Historiography is the history of history

I am halfway done with the second swap pal sock, which I still cannot show you guys because shhh, it's a secret. But trust me when I say they are gorgeous. I'll be sad to see them go.

So! In the absence of knitting news I will talk about something else.

Two years ago today, I was sitting in English class when my phone rang. It was silenced, but you could still hear it vibrating, and I was like, geez dude, somebody needs to make that phone quit buzzi... oh crap is that mine? Oh wait it stopped...

I was meeting a friend for lunch after class on the other side of campus, and it was an absolutely gorgeous day. Sometimes that happens in Texas, it's nice and warm in February. (Not today, sadly) I looked at my phone and saw that the call was from an unfamiliar number, and they'd left a message.

It was a professor at one of the best grad schools I'd applied to, and the only one within driving distance of my beloved sender-of-flowers. This professor was the one I'd wanted to work with, and more importantly he was (at the time) head of the department.

I got in. And they were going to pay me.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic. It was the first school I'd heard back from, so at that point I knew for sure that I would get to go to grad school and could stop worrying about a backup plan. I wouldn't have to take out student loans. And if I accepted, I'd get to see the sender-of-flowers on weekends.

There were other offers, but none of them was nearly as good. Here I am, two years later, working my butt off and almost done with the first phase of my schooling. It hasn't always been as easy or as fun or as glamorous as I wish it could be--hell, yesterday I wrote a paper containing the sentence "Historiography is the history of history." But I do like it. I'm glad I got that call, even if the buzzing disturbed my English class.

p.s. The lilies have opened. The bouquet is actually getting prettier.