Completely Self-Referential Post in 10...9...8...

You know you have found your people when you find yourself the victim of a singing telegram deliberately delivered offkey and at an inordinately loud level, followed by a dramatic retelling of that classic Greenwich hit, "Three Girls -- Trapped! On a Giant Bed! -- One Lion." Thanks, Jules and Ets. Only 10 more days until I see you crazy girls.

And only 2 more days until Nepalese human rights violations are coupled with brownie sundaes (thanks, Dorothy, for the heads up).

Forty-eight more hours until a morning full of coffee with the Right Honorable David Grimaldi, a meeting regarding the Interfaith Dinner ("I'll be wearing a Red Sox cap"), and lunch at Johnny Rocket's with everyone's favorite study group, the Respondeat Superiors.

Twenty-four more hours until I can settle into my weekend of quiet New England pastimes -- documentary-watching, apple picking, paper research, outlining, catching up on written correspondence (Jenny! Mere Mere! Mom! Karly! Aimee! The list! Goes on! And on!) and a few transatlantic phone dates.

Six more weeks until a certain rough draft is handed in.

And best of all, six weeks, 22 hours, and roughly 8 minutes until I come home to find this little bugger curled up on my bed, napping off the jetlag...which means, as I'm sure you realize, that I will be decommissioned and fully out of the public arena until six weeks, three days from now. Mark your calendars. No exceptions.

Gifted.

One of them was a screenwriter and the other, a sketch artist/mom of three/retired member of the Air Force and National Guard. Both saw Europe when they were in their twenties. The second one lived abroad for three years. Both work full-time. One is a budding poet. Both were articulate, thoughtful, fluent in politics and international relations. Both sat to my right. Both have been homeless for the past six months. One attends Harvard. Neither suffers from mental illness. They are my mother's age; at some point in the last year, one thing led to another, and the resources that made ends meet were no longer adequate.

What do you say to someone whose resume outshines your own when you're leaving the shelter that night and they are not?

You say the same things you'd say to any other person you were trying to get to know. Who are your people? Let me tell you about my family. Thank you, but I'm already full. Tell me about your time in the military. Do you really want to know what I think of the war? Quit jazzing me about the Yankees. How's that cough? What happened to J? What's next for you? Where have you lived, whom have you loved, what have you seen, what fuels you? One will tell you you're so good to come. (You'll ask yourself why you waited so long.) The other will say that she hopes to see you again: "I enjoy getting out of my own head. Regular conversation -- not shelter talk -- that's what I don't get enough of."

Listen: get yourself out there. You have enough to give just by virtue of being who you are right now. Is this the same tired "Make a Difference" goody-goody bleeding heart rubbish that I turn off whenever Sally Struthers squeakily whines on camera about my 25 cents a day and how many children it will feed? Yes, and sadly, she's right. We can do more even by doing very little. I challenge you to put yourself in a situation in which you have something to give, and everyone in the room knows it. You'll be surprised at how addictive it is. You'll forget to berate yourself for waiting as long as you have to do something beyond yourself. You've already got something they want: you. A little bit of your time, a jab for the Yankee fans in the house, and a talk about family and politics.

You're already well-equipped. You're already gifted.

Sketchiest Team Mizungu Member Ever

Racheli, on showing the Rwanda video at Black Rock this past Sunday:

xxx lil thugg 24 xxx: ohhh right so it was sweet nick zoomed in on you hoeing and put it in slow motion with music playing in the background



No comment.

Kids These Days

Here I am in Stuart 316 on an overcast Saturday, recovering from the last month's introduction of certain welcome distractions in my life and reacquainting myself with my casebooks while said distraction gambols with his family o'er the green hills of Erin (as in Ireland, not Book. Book's hills are not green. That I know of.), and talking online with my beautiful 10-year-old cousin, Bridget. The conversation ensues:

Bridget: hey
Bridget: sup?
querynine: hola
Bridget: lol!

[Jessica: "....about what?"]

querynine: what are you doing?
Bridget: one
querynine: one?
Bridget: nm j/c

[Jessica consults with Racheli and finds that "nm j/c" means "not much, just chilling" to gangsta girls everywhere.]

Bridget: no 5 to one cuz the one looked like a seven
querynine: ...are you speaking a different language?
Bridget: sry

[Jessica gives up.]

I miss being cool.

Lemon Laws.

Dear Consumer Protection Agency,

This blog is in danger of being wholly defunct. I mean, seriously -- where's the consistency? The balanced reporting? The finishing of series on African exploits? The extolling of virtues of certain fine folk? The bemoaning the loss of Will Sheridan to Northwestern?

Friends, I blame two things for my radio silence. They are as follows:

1. Law School.
2. Bryan.

The first item on that list has me for another two years, at least; the second one has but three more days to resurrect his singlehood and get a full return for his efforts under current lemon laws. We'll see what happens, but follow the old adage: no news is good news. Very good news, to be sure.

Blogging under Fire

On GoogleTalk, these are the things we choose to talk about:

[Edited under threat of having Affiliate Status revoked.]

Apparently, Belgians have no sense of humor.