Debt for a good cause

"So what's your major?"
"Well, it was sign language. But it turns out that I hate sign language so now I'm not really sure."
"Whatever, that's fine. When I started I was a Justice and Peace Studies major. But it turns out that I hate justice and I hate peace."

Watching out for the faucet when I climb into bed

I write type this post because typing (usually) does not involve any muscles directly connected to my thighs and for the most part, I don't have to extend my arms too much, pulling on my arm pit muscles.
In recovery from this weekend, instead of icing my sorethings (by simply stepping outside) from the 2.5 mile cross country ski (hell yes) trek, I am sleeping in the bathtub. The reasoning for this is two fold:

1. With enough pillows and blankets, sleeping in the tub is very much like I remember the womb.
2. On the trip this weekend, The Future President of Africa and I were not jumping* on the bed and broke the frame. And not in the "give me a kitchen knife, chewed gum and six paper clips and this baby'll be back and running in eleven minutes" kind of broken. In the "Dude, the wood split. This shit is bro-kin" kind of way. You can't not jump in a bathtub and you certainly cannot break the frame.
   

Meanwhile, I'm also staying away from all ovens, particularly the broil feature because we also set nachos on fire at 5 am, set the fire alarm off and woke up half of the house. Sri was all, "It's fine, I have to get up now anyways." and Matt was a bundle of confusion;
"WHAT'S GOING ON?"
"Nothing, we burnt breakfast. It's all good now though."
"It's breakfast time?"
"Um. No."
"Oh."
"Go back to bed."
"Okay."
And this one? Well she slept right through it.

*Have you seen Harriet the Spy? You know, where she's jumping and then gets in trouble and then starts to not jump? It's crazy, bed-breaking fun. If your bed frame is made of porcelain or someone else pays for the repairs, you should go give it a try.

Add it to the list

My mother and I like to go places together. Especially if it involves my hair because she has great moral support and honest opinions regardless if I follow them.
Sometimes she hangs out in the waiting area reading outdated People magazines, but most of the time she wanders over to the chair to make sure I haven't started crying yet. When I'm having something spunky done at the Hair Police, she likes to start conversations with the people who left their (or any) natural hair color around the time they got their third non-ear piercing.

A snipit from last night between Mother and Lady McBlueHair:
McB: "Yeah, so I know this super hot girl who's like gorgeous and a model and has her own clothes line and whatever. And get this: she's a mechanic."
Mother: "Really?"
McB: "Yeah, she'll like call me and we'll talk about clothes and stuff and then I'll complain about a car problem and she'll be like, 'Yeah, it's your carbarator, bring it by my house and I'll fix it for you.' I think it's so hot."
Mother: "Yeah...that is hot."

She doesn't have a no-touch clause.

I received the best voice mail ever last night. It came from Whitney! who has been a vegetarian for a number of years I could guess but will likely embellish.

You have one unheard message. First unheard message sent yesterday at 11:58 pm.
"Hey. So you're either asleep or out partying [asleep] but if you get this message before, I don't know 2:00 am, I was wondering if you could call me and and tell me what a giblet is. Because I've been sitting here with my hand inside this thawed turkey for about a half an hour trying to figure out what I can pull out of it. Anyways, if you could give me a call, that'd be super. Bye!"

If you cannot see them for your self, here are the 3 best things about this voice mail:

1. Whitney!, alone in her house with her hand up a turkey's rump for a half an hour, with expectations to continue for the next two hours.
2. The complete nonchalance of giblet hunting at midnight.
3. I must know what a giblet is.

Plurals are just a suggestion

Ways to keep my piers in check:
1. Automatic foaming hand soap dispensers. You can hear these babies from a mile away.

Times I might prefer a literal slap in the face:
1. Dove Chocolate message: "Feel the promise of a warm day"

Ideas to present to the boss:
1. Pride coupons. You get two each winter and they excuse you from a day of work. Redeemable when your car stalls at Starbucks before dawn.

Recipe Thursdays

So by day I fill staplers and open other people's mail. And by night I go through boxes of things from my childhood. Except my night job pays in childhood memories, grammar errors and entertaining pictures. And award winning recipes from my kindergarten class where everyone submitted their favorite recipe for the class cookbook. Apparently I didn't eat much red meat then either:


Pot Roast

Ingredients:
chicken

1. Go shopping for all the ingredients
2. Cook the chicken on the stove for a half an hour.
3. Take it off the stove and cut it up into pieces.
4. Eat it.

I digress

"What do I need for Europe?"
"Umm...Not a shammy."
"Really? Vicki said we should all bring them."
"Do not bring one."
"Why?"
"I don't want to talk about it."

Also, this is definitely worth your time, $5 and lack of sleep. Leslie Ball has been putting on a weekly cabaret for 17 years and has titled it after her last name (This allows for much giggling which I would otherwise probably [not] be able to keep in if the show didn't start at midnight). You should go to it. And then act/sing/read dramatically/dance/juggle/juggle songbooks as you read them dramatically for the Balls (...) audience. See you there.

Concerns of personal hygiene

Nobody ever talks about Romania. So I think I should go and figure out what the story is. And you're invited.
Things Google has taught me in pre-trip internet education:

• Dracula
• Green. There is definitely green.
• EU: Coming soon to your local Romania.
• The dollar still sucks.
  
• Real estate gold mine
• Are you saying you don't want to see this in the flesh?
  
• We can stay here. They have beautiful laminate, an American-style kitchen and soap.
  

As he corrects himself on Britney lyrics

"What are you doing?"
"Blogging you."
"Me?!"
"Yes."
"I don't have a blog."

You're Indian anyways

“Let’s go camping!”
“You guys should come visit me and camp there.”
“Virginia? No way! They’ll kill me!”
“Dan, I live Lexington…it’s a population of about three.”
“Lexington?! I’m pretty sure that was one of the big…black…places for hating.”

I've got the spatula, but the prognosis is good.

If you:

• Are a visual learner
• Enjoy learning life lessons and laughing simultaneously
• Hate math and sometimes (always) internally (externally) over celebrate when a mathematical question comes easy to you.
  

You will enjoy this woman and her notecards.
They have the funny.

Change of address

I am writing to you from the tail end of the holiday-fun wrecker. The Stomach Flu.
He sought me out, swallowed me whole and held me hostage until he was sure that I watched Dick Clark stumble over his words and Carson trump his own assholeness while I noticed the ball dropping somewhere between two sips of ginger ale.
I just hope that saying about how you spend new years is a reflection of the rest of the year. Because I will be spending a lot of time on the bathroom floor with a down comforter in '08. You can fax me there.
But hey! I'm getting better! I switched from black yoga pants to gray yoga pants today!
Total sign of recuperation, right?

Resolution attempt: Use fewer commas. In writing, in life.

True Love

"Last time we broke up, he told me he was too in love with me to break up our Facebook relationship." 

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah.  It's over. For good."

"..?"

"He unfriended me."

"OH. MY. GOD." 

"I know."

There are way more from where they came from.

Eighteen children who are under four feet tall marched like a motley classroom into the theater today, while their 14 other cousins who are above five feet tall stayed at home/work/school. I was the elected elder to mediate between the adults and smalls on the adventure to the Stepping Stone Theater production of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. Under normal circumstances, I would pass up this opportunity because there are so many children and I don't really have much to say to them, but Sister came in with her clan of three plus Husband. (Including the newest edition who looks so much like Michael I could spit.)

Sadie (age almost seben) is carrying Oldest Child Syndrome almost as badly as both of the eldest children in our family and has formed a tiny, mostly deaf version of Michael and her mother combined, with a little extra sass which is only amplified when she loses one of her $2000 hearing aids. That's three zeros- none of which are covered by insurance. Ouch.

Sadie "whispers" (the whispering of a hard of hearing child is equivalent to the a normal-to-loud volume of kids who don't rely on lip reading and hearing aids) to her cousin on the left.
Sadie, people are trying to watch. No talking, please.
I'm just telling Ella a thing.
Shhh, please.
It's not about the ending!
Sadie! Quiet!
WHATEVER! YOU'RE TALKING TOO!!!!

Chair-sinking and surrounding giggling and parental judgement ensued.

Recipe for disaster. Brilliant, brilliant disaster.

I had my last creative writing class on Wednesday night and if the final chapbook that is due today were not the bane of my existence, perhaps I would take a moment to recognize the passing of such an epic classroom.
Recipe for making a 3.5 hour night class at least remotely bearable:
(1) 6'1" girl who hates writing. It absolutely helps if her name is Annie Louise.
(1) Cynical nursing major with serious fiction skills
(1) Girl who doesn't brush her hair, wears combat boots and has tattoos of trees
(1) International student from Ethiopia
(1) Girl who bases all her writing on good friends and gin. But mostly gin.
Add a couple science fiction lovers for taste and flare, a bird lover and a bird hater only if you've got both on hand and of course a brilliant professor with a mysterious past and future who you absolutely can't stand.

I am making a t shirt and it will say "Unless it involves wine, probably I don't know"

Can you get me in for a meeting in April?
Um, I'm actually-
She already approved it.
Yes, but Katie is actually the one-
I'm looking at the 8th. 2:30 on the 8th? Is it empty?
Um, well, yes, but really, I'm not-
Great, thanks Katie.

Do you have her cell phone number?
No.
Can you look it up?
We don't have a directory.
Well I need it.
Um...
Great, thanks. It's imperative that I get it as soon as possible.

Hi, this is Angela. I need the dining room on the 18th.
Okay, it's being used by Mary Angela from 11 until 2 that day. Is that you?
Well is that for me?
What's your name again?
Angela.
Oh, well this is for Mary Angela.
Well I'm Angela. Is that for me?
I'll look into it.
Great.

Hi Katie. Could you get her to sign off on this stuff today?
Um.
I need it on all three copies.
All three copies it is.


Hi. We need 60 bottles of wine.
Okay, I'll get the key.
Thanks.
Sure.

Okay, so maybe it was in the drama section

When I was young, and The Sixth Sense came out and watched it with my family, I woke up multiple times a night for the next week and a half and couldn't get out of bed because I was too paralyzed with fear that preteen Mischa Barton was going to reach out from under my bed and grab my ankles.
I'm no scary-movie queen* and sometimes have bad dreams after commercials about scary movies, but in effort to rise above what is actually a very well-made, intelligent film last night we watched The Sixth Sense and The Ring. The Ring because that is Treza's scary movie Everest. This is the woman who likes to watch scary movies in the dark by herself on Halloween night.
I would like to thank the following for making sure we didn't cry or need to borrow dry pants from someone:

• Jacob's left hand, Will's right.
• The tiger pillow
• Fitting 5 people on the futon. Coziness helps us think about fear less. There is also less room under a a futon for Mischa to hide.
  
• The Nun's complete fearlessness of everything. Probably because she has God on her side.
  

Totally have risen above, but maybe leave the movies in the car, put the TV in the bathroom at night and keep lots of things under the bed just in case.

*Last night Treza said she could only call herself this if she could rise above The Ring.

Ten Things

Things that make the the last two weeks of class easier:

1. Pictures of summer
2. Bundled children
   
3. Warm beverages. I'm currently trying to perfect my mocha hot chocolate recipe.
   
4. Pandora Christmas stations
5. Online Christmas shopping to minimize outdoor contact

Things that make it much more difficult:

1. Alarm clocks
2. Self-bundling followed by overheated buildings. I stress: we do not need to over compensate, people. I'm a huge proponent of the overheated vestibule technique that feels like a full-body blow dryer followed by entering a normal-warmth building.
   
3. Leather car seats. These are a stupid purchase, I don't care what you say. Fabric car seats stay the same temperature the whole year round and cost less. What are you people thinking?
   
4. So dark. So early. My body has a rule: If it's dark, you should be sleeping.
   
5. Trying to decide if my new Sweeney Todd poster is more scary than it is cool.
   

Vagabond Shoes. Or Uggs.

Honey, I'm home.
And I missed the snow storm. Because I was watching the nice man in the West Village make our third bowl of guacamole on the special guacamole table that he wheeled next to us. Or maybe I missed it because I was busy blowing my paycheck at H&M. Or maybe it was the night that we ate at the Italian restaurant and I had that delicious Caprese salad. And then Treza and I ordered apple pie for dessert. Or so we thought:

Apple pie served. We begin to eat and get about 1/2 way through before either of us says anything.
Me: Is yours...?
Treza: A crumb bomb?
Me: Yes.
Treza: It's....
Me: Gross? Flavorless? Tastes like baked flour and water?
Treza: Yes.
Me: I think I tasted an apple but I'm not sure.
Treza: I think so too. At first I thought it was a peach. I think someone forgot the sugar.
Italian waitress: Howz iz ze dezzzzert?
Us: Good! Great! Thanks, you can take the plates. It was good.
Mr. R: Don't lie! Tell her it wasn't your favorite thing.
Us: ....
Australian friend who lacks prudence: Yeah! Don't lie! Tell her it was the worst fucking thing you've ever tasted!!
Us: (No response because maybe if we concentrate hard enough, the chair will absorb our presence and we will be invisible)

We shopped, sang Christmas carols through the Bronx at 2:30 am, only got locked out once and never completely lost my balance on the subway.
Best Sky Mall find: 2 foot tall garden yeti sculpture at a friendly $97.95
Success!

Censored. For your protection.

On second thought, instead of San Francisco, I think I'll go to NYC.
I need a moral detox after tonight's debates. Because as far as I'm concerned, I don't particularly care how many guns Ron Paul owns or what Huckabee thinks Jesus would do when it comes to the death penalty.
Questions I would have asked if I fully understood YouTube:

1. Yes, this is a question for Rudy. I was wondering if you tie your sneakers loop-swoop-pull or bunny ears style?
2. Rudy, I wonder, do you make your hair do that on purpose? Maybe you should take advice from Mitt. He has very nice hair.
   
3. Fred, has anyone ever told you how remarkable your resemblance to a turtle is? Fred? Oh Jesus. Someone call an ambulance.

Back on Monday.

Slippery Floors

Do you have a mop?
So I can clean up my brains that have spilled on the floor? I'd hate for anyone to slip on my periaqueductal gray. I hear it's quite slippery.
Coming back from lazy days of Thanksgiving where you lounge until the next meal is ready or when you digest the leftover pie you had for breakfast, is no picnic. Because there is no food. And no warmth outside.
So. Let's blow off this place. Let's leave the homework. And the work. And the brains. And go to San Francisco. They have food and sunshine and not much to worry about. Because of all the flowers in their hair.
Are you in? Give me a call by 3:00.
And don't forget the mop.

On Giving Thanks

• Momma's birthday falling on Thanksgiving. Double holiday! Thanksgiving is the best holiday for your birthday to fall on. It's not a Christian holiday, so you have no remorse about overshadowing Jesus, and it's not a present holiday so there is still gifting. Plus you get the biggest, most delicious meal of the year.
• Having a big, delicious meal the night before Thanksgiving. I like to think of the Oceanaire crab cakes as stretching for the marathon the next day. Plus, eating a giant meal the day before keeps from extraneous pre-meal snacking that is inevitably regretted.
  
• The newspaper. The biggest, freest newspaper of the whole year.
  
• The Black Friday sales that lure you to think about getting up at 3 am. And then you pass out after your 4:30 dinner until noon the next day and realize you've slept through the $200 laptop.
  
• Lounging. So. Much. Lounging.
  

Where even the minister gets the church giggles

Treza and I ventured to the local Unitarian church this morning to see what all the rage is about. I packed my bag with mittens and snarky cynicism ready to judge the non-judgers.
But wait? What?! How could a worship place out cynic us?!
It was the Thanksgiving service. They called all the kids up to the front of the church while one of the three ministers (Two of which are female. Woot.) where she went over the basic rules of being a guest at Thanksgiving dinner. There were poster boards with each lesson and a picture to match very obviously visually directed toward children.
These are the things I learned at the Unitarian Universalist church this morning:

1. Don't spread germs.
   
1. Picture: Child coughing into arm, also "Small Pox" with an X through it.
2. Try everything once.
1. Minister: "Even if it's something weird. Like veal." Mini: "I'm a vegetarian." Minister: "Then you don't have to try the veal. But you should try squash."
3. Don't chew with your mouth open.
4. Don't take more than your share.
1. Minister: "Or if you're a pilgrim from England or Holland, North America really isn't yours to take at all. But it's a little too late for that, isn't it kids?!"
5. Offer to help your hosts.
   
6. Don't complain if things are different than when you're at home.
7. Don't kidnap your hosts and sell them as slaves in Spain.
   

Preservatives!

Do you have any idea how long it takes one human being to go through an entire loaf of bread?
Challenging length of time to eat against length of time to mold is like Laser vs. Ice on American Gladiators. And length of time is Ice, so she will win. Every time.

Think about it.

Also, I got an email today from a friend who said that she found this and that it reminded her of me and she didn't know why.
Neither do I. Except maybe to unmask my love for the word tessellations and hate for unwarranted cheese overlappage.

Another productive day here in Girl Land.

Someone give me a pen

* "Keith is having a birthday party and I don't really want to go, but I'm thinking I should. You know, just go and get it on. Wait. I meant to say 'get it over with.' Shoot. Don't write that down."

"He lives in the hood."
"You grew up in rural Minnesota. Where is the hood?"
"Coon Rapids."

* "You could totally make drugs if you lived in a single."

"I love verb tenses."


*Said by a woman who wants to be a nun. Now re-read them.

What it must feel like to be Sandwich Lady

He speaks Creole and has a Haitian accent. He has a son who is the cutest little muffin you ever saw and is getting married in May. And he is the son of a nun*. A nun who has a doctorate. The same doctor nun who is president of my schoolplace.

I will accept "little sister" as the greatest term of endearment he will ever give to me.
I know, it's for the muffin. And your lovely fiance.


In other news, Mother called porn "girlie magazines" today. Should I be weeping tears of laughter or mortification? Because there are definitely tears.

*Adopted son. Chill out, Roman Caths.

Patron Saint of Assfaces (Praaay for ussss)

When everything that could go wrong went wrong in the office today, our disheartened and extremely stressed staff couldn't even be revived by candy, and this is a place where candy cures most things. But maybe because today all that was left was Almond Hershey Kisses and black licorice flavored salt water taffy. Nast.
Phones tied up, important people on hold, a car accident, broken printers and lost documents when the Archbishop walks in. This tiny man calms the entire room as he stands in the doorway, smiling with a bit of concern. He edges towards us as we all sheepishly shake his holy hands and introduce ourselves.

"This is our student worker, Megan."
"It's so nice to meet you, Archbishop" (or something totally lame like that, famous people make my thoughts blurry.)
"Megan! I have one of you in my car! "
A student? He has a student? Oh God. Gosh. Shit. !!!!.
"Megan and Sheila. They're my dogs!"
"Oh. Ohh! I thought...Nevermind."
"Yes. Well. It was nice meeting you!"

I walked out to his car and introduced myself to his dogs while he was in the meeting. They seem nice. And they could probably do my job much better than I. Or at least not make complete asses of themselves.

Pro-Birth

True, Treza doesn't like birthdays. But when you tell people you don't like birthdays, the appropriate response is to do something that acknowledges the day of birth in a ridiculous fashion.
Like with profane personalized cupcakes. And the new Stephen Colbert book. Oh wait. I kept that for me. Shoot. Well it's finger-biting, gut-wrenching humor, so you should buy it too. Because he will know if you just borrow it. And because it has stickers.
Yes, you see, I got you this book. But it had the funny. So now I have nothing for you. You hate birthdays more now? Here have a cupcake with Stephen's face on it.

Grown up like only checking one bag and not crying at take off.

Surprise, I spent the weekend in Chicago! Sri and I went to visit Sandwich Lady and That Girl to check out their new stomping grounds. Turns out they are doing quite well and had much to show us. Saturday was spent with a bit of...polarity. We woke up and took our [quite witty] sign reading "Anti-War Message" to an anti-war rally downtown. We spent an hour cheering and listening to speakers, an hour making fun of people, and the last half an hour complaining. And eventually left when the speakers started saying "GOD DAMNED WAR!" to get the attention of their frozen audience. And when we ran out of things to complain about. Just like the soldiers.

Shopping, nauseatingly heavy and delicious food, rickety L (L? is it El?) rides and maps, or lack there of, defined the rest of the weekend. And the sickeningly comfortable bed at the hotel (Hotel! We love hotels!) where our view(ish) was Navy Pier.

We traveled on our own plans, never got lost and didn't need the pills.

Setting: Pool, 7:45 Monday Morning

What?! No! It couldn't possibly be that my last swimming class today. There is absolutely no way I miss being tethered to another unfit woman who needs an exercise credit while we run "about face!" to each other flailing appendages. I couldn't miss the buoyancy belts and the duck gloves and the flippers and the bad 70's rock with speedy beats that are impossible to water yog at a matching rhythm.
Will I mourn the loss of my early mornings and semi-regular shower schedule?
Perhaps I will miss all of it. And perhaps I will grieve in the form of more run-on sentences and being a bottomless pit for Kit-Kat Bars and homemade cookies from someone else's care package.
Or maybe just write a ten minute play about it for class tonight.

Camp was fine, Mom.

Home from camp.
I brought home much less sleep than I remember leaving with and also a sickness. I have since slept most of the day away. I also threw away a ceramic bowl and a perfectly good, unwrapped Kit-Kat bar shortly after I spilled scalding hot coffee all over my pants. Which were on my body. Which I had just showered.
And because I left my dignity at the government job fair today, I didn't hesitate to retrieve said items from the trash with bare hands.
In my defense, the Kit-Kat was in my own trash can with my own trash and not in the cafeteria trash can that I dropped the bowl in. And I did not eat the bowl. Is that less gross?

The Prestigionist

I will distract you with this picture of what to do when your friend's bras come out of the washing machine incredibly deformed while I run off to camp for a few days. Posting with pictures is a magical technique so you don't know that I'm posting this awhile before I actually leave because I have so much to do pre-then.
(Sri, Woman With Blow Dryer (see above) (also call her Treza) and I went to see David Sedaris Monday night and it was fantastic and incredibly satisfying. If you know of this man, you will understand my struggle to write anything about him that amounts to his greatness. He referred to muffins as "crumb bombs", which has no real relevance other than it is awesome. And also very, very accurate. Thank you to the adoption process for giving the Family Muffin great connections and free tickets for seats that were so close to the man with the mini voice we could spit on him if we tried hard.)

Winter Coat Loot: 2007

Findings:
$1.04
(1) Plastic dog miniature
(1) Giant bling ring
(1) Dr. Pepper chap stick*
(2) Necklaces with rocks from the North Shore from Winter Weekend
(much) Lint

*"Oh! Yes! My Dr. Pepper chap stick! I forget about this every spring and so every fall it's a fantastic surprise in my winter coat pocket!"
"I feel the same way about a felted ball of yarn!!"

Us: 1 The Man: 0

There is no tax on KitKat bars because they are considered a cookie.
And while you may only eat two Snickers bars, you know you would eat at least three cookies.
Go forth. Eat.

Quick Wit from Blue

Girl walks in with newly dyed blue hair.
Everyone: "Wow. Rad hair, Alex."
Alex: "Argh. Thanks. I just got back from showing my parents and they were all, 'Alex! What's with the hair?! Your body is a temple!' And I was all, 'I know it is. I'm just decorating it.' They're such losers."

Post-Its in My Pockets

"I have this friend who is in love with Alan Greenspan."
"That's weird."
"Yeah, but this is the same girl who didn't wear underwear to our high school speech and debate meets because it made her feel powerful when she looked at her male competitors."

--------------

"How do you spell 'bangled'?"
"Like for the song?"
"Yeah."
"B-a-n-g-l-e-d"
"Word won't recognize it."
"Did you hyphenate between stars and bangled?"
"Yes."
"Well how else would you ever use 'bangled'?"
"I don't know. I think you're wrong."
"Just think of The Bangles!"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Yeah, Word is for sure wrong."
-Pause-
"$^@#. It's the Star Spangled Banner."
"&*!$."

Protocol

A substantial amount of my prayers in middle school were sent up to keep the fire alarm from going off during the swimming unit of gym class because I didn't know the procedure for such a situation. And God took pity on the locker room changing, uncomfortable preteens and it was never an issue.
I can tell you now, though, that the standard procedure is to get everyone out of the pool and have them stand outside while the only building on campus to evacuate is the one with the pool.
Happy Monday.

Hallmark and Roses

Dear Blog,
I'm sorry that I forgot it was our Blogiversary yesterday.
Thank you for sharing this second year of loyalty with me.
I love you.
-Muff

A Spot of Weekend Hope

If you have a chance this (cloudy? it's cloudy, right?) weekend, you should try and make it out to Loring Park to do this.
Put on by Doctors Without Borders, you will be shown a very tiny window to what it might be like to be a refugee. There are visuals of the conditions refugees are often forced into including houses, food, water, bathrooms, health care, etc. But you can sit in the tents, taste the biscuits they hand out and carry the five gallon water jugs.
By no means is this at the same caliber of experiencing a refugee's life, but if nothing else, you can learn about everything that Doctors Without Borders has done.
And this kid learns by interaction.

Red-Flagged

"Well I'm a little concerned about your sociability. You scored a 16%."
"Yes. Um, well I really consider it more independent than asocial."
"I see."
"..."
"Well, you're living on campus, right?"
"Yes."
"How's your roommate?"
"Oh. I live in a single."
"Oh." (Scribbles on file)
"Wait, no. I mean, I have friends. I went to the activities fair."
"Mmhmm..."

Veto: The Male Perspective

Many people ask me if it's weird being in a place of no men.
And sometimes I think, "Why yes, it is very strange and takes much getting used to."
And then other times, you are walking across campus and there is a man trying to catch up to his girlfriend, completely out of breath from chasing a squirrel, as he pants, "No, but seriously...I'm gunna catch it next time..."
And then I think, "A little extra estrogen never hurt anyone."

Contiene Jugo 100%

When you live alone, nobody knows when:

1. You eat the whole bag of Blue Chips
2. You double dip straight into the salsa jar
   
3. You drink from the juice bottle
4. Don't open the blinds for four days
5. You eat all the chocolate pudding and leave the vanilla
   

If you look ridiculous, you're probably doing it right.

Someday, when you wake up late, miss a class, don't have time to shower and get to the coffee shop only to find out that they are out of espresso and are only making decaf drinks, you might email me. Then I will take and send to you a film of my water fitness class in the deep end.
Because you will see many college women in one piece swim suits with duck gloves and buoyancy belts flailing in the deep end. You may be concerned that we will drown, but it's okay. Because we have the belts. And then your day will be brighter.

I took out loans for this shit.

If you have seen Zoolander, I would like to reference the scene where Derek throws down the model school because real children could not fit into such a tiny school.
In reading a 14 page article on the aesthetics of art, a direct quote (no, I did not embellish with italics, those were actually there) on scale:

• "A good example of the difference between well proportione and scale is doll clothing. The tiny buttons found on doll clothes are well proportioned to the collar, sleeves, and other details in the clothes. The buttons are a good scale for the doll. However, when the doll clothes are considered in real-sized human terms, the buttons are much too small. The scale is too small for a grown woman to wear" (Kahn, Ph.D. 2004)

This article has been the first time in my week of college where I questioned the legitimacy of this institution.
Some other highlights from this article:

• "When you add white to blue to white, it becomes baby blue, but when you add black instead of white to blue, you get navy blue"
• "Line can be defined in numerous ways. It can be an elongated mark, connecting between points, or the edge of an object."
• And four entire pages on the color wheel which references a black and white diagram of the wheel.

Home. Safe. Barely.

The College Experience is treating me well, thus far.
There isn't much to blog because people are much easier to make fun of when you're sure they'll be around for awhile, and you're sure they're cool with finding themselves publicly mocked on the internet.
We scooted around town today in a friend's car who hails from Montana where speed limits were invented within the last decade. She got the downtown Twin Cities driving experience to say the least. She was merging like a pro and even stopped complaining about traffic and just resorted to blaming it on the city buses by the end of the day, just like all the other Minnesotans.
At least until we both got a little cocky, and overestimated our natural instincts. You really should not base your direction on "gut feelings" and whether or not you maybe recognize a street name. Because you will get lost. Very, very lost.

Community Showers!

Internet here at The College is quite shaky. Conditions will hopefully improve soon- and if that can be the excuse for why I haven't blogged in days, let it be. (Beatles? Again? Wha?)

Oh, right! I'm at The College. Living it up- eating all the pizza (I have not had pizza), soda (Not that, either), and cheesecake (...) I can. I have met many a women here at this place of no men. Except when there are men, everyone sort of looks at each other like "What the hell? Is that a...? Oh god. It's totally a...!! How's my hair?! HOW IS MY HAIR?!"
I'm enyoying my own room, and even met someone who shares my deep appreciation for using the Spanish J sound.
If you want a full report, I suggest picking up the back-to-school edition of The Onion.

Sort of like when the power goes out

Driving
That's a weird noise.
Um..that doesn't sound good.
Yeah, probably not.
No, it sounds like a flat tire.
No way.
Megan, it's a flat tire.
Fine, I'll pull over and look.
Pull over, look.
It's a flat tire.
No way.

Nobody has been witness to as many blatant problems with my car as Lisa has. She got out of the back seat once, shut the door, and a unknown metal piece of significant size gave up on her driveway. And after walking her to her house a few blocks from where Front Righty ceased today, I took a moment to appreciate growing up in The Bubble*, because at any given point, you are probably within walking distance of a house you recognize. And because the Rod's live very near where you are stranded and will take you out of the sun into their beautiful home and feed you brownies and coffee until the AAA man comes.
Flat tires should happen more often.

*I added three b's to the middle of this word when I typed it. Why don't any words have three letters in a row?

Beatles, Day Two

I will tell you, Ringo, George, John and ThatOtherOneIAlwaysWantToCallRon- where all the lonely people come from.
They come from towns where they are the last to launch for college.
That's where we come from.

Na Na Na Nananana....

If there were an award to be granted to the most rad woman over 55, it would go to my mother's friend Jude. She is in visiting from L.A., but reigns from New York. When my mother was in her twenties, after she'd met Pop, and she figured she'd been working for her parents a bit too long, they went on a whim to NYC and pitched camp there for almost ten years. Basically living what I imagine many people consider throughout their twenties.
Jude is one of the characters they collected on the way. These characters tend to resurface now that us kids are grown and can distinguish the syllables from their thick accents and know when to stop laughing at their inappropriate jokes. Jude wears black Chuck Taylors and Ray-Bans, carries a vintage duffel bag, and brings each end of a sentence up as if it were a question.
The result of someone who has spent a significant amount of time living in both L.A. and New York City is they pretend to care about stuff for the first five minutes of anything, and eventually result in unadulterated questions like "I don't care what we see or do or anything. Well, maybe that Mary Tyler Moore thing" or trying to get the dog to stop barking- "Tiillla! Tiilla! Shhh!" [Continual Barking] "SHUT UP!".
Or some of the general responses. Just insert a conversational topic to any of the following examples:

1. "Those tomatoes are FAB-U-LESS!!!",
2. "Oh God, Chicago. Wonderful, wonderful",
3. "Kentucky- God. Wake. Me. Up. When. It's. Over",
4. "People in L.A. love their ranch dressing. I just don't get it. L.A. isn't even a city. New York- there's a city."

Some call it asocial, I call it independent

True, I was granted my request to live alone next year.
True, I am excited for this.
Also true, is the main reason I am avoiding the roommate situation- because I just like quiet and random roommate matching generally flirts with the chance of getting a roommate like Betty's who is passionate about Disney princesses, or any of the other classic bad roommate lotteries (see: musical-lovers, Ozzy-lovers, life-haters, snorers, sleep-through-alarmers, breathers...).
So my solution was to get my own roommate, one that I hand select. And I decided on the smallest beta fish you ever saw who resides in a coffee jar. Although he doesn't snore, I do suspect he may have a festering love for Ozzy.
However, all of this is null if I take a house/teenager sitting job and am away for five days before I remember I have a fish*.

*He lived, so I should probably name him.
Names which I am considering: Bean, Bean II, French Roast, Coffee Cup, Ham, Steve Perry. Votes and suggestions taken via comments.

Me? Another metaphysical change? Wha?

Nothing says "thank you for letting me stay in your pretty home and eat your yummy food" like doing a mega hair chop in the kitchen.
Next week? Flying lessons.

Someone else's house, not snooping.

Fun Is:

1. Wi-Fi internet. I find that you can appreciate this so much more when you don't have it available to you all the time. Sort of like Tahitian Treat.
2. Making a verbal comment every time Eric should have a blog.
3. Keeping Eric around to talk to The Greg about Porches, linebackers, mass distribution in shooting ammunition into microwaves, and video game graphic improvements.
   
4. Going to the car dealership with Dan to milk the lifetime of free oil changes for all they're worth. Even though I question the point that it's worth it to drive 25 minutes in a new car that "only takes premium gas". Which is apparently the really, really expensive kind. The kind I don't believe in.
1. At the car dealership, sitting in cars indoors. Because how often do you get to do that without feeling obligated to at least pretend you're interested in buying? Not. That. Often.
   

(Piercing stare of car sales man in ugly tie)
Oh, I know what you're thinking. I've been sitting in this fancy car for 20 minutes and my feet are on the nice, expensive dash and I'M NOT EVEN CONSIDERING BUYING IT!!! Because you know what? I* already bought one. A brand new, shiny gray one. Think twice before you offer me* bill-free trips to your dealership. No, I'm not wearing shoes. Yes, yes I am an ass.


*See: Dan's mom.

Hhhhsssssstttttt

Okay, there is absolutely no way this is funny.
Right?
First ring of Hell, you say?
Right then.

Aimless

What's that? You want to know how I celebrated my last day at the Bad Place?
Oh, yes. Funny you should ask because I stole boxes, ate baked ziti and finally realized why Americans love their credit. It's because you can have it now, and pay later. I know, I know. That's what everyone says. But of course they reprint my long awaited Threadless shirt at a time when I'm waiting on my last pay check, surely to be sold out before next Friday.
So while the bank pays for my t-shirt for the next couple weeks, I'm busy brainstorming things to talk to 15 year old boys about, as I have one in my care this coming weekend.
N64? Is that still cool? When I was 15 I spent my time losing to my brothers in Beetle Adventure Racing. Short pants? Would Greg like to talk about short pants? Oh wait, those weren't cool when I was 15 either. Surely he has something to say about 3/4 length sleeves. Those were totally da' bomb when I was 15. The exact reason I loathe them with every fiber of my being.
Puberty is rough on everyone.

Our Own Little Swiss Miss(ter)

Last night I took a vacation from my element and saw the midnight showing of Superbad, only to realize that I'd already seen it. Except I saw it when it was called "American Pie". The only difference is that generation is way too cool for jocks. In fact, this generation is so cool that they're uncool. Striped old man Penguin brand shirts, plaid slacks and bowling shoes are in. Smart kids in sweaters are the new cool, and the more plastic that is on your glasses, the better. I found this shirt the other day that seems to epitomize this generation.
Anywho. After the movie, at a 2:30 lull, we all pulled ourselves together to say good bye to Pascal who is venturing home to the Land of Really, Really Good Chocolate. Or Switzerland if you want to be an ass about it. I went in for the hug and said something awkward like "Aw, see you later man..." and he replied, in complete discomfort and that glorious accent, "Aw, see you later....girl."

Small Terrier Strikes Again (Or reason #503945 why I shouldn't have dogs)

Tess thinks that all pets are like their humans.
And I didn't believe her until Tela was laying against my leg the other day and I went to pat her on the head like a normal dog-human relationship. She glared at me as if to say "Seriously? Did you just..? God." then stood up, and went to lay on the other couch. She spent the next few minutes killing me with her eyes for putting her 19-hours-a-day sleep schedule in jeopardy.
Wouldn't it be my luck that I get the only dog in the history of the world that doesn't like to be petted?

In Search of Horizontal Surfaces

In a post-Gatsby comatose, I ran away to the cabin for people and standing detox. The party was a grand success- a Grand Great Gatsby Gala success- if you will (there’s a little shout out to everyone who loves alliteration as much as I do). The only casualties were a mascara-cornea-jutting incident*, a small foot cut which I accept as it is due punishment for walking barefoot on mulch all night. But what can I say? Jordan Baker didn’t wear Tevas and neither will I.
And of course, the twenty-something bobby pins it took Alexandra and I to get that damned hat to stay on my head, which I’m confident would stay on for twelve cartwheels.

We cooked**, ate, celebrated, drank, Charelstoned (That’s right), admired Robert Redford, and when it got to be a little too much, sat by the lumineers and green light to listen to Tim Robbins read to us. By the end of the night there was carnage everywhere- pearls, duck wine foil, fringe from homemade dresses, golf hats and twelve different kinds of empty skewers.


*I can count the number of times I’ve worn mascara in the last six months on one hand, and I firmly believe that a video of me attempting this would get many hits on YouTube.
**Tess cooked, I opened containers but otherwise maintained a 2-3 foot radius from all food products and their associates at all times.

And Here You Thought I Was Being Sarcastic. Silly You.

This is mighty close to the 300th post, and after seriously considering naming collegiate bear Leonitis, I decided on Alan. Because last night on Friends, in a very typical Phoebe moment, she names a bear wind up toy to Alan. And if this were Toy Story, collegiate bear would have peeked out from the drawer in response to his name.
On another note, I'm actively trying to be positive about not living in Chicago next year. Who wants Dunkin' Donuts everyday anyways (Me. I do.) ? But can I just tell you something? Can I? Can I just tell you how much it blows that I'm missing this?

While I'm Here Losing Sleep

In parting ways with home in a couple weeks for my new adventure in St. Paul, I have devised a personal form of trickery to make the transition a bit easier. It mostly consists of a series of trial and error that fits a basic if-then format.
Examples:

1. If I buy a mini rice cooker, I can have warm soup and next year won't be so scary.
2. If I go to Build-A-Bear and make a new collegiate teddy, I will have a new friend and next year won't be so scary.
3. If I find the perfect tapestry for my wall, I will be surrounded by pretty things and next year won't be so scary.
   
4. Red. If I buy more red, next year can't possibly be so scary.
   

You can find me on the fourth floor next year. I'm the whack-o in red eating steamed food with a teddy bear who needs a name. Suggestions taken via comments and Morse code.

Will Blog From Safety

There's no time!
We're packing our bags and leaving behind whatever we can. Only what we can carry on our backs, Pop says. We'll leave food out for Small Terrier and come back for her in a few days. He said we can pick a temporary incognito name. I'm thinking Violet O'McDonald de Gretzky.
Because this household has gotten it's first warning for violating the sprinkler ordinance. We've been watering on an odd day as an even household.

Wear and Tear

You don't have to tell anybody around here about the magnitude of the 35W bridge. Asking someone in this neck of the woods how often they crossed the bridge that fell forty feet on Wednesday will yield similar results to asking them how many cups of coffee they've had that day, or how many times they've pooped in the last twenty four hours.
And if Anderson Cooper reports on it? It's a pretty big deal.
But leave it to Minnesota to have phone lines at every blood donation center tied up. Actually, to not be able to get phone calls through to the two area codes in the Twin Cities because the lines are tied up in effort to get a hold of friends and family. For locals to take their boats down the Mississippi with their friends with scuba gear to see if they can help.
Some call that human nature, but I live here so I call it Minnesota Nice.

If one in six hundred thousand bridges collapse every twenty years, and the one this decade hits quite close to home, I think it takes a pretty dimwitted government and transportation department to not test bridges that hundreds of thousands of people cross every day. And I don't doubt that they do test them. After all, only four states have higher quality bridges than ours. Unless, you know, within just over a month, the most widely used bridge in the state digressed forty five spots.

Snapple, Clogged Toilets, College Speak, and Those Cookies That are Already Soft.

I will hand out no remorse for the girls who spent this weekend laying on the dock without sunscreen. I can't understand how sun triggers endorphins, mostly because every time I have bare skin in plain sight of the rays, I imagine all my pores making sad faces.
The weekend was otherwise filled with eating, lounging, vocalizing the potential to do something other than eat and lounge, comedy, Imaginiff*, and what this particular group does best- talk. Most of the time conversation never aims at any particular goal, answer or conclusion but is somehow quite fulfilling. Especially when we all unintentionally bring the same three t shirts.

*This is a board game that Sister bought me that is a complete excuse to judge any eight people you know guilt free. She knows me well.

Something in the Water

This week is the week of madness, every year. Because Brother, Grandmother, Sadie (see a few posts below), Grandfather, Aunt and Mrs. That Girl all celebrate their birthdays.
Brother celebrated his twentieth year on Wednesday with plaid shorts, the new Harry Potter book, and tickets to the Kotton Mouth Kings concert at the Myth. Then I woke up from a terrible nightmare in which it was my birthday. Also, he bought himself a calendar to count down the days until his next birthday so he can, finally- at very long last- an entire lifetime's wait-only 363 days to go- ride in the passenger seat with a kid who has their learner's permit.
Yesss.

For the Good of Everyone

I know.
Don't worry, you don't have to explain to me. I know that you've been disciplined at work on numerous occasions for what appears to be wasting time, to unknowing eyes, of course. That sometimes, at meals you just stare at your plate of food, simply wondering. Answerless.
But do not fear.
There will be no more sleepless nights where you are just mulling, trying to figure out just how much time two twenty one year old boys can talk about cow farts.
I have the answer.
Twenty two minutes.
Go, enjoy your free, thoughtless time.

Because every Fine Point needs an Ultra Fine Point mate

It's that time of year again.
Almost better than Christmas.
But riddle me this:
Does Santa bring you the 24 pack of Sharpies for $10 from Target?

She Would Kill Me

Finally. Pictures of the new mini.
We have the whole big family here from the left; Lauren: the one you can't ask to repeat what she said because she may be to afraid, Mom: boo-boo fixer, Dad: the appliance fixer, Sadie: the proud owner of three newly vacant teeth spaces, and Charlie: the one trying to figure out why he spent so much time in such a small womb when he had this sweet gig to come out to.

Disciples and Daisy

It's fun to sneak into summer camp sometimes.
But why is that whenever I come home from any event, no matter how fun it was, my response about the hows of the trip is always "Fine."?
Perhaps this time it's because I am finding myself in a particularly responsible position of planning the birthday party of a friend. She is away learning Arabic with the future government secret agents of the world, as we plan a Great Gatsby gala to celebrate another year of Alexandra*. Responsibility bites, but in the name of flappers, bathtub whiskey and linen pants, I will address real live paper invites, learn how to make gazpacho and taste sparkling juices until my stomach could float away.

*She says she will go by this next year, so I'm giving it a test drive.

Things Realized Tonight; A Progressive Outline

1. If you stay inside long enough, people will start to bring you life lines.
   
1. See: Train CDs, foodstuffs, Gilmore Girls
1. If one could cash in the rental and late fees at the video store spent solely on season five, one could buy season five.
2. I've worn the same t-shirt a few days now and there is gum on my pants. I can tell you guilt and dignity-free that Train is one of the best bands that ever was.
   
2. Alphabetizing CDs is phenomenally therapeutic.
   
1. But seriously. Where do you put the mixes accumulated over the years?
   
2. Other things that are therapeutic:
1. Crocs. I did it. They are red and spongy and lovely.
   
1. And yes, it's okay that That Girl, fashionista extraordinaire, is a bit jealous.
   
2. Spending money. It's like crack, you do more so that you forget how bad it is that you're doing crack.
   

It's The American Way

When you open a credit card, you max it out the first day.
I did a little- okay a lot- of retail therapy for an especially bad two weeks. I found that a shiny new computer, iPod and printer (the printer was free, don't judge me (okay, fine, judge me)) will do just the trick to make you feel better.
I have divorced the PC ways. It's been a clean break, and as soon as I get custody of the email we'll be through. PC got custody of the iTunes library but it was sort of illegitimate so there's no hard feelings because it was backed up almost entirely on CDs- I knew that was a day well spent.
I've been courting a MacBook for a couple of months, and we eloped today. We are in the total honeymoon phase where every little thing it does is the cutest thing in the whole entire world. The kind of thing that makes everyone around you want to vom, but every time the little iTunes buddy bounces with a message, my heart melts a bit.

Flexing my Independent Muscles in the Free Land

5 Ways to Celebrate the Big 231:

1. Writing cards for the US. I think at 231, you're still not allowed to start the "Over the Hill" limericks, because in international retrospect, we should be losing our first tooth or using the toilet on a semi-regular basis.
2. Playing Apples to Apples. Because ex's make great "create your own" for adjectives like useless, desperate, and overly sensitive. Fruit is best served with a side of resentment.
   
3. Record how people verbally respond to fireworks and use it as your ring tone. Some good starting points: "Ohhh! WOW! OHMYGOSH WEEPING WILLOW! WEEPING WILLOW!!!!!"
4. Wrestle the brother that is 18 months and 100 pounds your senior in the mud at 3 am. Lose terribly, but then gloat about how Tess let you drive her fancy car and wouldn't let brother pry the key fob from her cold, dead hands.
   
5. Make key lime bars from a box, and tell people that they are homemade. Because really, what's more patriotic than lying?
   

Indulge

How to flood your synapses with endorphines:

1. The new Oreos that are dunking-shaped and a shot glass of milk just for proof. It took much to long for this invention, yes?
   
2. Here. Couldn't you just? Eeeee.
   

I, [Not] Robot

You know your job is a good one when you get yelled at for looking tired because it is unprofessional. Emotions have gone to the unprofessional category with jeans, Reefs and making jokes clients names. Like those sisters named Dorothy and Em.
Moral? I will still make fun of clients. I will still wear my Reefs on a daily basis. And I will still be tired. Because I am not a robot.

Like cradling a sack of sugar. For weight and deliciousness.

I know that everyone says the new baby that they've seen for the first time is the cutest baby they've ever seen, but I just want to make it clear that if there were a pita fold sandwich that had the itty-bittiest chin and nose of my brand spanking new nephew, Charlie, I would eat it.

And then I would not drive home with my mother who, bless her heart in her aging age is starting to leave her blinker on which fulfills one of my top pet peeves, just above paying for refills and people who major in communications.

Google research confirms that those orange things are, in fact, fish eggs. Ew?

Things I thought during the Post-Sushi Hunger*:

1. Do I enjoy the musical entertainment of the Polyphonic Spree to go see them in their robes at the Fine Line next month?
2. If I do enjoy them enough to go see them in robes, am I risking my sanity in the name of a band that has denied accusations of being a cult?
3. Yes, I do understand that at a cult's hang out place, their napkins say "we are not a cult".
4. Is it possible to sweat one's own body weight?
5. How many layers of skin can I peel away from my hairline and knee pits before pure muscle is exposed?
6. On a scale of 1 to 10, how annoying is OAR?
   

*Post-Sushi Hunger: That moment approx. 2-3 hours after you've eaten sushi, when the content feeling of being comfortably full of nutritional goodness wears off and you are overtaken with intense hunger that usually results in hamburgers and fried food.

Only when I have been brainwashed by a thirty seven hour bus ride will I partake in sing-a-longs

It is 8:46 pm just now, which is approximately nine hours and forty six minutes later than we have gotten home from Juarez in previous years. Our across-the-nation driving adventure was bound for doom from the moment we woke up an hour earlier than need be yesterday morning, followed by many things that eventually led to a moment of weakness in which I let someone draw large polka dots on my face.

Some factors:

• A bus driver who chose to relieve himself (numero dos, people) ten minutes after a rest stop in the bathroom that he lectured was only for emergencies. Plus, he wouldn't own up to it and claimed that he was only making phone calls
• The other bus driver who accused us of being racist
• Intense heat->overheating->(4) twenty minute stops sans AC and windows
• Eating lunch and then passing place of lunch one hour later
• Late night storm->fogged windows->long periods of no AC or windows->missed turn->20 minute detour
• Insanity that set in at approximately 11 pm which led to emotional breakdowns in the forms of crying, yelling, laughing, eating, and vom
• Double dose of sleeping pills->sleeping in a sitting position->double vision, kankles

It was an otherwise successful trip. Kids are still cute and in dire need, one in particular named Alan (pronunciation: Ah-Lon) who I met four years ago is now eight and doing well. I came home with new punk-rock bangs, the artistic scissor workings of Sri, stylist at large who now has me thinking about a pixie haircut.
Of course before I make any brash decisions about my appearance I vow to:

1. Shower.
2. Sleep.
3. Google research.
   

Because it takes us as long to get through Texas as it does the rest of the country

To cap off the fourth week of busy, I'm headed off to Mexico in the wee hours tomorrow. I'm over the bulk of the packing anxiety; it tends to get less stressful if I've been on a trip before, and I've really gotten the hang of cross-referencing packing lists. I'm considering it as a field of study when my plans as a professional mermaid fall through, and just after I pursue my aspiration of becoming a full-time daydreamer.
I am guaranteeing no internet access, and am also guaranteeing that I will still not have learned how to spell the word "guarantee" before I get back. Big ups to the new Firefox for auto spell check.
Have a pleasant week, interwebs. Make good choices and pray for my sanity on the cumulative 60 hour bus ride.

Things to be Thankful For

1. That this happened today and not one week ago when we were right in it's paths
1. That they don't think there were any casualties
2. That it didn't hit Coban, where they can't handle this sort of damage
2. For not falling on stage last night, which is saying very little when that one kid did a backflip and didn't fall
3. For the quick wit of sisters- Something involving a certain boyfriend resembling a certain brother, responded with something about one of us gaining a substantial amount of weight
4. For Xanax during times of large party planning

Foot in Mouth. Or Something to the Likes.

I've made an ass of myself.
Again.
I walked into a the party of someone that was not the Mr. Fix-It, cute-haired, glasses-wearing, trumpet player that I thought it was. And not even the kind where you open the door, don't recognize the furniture, and subtly walk out. The kind where you walk in, talk to some people, scope out the food array, grab a Diet Coke and talk to the mom before you realize.

Tomorrow, I walk and will try and take part in not-falling and enjoying the forced lifetime moment celebration. And Sister will come. Ripe and armed with butter knives to stab anyone who crosses her 9-month preggo path.

The Guat: By the Numbers

(.6) Hours of sleep the last night.
(3) Times we almost died
(24) Hours driving in vehicles without seat belts
(0) Hours driving in vehicles with seat belts
(2) Times I experienced a natural marvel because of eustress
(1) Piece of volcanic rock stuck in my finger
(9) Toe nails that Matt still has
(1) Radio show to prove our journey
(1) Diploma

Damnit.

Things just now realized:

1. The coffee we pounded at the monastery all week long was decaf.
   

Nothing else really matters.

Love from Antigua.

Blessings to be Counted

Still in Coban, experiencing extreme ends of the spectrum of life. (For lovely pictures see here)
For instance, the tour of the local coffee plantation yesterday, we smelled one of the best smells (freshly picked, washed, selected and toasted Guatemalan coffee beans) and saw a beautiful tree (avocado tree: surprisingly ginormous and cauliflower-like).
And today, we saw the absolute worst living situation I've ever seen or heard of. The people in this mountain crevasse which is the district garbage dump live off of the findings in the massive waste land. Food, clothes, housing materials, and the glass bottles they are sometimes lucky enough to scavenge for change. The families in this community sometimes hit bouts of such extreme poverty that they resort to selling one of their children to human traffickers for adoption or in the worst situations, organs on the black market.
I've found that most other parts that we have visited have been at least filled with some optimism about their situation- motivated to start a business, send their children to school, or join a church.
This "Basura" community is devastatingly far beyond that.
Simply, beyond hope.

Some Might Say

We've survived our first night of Guatelamali (as per Momma Muffin's pronunciation).
Things we've done that have been sponsored by medication:

1. Wake up at 2:45 am
   
2. Fly
3. Fly
4. Forget library book on plane.
1. Shoot.
5. Drive.
   
1. Here, we realized that the exchange rate for Queztales is 7.70 to the dollar, and the exchange rate for time is approximately two Guatemalan hours to every American hour. So when they say "three hour bus ride" they really mean "six to seven hour bus ride". And when they say "45 minutes car ride" really they mean "two hours in a pick up bed with a cover which funnels exhaust fumes directly into your lungs".
6. Eat beans and rice in many delicious, delicious forms.
   

Abusing the internet privileges,

-Muffin

Armed with Pills. Lots and Lots of Pills.

Sometimes, when I travel, I get anxious. Real anxious.
I begin to pack things I do not need, and forget things I do. (Recounted here)
I am leaving for Guatemala in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, and Sri has taken me under her big cozy wing and made me packing lists, doctors appointments, and lent me smart traveler's things. Mostly because I've been too busy having scary dreams, cracking my knuckles in my sleep and getting pre-travel stomach and head aches.
I told the nice, big-haired doctor that I did not want diarrhea, typhoid fever, or anxiety attacks to cloud my fun, and I would be lying if I told you that my left arm was totally fine and not at all sore from the shots. And that Taylor did not have to open the Blockbuster door for me so that we could watch Remember the Titans on a Friday night to help me calm down and think about the bigger issues.

May Flowers

It is not everyday that:

1. You sneak out the back door to avoid the neighborhood block party.
   
2. Tess gets to cook with Wolfgang Puck*.
   
3. My manager tries on Nice for a size, because apparently Icy Bitch got boring, or is not fashion-forward for springtime.
   

*Much cooler than those times she met Justin Timberlake, Ashlee Simpson and Barack Obama.

A Bit of Monday Sentiment

Every once in awhile, someone dies that you wish you'd gotten the chance to know better. The kind of person who wanted you to succeed in the things you loved. The kind of person who writes plays in French during her last weeks of life. The kind of person who sends you the entire series of Anne of the Green Gables in a beautiful hard cover set when you told her that you like to read. The kind of person who studies Irish and flies her friends to the UK and tells them she won a trip when really she just wants their company on her hunt for international literature. And the kind of person who marries a writer named Stuart and lives in the Connecticut countryside.

I hope I get to meet more people like Sheila in my time.

Oscar

At our home, we have many trash cans to completely minimize the distance needed to walk to dispose of anything. This is mainly to ensure that we don't miss any commercials and maintain our nonathletic physique, we're not ready to surprise the world just yet.
Growing up we always had this nasty trash can that one of my brothers told me was pink at one time. Recently, it got replaced with a mysterious blue trash can that you step on to open the top. I would have made a bigger deal about the sentiment I held towards the pink one, but this new one seems to trap the demonic scents of waste within itself, while before they were looming about for everyone to smell.
But today, I stepped on the step to throw away my yogurt cup, and I cannot explain to you the smell that escaped from the mouth of the receptacle. Rotting provolone? No. Phantom litter box of Fuzz, my childhood pet rabbit? No. Rotting remains of something that once walked the earth? Perhaps.
So, my point, you ask? Where is the line of sanity between instant, hell-born stink for only a moment, and looming stale garbage air that you have to breath on a day-to-day? And who can I pay in yogurt to come empty my trash can?

Muse Me

Ways to inspire me in a bout of uninspired boredom:

1. Name two of your children "Dorthy" and "Glenda" and have them both register at my place of work.
   
2. Create a new feature on the database which allows you to see cumulative lifetime spending at my place of work and then spend $69,000 on vitamins for me to judge.
   
3. Beat the Kinko's system and send your color copies to work with Pop where he can work his free copy machine magic.
   
4. Revisit life before online picture storage and celebrate all the money you wasted on developing pictures of people in mid-sneeze, not smiling, are stuck on the "ch" of cheese, or are just straight up blurry. That's right. Straight up.
   

Karma Chameleon

I am telling you right now, people, that there is actually only one way to skin a cat.
Do not ask me how I know this, because if you do, I will be obligated to tell you that I dissected a pregnant house cat today, which we named Boy George for desensitizing effects.
There were many times when I got to say "Scalpel" and someone handed me a scalpel. And perhaps a time or two when That Girl and I played Name That Tune on the femoral artery.

Cross-Shaped Breakouts and Other Religious Hangovers

I spent last night grabbing Anna by the shoulder, and wiping the chrism off of her face when Archbishop Flynn sealed her with the sacrament. I resisted every temptation to break into song when we stepped to the right, because we sat in the front row where Jesus can see you in plain sight. We celebrated with tapas and churros and for just one night, Kelly and I were a part of a family filled with so much love, it's intoxicating.

But that's okay, my family is great too. Because when I got home last night, there was a note on the keyboard from Pop telling me of the spare ribs he cooked for dinner by himself.
Two things are great about this:

1. That he knew I could not ignore a note that may as well directly block me from oxygen.
2. The note offered spare ribs at 10:30 at night.
   

Coping Mechanism: Hate Mail

Dear Grey's Anatomy-

Your story lines have gotten drier than a bowl of shredded wheat sans milk.
Tonight's two hour "event" was an event which I spent the entire time wishing that I had showered and that had better things to do than argue with Small Terrier about space on the couch.
You SUCK.

Get a life,

-Planet Earth

The first are the words of my mother, the second voiced at a church group. Among other reasons I don't want children.

"I found some Pogs the other day...are they still popular?"

"I have a Crock Pot we can use!"
"I think I could get us some drugs.."
"I don't know anything."

Assessing Our Options

Kelly, Taylor and I made a vow that if by the time we have to announce that our age is 38, none of us are married, we will move into a lovely house together and adopt animals and children.
Details are still being worked out, for instance whether or not we will follow Taylor's suggestion of an entirely pink house. Kelly countered with every room having its own theme. Taylor settled on her room having a pink theme. I told them that I don't care as long as there are no cats, I don't have to be responsible for fixing appliances, and we are within walking distance from caffeine.
Most importantly, we decided that in spirit of non-marriage, we will all change our last name and form the ultimate triumvirate: "O'Houlehotzke".

Choosing Joy

Few things give me greater joy than watching grown people walk around in footie pajamas.
And yes, art shaped like body parts and tormenting Small Terrier with Snausages are both part of that few.

Oh yes.
And pissing off the elderly by way of political T's. Again. Except this time with a more overt anti-war message. Possibly something like "No war in Iraq".
Take that Tapered Pants.

Labeled: "Explicit Lyrics. Or at least we think so, some of these words are pretty big."

The concert last night was so phenomenal, I chose not to shower the sweaty, nerdy essence off of my skin. Or the feeling of Colin Meloy walking directly by us when we were waiting to get inside.
Here is where we were supposed to say something trite like "I love you" or "Father my children" or "May I touch your pretty glasses or your nice sweater?" or really say anything at all.
What you are not supposed to do is let the very attractive lead singer of your all time favorite band walk by you within an arm's reach, and do nothing but let your jaw drop so far down that it scraps gum off of the Madison pavement.
Because the entire rest of the night you will struggle to kick yourself in stupidity.
But then Colin will come out for the encore, say, "Alright, fine, we've got one more for you guys" and right when you expect any of their amazing story songs, they break into their twenty minute ballad, "The Tain".
And all in the world is right again.

My Love For This Band Could Possibly Fill Up The Two Empty Seats

Armed with embroidery floss, The Time Traveler's Wife, tube socks, and Pirate Booty, the lovely Alexandra and I will be carting over to Madison to see The Decemberists, once again. And, for some unreasonable reason, all of our Decemberist-loving friends have prioritized athletics over songs about being so nonathletic that Chuck Taylor's are the only shoes they own with laces.

So we are left with two extra tickets and the image of us trying to scalp them should be entertainment enough. I'm wearing red, hoping that I can be shirt buddies with whoever is the opening act, and so that my best friend Lisa will see me and remember our lunch plans from the concert last November. Its cool, Lisa. I know you're busy, and I know in my heart of hearts that this is not a reflection of our friendship.

The American Dream Becomes Somewhat Subjective. Again.

No!
I swear it ain't so!
I swear that yesterday at work I did not participate in an employee joke!
I will not like my job!

Or at least I promise not to like my job as much as people who work at my previous wage-earning establishment (recounted here and here) hate theirs. My dear, dear cousin Dan worked there for about three years in my company, and, this past Saturday night lived the walking-out-on-the-job fantasy. Mind you that this is the cousin Dan who had such intense hyperactivity disorder when we were small, that on family vacations, we were only allowed watch 3 Ninjas one time.

The scene:
Busy Saturday night at the pizza place, appx. 6:30 pm.
Dan, alone on the sandwich bar, putting out an order about once every 20 minutes. Overwhelmed.

Takes tickets by fist-fulls, throws them about kitchen, throws apron to floor, runs into overflowing dining room.
Jumps on table, removes shirt.
Swings shirt about (see Tarzan if you're confused about this part)
People stare.
Shouts something along the lines of "I just want everybody here to know just how much I hate my job!"
Runs out.

What Would Freud Do?

The vivid dreams have continued all this week. They have included a heroin trip, Tess's benign brain tumor, and a reoccurring theme of white industrial rope.
The heroin one made me particularly terrified, especially when I got into work yesterday and one of my boss paged me in the shipping department from Tuscon on the PA system.
I plan on getting no dreams tonight because I am weak against the bribe of middle school girls when they asked me to help them with their 2nd annual all-night Pink Party.

And yes, you're right. The heroin dream has nothing to do with the PA system at my workplace.
I've found a particular lack of structure in my life this week, and you, my friend, have just been victim.

Blogger reccomends that I label this post "scooters". This post is not about scooters.

Things I've Thought Today:

1. How angry I am that I tried to remember so many things today that I forgot about all of them.
2. How uncomfortable it makes me feel to ask my boss for four consecutive weeks off of work without being fired.
3. How angry I am that the size of Flinstones vitamins have shrunk dramatically, I'd say at least by 30%.
4. How upsetting the dream I had last night was in which Sri dyed her hair a streaky red and I told her I liked it.
   
5. How jealous I am that Sri gets to go to Africa. Please don't dye your hair nasty, and follow all the other safety precautions as well.
   
6. How as long as the above are my most weighty issues, realistically, I should be fine.
7. How hard it is to be realistic.
   

Outline Format: For Non-Free Thinkers

After much consideration, I've decided that all of my Spring Break experiences can be classified under the following criteria:

1. Eating my body weight in:
1. Dunkin' Donuts
2. Pizza
3. Strawberry Lemonade
   
2. Minimal showering
3. Journey/Bon Jovi (Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to)
   
4. Hotel Beds
5. Gas
1. For cars
2. Otherwise
   
6. Uncontrollable cravings for bacon, which will be satisfied tomorrow morning.
   

Chapter Two

Today's Schedule:
7:45: Wake up, angry once again at psychological principals because you can't catch up on sleep, even when you spend 8 hours in a car the previous day, most of which at hours when you still apply for McDonald's breakfast.
8:30: Fine, I'll get out of bed.
8:31: Realize you're home alone and put on leggings, an oversized promotional Coca-Cola Classic shirt, a summer camp sweatshirt, and leprechaun slippers.
8:35: Separate laundry.
8:36: Read the label of the expensive jeans seven times, and agree to wash them because you've extended the courtesy NotWashingBecauseThey'reJeans period, possibly by several weeks.
8:37: Play with the laundry soap and spiny thing, then throw in clothes.
8:40-9:00: Think about pretending to be productive on the computer, settle on eating Frosted Flakes.
9:00-9:30: Make coffee, and then lose track of how many cups you've had and aimlessly wonder into the kitchen eight times only to find the pot empty. Shoot.
9:31: Play with calorie counter on Starbucks.com.
10:00: Dignity gone, perhaps go to library to scavenge for music.