Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

With any luck, I've succeeded in my goal of making the climax of my travelogue feel completely anticlimactic. I present to you: the photos.

Completely unedited, unretouched, and with little to no regard for only selecting the good photos, please enjoy. I bet you can tell which hotel was the fancy one.

In a little less than eight hours, I will be taking the final exam of my undergraduate career. Then at noon, I'm getting on a plane to Colorado, and Friday morning I'll be graduating with a degree in Molecular, Cellular, and Developmental Biology. To say that it's been a ridiculously long and, to a largely self-inflicted degree, tortuous journey, would not be an exaggeration. Huge thanks are due to all of my friends and my family, who have been incredibly supportive on this last leg. Seriously, the whole thing, with three different classes taken at three different schools, month-long furloughs to Boulder, late nights in a physics lab, studying, paper writing, and general college bureaucracy were all manageable simply because I know I have a wonderful, amazing cheering section just waiting to see me rock this.

It's funny -- a year and a half ago, I really didn't have any interest in my degree, but now that it's here? I can hardly wait to hear them call my name.

And if you're lucky, I might actually post pictures of me wearing my pointy graduation-hat before the turn of the next century.

Before my graduation (have I mentioned that I'm a college graduate yet? 'Cause I totally am. A college graduate, that is), mom and I had a bunch of conversations revolving primarily around where we wanted to have dinner, and what she could get me for a present. It went something like this:

Mom: What do you want for a present??
Me: A nice cream colored summer suit from Banana Republic would be really nice.
Mom: I'm not getting you a suit.
Me: I know. Honestly I don't expect or need any kind of present at all.
Mom: Well, that's a nice thing to say.
Me: Of course, now that I think about it, I do remember a girl graduating from Boulder who totally got a BMW Z3 roadster.
Mom: Ah. You'd look good in a silver one. Let me look into that.
Me: Awesome. Thanks!
Mom: Now, what about this restaurant you want to go to? What's the dress code there? What are you going to wear?
Me: Well, if I *had* one, I'd wear a nice cream colored summer suit from Banana Republic.

And so on. The actual gift she decided on, however, so far outstripped anything I could have ever dreamt of, and I'd like to share it here. It still makes me cry, and I suspect it will for quite some time.

May 12, 2006
Christopher,
As you know, my dad gave me this gold Krugerrand a long time ago, as well as the bar of silver. He told me that as long as they belonged to me, I would never be poor -- and also that I should never sell them.
Now they are yours, to do with as you please. From my dad to me, they were a symbol of his love and protection. From me to you, they mean the same thing. If my dad was here, he would be so proud of you -- for being smart, for being adventurous, for finishing things you started, and for being strong and ethical. He was all of these things, and he would be thrilled that you and he are so much alike.
He left a lasting mark on his family and on the world, and so will you. Doors are opening for you, just like they did for him, and there are no limits to what you can accomplish. He was never stronger than when others doubted his resolve, and I see the same strength in you.
I am happy to pass this gold and silver on to you on this very special day. My mom adored you, and she and my dad are both beaming as they watch you today. So am I.
Love, Mom

I started my evening with a graduation party where everyone brought me baked goods -- i.e., totally my kind of party.

Then, Stan and I headed to Manhattan for the opening extravaganza at the brand new Apple flagship store on 5th Ave. They're doing drawings for a new Macbook every hour, so OBVS I'm here dropping my name in the proverbial hat. Stan just went home, as it's 4:30 in the fucking morning -- but the store is still fucking packed, and what kind of Mac fanatic would I be if I gave up that easily?

Also, please note the AWESOME new suit:

Hi. You see the picture of the suit in that last entry? I was wearing the suit jacket with a pair of jeans, because it was a brand new suit. A brand new suit with raw pantcuffs that required tailoring. A new suit. A grown-up suit. A gorgeous pinstriped Gemelli Milano Italian wool suit that anybody would be fucking proud to own, especially someone for whom this was their first fucking grown up suit.

So I took it in to be tailored. I put it on a hanger, covered it with a trash bag, and carried it with me to work. After work, I took it to the tailor, and went into the little room to put it on.

Except there were no pants.

Let me be clear.

The pants were gone.

The pants
of my brand new fucking gorgeous suit
had fallen off of the hanger

somewhere between my house and work or work and the tailor.

They're fucking gone. So now I have a nice jacket. I don't have a fucking suit. I have a jacket.

I am so heartbroken, I can't even tell you. I was so proud that I was really about to own my very first tailored suit that I bought specially for me that was going to be perfect and awesome with a secret hidden crimson silk lining.

I'm going to call the MTA lost and found tomorrow, and I'm going to put up signs by my house, and I'm going to post something on Craigslist, and I'm going to go into all of the shops between the subway and my office, but I don't have a lot of hope. And you know things are dire when *I* stop being optimistic.

I just feel heartsick. I feel stupid and I feel sick to my stomach and I feel really, really fucking stupid.

In keeping with a theme:

Half of my clothes are missing.

I dropped them off at the laundry yesterday, and when I picked them up last night, half of them were not there.

The people at the laundry don't know where they might have gone. "We have a system," they told me.

With all due respect, fuck their system. I want my clothes back. My shorts and my tshirt with a metallic gold lion on it and my many buttondowns and my shirt that just on Friday a guy in a bar liked so much he wanted to touch. You just don't cavalierly lose shirts that make people want to touch you. I mean, hel-LO.

Michael says there must be a conspiracy to keep me nude. He's probably right, and while that's certainly flattering, come on now. Seriously. I fucking want my fucking clothes back.