heading for those poor schmucks googling stuff like “do cats in morocco understand french”

(DO they?)

I’m off to go invent some arabic mint tea memes, while hoping that farting isn’t sexual harassment. Peace out.

(bows to tumultuous applause)

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THIS WEEK I would like to thank and shout out to Elise Blalock, whose blog is as awesome as SHE is! It’s called Global From Home, and it’s great. It’s also sort of ironic that I’m mentioning her now, since many of you seeing my blog today will have been directed here from hers! Today, Elise featured this silly little blog on her “Study Abroad Blog of the Week” series! AAH! (I’m still squealing with excitement). She also nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award, and I’m going to pay it forward as soon as I get home from the Griswold Family Camping Trip (it’s Christmas, Clark. We’re ALL suffering), for which my raucous aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, and parents are leaving today. I’m eating pop’ems at the kitchen table. Anyway, EEE! I’m still all a dither from all of this excitement.

So, most importantly: thank you Elise! Yaaaaay! Yaaaaay! I’m honored and excited and grateful for everything. Woo!

And, to all you new readers, welcome! Welcome to these silly tales of study abroad, snacking, and, well, farting. That’s the post that started it all. Have fun! Feel free to e-mail me, I’ll reply as soon as I get home (in a few days): sweenums@gmail.com.

To my old readers, guess what?! PEOPLE THINK I’M FUNNY!!!!! I know, right!?!?!? For an exclusive interview with ME (as if you people haven’t read ENOUGH of what I have to say about myself), and, more importantly, because Elise’s blog is awesome, check out Global From Home!

Okay, everyone. I’m still in my jammies and the family is rumbling out to the cars. Time to start packing, I guess!

Thanks again, Elise! Welcome again, everyone! Have a lovely day, see you in a bit!

Pax in internetta, y’all,

Katie

 

Wobbegong

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IS A REAL THING

IN FACT, IT’S A SHARK

BEWARE THE WOBBEGONG!

 

Edit: WordPress suggested the following tags, since I hadn’t tagged anything: work, community, girls, people, hollywood, entertainment. Are these tags that get lots of views? If you say so!

(ALSO TAGGED AUSTRALIAN WOBBEGONG)
WOBBEGONG
WOBBEGONG
WOBBEGONG
HAHA

AÏCHA! AICHA! ECOUTE-MOI!

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AÏCHA! AÏCHA! T’EN VAS PAS!!!!!!!!

Here’s a bit of pop culture from North Africa! Cheb Khaled is an Algerian singer, and everyone loves him. Me included. Definitely beats “Call Me Maybe,” which was topping the charts when I got back to the US. (Call me maybe? Really?)

This song topped OUR charts o’er yonder, and we all know the words. I listen to it and am transported back to our home sweet van, singing and dancing to this as we trundle through the Moroccan countryside.

Since we’re all feeling wistful

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and I have NO SELF CONTROL

AT ALL,

(AT ALL)

(I was going to post this the day after I got home from Morocco because I thought I’d be funny and ironic, but then I forgot. I just remembered, and it made me giggle. No, I don’t have any self control. NONE.)

This may also be one of my favorite songs to sing in the shower, but that’s neither here nor there. (It just seems appropriate in the shower, right? It’s almost like you’re standing in the rain–no, I’m stopping there. I’m already running low on shame. And dignity.)

But seriously. Thanks for the views and thoughtful comments, I really appreciate it!

(Now play the song again. Sing along. Dance like you’re kelp. DO IT.)

EDIT: this song also ALWAYS reminds me of my cousin Elizabeth, trololol. She’d love that, so I’m going to go post this on her Facebook wall. HI BETHIE WHAT’S UP THIS IS ME SHOUTING OUT TO YOU ON MY BLOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGG ALSO YOU MET ANDY DICK?!?!?!? (She met Andy Dick. I saw pictures. WHAT) THAT IS SO COOOOOL ALSO WHEN ARE WE HANGING OUT NEXT!??!?! YOU SHOULD COME CAMPING IN TAHOE THIS YEAR.

OKAY EDIT OVER

(PEACE OUT BETHIE)

THINGS I HAVE DONE TODAY:

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  1. READ BOOKS
  2. RUN INTO OLD FRIENDS WHO WERE ALSO ABROAD OTHER PLACES LIKE COSTA RICA (NOT LIKE I’M TALKING ABOUT KATELEN OR ANYTHING I MEAN WHATEVS)
  3. GONE DONATION BIN-DIVING FOR CLOTHES AT ALL THE RESIDENCE HALLS WITH AFOREMENTIONED FRIENDS
  4. AM CURRENTLY WEARING THE FRUIT – I MEAN PANTS – OF MY LABOR.

New pants! Thanks, Bellarmine Hall donation bin. Whoever in Bell that wears my size pants and donated them. I needed pants. (badly.)

Here is the current transition situation: this whole thing is a big pile of awesomeness and headaches. Figuring out leases, being unemployed, sleeping on couches, reading books, exclaiming enthusiastically upon meeting someone I haven’t seen in five months, getting sometimes frustrated or overwhelmed or headachey until I go to some quirky Seattle café and get some dark, black, AMERICAN HAHAHAHA I LOVE IT coffee and chat with personable baristas that I remember from back when and read books by Milan Kundera or Slavoj Žižek (I’m really smart, didn’t you know?) (actually, he just published 1,000 pages on Hegel in a weighty tome called Less Than Nothing, which is funny because it’s 1,000 friggin pages of a lot more than nothing. No, I’m on page 12. I’m not that smart. I just like to appear smart in cafés) and that always raises my spirits.

This is my third café of the day, and do you know what it isn’t? A MAN CAFÉ. HEMDULLILAH.

Funny story, I’d typed all the “café”s in this entry without the ´ over the E, because I thought now that I’m in the U.S. the accent looks pretentious, but then when I read it over I pronounced it cafe as incapewith an F instead of a P and it sounded pretty dumb in my head so I replaced them all with És.

Here’s what I find myself doing: randomly writing stuff in Arabic all over the place, saying stuff like “oh. mushkil,” in my head, and scrolling through our cohort’s facebook page every time I’m on the computer. All my girls and boys have become so…so…cyber-real now that we’re not together in Morocco anymore, whereas all my home-friends have become real real, and DUH KATIE OF COURSE THEY DID but I didn’t realize just how polarized these worlds would be. Morocco feels like another universe: though I can recall every detail as soon as I close my eyes, I can’t seem to finds the words or pictures or anything that brings it to life for my old friends, who seem both excited and unsure about what I’m doing here. Well, I’m excited and unsure about what I’m doing here, too, so we’re on the same page.

And then there’s the whole realization that nobody really cares about Morocco, which is also sort of funny. It doesn’t bother me, it’s just kind of funny–that what happened over there really only matters to 1) my friends, or 2) the very small minority of people who know about Morocco. Then I remember that we all have our bubbles, and that Morocco is a new bubble that I inhabit alone here, and that’s okay.  The French in France people will have their France bubbles, the IDIPers have their IDIP bubbles, the SUers who stuck around had their Winter-Spring 2012 bubble, I have my Morocco bubble. The fun part will be blowing our bubbles at each other–if we can find the words, if we can find the pictures. I’m still working on that.

(blowing our bubbles at each other? I think I need an editor.)

I swear, though, if I hear one more “Arabic! Wow. Squiggles and dots, right?!” I WILL SQUIGGLE YOU. Arabic is a LANGUAGE with LETTERS THAT ARE CONNECTED. Okay, I’m not being fair, because I’d have said the same thing before I learned anything about it. In fact, I probably did. In fact fact, I think the only reason that it bothers me is because I don’t like to be reminded that I’m not in Morocco anymore. Which is also unfair because I’m not in Morocco anymore, and simply by virtue of their not-being-in-Morocco-either, other people constantly remind me of it. Squiggles and dots. Ha.

You know, I even feel a little guilty typing that. Who do I think I am, judging people like that? SHUT UP, KATIE. It’s just so surreal to not be complaining about Al-Kitaab to the English-speaking Arabic students around me (a sure-fire way to start a conversation with any student in Morocco), and instead have English-speaking Normal People look impressed by my practically nonexistent Arabic skills. Bizarre. Also, hearing English everywhere: bizarre. The flow of traffic: bizarre. The price of bread/fruit/anything: BIZARRE. The coffee: INCREDIBLE.

However, let me counter this withjust how muchI’ve felt welcomed in the past few days: people who, even though we’re barely even acquaintances, remembered that I’d been in Morocco and looked excited to see me home. People who squeal in excitement and make sure I know that they’re interested in my experience there, who want to grab coffee and catch up, who can’t wait to catch me up on news of home, who want to cook Moroccan food with me sometime. As isolated as I’ve been from this community, I’m reminded upon my return of why I missed it so much.

I’m still nervous about coming back for senior year, though. I feel so done with college, and the concept of a whole ‘nother year is a bit daunting at the moment. Nervous about choir, which is very different from what it’s been in the past. Nervous about math class and houses. Living in this weird couchsurfey limbo, till I figure out whether my summer sublet (in the house I’ll be living in come fall) fell through or not (I’ll be temporarily homeless if so, how sad).

So, now that I’m rambling, let me wrap this up with a life-summary: my current existence is as comically disoriented and disorganized as my brain, which plans no farther than 5 days in advance (and even that’s a stretch) and has been reading books and drinking coffee rather than doing anything constructive for my life or future. I’m living by the seat of my new donation-bin pants, both happy and frustrated to be back in Seattle. I am going to try to start writing more stories about things. Maybe I’ll take a writing stories class or something. I am going to keep updating this blog, probly, because what else will I do in my 3rd café of the day?

Okay, this is enough. Peace out, y’all!

 

Absence makes the heart grow farter

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It’s funny the things that I think of, now that I’m – what – 2 weeks gone from Morocco? Oddball memories occur to me every so often, of classmates and Moroccans and funny stuff that we did.

For example: yesterday, I thought of my tiny, devious revenge on catcallers in the street.

Now, YOU all know how much intestinal distress I had in Morocco. I’d be walking along, minding my own business, when (of course), I’d need to relieve some of that gaseous pressure building up down there. One time in February or March, this sudden need to pass wind coincided with a particularly explicit catcall by a passing male.

So, obviously, I farted as he walked by.

…And cackled maniacally!

Some of these catcallers do what I call The Swoop: he’ll swoop in waaaayyyyyy too close to an unsuspecting woman’s face, whisper something filthy, and then swoop out again before she has a chance to react. It’s a really unsettling experience, even after you get used to it; nobody wants to feel a strange man’s breath on her ear, whispering something dirty, before he swoops out again and goes back to his wife and grandkids (no, I’m not kidding. Gross, huh?). So I began to fart whenever they did it, and it always gave me this sort of goofy satisfaction: take THAT, I’d think, with (probably unwarranted) vindictive pleasure. Smell my FARTS, you STUPID CATCALLING MAN!

This became my own silent (but deadly) retaliation against any sexual harassment I encountered during my time in Morocco. If someone followed me, I farted. If someone grabbed me, I farted. If someone catcalled me, I FARTED. I could only hope that after I passed, supremely ignoring them, they’d catch a whiff of Intestinal Distress and wrinkle their noses in disgust. It was, as I recall, the only upside to having tummy issues during their time there: I had an inexhaustible supply of farts to aim in the direction of people yelling at me.

And then I’d giggle. I remember chatting about this with some other girls in my cohort, a few of whom had taken up the same silent battle against catcalling: harassment vs. gas. How else could we fight, when middle fingers and harsh words won’t work, but ignoring them wasn’t enough to satisfy us? Farts.

I am a dignified and mature woman.

Coming up soon: How to Cruciate Catcallers (another of my altogether useless but entirely satisfying methods of fighting the eternally losing battle against sexual harassment: the Cruciatus Curse). Stay tuned!