I'm short on patience today. The semester is winding down, winter break officially begins on Friday, and people are walking around campus in with one of three expressions on their faces:

1) "My Other Job is at the Post Office" - These ones are dangerous. Some of them are normally pleasant enough; others are the people who regularly do things like miss appointments and then come into the office to rant at me about Daylight Savings Time.

2) "Goldie Hawn in 'Overboard'" - You remember the scene? Sure you do. Goldie is catatonic, and the kids start throwing grapes at her face. Mmm, grapes.

3) "I Can't Be Bothered to Care. I Finished Coursework in 1992 and May or May Not Ever Get Out of Here. Where Are the Forms to Extend My Time to Complete This Degree? I'd Like to Spend More Time in Purgatory, Please" - That's been pretty much the expression on my face, though it's not all that bad. Yet. I did run into my advisor again today, and she reminded me that I promised her a proposal by the beginning of next semester. Curses! I mean, yaay! What?

This afternoon, I actually used the word "cockamamie" in the course of regular conversation. I was denouncing the school's new registration policy. Instead of mailing out registration packets and course lists—which was normal procedure for years—registering now requires that students follow a link, open a PDF document and print it, open another PDF document to look at the course list, write the appropriate numbers and names on the form, and then mail it to or drop it off in their departments. Predictably, this new procedure has resulted in a sharp decrease in the number of students who have actually registered on time. Out of approximately 2000 students, only 600 or so have actually gone along with this harebrained scheme, which means that 1400 students are about to be slapped with a $100 fine for registering late.

Now that I think about it, perhaps it isn't cockamamie at all. Maybe it's a diabolically clever plan to squeeze an extra $140,000 out of a bunch of already cash-strapped grad students. Bust out the ramen, kids! It's dinner time.

So, I went in for my yearly exam this morning. Now, no woman looks forward to these visits to the doctor, but I got over dreading the routine stuff quite a long time ago. Still, I could name any number of things I'd rather do. Especially since just getting an appointment now seems to involve going to my primary care physician, filling out forms, being told I need to go somewhere else ("here's a 27b-6"), being handed a map to that place, driving there, finding out that's not at all where I need to be, and finally arriving in the correct office after making a phone call and getting stuck behind an ambulance supply dealer making a 24-point turn.

But I got there. One could not help but notice the multitude of figurines on the shelves in the waiting room. At first glance, they seemed to be the possessions of some sort of Hummel fetishist.

And then I took a closer look.

There was a medical theme. Each of the figurines was either a doctor or a patient, but oh, the variety! There was a wizened country doctor with an enormous syringe. There were painted rocks wearing stethoscopes. There was a manic-looking fellow sitting on a stool and holding a baby by the ankles, hand poised to spank its bottom. There were cherubic figures whose benign facial expressions contrasted suspiciously with their hands, which held mysterious, sharp objects.

And those weren't the worst. There was a figurine of a woman in stirrups getting a pelvic exam. There was a Day of the Dead-themed scene with a skeleton doctor operating on a skeleton patient. Then there were the monkeys: quizzical-doctor-monkey, opium-haze-doctor-monkey, and not one, but two tongue-sticking-out-doctor-monkeys. These last, in particular, were well on the hooboy side of the racialized imagery line. "Good lord," I thought. "My new OB-Gyn is Al Jolson."

I scanned the shelves for a lawn jockey with a scalpel and decided that if I saw Aunt Jemima in a lab coat, I was out of there.

At least there were no mobiles hanging from the ceiling in the exam room.

So, on Saturday, I headed out to Downtown Disney to meet up with beatnikside and channelinglucy. We parked ourselves at a big, round, outdoor bar with good drinks and food, and even better company. Lucy was holding up remarkably well despite knee pain, and I felt comfortable with her right away. After some yapping, eating, and drinking, we said a temporary goodbye to her as she disappeared back into her natural element. Beatnik and I then spent some time poking our heads into shops and people-watching: there were people in Santa hats and big, plastic beards. There was a group of young women who had decided to shiver in the service of sexiness. There were people whose annoyance with their families was obviously not lessened by the fact that they had all come to have a good time, damnit. There was the always-creepy sight of children on leashes held by their parents. I felt like a mediocre consumer because I wasn't carrying a bag, but I was fine with that.

We later met up with an old friend of beatnik's, who told us great stories about Bad Actors in commercials for pilots—"Prepaaare for VIC-toryyy!"—and the three of us hooked up with Lucy once again to indulge ourselves in yet another dessert and caffeinated beverages with yummy stuff mixed in. "I'd like some more Irish in my coffee, please!" Lucy and I, obviously over-caffeinated, made a late night of it. The Pringles helped.

The next day, we met up for lunch. During the course of our conversation, I was sorely tempted to jump into the theme park fray with Lucy and family, but I decided to leave that for another time, when I could actually get up early and spend more time taking it all in. Instead, I contented myself with more shopping and with the sight of kids doing things like spinning around and around just for fun.

After saying goodbye to Lucy and then to beatnik, I spun my own way home and treated myself to a nap. It was the best way to end a lovely weekend.

I'm taking a break from packing to head out to the cabin in Big Bear tomorrow. It's entirely possible that I'm dramatically overpacking, but we'll be there for a few days, and I'll be damned if I'm going to drink Folgers or sip my wine from plastic cups when I have a choice in the matter. I described the contents of our boxes and cooler to my mom this evening: five wine glasses, five champagne flutes, a tea kettle, a French Press, a coffee grinder, a large pot, a colander, a pasta-stirring spoon, a fondue pot, and various food and drink items. "Ha ha ha!" said Mom. When I asked why she laughed, she responded, "Oh, nothing. It's only that you sound just like me."

She's right, too.

Christmas was good. It was lovely to be back in Seattle. I don't hate Southern California, but I can't see myself living here for the rest of my life. Even after a two-year absence from the Pacific Northwest, Seattle felt more like home than Orange County. I got to tell jokes and laugh and talk with my family, which just isn't the same over the phone. Plus, I got to meet a whole bevy of Seattle LJers, who were just as interesting in person as they are online.

I was grateful to be able to spend time with bohunk several of the days I was visiting. I went through bohunk withdrawals after returning from our cross-country drive, and it was important for me to get my LorFix. She is right there at the top of my list of "People Who Don't Suck."

I'm off to pack some more. If I get too carried away, kindly remind me that bread makers, food processors, and rice cookers aren't truly necessary on a three-day excursion.

Happy New Year to you all!