Boxes for everyone!

No, actually, I just made one. So a box for me, I guess.


His name is Walter. He is big enough to hold maybe five pens and a mini-stapler, but he's mine, all mine!

I ended up using linseed oil as a coating instead of shellac - it lets the grain of walnut shine through more. And if I keep using words like "grain," "dovetail," and "chisel," I might be able to fool you into believing that I know what I'm talking about. Which, clearly, I don't.

Still, I made a box! I guess if this museum curator thing fails, I can always fall back on a career in cabinetmaking. (The furniture conservators who supervised our box-making just got pounding headaches and they don't even know why.)

Getting Up to Speed

So, things that have happened since the last time I posted (in no particular order):
I turned 22
I learned to like (or at least choke down) beer
I graduated college
I interviewed in New York for jobs at auction houses and began to hyperventilate at the thought of moving to the city
I didn't get the jobs at the auction houses, making all my hyperventilating a waste
I graduated college
I baked scones
I baked more scones
I baked even more scones
I baked pain au chocolate
I graduated college
I got a red bike!
I moved out of my apartment and out of Atlanta
72 hours later, I moved out of my house in Berkeley and into a house in Albany
I baked rugelach
I baked pinapple upside down cupcakes
I applied for a million jobs
I went to a lot of parties
I studied
I stopped writing my thesis
I graduated

Somewhere in there I also slept, ate things that weren't baked, shopped, read, hung out with friends, and went to class, but you get the idea.

This past semester was crazy. It was my last, which made it poignant, but I don't think I realized just how final it was until graduation. I'm glad of that - it meant that there wasn't very much, "oh, I have to do everything before graduation" talk. Sure there was some - I doubt I would have consumed as much PBR as I did if I hadn't been thinking that - but I think my friends and I were pretty good about doing things because we WANTED to do them, not because it was our last chance ever, omg, end of the world, etc.

To go along with the random list above, I give you a photographic account of Shoshana's Spring Semester, 2008 (also in no particular order):
C and M 22 at around the same time, so they threw a joint birthday party which is was pretty crazy. On C's actual birthday, though, we went out to Cafe Intermezzo, a silly European-style coffee house and dessert bar. I say silly because it obviously thinks too highly of itself, but man, those desserts are killer. In fact, its probably one of my favorite places to eat sweet things. What you see in the picture below is me, intensely examining their dessert display while a Intermezzo Cake Expert (my term) guides me through my options. I had a lot of questions, so it took awhile.


Earlier in the month there was a crazy snow storm. Friday and Saturday were both completely snowed-in, and neighborhood kids (and adults) went crazy building snowmen and sledding down some very sad hills. Snow is so rare in Atlanta that we all got caught up in the excitement of what was, to be honest, a very sad little snowfall. Here are E and A dancing outside the Target Greatland (oh, my home away from home) enjoying the snow (its the gray haze behind us.)


I lived with a Protestant and two Catholics and I happen to love breakfast food, so I couldn't let Fat Tuesday (also known as Shrove Tuesday) go by without a pancake. C and I made crepes with nutella to have as a study break snack, and C even managed to find Polish doughnuts at the grocery store. Apparently they are only available around Shrove Tuesday. There must be some sort of Shrove Tuesday magic, too, because by Wednesday they tasted disgusting. Below E and I make faces at the pancakes,and the camera.


Suddenly it was March, and along with that came my birthday. I was home for spring break on the actual day and Isaac made the trip up to celebrate with me. He, my mom, and I went to Copia in Napa and then to a winery, followed by dinner with Kiva, Grandma, and Eva and Janusz. It was all very Northern California yuppie. Copia, if you didn't know, is subtitled "the center for wine, food, and the arts," and it is the very soul of bougie. A museum-cum-monument to Nor-Cal lifestyle, it elevates foodies and gourmands to the level of history-makers. I, of course, ate it all up. Here my mom and I stand, like greek statuary, next to the enormous urns made out of bottle caps that grace a grand quote by Robert Mondavi engraved in the marble at the entrance of Copia. I feel very epic, and yet very foolish.


Back in Atlanta I had a small party for my friends. My roommates, being the glorious people they are, actually bought me a gold brocade cape for my birthday. A CAPE. Its always good to know who my true friends are, and now I have the perfect standard of measure: would they buy me an absurd, useless item of costume-y clothing? If the answer is "no," then I really shouldn't be hanging out with them. Here I am, trying on the cape and unable to contain my excitement:


C and A were trying to help me get it on but I think the ridiculousness of the situation became too much for A. I can't tell if she's laughing or about to vomit, but if its the second then it must be vomit of happiness. Below is M and I at the party as I wear the cape nonchalantly, as if there is nothing weird about being wrapped in several pounds of heavy gold brocade:


At some point L and Z came to visit. They actually came separately - L and I had been planning her visit out since high school graduation so cruelly separated us, and Z and her friend K just happened to be driving through from Chicago to Florida for their spring break. Z and K got in right at the end of L's visit, so I had some time with each of them. Here are L and I at the statue of the weird flying children in Decatur Square. Decatur is a cute little town right next to the suburb where Emory is located - its home to Agnes Scott College and very precious. In fact, I have been known to mutter about how Agnes Scott girls don't deserve Decatur - Emory really should be closer to it. Still, its the closest actually commercial downtown near Emory (Emory Village doesn't count) and I love it.


Having L in town provided the perfect opportunity for a picnic in Piedmont Park, which is the Golden Gate Park of Atlanta. Here we are, late in the evening:


Finally, below you can see Z, L and I united at last in a Waffle House. I don't have enough space to talk about Waffle House (it requires its own personal post), but just know that when you are driving around the Southeast, nothing is more comforting or welcome then that yellow and black sign rising from the wooded jungles or concrete wastelands that surround the interstates. They are truly magical places, were the waffles are huge and copious and the potatoes come smothered, covered, and choked, or some crap like that.


Every year we have Dooley's Week, a seven-day celebration of Emory's unofficial but very legitimate mascot. Once again, this needs a whole post to explain (one that, unlike the epic Waffle House entry, I actually plan on writing) but it culminates with a huge school-sponsored party called Dooley's Ball. Technically a masquerade, people wear all sorts of crap to it. Here are C and A. C isn't in costume, and A says she was dressed as a pirate. I said she was going as a Hot Tranny Mess. You decide.


And here are C and I, practicing our dance moves as we wait for the shuttle to arrive to take us to the party. It never came and so we had to get there under our own power. This mostly involved walking in bare feet while holding our heels and bitching until an Emory Escort pulled up. It was already pretty full of other drunk students but we begged the driver to let us pile in, which he did. This means that I rode to Dooley's Ball sitting on the floor of a minivan, between the knees of my three best friends and two wasted strangers. Good times. But anyway, before we gave up on the shuttle we were waiting at the stop. C and decided to practice some of the steps we had learned in Social Dance the semester before. This is the result:


That is basically it. A lot of stuff happened this semester that wasn't documented on camera, and this is just a sampling of what I do have photos of. Also, I'm not including what might be the biggest thing - graduation. Another post about that is on the way, I just have to get my life together first.

Oh, but one last picture: at some point during the semester A decided she would try to ride me like a horse. It didn't work.

Back in the Saddle Again

I should be working on my prospectus for my honors thesis. It is 500 words long and basically just has to include my thesis statement and a survey of the literature on the topic. Of course, given that my thesis statement changes on a daily basis and a "survey of the literature"would require that there be actual "literature" on my topic, I'm finding this rather difficult. Therefore: blog post!

Apparently I think in video montages, because when I try to reflect on my past semester I get a series of images of myself baking, procrastinating, working late into the night because of my procrastination, making foolish online purchases, adventuring to Tennessee, baking, and generally acting a fool. Some highlights follow:

Between the four of us, the residents of Tower 1312 and 1313 have two balconies, which we have put to appropriate use over the course of the semester. Above, C and I gossip about how cute her asymmetrical haircut is.

Below, I spray paint the patio table that E's mom bought C and I, while A supervises and generally looks bored.

In a past life (high school) A just might have been a cheerleader. Below, she shows C and I the intricacies of a move that I believe has the word "doughnut" in it, though I can't be sure. I wasn't great, but I blame that more on the misplaced chair in front of me than any failing on my part. Anyway, this is all taking place in A and E's apartment, which you can tell because of the lack of fresca cans and haphazardly stacked books strewn about the place.

Over fall break C and I continued our tradition (two years now! that counts as a tradition, right?) of roadtripping the south and took off in the Mom Van for Nashville, Tenn. Apparently, it had been calling C's name. When we got there, of course, the city promptly shut up, but more on that later. Here I am on the most touristy street in Nashville, dancing with the King:

In the picture below I'm making a thumbs-down and a pouty face, but that was over the $16 admission price into the Country Music Hall of Fame and not over the museum itself, which was actually pretty awesome. I've been developing an appreciation for old country music - living next door to E can do that to a girl, and the American Studies major in me likes the way the music works to enshrine the myths and stories Americans tell themselves about their country. Plus the museum was full of outrageous fringed dresses, sparkly cowboy boots, and a convertible covered in silver dollars. What's not to like? Besides the outrageous admission price, of course.

We had planned to spend 24 hours in Nashville, cramming in all the sites, but we were actually only there for 10 or 12 hours. This is because a)Nashville was sort of boringly overwhelming (does that make sense?) and b) we kept on getting distracted by things we wanted to do while we were on the road, like visit the Civil War battlefield that you see below, or four Goodwills, or QTs, or Cracker Barrel.


Of course, the trip was ultimately all about lovin' on America, which y'all know I did in abandon:


We even ran into Abraham Lincoln at a bar! What he was doing in Nashville is nobody's guess, but I'll take what I can get when it comes to the Great Emancipator. We were sitting a few tables over and C kept yelling, "Abe! Abe! Come over here! I'm showing my friend the south, you need to come over here!" Lincoln ignored her, which just pissed her off. As I write this, C is telling me that at the time, getting Abraham Lincoln's attention seemed like the most important, vital thing she could be doing. Obviously, she was right.


Later in October A turned 22 and threw a joint birthday party with a friend. It was wine-and-cheese liberal themed, but we were pretty much the only people who dressed up at all. Also, I made bleeding-heart liberal cupcakes, but they were disgusting - I used tablespoons instead of teaspoons for the sugar, utterly destroying their flavor. They were real cool looking though, with jam in the middle to simulate the blood and frosting made to look like the ventricles of the heart. Unfortunately, no pictures were taken. Anyway, here we are:


From left to right, C, E, me and A.

Other than fall break trips and birthday parties, I've been trying to get my work done, hang out with friends, get out of my apartment occasionally, and do other, mundane college-y things. And thats where my life is at now. You can see now that I haven't been writing in the blog because my life hasn't been extraordinarily interesting - I'm basically going to classes, doing work, avoiding work, hanging out with friends, hanging out with friends in order to avoid doing work, and so forth. Y'all can blame this little nugget on Agi - she badgered over Thanskgiving, so I've delivered. I've procrastinated long enough, though... back to the prospectus!

Where is My Mind?

I ask because it definitely isn't in my head, which is currently hitting itself against a cubby desk in the State Library. I am well and truly sick of writing papers.

I will say this, however: being an American Studies major rocks, if only because I get to reference the constitution all the time. And I love the constitution. Its freaking amazing. "We the People, in order to form a more perfect union..." I mean, who doesn't love that? Mean constitution-haters, that's who. The bill of rights? The first amendment?!! This stuff is genius, people. THE ESTABLISHMENT CLAUSE. "Congress shall make no laws respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

In the last day of my Australia and America class, Lauren V. and I finally broke down and asked the Australians how they could survive without a bill of rights. They looked at us like we were crazy, which only baffled us more. At one point I might have even yelled, "the third amendment! How can you live without the third amendment?! Now you can't trust your government not to force you to let soldiers live in your house!" And Lauren got all worked up about how Australians didn't have the right to remain silent, or to privacy. They responded with something about implied rights, but I was so keyed up about the constitution that I didn't actually pay attention. But seriously, no bill of rights? That's like outright admitting that you trust your government. And really, who does that? I need that piece of paper that promises me protection from unlawful search and seizure, and a tiny part of me will always be distrustful of any country that can't provide it for me. (it should be noted that Lauren V. is equally in love with America and we have been freaking out about Australia's lack of important legal documents for a couple months now, so I'm not sure how rational we are anymore.)

Sidebar: Bill O'Reilly was on Oprah today and I almost cried. Oprah, what are you doing letting that man on your show? He is sullying it! Now I don't know if I can support her candidacy for god anymore.

Wouldn't it be Nice

Shooting at Virginia Tech

In "Vindictively American," an essay in her book Take the Cannoli, Sarah Vowell writes about her experience studying abroad in the Netherlands in 1992. When the Rodney King riots broke out, she was glued to the TV, unable to look away from the news reports, even after her European roommate declared herself disgusted by the show of American violence. Vowell explains that she was struck not just by sadness, but by an incredibly powerful desire to be there, to be experiencing that moment with the rest of America instead of in a pretty garret apartment in Europe, divided by an ocean and a lack of context. She listened to "Wouldn't it Be Nice" by the Beach Boys 29 times that day, crying and wishing she was home.

Getting ready for class this morning, I wandered into the living room to find my roommates watching a news report about the shootings at Virginia Tech. The Australian anchorwoman read her report, the screen flashed to scenes of ambulances rushing from the campus and distraught students milling around in confusion, and then the reporter switched to a story about food poisoning at a local retirement community. I understood that the news of a school shooting in Virginia didn't effect the lives of the average Melbournian. Maybe they thought it was tragic, or maybe some saw it as another sign of America's decline into senseless violence, and maybe some of them didn't even register the story as they ate their breakfast, but I was suddenly filled with resentment at their ability to move on from this news.

I don't go to Virginia Tech. I don't know anyone who goes to Virginia Tech. I might know people who know people who go there, but I won't find out until the college grapevines start getting busy as people get this news. I am an American, though, and I am a college student. On some level, I share a set of experiences and a view point with the 33 students who died and the thousands more who attend Virginia Tech, and the realization that I was half-way around the world when this happened is sort of breaking my heart. Like Vowell, I was hit by this desperate need to be home, to be interacting with this event through more than just the news and the internet. Even the email sent to all Emory students from President Wagner, extending condolences to the families of the victims and reminding us that college is no protection against the horrors of the world, made me miss America like a hole in my heart.

I haven't been paralyzed by this, or anything. I'm still going to classes (I'm writing this during a break in a computer lab), taking notes, trying to pay attention while my mind wanders - the usual patterns I go through every Tuesday. I have research to do for a paper I haven't started that is due tomorrow, and I need to make a grocery list. In the scheme of things, in the long story of my life, this isn't effecting me very much. When I'm struggling tonight with this stupid paper, though, trying to concentrate in my bedroom, I might put on my headphones and start listening to some Bruce Springsteen, or maybe even the Beach Boys, and think about Virginia, Sarah Vowell, and what it means to be American.

hah! the interwebs are no match for me!

I am all that is awesome. And by that I mean that after a week of being shunted from reception desk to help desk to IT and back to reception, I have finally managed to prove that I am a real person (IT was doubting it), that I truly am renting an apartment in my building (reception wasn't sure), and that the problem with my internet wasn't that I couldn't spell my own password (which was the only suggestion the help desk could give me.) In short, I have internet.

And so, without further ado, I give you Shoshi's First Week and a Half Down Under, The Picture Edition:

Orientation was like any sort of large group gathering of strangers, with kids shuffling around and repeating their name, home school, and major over and over again like they were the answers to a pop quiz. Still, I had fun, especially because we were housed in this strange little resort in the beach area of Noosa. It was all very out-doorsy and wildlife-y, which meant a) a lecture about all the various creatures that could poison, attack, eat, or otherwise harm us (a lot) and b) kangaroos!


We took the time to hang out at the beach, surf at the beach, sleep at the beach, eat at the beach, etc. An awful lot of beach time for someone who hates sand, but I actually found myself won over by the amazing location. The best beach-ing by far was on our day trip to Fraser Island. We stopped for lunch and a swim at Lake Mackenzie (after driving our huge tour buses through the undergrowth, over rocks, and even into the surf for hours on end) and were informed that the sand has such a high precentage of silicone in it that you can actually polish your teeth with it. Which we did, of course, but unfortunately I didn't think to document the moment. Still, here is Lake Mackenzie in all its glory.

After that there was a lot of stress involving moving in and buying things, both of which I'd rather not revisit except to say that all buildings that are meant to hold copious numbers of students should be obligated to have doors that stay open for more than ONE FREAKING SECOND. The suitcases aren't going to push themselves, you know. Since then my roommates and I have been exploring the city, seeing the sites, eating a LOT (we've taken to calling our study abroad experience the Gastronomical Tour of Melbourne) and generally hanging out. There are a lot of kids on my program and because the campus is basically empty we've found ourselves hanging out together more often than we should. We travel in packs of ten to twenty kids, entering small cafes and bars and generally taking them over with our loud American-ness. Its pretty amusing, but I'm hoping that as classes start I'll have the chance to get to know other people, preferably ones who don't sound like me.

One place in particular that I took a liking too during all this site-seeing was the Queen Victoria Market. A huge open market, it has what seems like a trillion stalls. It goes on forever - it stretches over almost an entire city block. There are four sections: the fresh produce section, which is something out of a Berkeley Bowl employee's wildest dream, the meat and cheese section (pretty much useless to me, but very pretty to look at and which also includes bread products), the food court (a highlight of the Gastronomical Tour) and the last section which I like to call "random crap." Its basically a combination of the Berkeley Bowl, the Ferry Building farmer's market, and a really good flea market.


The last stop on the wild photographic tour of my Victorian life so far is St. Kilda's Beach. St. Kilda's is an beach-side section of Melbourne filled with twisty streets, great cafes, grungy bars, and the original Jewish settlement in Melbourne. Most of the religious Jews have moved out to the newer suburbs there, but I managed to get kosher kebabs when I was there. My roommate and I made our way down on Sunday for the St. Kilda's Festival, this crazy weekend-long party with lots of music, crafts, and food. My favorite section of St. Kilda's is Luna Park - its an ancient boardwalk that has the oldest hand-operated wooden roller coaster in the world. Each car on the coaster is manned by a conducter who has to pull a hand-brake when the cars speed down the coaster to fast. I haven't ridden it yet, but its' on my to-do list. Right now I just get a kick out of the terrifying moon at the entrance to the park.

Thats it for now - tomorrow we have university orientation, which will most likely act as a distressing reminder that I actually have to do WORK while I'm here. I'll find out what classes I'm taking, how often I actually have to show up to them, and most importantly, what days I have off for travelling. Its midnight here though, so I'm for bed.