The Pros and Cons of purchasing a live tree:
Pros:
1) Smells of Christmas. Is there anything better than waking up in the morning and smelling the glorious aroma of pine wafting through the house? And it's even better knowing that it is not a Glade air-freshener that you plugged into the wall last night, but the actual scent of Christmas, emanating from a living thing which now resides in your living room, garbed in all the tinsel and ornaments of the season.
2) Just feels right. There is something traditional and homey about picking out a tree, bringing it home and inducting it into the family for a few wonderful, holiday-spirit filled weeks.
Well, that's just about it for the pros...
Cons:
1) You have to trim it. If you don't trim the tree, it will not look pretty, it will look like, well, a tree, with fingery branches and uneven needles.
2) Bald spots. Unlike fake trees which are manufactured to have even branch distribution, real trees, like real people, can sometimes acquire bald spots. And when I say sometimes, I mean all the time. Pine-pattern baldness is a rising epidemic in American populations of Pine, Douglas Fir and Spruce.
3) You have to water it. Fake trees are a lot less like pets and a lot more like, well, Christmas decorations. So keep that in mind when making the decision to buy a tree next Christmas.
4) It sheds. Also like a pet. Better hope you got some extra vacuum bags in your stocking from Santa this year. You're going to need them.
5) Ridiculously short life span. Even with the proper amount of watering, you cannot reasonably expect a live tree to stay live for more than a month after being decapitated. So, unlike the rest of us normal Americans, you will probably be putting up your Christmas tree the week before Christmas which means that you will not only look like a Scrooge but will probably feel like one as well.
6) Sap. It's going to get on your hands when you bring the tree into the house. It's going to get on your ornaments when you're decorating the tree. It's going to get on your carpet while the tree is sitting patiently, awaiting Christmas. It's going to get on your hands when you take the tree out of the house.
7) Nasty Surprises. When I say nasty, I do mean nasty. Particularly here in Florida where it is warm enough in the winter for little critters to live quite comfortably in those branches. Time for a flashback! Everyone, close your eyes and imagine with me... Actually, don't close your eyes, then you wouldn't be able to read the flashback. Okay, here we go:
As you've probably guessed, this year my family bought a live tree. When we were bringing it into the house, we found a snake skin in tree. We laughed nervously and tossed it into the grass. That should have been our sign. Instead, we took the tree inside and set it up. So, after a while the tree died, having been neglected in the watering department, and it was looking pretty sad by Christmas time. The day after Christmas we had decided to take down the tree and throw it out. Before we could do so, I had to put the opened gifts away, as they were still somewhat strewn across the living room floor. While picking up, I noticed a baby praying mantis. I jumped a little, more startled than frightened, and asked my younger sister to rescue the small, twiggy thing and take it outside. We started wondering how it had even gotten inside. Emma suggested that perhaps there had been an egg sac in the Christmas tree and then, simultaneously, almost in slow motion, we all looked up. All over the wall and the ceiling, at least fifty of these creepy little bugs. And who knows how many were still in the tree! Now the quest to get the tree out of the house was even more urgent. Luckily, with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and, on the part of my environmentally aware younger sister, a small plastic cup, our house is now praying mantis free, but it was still a very disturbing hour and a half.
Let this be a lesson: Do not buy a live tree, particularly if you are a Floridian. Not only is it a huge hassle, but hideous things can happen.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Men Everywhere
So, I promised everyone that I would post something funny here after yesterday's post. At first I was nervous. How am I going to come up with something hilarious off the top of my head??? I'm not a stand up comedian!
Well, fortunately for me, and for you, I don't have to come up with my own material because people are throwing it at me in the streets.
Point in case: I walked to the UPS store today because I needed to check my mail. Sadly, there was nothing in my little U-Box, so I was leaving, feeling depressed, when I overheard the following conversation between a young couple:
Girl: "You remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy: "...... uh...... yeah, yeah. I remember."
Girl: *skeptical* "Well, then what was I wearing?"
Boy: "Uh.... you know, that, that one dress. Looked real good on you, babe."
Girl: "You don't remember!"
Boy: "No, no, I do. Yo ass looked real nice."
Girl: "So, you remember what my butt looked like but you can't think what color my dress was? Why are you never paying attention?!?"
That poor guy. This particular couple was black, but that's not really important, because right now, millions of couples from every ethnicity, culture, country and generation are having this conversation. Pure and simple, ladies: men everywhere are drawing a blank on what their girlfriend wore last Friday night.
It's because we have too many clothes. They can't keep track of all of that, and if they can, they do it somewhere deep in their subconscious, not easily recalled at the drop of a pin. So don't hate on your guy if he can't tell you the shade of magenta of the blouse that you wore on your first date five months ago; their brains just work differently.
That being said, I would like to make an exception: if the guy in question happens to be gay, chances are he remembers exactly what shade of magenta you were wearing and why it didn't work with the lipstick you'd chosen.
Boy 1: "Do you remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy 2: "Yes, I remember what you were wearing. And I remember those shoes you were wearing, too." *shakes head* "Unh-uh."
Well, fortunately for me, and for you, I don't have to come up with my own material because people are throwing it at me in the streets.
Point in case: I walked to the UPS store today because I needed to check my mail. Sadly, there was nothing in my little U-Box, so I was leaving, feeling depressed, when I overheard the following conversation between a young couple:
Girl: "You remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy: "...... uh...... yeah, yeah. I remember."
Girl: *skeptical* "Well, then what was I wearing?"
Boy: "Uh.... you know, that, that one dress. Looked real good on you, babe."
Girl: "You don't remember!"
Boy: "No, no, I do. Yo ass looked real nice."
Girl: "So, you remember what my butt looked like but you can't think what color my dress was? Why are you never paying attention?!?"
That poor guy. This particular couple was black, but that's not really important, because right now, millions of couples from every ethnicity, culture, country and generation are having this conversation. Pure and simple, ladies: men everywhere are drawing a blank on what their girlfriend wore last Friday night.
It's because we have too many clothes. They can't keep track of all of that, and if they can, they do it somewhere deep in their subconscious, not easily recalled at the drop of a pin. So don't hate on your guy if he can't tell you the shade of magenta of the blouse that you wore on your first date five months ago; their brains just work differently.
That being said, I would like to make an exception: if the guy in question happens to be gay, chances are he remembers exactly what shade of magenta you were wearing and why it didn't work with the lipstick you'd chosen.
Boy 1: "Do you remember what I was wearing Friday night at the club?"
Boy 2: "Yes, I remember what you were wearing. And I remember those shoes you were wearing, too." *shakes head* "Unh-uh."
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Tears are for the Living
Editor's Note: I'm just warning you now, this post isn't funny. If that's what you came here for and you think you'll be disappointed, come back later, I'm sure I'll have something humorous for you.
Last night I was feeling a little bit lost and a little bit (lot a bit) sad. I was confused and angry and looking for some sort of answer, something to make sense. Led by this conglomeration of emotion, I wound up flipping through the Bible at an obscenely early hour in the morning, hoping that some passage would jump out at me and suddenly shine a light on everything.
After a few minutes of frustrated page turning, I decided to just settle in, read a few stories and go to sleep, so I turned to John. I had just started reading the story of Lazarus (Chapter 11), the one who was raised from the dead, and instead of feeling happy, like I normally do when reading that story, I became angry. Jesus raised this man from the dead. He can work miracles, so why Lazarus and not my Dad? I'm not saying that I was expecting Him to raise the dead for me, but is a little bit (lot a bit) of healing too much to ask?
Still frustrated, I kept reading. Both Mary and Martha come to Jesus and say "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." I found myself thinking, "Lord, if you had been there... weren't you there?" But shortly after this, John goes on to write,
I read that line and I was suddenly crying.
Don't you see? Jesus did not weep for Lazarus, because He knew that Lazarus would be alive again. He wept for Mary and Martha, the people whose lives had been shattered, whose hearts were torn open, who felt loss and grief and loneliness. He wept for their sorrows, but not for Lazarus.
In the same way, I know that He did not weep for my Daddy, nor does He. He may weep for us, those of us left without a father, a husband, a brother, a son, a friend... in fact, I'm sure He does, and that gives me comfort to know that God feels my sorrow and heartache, to know that He understands. God, too, watched someone that He loved pray for death to end his last struggling breaths; He knows anguish and loss and mourning. So, yes. Jesus wept for Mary and Martha, and He weeps for me and my family whenever we cry out of loneliness or anger or fear. But He did not weep for Lazarus because He was soon to raise him back to life. How much better is it that He was not weeping when my Daddy died because He was raising him not to life on this earth but to eternal life? How could Jesus cry at death when He is so busy welcoming His faithful child into Heaven?
That was my answer.
Having an answer doesn't make the sadness go away, but it makes it easier to bear, knowing that God doesn't watch from afar, unmoved by my tears, but rather sheds tears of His own. It's like a hand to hold in the darkness, or a tissue offered by a good friend. It doesn't make the bad go away, but it's better than suffering alone.
Last night I was feeling a little bit lost and a little bit (lot a bit) sad. I was confused and angry and looking for some sort of answer, something to make sense. Led by this conglomeration of emotion, I wound up flipping through the Bible at an obscenely early hour in the morning, hoping that some passage would jump out at me and suddenly shine a light on everything.
After a few minutes of frustrated page turning, I decided to just settle in, read a few stories and go to sleep, so I turned to John. I had just started reading the story of Lazarus (Chapter 11), the one who was raised from the dead, and instead of feeling happy, like I normally do when reading that story, I became angry. Jesus raised this man from the dead. He can work miracles, so why Lazarus and not my Dad? I'm not saying that I was expecting Him to raise the dead for me, but is a little bit (lot a bit) of healing too much to ask?
Still frustrated, I kept reading. Both Mary and Martha come to Jesus and say "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." I found myself thinking, "Lord, if you had been there... weren't you there?" But shortly after this, John goes on to write,
33. When Jesus saw her [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. 34. "Where have you laid him?" He asked.
"Come and see, Lord" they replied.
35. Jesus wept.
I read that line and I was suddenly crying.
Don't you see? Jesus did not weep for Lazarus, because He knew that Lazarus would be alive again. He wept for Mary and Martha, the people whose lives had been shattered, whose hearts were torn open, who felt loss and grief and loneliness. He wept for their sorrows, but not for Lazarus.
In the same way, I know that He did not weep for my Daddy, nor does He. He may weep for us, those of us left without a father, a husband, a brother, a son, a friend... in fact, I'm sure He does, and that gives me comfort to know that God feels my sorrow and heartache, to know that He understands. God, too, watched someone that He loved pray for death to end his last struggling breaths; He knows anguish and loss and mourning. So, yes. Jesus wept for Mary and Martha, and He weeps for me and my family whenever we cry out of loneliness or anger or fear. But He did not weep for Lazarus because He was soon to raise him back to life. How much better is it that He was not weeping when my Daddy died because He was raising him not to life on this earth but to eternal life? How could Jesus cry at death when He is so busy welcoming His faithful child into Heaven?
That was my answer.
Having an answer doesn't make the sadness go away, but it makes it easier to bear, knowing that God doesn't watch from afar, unmoved by my tears, but rather sheds tears of His own. It's like a hand to hold in the darkness, or a tissue offered by a good friend. It doesn't make the bad go away, but it's better than suffering alone.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Pretty in Pink
Editor's Note: Not a children's story.
The
setting is Plastic Ville, California. Plastic Ville is a tiny, sleepy town full
of tiny, sleepy people with plastic skin and joints that only move forty-five degrees
in either direction. But they are a happy race of people. There is no need for
moveable joints in Plastic Ville. These people know nothing in life other than
their perfectly manicured paper lawns, perfectly buffed plastic cars and perfectly
matching family sets, sold separately, of course.
At
least this is how Plastic Ville looks to an outsider. Their painted smiles fool
us into thinking that there is nothing more to worry about in life than when
the next model of house boat will be released. But for those of us who have
been there, for those of us who know,
well, it’s completely different. Allow me to tell you…
The first
person that you need to know, if you’re going to understand anything about
Plastic Ville and the people who live there, is Barbie. You might think you
know Barbie, but trust me, you know nothing. We’ll start in the summer of 1988,
shortly after the beginning of summer break.
It’s
the summer before senior year and things are looking brighter than ever for
Barbie. With her superior make, allowing for fuller hip rotation, Barbie’s high
kicks land her the role of captain on Plastic High’s cheer squad, meaning she
has a built in set of the prettiest, trendiest, most flexible friends any girl
in Plastic Ville could ask for! But don’t think that stops Barbie from making
friends outside the squad. No, Barbie is pretty and likeable, so she makes
friends wherever she goes. That’s why, at the beginning of summer, 1988, she is
throwing a huge pool party. It’s at this pool party that our blonde, vacant-eyed
heroine meets Ken, the love of her life. She knows that he is the love of her
life because he is perfect and plastic and never stops smiling. Through the summer
they spend a lot of time together and pretty soon everyone in Plastic Ville
knows that they are going to spend the rest of their lives together.
Everyone
except Theresa. You don’t know who that is? Doesn’t anyone remember Barbie’s brunette friend? Well, if you’ve forgotten
about her, you’re not the first one. Resa was Barbie’s first real friend,
before Barbie became popular and pretty, back when everyone was just a little
kid at Plastic Elementary. Now, in high school, Barbie’s grown into her looks:
she has the perfect body, perfect smile, violet eyes, platinum hair with a
perfect perm (remember, this is the eighties) and the charisma that could charm
the slobbering, rabies-filled muzzle off a bloodthirsty hellhound. Barbie’s
parents are also rich, which helps a great deal. Resa, on the other hand, has
brown hair that is curly underneath and straight on top, giving her head
roughly the shape of a yield sign. Her eyes are brown, not impossibly purple
like her friend’s; she wears overalls, has braces and is basically as blind as
a bat, so cue the glasses. But Barbie loves her, or rather Resa worships Barbie
and Barbie loves anyone who loves her.
Now,
why is it that Theresa didn’t think that Barbie and Ken would be together
forever? Jealousy, of course. Before you get upset, please understand that there
is no love triangle here. Not only does Resa not stand a shadow of a chance with
Ken, but Ken doesn’t even love Barbie, so rather than a love triangle, it's really just Barbie’s affection for Ken being deflected by his inability to
love her back and Resa’s affection for Ken being deflected by her affection for
Barbie and by her own crippling timidity.
Barbie is not blissfully unaware of
her boyfriend’s lack of reciprocation; she merely decides not to let it ruin
her senior year. Besides, he’s still a wonderful companion! They like all of
the same things and no one gives a better opinion when shopping. What more could
a girl want than a boyfriend who will not only go to the mall with her but
happily stay there long after she’s ready to go home?
As for
Ken, poor misguided Ken… Well, he is trying. Things are going well for Plastic
High’s class of ’89. Resa is doing the majority of Barbie’s homework, helping
Barbie maintain a 3.0 average (Barbie never was
the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree) and everyone is getting ready for
Homecoming. As cheer captain, the pressure’s on for Barbie to win that crown,
which means the pressure’s on for Ken to win that crown, too, although
typically speaking the captain of the football team usually wins.
Did I
fail to mention that? Ken isn’t the captain of the football team, or the
captain of the baseball team, or basketball or soccer. Rather, he’s captain of
the swim team and president of the Art Club. But he’s dating Barbie, so nobody
really asks any questions. Knowing that he needs to win this to salvage his
relationship, he does all the right things. Ken goes out and buys Barbie a
beautiful gown (pink, of course) and a matching bow tie for himself. There is a
simply to die for baby blue tux in the
window, but Ken opts for the subtler look just to be on the safe side. At the
dance, with Barbie looking gorgeous in layers of tulle and satin, Resa looking like
a slightly squashed blue cupcake that got in a fight with a hair dryer and Ken
looking like his usual charming self, the announcement is made: Barbie is the
Queen, by unanimous vote, and Ken is the King. The celebration begins.
Two
weeks later, Barbie has something to say.
“Ken,
we’re expecting.”
Yes, it’s
true. After the homecoming dance, drunk on victory and jello shots, Barbie and
Ken had signed a contract requesting that they be sent a baby. Did they mean
to? Of course not! But in the heat of the moment, even plastic people make
mistakes.
Barbie received
the notice in the mail this morning: there will be a beautiful, blue eyed,
blond haired little girl arriving within two weeks. She is mortified. Imagine
having to walk around with this secret for two weeks! And when the baby comes?
People will notice; people will stare. Barbie begins to realize that her
perfect, plastic life is about to become imperfect. She turns to her boyfriend,
the only perfect thing left in her world, hoping that he will know what to do
or at least what to say. But Ken says nothing; he just looks at her in
disbelief. And this is when Barbie goes off the deep end.
Fast
forward two weeks. Barbie’s life is not over. In fact, it looks like pretty
much the same, perfect life it has always been, except for a few details. She
and Ken are no longer a couple, although they keep up the charade for image. Her
parents agreed to raise the baby since Barbie is an only child and they are
both retired. Surprise, everyone! Kelly isn’t Barbie’s sister after all. What?
Don’t tell me you weren’t ever the tiniest bit suspicious that Barbie had a sister
so much younger than her.
So
Barbie makes it through her last year of high school, although she is sadder and
more disillusioned with life. What about Resa? Well, she finally stops wearing
overalls, at least to school, but she still spent Valentine’s Day alone,
studying for Barbie’s science test, as she is now doing all of her friend’s
homework while Barbie goes to parties with the boys from University of
California, Plastic Ville, trying to fill her empty soul and soothe her fragile
ego. As for Ken, he settles into a
comfortable role at Barbie’s side, watching her float through her last year of
high school and wondering why he can’t seem to love this beautiful girl.
You
see, things really aren’t perfect in Plastic Ville, and this is only scratching
the surface. There’s so much more to Barbie and her companions, as well as all
the other inhabitants of this tiny town. If you ever care to visit Plastic
Ville again, I could tell you how it is that Barbie’s had so many careers or
perhaps why not everything is squeaky clean in the rubbery lives of Polly Pocket
and her gang. Once you know the secrets, you understand that Plastic Ville
people are just like us, except tinier, made of plastic, and sold, starting
between $8-10, at local toy stores.
Redvines: Short List of Ingredients, Long List of Memories
So there's this little thing called candy. And I don't care if you eat it all of the time or some of the time, you know it's good. If you say that you eat it none of the time, you're lying and you know it. We all have our favorite types of candy. Some like Sour Patch Kids, some like Swedish Fish (for inexplicable reasons, they say that they are the same as Sour Patch Kids but they are, in fact, 1000% more disgusting), some like M&Ms, some like Skittles. Whatever your brand of candy, that's cool. Having a sweet tooth isn't a bad thing and sometimes it's just nice to munch on something while watching a movie or playing a board game.
Now, if you've ever eaten candy (which we've already established that you have) chances are you've heard of Twizzlers. Just in case you haven't, let me clear it up for you: Twizzlers are fake licorice treats made out of stringy red plastic, and that's about exactly what they taste like, too. Mmmm, sounds delicious, right? Of course not. Yet people buy them and ingest them. Whatever.
Infinitely more delicious are Redvines, and yet a disproportionately small number of people actually are aware of this candy's existence. Allow me to enlighten you: Redvines have been around before Twizzlers, making Redvines the original and Twizzlers the sad, flavorless copy. They have a texture that is actually like that of licorice rather than an old rubber boot and they taste like Heaven on freaking Earth.
"No, no." some of you are saying. "That's not what Redvines taste like at all! You're spreading lies, Redvines are-". I cut you off there (chloroform, useful stuff...) because I do not care if you agree with me or not. In all honesty, we could quibble about which is the better candy for years and never come to an accurate conclusion because it is all a matter of opinion. If it were a matter of taste, neither would win, because they are actually both terrible, artificially flavored sticks of sugar and gluten. Sorry, it had to be said.
"But wait, now you're contradicting yourself! You just said that Redvines tasted like Heaven on Earth. Why don't you-". Seriously, I have a limitless supply of chloroform, stop interrupting.
Redvines taste like Heaven on Earth because that's how I want them to taste. Don't you see? Redvines aren't about the taste. They stopped being about the taste when I turned seven or eight and learned to distinguish between actual flavor and just super sweet. It isn't about eating corn syrup and wheat flour and Artificial Flavor and Red 40. If it were about that, I would find something better to do, like inject pure fructose into my veins.
No, eating Redvines is about eating something that I have shared with every person I have ever cared about. And if you're feeling sad because I haven't eaten a Redvine with you, I'm sorry, it was probably due to lack of funds rather than lack of love.
Remember the Pensive from Harry Potter? And the memories were like silver liquid that they would pour into the rune inscribed stone basin and then they would be able to watch the memories as if they were actually there? Redvines are like that except that you can eat them.
Eating a Redvine I remember the time that my dad and stepmom made mixed drinks in these red striped martini glasses and drank them through redvine "straws" and we were all laughing because they looked ridiculous and they had to keep changing out their straws. I remember the many, many times that my grandma and my sister and I would buy a huge barrel of 100 Redvines and stay up late watching as many inappropriate movies as we could find on TV, or playing board games and laughing until we cried because we were all sleep deprived and slap happy. I remember sitting with my Daddy in the hospital watching Iron Man 2 and then Thor and sharing Redvines with him while complaining about the hospital alarms going on. There might have been a fire, we didn't care. We were eating Redvines. I remember watching the faces of my friends as they tried a Redvine for the first time. Some were surprised, some were appalled, some tried to eat all of them.
So whatever you candy preference, I'm sure there's one candy that brings back memories of childhood or high school or college or all three. Or, if you're like me, most candies bring back memories, but that's just because my memories attach easily to objects and smells and people.
Now, if you've ever eaten candy (which we've already established that you have) chances are you've heard of Twizzlers. Just in case you haven't, let me clear it up for you: Twizzlers are fake licorice treats made out of stringy red plastic, and that's about exactly what they taste like, too. Mmmm, sounds delicious, right? Of course not. Yet people buy them and ingest them. Whatever.
Infinitely more delicious are Redvines, and yet a disproportionately small number of people actually are aware of this candy's existence. Allow me to enlighten you: Redvines have been around before Twizzlers, making Redvines the original and Twizzlers the sad, flavorless copy. They have a texture that is actually like that of licorice rather than an old rubber boot and they taste like Heaven on freaking Earth.
"No, no." some of you are saying. "That's not what Redvines taste like at all! You're spreading lies, Redvines are-". I cut you off there (chloroform, useful stuff...) because I do not care if you agree with me or not. In all honesty, we could quibble about which is the better candy for years and never come to an accurate conclusion because it is all a matter of opinion. If it were a matter of taste, neither would win, because they are actually both terrible, artificially flavored sticks of sugar and gluten. Sorry, it had to be said.
"But wait, now you're contradicting yourself! You just said that Redvines tasted like Heaven on Earth. Why don't you-". Seriously, I have a limitless supply of chloroform, stop interrupting.
Redvines taste like Heaven on Earth because that's how I want them to taste. Don't you see? Redvines aren't about the taste. They stopped being about the taste when I turned seven or eight and learned to distinguish between actual flavor and just super sweet. It isn't about eating corn syrup and wheat flour and Artificial Flavor and Red 40. If it were about that, I would find something better to do, like inject pure fructose into my veins.
No, eating Redvines is about eating something that I have shared with every person I have ever cared about. And if you're feeling sad because I haven't eaten a Redvine with you, I'm sorry, it was probably due to lack of funds rather than lack of love.
Remember the Pensive from Harry Potter? And the memories were like silver liquid that they would pour into the rune inscribed stone basin and then they would be able to watch the memories as if they were actually there? Redvines are like that except that you can eat them.
Eating a Redvine I remember the time that my dad and stepmom made mixed drinks in these red striped martini glasses and drank them through redvine "straws" and we were all laughing because they looked ridiculous and they had to keep changing out their straws. I remember the many, many times that my grandma and my sister and I would buy a huge barrel of 100 Redvines and stay up late watching as many inappropriate movies as we could find on TV, or playing board games and laughing until we cried because we were all sleep deprived and slap happy. I remember sitting with my Daddy in the hospital watching Iron Man 2 and then Thor and sharing Redvines with him while complaining about the hospital alarms going on. There might have been a fire, we didn't care. We were eating Redvines. I remember watching the faces of my friends as they tried a Redvine for the first time. Some were surprised, some were appalled, some tried to eat all of them.
So whatever you candy preference, I'm sure there's one candy that brings back memories of childhood or high school or college or all three. Or, if you're like me, most candies bring back memories, but that's just because my memories attach easily to objects and smells and people.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Wish List
Dear Santa,
I usually don't write a wish list, because I have everything that I need. But this year I figured, what the heck. I've been through quite a lot this year, so I suppose that makes me eligible for the "Nice List". I'm going to try to keep my list concise, mostly because I hate asking for a lot of stuff. It feels greedy and selfish. Also, the thing I really want, well Santa, you can't give that to me. I know you probably would if you could, since gift giving and wish fulfillment is sort of your forte, but know that I understand and I'm not angry with you, because you're still pretty great.
Furthermore, you might be wondering, Santa, why I am sending in my list so early. Well, Thanksgiving is over, which means it's officially Christmas Season. I thought that if my letter came in before most of the other boys' and girls' letters, that you would have time to puzzle out my bizarre requests.
With that being said, here is my wish list:
1) I'd like to stop being angry. I know you can't actually give me that, since it's more of a personal life change, but if you could send maybe a stress ball as a stocking stuffer, I'd appreciate it.
2) My mom put all of my boots, scarves and hats in storage. I'm hoping she'll retrieve them for me, but on the off chance that she doesn't, I could really, REALLY use some boots, hats and scarves. Ideally, I'd like all of my old ones back, since they are adorable and I was so looking forward to wearing them.
3) A mirror that doesn't tell me the wrong things. That's my way of saying that I want to look in the mirror and like the reflection every day. Again, it's more of a personal thing, but if you have a magic mirror of sorts, that might work as a training wheel kind of deal.
4) Two nice, preferably leather bound journals, although just regular bound will work, too, as long as there are a lot of pages. Check with my mom on this one, though, because she might already have it covered.
5) Lime and black pepper perfume. There's a website that has a couple of options, the lady's located out of Berkley, California. It's not too expensive, and I was thinking of buying some samples as soon as my new debit card comes in the mail. I'll let you know if the samples are any good or if this is a total bust.
6) And most of all, I want to understand how I feel, why I feel and where to go from there.
I know it's not a perfect list, mostly it just looks like I need a self-help book or two, but I figured I'd let you know that I'm still here and that I still think about you. I'm not expecting a large pile of improbable gifts under the tree this year, so don't worry too much about me, although if you can't find a magic mirror, I would at least like the journals. Oh, and a special ornament for the tree, maybe in the shape of a bicycle.
All my love,
Meghan (Making Christmas shopping difficult since 1994)
Editor's Note: My scarves, boots and hats were not in storage, like I said. They were in the same box with all of my sweaters and winter clothes. I do still require a pair of black boots, however.
I usually don't write a wish list, because I have everything that I need. But this year I figured, what the heck. I've been through quite a lot this year, so I suppose that makes me eligible for the "Nice List". I'm going to try to keep my list concise, mostly because I hate asking for a lot of stuff. It feels greedy and selfish. Also, the thing I really want, well Santa, you can't give that to me. I know you probably would if you could, since gift giving and wish fulfillment is sort of your forte, but know that I understand and I'm not angry with you, because you're still pretty great.
Furthermore, you might be wondering, Santa, why I am sending in my list so early. Well, Thanksgiving is over, which means it's officially Christmas Season. I thought that if my letter came in before most of the other boys' and girls' letters, that you would have time to puzzle out my bizarre requests.
With that being said, here is my wish list:
1) I'd like to stop being angry. I know you can't actually give me that, since it's more of a personal life change, but if you could send maybe a stress ball as a stocking stuffer, I'd appreciate it.
2) My mom put all of my boots, scarves and hats in storage. I'm hoping she'll retrieve them for me, but on the off chance that she doesn't, I could really, REALLY use some boots, hats and scarves. Ideally, I'd like all of my old ones back, since they are adorable and I was so looking forward to wearing them.
3) A mirror that doesn't tell me the wrong things. That's my way of saying that I want to look in the mirror and like the reflection every day. Again, it's more of a personal thing, but if you have a magic mirror of sorts, that might work as a training wheel kind of deal.
4) Two nice, preferably leather bound journals, although just regular bound will work, too, as long as there are a lot of pages. Check with my mom on this one, though, because she might already have it covered.
5) Lime and black pepper perfume. There's a website that has a couple of options, the lady's located out of Berkley, California. It's not too expensive, and I was thinking of buying some samples as soon as my new debit card comes in the mail. I'll let you know if the samples are any good or if this is a total bust.
6) And most of all, I want to understand how I feel, why I feel and where to go from there.
I know it's not a perfect list, mostly it just looks like I need a self-help book or two, but I figured I'd let you know that I'm still here and that I still think about you. I'm not expecting a large pile of improbable gifts under the tree this year, so don't worry too much about me, although if you can't find a magic mirror, I would at least like the journals. Oh, and a special ornament for the tree, maybe in the shape of a bicycle.
All my love,
Meghan (Making Christmas shopping difficult since 1994)
Editor's Note: My scarves, boots and hats were not in storage, like I said. They were in the same box with all of my sweaters and winter clothes. I do still require a pair of black boots, however.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Food Gifting: A Brief but Accurate History
Sometimes, little things make you want to go crazy and do something you've never done before. The little things could be anything. A song you hear, something a person says, a change in the weather.
The weather here has gotten chilly, which is wonderful, unless, like me, you don't have any winter clothes with you. A grand total of four sweaters and two quarter-sleeved shirts leaves me literally out in the cold. But I took a walk tonight to wake up and clear my head and the brisk weather got me thinking.
I realized that I want to bake. Maybe it's the idea of warm bread/cookies/scones/what-have-you coming out of the oven while the windows frost over from the outside; maybe it's the idea of the upcoming holiday season which gives me the insane urge to make ridiculous amounts of delicious food for which everyone's stomach will thank me while their waistlines curse me. More than that, though, I think it's my need to do something nice for someone who is constantly doing nice things for me. How do you repay someone for being themselves? Well, obviously you bake them a tray of scones, a basket of muffins, a loaf of fresh bread.
Food gifts are older than time itself. The first cave man to shoot a prehistoric cervidae (deer) brought it home to the first cave woman, boasting over his fine catch and offering it to her, an obvious token of his undying, Neanderthal love. Overjoyed at the prospect of skinning and cooking the bloody carcass, Mrs. Caveman took the massive thing and turned it into the first venison stew. This was before seasonings were invented, but it was still pretty damned good, and this set the standard: women give better food gifts than men. Of course, Mr. Caveman meant well, but from then on, he decided that he was better suited to giving gifts like brightly colored leaves or particularly shiny stones that he found while out hunting. Mrs. Caveman quickly amassed a large collection of such thoughtful but useless trinkets and her husband quickly amassed a larger mass.
Not all cavewomen gave better food gifts than their men, however. Not everyone had Mrs. Caveman's natural talent for turning dead flesh into something edible. Fire was relatively new and the convection oven was not even a passing innovative thought behind the large foreheads of those early people, so making palatable meals was challenging. Hopeful cavemen often received back pieces of raw meat that had merely been cut with a dull stone and arranged on a flat leaf. This was before garnishing, but they did their best to make it look appealing. There was no comparison, however, between their lackluster attempts and the culinary marvels of Mrs. Caveman and those who managed to replicate her delicate searing of deer flesh. The other cavemen quickly figured this out and chose mates accordingly.
With this going on, the poor creatures who couldn't cook, being naturally selected against, became endangered and very nearly extinct. Unfortunately, there has been a rise in the kitchen-impaired gene recently, made possible by the invention of microwave dinners and women's rights.
After a while, the human race discovered how to make bread, probably the best discovery ever made. Once this happened, it was all over. Women everywhere had the secret to making heads turn, jaws drop and stomachs rumble. Is there anything that smells better than freshly baked bread? Exactly. From there, it was a simple couple of steps to turn that bread into various and sundry pastries, which we have been baking ever since.
Therefore I think it is something genetic inside of me that calls me to knead dough, to watch bread rise, to say thank you in this manner. Of course, it's inadequate. Everything's inadequate but some traditions are too perfect to be altered.
Apart from the weather, I've also been listening to a lot of good music lately, and spending time with good, honest, down to Earth people. I don't just want to bake. That's a temporary fix for my need to DO something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to do something that will make a difference. Maybe it'll only make a difference to a few people, but that's all that really matters, right?
My dad touched the lives of so many people, just doing what he loved: teaching and being a father. I don't think he knew how much he meant to the people in his life. That's all I want. I want to mean something to the people who mean something to me. I want to be at least half the person my father was. Genetically, that's already true, so I guess I'm on the right path. I look in the mirror and I have inspiration to be someone worth knowing.
For starters, I'm collecting recipes and plotting when to unleash their deliciousness on the people who most deserve them.Be prepared.
The weather here has gotten chilly, which is wonderful, unless, like me, you don't have any winter clothes with you. A grand total of four sweaters and two quarter-sleeved shirts leaves me literally out in the cold. But I took a walk tonight to wake up and clear my head and the brisk weather got me thinking.
I realized that I want to bake. Maybe it's the idea of warm bread/cookies/scones/what-have-you coming out of the oven while the windows frost over from the outside; maybe it's the idea of the upcoming holiday season which gives me the insane urge to make ridiculous amounts of delicious food for which everyone's stomach will thank me while their waistlines curse me. More than that, though, I think it's my need to do something nice for someone who is constantly doing nice things for me. How do you repay someone for being themselves? Well, obviously you bake them a tray of scones, a basket of muffins, a loaf of fresh bread.
Food gifts are older than time itself. The first cave man to shoot a prehistoric cervidae (deer) brought it home to the first cave woman, boasting over his fine catch and offering it to her, an obvious token of his undying, Neanderthal love. Overjoyed at the prospect of skinning and cooking the bloody carcass, Mrs. Caveman took the massive thing and turned it into the first venison stew. This was before seasonings were invented, but it was still pretty damned good, and this set the standard: women give better food gifts than men. Of course, Mr. Caveman meant well, but from then on, he decided that he was better suited to giving gifts like brightly colored leaves or particularly shiny stones that he found while out hunting. Mrs. Caveman quickly amassed a large collection of such thoughtful but useless trinkets and her husband quickly amassed a larger mass.
Not all cavewomen gave better food gifts than their men, however. Not everyone had Mrs. Caveman's natural talent for turning dead flesh into something edible. Fire was relatively new and the convection oven was not even a passing innovative thought behind the large foreheads of those early people, so making palatable meals was challenging. Hopeful cavemen often received back pieces of raw meat that had merely been cut with a dull stone and arranged on a flat leaf. This was before garnishing, but they did their best to make it look appealing. There was no comparison, however, between their lackluster attempts and the culinary marvels of Mrs. Caveman and those who managed to replicate her delicate searing of deer flesh. The other cavemen quickly figured this out and chose mates accordingly.
With this going on, the poor creatures who couldn't cook, being naturally selected against, became endangered and very nearly extinct. Unfortunately, there has been a rise in the kitchen-impaired gene recently, made possible by the invention of microwave dinners and women's rights.
After a while, the human race discovered how to make bread, probably the best discovery ever made. Once this happened, it was all over. Women everywhere had the secret to making heads turn, jaws drop and stomachs rumble. Is there anything that smells better than freshly baked bread? Exactly. From there, it was a simple couple of steps to turn that bread into various and sundry pastries, which we have been baking ever since.
Therefore I think it is something genetic inside of me that calls me to knead dough, to watch bread rise, to say thank you in this manner. Of course, it's inadequate. Everything's inadequate but some traditions are too perfect to be altered.
Apart from the weather, I've also been listening to a lot of good music lately, and spending time with good, honest, down to Earth people. I don't just want to bake. That's a temporary fix for my need to DO something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to do something that will make a difference. Maybe it'll only make a difference to a few people, but that's all that really matters, right?
My dad touched the lives of so many people, just doing what he loved: teaching and being a father. I don't think he knew how much he meant to the people in his life. That's all I want. I want to mean something to the people who mean something to me. I want to be at least half the person my father was. Genetically, that's already true, so I guess I'm on the right path. I look in the mirror and I have inspiration to be someone worth knowing.
For starters, I'm collecting recipes and plotting when to unleash their deliciousness on the people who most deserve them.Be prepared.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
It's a Strong Word; I'm Using It
"Hate is a strong word". Thank you, Captain Obvious. Here's the thing: it might be a strong word, but I'm using it, no apologies. In certain cases, it is the only word acceptable. Allow me to elaborate.
List of things I hate:
1. Spitting. Plain and simple. It's gross. If you do it, knock it off or expect me to punch you in the face.
2. Facial Hair. Alright, this one needs a little bit of clarifying. I don't hate facial hair for aesthetic reasons and I feel like on some people it can be very impressive, but it has never been attractive to me because I do not find the idea of kissing that appealing. But if I have no interest in you and you've got a sweet handlebar mustache? Good job, I hope you wear it well.
3. Cancer Jokes. Enough said.
4. Depressing people. I understand if bad things happen in your life, more than you know probably, but that doesn't give you permission to make sure everyone else around you is miserable, too. Also, if you're misery is of your own making and you're a drama magnet, expect no sympathy from me. You don't think I have things to be upset about? Listen to some music, write an angry poem, realize that life is bigger than you and your problems.
5. People who use other people. Look, this world isn't perfect and sometimes it downright sucks. We are all humans on this planet together and if we can't look out for each other, what can we really gain from life?
6. Cheaters.
7. Super sporty guys. This category extends to guys who don't play sports but are just super jacked. It's gross. Get a life outside of the gym.
8. Horror Flicks. Seriously, what is the attraction in this? The constant adrenaline rush isn't fun enough to make up for the weeks I will later spend unable to sleep or walk alone down a hallway. If I want an adrenaline rush, I will ride a roller coaster, thanks.
9. Pronouncing "library" as "libary". No longer are we in the first grade. Learn how to speak.
10. People who use words they don't understand. I appreciate a large lexicon, this is true, but if you're using words just because you think it makes you sound smart, news flash, it doesn't.
11. Cold French Fries.
12. Ungroomed hands. I don't want everyone to pay for a thirty-five dollar mani-pedi every two weeks, but seriously? At least cut, file and wash your nails. Guys, this includes you. My dad always had the best nails of any man I knew. He cut, filed and kept them clean. It's possible, and it doesn't even take that much effort.
13. Country Music. I'm not apologizing for that.
14. Feminism. I am a strong, independent woman who happens to laugh at sexist jokes. Sorry. You want me to make you a sandwich? Hand me two slices of bread. Do I think that women should be respected? Of course, we're people, too; we just happen to be people who can cook, clean and have babies. Stepping on toes? Oh, good.
15. Guys who "flirt" by tearing me down. A little bit of playful teasing is alright, even fun. What's not fun is feeling like I can't get a word in without being ridiculed. You think you're being funny but it's solely at my expense and if I try to turn it around then I'm overreacting and being defensive. Try your methods on someone with a little less self-respect, buddy.
16. Telemarketers.
17. Apathy. This pisses me off. Give a damn about something, please.
18. Math.
19. Rap Music.
20. Talking about politics. I'm entitled to my opinions (or lack thereof) and you're entitled to yours. Doesn't mean I want to hear about them.
21. When people tell me that they prefer my hair straight. My hair is curly, get over it. I love it, so should you.
22. Mint and Chocolate. NOT a match made in heaven. Thin Mints are not my favorite Girl Scout cookie and I do not enjoy mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Mint by itself is nice, though, and chocolate alone is, well, it's chocolate, what more can I say?
23. McDonald's. I'm not going to pretend like I don't ever eat at McDonald's, but I really hate it.
24. Lack of Chivalry. This goes hand in hand with my hatred of hard core feminism. Is it so hard to hold the door for me, dammit?
25. Running out of toilet paper.
26. People who don't appreciate music. Music is life. The sooner you understand that, the sooner I'll stop hating you.
27. People who don't appreciate musical theatre. Music AND theatre. What don't you appreciate??? That being said...
28. The musical "Annie". Seriously.
29. Stupid people. You'd think I wouldn't have to state this, but you'd be surprised at how many deliberately stupid people there still are out there.
30. Jealousy. It's unbecoming of everyone. Also, can I just say that in relationships, I've noticed that the jealous one of the pair usually ends up being the cheating scumbag.
Well, that's it. I wouldn't call this comprehensive, but it's definitely accurate. Maybe I'll share more if I'm struck by inspiration later. And by inspiration I mean rage.
Author's Note:
You might be thinking, "She's done an entry like this before...". In answer to that, I'd like to say "So what? It's not actually the same thing, this entry isn't tempered with things that I like, it's just a pure unadulterated list of what I can't stand, but it doesn't really matter, because this is my blog. You want each entry to be original? Write your own blog."
List of things I hate:
1. Spitting. Plain and simple. It's gross. If you do it, knock it off or expect me to punch you in the face.
2. Facial Hair. Alright, this one needs a little bit of clarifying. I don't hate facial hair for aesthetic reasons and I feel like on some people it can be very impressive, but it has never been attractive to me because I do not find the idea of kissing that appealing. But if I have no interest in you and you've got a sweet handlebar mustache? Good job, I hope you wear it well.
3. Cancer Jokes. Enough said.
4. Depressing people. I understand if bad things happen in your life, more than you know probably, but that doesn't give you permission to make sure everyone else around you is miserable, too. Also, if you're misery is of your own making and you're a drama magnet, expect no sympathy from me. You don't think I have things to be upset about? Listen to some music, write an angry poem, realize that life is bigger than you and your problems.
5. People who use other people. Look, this world isn't perfect and sometimes it downright sucks. We are all humans on this planet together and if we can't look out for each other, what can we really gain from life?
6. Cheaters.
7. Super sporty guys. This category extends to guys who don't play sports but are just super jacked. It's gross. Get a life outside of the gym.
8. Horror Flicks. Seriously, what is the attraction in this? The constant adrenaline rush isn't fun enough to make up for the weeks I will later spend unable to sleep or walk alone down a hallway. If I want an adrenaline rush, I will ride a roller coaster, thanks.
9. Pronouncing "library" as "libary". No longer are we in the first grade. Learn how to speak.
10. People who use words they don't understand. I appreciate a large lexicon, this is true, but if you're using words just because you think it makes you sound smart, news flash, it doesn't.
11. Cold French Fries.
12. Ungroomed hands. I don't want everyone to pay for a thirty-five dollar mani-pedi every two weeks, but seriously? At least cut, file and wash your nails. Guys, this includes you. My dad always had the best nails of any man I knew. He cut, filed and kept them clean. It's possible, and it doesn't even take that much effort.
13. Country Music. I'm not apologizing for that.
14. Feminism. I am a strong, independent woman who happens to laugh at sexist jokes. Sorry. You want me to make you a sandwich? Hand me two slices of bread. Do I think that women should be respected? Of course, we're people, too; we just happen to be people who can cook, clean and have babies. Stepping on toes? Oh, good.
15. Guys who "flirt" by tearing me down. A little bit of playful teasing is alright, even fun. What's not fun is feeling like I can't get a word in without being ridiculed. You think you're being funny but it's solely at my expense and if I try to turn it around then I'm overreacting and being defensive. Try your methods on someone with a little less self-respect, buddy.
16. Telemarketers.
17. Apathy. This pisses me off. Give a damn about something, please.
18. Math.
19. Rap Music.
20. Talking about politics. I'm entitled to my opinions (or lack thereof) and you're entitled to yours. Doesn't mean I want to hear about them.
21. When people tell me that they prefer my hair straight. My hair is curly, get over it. I love it, so should you.
22. Mint and Chocolate. NOT a match made in heaven. Thin Mints are not my favorite Girl Scout cookie and I do not enjoy mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Mint by itself is nice, though, and chocolate alone is, well, it's chocolate, what more can I say?
23. McDonald's. I'm not going to pretend like I don't ever eat at McDonald's, but I really hate it.
24. Lack of Chivalry. This goes hand in hand with my hatred of hard core feminism. Is it so hard to hold the door for me, dammit?
25. Running out of toilet paper.
26. People who don't appreciate music. Music is life. The sooner you understand that, the sooner I'll stop hating you.
27. People who don't appreciate musical theatre. Music AND theatre. What don't you appreciate??? That being said...
28. The musical "Annie". Seriously.
29. Stupid people. You'd think I wouldn't have to state this, but you'd be surprised at how many deliberately stupid people there still are out there.
30. Jealousy. It's unbecoming of everyone. Also, can I just say that in relationships, I've noticed that the jealous one of the pair usually ends up being the cheating scumbag.
Well, that's it. I wouldn't call this comprehensive, but it's definitely accurate. Maybe I'll share more if I'm struck by inspiration later. And by inspiration I mean rage.
Author's Note:
You might be thinking, "She's done an entry like this before...". In answer to that, I'd like to say "So what? It's not actually the same thing, this entry isn't tempered with things that I like, it's just a pure unadulterated list of what I can't stand, but it doesn't really matter, because this is my blog. You want each entry to be original? Write your own blog."
Monday, October 15, 2012
Friends and Fruit
First of all, can we take a moment to appreciate my lovely mother? Parents' weekend, an arbitrary weekend when, for some reason or other, it becomes fashionable to drive insane distances to visit your independent college students and subject them to mortification or at the very least boredom, was this past weekend. This tradition is boring and annoying unless your parents don't happen to come, in which case it leaves you feeling a little left out, despite the fact that your parents have very good reasons for being absent.
Well, this is how I felt this parents' weekend. My friends were out and about with their own parental units while I was lying around in my room, feeling "under the weather". Apart from feeling vaguely lonely, though, I was more than fine. I had time to do a great deal of homework, I pretended like I was a composer and wrote a song, and I got reacquainted with my good friend, Netflix. On Sunday, when parents' weekend was effectively over, I received a call from a strange number.
"Hi, this is Ben from Edible Arrangements."
My heart stops.
"....yes?"
"Is this Meghan Crawford?"
"...yes..."
"Can you come downstairs and let me into Landis, Ms. Crawford? I have a delivery for you."
"OKAY!"
I threw my phone down and ran out of the room, my room mate trailing behind me, begging to know what was going on. There he was: Ben. Standing there, holding a beautiful bouquet of fresh fruit, he became my new favorite person in the world. I signed for the fruit and opened the card.
"Sorry we couldn't be there in person for parents weekend. We love you! Mom and Appa."
Hmm, no apostrophe after "parents"... Oh, well, I have delicious fruit!
So that's how Parents' Weekend went from being an apathetic couple of days spent holed up in my room to a wonderful few hours of surprise and fruit.
That's my Mama. So thoughtful and sweet. She remembered that I am at college, also known as the land of only apples and bananas, and so she thought to send me some real fruit. I love her.
Do you know who else I love? My best friend. She's a couple hundred miles away, but it doesn't really matter. If I need to unnecessarily freak out about something, she knows exactly what to do, depending on the situation: if it's a guy, she freaks out along with me; if it's my family, she freaks out along with me; if it's school work, she freaks out along with me; in fact, it's safe to say that whatever it is, I can count on her for a sympathy freak out. Because, as everyone knows, it is always better to freak out in good company than alone.
She's pretty much the only person who understands that I need to be a spaz every once in a while in order to function properly on a regular basis. It probably doesn't hurt that she's a spaz, too. So we freak out together, and act manic depressive together, and drink tea together over Skype. This is the nature of our friendship. It is solid. It is strong. We are strong.
I miss her.
Well, this is how I felt this parents' weekend. My friends were out and about with their own parental units while I was lying around in my room, feeling "under the weather". Apart from feeling vaguely lonely, though, I was more than fine. I had time to do a great deal of homework, I pretended like I was a composer and wrote a song, and I got reacquainted with my good friend, Netflix. On Sunday, when parents' weekend was effectively over, I received a call from a strange number.
"Hi, this is Ben from Edible Arrangements."
My heart stops.
"....yes?"
"Is this Meghan Crawford?"
"...yes..."
"Can you come downstairs and let me into Landis, Ms. Crawford? I have a delivery for you."
"OKAY!"
I threw my phone down and ran out of the room, my room mate trailing behind me, begging to know what was going on. There he was: Ben. Standing there, holding a beautiful bouquet of fresh fruit, he became my new favorite person in the world. I signed for the fruit and opened the card.
"Sorry we couldn't be there in person for parents weekend. We love you! Mom and Appa."
Hmm, no apostrophe after "parents"... Oh, well, I have delicious fruit!
So that's how Parents' Weekend went from being an apathetic couple of days spent holed up in my room to a wonderful few hours of surprise and fruit.
That's my Mama. So thoughtful and sweet. She remembered that I am at college, also known as the land of only apples and bananas, and so she thought to send me some real fruit. I love her.
Do you know who else I love? My best friend. She's a couple hundred miles away, but it doesn't really matter. If I need to unnecessarily freak out about something, she knows exactly what to do, depending on the situation: if it's a guy, she freaks out along with me; if it's my family, she freaks out along with me; if it's school work, she freaks out along with me; in fact, it's safe to say that whatever it is, I can count on her for a sympathy freak out. Because, as everyone knows, it is always better to freak out in good company than alone.
She's pretty much the only person who understands that I need to be a spaz every once in a while in order to function properly on a regular basis. It probably doesn't hurt that she's a spaz, too. So we freak out together, and act manic depressive together, and drink tea together over Skype. This is the nature of our friendship. It is solid. It is strong. We are strong.
I miss her.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Celery
So, we all know about the "negative calories" thing that celery has going on. The favorite snack of health conscious women everywhere. Even if they don't actually like how it tastes, at least they know that everyone who sees them eating it will think that they are super healthy.
Apart from its slimming properties (I cannot promise that you will be thin if you eat celery), this vegetable also serves another, less well-known, and harder to prove, purpose which brings me to the actual point of this entry because, as you know, I am not writing a food blog.
Celery contains androsterone, a hormone naturally found in the human male. This hormone contributes to the feelings of physical attraction suffered by women around the world. So, in a way, you could say that celery is a healthy alternative to the "feel good" feelings you get from chocolate.
I will confess to being a celery addict, although this was true of me long before I researched its somewhat questionable roots as an aphrodisiac. I don't know how much I believe that, to be honest. I think I like it because it tastes good.
But don't take my word for it, test it out. Go buy some celery. Oh, and by the way, it only works for girls. Sorry guys.
Apart from its slimming properties (I cannot promise that you will be thin if you eat celery), this vegetable also serves another, less well-known, and harder to prove, purpose which brings me to the actual point of this entry because, as you know, I am not writing a food blog.
Celery contains androsterone, a hormone naturally found in the human male. This hormone contributes to the feelings of physical attraction suffered by women around the world. So, in a way, you could say that celery is a healthy alternative to the "feel good" feelings you get from chocolate.
I will confess to being a celery addict, although this was true of me long before I researched its somewhat questionable roots as an aphrodisiac. I don't know how much I believe that, to be honest. I think I like it because it tastes good.
But don't take my word for it, test it out. Go buy some celery. Oh, and by the way, it only works for girls. Sorry guys.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Oktober Fest
Oktober Fest is something that Americans pretend to understand but will never truly grasp. Just like people who don't live in New Orleans aren't ever really sure what is so fantastic about Marti Gras. However, in typical American fashion, we celebrate Oktober Fest anyways.
"A holiday where you can get drunk for no discernible reason??? Well, heeeeeellllll, add that to the list, right next to Fourth of July, Labor Day, Cinco de Mayo, and Valentine's Day!"
To be fair, some people have very good reasons to get drunk on Valentine's Day, most of which have to do with chronic and/or crippling loneliness. Those other holidays, though? Um, yes, let's celebrate the birth of our nation with an ice cold beer. Nothing says "America" like getting sloshed. And Labor Day? Does anyone even understand the meaning of that holiday? Let's recognize the work force of our country... with a picnic and a few beers! And my personal favorite: Cinco de Mayo! It's not even our holiday, people! If you are Mexican American, then fine, but otherwise? Let's celebrate Mexican Independence Day! Yeah, that day actually falls in September. Cinco de Mayo is the commemoration of an important battle, but nice try at justifying your support of Mexican beer companies (which are actually corporately owned by Americans!).
So I'm not big on the use of holidays to overindulge in alcohol. Maybe I'm old-fashioned. Oktober Fest, however, is a German tradition which happens to involve beer. Mostly because Germans are so good at making beer. Or so I'm told. The point of all of this is that here at FSU, someone has decided to recognize Oktober Fest. At least the cultural aspects of it.
Considering that this is an educational institution, the big wigs cannot exactly endorse the drinking of large amounts of foreign ale. However, whoever is in charge of the menu at the Suwannee Room thought it be nice to serve German food at lunch this week.
I do not have any sort of personal vendetta against German food. In fact, I happen to enjoy it quite a bit. The problem is this: I was not prepared to walk into Suwannee and be greeted by loud German music and a festive atmosphere, including but not limited to, the presence of blue and silver streamers.
Blue and silver aren't even the colors of the German flag...
"Is this some kind of Ravenclaw party...?"
My room mate thinks that maybe blue and silver are the "colors of Oktober Fest". What does that mean? Well, something similar to how Marti Gras is generally associated with green and purple (and gold and blue and beads and feathers and masks and drunk people...) or how the Fourth of July is red whit and blue... like the American flag. So Oktober Fest should be green, black and red. Color scheme aside, it was just strange.
Not only was it strange, but they didn't even have a fantastic selection of food. Which is of course not Oktober Fest's fault, but rather Suwannee's. Per usual, they didn't have any desserts, which was frustrating as I love German pastries. More than anything, though, this entire Oktober Fest experience made me realize how much I wished they were serving Polish food instead. I would give anything for a Pierrogi right now.
Goal for the weekend: find a Polish restaurant in town, find a ride, stuff my face.
Editor's Note: So, apparently blue and white are the colors of the Bavarian flag, as my friends in Lederhosen told me. Yes, I have friends who wear Lederhosen.
"A holiday where you can get drunk for no discernible reason??? Well, heeeeeellllll, add that to the list, right next to Fourth of July, Labor Day, Cinco de Mayo, and Valentine's Day!"
To be fair, some people have very good reasons to get drunk on Valentine's Day, most of which have to do with chronic and/or crippling loneliness. Those other holidays, though? Um, yes, let's celebrate the birth of our nation with an ice cold beer. Nothing says "America" like getting sloshed. And Labor Day? Does anyone even understand the meaning of that holiday? Let's recognize the work force of our country... with a picnic and a few beers! And my personal favorite: Cinco de Mayo! It's not even our holiday, people! If you are Mexican American, then fine, but otherwise? Let's celebrate Mexican Independence Day! Yeah, that day actually falls in September. Cinco de Mayo is the commemoration of an important battle, but nice try at justifying your support of Mexican beer companies (which are actually corporately owned by Americans!).
So I'm not big on the use of holidays to overindulge in alcohol. Maybe I'm old-fashioned. Oktober Fest, however, is a German tradition which happens to involve beer. Mostly because Germans are so good at making beer. Or so I'm told. The point of all of this is that here at FSU, someone has decided to recognize Oktober Fest. At least the cultural aspects of it.
Considering that this is an educational institution, the big wigs cannot exactly endorse the drinking of large amounts of foreign ale. However, whoever is in charge of the menu at the Suwannee Room thought it be nice to serve German food at lunch this week.
I do not have any sort of personal vendetta against German food. In fact, I happen to enjoy it quite a bit. The problem is this: I was not prepared to walk into Suwannee and be greeted by loud German music and a festive atmosphere, including but not limited to, the presence of blue and silver streamers.
Blue and silver aren't even the colors of the German flag...
"Is this some kind of Ravenclaw party...?"
My room mate thinks that maybe blue and silver are the "colors of Oktober Fest". What does that mean? Well, something similar to how Marti Gras is generally associated with green and purple (and gold and blue and beads and feathers and masks and drunk people...) or how the Fourth of July is red whit and blue... like the American flag. So Oktober Fest should be green, black and red. Color scheme aside, it was just strange.
Not only was it strange, but they didn't even have a fantastic selection of food. Which is of course not Oktober Fest's fault, but rather Suwannee's. Per usual, they didn't have any desserts, which was frustrating as I love German pastries. More than anything, though, this entire Oktober Fest experience made me realize how much I wished they were serving Polish food instead. I would give anything for a Pierrogi right now.
Goal for the weekend: find a Polish restaurant in town, find a ride, stuff my face.
Editor's Note: So, apparently blue and white are the colors of the Bavarian flag, as my friends in Lederhosen told me. Yes, I have friends who wear Lederhosen.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Shawarma
Not everything yesterday happened the way that I expected it to. In fact, almost nothing happened the way I expected it to, apart from my usual afternoon nap. Even that was cut woefully short.
My shower was cut short by the interesting experience of having the light bulb in my bathroom die. If I were at home I would have just finished my shower and changed out the light bulb. Here, though, I had to put in a "maintenance request" online. Who knows when those guys will get out here to replace that bulb? We're looking at a couple of days of showering, not to mention peeing, in the dark. Perfect.
The Lindi Hop "Boot Camp" that I went to, which I expected to kick my butt was more of an exercise in patient than a physical exercise. Not to say that it wasn't fun, but there are only so many times you can practice a swing out in three hours without starting to intentionally step on people's toes.
And finally, the thing I had been looking forward to all day, the 10pm showing of The Avengers, the one thing I thought would go perfectly right, ended up being the worst part of my day. I thought going to see the show would be great. And for the most part it was. But it was also painful.
Of course, I'd seen it before, but since it was playing at the Student Life Center, I decided that meant it was high time I saw it again. Besides, who doesn't like seeing their favorite movies on the big screen, even the ones they could watch from the comfort of their own home?
The line to get in was ridiculous, but fortunately we arrived an entire hour early. This might seem overkill, but considering we had to stand in a nasty corner that smelled like old sweat for only about thirty minutes and we got moderately acceptable seats, I'd say that it was well worth the time we invested.
Before I talk about the movie, I'd like to say a few things about watching a movie at the SLC: it is always freezing which means that it is a proper movie theatre; they didn't turn the lights all the way down which was mildly annoying; people like to clap at funny, touching or meaningful moments in the film, so if you're one of those people who likes to hear every line the actors are saying, then the SLC might make you angry on occasion. And by occasion I mean every time you go to watch a film.
The concessions at the SLC are nice; they come in sizes like "Yoda", "Batman" and "Godzilla".
What's not nice are the lines to buy concessions. You might have gotten in early, but good luck finding a seat after waiting to buy popcorn! Or you could just do what I do, which is to forgo the popcorn buying and then listen to your stomach growl loudly and obnoxiously during the quiet parts of the movie. Why doesn't my stomach decide to let me know about its hunger strike during the car chase instead of the heroic death scene? That's an excellent question. I wish I knew the answer.
Back to The Avengers. I'm not going to pretend like this is a movie critic's blog, mostly because any of you who HAVE seen The Avengers know that it is an unparalleled paragon in the world of film and those of you who haven't seen it have been advised to do so by numerous people.
One thing I will say, however, is that you need to stay through the credits. If you are watching it play in a dollar theatre somewhere or if you purchase the DVD sometime later down the line, watch the whole thing. Disney loves to give you a sneak peek of the up and coming sequels after the first few minutes of credits and now that Disney owns Marvel (no comment) it is to be more than expected that Marvel films will do the same. In the particular case of The Avengers, there is cause to stay until the very, very end for one specific purpose: shawarma.
For those of you who are unaware, shawarma refers to Levantine Arab meat preparation which consists of placing meat (usually lamb or goat) on a spit and roasting it for up to a day. The meat is then shaved off into slices which are ether eaten alone, deli meat style, or, more commonly, used in the making of pita sandwiches. It is a fast food staple in the Middle East, Eastern Europe and the Caucasus.
If you watch the credits of The Avengers until the very end, not only will you realize just how much visual effects went into the making of the film, but you will also be treated to a rather awkward scene in which Earth's mightiest heroes are seated around a small table, shoving their faces with shawarma. I'd have to say that it is worth the five minutes of brain-numbingly dull credits. Although if you end up buying the DVD, I suppose you could fast forward through those.
"So, what about all this was the worst part of your day?" you say to yourself. "That you didn't buy popcorn? That the theatre was cold? That people clapped too loudly?" Not exactly.
See, The Avengers was the last movie I watched in the theatre with my dad. He was out of the hospital for a stint and he had really wanted to see it all summer. So on the last possible day that it was showing in town, we drove down to the theatre, bought some popcorn and soda (not something we normally do) and watched it together. A relaxing, regular day.
It wasn't really a regular day, but it was nice to pretend for a little while, and we had a lot of fun. We laughed, I cried (because I always cry during movies) and when we left the theatre, we talked nonstop about the funniest moments.
Last night was the first time I've seen The Avengers since then. I wasn't even thinking about it, I just wanted to see this great movie. Sometimes things bother me, sometimes they don't. Last night, for one reason or another, shook me. I don't think I will be sad every time I watch The Avengers, at least I hope not, because it is such a great movie, but memories are memories and even good memories can hurt.
I'm not sure why I decided to share that, maybe because it's easier to talk about it here than out loud or maybe because I'm banking on the likelihood that no one will even read this. Either way, it doesn't really matter.
Next time, I'll try to think of something more positive to write about. In the meantime, however, I'm pretty sure that there's a shawarma place near here...
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Steak
Yesterday was Friday. Several things happen on Fridays, all of which are exciting. To start with, I have my first and only class of the day: Italian. After fifty minutes of multilingual fun, I am free until Monday.
First order of business, to celebrate my weekend freedom, is a nap. Afternoon naps are delightful and, I've recently been told, are the perfect time to take a nap anyways, as your body is already at a natural low between 1 and 3 o'clock. I decided to take my nap outdoors yesterday, simultaneously getting my daily dose of fresh air, sunshine and sweet, sweet slumber.
Another wonderful thing about Fridays is swing dancing. It's a great way to meet people (unless you're antisocial like me, in which case it's a great way to pretend to meet people) and it's also a little bit of healthy exercise. I mostly enjoy swing dancing because it's where I hang out with my friends. Some people spend their time partying and "living it up". I might be biased, but I personally think my Friday night activities not only outclass everyone else's but are also more fun because I can wake up the next morning and remember everything. Yes, college is for making the most of your time, but if you can't remember the time you made, what's the point?
Following swing dance there is either dinner and a show or just dinner. Just dinner is almost as fun as dinner and a show because if you're not rushing off to the theatre, you have time to enjoy your food and you're less inclined to scream at the waiters or hurl your food at their faces. It's not their fault that they've taken thirty-eight minutes to bring you your drinks; it's Denny's. Did you really expect fancy service?
As I'm sure you've guessed, I did not go to the movies last night which is slightly unfortunate, because I was hoping to see The Avengers (Earth's mightiest heroes!), but instead of buying overpriced popcorn and drinks and sitting in a cold, dark theatre, we ate underpriced Denny's food in a well-lit environment and then met a Jewish palm-reader and an awkward guy with personal space issues. Fun times were had by all.
If we hadn't eaten so much food at Denny's, we might have gone back to a friend's house and had steak. Nobody wanted that steak. Nobody except she-who-shall-not-be-named. And she let us know it, too. But can you blame her? Who doesn't love a good steak?
You know what makes a good steak? Appropriate seasonings and then... yes, cooking it. None of this medium-rare business. I don't need my food telling me its life story while I try to cut into it, thanks.
"Yeah, so, I grew up on a ranch... Cattle ranch, yeah, how'd you guess? My name's #4563, I was something of a trend setter in the herd. Wore my tag in my RIGHT ear, not my left..."
"Sorry, #4563, I just want to eat you..."
Well, I've made myself depressed now, I think I'll go write a haiku for poor #4563.
Commence "Vegetarian Week"
First order of business, to celebrate my weekend freedom, is a nap. Afternoon naps are delightful and, I've recently been told, are the perfect time to take a nap anyways, as your body is already at a natural low between 1 and 3 o'clock. I decided to take my nap outdoors yesterday, simultaneously getting my daily dose of fresh air, sunshine and sweet, sweet slumber.
Another wonderful thing about Fridays is swing dancing. It's a great way to meet people (unless you're antisocial like me, in which case it's a great way to pretend to meet people) and it's also a little bit of healthy exercise. I mostly enjoy swing dancing because it's where I hang out with my friends. Some people spend their time partying and "living it up". I might be biased, but I personally think my Friday night activities not only outclass everyone else's but are also more fun because I can wake up the next morning and remember everything. Yes, college is for making the most of your time, but if you can't remember the time you made, what's the point?
Following swing dance there is either dinner and a show or just dinner. Just dinner is almost as fun as dinner and a show because if you're not rushing off to the theatre, you have time to enjoy your food and you're less inclined to scream at the waiters or hurl your food at their faces. It's not their fault that they've taken thirty-eight minutes to bring you your drinks; it's Denny's. Did you really expect fancy service?
As I'm sure you've guessed, I did not go to the movies last night which is slightly unfortunate, because I was hoping to see The Avengers (Earth's mightiest heroes!), but instead of buying overpriced popcorn and drinks and sitting in a cold, dark theatre, we ate underpriced Denny's food in a well-lit environment and then met a Jewish palm-reader and an awkward guy with personal space issues. Fun times were had by all.
If we hadn't eaten so much food at Denny's, we might have gone back to a friend's house and had steak. Nobody wanted that steak. Nobody except she-who-shall-not-be-named. And she let us know it, too. But can you blame her? Who doesn't love a good steak?
You know what makes a good steak? Appropriate seasonings and then... yes, cooking it. None of this medium-rare business. I don't need my food telling me its life story while I try to cut into it, thanks.
"Yeah, so, I grew up on a ranch... Cattle ranch, yeah, how'd you guess? My name's #4563, I was something of a trend setter in the herd. Wore my tag in my RIGHT ear, not my left..."
"Sorry, #4563, I just want to eat you..."
Well, I've made myself depressed now, I think I'll go write a haiku for poor #4563.
Commence "Vegetarian Week"
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Apple Pie
This post has nothing to do with apple pie(Haha! All you foodies thought that I had finally converted to foodism). I titled it as such because apple pie is something that I like or, depending on the situation, severely dislike. Now, down to business.
I have been thinking recently about all of the things in life that just really piss me off. I mostly think about these things when I see them or come into contact with them, which is annoyingly often. I've decided to share five of them with you. In order to preserve the positivity of my blog (HA!), I will also divulge five things that makes me genuinely happy. Because I don't want to type the phrases "I like" and "I dislike" thirty times before this is over, I have arranged a nifty little system. The likes will come first, the dislikes after; I will denote what I like with a period and what I dislike with a parenthesis. Allow me to give you an example (this doesn't count as one of the five things):
1. Apple Pie.
1) Apple Pie that has been served with vanilla ice cream. Well, that's not fair of me. There are plenty of other times that I dislike apple pie. If it isn't warmed properly, if the crust isn't perfectly flaky, if there isn't enough cinnamon in the composition. I'm really a fan of the caramel crumble topped apple pies, mostly because I just hate pie crust, but then I think the lattice-work on traditional apple pies are extremely aesthetically pleasing.
I gave you this example not because it is particularly important that you know how I like apple pie (although if we ever have Thanksgiving together, now you have no excuse), but rather because I don't want you to misread something later down the line and think that, for example, I like mayonnaise and dislike the smell of the rain.
Now that everyone is on the same page, we'll start for real:
1. Breakfast foods for dinner. I just like breakfast foods in general, but something about eating them at night makes me feel like I've restarted the day and now have the energy to stay up for hours and hours!
1) When the people at the dining hall only give you two pieces of french toast. Two pieces of french toast might sound excessive until you realize that they are in actuality the french toast dipping strips, in which case two pieces is criminal. Not to mention that they heap about fifty tater tots onto your plate. I like tater tots just as much as the next American, but perhaps I could trade some of this twice-fried potato for some more french toast? I'd like to choose how I have my carbohydrates, thank you.
Note to self: this isn't a food blog.
2. Vintage clothing, sundresses, feather earrings. I consider these all one thing. If you can find a vintage sundress and wear it with feather earrings? Perfection.
2) Girls who wear leggings as pants. It is also unacceptable to wear spanks as shorts. Come on, people! Now, I will admit that today, I wore leggings. However, I was wearing a very long shirt and an equally long sweater., not a regular shirt. The only thing those leggings were showing off were my legs. Also, have you noticed that the people who tend to propitiate this trend are people who... well, they shouldn't be wearing skin tight clothing, let's just put it that way. I'm not fatsist (...maybe), I just believe in wearing clothes that flatter your figure.
3. Guys who smell good. It's like kryptonite to me. So boys... I'm just kidding. There is a lot more that I consider than just smelling good, but it's certainly something that will catch my eye, er, nose.
3) Girls who douse themselves in heavy perfumes. I'm not just talking about old lady smelling perfumes. Even your Juicy Couture fruity tutti concoctions are cloying and obnoxious if you bathe in them before going out. Although to be honest, I'm not really a fan of hugely fruity colognes anyways, so that might just be me. I know that it's nice to be that girl who walks by and people get a whiff of her perfume; it's nice to be the person who gets a whiff of it, but only if it's a pleasant scent and applied in moderation.
4. Being able to sing in the shower. Recently, my shower superstar has been stifled. Dorm life can really suck sometimes.
4) College of Music majors who have really snobby and unforgiving opinions on just about everything musically related. This is so specific, but it really does bother me and I have met far too many people like that in the past month. It's okay to like popular music. It's popular for a reason! Maybe this person cannot sing classically like you can (and by the way, what makes you so sure that you're such hot stuff anyways???), but that doesn't mean that you should disregard them completely. And I don't care what you say, Andrea Bocelli has a right to be singing still, he's damned talented!
5. Afternoon naps. Sometimes life is just overwhelming. Sleeping can't fix my problems, but it can postpone them for a while. Also, apparently an afternoon nap boosts my sexiness factor. Don't believe me? Read the previous post, it's a true story.
5) Really athletic guys who just look right through me. Just because I am not super built, blonde and suffering from extreme sun exposure, also known as a tan, doesn't mean that I'm not a person. I might not be at FSU on a volleyball scholarship and I might be pale and skinny and bookish, but I earned my way onto this campus the same as anybody else and if I want to play soccer on Landis Green with my friends then I should be able to and you should treat me like a fellow human being. Well, maybe not fellow. You look a little apish yourself, might not be fully evolved yet.
The list goes on and on, or at least the list of dislikes, I've pretty much covered everything I actually like*, but I'm going to stop, save some of my other pet peeves for a rainy day.
*That's sarcasm, my dear friends.
I have been thinking recently about all of the things in life that just really piss me off. I mostly think about these things when I see them or come into contact with them, which is annoyingly often. I've decided to share five of them with you. In order to preserve the positivity of my blog (HA!), I will also divulge five things that makes me genuinely happy. Because I don't want to type the phrases "I like" and "I dislike" thirty times before this is over, I have arranged a nifty little system. The likes will come first, the dislikes after; I will denote what I like with a period and what I dislike with a parenthesis. Allow me to give you an example (this doesn't count as one of the five things):
1. Apple Pie.
1) Apple Pie that has been served with vanilla ice cream. Well, that's not fair of me. There are plenty of other times that I dislike apple pie. If it isn't warmed properly, if the crust isn't perfectly flaky, if there isn't enough cinnamon in the composition. I'm really a fan of the caramel crumble topped apple pies, mostly because I just hate pie crust, but then I think the lattice-work on traditional apple pies are extremely aesthetically pleasing.
I gave you this example not because it is particularly important that you know how I like apple pie (although if we ever have Thanksgiving together, now you have no excuse), but rather because I don't want you to misread something later down the line and think that, for example, I like mayonnaise and dislike the smell of the rain.
Now that everyone is on the same page, we'll start for real:
1. Breakfast foods for dinner. I just like breakfast foods in general, but something about eating them at night makes me feel like I've restarted the day and now have the energy to stay up for hours and hours!
1) When the people at the dining hall only give you two pieces of french toast. Two pieces of french toast might sound excessive until you realize that they are in actuality the french toast dipping strips, in which case two pieces is criminal. Not to mention that they heap about fifty tater tots onto your plate. I like tater tots just as much as the next American, but perhaps I could trade some of this twice-fried potato for some more french toast? I'd like to choose how I have my carbohydrates, thank you.
Note to self: this isn't a food blog.
2. Vintage clothing, sundresses, feather earrings. I consider these all one thing. If you can find a vintage sundress and wear it with feather earrings? Perfection.
2) Girls who wear leggings as pants. It is also unacceptable to wear spanks as shorts. Come on, people! Now, I will admit that today, I wore leggings. However, I was wearing a very long shirt and an equally long sweater., not a regular shirt. The only thing those leggings were showing off were my legs. Also, have you noticed that the people who tend to propitiate this trend are people who... well, they shouldn't be wearing skin tight clothing, let's just put it that way. I'm not fatsist (...maybe), I just believe in wearing clothes that flatter your figure.
3. Guys who smell good. It's like kryptonite to me. So boys... I'm just kidding. There is a lot more that I consider than just smelling good, but it's certainly something that will catch my eye, er, nose.
3) Girls who douse themselves in heavy perfumes. I'm not just talking about old lady smelling perfumes. Even your Juicy Couture fruity tutti concoctions are cloying and obnoxious if you bathe in them before going out. Although to be honest, I'm not really a fan of hugely fruity colognes anyways, so that might just be me. I know that it's nice to be that girl who walks by and people get a whiff of her perfume; it's nice to be the person who gets a whiff of it, but only if it's a pleasant scent and applied in moderation.
4. Being able to sing in the shower. Recently, my shower superstar has been stifled. Dorm life can really suck sometimes.
4) College of Music majors who have really snobby and unforgiving opinions on just about everything musically related. This is so specific, but it really does bother me and I have met far too many people like that in the past month. It's okay to like popular music. It's popular for a reason! Maybe this person cannot sing classically like you can (and by the way, what makes you so sure that you're such hot stuff anyways???), but that doesn't mean that you should disregard them completely. And I don't care what you say, Andrea Bocelli has a right to be singing still, he's damned talented!
5. Afternoon naps. Sometimes life is just overwhelming. Sleeping can't fix my problems, but it can postpone them for a while. Also, apparently an afternoon nap boosts my sexiness factor. Don't believe me? Read the previous post, it's a true story.
5) Really athletic guys who just look right through me. Just because I am not super built, blonde and suffering from extreme sun exposure, also known as a tan, doesn't mean that I'm not a person. I might not be at FSU on a volleyball scholarship and I might be pale and skinny and bookish, but I earned my way onto this campus the same as anybody else and if I want to play soccer on Landis Green with my friends then I should be able to and you should treat me like a fellow human being. Well, maybe not fellow. You look a little apish yourself, might not be fully evolved yet.
The list goes on and on, or at least the list of dislikes, I've pretty much covered everything I actually like*, but I'm going to stop, save some of my other pet peeves for a rainy day.
*That's sarcasm, my dear friends.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
A Little Bit of Dating Advice
So, I will be the first person to admit that I know very little about dating. I have had one boyfriend (and that relationship went so swimmingly that we decided to break things off and never speak to each other again) and haven't done much hunting around since. However, this weekend I went out to dinner with someone I met and I learned three things which I felt that I should share.
This guy that I met, I met him while I was taking a nap. Well, I wasn't actually sleeping when we met, but I was napping when he knocked on my dorm room door. I opened the door in all of my bed-headed glory and saw a tall and rather attractive boy holding a clipboard. He was registering people to vote and wanted to know if I was interested. Of course, I wasn't, but he was cute and seemed so nice that I took the clipboard from him and filled out the registration paper.
I must have looked pretty hot, because as I'm mindlessly checking boxes (gender: female, citizenship: yes, serial killer:yes no, etc.) he says, "You look like I woke you up from hibernation." Well, thank you, random voter registrar. I like to think of this as my "why did you wake me up, I was peacefully sleeping" look. It comes in a variety of shades, from mildly annoyed to murderous.
After I sent him on his merry way, wishing him luck with getting all the registrations he needed, I crawled back into bed, intent on squeezing every last, lonely minute of sleep that I could out of this Saturday afternoon. It was not to be. Twenty-five minutes later, there is another knock on my door.
Why can't I spend a Saturday holed up in my room like a loser without people interfering??? I thought as I swung down from my ridiculously high bed, feeling something like Tarzan, sans dread locks.
Open the door and imagine my surprise: Mr. Voter Registrar, without the clipboard.
It took him about two minutes to adorably stumble his way through this simple sentence "I think you're pretty cool. Do you want to hang out sometime?" Apparently hibernation looks good on me.
So we exchanged names and numbers, or rather, he gave me his name and number as he already had my information from the registration paper, and we agreed to have dinner that night. And it was that night that I learned these three important things:
1) Don't tell her that you're a communist on your first date. This sounds so ridiculous that I'm sure you think I'm joking. I'm not.
"Let me guess... you checked 'no party affiliation' on your voter's registration?"
"Uh... yes."
2) Don't make fun of her for not understanding your Miami talk. Do not assume that I will know what you mean when you tell me that you are going to "scoop me up" at eight. You don't scoop a girl up, you pick her up. You scoop up dog poop from the backyard.
3) Don't pick an intellectual movie to watch when it's already late and you haven't seen it before. Alright, so this was actually a bad one on me. I picked out the movie that we watched (Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows). It happens to be one of my favorites, but he hadn't ever seen it. I ended up having to talk him through most of the movie, not the best way to enjoy it, especially when all of your hard work goes out the window because he falls asleep during the last fifteen minutes when the entire plot climaxes and resolves!
I shake him awake. "Did you catch that whole last bit?"
"What whole last bit?"
Sigh. "I think it's time for you to go home."
"Yeah, I'm pretty cashed*." English, please! I'm begging you.
Not sure this boy will be calling me for another date. Not sure I want him to. Don't get me wrong, he was fun to hang out with and we had a good time, but the night ended on a dull note, not to mention I can't shake the feeling that I had dinner and a movie with Vladimir Lennon.
*cashed- a term used to mean tired, beat, exhausted. A shortened version of the expression "cashed out". Alternately used to mean done, finished, fed up with.
This guy that I met, I met him while I was taking a nap. Well, I wasn't actually sleeping when we met, but I was napping when he knocked on my dorm room door. I opened the door in all of my bed-headed glory and saw a tall and rather attractive boy holding a clipboard. He was registering people to vote and wanted to know if I was interested. Of course, I wasn't, but he was cute and seemed so nice that I took the clipboard from him and filled out the registration paper.
I must have looked pretty hot, because as I'm mindlessly checking boxes (gender: female, citizenship: yes, serial killer:
After I sent him on his merry way, wishing him luck with getting all the registrations he needed, I crawled back into bed, intent on squeezing every last, lonely minute of sleep that I could out of this Saturday afternoon. It was not to be. Twenty-five minutes later, there is another knock on my door.
Why can't I spend a Saturday holed up in my room like a loser without people interfering??? I thought as I swung down from my ridiculously high bed, feeling something like Tarzan, sans dread locks.
Open the door and imagine my surprise: Mr. Voter Registrar, without the clipboard.
It took him about two minutes to adorably stumble his way through this simple sentence "I think you're pretty cool. Do you want to hang out sometime?" Apparently hibernation looks good on me.
So we exchanged names and numbers, or rather, he gave me his name and number as he already had my information from the registration paper, and we agreed to have dinner that night. And it was that night that I learned these three important things:
1) Don't tell her that you're a communist on your first date. This sounds so ridiculous that I'm sure you think I'm joking. I'm not.
"Let me guess... you checked 'no party affiliation' on your voter's registration?"
"Uh... yes."
2) Don't make fun of her for not understanding your Miami talk. Do not assume that I will know what you mean when you tell me that you are going to "scoop me up" at eight. You don't scoop a girl up, you pick her up. You scoop up dog poop from the backyard.
3) Don't pick an intellectual movie to watch when it's already late and you haven't seen it before. Alright, so this was actually a bad one on me. I picked out the movie that we watched (Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows). It happens to be one of my favorites, but he hadn't ever seen it. I ended up having to talk him through most of the movie, not the best way to enjoy it, especially when all of your hard work goes out the window because he falls asleep during the last fifteen minutes when the entire plot climaxes and resolves!
I shake him awake. "Did you catch that whole last bit?"
"What whole last bit?"
Sigh. "I think it's time for you to go home."
"Yeah, I'm pretty cashed*." English, please! I'm begging you.
Not sure this boy will be calling me for another date. Not sure I want him to. Don't get me wrong, he was fun to hang out with and we had a good time, but the night ended on a dull note, not to mention I can't shake the feeling that I had dinner and a movie with Vladimir Lennon.
*cashed- a term used to mean tired, beat, exhausted. A shortened version of the expression "cashed out". Alternately used to mean done, finished, fed up with.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Cookie Dough
Alright, so I know I said that this wasn't a food blog, but I've got to tell you about this.
I went down to the dining hall because, since I live in a lovely dorm room, I have to eat most of my meals among the masses. Usually, this is frustrating but convenient. Not tonight.
Feeling more antisocial than usual, I decided to take my to-go box with me and just bring my dinner back with me to eat in the relative privacy and loneliness of my cold, dark room. I was on a mission. Get in, get the food I want and get out. It all started with the cash register lady.
She swiped my card and then, when I handed her my used box and asked for a clean one, she looked at it, looked back at me and started laughing.
"Can I please have a clean box?" I asked.
"I don't understand why y'all are always washing these boxes yourselves and then trying to get a new one. This one ain't clean enough for you?"
I sighed. The first time I used this box method, the man reprimanded me for bringing back a dirty box, although I had been told that if you bring them back dirty they will give you a clean one. So from then on I have been particularly careful to rinse the boxes thoroughly before returning them which means that they look rather clean. But considering that I live in a dorm room, I don't actually have regular access to a kitchen, dish detergent or a sponge. Now, would I prefer to have a box that has just been rinsed and still is completely wet on the inside in which to put my food or a box that has gone through an industrial strength dishwasher?
I just looked at her. She shook her head and gave me a new box like I was some kind of crazy. I hope she didn't put the box I gave her into the clean pile. Some poor, unsuspecting social recluse is going to get dysentery.
Taking my freshly obtained box I then proceeded to the Po' Boy Sandwich station. There was no lettuce left because, apparently, by eight o'clock at night the dining hall staff have decided that it's too late to actually do their jobs. Which would explain the lack of cucumbers at the salad station and the sorry state of the snicker-doodles at the dessert station.
Now, you may be thinking, what is this girl's problem? She didn't get lettuce on her sandwich or cucumbers on her salad? Big deal. And what's with those cookies, anyways?
Perhaps it wouldn't be so upsetting if things weren't always like this. And as for the cookies... It makes me sad, just thinking about it. There was no dessert to be found except for five snicker-doodle cookies. The boy in line in front of me grabbed three. If he had taken all of the cookies, I might have stabbed him with a fork. But he generously left two for me, even though they looked a little squashed.
Cookies are cookies, I thought, and grabbed the remaining two, threw them in my box and left the dining hall for my dorm. On the walk back, since it is such a long, three minute walk, I popped open the to-go box (making the two girls walking ahead of me jump like it was a gun shot) and pulled out one of the cookies. It smelled delicious, all cinnamon-y and sugary like snicker-doodles are supposed to be. I bit into it. It was raw.
Rarely will I use the word raw for a cookie. Soft, maybe; a little underdone. No. This cookie was raw. I could taste the uncooked eggs. Both cookies were raw. Perhaps the biggest disappointment of my life. Or, at least, my day.
While I promise that this will not turn into a food blog, I think it outrageous that I pay a small fortune for my meal plan and have to put up with this bunk. It should be five-star food served up on a silver platter.
And they should include room service! Can't believe I have to walk three minutes to go get food...
I went down to the dining hall because, since I live in a lovely dorm room, I have to eat most of my meals among the masses. Usually, this is frustrating but convenient. Not tonight.
Feeling more antisocial than usual, I decided to take my to-go box with me and just bring my dinner back with me to eat in the relative privacy and loneliness of my cold, dark room. I was on a mission. Get in, get the food I want and get out. It all started with the cash register lady.
She swiped my card and then, when I handed her my used box and asked for a clean one, she looked at it, looked back at me and started laughing.
"Can I please have a clean box?" I asked.
"I don't understand why y'all are always washing these boxes yourselves and then trying to get a new one. This one ain't clean enough for you?"
I sighed. The first time I used this box method, the man reprimanded me for bringing back a dirty box, although I had been told that if you bring them back dirty they will give you a clean one. So from then on I have been particularly careful to rinse the boxes thoroughly before returning them which means that they look rather clean. But considering that I live in a dorm room, I don't actually have regular access to a kitchen, dish detergent or a sponge. Now, would I prefer to have a box that has just been rinsed and still is completely wet on the inside in which to put my food or a box that has gone through an industrial strength dishwasher?
I just looked at her. She shook her head and gave me a new box like I was some kind of crazy. I hope she didn't put the box I gave her into the clean pile. Some poor, unsuspecting social recluse is going to get dysentery.
Taking my freshly obtained box I then proceeded to the Po' Boy Sandwich station. There was no lettuce left because, apparently, by eight o'clock at night the dining hall staff have decided that it's too late to actually do their jobs. Which would explain the lack of cucumbers at the salad station and the sorry state of the snicker-doodles at the dessert station.
Now, you may be thinking, what is this girl's problem? She didn't get lettuce on her sandwich or cucumbers on her salad? Big deal. And what's with those cookies, anyways?
Perhaps it wouldn't be so upsetting if things weren't always like this. And as for the cookies... It makes me sad, just thinking about it. There was no dessert to be found except for five snicker-doodle cookies. The boy in line in front of me grabbed three. If he had taken all of the cookies, I might have stabbed him with a fork. But he generously left two for me, even though they looked a little squashed.
Cookies are cookies, I thought, and grabbed the remaining two, threw them in my box and left the dining hall for my dorm. On the walk back, since it is such a long, three minute walk, I popped open the to-go box (making the two girls walking ahead of me jump like it was a gun shot) and pulled out one of the cookies. It smelled delicious, all cinnamon-y and sugary like snicker-doodles are supposed to be. I bit into it. It was raw.
Rarely will I use the word raw for a cookie. Soft, maybe; a little underdone. No. This cookie was raw. I could taste the uncooked eggs. Both cookies were raw. Perhaps the biggest disappointment of my life. Or, at least, my day.
While I promise that this will not turn into a food blog, I think it outrageous that I pay a small fortune for my meal plan and have to put up with this bunk. It should be five-star food served up on a silver platter.
And they should include room service! Can't believe I have to walk three minutes to go get food...
Welcome to the Spice Cabinet
First and foremost: this is NOT a food blog. So if you're a foodie, get out.
No, this is a blog where I share my thoughts on college, humanity, and life in general. While nutmeg is a mild, everyday spice, most of my opinions are not. Mild, that is.
In addition, nutmeg, if eaten in large quantities, is a severe hallucinogenic. I'd like to say the same for my blog, but sadly the most I hope to achieve here is a few laughs.
That's not to say that this is a comedy blog. Well, it might be funny, but trust me, I can't make this stuff up. Anything I say here is just the honest truth.
With a little bit of spice.
No, this is a blog where I share my thoughts on college, humanity, and life in general. While nutmeg is a mild, everyday spice, most of my opinions are not. Mild, that is.
In addition, nutmeg, if eaten in large quantities, is a severe hallucinogenic. I'd like to say the same for my blog, but sadly the most I hope to achieve here is a few laughs.
That's not to say that this is a comedy blog. Well, it might be funny, but trust me, I can't make this stuff up. Anything I say here is just the honest truth.
With a little bit of spice.
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