Drinks, Alcoholic and Otherwise

You may be able to rid your first aid kit of Syrup of Ipecac if you keep Mountain Dew on hand.

I realized last night as I was writing about drinking Grape Crush from the stash that my mom bought in mass quantity that I'm giving others the opinion that I drink sugary drinks the way my dog drinks water.  I don't. No one in my family does. We tend to have large quantitites of the stuff oin hand, particularly in the summer, for entertainment purposes, but I don't drink it on a regular basis. I drink water when I'm thirsty. I drink real lemonade for a few extra calories and also because it's good for slowing kidney stone formation. I drink soda when I go out for a meal if I don't feel like having water. I drink seven up or ginger ale sometimes if my stomach is upset. I otherwise drink maybe one or two sodas a week at home.

When my brother and I were really little, we only got soda when we went out to dinner or when we had road trips, and it could not be caffeinated soda. Once in awhile my parents would mistakenly buy fruit-flavored soda that had caffeine in it, but such such screw-ups were rare. They didn't worry about what we ate or drank at birthday parties or in general at other people's  homes, but if they happened to find out that any friend's parent offered unlimited access to sugar, we rarely got to go to that friend's house.

Once we turned twelve, they ceased to worry about whether or not the soda that we ordered had caffeine in it. Once we got into high school, they  actually bought soda that was kept at our house, which we were allowed to have on Saturday nights as long as we had milk for dinner. By the time we were fifteen or so, we were allowed to offer soda to our friends and have some ourselves when we were entertaining.

Now, if a person looked inside our garage, that person would conclude that we probably brush our teeth with carbonated beverages, possibly bathe or shower with the stuff, pour it in the dog's water dish, use it as an all-purpose cleaner, and possibly even pour it in our swimming pool. Last night when my uncle was here, I counted 214 bottles of the various Crushes, root beer, Coke,  Pepsi, and Mountain Dew, about which I will say more momentarily. That didn't take into account the six-packs of regular-sized and mini-sized cans of Seven-up, Pepsi,  Coke, Dr, Pepper, and a few miscellaneous diet drinks. My uncle says we're good Mormons in one regard: we have at least a two-year supply of carbonated soft drinks for our family. (There's even more in the refigerators and the bar.)  Mormons are supposed to maintain a two-year-supply of food, water, other drinks, and any necessary supplies. We're compliant on the soft drink front even though we're not  Mormons. We have that covered.

We have a little more of everything than we did in northern California, both because our house is bigger and we have more storage space and because we are, as far as anyone knows, a little closer to the worst of earthquake country, so it's not a bad idea to have a couple months of life's basic necessities on hand. We don't have a  two year supply  of anything other than sodas and maybe toothpaste, which we seem to accumulate at a ridiculous rate.  Otherwise, we could probably eat for a few months on what we have in the house. We wouldn't necessarily be eating all that well, but we could sustain ourselves for two to three months.

Regarding Mountain Dew, I don't quite know where to begin.  My mom saw a large stack of bottles of Mountain Dew in the grocery store being sold for a rather inexpensive price. There's a reeason for that. If  a deal seems too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.Neither Matthew nor I had ever tasted Mountain Dew, so we put a few bottles in the fridge and had some one Saturday night. (Old traditions die hard.) Matthew ran to the sink and spit his mouthful of Mountain Dew out. I'm not quite so crass; I swallowed mine, but it gave me a headache for the rest of the night because it was so vile.  My mother started to complain because no one was drinking the Mountain Dew. My dad reminded her that no one in the family had asked for it, but that didn't shut her up. I tried bringing a couple of bottles in at a time, opening them, and pouring them down the kitchen  drain, but once I did not exercise sufficient caution.  Just as I was rinsing the second bottle, I noticed my mom standing inside the pantry watching my every move. She went ballistic.

I eventually learned that while my friends didn't actually like the stuff, Meredith, Jared, and Alyssa could be bribed to drink it at a rate of $1 per bottle. That was probably the single saddest thing about my breakup with Jared. He's still around occasionally, but for awhile he was at our house every day, and he was good for two bottles of the stuff a day at a bare minimum. He's  6'6" and not necessarily finished growing, and has to find calories anywhere he can in order to avoid looking like a skeleton. Anyway, the vile fluid that my mom got at such a bargain rate has ended up costing me six bucks per six-pack in order  to make it disappear. Great deal you got there, Mom. I think we're down to about three six-packs. I cannot  for the life of  me figure out how the company stays in business by producing a beverage that tastes like . . . I will not even say what it tastes like. Ask my brother. He'll gladly tell you.

No one in my house drinks diet sodas because we're mostly a little thinner than we'd like to be. If weight isn't an issue, the stuff put into diet sodas is probably worse for a person than the high fructose corn syrup, although that can exacerbate symptoms of irritable bowel syndrome or inflammatory bowel disease, both of which I have, . Most of the Pepsi that I drink has real sugar as its sweetening ingredient. I tend to drink that when I'm not drinking Grape Crush.  If  I heard from a reliable source that Grape Criush was sweetened with heroin, I'd probably drink it anyway. Besides, my mom bought the last five known six-packs of it in the county. We consumed almost two six-packs yesterday. We sent an additional six-pack with my delightful Uncle Lee. I counted fourteen bottles of it tonight.

I took two of the fourteen bottles to hide in the refrigerator in my room. I'll probably try to save them and take them with me to medical school. If I ever have a truly rough day there, a bottle of Grape Crush might make things better. If I were more like most people my age, I'd squirrel away some alcohol for such days, but I don't honestly like the stuff.  I'm sure Matthew will take enough booze to make it look like both of us are bona fide alcoholics, but he's not necessarily a problem drinker, either. He likes to get a good buzz once in awhile, but he never gets behind the wheel of a car after consuming even one drink, because the legal limit is .0000 for anyone under twenty-one.

I will take Guinness, because I still consume two half-bottles a week for weight gain or at least maintenance purposes. . I was mildly concerned about the local authorities busting our house and arresting me for possession of Guinness and Matthew for possession of the entire liquor store's worth of alcoholic beverages that Matthew will probably have. My dad said that as long as our condo doesn't become the party headquarters of the region for underage drinkers, and as long as neighbors have no reason to complain to authorities, my Guinness should fly under the radar easily enough. Almost everyone in medical school will be over twenty-one, so there will be no incentive to hang out with a couple of nineteen-year-olds just to gain access to our booze when nearly everyone else can walk into a store and buy whatever they want to drink.

Furthermore, he said, he and my mom are the legal owners of the condo. They have a right to keep alcohol there. If Matthew starts to show up for classes and labs hung over every morning, someone might have reason to complain, but otherwise no one should  care. We're surrounded by mostly young families and married or cohabitating couples who don't care what we do as long as we don't bother them.

We're not exactly going to be the "in crowd"' in our medical school class. I can't speak for Matthew, but I'll be happy even to be ignored by the others as long as I'm not picked on or excluded for study groups. I have no intention of using alcohol to be popular. That wasn't even done when I attended university; that was a high school sort of thing to do, except I wasn't given that much freedom in high school.

Right now I'm going on and on about soda and booze for no good reason except that I'm procrastinating because I don't want to blog about the end of "Judge Alex" the TV show. Judge Alex the person still lives and thrives..

Supertasters, Guinness and Birthday Toasts

The layperson's method of testing for the supertaster phenotype is to use blue food coloring to stain the tongue, then to count the raised papillae within a hole reinforcer.

I'm not going back to the dorm tonight just because. My brother doesn't have any classes until Wednesday of this week, so he's staying so that we can celebrate our birthday together. We may not have many more birthdays together. We're having pizza and whatever else my mom ourders at our house tomorrow evening. people from the dorm are invited, as well as friends from other aspects of my life. my brother has a few friends showing up from his university roughly a hundred miles away. A few family friends will be there as well.

My pseudoaunt's birthday was on Saturday. We have a short-standing tradition of celebrating one th day between our birthdays by having lunch or dinner together. She was tired of restaurant meals, so we had tacos that were made by her husband. They're weren't all that bad.

My dad was recently reading an article about super-tasters, who have more tastebuds than ordinary people and are as a result often very picky eaters. This is far from revolutionary insight, as researchers have been awae of the condition for awhile. neither is it uncommon; roughly one in four people are classified as supertasters, with more women than men being so classified. Anyway, the condition is biologically based, as supertasters have more taste buds that do ordinary people.  A quick way to screen fronthe condition is to have the person taste propylthiouracil, which is a thyroid-reducing medication.the average person doesn't have quick access to propylthiouracil, but my dad is an MD, so he has access to pretty much every medication under the sun. Propylthiouracil is known to be quite hard on the liver, but a mere taste of the drug has never sent anyone into a state of full-blown liver failure.

Without telling us what it was he was trying to accomplish, my dad put a propylthiouracil tablet on both my brother's and my tongues and told us not to swallow. I immediately said, Eeeeww!" and took it off. My brother didn't seem to think it was any big deal. My dad said my mom's reaction had been similar to mine.

So now that I'm too old for his knowledge to do me any good, my dad realizes that I'm a supertaster. It would have been nice if he'd figured it out back in the day, when he was beating me because I refused to taste much of what was on my plate at dinner or to drink the vile milkshake concoctions he mixed up for me to promote growth and weight gain. Too little, too late, C'est la vie.

My brother raided the house Guinness supply so that he and I can toast our nineteenth birthday appropriately. He's drinking two while I'm drinking a whole bottle myself, which is two times what I normally have in my twice-weekly binge nights (sanctioned by my parents as long as I don't drive for several hours because it increases my appetite). I hate the taste of Guinness almost as much as I hated my dad's growth and weight gain shakes, but beer is thinner and easier to get down even if you hate it
than is a milkshake.

Still I have to plug my nose when I drink the Guinness. My brother told me something that I already know, which is that if I go to a party and have to plug nose in orer to consume alcohol, I will look really, really stupid. That's one more reason not to go to any of the wild unversity parties frequented by my peers.

This guy is probably a supertaster.

Awake Late for Social Reasons This Time: Fresno State Football

my dad's least favorite play-by-play man in the world; he says he'd rather listen to play-by-pay from a drunken Irishman with a lateral lisp who's never even seen an American football game than be subjected to Kekaula's play-by-play

Tonight Fresno State played University of Hawaii in football. My dad likes Fresno State. He says he can't root for BYU, and he has to root for someone. Josh and Jared say they can't root for BYU either, but if Fresno State EVER plays UCLA in a bowl game or anything else, Fresno State will have to get by without their support. My Godfather, Uncle Ralph, went to Fresno State. My dad roots for Cal to win against Stanford because he went to University of California Medical School in San Francisco although Berkeley is more than 20 minutes away from San Francisco even if there's no traffic, which there always is. Furthermore, he did a fellowship at Stanford. One would think he'd have some degree of loyalty. My mom doesn't care about any football except Stanford. She even went with her sister to see them play in the Orange bowl a couple of years ago. The Forty-Niners could move their franchise to Cuba and she wouldn't give a rip. She only cares about Stanford.

My dad likes Fresno State, though. He says he always roots for the underdog, and Fresno State is the epitome of an underdog. To me, it seems to depend upon what conference they're in and what the rest of their schedule looks like. I don't care all that much. It's more fun to watch my dad imbibe freely and swear at the TV the announcers, the refs, anyone painted too stupidly in the stands, and anyone who gives Jesus credit for the win. Tonight was an especially intense experience for him, as the play-by-play announcer was Robert Kekaula, whom my father dislikes with greater passion than probably anyone in the nation dislikes any announcer.

Jared had seen my dad buzzed and in full possesion of his R-rated vocbulary, but Josh had only witnesse snippets. He wasn't from Utah, but he WAS a nice little Mormon boy from an area sometimes referred to as the Morridor (meaning Mormon corridor), an area that runs from directly north of Utah, through the Beehive state, and directly south of Utah. Josh had probably never heard cursing on that scale in his entire life. I think he gave himself a hernia from laughing so hard.

In fairness to my father, unless you were a local in Hawaii, you probably wouldn't think terribly highly of Mr. Kekaula's style, skill, or whatever it is that makes a play-by-play announcer uniquely himself. Part of it is the diction. He has a definite local accent,which I personally find midly charming in its own way on a very limited basis. Part of it is his unusual combination of words. I heard something like, "He's got some serious heebie jeebie pychic thing going on" or something very similar . It might be OK to say that if you're announcing a parochial middle school football game for our local community access channel. Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

The game itself ended up very nearly being one of the greatest comeback wins in history for UH. I think it was 42-3 in favor of Fresno State at halftime. By the time the game ended, Fresno State had apparently shut down its offense in honor of some holiday that people in Fresno celebrate but the rest of us know nothing about. Maybe it was Dust Bowl Day. Maybe it was the Official Day to Honor Gang Members of all representations, norteno, surreno, and everyone else. Maybe it was even Support Your Local Walmart Day, or perhaps, to take advantage of the proximity of the location, the Fresno State offense chose to celebrate "Pearl Harbor Day" exactly two months and nine days early. The real offense of Fresno State was off at the Arizona Memorial casting lilies in the Pacific while someone else wore their uniforms and scampered around on the field trying not to get hurt. In fairness to Fresno State, UH's defense AND offense spent a good portion of the first half of the game anywhere but on the field, mentally anyway, allowing Fresno State to build up the 42-3 lead that would eventually save them.

By the final 16 seconds of the game, rain was coming down hard, which is not a boon to an offense. Some questionable clock work by the officials took place -- a clock was stopped for no apparent reason, which is the sort of thing that mysteriously happens to home teams everywhere on a regular basis because officials value their lives. UH had the ball deep in Fresno State territory. As Jesus continued to pour rain** onto the field to aid Fresno State's efforts, one incomplete pass was thrown into the end zone and dropped by some UH player whose name might as well be Barack Obama as far as I know. A short pass was thrown in the final six seconds. I can't recall whether the ball was intercepted or merely batted away, but Fresno State walked away with the game.

I cannot tell you that anything resembling currency changed hands, but if such had happened, my dad would have picked Hawaii by 16 for maybe one hundred dollars or so. I cannot suggest that any such thing did happen, though, as I don't want the ATF or whoever oversees such matters to show up and raid my house. My room is in perfect order. I don't need my Westin matresses ripped open by some overly zealous agent.

This blog is ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to remember and share the knowledge that Jesus doesn't actually care about the outcome of football games**, and he's probably even offended when winning players try to give the credit to him after a win.

The Trial of the Nano-Second: Snow White and Humpty Dumpty: she wouldn't have pushed him had he not battered her on a nightly basis

I didn't plan to blog about the Jodi Arias trial today, but I'm becoming like a crack addict who loses it when her  supply has been cut off.

While I hate much of Arizona and everything for which it stands (though I do like Flagstaff), I absolutely love the way their court system allows jurors to submit questions to the judge to witnesses.  Today MadameLaviolette answered the questions submitted by the jury.More correctly,   the judge read questions as submitted by the jury, and Madame LaViolette spoke after each question was asked. In some cases , what she said had very little to do with the question that was asked. In other cases, she answred a question that was similar to but not the actual question that was asked. In other cases, she restated the question in statement form, then paraphrased the statement aa few times. She must have read the sm book that my cousin gave me right befor I started high school on how to maintain a 4.0 or about without necessarily mastering course material. I wish i could recall the actual title and author of the book.

I never really needed te information in the book my cousin gave me, as I typically did my assigned readings, papers, projects, etc. The information provided in the book helped several of myfriends on more than one occasion, though.

One of the major points of the book is that a teacher, professor, or grader may read the first paper assigned for a course with some degree of attention. It would behoove you to put in the time and effort on that first paper.

After the first essay or research paper, readers/graders/professors are looking for length, format,  key phrases, and plagiarism.  Make your paper the required length. Don't exceed the required range of length because (A) it draws attention to your paper, and (B) the person charged with reading the papers already has plenty of reading to do. He or she does not want to read War and Peace in the form of your submitted paper.
If you're going to plagiarize, hire a trusted source whom you know won't steal something off the Internet and sell it to you as his or her original work. Cheating is one thing. Outright stupidity is another. Internet programs will catch any plagiarism that has been lifted from a source that has been found on the Internet or submitted to any Internet site.




Follow the assigned format, MLA, APA, or whatever. That's the one thing for which a grader always checks.

After the initial assignment, often a person reading papers merely scans. Be sure to include key words and pertinent phrases, and use them in correct context. Use a glossary at the end of a textbook for a reference, or scan assigned readings for good terms to randomly toss into a paper.

There is an art, as well, to passing tests.  The ideaof always choosing B or Con multiple choice tests isn't as fool-proof as it once was. Professors and teachers have actually gotten wise to that. Instead, out of the four or five possibilities, at least two will be ridiculous.  Both "all of the above" and none of the aobve" are popular answers, and it should be obvious which is correct: in the former instance, the answers will be sensible but overly simplified; in the latter instance, one or two answers may appear to make sense until you read closely, ut at least one or two will be very silly rendering an "all of the above" answer implausible.

You'll face more multiple choice answers in high school or junior college than in four-year college or university. That's because teachers/professors are inherently lazy, but if they have underlings onto which to dump the labor, essay questions become a much more attractive test option for the professors. The keys here are many. For one,  the teaching assistant usually has office hours just as the professor does. Visit the teaching assistant; don't make a total pest of yourself, but let him or her know you value his or her input.

When actually taking the test, if you know the correct answer, state it as clearly and eloquently yet concisely as possible. Spelling, grammar, and usage do matter. A tiny typographical error (laptops are often used now for university tests) will be overlooked, but writing as though you were home-schooled by a person who couldn't make it through eighth grade somewhere in the Ozarks will not escape the notice of the T.A. Even if your answer is, in principle, correct, its correctness will most likely be lost somewhere in the translation.

When taking the test, if you do not know the answer, this is where you can learn from Madame LaViolette.  Option A is to answer a question similar to the one asked if you are capable of answering a similar questionear all along even if it wasn't the question that was asked. Option B, if you're slightly more desperate, is to restate the question in statement form in about four different varieties. An alert grader will catch this but may not give a raccoon's anus, or may feel sorry for you, or may give you more credit than for which you are legitimately entitled for creativity and perseverence. Again, this is where your occasional visits dring office hours may pay off in the dividend. Good looks and/or charm and/or simply kissing up may be worth more points on an essay question than one might think.

If the question is such that you neither know the answer, can't write the asnwer to  similar question,a d for some unexplained reason cannot restate the question instatement form (perhaps you're suffering from temporary aphasia)  write about another topic you know to be near and dear to the professor and/or grader's heart. just a little ingenuity can tie your treatise to the assigned topic or question even if only slightly. If you make the point the professor or grader really wanted to hear espite what the assigned topic or question posed, you will score points.

The bottom line is that ever professor has a point of view. His T.A. has been apprised of this point of view. He or she has something that he wishes to impart to students, and he wishes to have it restated in every paper or exam. Find out what that pearl of wisdom is. tell it to him or her at every opportunity. You will win the game of higher education if you succeed in doing this.

Regarding Madame LaViolette, I'm confident she either read or wrote the book to which I referred earlier.  She's playing the game well in some respects -- answering parallel questions,restating the question in statement form, changing the topic and working in the key terms, and going off on tangents so far from the topic that only the closest of listeners will really believe that she would actually digress to the degree tat she did; they assume there must have been a connection that they missed.  The only way she may not ultimately prevail in this battel of witnesses (notice that I said the only way she may not prevail; her client, on the other hand has roughly the same chance of a clear acuittal that I have of becoming a Playboy ccnterfold in 2013, and I'm still a AA cup.) is that she hitched her wagon to a client who has no better than a snowball's chances in hell of being liked by a jury. Furthrmore, while Madame LaViolette herself may have come across as somewhat likeable early in the trial, her likeability factor is dropping faster than barometric pressure drops as a storm approaches.  Furthermore, there's no way around it: her "Snow White as a Battered Woman"  presentation was eventually destined to see the light of day, and anything long those lines not clearly labeled as fiction couldinvariably impact the credibility of the author only in a very bad way.
alexisar.blogspot.comI'm still waiting to hear how Humpty Dumpty figures into the scenario.

If, and this is a big if, I ever become an attorney, I plan to take the Arizona Bar Exam, provided  Arizona does not have bar status reciprocity with California (and I could never be so lucky). I intend to go to Arizona during a vacaton time and take on a fairly boring case, pro bono if necessary,  just to see how long I could get the case to drag on. Even though Jodi Arias and Travis Alexander  are not the names of people who are or were famous prior to this trial,  it is a capital murder case with a great deal of sensationalism attached to it due to the gruesomeness of the crime and the relative slowness of news in general at this particular time.  That by itself could lend length of time to the trial. still, my mom was on a jury panel for a first-degree murder that concluded in less than ten days, jury deliberation time included.   This trial is dragging.

My plan isto go to Arizona and defend an accused prostitute or someone similarly accused. My goal will be to drag the trial out as long as is humanly possible, to the extent, if such a thing is able to be included, of making it into the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest trial in the U.S. for a misdemeanor.

All of this talk of guinness reminds me that it is time for one of my 2.5  half-bottles of Guinness per week.

#  the non-artist still known as Alexis

St. Paddy's Day and a Few New Facts and Tidbits about Guinness

In honor of Saint Patrick's Day, the national holiday of my heritage, i was required byt cultural obligation to down not just my usual half  Guinness maybe twice a week, but instead a full bottle. This left me feeling  little full as well as full of myself, but everyoneaournd me was in a similar state so no one was exactly in a position to compalin. I think the therapeutic value of Guinness for me is best when I limit myself to half a bottle a couple times a week, but that doesn't mean that I can't indulge a bi further for a really good cause, and If, St, Paddy's Day isn't a worthy cause I don't know what would be one. Invasion by the Visigoths, maybe?

Anyway, if one keeps ones mind open and relatively lucid (the key is relative here; being 100% lucid on Saint Patrick's Day is a waste of perfectly good Guinness) one can learn at least one new thing virtually every day of his or her life. today i was able to do just that. I came across a website that listed twenty interesting facts and novelties regarding guiness. I'll give you the website http://www.kitchendaily.com/read/20-fun-facts-about-Guinness-Irish-beer-for-St-Patricks-Day?icid=maing-grid7%7Cmain5%7Cdl8%7Csec1_lnk2%26pLid%3D283714 and allow you to peruse at your leisure. I will  insult neither your intelligence nor your ability to read anything without me interpreting it for you. I will, however share just a very few of my favorite intersting tidbits regarding Guinness.

One thing I learned is that Guinness Bubbles are significantly different than the bubbles of any other beer. they're a mixture of carbon dioxide and nitrogen,  which gives a theick head, very little carbonation, and a smooth taste. Advertising executive and atist john Gilroy came up with the 1930's ad campaign, 'Guinness is good for you." A 1930's University of Wisconsin study (maybe not the most objective of academic institutions where alcohol consumption is the subject of a study, though still probably more objexctive in that regard than the univerity I attend) found that Guninnes contained  high anti-oxidnt properties and a hgih iron content. also, the Guinness company that brews stout is affiliated with the guinnes book of World records. A 1954 Guninness executive, Hugh Beave , was an argumentative sort, and chose to use the company's resources to commission an official reference guide to solve all disputes.  The site contains a wealth of information besides what I've shared. Check it out.

Regarding my mom's party, the highlight was pribably when she my mom standing in her Steinway (it's a good thing it was her piano; no amount of drunkenness would make me think it was OK for anyone to stand on my piano, even if the person were a lightweight) singing "Carrickfergus" while my Uncle Scott accompanied her on a harp someone borrowed from someone who knew someone who  owns a harp that is hardly ever used.( If the people had known it was being lent to beople who stand on top of their own pianos, they probably never would have let my relative have it, but no one stood on the harp, anyway, It's not easy to stand on a harp when it's in an upright position. I could probably manage it if I tried, but why would I try?) Anyway, My Uncle Scott, who doesn't actually know how to play the harp, was doing his best to pluck out chords to the song as my mom sang it. Playing a harp when you don't know how is easier thn it sounds, as it is linear, as are the keys of the piano, and follows a logical diatonic progression. Still, that doesn't mean my Uncle Scott didn't make more than a few mistakes while playing this song, "CarrickFergus," while my mom sang it, which to me just made the whole thing funnier. The anount of booze he had probably did nothing to assist him in his technical accurracy, either.

"Carrickfergus" is a song about a woman who lived in -- surprise, surprise -- Carrickfergus when she was young. Now that she's old and feeble, she'd swim across the ocean to get there to her own true love, but he's dead anyway, and besides, she knows she'd drown trying to swim there. (It kind of reminds me of that 80's movie, A Trip to Bountiful.)She needs a handsome boatman to ford her across the sea. There's little point of going there, anyway, as her childhood friends and old relations have all passed on. She probably has some really good genes working in her favor, or maybe she's a Seventh-Day Adventist (statistically, they're supposed to be healthier even thn the Mormons). So now, since there's no other reason left for her to go to Carrickfergus and to that long road that leads to the sea, she just wants the handsome boatman to ferry her there so she can die and the young men can carry her casket to some scenic spot in a graveyard. Isn't this song a barrel of laughs for a party?

My mom and two of her sisters were sobbing before my mom finished singing the song. My dad thought it was about as hysterical as I thought it was. My dad says he doesn't care WHAT my mom's will says: "Carrikfergus" will not be sung at her funeral, rosary, or wake if he outlives her, and he says that if he doesn't and I do, it's my solemn responsibility to make sure that the song is not sung at any function in connection with her death because it's a silly, highly bathos  song.

Erin go Bragh! (My mom's name is Erin.)

#

Oh Happy Day, Part One

It's awfully early here on the west coast, so evenfor the Irish who know how to party as well as or better than anyone else, most are still sleeping off last night's pre-party, so not much is going on yet. i was doing a bit of studying because I don't nticipate feeling all that much like it tomorrow or even Monday.

Jared and I decided to take in Matthew's baseball game yesterday since why let something like baseball interfere with Saint P:atrick's Day. my mom has a big bash planned, wich will start as early as noon. She has relatives traveling here from all over the state, so it's senseless form them to drive hours to get here, spend a couple of hour, and drive home.  A few people have made arrangements to sleep over, but many must work tomorrow. Don't worry in the eventthat you'll be traveling on california's highways, or don't worry about my mother's drunken revelers, anyway, as all have designated drivers.


my mom's bes friend teaches preschool. It's a specail sort of preschool for kids who qualify for any special services. she has children who merely have lisps, and she'll teach them to read before they even go off to knindergarten. she also has severely autistic children and those with othere severe and multiple disabilities. It's a complete spectrum in terms of range of ability. Anyway, she spent Friday afternoon after school getting her classroom ready to look as though the leprechauns came in and trashed the room. she's been telling them all month about how things like this used to happen, but how it should probably be OK now because of the school's really sophisticated alarms that won't allow anyone into the buildings after hours.  she told them that leprechauns are not mean or bad, just silly and fulll of mischief, but she told them it's a pretty safe bet that nothing will happen this year.

She's going to keep the door locked until everyone is there unless someone is significantly late. Then tey'll open the door to find green leprechaun footprints all over the place, toys thrown all over the floor silly little scribbly drawings on the white board, thr alphabet letters out of sequence, children's artwork turned upside down,  and green urine (unflushed) in the toilet.  she siad it's one of her favorite days of the year, and that it's oneof the few pre-school memories many of the preschoolers arry with them many years later.

When I was banned from gymnastics after my rooftop gymnastics stunt, my parents decided I needed an alternate activity, so I began Irish dancing. .I took to it quite easily and after a couple of years went into the competitive circuit.  This could only go on for so long, as my parents weren't willing to give up about half of all weekends to hop on planes and travel to competitions all over the place, and I wasn't really even ionto it enough to justify the expenditure either in time or in cash, but it was fun while it lasted, It gave me a skill I maintain to this day to some degree and may use again  -- although probably in the couples-style set dancing rather than solo.  It created travel opportunities, though most of what we saw of the places we visited was through the windows of the various rental cars between hotels, convention centers, and airports, On the one competition that took placein Ireland, we made a bit more of a vacation of it, as I have realtives living in Ireland. We didn't do tons of touristy stuff on the trip because we'd been to Ireland once before as a family (my mom lived in Ireland for a couple of years as a child) and had done more of the touristy stuff that time, but we did spend  time there with family and had tons of fun.

Anyway, when my final costumes were sewn, my mom, kowing the end was near,   had liberal fabric left in the hems so that the hems could be let cown and I could use the costumes for a few more years.  I've  grown up more than I've grown out, so four costumes still fit. If I really cared that much, as I grow fuller-figured, I could always have another costume or two made. I'm in no hurry to part with my hard-earned cash, but someday it might be a worthwhile expenditure

On Saint Patrick's Day, I usually put  on one of my costumes and even the curly wig that goes with it (curly wigs are a required part of the competitive Irish dance costume for girls) and do a couple of dances to mke my mom and her siblings happy. I don't mind. I'm not really the shrinking violet  type, anyway, and am not terribly uncomfortable with people watching me dance. It's weird, as there are times when I want to be inviible and I think if they're looking at me, it's because they know about the things that has happened to me or because I'm skinny and unattractive, but at other times, I'm comfortable with attention. Maybe my dad is right and I really am bi-polar, even to the point of that disassociateve identity disorder that used to be called mutiple persoanality disorder, a la Sybil or The Three Faces of Eve, along with numerous soap opera characters who've suffered the same malady.  Then again, maybe I'm an ordinary adolescent who can't make up her mind as to whether or not she wants anyone looking at her.

So tomorrow, which is technically today, I'll down at least one Guinness, but probably not more as I have class the next day and cannot afford to be hung over. I'm allowed to have as many friends over as I'd like, but I've been told that only those who can legally drink will be allowed to do so, and that someone will be watching to ensure that such is the case. I'm confident in my ability to spirit away a few spirits for the age-challenged amng us, but not enough that anyone under 21 will be able to get roaring drunk. C'est la vie. That's what other parties are for. My party (which is actually mymom's party)  can be the party before the real party for those who intend to do some serious imbibing.

Top o' the morning to ya!


Paul, can I hear you yet?

#

Day Off

My leg soreness has gotten a little worse and I'm feeling somewhat yucky on top of that, so I'm not attending class tomorrow. I'll miss my statistics course, my anthropology course, and my philosophy course, but I've contacted all the professors,all of whom are sending outlines. One professor posts the actual lectures, so I can catch it that way.  I have at least three buddies in the other two classes with whom I've agreed to exchange notes; the odds of all three in both  classes being out are slim, anyway, and all say at this point they're planning on attending.  Reading lecture notes after the fact is not as good as sitting through the real thing, but for any one session it's fine to do it this way, and my note-taking buddies are all good and will not miss the main points of anything.

My dad thinks I have a virus. He wouldn't have any idea what that virus might be, but he thought it important to share that he's certain it's a virus.   All he's really qualified to tell me is that I do or do not have lymphoma or leukemia, and I could have told myself the correct answer to those questions.  Whatever.

Monday more people will be missing from class than will be tomorrow because of post-Super Bowl recovery issues. I won't have such issues because half a bottle of Guinness does not necessitate any special recovery procedures,so I will be available for all my note-taking buddies.

Sayonara.

Guinness is a Lager

According to Paul, who read a couple of my blogs and knows far more about such things than I do, Guinness is a lager. Lager actually sounds more substantial than ale and makes it sound more impressive that I'm drinking the stuff.

I don't drink Guinness every day, but once or twice a week I down half of a bottle of the stuff. The main benefit I've noticed is that it increases my appetite, and putting on enough weight so that I no longer look like an eastern European refugee or orphan has been an endeavor to which I've devoted much effort.

I first got my hands on a bottle of Guinness on March 17 of 2011.  My mom was hosting a Saint Patrick's Day gathering, and more or less everyone there had consumed enough of either Guinness or something even more potent that no one present was paying any particular attention to what I did or did not drink. (I think my brother drank four beers that night without being noticed.)  I had a track meet the next day and was curious as to whether or not a small amount of Guinness might improve the quality of my sleep enough to actually improve my performance in the track meet the following day. Whether due to the Guinness, the placebo effect, or sheer coincidence, the next day I broke a league record in 300-meter low hurdles. It was enough to sell me on the benefits of the beverage despite the taste being so unpleasant that I still have to plug my nose to get it down.

I descend from a long line of drinkers on both side. My mother is Irish Catholic, and the drinking prowess of Irish Catholics is common knowledge. My dad's parents are both French Canadian from Quebec (also originally Catholic)  and though they gave up drinking when they converted to Mormonism, my dad and his one brother and one  sister who no longer practice the LDS faith picked up drinking where their parents left off as though no one in their lineage  had ever discontinued the practice.

I attend a University of California campus. I'm now leaning toward medical school as my post-graduate field of study, but when I started college, I wasn't sure as to whether I would go into medicine or law. A counselor who helped me to design a course of study that would be suitable for both pre-med and pre-law did so with the idea of impressing admissions panels in schools in both fields of study, but gave very little thought to my sanity as I'm  trying to get through these classes with a 4.0 intact.

Guinness and the Essence of Stupidity

The writing assignment I tackled last night was a bit more of a challenge than I had anticipated.  I probably could not have completed it in one session were it not for the assistance and support of my good friend Mr. Guinness.  At about 2:15 a.m., I ventured downstairs, opened the bar  refrigerator, and helped myself to a bottle of the vile-tasting ale or beer or lager or whatever it technically is in the lexicon of libations.

Just as I was preparing to remove the cap from the bottle, my dad appeared.  "What in the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

I assumed the question was rhetorical. If I've learned anything the hard way in my first eighteen years of life, it is that rhetorical questions are best left unanswered.

The question was apparently not intended to be rhetorical. My dad pressed the issue further. "You were about to open a Guinness, Alexis. When I was in college, I at least did my drinking at college
-- not at home."  He  need not have added that the only way he could have consumed any alcohol at home was to bring it there himself, as his tee-totaler Mormon parents didn't even have cooking sherry on hand. For that matter, I wouldn't be surprised to find out my grandparents have non-alcoholic mouthwash and vanilla extract in their home.  Even their alcohol probably has no alcohol in it.

On rare occasions, sometimes even where parents are concerned, the truth is  much  more effective than the most carefully crafted lie could ever be.  "I have to write a paper, " I told him. "The assigned topic is 'Answer the following question:  "What is the essence of stupidity?" ' "

He whistled softly. "I'm impressed if you can write this one with just alcohol," he responded.  "I'd probably need magic mushrooms to even come close." He took the bottle from me, removed the cap, and took a glass from the cabinet above the mini-fridge. "Half a bottle," he said to me as he opened the Guinness, pouring the remaining half into the glass, and handing the bottle to me. He took a drink from the glass. "Why don't you get your laptop and write it down here?  Maybe two heads are stupider than one."

I went upstairs, retrieved my laptop, and made myself comfortable on the sofa, my Guinness within reach on the end table.  He asked me what I had come up with so far. "Nothing," I answered. I had no serious intention of writing on the "university students are the essence of stupidity" angle.

"I may have underestimated this. You'll probably need a full Guinness." He downed the remainder of the contents of his glass in a single swallow, then waited while I plugged my nose and attempted to do the same with what was in my bottle. It took seven swallows for me. "You're not much of an alcoholic, are you?" he asked. I nodded between swallows. I couldn't tell  whether he was more relieved or  unimpressed.  He opened another Guinness and divided it, this time leaving slightly less than half in the bottle for me.

"Here's what I'm thinking," I told him. I briefly shared with him what I thought the professor might be interested in hearing, which is that stupidity in its purest form is a byproduct of societal expression, manifesting itself in the form of pop culture.

"Not bad, "  he mused, "but can you  come up with nine hundred words on that?"

I thought for a moment. "Yes, "I told him, and here's how. . ."   The key, I told him, would be bullshit in both literal and figurative senses. For two years our family lived on the property of a large dairy in the San Joaquin Valley; I've had greater than average exposure to bovine excrement.  i could kill almost half the paper in a discussion of animal feces:  its forms, its uses, its quality in the sense that what goes in most definitely affects what comes out.

Then, after my lengthy dissertation on the properties of cow dung, I would transition to the properties of societal expression, and how what comes out in the from of pop culture is essentially metaphorical excrement.

"Make sure to include some of those Kardashians in your characterization of the bullshit of society," my dad added.  I nodded as I typed. Fifty-seven minutes (and roughly ten sips of Guinness) later, the typing was complete.

I began to read the draft aloud to my dad, but he took the laptop from me, explaining,  "I'm visual."
I waited as he read, and I watched with curiosity as he hit the mouse pad.  "You use too many commas, " he said in response to my puzzled expression.

"Whatever," I mumbled.  I'll  re-insert the commas later if I decide I care. I quickly typed a title page, and added a post-script note about my agricultural expertise having come from years of living in close proximity to cows so I would not be penalized for not having cited any sources in my somewhat technical discourse on the technical aspects of bovine excrement.  I printed the document and breathed a rather large sigh of relief.

This is not one of the prouder moments of my academic career, but I'm incredibly happy that this #*$@(  assignment is finished.

Happy Martin Luther King Day, and enjoy the inauguration. I will.

St. Patrick's Day Revelry

My mother, who is of Irish descent, and some of her relatives and friends were having a marvelous celebration on Thursday night. Beer flowed freely --so freely that some of it found its way into my hands and down my throat. The stuff tastes atrocious, and I had to plug my nose to chug it down, but I did plug my nose and chug the stuff down in the interest of science. My brother thought the whole thing was hysterical. He thinks he's very sophisticated because he doesn't have to plug his nose to drink beer.

As I was starting on my second beer, my dad noticed what was happening and took it away from me. His effort was too little and a little too late, as, at eighty-two pounds, all I really need is a single beer to get an excellent buzz. Dad carted me upstairs and helped me brush my teeth and get into bed, and I slept through the night like a comatose sailor. The next day -- yesterday-- I stepped onto the track at my school and shattered my personal best times in two of my three hurdling events. In the 200 meter hurdles, I even managed to set a new school record.

What do you think are the chances that my parents will let me drink a Guinness the night before each of my remaining track meets? If you answered "slim to none" or "zero," you guessed correctly.