Heartbreak hotel

There's nothing quite like a good old country song to wreak havoc on your heartstrings.  And while it may seem slightly ridiculous to imagine a city girl shedding sentimental tears over lyrics about cornfields and open country when her only experience with cornfields has been watching them pass outside her window on roadtrips, I can't help it.  I'm a sucker through and through.  The dusty image of salvation as a shotgun wedding in a pickup truck sung with a nasal twang and a fatalistic devil-may-care grin makes my heart beat faster and my eyes close, prickling with the plaintive crying of the guitar and some ancient undeniable Jungian Sehnen . . . perhaps I'm cheesy and outdated and pretty uncool, yes, but at least I take comfort in being passionately so.  My current semi-country mix, which is so saccharine it stands in as a punishment, but I don't apologize:

Desperado -Eagles
It matters to me -Faith Hill
This is the night -Clay Aiken
Let's go to Vegas -Faith Hill
Carrying your love with me -George Strait
You had me from hello -Kenny Chesney
Everywhere -Tim McGraw
Come crying to me -Lonestar
Amazed -Lonestar
Forever and ever, Amen -Randy Travis
She don't know she's beautiful -Sammy Kershaw
Where the green grass grows -Tim McGraw

And now you know more about me than you'd think.

on a quotidien existence
 
I still wonder at my own capacity to settle down into the comfort of a schedule.  Ah, what a seductive mistress is Habit, eh?  Not the most beautiful companion, she nonetheless has small white hands and an easy way of putting food in front of your face that makes her indispensable to the lazy, such that you don't even realize until it's too late that Passion and Inspiration have rolled their eyes and left your side, tired of your capricious wants and indecisive ways.

I am back in NYC, and loving the whole English-speaking country deal.  Ah, the obnoxious accents that only here do not seem out of place!  Not being gainfully employed for the summer, I am whiling away my hours by laying on my back on the zebra-print carpet with warm cat on my stomach, talking to Lulu (the cat) about existentialism, my future, and what to eat for dinner (which if you think about it, are different versions of the same thing).  My exotic travels to Barcelona, Cote d'Azur, Florence, Rome, Bombay and Delhi seem like some crazy technicolor slideshow that I sat through in a dark theater while drunk on absinthe as I lie here in this tiny living room flipping through bad daytime TV stations (oh, whether 'tis better to watch E! True Hollywood entertainment stories of Arnold Schwartzenegger and Maria Shriver or yet another episode of Law&Order?  The indecision!  The agony!), and searching the internet for signs and symptoms of Malaria to feed my hypochondria (I took tablets, but like a bad girl I stopped as soon as I got back). 

Have been lunching with friends (this is what they'd call "networking" in b-school except that I have the unfortunate habit of only liking non-schmoozy types) and lazily picking up a few books, but my resolution to study some French has long gone out la fenêtre.  Recently hopped up to Boston for a quick weekend reunion with college roomies, which has reinforced my impression that all memories and activities seem to revolve around food.  We ate at our favorite haunts . . . and that was about it.  This weekend I go home to California, and am looking forward to food, once again.

Okay, all this food is making me hungry, and I think the sweet potatoes in the oven are ready now.

Ta!

On hypocrisy

Would that I were not that which I am, but were I not what I would that I were, would I that I would or were?

Am chickenshit, yes I am.

My god, what has happened to me?

The last few weeks since school ended have been . . . well, there's no one word that I know which will capture it. There has been too much since then to write, and neither you nor I have the patience to read, so I'll keep it at snippets, in haphazardly chronological order.

. . . lying on my back and staring at the stars before the sun comes up as I realize that P3 is over, that the next day we are all leaving on our summer break, that INSEAD is more than half done, and that I am exhausted in every, every, every sense of the word . . .

. . . munching on a picnic of bread and cheese from the supermarket at a rest stop bench on the way between Fontainebleau and Barcelona with two buddies, smelling the summer heat and remembering car trips when I was a kid . . .

. . . screaming at the top of my lungs as a HUGE cockroach scrambled up the bathroom wall an inch from my face in our youth hostel in Barcelona . . .

. . . the sangria and tapas, fried cheese and bacon-wrapped dates at Ciudad Condal on Ramblas . . .

. . . sleeping, sticky from the car ride, with my feet sticking out of the car and watching the leaves and sunlight flash by my toes . . .

. . . staring out over the Cote d'Azur and feeling as if there ought to be a soundtrack for the view, with its red rooftops and white walls, its perfect Mediterranean and its heartbreaking hills . . .

. . . sipping Malibu and watching the slick dark waves in Juan les Pins and talking about God and growing up . . .

. . . sunbathing in Monaco on a rock, pretending that I don't care about the intense class distinctions I feel in this place. As I stare at the contrast between sandal and shorts-clad tourists and the designer-clad slickers coming out of the unspeakably expensive cars in front of the Monaco Casino, I feel that my world is very, very far away. . .

. . . A house painted all burgundy red with bright yellow trim in the setting sun on the road by the beach from Florence to Rome . . .

. . . the most beautiful coat in one of the Italian storefronts, a camel-colored thing with mandarin collars and multicolored buttons and sequins dancing across its hem . . .

. . . the houses on the bridge in Florence. What a lovely idea, to live suspended above flowing water, as if you are constantly on a journey . . .

. . . the obscene devotion and wealth and care and detail that is the Vatican, the lives that have grown, flamed, and faded with the centuries, now only grand empty ruins baking under the sun . . .

. . . taking shot after shot after shot (after awhile, we could only identify the color, not the liquor) and dancing deliriously, crazy on the tonic of seeing people I realized I truly counted as my friends . . .

. . . the dogs on the streets in Mumbai, sleeping or lounging or walking about, the beggars and the trash and the wear of the buildings, the cars and trains passing with listless but hungry eyes staring out . . .

. . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, in the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life, at the poshest wedding I have ever been to in my life . . .

. . . dancing like a rock star in the VIP section of a club and being told I was lucky I had fallen sick the first day in India and could not smell anything anymore, because the place was rank the the odor of crowd and humidity . . .

. . . realizing that Bollywood is a a reflection of life here, and not the other way around . . .

. . . staring at my toes in the swimming pool at our hotel as the monsoon rains come sweeping down, crashing toward me in endless, inevitable waves, closing my eyes and still seeing the steamy morning light . . .

. . . feeling an intense hole in the pit of my stomach, because I don't think my life is the same anymore . . .

. . . swishing about in my gold bangles, with mendhi snaking over my palms and fingers and a rich red sari licking its way across my body, I don't think a dress has ever made me feel so lovely . . .

. . . missing the good old US of A, and not being able to wait to get home. The problem is just that after having been to so many places and lived for so long away, I don't know what home is anymore. Is it New York? California? Insead? My heart is in all three, and we'll see how it all shakes out.

There's a plant growing out of the back of one of our kitchen cabinets-- it's a healthy green thing, with waxen leaves springing up in pinnate abundance. I'm going to miss our funny looking chickens, the chunky geese, the waddling ducks and the doves under the eaves when I leave our farmhouse. Life's been hectic as usual, although I took time out to make myself a chinese breakfast of rice porridge and pickled bamboo shoots this morning. A few events of note--

A friend was in a horrible car accident. Fell asleep at the wheel while speeding back to Fontainebleau from Paris and managed to hit another car, flip his car over several times, and slam into the embankment without (miraculously) killing the other driver, any of the highway workers standing nearby, or himself! Unbelievable, but the guy walked out of his car without a scratch. Driving out at 2:30 in the morning to pick him up up where the police had dropped him off, I was so angry at his carelessness. It makes you think-- life is such a fragile thing, why do do we waste it sometimes by being so self-centered and useless? Yet another resolution for the future-- stop useless behavior in self whenever identified.

Went to a wedding shower today for a friend who's getting married over the summer. It was an appropriately girly event, with giggling and well-wishes and gifts of french lingerie for the bride-to-be. So many of the students here are at that age when they've just been married or are about to take the leap. This ain't college anymore, that's for sure. I wonder, if I were in some very remote place with nobody my own age against whom to set my life-clock, would I desire things like dating, sex, companionship, children, at different times? Earlier or later?

It's finals season again, and this one's a bitch. Papers as well as exams to worry about. Doesn't it seem like we're constantly in exam season here at INSEAD? Ugh, am looking to fail at least one of my classes-- have only attended about half of the sessions (I wish I were only exaggerating), and it doesn't look pretty.

This Friday was the Aussie/New Zealand week party, and it was a proper blast to party with the outgoing Septembers one last time. The boys and the music and the dancing podiums blur together, but I remember coming home and dropping my head into my pillow, then not being open even one eye until 4:00 the next afternoon (missed a sadistic 9:00 Saturday morning class, but we all could have predicted that).

Last week I met some exceptional people while preparing the American Week campaign. There are 7 groups vying for only 6 slots, so if American is the one cut out, I'd feel just horrible. What can you do when your president is the most unpopular guy in the world, and you attend an international MBA? I'll fight anyone who claims that there's no such thing as American culture. The US of A is an amazing place to be, and there's no mistaking when you're there. We all got so excited imagining all the awesome events we'd plan, the food, the music, the parties, the games . . . ai, never before in my life have I faced such a wall of unwillingness to believe. I should be grateful that all I have on the line is a recreational week, I suppose, and not my ideology or my global reputation. I'm a NYTimes girl, through and through. Spare me the Fox News, please. Eh, but politics is so depressing.

Speaking of which, it's time to get back to IPA studying. This class is going to kick my ass (and I wish it would get it over with already-- cannot wait until end of term and travelling!).

Ugh. Feeling singularly uninspired and bloated. P3 is vicious and not nearly as fun as P1 or 2 (doesn’t help that the Septembers are all carefree and partying every night in their P5, and that the sun’s started beating down, sapping all my energy and stilling the air). Stayed at school until 4:30am last night/this morning fixing up a final group paper for Innovations class (40 pages long, with no agreement on styling or how to source references). Have cancelled a trip to Milan this weekend to shop for Italian shoes (mmm- yummy) because there’s just too much work and anyway could probably buy another pair of shoes just as well with the money saved on airfare and hotel. So this weekend will be a shopping weekend in gay Paris.

Other bad news—have just heard that the professor (a passionate, large English gent who smells like a combination of dusty mothballs and rancid body odor) for IPA (International Political Analysis) fails students who miss more than three classes. Have missed about six. Ech, I guess I won’t miss class on Monday as previously planned. Had wanted to visit the Indian Embassy in Paris, which (perfectly logically) is only open from 9:30-10:30am. Have I mentioned I will be spending two weeks at the beginning of my summer at a wedding in Bombay, then touring India with about ten other INSEADs? Will be a blast, can’t wait. Also, the plan to go to Singapore campus for P4 and P5 has been amended to just P5, because my travel buddy has (ahem) found love here on the Fontainebleau campus. Ah, well, I had been toying with the idea of staying for another period anyway, with the weather so beautiful and all. Will have to move out of my beloved farm house with the geese and chickens and ducks and doves, but the good news is I’ll be moving into a proper Chateau closer to campus, with a living room of my own.

On the party front, nothing to share—don’t think I’ve been properly sloshed for over a week—absolutely unheard of at INSEAD (and for me). Planning on remedying this situation ASAP, but first, am off home to sleep . . . after an wicked week of working late nights and ordering Pizza Pazza to our cubicle, my sleeve of care feels rather unraveled. Ta!

Bipolar

Oy what a hectic couple of weeks. When I first got to INSEAD somebody joked that they could immediately tell who the new students were, because they were the bright-eyed and smiling ones without rings under their eyes. This was a shockingly true statement, as my drooping eyelids will attest to. Seems like life has been a series of devastating crises and exuberant highs lately, and while this may seem like business as usual to friends from high school and college, I’m honestly not up to it anymore. INSEAD living has destroyed the careful sense of equilibrium I built up with all the “maturing” I did at the most boring job on earth (read: i-banking) for the past couple of years.

Last week started off with losing my car keys on Monday night. Spent half an hour with a helpful but not so hapful student-cum-carthief and succeeded only in denting the frame of my car window. Got a ride home with a friend, and as we turned off our bright lights for an oncoming car, a fox materialized out of nowhere right in front of us. Like an old black and white movie the scene flickered and we were past, barely a bump felt or heard, and horrified, I saw the scared eyes of two or three fuzzy baby foxes peeping out from the grass by the roadside as we sailed by. There was a car on our tail, and I spent the rest of the trip home agonizing about whether to stop, and then agonizing that it was too late and pointless anyway. Then I got home, and found out that the boyfriend was swamped at work and could not come for the week-long vacation as previously planned, that the trip might be cut to 24 hours. When it rains, it pours, so I closed my brain to the static and focused on the paper that was due the next day.

Spent all night on the thing, falling in and out of sleep, and at school the next morning, as I was gloomily polishing off the last section a few hours before the deadline, my screen flickered and told me my computer was going to shut down in 1 minute. Hmm. Not a problem—until it didn’t turn back on again. Was informed by the IT office that my computer had been infected by a virus (surprising, they said, everyone’s had this one already. You must not bring your computer in very often- oh, c'est humoureux, non?), there was nothing they could recover, and my hard drive was officially 0 megabytes. It’s official, there is a God, and he’s punishing me for not believing in him.

The teacher gives me an extension, for which I’m grateful, but the aggravation meter is still, as you may imagine, quite high. That evening, I find my keys on the main help desk, and discover that the boyfriend can come for a little longer than expected—about 48 hours. So things are looking, if not up, at least not deathly. That night, after an exhausting negotiation assignment with two shifty and unpleasant counterparties, I have the dubious pleasure of being the last person on campus at 3:45am while I finish a paper (another one), and take the long drive home. No foxes this time (or on the way to school for that matter—hopefully it didn’t go under the wheels and was not seriously injured?).

The next day, I rewrite the first paper in a foul mood, but as soon as I hit the send button, my life has miraculously improved. The evening is spent drowned in tequila shots and vodka tonics at the “playboy mansion” party, and I receive multiple mysterious bruises on my shins and knees—am told later that this must be from dirty dancing on the marble tabletop. The next night is effectively Friday, since there are no scheduled classes due to private equity day (bleh). Attend a “temptation island” themed party wearing a bathing suit and a sarong—wonderfully versatile article of clothing, the sarong is—as conservative or revealing as you like, depending on how you tie it. The party started quite early and ended quite late, and overall was an absolute blast—everybody dressed all in white, quick dips into the river (I didn’t go in beyond my stomach, was too cold), and lots and lots of hot dogs (have I mentioned that I love hot dogs?). As the night wore on, the sarong wore off.

Friday was spent sleeping and recuperating, fixing the hem on my dress for the summer ball, waiting for evening to come so that I could go to sleep so that I could pick up the boyfriend early in the morning. But that would be too idyllic, wouldn’t it? I get a phone call at midnight, and apparently the boy has missed his flight, next flight out is oversold, who knows if he’ll get here? Heart attack? No. Ominous stillness buzzing in the back of my head? Quite.

But you’ve got to give the guy points for effort. He books another flight with British Airways, hops over to Heathrow, and then takes the Eurostar to Paris by 3:00pm the next day. His luggage didn’t have time to be transferred, so his tuxedo is still in Newark. We rush around Paris and find a tuxedo rental place that just happened to have something available in his size. We sit down for an appetizer of oysters in the spring sunlight before we train it back home.

And oh dear, but summerball was wonderful. Overcrowded and underfooded, but the castle and the dresses and the fireworks! I couldn’t complain. I had my honey and I had my friends, and my dress was sparkly—I was completely happy all night, even if at 5:30 my feet were in rebellion.

But then, but then, all good things come to an end. Sunday flew by, and today it’s Monday again. Another round of classes and catch-up, of papers and scheduling. No warm body in my bed, no visit to look forward to. Sigh. But hey, it’s not so bad. After a few rather low-key Monday night dinners, we’ve decided to turn it up a notch, so tonight’s affair should be exciting. The last period before summer break seems to be drawing to a close rather quickly, and I still honestly have no idea what’s going on in any of my classes (can kiss goodbye to dean’s list if I don’t start attending 8:30 classes soon, and as one of two honorary females on the list, I feel a certain estrogenous oblige to continue the fluke).

That’s the report this semaine. Time to go buy wine again-- is it summer yet?

Sweet smell of formals

Am supposed to be writing one of the two reports I have due tomorrow, but am in no mood to do work. For one thing, my toes are cold—the sun’s still out, but the temperature has dipped mysteriously, starting yesterday.

Last Friday was Cabaret, our little INSEAD song and dance and skit extravaganza—shockingly enough, it went off beautifully, in spite of most acts not having ever had a complete run through until right before the show (in the case of our act, not until we were actually on stage). Nonetheless, a terrific time was had by all, and many acts were brilliant. The ones that weren’t so brilliant . . . well, we easily condone bad acting when it’s all in the family. I was in charge of intermission and distributing pizzas to 400 hungry MBAs in 15 minutes. Used the concepts I learned in POM (Process and Operations Management) to increase throughput, combined with plenty of old fashioned yelling and scolding. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I’ve gotten here, it is that MBAs are a deeply selfish bunch. These are confident individuals who are well-convinced of their own value, who do not appreciate being reminded that there are hungry people behind them and could they please take just one piece and make their friends get in line themselves? MBA nature used to distress me, but I’ve realized that it’s not so bad once you’ve incorporated this assumption into your operating plan.

After Cabaret we all headed off to Chateau Bellefontaine for the Latin American week party—so much fun! After my mishap of last week, it was a welcome relief to finally step into the fog-hazy crowd and order my vodka tonic, feeling the bass beat thrum through my fingertips. Oh, did we dance! Until about 5:40am, when they turned on the lights and kicked us out. Heard there was an afterparty at someone’s house, but call me a party pooper, I thought it was high time for bed.

Next afternoon, woke up at a friend’s house, and we three girls all spontaneously developed an intense craving for (what else?) oysters! A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do—we booked it to Paris to Le Bar à Huitres, and shared a planche of 36 jewels of the sea . . . that first sweetly briny slurp? Pure pure heaven. Like I said, I could eat oysters for every meal for the rest of my life. What food what you choose?

Afterwards we watched Troy (or Troie, as they call it here)—not the best movie, but considering my longtime love affair with the Homeric stories, I was actually not offended by the liberties they took with the plot. I feel like the director did his best to maintain the heroic and deeply tragic themes. Too bad you can’t fit seventeen years of adventure into three hours without making the whole thing unbelievable and choppy.

Ech, but that brings me back to today. ‘Tis a party week, and the boyfriend arrives on Friday for the summer ball this weekend! You can see how this kills all motivation to do work. All I can do is obsess about my outfit (ah, in typical girly fashion). What does one wear to a playboy party besides the ears? And a temptation island party? And then most of all, to the summer ball? Sweet agony, the flutter of chiffon and the glitter of beading strewn all over my bed, hostages of my indecision!

Bad Luck Biddies

Over drinks in town tonight I found out the definition of a dirty sanchez. Plus a bean flicker. Plus teabagging. Ah the lovely sharing of international knowledge that goes on in this institution of higher learning(although I admit, I already knew about teabagging was, I suppose my friends have always been dirty). A leaves tomorrow, hopefully on time for her flight (I admit, I do not have the best track record of getting friends to the airport on time. I’m 2 for 2 in terms of making my guests miss their flights).

However, perhaps it is high time that she left, because since she's arrived we've had misfortune after misfortune. We started off with that silly car accident on Thursday. Then, on Saturday (incidentally, my twenty-fifth birthday), we walked around Paris looking for something to wear to the big Montmelian Las Vegas-themed party that night. Our feet hurt from our heels (which we’d worn out the previous evening), and it got so bad that eventually, we were forced to buy replacements. I bought a pair of clear plastic sandals with pink sequins on the thong part, and A bought a pair of lavender and purple puma flipflops with soft fabric straps. Our footaches thus assuaged, we continued our trek around Paris to the Pompidou, where we checked out the Joan Miró exhibit. I’m probably just not cultured enough to appreciate modern art, but it started to bore me stiff half way through, and I thought that most of his scribblings were silly. A, being the liberal artsy graphic design student that she is, pointed out that his backgrounds were shaded beautifully, all hazy and soft—I agree, but that’s still not a reason to put stick figures on display. We entertained ourselves by having 1-minute races around the rooms to compare favorites. After this, footsore and tired and sticky, we rushed to Gare de Lyon, only to miss the train home by one minute. We then could not figure out the ticket machines (we were at the wrong billeteries- remember that the local ones are blue, the others are yellow), and so missed the train again fifteen minutes later. Then, finally, half an hour after that, we gratefully rushed onto the 18:56 train. Hm, I thought, this train is so much nicer than the usual local rail! We settled in, and happily called my friends to let them know I’d be back in town in time for my birthday dinner, could they please pick me up. The train edged gently out of the the station, and we had just started to make ourselves comfortable when I caught something funny over the intercom, something about “Lyon . . .”

Yes, yes, you are not hearing it wrong, and neither was I. I was on the TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse) for Lyon, about 600 kilometers south of my intended destination. Imagine the dismay of all involved (me, A., my friends who were coming to dinner for my birthday, the conductor who had to deal with these two distraught, incomprehensible babbling girls) when we learned that yes, I was headed on the high speed train to Lyon; no, there were no more trains back that night; no, there was no feasible train to get me back in the vicinity before the next morning. We rapidly cycled through the various stages of grief—denial, dismay, bargaining, anger, and finally acceptance. None of this was easy as we found ourselves trudging from the gare at Lyon-Perrache to the Grand Victoria Hotel—I’ll attach a photo when I figure out how. It was priceless—the seediest thing you can imagine, but it was right by the train station, and by God we weren’t going to miss another train the next morning! With the European version of American Idol coming from the little TV in the corner, and A and me lounging about on the somewhat suspicious sheets— cracking pistachio nuts and chewing through dried dates from the convenience store—I bemoaned my fate on the precious bit of phone battery we had left, and declared this the WORST BIRTHDAY EVER.

I'm still getting over it, although everyone I tell thinks that this was hilarious.

Oh right. There was the tres successful Monday night dinner which took A and me the entire day to prepare—accomplished only by forgoing two classes (moi) and seeing the Louvre (elle). The menu: asparagus, roasted red pepper, and goat cheese salad; grilled duck brochettes in orange glaze; and rum-soaked prune flan. The flavors were all agreed together fantastically, and the portions, French. A miscalculation of the belly capacity of strapping young men-- one of the first times there really was an undersupply of food. Ehhhh, when in France…

And there’s so much left to do! A Barbeque tomorrow, Salsa-Merengue contest this Thursday, Cabaret and the Latin-American party this Friday . . . and three or four assignments, too! Oy vey oy vey oy vey. Time to go to sleep so I can start my denial phase of this week’s work. Buona notte!

Crash-happy

P3 is madness. I’ve been taken from my one group of 6 for five classes to juggling four groups of 6 to 8 for six classes. There is no time to do anything except meet, plan to meet, and plan to plan to meet, since there are multiple projects, all group based, for each class rushing at us at 100mph. On top of this, place the parties, dinners, and general “we deserve to chill out” mood of beginning of term, and you have me disastrously behind, worried about I don’t know what, because I know I’m missing something, but I can’t be bothered to decipher my mess of a schedule.

Next week is Cabaret, a big student-run variety show, which I’m helping to organize. Rehearsals have got me going nuts, plus one of my best friends is in town from NY, plus there are huge parties this Friday and Saturday . . . plus the sun has finally peeked out today after a week of depressing rain—how’s a girl supposed to get anything done around here?

Proof of the fact that I’m distracted? Witness my poor little Peugeot 206, which has a brand new dent in its (now not so) shiny hood. It was my fault, really, I admit it. I was tailgating a station wagon along a windy road by the Seine, rushing to my Negotiation class (taught by this amazing guy who won’t let you in if you’re two minutes late). There are these areas where the road narrows to one lane, even though there is two-way traffic (I think it’s the French way of saying, “drive slower,” but this, like all other French road laws, makes no rational sense to anyone who is not French). On one of these areas where we had right of way, I didn’t expect the station wagon to come to a screeching halt all of a sudden (didn’t see the car that was illegally zooming toward it, since the station wagon was so large). What happens? These two cars stop, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, but I crash ignominiously into the back of said station wagon. EURGH. Fortunately for all involved, nothing was even scratched except my poor little car hood (properly crunched). As I have complete, no-questions-asked coverage, I tried to explain in very poor French to Peneloppe, the lady who caused the accident, that it was okay, I didn’t want to report, could I please just go because I was very late to class?

And the kicker—I was 15 minutes late, burst into the classroom, to his disapproving glower I spurted, “I’m sorry, but I had a car accident!” The response? “That is neither a birth certificate, death certificate, or marriage certificate.” Ah, cantankerous professors, you’ve gotta love them. So I left with my face burning. Fortunately, I was able to make it to the next class by skipping another elective.

And that’s the report from Fontainebleau, folks. Will I ever achieve responsible maturity? Don’t think I can muster it by tomorrow, which is my 25th birthday. Imagine that! A quarter century!

ugh, just lost extremely long rant due to some mysterious computer error. Now you'll never know. Am going home

Holiday

Guess who’s sitting nekked at her kitchen table with the sun dappling in across the yellow tablecloth? I’m happy as a clam, surrounded by the gurgling washing machine and the rumbling dryer on one side while the hot water heater chortles and a pot of rice porridge bubbles on the other. Today is an unexpected holiday (serves me right for not checking before I planned my vacation—no school today, apparently!) I suppose I ought to be kicking myself, because I could have spent a whole extra day in London, but seeing as how the boyfriend probably couldn’t have gotten an extra day off of his silly Wall Street job anyway, combined with the fact that I’m stocked up on a few good books, plus the unspeakably gorgeous weather here . . . I can’t complain ;). London was as everyone told me it would be—quirky, expensive, rainy and cold. I liked walking around Notting Hill—reminded me a bit of San Francisco. The number of cool shoe shops was unbelievable, and even riding the bus was a nifty touristy experience. We were both thrown off by napping the first day, though (him because of the time difference, me because of not having gotten any sleep), and never could adjust our internal clocks properly. We slept clear though dinner on Saturday and didn’t wake up until 2:00am! Thank goodness for mini-bars and room service.

And tomorrow, the start of a new period, with new elective classes, with scattered sections, without about 30 classmates who will be in Singapore. Coming back on the Eurostar I felt nothing so much as a petulant nostalgia. INSEAD is going by so quickly, with each two-month period just long enough to get a couple mouthfuls of partying and playing and possibilities before we suddenly realize that it’s time to cram for finals again. As much fun as I know I will have, it makes me tired to think of the rinse repeat for the third time. Thank goodness for this day of rest, huh? Mmm . . . am done with my 2:00pm breakfast now, and have in my mouth a “honey flavour pine ‘Berlingots’”candy drop from Fauchon. It goes well with Tetley’s Earl Grey Tea. Today is just clear too beautiful to be true. All the trees in the yard are a riot of pink apple blossoms, and the ducks and geese and chickens are cackling quacking cockadoodling away like there’s no tomorrow. Little cream colored butterflies flit across the fields outside my window, and my hammock calls . . . Who knows if I’ll make to the river today? Perhaps I’ll just sit here and sketch the chickens. The books I have to choose from: Life of Pi, Sophie’s World, Foucault’s Pendulum. Plus have to do about three more loads of laundry (have already done two). If I were really gung-ho, I’d go to school and pick up my P3 coursepack and do the readings, but that would require me to remember that I’m doing an MBA. Maybe tomorrow, today’s for living like I own a beautiful house in the French countryside. Goodbye, and I wish you weather as nice as mine!

Out of sight, out of . . .

No more papers, no more books . . . am in London! Forgot to pack socks, smushing around in my sneakers right now. Will maybe run to Gap and pick up a pair. Ah, but it feels good to be on vacation, no matter how short. Last weekend was absolutely gorgeous, but it seems like ages ago now. The sun over the French countryside just sang down from perfect blue skies, and even if six final exams were hanging over my head, I couldn't help but run out for picnic lunches :). Since all my housemates are Septembers, my house was completely empty the whole week (their break starts earlier than ours), so I packed my bags and slept over at one of the Chateaux where a bunch of friends live. Not bad, having Versailles-like grounds at your door.

Finals were all right. Once again, I'm pretty sure accounting will be my worst grade, and it was a fairly awful way to enter exams. The strategy final was about some ice cream manufacturer in Moscow, and my suggestions of making the manufacturing plant into a tourist attraction and sponsoring winter ice-cream eating contests were, to say the least, not echoed by my classmates when we compared notes after the exam. Ah, well, I'm cursed with the inability to think inside the box (trust me, this is not the boon it immediately sounds). POM exam was straightforward, if long, and I'm afraid the curve will be fairly rough on all of us. Finance was rather rough- there were a few moments when I had no idea how to even start, but then I hunkered down, and at least wrote something for each problem. The marketing exam was relaxed for everyone, since it was on the last day and the worst of the quantitative tests were over. The OB exam went much better than expected, considering the volatile dynamics of my group, and our strategy of having just two writers with two diagram helpers each made for a much more coherent paper than last term's melange of a disaster.

Ah, but now it's hard to even remember what finals were like . . . London is true to form, with dreary drippy weather, cheerful cozy service at our boutique hotel in Little Venice, and funny accents galore. Watching people in the tube, I think the English make for much better people-watching than do New Yorkers. In New York, everyone, believing he/she is constantly observed, is busy pretending that nobody else exists. Here, most people seem to have no awareness that they might be watched. The number of funny grimaces, ticks, and odd gaping looks is amazing. Everyone is a Mr.Bean.

I have to tell you all about staying up all night on Thursday after the last final, and getting soaked in Paris and dirty dancing at Doobie's and having my top fall apart and saying a very, very sad farewell to those going to Singapore for P3, and taking the Eurostar and the lovely heated towel rack at my hotel . . . but who knows when credit on this machine runs out, so for now, I'm off . . . cheerio!

Ah, study season. Sleepy from not getting home until 2:30 last night from a friend's house, where we BS'd about having, not having, the existence of God, and of course, fashion trends. On the side, we also ate McDonald's and did review problems for POM (Process and Operations Management). Felt strange to walk into a French McDonald's. Could have something to do with the fact that while everyone else was French and wearing dark colors- jeans and hoodies- I came in on turquoise blue kitten heels with shiny blue pebbles across the toes and a bright white and multicolor-flowered sundress with spaghetti straps and a pouffy full skirt. Eh, at least I didn't look typically Asian, right? The little girl in front of me pointed out my shoes to her maman and told me my shoes were "tres jolie."

Things have been relatively quiet here for the past few days - every night the cubicles are crowded with groups shedding papers and pizza boxes. It's actually a rather energizing time to be at school, if you're masochistic like me and enjoy socializing in the midst of studying. Tonight is club night at - don't ask- bizon again. The difference is that all of INSEAD's scheduled to be there since the Septembers have just reached their end of term, so this should be interesting. Attire is over-the-top cheesy clubgear. It'll be one of the last times I get to party with the Januaries who are going to Singapore for P3, since I'll be going in P4 and P5, and we'll completely miss each other in the process, except possibly for graduation ceremony. A few of my favorite people are leaving already, so strange, that. Oh well, it's my belief that if you like somebody enough to keep in touch, you will. If you don't, then you didn't deserve to anyway.

Tummy's starting to growl. Can't handle any more problems about the logistics of queueing, particularly since my mind keeps drifting off and dreaming about vacation in London. Must go in search of food before meeting group for practice OB exam-- oof, what a mess that'll be!

Toxic

Oy vey, it's been awhile, eh? What a week! Seems like forever since last weekend, which, although the weather was frigid and the fuel gave out, was as idyllic I'd hoped-- not hard given the company ;) Hosted a little board-game brunch for some Januaries-- nothing like Cranium to bring out the competitive streak in a bunch of international MBAs-- at one point, an all-play round, I found myself unable to communicate "missionary" through charades of a religious worker, so opted to act out the adjective form instead. A distinctly amusing INSEAD twist on the game-- we had the game cards read in various accents available around the table, which consisted of Bombay, American, French, Aussie, Egyptian, Hong Kong, and Thai.

Then, short visit from beau over, I went back to the weekly grind. Can't believe that finals are just a week away-- P2 is definitely more relaxed than P1. Could have a lot to do with the weather, which is off and on misty or nice, smelling of April. Also most people realize that they're not going to flunk out and are comfortable with where they stand. It was a brutal week, and went from great to worse to the low point of INSEAD so far. In order- Monday dinner typical, Tuesday dancing small attendance, Wednesday dinner boring, Thursday dinner shockingly drunk, Friday dinner intellectual debates while in detox.

Monday night heralded a week of deadlines pushed out of mind by peer pressure to socialize. Housemates playing guitar and singing until the wee hours as usual, but them without the case and paper I had due the next day. Sigh, what's a girl to do? She can't let her housemates call her a nerd, can she? So she stays up until the last guest leaves, and then she acquiesces to learning an Argentinian four step dance, and then she falls asleep on the couch and drags herself up four hours later to groggily BS about activity based costing.

Tuesday's dance class was sparsely attended, and I discovered that hustle doesn't mean the same thing in Europe as it does in the States. My goodness- instead of one-two-three-and, they dance and-one-two-three! Totally different, shockingly difficult to compromise. Had chinese takeout in a cubicle with a couple of other study-geeks. They forgot the rice, so it was a tasty but exceedingly salty dinner.

Wednesday's dinner was at a very traditional INSEAD demesne, which they call a chateau but doesn't look like one to me-- beautiful rooms, though (private hot tub! How's that for a come-on line?). The food was good, but dinner conversation was somehow . . . lacking. I don't know why. Too big a room? Too long a table? Too many existing continuous hangovers? It seemed like conversation for the sake of conversation, not any real involved discussion with friendship-building potential. At any rate, I left early, at 1:00am, and had a much better time chatting on the phone instead.

Thursday working intensely at school on a group paper due the next day. Ai, it's difficult to get along with the same group in this environment for so long. Although I still have enormous respect for some of my group members, I am very, very much looking forward to not having to deal with all of them after P2. It's a bit polarizing-- The ones I immediately took to are not the ones who now hold my abiding respect. In general, I feel no more awe at anyone’s abilities, but plenty more exasperation with certain parties’ distinct lack thereof. Anywho, left school at 9:45 to come late to a dinner party, and what a dinner party it was! Something about the right mix of people remaining at a certain point, I guess. Four boys, three girls, and drinking games. Ech . . . all I can say is, whatever it was they kept in bottles labled “jus de pamplemousse” was no grapefruit juice! We drank steadily, heavily, and raucously in shot after shot until all my senses blurred and I couldn’t even sit up straight. Cocktail, wine, vodka, whisky, absinthe, you name it. I think at 5:00 in the morning, we all reached some sort of unspoken agreement, and spontaneously ambled drunkenly toward the door. I slept over at E’s, since her house was near school and empty.

Friday, woke up at 9:00 still completely plastered, and walked the block to school feeling dizzy and disoriented by the sunlight. Drank coffee, ate a croissant, printed out group paper and attempted to read it, but the damn thing kept shifting and forcing me to see double. Felt alcohol still oozing out of every pore in my body, but nobody else seemed to notice (in fact, I guess I look better than usual when completely hung over and feeling like shit, because I got quite a lot of compliments that day). Sat through a marketing class with a guest lecturer from P&G Europe. At a certain point, the discussion about their new product launch of a super-upscale men’s cologne faded into the background, and a looming sense of urgency to go somewhere safe took over me. It’s that rare moment when you realize that you will imminently realize that you will imminently vomit. You’re not sure why at all, but something about the idea of a private bathroom stall sounds like the best place in the world. By the time I had bobbled half my unsteady way to the bathroom, I’d come to the second realization, and just hoped to God that I could make it down the stairs in time not to lose it in public. Thankfully for all involved, I did, only just. I believe I’ll never drink coffee again, it tastes so absolutely foul coming back up. It took me awhile to collect myself enough to stand up again—about half an hour, in fact. Unfortunately, it was a very bad idea, and I ended up right back on the floor, curled up in fetal position atop my coat, cheek pressing against one of the buttons and the white curve of the toilet’s underbelly gleaming at me beyond my knees. Foul, absolutely foul. I lay there semi-sleeping, hearing sounds of people coming in and out of the other stall while I shivered, sweated and and cursed, almost crying with total ignominy of it all. The lowest point of INSEAD? By miles. Eventually, I received a call for lunch, and cleaned myself up enough to wobble out. Again, compliments on the hair, the outfit. Either I’m insane or nobody here has a clue of how to tell when somebody’s near to death. Spent lunch with my cheek on the table (some people actually came over to inquire, assuming I was just tired) and half-participating in the conversation, half having wild daydreams of ripping out my liver to put myself out of my misery. Attended Finance, and the best thing I can say about it was that I didn’t puke on the teacher. Spent the rest of Friday afternoon sleeping on the lawn, then finally caught a ride to get my car and drove home. Collapsed into the shower for a blissful hour, looked longingly at my sheets, and then, fingers still slightly shaking, drove out to a house dinner with my groupmates. Drank water and ate sparingly, but got drawn into a surprisingly satisfying conversation that spanned history, politics and sociology. Made it home by 2:00, and fell into a shallow sleep full lurid dreams of toxic monsters.

Ah, but feeling much better now, thank you very much. Have decided to abstain from alcohol for the next two weeks, at least until the end of finals on April 29. Detox is as good for the soul as for the body, and I think both of mine need a hiatus. Today’s plan is to sit here and laze with the cats, listening to cheesy country music while I start some Finance and Operations review. There’s a dinner tonight and a barbeque tomorrow, but I’ll only stay if they’re low-key. Read- no more debauchery for my poor tentative liver!

Golden apples by the roadside

Only two more days until the boyfriend comes to visit! Have been smiling to myself while getting ready for bed for days now, just giddy with anticipation—how girly is that? Not exactly the picture of a strong independent woman getting her MBA, is it? Ah, whatever, to thine own self be true, right? And it appears that mine own self is just a saccharine infatuated cheeseball.

But on notes of more interest to normal people: Spent Saturday night watching a verifiably awful Indian Bollywood production with some Indian friends and a few other Bollywood neophytes. The plot went something like this—she loves him for bringing love back into her dysfunctional family life, and he loves her, but he’s dying of a heart disease that she doesn’t know about, so he pretends to not love her, and instead tries to set her up with her best friend, who ends up also falling in love with her, but then they all find out about the heart disease and his imminent death, and so of course dramatic music swells, and all characters spontaneously break out in Indian song and dance. I had to literally hide my head sometimes because I couldn’t handle the cheesiness of it all. A novel experience, except that it lasted three hours—oof!

Sunday was absolutely lovely—went in the morning to a friend’s house for French brunch, and stuffed myself silly on the best bread in Paris (he’s a bread expert) and confiture des figues and potato pancake and honey and tea. We stood in the sunshine and observed the red and black beetles running around like mad, in pairs with their backsides connected, one running forward while the other was forced to run backward—Spring, what else can cause this madness?

In the afternoon I took the train into Paris by myself to the Louvre, which is free on the first Sunday of each month. I wandered, notebook in hand, to the classical French sculpture garden, sat myself before La Toilette d’Atalanta by James Pradier, and got to know my compressed charcoal set. Had a wonderful 1.5 hours studying light and shadow—what I wouldn’t give to be able to carve marble! At some point a girl asked me if she could take my picture—probably thought I was some sort of French art student. Was tapped on the shoulder by a curator 15 minutes before closing, so drizzled down a few highlights with the white chalk, closed my notebook, and off I went.

The weather was blustery but fine, so I walked the streets from the 1st to the 9th arrondissement, hands in pockets, sneakers springy against the pavement. Reminded me of New York, the packed avenues next to the neat little alleys, and the ubiquitous construction. Was struck by a sudden but intense craving, so popped into a brasserie after awhile and ordered une demi-douzaine des huitres speciales . . . my favorite oysters in the world. I wonder what “speciales” translates to? I’ve read a little bit on oysters, and I’ve never heard of a “special” oyster. Will have to do more research. After that, wandered around a bit more, then took an evening train back home.

On the train, while touching up my drawing of Atalanta, was once again requested for a photo (this time of just the picture) by a nice fellow sitting nearby. Said he’d love to use it (I assume for a website or something, couldn’t understand his very fast French that well), and I said no problem. Came home to a warm kitchen and spicy Indian dinner on the stove—it’s so wonderful to have roommates finally! Ended an idyllic day with an idyllic evening chatting for hours at the kitchen table over a bottle of wine. Called a friend to wish her happy birthday, and fell asleep smiling.

My INSEAD week so far, though, has been far from relaxed. Allergies are really catching up with me, and I spend much of my day blowing my nose. A slew of 8:30 class starts have been absolutely murderous—I feel so useless, like a stone dipped in thick egg batter. Monday dinner went far too late (as usual), dragging out over intense trance music, limoncello shots and wild discussions of business plans. Yesterday spent 3 hours writing a cover letter for a very cool-sounding summer internship for which I’m not really qualified (my first job application at INSEAD!), after which I ran to Salsa lessons. Taught some basics and connection techniques, then got in there a nice cha-cha at the end, just for fun—new partner, amazing guy, far better dancer than I am. At night was supposed to go to a house party with a Beach theme, and even had my bikini at the ready, but was just so exhausted, sniffly and sick after an unexpectedly long dinner (French service, you know how it goes) that I called it an evening, leaving school by 1:00am.

Woke up this morning at 7:15 feeling absolutely awful, and decided it was time for a mini-vacation. Turned off alarm, went back to bed, and blissfully fell back into my pillow until the start of my second class. Spent second class in a leisurely shower, then cooking myself a little Chinese rice porridge with the fixin’s. Went to Finance finally at noon feeling, if not refreshed, at least not quite as fatigued. Ah, and that brings me to now, trying to avoid the writing of my OB essay about the importance of shareholder value as a decision driver for the modern corporation, blah blah blah, until dinner time. Ai yai, back to the grind.

No, where are you really from?

Ah, a Saturday off. Last night was the Africa party, held at a club in Fontainebleau. House was packed, and drums reverberrating all evening. I was so exhausted from my week that I once again slept through dinner (a friend who was also witness to last week's tardiness joked that he hoped never to go on a date with me, because it would just be asking to be stood up). Am starting to feel more and more at home with the group of people I know here. Witness-- at some point in the evening, an extremely drunk guy from the Exec Ed program grabbed me by the middle and started pushing his hips toward mine. Seeing the look of aghast discomfort on my face, two (larger) guy friends immediately came to the rescue, maneuvering me into a safer circle and sending glowering looks at the trespasser. Ah, but it's good to have friends.

Which brings me to the topic of come-on dynamics here. I feel that in the States, men will often come up with the line, "hey, where are you from?" My immediate response is generally (irrelevant of the ethnicity of the person querying) an immediate freezing of the neck, and an icy cold, conversation stopping, "California." Most boys who (very mistakenly) think they are being cute continue pushing, with "no, where are you from originally?" Yes, it's true, I look Chinese, I have black hair and slanted eyes, and maybe I was even born in Shanghai, but if I tell you I'm from California and I speak accentless English, why don't you believe me? That's the hackles-raised, hostile response I usually give in the States. Here at INSEAD, it's a completely different story. People are from all corners of the globe. You have ethnic everythings from everywhere, and it's impossible to tell from look or accent alone. There are people with Chinese faces and British accents who hold Spanish passports. I have no problem with being asked my background, and never find it difficult to delve into the complexities, and am never disbelieved when I say, "I'm American."

I thought this was just because I wasn't in the States anymore, but after last night, I've decided that the reason I've always reacted so negatively in the past must have been due to the unconscious "creep" cues received from the queries. Last night, not one, but two men I'd never met used the line on me, and pushed me for my "ancestry," as if that mattered at all, or was an interesting point of conversation. The fact that I could see them resorting to this line of questioning as some sort of way of flirting with me was just purely unpalatable. There was no innocent curiosity at all, and all I could feel was the calculations going on behind their eyes--"can I get this girl to flirt back by pretending to be interested in her culture?" "she's Chinese, is she docile in bed?"

Ugh. My advice to men-- save it. If you're honestly fascinated by the culture, go study the culture. If you're just fascinated by the women, buy yourself a porn subscription and don't bother with the bar scene until you can grow up a little. Women are not stupid, and they can tell a stupid anonymous come-on line from real curiosity. Speaking for myself, I consider myself an individual, and prefer to be treated as such. I have no desire to be sized up based on my ethnicity alone. We've been doing all sorts of cultural awareness exercises in our classes, and it's been great. What's wonderful about INSEAD people, I think, is that they realize the importance of culture as a background for understanding, but just as importantly they realize the importance of the unique individual when it comes to really doing business.

Craving Oysters

Eh, in kind of a dour mood, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve been doing too much finance? Perhaps because the alcohol from last night is getting to me? Perhaps because I’m just feeling kind of antisocial, like there are lots of people here that I know by face, that I know well enough to stop and talk to, but still few that I can just plop down next to and never feel like I’m overstaying my welcome. Am not not NOT a politician, never will learn to be satisfied by casual encounters and knowing lots of names (on top of which, I have a poor head for names).

Anywho, this weekend was actually rather nice. Went out and had a wonderful evening Thursday with just a couple of friends. Nearly fell out my window after coming home because I oh-so-impetuously decided to try and crane my neck out and stargaze. Only the safety bar kept me from hurtling out onto the courtyard and squashing the sleeping chickens. Was once again totally exhausted on Friday, and slept right through dinner, but drove out again to meet a bunch of friends for an evening at Bezon. Ugh, the joys of provincial clubbing. Strange, seedy place that only becomes palatable in a group of 8 or more.

Saturday was beautiful and light, so I took the train into Paris with my drawing pencils in tow. Didn’t get much of a chance to use them, though, because I met up with a friend who wanted nothing of my nerdy ways. Instead spent the afternoon traipsing about upscale shops and trying on French lingerie (a combination of “market research” for an idea of his and personal intrigue, of course). Had a dinner of oysters in some fancy brasserie . . . . ummm. I think if I had to eat just one food for the rest of my life, it would be oysters. I’m salivating just thinking about them.

Sunday was, of course, the slumber party. Thirteen girls clustered on the floor in my living room, flipping through magazines and discussing dresses, jewelry, and boys. You know, the important things. Contrary to popular belief, we did not then strip down to our underwear and start a pillowfight. I will say, though, that there was quite a bit of giggling once a rousing game of “I never” got started. At some point we all realized that “we’re not in college anymore, honey.” Beyond that, my lips are sealed.

What with the time change in Europe, though, 8:30 classes on Monday were brutal. I was so tired I think I actually hurt my arm while in the process of catching myself falling out of my chair. Went home groggy, and slept until 6:30, when I had to get up and start prepping for the dinner party. Ah, to wake up freshfaced and alert, only to drown it immediately in endless glasses of punch!

Honestly, it’s unbelievable how strange this kind of lifestyle is. The ups of intense drunken socializing and downs of deeply quiet country living really wreck any sense of stability that you have, and in between I often find myself yearning for the simplicity of just sitting in my own little apartment in Chelsea with my cat cuddled on my stomach and a boyfriend I can see whenever I want. I know I’m being a spoiled little brat. Nyeh nyeh. But loneliness creeps its cold little head often, and I think I’m feeling it now. Tonight would be a good night for some chicken soup, maybe. Ugh, you ever want to just slap yourself for being so damned needy and pathetic? Am going to go and watch the drum circle (it’s Africa week) to shake myself out of this.

Sleepy

Oy vey, so sleepy right now. Live too far away to want to zip home for a nap, so instead whittling away precious sleep time by hanging about at school, not getting any work done. Too many margaritas last night, too little water this morning. Class was slow torture. Had to get my picture taken for the CV book today—looked an absolute fright. Ech. This week is crawling by, tomorrow can’t come soon enough. Seems suddenly like we have three lectures a day, each more tedious than the next. Spring is flirting with us, playing peekaboo behind the rainclouds and the misty mornings. Don’t know if I can drag myself out for drinks tonight, but then again, staying at home in an empty house just leaves me depressed. Saturday may be just a quiet day, who knows? No plans in advance. Sunday, though, I’m excited. Am hosting a slumber party for all the girls in my section (16 girls, an unheard of phenomenon here at INSEAD). Potluck dinner, sleeping bags, girly gossip, Cosmo magazines, and of course, Sex & the City. No boys allowed. On another note, have decided to spend the P2-P3 break in London with the boyfriend, am very excited. As many boys as there are here, it’s just not the same when the boy is so far away. I feel sometimes like a person dying of thirst while surrounded by bottles of alcohol—you know that there are other options available, but you know also that really, only water will do. Eh, enough of this romanticizing. April will be here soon enough.

Bruised and Battered

Oy vey, what a weekend. Ski trip at Val Thorance at a groupmate’s ski house. Image to me, crawling on hands and knees while dragging snow board by foot in front of queue of strangers after ignominiously falling off of T-pole lift. Now imagine this THREE times. I fell at least 100 times, even with the 2-hour private lesson. Can’t move right side of neck or wrists or shoulders, or arse for that matter. What do you think, is this California girl a cold-weather sport person? I would say an emphatic no, but it hurts to do anything emphatically today, so I’ll have to settle for a deadpan one.

Anywho, received my grades for P1 this morning—grade distribution was actually Friday night, but we had to take off for the slopes, so my group had to wait until this morning, with the exception of the cleverest one, who had her best friend pick up her grades and call her afterwards. Did fairly well, above average on most subjects, and won’t have to study like mad this term. In comparison to college, although, in terms of personal standards, there's always that glimmer of ambition . . . I’d like to do a little better next time. Then again, there’s always the tradeoff of socializing and having fun and making friends . . . who am I kidding? I’m going to do what I do, never passing up any social invites, and the grades will be what they will be. Ech, time for class again. No time! And so many thoughts . . . must start keeping notebook. Who knows, if this whole successful businesswoman thing doesn’t work out, I may have to resort to seedy romance novels or cheesy greeting cards to support myself.