The exam for my art history class is tomorrow at noon. Looking at art and examining my own ideas about history and pre-history has been interesting and challenging, but we’ve come to the point where I’m supposed to remember 45,000 years of objects and buildings. My brain doesn’t function that way, so the exam’s a crapshoot. If the instructors put objects on the exam I remember and thought were really cool, I’m golden. If not, well, I spent the semester looking at art. I can’t wait to put this behind me.
I’m reading a basic college art history textbook. It’s full of interesting words that don’t make good sentences. A typical paragraph is one I only re-read a couple of times, but I’ve re-read a few whole pages like I have a new hobby.
Example: “[Some guy] was the architect on the [blah blah] temple, first to use [some damn thing] to [I give up, what?]. Never before had [architectural features] done [some remarkable crap we thought was invented in 1850, because we are slow children.]
It has crossed my mind that maybe I’m reading badly filled out Madlibs with gorgeous pictures.
The raccoons have been gently evicted from the eaves of our house and relocated to a more rural locale. We hope for the best for them, but at least one did not have the best survival instincts. Fingers crossed, they live long, happy lives, full of delightful and mysterious leftovers. We hope so, but they couldn’t stay here. Pete found one of the babies inside the chicken run, nibbling chicken food, near very alarmed chickens, so that had to be the end of that.
I have one more week of American Sign Language class. Earlier this evening, I suddenly realized I’d acquired enough of the basics to tell a story. As you know, stories are my thing; being able to tell a story is kind of hip, kind of cool, kind of Charlie. Tomorrow, I’m going to tell a story in class, which would be much like tearing off my Foster Grants to reveal my superhero identity, but since I am a middle-aged person, I have zero doubt my young classmates will notice a bird, a plane, Superman.
WordPress, bless its heart, pushed me out of the nest, forcing me to squawk in a new birdsong. Between the better! bright! idiot-simple! publisher and the new laptop, I feel pretty stupid. I haven’t figured out how to name and tag photos yet. This one of Drusy, Queen of Crunchy Paper, is sitting here with its dull file type name and number. Imagine my chagrin!
In other news, the crunchy paper has been vanquished and placed in the recycling bin, as a warning to all the others.
So, I was pushing through things with my head down – my laptop is dying and I’m saving up for a replacement – when I suddenly realized April is nearly over and Poor Impulse Control is a gangly twelve year old. While I’m relieved that the blog doesn’t need braces, it’s still exasperating. What am I going to do with it? Where should I go now? I’ve given it a whole lot of thought and re-registered with the unnamed university. The application process, the counseling meetings, the phone calls have all offered daily tests of my resolve, and I didn’t know I had that. This has been very damned unnerving and I haven’t started having those naked/missed exam dreams yet.
On the other hand, a twelfth anniversary was worth marking. Faced with the choice between murdering me or setting up a blog so I’d write, Paulie Gonzalez set up Poor Impulse Control and demonstrated tremendous restraint. As thanks, I sent him a lovely port wine from Unionville Vineyards last week and hope he has a serene weekend. Thanks, Paulie, you mad charmer!
With good luck, I should acquire a new laptop pretty soon and posting should be easier, my stories should be lemony fresh and springy. And that’s good because no matter how it whines that all the other blogs have them, I’m not buying the blog heels.