Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Lies I have told recently


It's not lying if you only leave out...details.

A sample: (Details are in italics)

I go to Young Republican meetings to steal their pizza--Young Democrats spent all their money on campaign signs.

The boys' rooms are VERY FAR from the girls' rooms--I'm lazy and three feet is far.

I have never been inside a fraternity when I was sober.

I have never tasted vodka because we mix it with Red Bull.

There's nowhere close by to buy alcohol anyway so we pay the seniors who have cars to do it for us.

Most people go to bed around midnight because they're so drunk they've passed out.

We do homework on Saturdays--because it was due on Friday and the professor is taking off points for each hour that it's late.

I'm thinking of joining a sorority because I've recently become a masochist.

I have never missed a class, in fact, I never miss them at all.

I've never met "one of those goddamned homosexuals," just the regular, non-goddamned kind, thanks.

The professors are conservative--JESUS CHRIST, ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH ACADEMIA??????

Yeah, I snapped on that one. Whoopsy.

I think I was already out of that will though, so it's all good.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

So, which is worse? Going to church, or enduring the backlash for NOT going to church?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

I went, if you're curious. Which keeps the peace, but is doubly annoying, because then they're all happy because you've "outgrown your sophomoric tendencies."


What they didn't notice was that I wore my pirate earrings. OMG skull-and-crossbones earrings IN CHURCH I am TEH REBELZ!!!!!!eleven!!

So, yeah, that was my little "protest." And yes, THANK YOU, it was "sophomoric."

But I'm only a freshman! So do you know what me being sophomoric means?

It means that I'm fucking precocious, bitch.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Quote of the Day

"I'm not anorexic! I just hate eating!"

This, people, THIS is what I deal with.

I think I'll go eat an entire wheel of cheese.

Thursday, November 30, 2006


I went to a protest/rally type thing today, which was actually on the national news. Because apparently the national news is way bored.

I set out for the rally with mixed feelings, because a lot of the "controversy" on this campus is self-manufactured and a great deal of us like to protest for the sake of protesting. I ultimately decided to go because hey, it was a protest and I'm a college student and that's What We Do. I planned that I would maintain a slightly reserved attitude of mild cynicism and above-it-all-ness.

Except then one of the speakers was Really, Truly, Indescribably Powerful, and she made me (and everyone else) cry.

And I'll be dammed but it's hard to be slightly reserved and above-it-all when you have mascera running down your face.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006


So, you've picked up a drunken frat boy. Classy. I understand that now you would like to have sex with said charming gentlemen. Fabulous.

Here's a list of places where you have my permission to do so:

1. The middle of the green
2. The stacks in the library (happens more often than you'd think)
3. The dining hall
4. The roof
5. The basement
6. The laundry room
7. The woods
8. The lawn of the dean's house (bonus points)
9. Mars
10. The construction scaffolding
11. Suspended from said scaffolding by bungee cords (double points)
12. Underground
13. Underwater
14. In a tree
15. In a taxi
16. In a chartered jet
17. Your own freaking room

Here's a list of the places where I would really prefer you didn't:
1. The part of the hallway that is directly outside of my door

It's the small considerations, people, really.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

And there was karma.

So, remember how yesterday in my brief moment of good karma, I was trying to be all witty and cool and said hey, this is totally going to bite me in the ass later?


I hate being right.

Today I woke up in midair. Arguably, my horrific day did not start there. Being in midair, while disarming, is not necessarily unpleasent. It does, however, signal that you are going to get real up close and personal with the floor in about half a second and THERE started the day.

Yes, I fell out of bed. Yes, I landed on my face. Yes, the left side of my forehead swelled up so that it appeared that my brain was trying to escape.

Which might actually be true, but that's another post.

Anyway, I walked into Spanish class as my bruises began to turn a lovely shade of violet, prompting my professor's justified reaction of "What happened to you?" And really, people, it's humiliating enough to have to explain that you and your coordinated self fell out of bed, but it's even better when you get to do so in a language that you speak at a toddler-equivilant level.

Now, I'll spare y'all the exhaustive list of every time I tripped or otherwise injured myself, but I would like to point out the highlights, including how the pen I was chewing on in Econ exploded, AND how when I opened the door to my room, I squished NOT ONLY my feet, but also The Awesome Roommate's feet...AND how I had to face...


(That works better if you imagine lightning and cool sound effects. WORK WITH ME.)

I naievely purchased a bottle of flavored water and attempted to open it. I failed, but I have zero upper body strength. When I gave the bottle of water to The I-can-bench-press-triple-digit-numbers-Awesomely Roomate to open and SHE couldn't get it...I began to worry that the water was possessed. Then I tried to open it again and failed so spectacularly that I gave myself a blood blister.

I believe it was at that point that I attacked the water bottle with a pair of scissors.

It was shortly after that point that I learned that if a water bottle is that tightly vacuum-sealed, when you do get it open, it sprays you in the face.

I think I'm going to go lie down and cry.

This is the water after I killed the lid. The red is because it's a flavored knock off of Vitamin Water, not because it's bleeding.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Sometimes, life works out

I realize that NOT fucking things up hugely isn't a big deal for most people, but it's me, so we're going to talk about it.

Ok. As per last post, went out last night. Bad idea. Fuckers having Halloween on a Tuesday. Anyway, in fit of optimisim, set alarm for 6 A.M., with intention of waking up and doing work before class.

I'll pause so you can all catch your breath from laughing.

So. Slept through alarm. Slept through back-up alarm. Slept through The Awesome Roommate swearing her alarm clock re: softball practice at ungodly hour. Slept through emergency cell phone alarm.

Awakened, stretched luxuriously, realized it was EIGHT FIFTY SIX. Freaked the fuck out, got dressed at LUDICROUS SPEED, sprinted halfway across campus.

Obviously, I was late.


MY PROF WAS LATE. Do you REALIZE the freaking ODDS of that happening? I mean, factoring in that she's been on time 45 / 46 instances times the My Luck Sucks factor of 200000...well, I can't do math anymore but the odds? FREAKISH.

Then, just because the universe had already collapsed, remember that work that I was supposed to wake up and finish? Duh, didn't.



Obviously, I'm going to die in a freak swiss-cheese related accident later today, because this is just too much karma.

To The People In Charge of The Universe

How the hell are you supposed to go out and work it if you have CLASS THE NEXT MORNING?


Halloween should be on a FRIDAY. And just change, like Thanksgiving. There would be RIOTS if people had to cook turkeys on Mondays or something because of a calendar deal.

But I was so totally a pirate. Mwah.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Yo, Bob!

Allow me to introduce you to someone:

His name is Bob.

Don't be shy, let's get up close and personal.

I'd like to start off by clarifying that Bob is NOT the result of one of my "milk decomposes" revelations. Nope, he got that way ALL BY HIMSELF. Isn't he a good boy?

Because I basically live on chocolate pudding, I purchased one of...several packages from the Why Yes, We Inflate Our Prices By 200%, Thanks for Asking store. I didn't realize at the time that where I thought I had four puddings, I really had three----and Bob!

Bob was discovered later that night. The Other Biology Nerd and I were studying in my room at the perfectly acceptable hour of 3am. Naturally, at such a time, more food becomes necessary. TOBN was casually opening a pudding when she shrieked--for she had discovered Bob.

Bob could have suffered a terrible fate that day. The logical course of action, after finishing with the eeeeeeeeewwww's and I almost ate that's, would have been to throw him out.

Fortunately, he was in the esteemed company of the aforementioned two Biology Nerds, so we merely spent the next twenty minutes poking him and giggling. We then sealed him up and stuck him at the back of the refrigerator so that he could hopefully grow into something even more delightfully squishy.

The Awesome Roommate however, being more of a Humanities Nerd, is not impressed with Bob. I know. How could you not want a pudding rotting and GROWING stuff in your refrigerator?


Sunday, October 29, 2006

So I still rule

And milk still decomposes.

No, I don't know how this keeps happening. It's COMPLICATED.

And this is why I should change my career plans

From my highly non-scientific observations:

There is a perfect correlation between a female's ability to be a lawyer and her tendency to be a COMPLETE raging bitch.

And I want to go to law school?

Monday, October 23, 2006

Timing, people! TIMING!

Look, if I've pried myself out of bed, slogged through the rain, and hiked up four flights of stairs?

I'm no longer happy to discover that you've canceled class.

Now, if I'd known earlier and NOT ALREADY HAVE WOKEN UP? Different story.

(What, you can't plan your emergencies in advance? Sheesh.)

Wednesday, October 18, 2006



My econ midterm grade is apparently now accessible on my student page online. I have not actually checked, but I have heard as much from other people in the class.


I HATE FINDING OUT STUFF ONLINE. Seriously. College admissions? Nearly killed me. (Those of you who knew me then, yeah, DUH.)

And now it's THERE. WAITING. Waiting for me to check it. AND I'M SUPPOSEED TO BE WRITING A PAPER HERE.

Fuck it. I'm not checking it. I'll go to her office hours tomorrow and ask for it back, and then I can further humiliate myself by crying in front of her. EXCELLENT PLAN.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Life as me

Oooooooh I'm supposed be rewriting an essay because it's due tomorrow, but naturally I'm blogging instead because productivity? Pffft.

I just got back from a meeting with one of my professors who had the unfortunate job of informing me that basically, I completely suck at writing. Lovely. He did so, of course, in an extremely polite, scholarly fashion, which made things even greater, because he's this amazingly refined academic and I'm the girl who tripped walking into his office.

I'm also the girl who....ok, this is where it gets complicated. See, I fidget. I'm sure it has absolutely nothing to do with all the coffee I drink, but seriously, if you could just hook the fidgeting up to a generator, we'd have even less excuse to be at war in Iraq, because we'd have no energy problem. (Ba-dum-CHHH! Come for the caffeine-induced babbeling, stay for the biting political commentary. Biting.)

So, I'm fidgeting. Usually the fidgeting involves an object, like my fingernails and my teeth, but I'm still working on that, so I was playing with a pen. A purple pen, if you'd like to picture the whole scenario in your minds. Anyway. The pen has a clicky thing on top, which is absolutely fantastic for nervous twitchers, but I'm also speaking to said prof at the time, so that's out. I thus had to be content with bending the somewhat rigid clip on the pen. Oooh look. It gets farther away...and farther away...and farther---aaaaaand it's just broken off and been catapaulted an indeterminite distance away and I don't see where it's landed. NICE.

Oh great, he probably saw that.

Erk---what if it, like, catapaulted into him? Or clipped him on the ear mid-flight.


Best-case scenario--he didn't see it happen, finds a mysterious purple piece of plastic in a distant corner of his office some weeks later.

Worst-case sceanrio--I just tagged a highly respected academic with a pen cap.

Smooth, girl. Real smooth.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

You might want to rethink the order there

"Well, first they got drunk. And they had sex. Then they got drunk again. And they had more sex."

"Then they went on their first date."

Doing a slow burn

Memo to that guy on the next elliptical trainer:

Hi. I'm sure you're an incredibly fit, hardcore athlete. You must be. You have the super-expensive Nike Shox, the clothes, the iPod accessories. And wow, I must say that I was impressed by the sheer speed at which you were able to operate that elliptical. Those pedals were FLYING.

(I was particularly blown away by the way your incredible velocity caused you to fling sweat on everyone in a fifty-foot radius. That really sealed my opinion of your TREMENDOUS athletic ability.)

I also especially love how, as you stepped off your machine and wiped the sweat from your forehead in a manly fashion, you smiled condesendingly at the struggling guy next to you, and informed him that "It gets easier, bro."

How touching. The Star coming down to speak words of inspiration to a mere mortal. Maybe one day, he'll reach your level.

I would, however, have been slightly more impressed if the read-out on your machine hadn't been blinking "Current Resistence Level: 1" in large, easily read LEDs throughout your entire display of "fitness."

I'm proud to report that I did not scream "He's on Level 12, BITCH."

But I wanted too.

Because basically, despite the clothes, the iPod, the sweat, and the disgusting attitude?

You're still not a badass.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Types of drunks

Some people CANNOT HANDLE ALCOHOL. (I realize this is a revolutionary discovery. I'll wait as you alert the media.)

I suppose I could stretch just a TEENSY bit farther in my reasoning here and say that different people handle alcohol in different ways. Yes, I sound like AlcoholEdu. Relax. So. I've encountered the following personalities:

1. Sleepyhead--Takes it to heart that alcohol is a depressant. Becomes lethargic, boring, and usually heads back to the dorm to take a nap. This is me, by the way. Hold the beer, hand me a Red Bull, and we'll carry on.

2. Persons of extremely advantageous ancestry--Ask them how much they've had. They'll get it wrong, not because they're too trashed to remember. It's becasue they can't count that high.

3. Persons of extremely disadvantageous ancestry--Half a Keystone light and HEY LOOK AT THE PRETTY COLORS I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME!

4. I love you, man---Some of us have apparently confused our beer with our Ecstacy. A rather interesting character, especially if you can videotape his more revealing confessions.

5. Obedient--Completely trashed, but will follow you like a puppy dog. Amusing, easy to lead away from frat.

and my unfavorite:


*pulls hair out*

Ok, I have a test in 5 hours. i should probably get around to...studying or something. Yeah.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Quote of the Day

"Hold on, sunflower seeds have SHELLS? No way! THAT'S WHY THEY TASTED BAD!"

I love you EB!

Sunday, October 08, 2006

You guys are so cute, but I'm getting squooshed

Awww. People complained that I didn't update! (And by people, of course, I mean, MASSIVE HORDES OF CLAMORING FANS. Not, like, one of you who has no life. Hi Leina!)

So. Things I've been doing instead of blogging?

1. Devoloping new and creative ways to fall out of bed.
2. Sleeping on other people's rugs.
3. Accidentally melting plastic bowls in the microwave.
4. Accidentally-on-purpose melting plastic bowls in the microwave because hey look, swirly plastic!
5. Bitch-slapping Paris Hilton.
6. Contemplating my sudden lack of socks.
7. Making excellent use of green food coloring and blaming Dr. Seuss.
8. Negotiating Fruit-By-The-Foot property rights.
9. Popping the bubble wrap. All of it.




So, this extremely kick-ass professor at my school developed this revolutionary method of teaching languages that is actually quite well known, and I think I've just handily dispatched with any secrets of where I actually attend college if you know how to use Google.

Because, like, I have thousands of readers stalking me.

Anyway, this method. Basically, they cram four years of high school spanish into one trimester, snap their fingers in your face, and demand that you answer instantaneously in a language you don't speak.


Because you will speak it. They make sure of that. However, I no longer think of this as "learning" Spanish. I think of it as being ASSAULTED by Spanish.

Unfortuantely, right now, Spanish is winning.

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Damn technology. (Damn frat boys.)

I do not like being bested by technology. (Case in point: spent half of Friday night bent over The Blonde With Hot Librarian Glasses' broken speaker while we figured out how to use nail clippers as an emergency screwdriver. And it WORKED, bitches, it worked.)

Regardless, technology does occasionally win. Example:

Blitz (it means email, it sounds cooler, go with it) is life. Blitzes may, of course, be directed to multiple people. If blitzing out to a campus-wide list, the option becomes available to suppress recipient list. Proper etiquette dictates this, as it prevents the inevitable idiot from hitting "reply all" and spamming THE ENTIRE STUDENT BODY with their stupid question. Frats having parties generally want blitz out to as many people as possible, so it's far from unusual to get a message from a frat that has a suppressed recipient list.

Quick review of frat boy stereotypes: Your average frat boy is not a genius, but your average Dartmouth frat boy is pretty smart. But your average Dartmouth frat boy is not geeky, because they're all concentrated in one frat that has lame parties. That said: non geeky frat boys can become veeeerry technologically proficient if they have sufficient motivation.

Case in point: I received a blitz today from a certain frat. It announced that they were having a "Schoolgirl party." (You know, in retrospect, this sounds REALLY STUPID. But this frat had a schoolgirl party last year too, so it's plausible) The recipient list was suppressed, ergo, it went to the whole campus. My friends also received it. Nothing suspicious so far.

Now, as some of you may recall, I have a fair number of rather short, pleated skirts. (What???) Enough to supply us all, actually. So we had the skirts. We had the short white shirts. And the heels. And the hair ribbons. And, naturally, The Blonde With Hot Librarian Glasses was working the glasses. Yes, we're sluts. But that's why frats have themed parties--girls will use any reason, no matter how flimsy, to JUSTIFY dressing like a whore--ESPECIALLY if they have the reasonable expectation that MANY other females will be similarly attired.

If, however, a group of schoolgirls hits the frat and discovers that somehow, they were BASICALLY THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO RECEIVED THE BLITZ TELLING THEM TO DRESS LIKE SCHOOLGIRLS....well, there's going to be some rage. And some MAJOR staring. And some frat brothers telling you that "you ladies are welcome back anytime." And that's all that they said that I'm going to repeat.

I, after escaping, jumped back on my computer and discovered that someone has figured out how to suppress a recipient list even if the blitz is only going to a few people, thus tricking those few people into thinking that they are one of HUNDREDS of recipients when actually, they're just targets. NICE.

Monday, October 02, 2006

At least we're resourceful

I'm currently substituting a tennis halter top for a bra.

The Roommate is wearing bikini bottoms under her jeans.

Guess who forgot to do laundry?

Sunday, October 01, 2006

I remember

It officially being October, four of the Incredible Floormates and I were discussing what we should be for Halloween. So far we have two criteria:

1. It must be coordinated for five people

2. It must include stripper boots.

Yes, we've considered the Spice Girls. We'll see.

And, because I can remember, here's what I was for Halloween for as far back as I can recall.

Kindergarden: A ballerina. The first dramatic casualty of The Mother's "You WILL wear a sweater over that" decree.

1st grade: A witch. I believe I ate a large quantity of the green lipstick. Yeech.

2nd grade: A hula dancer, just like Molly from the American Girls Collection. I believe this one was also subject to the indignity of a sweater, but it was ok, because in the book, Molly's mom did the same thing. (And Molly wore a red sweater. Did I wear a red sweater? DUH.)

3rd Grade: A cheerleader. Due to inadvertent coordination, my best-friend-at-the-time was ALSO a cheerleader. Oh the drama. (We are no longer friends, and I believe that a large part of that stems from this incident. And my pom-poms were BETTER, BITCH.)

4th Grade: A Milky Way.

This one bears repeating.


Lesson to parents: Do not be obsessive compulsive and actually MAKE YOUR KID A MILKY WAY COSTUME out of a GODDAMMED BOX, because A.) They will need therapy later in life, B). It is impossible to run at optimum candy-collecting speed whilst encumbered in a Milky-Way like box. C.) If you fall down while attempting to run ANYWAY in said box, you will fall down. (Yes, my friends laughed at me. Shut up.)

5th Grade: A hippie. Fittingly, this was the first formal rebellion against the Parental Regime of the Sweater, because I had the WORLD'S COOLEST tye-dyed shirt and THE MAN wasn't making me wear no sweater. Of course, being me, I didn't actually gave the guts to ditch it, but had to carry it in the bottom of my candy bag.

Which was, in retrospect, moronic, because then I had LESS ROOM FOR CANDY. Tragedy, really.

6th grade: Harry Potter. I would really not care to discuss this one because, well, in sixth grade, I had read way too much for my own good and subsequently morphed into the world's tiniest raging Feminazi. Oh, painful memories. So, naturally, I was a boy for Halloween, because this, people, this was A Statement. Single-handedly crushing gender stereotypes right and left, that was me.

*takes break, attempts to build time machine, hit middle-school-self over head*

I did manage to partially shake the persistent rumors that I was a lesbian by dressing like a complete prostitute for the next six years, but that's another post.

7th Grade: Yoda. The second in a line of painful adolescent choices. While I fully support dressing up as sci-fi characters, this is a risky move and requires the right environment, the right company, and the right crazy attitude. Funnily enough, the warm, nurturing, ACCEPTING middle-school environment does not meet these criteria.

8th Grade: Nothing specific, but did dye my hair eight different colors with those awesome spray things and managed to stain several other people by brushing up against them. Good times.

9th Grade: Avril Lavigne. The origin of this one escapes me, but I am at least comforted by the fact that this was at a time when she was still cool and not a yet poser.

10th Grade: Trinity. Yes, from the fucking Matrix. Now, I was SUPPOSED to be one of SIX PEOPLE in Matrix attire at school that day, except EVERY SINGLE ONE of you PANSIES chickened out. (I know you're there--you're fifty percent of the readership at this point. And I know where you live.

Not that I hold a grudge or anything.)

11th Grade: Freudian Slip. I wore a white lace slip and carried a (fake) cigar. Approximately three people got it. Sigh.

12th Grade: Elf queen. At this point, I no longer cared. Wanted to be an elf queen, dressed as elf queen. Highly recommended.

And I have a spanish test in ten hours. Awesome!

Beep. Beep.

Someone's alarm is going off. It's behind a locked door.

And it's been going off.







He had better make it home tonight, because at this rate, I'm going to incure a serious fine when I BREAK THE WALL DOWN.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Ok, so I just snarfed

You all must go watch this. NOW.

//These shoes are mine, bitch

Things we're going to leave out of the weekly parental phone call #1

Milk decomposes. Rather rapidly, actually.

I'd rather not get into it, and trust me, you probably don't want to know, but henceforth, let it be known:

Milk decomposes.


We have a very nice, spacious library with study rooms right out of Hogwarts.

There are eight study lounges in this building, two of which are on this floor.

I have a rather organized (for now) desk with a practically comfortable chair.

So why am I doing my Spanish homework sprawled on the floor in someone else's room?

Sunday, September 24, 2006

What I just emailed to my floor

FOUND: One slightly bedraggled octopus in a dashing shade of lavender. Answers to the name of "Ollie" and seems to enjoy hanging out on top of shower drains. If you believe this to be your octopus, please come to room W303 to identify him.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Daily Revelations

Even though my body wash smells like yummy toasted vanilla and sugar, it still tastes like soap.

Yes, I checked.

The fun part about being me is that I get to experience at least one of these exciting discoveries EVERY DAY!

Monday, September 18, 2006

That was awkward

I would just like to point out that it's before 9 am and I'm a college student. Ow.

I had the pleasure of hauling myself out of bed at 7:20 this morning in order to schlep over to the Registrar's office. (No, actually, I didn't bother to change out of my pajamas, but thanks for asking.) I had to do so because "by a random process," I was part of a "small group of students" wo didn't get into any of my seminar choices. I love you too, Registrar. So, most of the cool-sounding-slash-taught-by-a-prof-with-a-good-reputation seminars were full. There was, however, ONE space left in a decent class, which also had the bonus of being at a decent hour. (2 in the afternoon :D) I assumed that more than one of us "lucky" students would come to the same conclusion, so I, in my usual obsessive compulsive manner, decided to chill on the steps of the building for half an hour before the office opened.

Yes, it was cold. I hate all of you.

So, I'm hanging out. 7:40. 7:50. 7:55. Ok, self. That was a little over the top. No one else is here! You could have SLEPT MORE.


At 7:56, someone else showed up.


Yawn "Hey."

He sits down. "So, are you here to fix your seminar?"


"Yeah, me too." Shakes his head. "I got here early because the one I want only has one space left." Looks at me suspicioiusly. "Do you know if it's first come, first serve?"

Me, slighly squeaky: "I guess?"


Eventually, they did open the office and hell yes I was first. Got assigned, got the confirmation printout, and as I was leaving, heard a certain person inquire in a not-too-low voice, "What do you MEAN it's just been filled?!?"

Ok, so yeah, my avoiding-confrontation-self ran out the back door. I am SO COOL.

But I got the seminar, bitch.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

I'm sorry, but we're just too awesome



Quote of the day:

One second you're sniffing dryer sheets, the next you're doing lines of detergent in a dark alley at 3am.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Let's picture the miniature angel-me and devil-me

So, everyone at college seems really cool. Friendly, well-spoken, etc. (The father has designated most of them as "kids he would hire," an expression that annoys me to no end.)

But anyway. The hopeful part of me wants to believe that everyone can GET OVER high school clique Mean-Girls-ness and just be cool. The cynical part of me, having observed high-school-like behavior in "adults" WELL out of college believes that this is a temporary period of openness for everyone to establish the social structure and that it will come to an abrupt end.

We'll see. Or we could let the hovering angel and devil over my shoulder duke it out.

(Except I think the devil-girl is going to win because she has kickass boots.)

Thursday, September 07, 2006

By Popular Demand

Given that one hundred percent of the current audience has asked for this to be reposted, I have obliged.

(Let’s all take a moment here and imagine that one hundred percent refers to an impressive unified coalition of thousands of far-flung readers instead of, um, two.)


So. It's the week before finals. I have a shitload of work, so naturally, I've just spent the past hour reading about how to punch holes in quarters to confuse vending machines. I rule. In hopes of getting something done (HA), I decided that I needed an energy boost. As I'm already caffeinated well beyond any kind of legal or physical limit, I went for FOOD. My tongue, which was being subjected to the GROSSLY OVERSWEET HELL that is "Orbit Original Flavor" gum which I bought in a huge bulk pack in Costco without realizing that it was puke-inducing, so now I have to finish the pack, PLEASE KIll ME, that tongue flatly refused to eat anything sweet. And we have chips! Chips which are salty and crunchy and yummy and..deep fried. Right.

Ok, we ALSO HAVE PICKLES. Which have lots of sodium, but NO CALORIES!!! Really! It says "0" right there on the label, because cucumbers are one of those fake vegetables that are mostly water and aren't actually good for you, especially after they've sat in a vat of brine, but HEY NO CALORIES!

But first, ladies and gentlemen, before I could enjoy a crunchy pickle (and think of some Freudian imagery that I just got out of my head, THANKS A LOT ENGLISH CLASS), first, I had to face...the unopened pickle jar. Well. I don't know why pickle-jar-ers are still in the pickle-jarring business, because they could easily switch over to making and sealing DIAMOND VAULTS, because DEAR GOD, IS THERE A BLACK HOLE INSIDE CREATING THE VACUUM? Egad.

I attempt to open the pickle jar with my bare hands.
I attempt to open the pickle jar with my bare hands AND while making an intense face.
I naively attempt to use the jar-opener thing in the back of the kitchen drawer that LOOKS so much like it will work and I WANT it to work so badly, but it just kind of scrapes across the jar lid and then goes back in the drawer and MOCKS ME.
I run hot water over the jar, because I AM GOOD AT SCIENCE and the metal lid should expand when it gets hot.
I almost drop the jar because it's slippery when wet.

At this point, I was ready to admit defeat, and the thought flickered across my mind that I could go write a post about how I just lost to a pickle jar. I believe at this point the caffeine kicked in.

And armed with a crazed sense of determination that only the truly sleep-deprived and then caffeinated can understand, I fought the pickle jar. Bare handed. Whacked the shit out of the lid with a knife. Bare handed again. Hand cramping up, just a little more pressure, ow...did it move?

OH IT MOVED. And the seal was open and the jar made a satisfying pop, and I ate a pickle.

It was then that I realized that they were the kind of pickles that I don't like.

Monday, September 04, 2006

How to buy Jeans

1. Examine self in mirror to determine degree of bootyliciousness.

2. If low, proceed to step 3. If high, proceed to step 7.

3. Walk into store.

4. Choose pair of pants.

5. Try on (optional).

6. Repeat as necessary.


7. Consider buying a skirt instead?

8. Are you sure? They can be very flattering…

9. Or how about sweatpants? No? Ok……….

10. Find area with multiple stores in close proximity. (Malls can be nauseating, but fit requirement.)

11. Enter store.

12. See cute pair of pants.

13. Attempt to guess size in said pair. Mentally thank whoever came up with the sizing system used for women’s clothes. We wouldn’t want to use MEASURMENTS like men or anything.

14. Wind up at dressing room with 8 pairs of pants in varying sizes.

15. Try on first pair of pants, if “try on” means succesfully fit little toe into.

16. Put on next pair. Lose self in extra fabric.

17. After long and intense battle, put on next pair. The waist fits…Curse degree of bootylisciousness and Italian ancestry.

18. Try next pair. Immediately hitch up, because either your ass is too big (likely) or your waist is too small.

19. Wind up with huge pile of rejected pants.

20. Fume in general direction of pile

21. Feel ashamed at being so owned by inanimate objects.

22. Repeat at nine stores.

23. Drag exhausted self into Gap.


25. Select “Curvy” jeans.

26. Host wild rave in dressing room upon discovering that they fit.

27. Try on EXACT SAME PAIR OF PANTS in different wash.

28. Have argument with the two pairs of jeans. Insist that they are the same size and style. HOW COULD COLOR HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT?

29. Lose argument.

30. Give up, purchase three pairs of the other jeans that fit.

31. Become rich and famous, hire personal tailor, bitch-slap fashion designers

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Regarding those little round cheeses that come in red or yellow wax

If you were wondering, there is NOT a difference in taste dependent on the color of the wrapper. Cheese clothed in yellow, however, is consistently softer and creamier in texture.

Because you all cared. And because I’m now out of cheese.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Serious question

Why why WHY do some people in posession of Y chromosomes feel compelled to to share their...assessments with every passing female? Oh I have breasts? Really! Never noticed them. Thanks for the UPDATE, CAVEMAN!

/yes, I realize this conflicts somewhat with my previous post. Deal.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Tennis clothes

Ok, so I got paid yesterday. Let's recap. I work at a TENNIS camp. I took the paycheck, deposited it, and, now that I had an actual balance...ran to Sports Authority and purchased...tennis clothes.

It's a viscious cycle.

I play tennis. They pay me. I have money. There's pretty tennis clothes, which I ostensibly have a use for...because I have to go to work everyday.

Aaaaaaaand...tennis clothes are useful for so much more than actually. EVERYONE hangs out in their tennis attire for hours. Playing tennis in the evening? Well...you should get ready early! It's a socially acceptable excuse for us to prance around in short skirts and tight shirts. What? I was working out. It's healthy!

I played on a high school team for four years. Every season, the most dramatic point was when we chose our uniform. It was of the utmost importance because our skirts and tank tops became our default attire for the school day to "show our spirit" for upcoming matches.

I'm not saying it was the first thing on everyone's mind. But evolution makes for pervasive little subconsious notions. And no other girls can hiss "slut" in the hall if it's your team clothing, ohmygawd.

So if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy a shorter, flouncier skirt. My others are too long! They get in the way when I'm playing! They restrict my athletically-motivated movement!

Oh look, my tennis shoes untied. Guess I'll have to take care of that...what are you LOOKING at?

Monday, August 21, 2006

Roller Coasters Count As Caffeine

OOOOooooooooooooohhhhhhhh I went to six flags today and I'm STILL HIGH. Superman: Ride of Steel is possibly the greatest thing on the planet.

I love roller coasters and anything like them. If you can be launched out of it, ski down it, climb up it, make it go really fast, or any combination of the above, I'm so there. It's about hacking your body, similar, I suppose, to coffee. "Surviving" the perceived threat of the roller coaster triggers a flight or flight response and an accompanying adrenalin rush.

The demands of the general public have, thankfully, encouraged innovation with roller coasters. New designs like floorless, suspended, inverted, launched, flying, or pipeline show more and more ways to scare and disoriented us. Sick as some of those coasters look, I'm still a sucker for the classic--a really big-ass drop.

Superman handily meets this requirement, sending riders plummeting 221 feet at an incredibly steep angle. This produces for the rider more than ten seconds of what is known by coaster buffs as "airtime." The technical description is that you feel weightless. The actual description....well, I'll try.

To get the full experience, you MUST put your hands over your head. As you crest the hill and gaze down at the teeny looking surroundings, every reflex you have is telling you not to, which is exactly why you should. And you FALL. You're more than floating because you're moving so rapidly. Many people try to simplify it as your "stomach coming up into your throat" but it's more than that. You feel like you're being torn apart--not painfully, but like your body is being converted into pure light energy. You're dancing on a molecular level. It's like dying and being born simultaneously. It's like living everything in one instant.

It's like getting out of the cars and not quite being able to walk yet because you haven't collected yourself from 221 feet up.

It's like the smile you can't seem to lose.

It fades, sadly, but it takes a while, and it's so tempting to get back in line. You want to live your whole life like that, up so high, but it would be too intense for your mortal self, body and mind.

But when it gets bad, you can remember what it was like to fly.

And then you can go home and write a trying-way-too-hard-to-be-poignant post that REEKS of your very teenageness on your by-definition-narcissistic blog.

But you don't really care that it sounds dumb, because you went on fucking Superman.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Fatal mistake

I made a huge tactical error today. I gave a piggyback to Sarah. Sarah is five and teeny. I forgot, however, that if you give a piggyback to one kid, IT’S NOT FAIR. Even if some of the other kids are twelve and taller than you.

Suffice it to say, my back hurts.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

More child psychology

In an effort to keep the kids remotely interested in tennis instead of, say, a passing earthworm at the back of the court, we play a lot of games. Several games require choosing a kid to be “It” first. Oh joy.

Kids do not accept guessing the number that I am thinking of. I obviously changed the number when they guessed right.

Kids do not accept spinning a racket. I spun it wrong.

Kids do not accept me pointing at someone with my eyes closed. I peeked.

Rocks-paper-scissors shoot, however? That’s law.

I suppose that a more motivated person would analyze that the child is more “involved” in that process and thus feels a greater sense of “control,” making him less likely to question the outcome of the decision.

All I know is that on my court, paper beats rock, dude.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

I have SKILLZ, yo.

Any amateur can fall out of a chair.

It takes a pro to trip over a DDR mat, smash her foot on a filing cabinet, lose her balance and collapse into the chair, sail halfway across the room riding said chair, crash into a table, and THEN fall out of the chair.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

I am so fucking good

That’s right people. I oooooooooooown. I am the master of six year-old psychology. *inhales* Ok, I’m calm now.

As I mentioned, I teach tennis to small, charming children. I’ve held several jobs as instructor of one kind of sport or another, and have thus noticed that this job comes with one “extra-fun” aspect: PICKING UP THE GODDAMN BALLS.

Think about it. Soccer, baseball, football, basketball—they all use one ball per TWO TEAMS of kids—maybe a few extra for passing practice. You rarely exceed the golden ratio of one ball per kid. Tennis, in the infinite wisdom of the bored upper-class who designed the damn game, requires, oh……FIFTY balls per kid. I have a small hopper and it holds over 300 of the elusive things. Convincing the six year olds to pick them up? A challenge.

There’s a few tricks that we all use. “Oh, let’s see if you guys can BREAK THE WORLD RECORD TIME for picking up the balls!!!” (The world record time is, conveniently, exactly two seconds more than however long it takes them.)

You can encourage them to build pyramids on their rackets. (Highly prone to backfiring when said pyramids inevitably collapse, rescatteirng the balls.)

The above is NOT the surest way to backfire. That honor belongs to having a contest for whoever picks up the most balls. They WILL figure out that it is easier to steal the balls from each others’ rackets.

So. Amidst all of these half-failures, there has emerged one winner. The strong. The victorious. THE method. As the creator, I like to refer to it as “Lying through one’s teeth.”

It’s very simple. When it’s time to pick up the balls, I don’t say anything. I start to pick them up myself. Slowly.

Eventually, one child (8 to 5 that it’s a girl) will start to also pick up the balls and/or ask me what I’m doing. Acting at this point is key.

“Oh no,” I say in a serious tone. “Only grown-ups can pick up the balls. You guys just wait ‘till I’m done.”

Did I just see seven kids with ARMFULS of balls? Oh yeah.

I can pretend not to notice for two or three rotations, which is about an hour. When I “see” them yellow-handed, I usually announce in a low tone that since they were SO GOOD today and SO GROWN-UP, we can keep it a secret. (For maximum effect, pinky-swear.)

I suppose I shouldn’t be so proud of outsmarting a group of first-graders, but I no longer really care.

Monday, August 07, 2006


Ok, this has bothered me for a while.

I had a major assignment that was a senior graduation requirement. Given my aweomse time management skills, it was done in an…interesting frame of mind. The WORST part was not the thesis paper. It was the “process” journals that were supposed to be pre-writing. Mine, of course wound up being post-writing. I lie.

So, at that point, I was at the really interesting part of a two day no sleep/caffeine high and the journals were…interesting. I was actually kind of proud of my crazy ranting because it was a pretty good representation not only of my point, but of my frame of mind at the time. Often seen, rarely captured.

Long story short: SHE DIDN’T READ THE JOURNALS. Probably a good thing. Less work for her, better grades for us. But…I WROTE IT DAMMIT. READ IT.

So. When my blog becomes amazingly famous and I retire to live off the ad revenue, I will have an audience. In preparation for that time, I’ve uploaded the paper and the journals. It’s a freaky insight into the mind of someone who’s really really really really really really really really really chemically and just in general beyond reality. But I’m not dead yet so it isn’t artistic. Whatever.

The freaking journals. The first few are blah. It gets…..interesting in the last one.

And you might as well read the paper.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

How to Lose It

1. Wake up late. Extra points for setting your alarm clock to P.M. instead of A.M.

2. Rush into work to discover that you have forgotten the granola bar you were going to eat for breakfast.

3. And your water bottle.

4. Glare at the thermometer that ALREADY reads 95 degrees, IN THE SHADE.

5. Discover that one of your co-workers is sick, screwing up the rotation, and that you will have to again take the youngest group of kids.

6. Realize that it’s the day of the dreaded “groundstroke test.” (This involves EACH KID hitting, or in most cases not hitting, twenty balls in specified areas of the court. Organizing the targets takes forever, the kids refuse to stay in line, and it sucks big time.)

7. Examine contents of tennis bag. Offer other co-worker a broken hair elastic, four nickels, three extra grips, a wristband, and one slightly used can of bug spray in exchange for trading groups of kids.

8. Get brutally shot down.

9. Inadvertently choose the basket that is secretly broken and spills the balls every five minutes.

10. Snap at the fifth kid who informs you that “it’s hooooooooooooooooot. I don’t wanna.

11. Take water breaks every five minutes. Ignore scowling boss.

12. Consider hiring self out as lawn sprinkler, based on perspiration level.

12. Convince children that the groundstroke test will be “fun.” Clap hand over mouth of repeat camper who knows better.

13. Organize court, sweaty line of children for groundstroke test.

14. Hit three balls to first kid.

15. Regret frequent water breaks when three children announce that they have to go to the bathroom.

16. Scout around for boss to see if she can take the aforementioned whiny kids.

17. Boss absent. Suspect she has sneaked off to car or other air-conditioned place.

18. Gather entire group of six-year olds. Schlep approximatley six hundred miles to building with bathrooms.

19. Arrive at building. Take headcount.

20. Corrall adventurous child still in parking lot.

21. Corrall other children running down hallway in opposite direction of bathrooms.

22. Ask children not using bathroom if they are SURE they don’t have to go.

23. Suggest they should maybe check anyway.

24. They’re sure, right?

25. Plod six hundred miles back to courts.

26. Begin to re-set up for groundstroke test.

27. Chase down errant targets that children on other court are now using for hats.

28. Restart groundstroke test.

29. Lie to suddenly present boss that you’re “almost done” with the test. Yes, I know we’re supposed to be done by 11. Don’t worry!”

30. Hit two balls to kid. Feel tug on tennis skirt.

31. It’s Tommy.

32. He has.

To go.


Monday, July 31, 2006

Unexpected job perk

At camp, today was the weekly“Wacky Hair Day.” Given that I haul my ass out of bed approximately three minutes before I have to be at work, I have one standby entry—bedhead. Today, however, a particularly enthusiastic eight year old was not satisfied with my (lack of) style.

So she snuck up behind me with a can of that weird colored hair spray and dyed my hair purple.

And I thanked her later, because your day is always better when you have neon hair.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Hopefully her parents won't mind

Today the World’s Cutest Child informed me that I looked “just like Maria [Sharapova] on TV.”

Did I mention that I was going to kidnap her?

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

World's Cutest Child

I discovered today that one of our intrepid tennis campers is the World’s Cutest Child. Seriously. In addition to looking the part (Hello Kitty barretts holding her pigtails and she has HUGE eyes), she acts the part.

Example: I made the mistake of grabbing the broken basket of tennis balls. Long story short, it dumps out a hundred and fifty balls every five minutes. Tons of fun. I happened to be on the other side of the net attempting to correct some poor kid’s backhand. The World’s Cutest Child walked up to the basket to put some balls in it. As luck would have it, it collapsed right then. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her eyes get EXTRA big, complete with teeny hands covering mouth. She, mercifully, was able to gather all the balls while I was still on the other side. Then she walked up to me and earnestly said “I accidentally knocked over all the balls but I picked them up.” *look sad and serious* “Are you mad?” *lip quiver*

It’s generally bad form to physically melt from cuteness while on the job, so I’m going to kidnap her for later.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Interesting Discovery

English class on 1.5 hours of sleep: no problem

History class on 1.5 hours of sleep: still no problem

Chemistry on 1.5 hours of sleep: will bite you on the ass, because your notes suck, but possible

AP exam on 1.5 hours of sleep: not for amatures, but good scores are still achievable

First day on job as tennis instructor to small children with THREE (that’s twice as much) hours of sleep? JUST KILL ME.

Monday, July 03, 2006

The Obligatory First Post

So. A blog.

I'd love to have an "occupation" blog (waiter, lawyer, stripper, etc.) but as a student between high school graduation and college matriculation, I don't qualify. If we're going with a central theme, it's coffee. (At this point, everyone reading this knows me, so just nod and pretend this is new.)

I love coffee, but as my title says, I do more than that. I believe in it. Our culture, hardly tolerent of any chemical enhancers, has made an exception for caffeine. (If we hadn't, the economy would have ground to a halt long ago.) Caffeine lets us stay up late and then get up early, allowing us, as humans love, to resist the boundaries naturally placed upon us. Caffeine helps us think more quickly, and occasionally, in a different way.

My general attitude and behavior is influenced in part by coffee consumption, but often, I make excuses for my hyperness, overenthusiasm, and general weirdness by blaming it on caffeine. I get many strange looks, but my life is never boring. I suppose I should have called this something else, something like I believe in exploring one's natural abilities to the fullest extent, rejecting societal norms, and in general acting like a nutcase, but that makes for a bitch of a URL. Coffee is only six letters.

And it's tasty.