This is my first week living in Maryland, in the lovely city of Bethesda. It’s very close to “The District” — and I don’t mean downtown Columbia, Mo. when I say that. In fact, my bus stop is in D.C. As a result, I have walked into D.C. and back into Maryland a few times now. I swear the novelty of crossing a state border on foot will wear off soon. I don’t know why it amuses me so.

Next week, I’ll start orientation for Mizzou’s Washington Program and meet with the reporters I’ll be working with during my semester-long stint at the (Minneapolis) Star Tribune.

More on all that later, a.k.a., when I actually start working.

Random thoughts that have been floating through my mind, behind the cut. These would have made for reasonably coherent blog posts themselves, but I’m lazy.

1) In other news, I recently returned from a fantastic wedding in Alabama. My boyfriend’s cousin got married in Birmingham… and I have certainly never been to a party like that before. I was absolutely amazed by the care and planning that went into that wedding. Plus, there was not only a rehearsal dinner, ceremony and reception, but also this really cool wedding morning brunch with fantastic grits. Other things about the whole celebration that were great, too, but it’s really the grits that stick in my mind.

It never ceases to amaze me how great the people I meet through my boyfriend are. (Including him, of course. Though…can you meet people through themselves?) I realize I’ve only met a ridiculously small percentage of Southerners, but everyone I’ve met has been warm, charming and not at all like Deliverance.

I think the South really needs a good ad campaign. I mean, heck, they have great food, nice weather and good music. Given the impression that I’ve had for most my life — namely, that the South is this monolithically evil place full of backward, racist people — it actually makes me feel good now when someone down there makes a comment generalizing that the North is cold, judgmental and boring. Not that I won’t pretend to be offended. And, truth be told, I’m actually offended if they make fun of Minnesota. I’m very defensive about my home state.

Maybe they’re keeping us away on purpose so they can have all the temperate climates to themselves. Smart.

2) I’m not a huge football fan, but I learned today that both Pete Carroll and Lane Kiffin once lived in my hometown of Bloomington, Minn. Kiffin actually went to my high school.

We Minnesotans don’t normally like to make a fuss or draw attention to ourselves, so, uh, sorry for all the drama, college football. We’re hard-working folk who like to keep to our word and we can normally commit to a job for, er, more than fourteen months. I blame U$C.

3) One of my old castmates (Into the Woods! Freshman year of high school! Yes!) has hit it big with a viral video of sorts and was featured on an NYTimes blog. Check him and his group, the Richter Scales, out here. Though I do have to register my discontent with the line that says  ”the Journal gets all its news from bloggers anyway.”  To address that, I send you here.

I’m just not a good blogger and no part of me wants to catch up the past two weeks. It’s not that I don’t have the commitment to do something every day; I just really don’t like blogging about nothing.

I’m not shutting down the whole blog, just the NaBloPoMo project. When life is interesting again in a month or so, I hope to be a more regular blogger.

Thanks to everyone who took a cursory glance at the blog now and again. I’ll see you soon.

These are things I wish there were words for in English/I wish I knew the words for in English.

• People who believe that technology can fix everything
• Those instances when you think you see someone you know…but aren’t quite sure.
• The waves given in those situations, esp. when you kind of wave and then have to retract it
• Someone who is more than an acquaintance, but not quite a friend
• Essay-writing fatigue
• When two people are having  conversation but are unaware that they’re both talking about completely different things.

To my delight, there is a place for people to make up words for things there ought to be words for. Ladies and gents, I present to you the Addictionary. It’s pretty hilarious and includes definitions for made-up words like “dramadary.”

(That would be a histrionic camel.)

As in, “makes perfect.” I had an extra rehearsal today, so that took up the time I would have been blogging. If you’re in the area and feeling so inclined, however, please feel free to come to Carmina Burana at the Missouri United Methodist Church, this Saturday and Sunday at 7 p.m. Tickets are $20 at the door.

From the Middle English practisen, originally from the Greek praktikē, the feminine of praktikos.

Does that mean the women are more practiced? I think it does.

Acoustic, from the Greek akoustikos, meaning “of hearing.” I love how this word feels when you pronounce it. It starts low and guttural, moves swiftly into a resonant arched soft-palate sort of sound and ends with a tinny, consonant-heavy “tic.” It covers a whole range of sounds, right in one little word about sounds.

I also love acoustic music. It’s not because I’m a luddite (though I kind of am), but because I love listening closely to singers’ voices. The best part of hearing someone sing, particularly in a song he has written, is hearing what syllables get drawn out a little longer, where his voice cracks, and how he phrases his songs. For example, there’s a part in a version I have of “Just Like A Woman” where the way Dylan sings the word “aches” makes me misty every time. I almost feel an actual dull pain in my chest.

I had the distinct pleasure of hearing a friend and classmate of mine sing with two other singer/songwriter types tonight at Top Ten Wines here in Columbia, Mo. Each of them had very different styles and voices and songs, but it was a fairly cohesive concert. It was vaguely reminiscent of the  Three-Headed  Broadway Star, though, of course, each musician sang one song at a time, not only one word.

The guy I know had intellectual, clever songs and I really like his voice. In fact, I  liked his songs the best…and not just because I know him. I have to say, though, his voice is not what I would have expected from hearing his speaking voice. If I had to pick an instrument it is most like, I’d pick something reedy, like an oboe. It’s  lyrical and sharp and mellow all at the same time. A very cool and distinctive voice.

The second guy of the trio was more like an alto saxophone. Or a fiddle. I realize those are very different instruments, but it’s not like you’re coming here for real musical analysis, now is it. Anyway. He hit some nice soulful notes but there was also a little folk/country in there and his notes flowed into each other a lot, like they were bowed, not fingered.

The last guy…I have no clue what instrument he would be. He was kind of a talk-singer. Maybe he’d be a xylophone? I liked the stories in his songs and his stage presence, which was part-emcee, part-comedian. I got kind of a Peter Himmelman off-the-wall sort of vibe off of him.

There was also quite a bit of harmonica — actual harmonica, not metaphorical– goin’ on, which I always appreciate.

Both of these words, though, remind me of my grandfathers, two Hawaii boys who joined up just as soon as they could. Happy Veterans Day, Grandpa Oscar and Grandpa George!

(Honor, by the way is derived from the Latin, well, honor.)

Anything I could say about veterans and their sacrifices would sound trite and inadequate, so I will let Lt. Col. John MaCrae, MD, speak instead:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Spam actually has three definitions in M-W, the trademark, the noun, and the verb.

The noun and verb both take their origin from the 1970’s Monty Python skit, which starts out describing the menu of a restaurant with a rather limited ingredients list and then devolves rather wonderfully into a skit where Vikings  just nonsensically start chanting spam.

Spam the trademark, is of course, the processed meat. It gets its name from…are you ready for this?…Shoulder of Pork and Ham.

It’s actually near and dear to my heart, even if it’s pretty frowned upon by the rest of the world.  Spam draws together the two states closest to my heart: Hawaii and Minnesota. Made in Austin, consumed in Honolulu.

Spam’s popular in Hawaii thanks to U.S. occupation, because they used to give it to GI’s, since the didn’t have fresh meat.  I say “occupation” without judgment, by the way — my parents both grew up in Japan on American bases, hence why we like it so much.   In fact, it’s just like any other meat in Hawaii and it’s served in restaurants and in the local foodstuff, the Spam musubi.

It’s also a staple of our family breakfasts — I probably eat Spam at least once a week. I didn’t even know it was weird for us to eat it until late in elementary school and I’ve been defensive about it ever since. Once, in college, someone (I don’t remember who) told me Hawaiians like Spam because it tastes like human flesh; I summarily took him down. He shouldn’t have messed with a Hawaiian-Minnesotan on the subject of spam.

Actually, he really could have benefited from a trip or two to snopes.com. I bet he was the kind of person who falls for the other kind of spam.

Merriam-Webster’s definition d : a state resulting from a stress; especially : one of bodily or mental tension resulting from factors that tend to alter an existent equilibrium

Now, I’m not sure exactly what my existent equilibrium was, unless you count watching trashy TV and eating candy.
The word stress is derived, not surprisingly, from the word distress, which is itself from the Latin distringere, “to grip with force.” As I wish to do to the necks of some of the people in my life. Not too forcefully, just enough to make an impression. Both kinds of impressions.

An old enemy and friend of mine, more common in my life since I finally have access to cable television.

I’d tell you its etymology, but I’ll do that later.

…

Just kidding. Procrastinate (and, by extension procrastination) is  an old word, from the Latin procrastinatus, derived from pro-, meaning forward and crastinus, of cras, meaning tomorrow. I’m kind of comforted by the thought that even the ancient, dusty and scholarly language of Latin has a word that is pretty close to procrastination. It makes me feel somehow less alone in this world, as if procrastination is an ancient human trait I shouldn’t feel guilty about.

I’ve always been attached to this word.  It’s such a nice, rhythmic, descriptive word isn’t it? Makes you want to dance a reel and get out a fiddle or something. According to Merriam-Webster, its origin is unknown.

To me, it seems to be “frolic” (Dutch in origin, from vro for “happy”) with undertones of  “raucous” (Latin for “hoarse”). Rolls off the tongue rather nicely, sort of onomatopoetic.

It means “to move or behave in a carefree joyous manner,” which everyone should aspire to do at least once a week, don’t you think?