Stanford-at-Greer

There is something characteristically French-like about the French house. I'm not sure if its how clean it is relative to Terra, the house where I live during the year, that is unnerving, but there's something definitely French about it. (Maybe cause its called the damn FRENCH house maybe).There is the giant Faux Matisse mural in the dining hall and the really well executed imitatation De Chirico (wasn't he spanish... who knows) that makes it Parisian even.

I biked with Jon through the long and arduous journey through Stanford-at-Greer all the way through the cheerful, flower-lined paths of the Embarcadero through the now filled-with-little-people-and-camp-going-athletes Stanford campus to the French house. The streets that cross the Embarcadero start off as flowers. Iris St., Petunia Lane and what not and then progressively into authors. By the time we reach Louis, which incidentally is not a flower or an author, I got really tired. Its a good sign when we've reached Mark Twain, but then we cross Brett Harte, who I've never heard of. That bothers me , for a second.

I do know another Brett, in fact Abby and I both know of him and have mentioned him quite frequently during our discussions of admirable PRL TA's and dashingly cute-in that I'm- a- really- Gruff-man-and I'm-wearing-a-Jon-Deere-shirt kinda way-"your project is Tits" kinda way. By the way, just a disclaimer for possible boyfriends who might be reading this, that is actually just mostly Abby's comments. It was her project that was characteristically Tits even!

I got tired out when we finally reached the French house. I went to sleep while Jon went off to join to working world. I of course, the unemployed waif, went to bed for two more hours. I got up to the sound of radio noises. You know, the type that makes squeeky noises and you communicate people with (think World War II ), not the radio-in the radio and alarm clock combination that blasts spanish music that Jon has by his bedside. I always wonder how he has such an uncanny ability to know what the spanish stations are. I mean he just moved to Palo Alto! So anyway, someone was on the radio " We need mops at French house, over". "I am at French house, over, be right there with the mop". Anyway, in my half-asleep haze, I sort of imagined myself to be the lady-protagonist in 1984 (yes the book, not the year) with my incognito-not-supposed to be here fear of being caught by the janitor. So I lulled myself into this fantasy and I started hearing footsteps. I could hear more noises and I was sure they were all going to catch me, handcuff me and throw me in the local jailhouse or something. In my hysteria I hid in Jon's walk in closet (the French house has walk in closets? I've been totally jacked with living in Co-ops). After waiting for about 10 minutes, I step out of his walk in closet, pee in the bathroom and ran the hell out of there.

I dont like the word somnolent.