I really haven't looked into getting fancy china yet, but looking is fun. I found my everyday dishes at a Corelle outlet store: 8 large plates, 4 small plates, 4 bowls, 4 saucers & 4 coffee cups for $35.

---

I am amongst the china-free. Which suits me fine; I barely have space for one set of dishes in my cupboards, let alone two.

---

Oooh, pretty dishes.

My algebra grade was supposed to be reported by this afternoon. I know that one of the people deciding it has already left the office by now. I still have no grade. This is making me very cranky.

However, I do have a new haircut picture to share. It's not a great shot -- I took it with my camera phone, by holding the phone out at arms length, and at that close a distance, the lens gave a slight fisheye effect. But it's the best out of about 10 that I took.

---

Hil, that's a cute cut, bad shot or not.

---

12/18/04 (The encounter!)

12/23/04 (The village!)

12/26/04 (The shopping!)

12/28/04 (The transportation!)

1/1/05 (The India!)

1/1/05 (The wedding!)

1/4/05 (The India, Part Deux!)

1/7/05 (The India, Part Tres!)

1/10/05

I should have known it wouldn't go well. When I came home, my dad forced me to cut my hair (immediately, I had planned to get it cut in India anyway). In India, my mom saw a couple holes or some worn edges in my T-shirts and deemed them worthy of being thrown away. These were people who criticized every aspect of my being. I wanted to tell them, "It's taken me many years to become happy with who I am, and I don't need your fucking shit anymore, goddammit."

My mom would tell someone I was getting a Ph.D. and was going to make medicine, and I would weakly interject, "Well, not really," and she would wave me away. Keep it simple.

I broke the news on Christmas, my mom's birthday. I figured my mom would be in a good mood, and I wanted to ruin it, in the spirit of giving. On the way back from Navsari, I led with my carefully prepared statement, "I'm going to finish grad school three years early."

Ph.D.? my mom asked. Master's, I replied. And her face went to bewildered.

She asked me what happened, what changed, and I told her I didn't want nor need a Ph.D. for what I wanted to do. Which was to be a science writer. Saying it now, they sounded like the two stupidest words ever put together in conjunction with each other. Science writer? What the fuck kind of job was that? Was that like being a clown?

I was off balance now. I had dropped my script. She was taking a lot of time between lines, missing her cues.

I tried to explain what a science writer did, and she asked me how I was going to make a living. She might as well have slapped me in the face. Here my dad finally said something, that there was no need to get into that right now.

My mom said she'd been telling everyone I was getting a Ph.D. I said that's why I wanted to tell her, cause she was, you know, wrong. She couldn't understand why I couldn't just get a Ph.D. and then do this science writing business. I snapped, "Are you the one getting a Ph.D.? It's not some little thing." My dad just kept saying this wasn' t the time to discuss this.

"I'm glad you're being so supportive," I said. What the hell had I expected them to say, anyway? "You're just getting a Master's? Great! Thanks for disappointing us, failing to live up to your potential, and making us look like fools with a loser son who can't even finish a Ph.D.!"

"It's not that," my mom said. "It's like you just dropped a bomb in my lap." She was silent for more seconds, angry. "It's like you dropped a bomb."

This wasn't the time, said my dad, and a minute of uncomfortable silence later, the conversation changed and It was not spoken of again.

At home, I was in A Mood. The one where I don't talk and exclude myself from all human interaction. I leaned against the wall, sullenly. My dad told me to sit down. Don't you tell me what to fucking do. I sat down, sullenly. I steamed. It will be okay, he said. I read The Stand and unexpectedly cried a little.

I did not want to eat. I was not hungry. My dad told me to eat. As soon as I stood up, the floodgates broke and I tried my best to hold back the tears. I ate, crying sullenly.

I retreated (continued...)

---

( continues...) to our room upstairs. I considered writing then, channeling my emotions into the scenes, writing to elicit the inevitable responses about how great I was because that's just the kind of crappy, self-serving person I am. But I didn't have the energy, and I eventually fell asleep.

I was woken in a few hours to witness my mom's birthday cake. I wearily walked downstairs. My mom gave me a hug and told me not to cry, did I understand how I'd dropped a bomb? She told me to smile. Oh, whatthefuckever. I did not smile.

For the next week, we did not speak of It. It was like It had hardly happened at all. I searched for a good time to breach the topic again, because that couldn't be the end of it. When was the time, then, huh? Tell me that, Mr. Fucking Big Doctor Smartypants.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, I felt free to tell other random people who asked that I was doing a Master's. They, of course, didn't bat an eyelash.

One day, I was sitting a few feet away from my dad, who was talking about me to his friend. Right there in front of me, he told him I was doing a combined Master's/Ph.D. program. The motherfucking gall. I was so aghast, I couldn't even correct him. A few days later, he did it again. He started out by saying I had majored in biochemistry (he never mentions my English degree, and I fucking hate it). Then he said I was doing a combined Master's/Ph.D. program. And when asked to clarify, he had the nerve to explain that you got the Master's after two years, and then the Ph.D., as if this were exactly what I had told him I was doing. I really couldn't believe it. Right the fuck in front of me.

I began to really hate the letters P, h, and D. All they did was serve to remind me of something I'd given up. I had foregone the chance to become a real scientist, to make discoveries, to help people. What the hell was wrong with me? What was I thinking?

One night, my grandfather (my mom's dad, the one with prostate cancer) called me "Mr. Ph.D.," and I told him I was getting a Master's instead, and he said, "Why? Tired?" And I said, "Yeah." Now why the hell couldn't it have gone like that?

The day before I left, my mom pulled me over to one side and quietly asked me to further explain this thing. I calmly told her what science writing was, and that there are, in fact, jobs, it is a viable career, and that like with any job, you'll make money if you're good, and I'm going to be good. And it'll actually make me happy. I found a segue into the fact that I wouldn't be working in a lab, which my mom understood meant I'd have to pay. Again, she asked why I couldn't just get the Ph.D. first. I, without snapping this time, tried to convey to her that it wasn't just something they would hand over to me. God, why couldn't she understand that this wasn't like going ahead and finishing my last semester of college, this was at least three years of my fucking life. I added that I could always go back and get it, but I couldn't unget it after I became overqualified. She asked me what my dad had said, and I told her about his denial thing.

I couldn't bring myself to talk to my dad further during our harrowing flight home. The topic was innocently brought up by my sister, who asked me when I'd be done with school forever. This led to my dad asking if I were really doing this, as if I were just considering it. I told him the plan was all set up. He asked if I had any options, and I told him it wasn't about options, it was about what I'd decided to do. He was still upset that I had given them no indication beforehand, just springing it on them on a car ride home. And this, I admit, was where I screwed up. You all know this wasn't just some random decision I made in December; it was months in the making. All I ever told my parents about grad school was that I was busy. I didn't want to tell them I wanted to leave. That would just disappoint them, and I didn't want to worry them if it turned out to be nothing. I don't tell them much of anything. I feel like my (continued...)

---

( continues...) relationship with them is pretty much unsalvageable. All my dad's reactions were phrased in the negative. You don't do this, this was not right, etc.

That night, though, he told our guests I was doing a Master's, so I guess that finally sunk in.

Finally, this morning, on the way to the airport. Nearly everything came out. My short-term plan to work for Pfizer for a year and then do an internship. The fact that I'd need a part-time job because I wouldn't be making money. The loan I have to take out to pay for tuition. That a Master's is, in fact, a respectable degree that will help me in employment. For once, his tone was relaxed and informative rather than hostile and critical. He told me the $40,000 a year I heard for a temp lab tech at Pfizer wouldn't "cut it," a UTA graduate could make that. Check the interest rates on the loan. (Incidentally, he didn't offer to pay my tuition. I'd been debating whether I wanted him to or not. On the one hand, this was my decision and I didn't want him to pay for it if he didn't support it. On the other hand, that's what parents are for: to make your life a living hell and then give you money to make up for it.) Don't work more than 15-20 hours a week; concentrate on my studies. And don't skimp on food; call home if I needed it, but cut out other things before cutting out food. My parents only wanted the best for me, after all.

Usually, when I return to A2, my dad gives me some money, a few twenties. Today, he just gave me a hundred-dollar bill. I think that's a good sign, as far as gestures of acceptance go.

---

Also china-free. We got Williams-Sonoma Brasserie Green everyday dinnerware. It's plain stuff, white with a green border, but you don't get tired of it, and it dresses up and dresses down well.

---

These are the dishes that came with the BF. [link]

His mom keeps giving us more matching stuff, so we have place settings galore and serving dishes but I don't actually love them. I'd much rather have Fiestaware. I have always liked the color and feel of them and I am glad they have become so popular and available, as I fully plan on getting an entire set at some point.

---

Just because I'm single doesn't mean I shouldn't have pretty dishes. And, I eat off my china just about every day.

ABSOLUTELY!!! We don't, but I like my everyday dishes, too. We do eat of the china from time to time, because it's not good for it not to use it.

Our dishes are either boring(white)Although Ted from QE swears by the white dish...which made me happy in a dumb way, or mismatched with silly pictures.

I love white dishes. Our regular dishes are white. I picked white on purpose, so that I could mix and match it with other stuff, if need be.

I am amongst the china-free. Which suits me fine; I barely have space for one set of dishes in my cupboards, let alone two.

Smart choice. It's too frustrating to have if you don't have the space. In our first apartment, the china stayed in the eaves (we rented the second floor of a cape, and there was storage in the eaves). Our second apartment had more dish space than either house we've owned--huge cabinets in the kitchen, a separate pantry, and a big double door built in china cabinet in the dining room. In our first house, the china lived in the attic, but we'd take it out for holidays. Now we have a small corner built in, in the dining room in this house. My china was the second thing I unpacked on moving day. The first thing I unpacked was our books.

---