Midterm



It's midterm week, and on top of all that craziness I spent all of Monday night up sick with the stomach flu. Thankfully it was one of those 24 hour bugs, and I'm feeling mostly human again now. I also have a very strong lead on a very awesome internship for the spring, which has further bolstered my spirits. Also, Thanksgiving is only five weeks away! My west coast aunt and I are in charge this year, which is something of a relief considering the twilight zone episode that was Thanksgiving last year.



And if it doesn't rain at all in the next few months, us north Georgians could be out of water in 90-120 days. Literally. As in, turn on your faucet and nothing comes out. And there are no more lakes. Or rivers. Because there is no water. Thankfully I'll be gone from this place in less than 90 days, so I should have water for the rest of my stay here. But the rest of y'all are screwed.

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Wistful



I've been feeling wistful in general lately, not just when I wear a hat. The weather was finally truly fall-like when I woke up this morning. It felt good to snuggle under my comforter and hit snooze.



The (hot) (young) new guy at work starts on Tuesday. He should help distract me for the next two months. Just two more months, people, and then I'm off to finish my college career...by living in a dorm. Ok, so I'll be doing other things besides just living in a dorm (like studying and interning and whatnot) but it's the living in a dorm that gets me. I absolutely abhorred dorm life the first time I did it (back in 1999-2000), but I was a much less...tolerant person then. Plus, I was a bitchy 16-year-old. I'm hoping things turn out a little better this go round.



All sorts of people are coming into town for Thanksgiving this year. I'm taking the whole week off because I can.

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Did you have fun in the Eighties?



Before my Spanish professor arrived in class today, my classmates and I were discussing...oh, who knows what exactly. The point is, somehow the decade known as the Eighties came up, which prompted one 18-year-old girl, dressed in skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a Sponge Bob Square Pants t-shirt, to muse, "I wish I'd been around for the Eighties. They look like they were fun." Here she turned and looked directly at me. "Did you have fun in the Eighties?"



"I was...five," I said, very appalled, and suddenly feeling like maybe I should go to CVS immediately following class to buy some Clairol to cover my gray.



Even more appalling, I had said, not 30 seconds before this, that I was 24. 24, people! That's only six years older than Ms. Born in 1989. I guess 18-year-olds these days can't do basic arithmetic.



My horror grew when the professor arrived and announced we should get into pairs and compose a paragraph about what Atlanta was like 20 years ago.



"Who grew up in Atlanta?" la profesora asked.



I was the only one to raise my hand.



Ms. Born in 1989 raised her hand. "Excuse me, Señora, but what if you weren't born twenty years ago?"



"Well, use your imagination. Atlanta was very different in 1987, right, casetheplace?" La profesora gave me a knowing, middle-aged wink.



I was now officially the old lady of the class who could remember how Atlanta was back in the olden days of 1987.



Fantastic.

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If I had to choose



I wore my new wool cloche hat today because I figured if I waited until it actually got chilly enough for me to wear a wool hat I'd never get around to showing it off. Cloche hat + asymmetrical bob + wide-leg pants = fabulous. The effect was very early-30s talkie.



When I wear a hat, I get a slightly wistful feeling that we no longer wear hats as a society. (Sorry, baseball caps do not count as hats.) There is something about a hat that adds a finished touch to any outfit and makes a woman look dressed. Men benefit from hats as well; they add just the right amount of sophistication and swagger to a suit.



Although if I had to choose between a society where hats are de rigueur and a society where a woman can be CEO or president of the United States, I guess I'd have to go with the latter.

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This pretty much sums up how I feel about Sarah Silverman.

A new rule



I have a new rule: If my couple friends want to hang out with me as a couple, they must bring me a date.



I'm serious. For the past year and some change I've been a very good sport about hanging out with couples. But my good sportedness is starting to run out. I'm only in Atlanta a few more months, and I refuse to continue being a fifth wheel for what little time is left - or worse, the only uncoupled single in a room full of couples. I think a string of disappointing set-ups is preferable, or at the very least different.



I've warned several couples of the implementation of this new rule this week, and the feedback has ranged from unhelpful to really unhelpful: "I don't know any single guys"/"The two single guys I know you can't stand"/"We never think of you as a fifth wheel!"



Ok, I understand all that, but really y'all, this isn't about you. This is about me. I refuse to spend another meal seated across from a couple while the seat next to me holds nothing more than my handbag.



You have been warned. New rule goes into effect...now.

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Passport photos



I keep thinking I'm going to go back and try to catch y'all up on my life, since I haven't been blogging regularly like a good little casetheplace, but then I get overwhelmed trying to think about where to begin.



So let's let the recent past remain a mystery.



I had new passport photos taken Monday. I thought I'd go to the place downtown rather than near my house since I could do it in between classes. I was pleased I'd made this decision when I saw the hipster hottie behind the counter. While I waited in line, I made up a whole little story in my head about how he was studying photography and played bass in a band and was a man of few words who saved all his self-expression for his art. I was glad I'd taken the time to comb my hair and reapply my lipstick.



The hipster hottie took my photo, but was unable to print it right away.



"Can you come back for it in a little while?" he asked.



"Yeah, I can come get it when I get out of class at 4:30."



"Oh, you go to school at..."



"Yeah."



"Me too."



I walked out of the store feeling warm and tingly, like I'd just had the best flirtation of my life (yes, things are that bad in my love life...shut up.).



When I came back a few hours later, there was no line, so I walked right up to the counter, right up to the hipster hottie.



"May I help you?" he asked politely, not a bit of recognition in his eyes.



Well. Guess who stopped being hot?



His hottness level plummeted to an even further low when he told me the photo he'd taken earlier had been accidentally erased and he would have to re-shoot.



My hair was, of course, uncombed at this point, and I was pissed that what was supposed to be a time-saving experience had turned into a time-wasting annoyance.



As a result, I revised my made-up story about the former hottie: His band had broken up, he took horrible photos with no focal point, and he didn't talk much because he had nothing going on upstairs.



I did manage, eventually, to get out of there with two correctly sized passport photos.

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