Tag Archives: Friday

No Time to Say Hello–Goodbye!

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Guess what, guys?

No, guess. Just guess. C’mon, humor me.

It’s FRIDAY! The happiest day of the week.

I spent the whole evening eating food. Lots and lots of food. No dessert, sadly, which is unfortunate. I decided to go on a sugar fast right at the beginning of Baking Season and suddenly my dietary choices feel like an episode of Survivor.

After eating a lot of food (a lot a lot of food), I went and introverted for several hours and got ahead–that’s right, ahead–on homework for the weekend.

I’m a little sad that I got so distracted by Mrs. Dalloway (and Angry Birds) that I don’t have time to write this hilariously funny post that occurred to me while I was at the party earlier. Maybe tomorrow.

It’s Friday, folks. Party in your hearts, and have a glorious Saturday.

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Friday Stars

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“There’s a diamond in the stars.”

“Is there, now?”

“Yes. There’s a diamond in the stars. And we need to name it.”

Odd conversations are what make Friday nights Friday nights. A combination of accumulated exhaustion and unvoiced opinions and witticisms bubble to the surface of our brains. The strangest things come out of our mouths between 11 and 12 at night.

Sometimes it’s worth your while to talk about the stars. They are wonderfully beautiful and mysterious things, and two people who look at them will see two separate universes, each involving the other. Some see eyes looking down. Others see diamonds. Others see animals gallivanting across the dark blue heavens. Some see all three. Some see the person with whom they are stargazing gazing right back at them.

Friday nights and stars. The stuff dreams are made of, so it would seem. Or so at least so it seems after a week of holding it in, buckling down, staying alert. On Friday nights, at last, we are finally given license to let go and dream. 

Anytown Fog

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Every Friday morning, I meet up with a good friend for coffee and/or tea at the Undisclosed University coffee house. She’s a budding intellectual and I’m a budding, um, something-or-other who pretends to be intellectual so long as I can keep up with the conversation. Mostly we end up talking about either modern novels or boys. Or both. Simultaneously.

She’s a tea connoisseur. I, by contrast, require coffee to be civil in the morning, so I usually end up getting java while she sips her chai latte or lady grey.

Today was an exception. It was grey and cold and rainy. Normally I fall in love with this kind of weather, but today the weather Cupid misfired and I really just wished the clouds would clear for an hour or so. To console myself, I got a London Fog.

For the longest time, I thought that London Fog was just a brand of umbrellas. Turns out it’s a special way of preparing tea. I know I’m probably repeating information that isn’t new to most of my dear, patient readers, but London Fog involves steeping a teabag of choice in steamed milk with vanilla tossed in. It’s delectable. It felt like comfort in a cup. I felt as though I were thawing from the roof of my mouth to the tips of my numb toes. I felt as though I were doing something truly intellectual, sitting there, drinking tea, yammering about boys discussing modern literary criticism. I half wondered if drinking this marvelous London Fog would cause me to be able to speak with a flawless British accent. Don’t worry, I wasn’t greatly disappointed when this turned out not to be the case.

Typically, it’s not wise to drink one’s calories. After all, if you’re going to consume something, you might as well consume that’s actually, you know, filling. But occasionally the weather intervenes and demands that you drink hot things to warm up. Hence the two cups of coffee, one cup of London Fog, and now one cup of hot chocolate that have made their way down my throat over the course of the day. A fog has settled over this Friday in Anytown, and soon all the exhausted and foggy-headed students will make their way to bed for their long winter’s naps.

Of Chocolate and Dying Carnations

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The only thought in my head at the moment, aside from the thought “hallelujah, it’s Friday” is the thought of the wilted carnations sitting atop the mini-fridge at the foot of my bed. They were a gift from a friend, and they lasted a blessedly long time. Now they’re wilted. I’m tired enough right now that the sight of those blackening carnations makes me sad.

It reminds me of a poem I performed once upon a time. A long, rambling, and lovely poem by the genius Carl Sandburg: “Little Word, Little White Bird.” It’s a poem that attempts to define the undefinable, and it’s too long to reprint in full, but here is a section:

“And are they after beguiling and befoozling us
when they tell us love is a rose, a red red rose,
the mystery of leaves folded over and under
and you can take it to pieces and throw it away
or you can wear it for a soft spot of crimson
in your hair, at your breast,
and you can waltz and tango wearing your sweet crimson rose
and take it home and lay it on a window sill and see it
until one day you’re not careful
and it crackles into dust in your hand
and the wind whisks it whither you know not,
whither you care not,
for it is just one more flame of a rose
that came with its red blush and crimson bloom
and did the best it could with what it had
and nobody wins, nobody loses,
and what’s one more rose
when on any street corner
in bright summer mornings
you see them with bunches of roses,
their hands out toward you calling,
Roses today, fresh roses,
fresh-cut roses today
a rose for you sir,
the ladies like roses,
now is the time,
fresh roses sir.

And I’m waiting–for days and weeks and months
I’ve been waiting to see some flower seller,
one of those hawkers of roses,
I’ve been waiting to hear one of them calling,
A cabbage with every rose,
a good sweet cabbage with every rose,
a head of cabbage for soup or slaw or stew,
cabbage with the leaves folded over
and under like a miracle
and you can eat it and stand up and walk,
today and today only your last chance
a head of cabbage with every single lovely rose.
And any time and any day I hear a flower seller so calling
I shall be quick and I shall buy
two roses and two cabbages,
the roses for my lover
and the cabbages for little luckless me.
Or am I wrong–is love a rose you can buy and give away
and keep for yourself cabbages, my lord and master,
cabbages, kind sir?
I am asking, can you?”

And with that thought, I return to my melancholy tunes and my bar of chocolate. Have a poetical weekend, everyone.

First Friday

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If there is such a thing as magic, it exists in Friday nights.

I’m not sure what kind of magic. Perhaps it’s the same brand as the Sandman’s, because everyone I know feels drowsy on a Friday night. Then again, I hear of strange creatures that use Friday nights do things they won’t be able to remember tomorrow. If no one remembers, who knows how that rumor gets around.

Friday is the bookend day. The finish line day. The only day far enough away from Monday that we feel like a new week will never come. Most of us work really hard for five days a week, but those five days end on Friday. True, there’s still work to do: yards to mow, bills to mail, phone calls to make, houses to clean. At the very least, Friday heralds a change of pace. The closing of a difficult chapter. Like the last 30 seconds of a difficult workout, Friday gives us the hope that yes, the end is drawing near.

For the Rambler, this translates into chocolate and tea. After an hour-long workout, of course.

Across the nation, college students everywhere are taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly. Some are sinking into battered armchairs or dorm bunks. Others are taking extra-long hot showers. Still more are clicking through pictures of the smiling faces of friends online. More than a few are on the phone with mom or dad. Hundreds spend the night chatting with friends over coffee or a split order of French fries. And every college student everywhere knows that this Friday is among the first of many Fridays to come, that things will get hectic, that life will get scary, that the days will be busy. But even if they only have one thing to look forward to for that week, at least there will be Friday.

And at this point I realize that being in school for fifteen years, two of which were college, has had an interesting effect on my psyche, and I need to go to bed.

Friday for the Win

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Even though school is technically out, my week is still crammed by summer school, work, exercise, and prepping for my trip to Croatia.

So when I reach Friday, I still have the same amount of satisfying relief when I sink into the sofa and realize that I don’t have to do any studying for another two days. I look forward to sleeping in a little and eating more than I do during the week. I treat myself to a little dark chocolate, since I noticed today that I’m starting to slim down a bit.

It’s Friday. Celebration is always in order on a Friday. In the dorms at UU, Friday was the one night we could visit other people’s rooms after 11, so I would be down in my friend Lizzie’s room until twelve, laughing about nothing and annoying her roommates. Then I’d finally collapse into bed, to be awakened by my roommate’s alarm clock somewhere around 7:30 in the morning.

But now I’m home.

Home. With my bed. No noise, no hustle, no alarm clocks, and my parents and my cats to keep me company.

Fridays are awesome.

Well That Worked Out Nicely

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As I’m sure my long-suffering readers are well aware, I get very little sleep these days. Fridays are typically my day to sleep in. Thanks to a German project, I had to get up earlier than I typically allow myself to sleep in. However, also thanks to this project, there was no class today at 3 as is the norm on Fridays.

Which meant I got a whole extra hour this afternoon. To sleep.

Thank heaven for small mercies.

Happy Friday, friends.

Phriday (or, Philosophical Friday)

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Here it is. The day we’ve been building up to all week. The day we’ve been looking forward to since Sunday night. Or maybe since last Friday.

That day that spins us into utter denial that Monday even exists.

This is the first Friday in several weeks that I’ve spent any amount of time by myself. So, like most otherwise unoccupied and inordinately exhausted college girls, I’m spending my evening in my dorm room, laptop on my lap, eating leftover Valentine chocolate. I contemplated a nap, but too many people are coming in and out of my room to justify that kind of activity.

It’s moments like that in which I feel like I’ve entered some kind of limbo—halfway between the beginning of one week and the end of another. A hiccup in time when I’m too tired to think of doing anything profitable. And I’m itching to do something creative. Draw. Write. Listen to music. Dream a little. Think a little. Make a little magic.

Anything, so long as it wasn’t something assigned.

Considering the Valentine’s chocolate just started laughing at me, I may want to consider going running.

Unfortunately, it’s moments like these that make my “make every moment of life count” philosophy unravel a little. Right now, I don’t feel like doing anything. I have no other obligations, nowhere to go, things to do but no motivation and no energy to do them.

It’s moments like these where I literally sit and wonder, “What would Jesus do?” What would Jesus do with an unoccupied, empty moment? I’m reading through the book of Mark right now, and one of the things that’s hit me is that Jesus was a busy, busy man. He never stopped. He never had a moment to himself. He didn’t have an empty moment. He never scheduled time to get away from the throngs that came to Him for healing and salvation and take time to Himself. There are one or two moments I’ve read of where He got away, and when He did, He spent His alone time praying—hanging out, if you will, with His heavenly Father.

I realize that, and I’m ashamed of my own limitations. Ashamed that I can’t give of myself 100% like He can. True, He’s the Son of God—but often I wonder if by saying “be ye holy, as I am holy” meant that we should strive to be like Him, even down to the way He spent His time.

After all, we only get so much time to make the biggest difference we can.

But there is a time to work, and a time to dance. Right now my soul is dancing as my body rests. After all, it’s awfully hard to serve God when your body is overworked. So I will take this empty moment to meditate, to dream, to pray, to hope, to rest.

Tomorrow is another day.

Make Like a Banana and Split

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If there is any universal battle that students face, it’s the battle to pay attention on Fridays. Whether you’re two, twelve, or twenty-two, the knowledge that the weekend’s sweet freedom is just around the bend is much more tantalizing than any lecture will ever be.

A weekend is a willing suspension of disbelief. We all know that responsibilities and obligations resume on Monday. We acknowledge it, albeit grudgingly, and most of us try to plan accordingly. But on Friday afternoons, it feels as though Monday is decades away. There’s a euphoric high that accompanies the last class of the day, knowing that you made it through another hair-greying week of your life. And you’re still standing.

As a result, people go a little crazy. The dorms become Caffeineville on Friday nights, everybody so tired they’re hyper. The result? On my hall, we get random singsperations, pranks, and a lot of hooting and hollering. Then, somewhere around midnight, we all crawl into bed, defeated. Most of us will stay there for the next twelve hours.

Some say we crash because of the exhaustion of the week. I say that we’re just worn out from having split attention all Friday long.