Somehow it's always more difficult to find scribbling time in the summer. Of course, this weekend I'll be flying to Iowa to watch my cousin get hitched, so scribbling time will be replaced by Iowa-centric things. What are Iowa-centric things, you ask? Well, heat, for one. And giant mosquitoes. And corn. There's a lot of corn in Iowa. (Probably more corn than people.) And I hear there are children of the corn, too, although that sure seems biologically impossible. Iowa also has baseball and farming and The Music Man. And my daddy grew up on a farm, so I suppose I've got farming in my blood. If I ever get a hankering for oats, we'll all know why. Or if I start to pronounce wash like "warsh." Or, if I take up playing baseball in the middle of a cornfield with Kevin Costner, some dead baseball players, and James Earl Jones.

But I'd gladly settle for more scribbling.

Disappointment runs rampant today. We are all disappointed with one thing or another, be it world conflict, the human condition, friendships gone awry, plans gone awry, anything expected or hoped for gone awry. Humans don't like things to go awry. We just like things to go. Food to go, relationships to go, lifestyles and painted coffee table pottery to go. We like our comforts to be, in a word, there. Settled. Going. I am always surprised when the media declares the state of today "unexpected," or "shocking," or most unsettling of all, "never-before-seen." Disappointment is not new. We will always want the best, and we will always want the best to go well. We will always hope for the best. That's how life is, how life has always been. Even the Greeks knew that when they allowed Pandora to lock up hope in our collective and dark little box.

And I? I don't know what to believe. Things pretty much plunge on with or without the influence of greater intellect or word of warning or the constant war between want and need. I only know the simple things. I know that I'm finally moved into my new apartment. I know that summer school has finally begun. I know that I must fly to Iowa this weekend in order to watch my cousin get married. I know that no one should assume they fully realize or block out what I believe or say. I know me, and me continually changes. Everybody's me changes, little by little, year by year. And I would only hope that all the mes out there don't bank too much on their disappointments, or even on their successes. Because in life, one must always try to make the best choice with what one is given.

Nobody said life was easy. Ain't it a crying shame.

Let's hear it for the dermatologists! Let's hear it for the dermatologist drugs that have made my skin what it is today! That's right, I'm pale, I'm relatively porcelain, and I'm proud! For today, anyway!

In other completely different news, isn't anybody else exceedingly tired of Scooby Doo being marketed everywhere? Yet another dog that can't talk -- has there ever been an articulate dog in cartoondom, besides the resident canine on Family Guy? -- solving the same old mystery in the same old way, day after day, schlock after schlock, schtick after schtick. "Oh no! A monster! He's always showing up when the so-called 'Scooby gang' is getting too close! I'm so scared! Let's all run away! But wait! Wow, you mean the monster was really just some creepy person who wanted something of monetary value? Unbelievable!" Please. Take a memo, Scooby: find new material, stop capitalizing on your "movie" (don't even get me started on Sarah Michelle Gellar's choice to remain blonde and wear go-go boots and make Daphne into some sort of strange hybrid superskank-ditzoid), and -- how can I put this lightly, so as not to tip off the kiddies? -- get off the Mary Janes . . .

Besides, that show scared the bejeezus out of me in my younger years. And now I don't have any more bejeezus. Isn't that a fine kettle of . . . nonbejeezus.

Summer is the best season. Usually it's the second-best season, though, because summer involves a lot of highly inconvenient skin-baring and shorts and shaving and swimsuits and a lot of other bothersome things that begin with the letter s. (Sesame Street didn't tell us about those.) As far as seasons go, autumn is usually the best, because the weather is cool and not freezing and still relatively sunny, and we can all wear pants and jeans and skirts with boots and other pretty comfy things that don't involve our white as a sheet, still brunnette, you must be anemic, oh actually you are anemic skin.

But this season, summer must be the best. After two years of struggle with being sick and trying to get to class and just basically function in the middle of drama after drama, this summer means a break. Even though I must go through a short batch of summer school for some basic requirements, it's still summer. Summer is here. The last two years didn't get me. I stood in front of my mirror today and said, "You years are gone, but I'm still here. You lose, and I win. I'm still here. I win." And then the nice kind people in the clean white coats came and took me away. Ha ha. To the funny farm. But on the funny farm, it's still summer, and I'm still here. Sovereigns survive.

When they were giving out the easy lives, why didn't they hand one to me? I know life isn't easy -- heck, I know everything -- but does life really have to be difficult? Where can I get one of those rest-easy lives? Or one of the a-okays? Don't they make lives in a-okay anymore? And how about just plain ducky? Who forgot to pass out the just plain ducky? I'll tell you who forgot. God, that's who. That's not very nice, God. Just think. There you were, wasting your time appearing to bearded men in burning bushes, when you really should have been spending time planning for the arrival of me and my just plain ducky life. Because if anybody has to matter in this world, well, why not me? I'm all right. I have nice eyelashes and a nice neckbone, and I'm funny. I'm empathetic. Usually. And my shoes always match my clothing. So where's my cake and the eating of it too, God? Hmmmmm? Tell me that! Just tell me that!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for my smiting. Don't wait up.

There is such a thing as getting too close. There is also such a thing as getting too far away. I've been growing increasingly less and less able to tell the two apart -- or more accurately, I've been too tired of everything, anything, and everybody to even attempt to tell the two apart. These last two years have caused me to realize how many things are out of one single person's hands. Fact is, there are simply no solutions to the greater half of our collective problems. And if there are no solutions, then one can just forget about personal woes and wails. They don't matter. Besides, nobody wants to go into that. Dirty laundry is meant to be laundered alone.

I feel more comfortable inside my own skin than I ever have before, and yet I feel more uncomfortable looking out from inside this very same skin than ever before. How can one explain something like that? Poets probably don't need an explanation. So tonight, number 48 being new, I guess I write to the poets. Are there any more of you, poets? Did you all die off in the fall? Are you starving? Do they still make poets? And most importantly, poets, did your own gardens fall silent when they came out of the wash?

Dear Opera Company,

Next time you stage Turandot, you might want to re-think the obscenely tall staircases. Poor little peons in the tallest balcony cannot see all of the stage, and thus none of said peons caught a glimpse of any character that stood atop a staircase. All we -- um, I mean, all the peons -- saw was a shaft of light and a phantom voice. Peons have rights too, you know. Particularly the right to see all of the opera for which they shelled out their peon funding.

Sincerely Not Yours,
Christa

Finals week means papers. If I ever become a college professor, I will never assign a paper. Or if I am required to assign a paper by, say, some sick federal law, it will be something along the lines of, "Tell me something that you found interesting in this class, and tell it to me in a coherent and intelligent manner." Kids will love me. Go me. Of course, I don't know whether I'd really be a good college professor or not. Outlines, electronic presentations, visual aids. That's a lot of work. "Just read the book" doesn't cut it anymore. (Did it ever? More importantly, should it ever?) But a small part of me can see myself as a happy twentysomething professor, wearing black and tooling around town in a little red sports car (hey, as long as I'm dreaming) and eating a lot of salad. And living in a lilac apartment. And getting a fishbowl, and filling it with pink feathers. And just generally turning into one of those mysterious, witty, stylish, assertive, limitless, and maybe even sexy thirtysomething ladies. I could deal with becoming these things. Dealing is important.

Right now, though, dealing involves papers. Curses.

Catwoman: If I were to kiss you, would you think I was a bad girl?
Batman: Well, I, uh, no . . .
Robin: Holy mush!

Back in the rosy days of my youth, television seemed a lot more serious. That was probably because everybody on television was a heckuva lot older and taller than I. And now nobody is taller. Now I dwarf trees. Life is strange. Just when you think life's been washed halfway down the tube, the tube gets shorter. I suppose I should consider that one of the beautiful things about life. And the older you get, the more important those beautiful things become . . . Tall and older, maybe. Moldy, not just yet.

Lunch is entirely too difficult. Scrounge here, scrounge there. I never know what to eat. It's too hard to eat. I'm too run down to eat. I'm young, and I'm already run down. How fair is that? Nobody told me life wouldn't be fair when I started this bum job, this job called life. Nobody informed me that dreams get railroaded and people are nasty and everyone plays recklessly with the softer breed of hearts, and nobody told me that those you love get sick, and nobody told me that even you, yourself, get sick, all the time, and nobody told me about the invading army full of great big dirty lies. And nobody told me the only good things are simple and overlooked. Nobody told me the only good things are raindrops and kittens and roses and hatboxes on the shelf, and the color of a laugh, and grey. Nobody told me that nonsense is the greatest gift of all.

Nobody knows where to find some lunch, for god's sake.

What has happened to today's younger collegiates? They're drawing amazingly inaccurate naked people on public desks. They're folding notes during lectures. (And I don't mean notes folded into normal little squares; I mean those origami-diamond notes that ruled the domain of junior high. Remember those, ardent fans? Or were they just a bi-coastal thing? I never could fold those stupid diamond notes. I could only make box notes. I felt magically undexterous.) They're really living in the dorms, and they're really pretending to like it. They raise their hands in lecture and actually believe that other people care what they think.

Oh, you young people. How I despise lowering myself to study among you. Give me wrinkles and diamonds and cruise ships and a little old husband who wears a fedora any day.

Ambientwhimsy has gone butterflies. June goes with butterflies, I think. Butterflies and iced tea and sandals, that's my idea of a good June. And a juicy red convertible wouldn't hurt, but seeing as I'm living on sofa change, I must be content with my happy little Sentra. And I am. Because his name is Dean, and he gets me where I'm going, and he does it with good mileage and a nifty sound system.

One more week until finals. God save the queen.