Trying to Learn as I Go.

To a good dog (Part 3, Cheese and Gremlins)

2010-04-19T20:07:00.004-04:00

Wesley grew up with us, its truly difficult for me to imagine home without including him. I live in a house with pink brick and birch trees, I have a sister, a mom, a dad, and a westie. The sound of his chain clanking blended with the common sounds of my home until the day they became so normal I could no longer even hear them.

The thing about Westies is that they don't look like westies without the special haircut, otherwise they look like muts. Wesley was always to big to be a normal westie, he was the husky kind of dog with broad shoulders and a big face, the character of his face reflecting his emotions. To get him to look more like the breed he was born my Mom decided to shave him to help not only with his look but also so he wouldn't get overheated in the hot Georgia summers.

She did it all right, she got the special dog shaving kit with eight different adjustable electric razors, brushs and nail clippers. His grooming supplies outnumbered mine at the time. Setting a blanket out on the deck she gave him his first at home hair cut. I was not there to see the process because I had other things to do than watch my dog get a haircut...but when I got home I wished I had been there to see the process.

He had huge patches of missing fur down his back. Tufts shot up along his sides. One side of his face was cut closer than the other. He looked ridiculas. He looked content.

My family called him Swiss Cheese until his hair grew back, uneven but it did help to cover up the horror of my mother's butchered hair cut. But the thing with being a dog is that he had no idea just how rediculas he looked, he did notice that we were happier when he walked into the room and so he had a special lightness in his step of a creature that knows his existence causes happiness. Once his hair grew out my Mom got his hair cut by a professional and she gave the shaving kit to a neighbor who broke the razor in a matter of weeks. This was probably for the best.

As years passed we remained a one dog family. Then my 16th birthday everything changed.

Waiting for my Mom and sister to get home from the school where my mom worked and my sister attended I noticed they were late and assumed they were getting me a freaking awesome birthday gift. I could not have been more wrong.

When my sister, Haley, finally burst into the door she yelled: "WE HAVE A NEW DOG!!!"

"What?!"

"Mom got a new dog from someone in the school! Her name is Rhea! Come see her!" And with that she darted back out of the door and I followed.

What I saw hesitantly creeping along the yard was not a dog. It was not even pet material. "Mom, It's a gremlin!" I said pointing at the creature who had just darted back into her beige carrying case, "Why did you get it? Is it supposed to be mine? Cause I do NOT want it." (I had hoped for photoshop or camera lenses)

"No. She is not yours. She is the family dog. She's a Pappion," Mom cooed, apparently I was the only one who thought the new addition was totally bizarre looking.

"Tell me you didn't pay for that."

"We saved her." Later I found out that Rhea had belonged to a teacher's father and because the teacher moved in with the parents with her three children under the age of seven and the dog bites they could no longer keep her. So. My mother had adopted without telling anyone a stupid biting gremlin on my birthday.

When my Dad got home he immediately noticed the small crate in the middle of the living room. Wesley took refuge from the creature on the top of the couch. Rhea would not come more than a few feet from the mouth of her cage and that was just to bite our ankles if we got to close to her. My Mom swore the dog was friendly when they were at the teacher's house.

"What the hell is that?" he asked as soon as he walked in.

"Its our new dog!" the three of us said in unison, my voice considerably less exuberant than my mother's and sister's.

"No it isn't," he said, "it's just a dog we're watching for the weekend. When is it getting picked up Sunday?" He sounded worried and unbelieving at the same time.

"No, Dad, they're serious. It's our new dog. Don't worry, I didn't know anything about it either and its my BIRTHDAY!" I was sure everyone had forgotten. To this day I'm still unsure they remembered that little detail.

"What the f*** is it?"

"It's a pappion."

"A what?!"

"A small dog."

"We are not keeping it."

I wish I could say Rhea and Wesley became friends but truth be told they never really liked each other. Wesley tried his best to ignore her and she tried her best to be unignorable. If someone picked Wesley up Rhea would freak out and nip at his hanging ankles and our elbows. Many of Wesley's toys became Rhea's toys, which she would literally pile on our laps before we had even noticed her squirming presence.

There was never a question in my mind that Wesley was by far the superior pet.

Does my spelling distract you?

2010-04-14T13:57:00.003-04:00

Dyslexia. For most people that means that I spell backwards or can't recognize my sixes from my nines, which is only partially true. It also means that when I was learning to read and write (something I did not become respectivly compitant at until the third grade) I had to learn every thing phynetically. Sound it out, they said, take it slow, follow along with your finger. I graduted from 5th grade with a college reading level, above average scores on writing content, and abismall scores mechanical writing. Commas, because they sometimes slip silently into sentances escaped most of my writing. I wrote at the words came into my mind, sometimes slowing my thoughts down to sound out something simple, or-ange, mon-day, sur-face. Sometimes words just arn't spelled like they sound.

People who cannot spell well are seen as stupid, thier ( <-i before e accept after c... except in this case) errors used as a tool to discredit their points. If she can't spell words like chivalry, institutionalized, and chovanism then obviously she knows nothing about "the institusionalized chauvanism found in the door opening ritual which is disguised as chivalry." Look! her spelling isn't even consistant. She spells the same word at least three different ways in the same paragraph. Obviously this is just laziness if not stupidity.

At times it's a matter of trying to missspell a word the correct way so that spellcheck can pick up the word I'm actually trying to spell. Sometimes I have to type four syninims in the word's stead then look on the pull down bar to see if the computer can give me the word I had in my head all along but didn't know how to spell. Sometimes it's a matter of shaming myself by asking someone near me how to spell something that can be found on fourth grade spelling tests. "Um... (incert name)... Excuse me... Please don't laugh but how do you spell cloud?" They will usually either supress thier laugh, patrinizingly spell the word out very slowly just in case I'm so dumb that I'll miss what they said, or my favorate is when the try to help me "it's C-L-owd." I just wish people could say it nutrally, but I guess it's unusual for college freshman who attended an Honor's program for Communicative Arts to ask how to spell two syllibal words.

It's not from lack of trying on anyone's account that I have so much difficulty. My parents read to me every day, had me struggle to read to them, made flash card games we played every sunday and saterday, covered the whole house in Q-cards so I could see how everything is spelled whether I wanted to sit on the C-H-A-I-R chair or pet the D-O-G dog. My parents sent me to a child psycologist who determined that I would need "special help" for my "special issue." He's the one who reassured my worried parents that although their young girl may have a good vocaublary, comprehension, and social skills that didn't mean that there is nothing wrong with her. She could still have dyslexia.

So when someone "corrects" my spelling on my status updates and uses them to tease me, discredit my experiances, my views, my writting, I tend to get a bit upset and post long responses that she hopes that someone reads and is not to distracted by her spelling to switch to the next blog.

(BTW I purposly did not do the rigourous spell checking and reviewing I usually do in order to prove a point.)

To a good dog (Part two: Growing up)

2010-04-02T22:23:00.005-04:00

As I stood looking down on this adorable clumsy mess of a dog from my safe perch on the arm of the couch screaming from what my parents interpreted at delight but in all actuality was horror the naming process began.

"SNOW!" Yelled my pre kindgarden sister, Haley.

"How about something less gay," My Dad suggested democratically.

"MARSHMALLOW!" I yelled, thinking of it as a sure improvement. In third grade I'm not sure I fully grasped my Dad's meaning of gay, to me it was still in the sense of "Geoffry the Giraffe is happy and Gay."

"I cannot own a dog named Marshmallow," he said.

"Well then," said my Mom, "What could you live with?"

"Wesley." He said. "Wesley the westy."

As a family we took Wesley on his first walk. My parents did not plan incredibly well for this so we were without a leash, bowl, or collar. But because it had recently snowed he wasn't able to get very far. He just hopped into piles of the white stuff and rolled around until we had to capture him and put his small shaking form by the heating vent to warm up.

Even though we lacked most amenities that make owning a dog possible what we did have was the crate he came in, which became his room. Unlike alot of dogs who hate their cage, Wesley loved his. My Mom put a pillow wrapped in a flese green plaid blanket in it that was better than the one on my bed at the time. When we didn't know where he was we looked here, he was usually asleep or lying on his back with his ears at odd angles.

The next year almost exactly the house was sold and we were spending a week with my grandparents. Wesley came along with us, his crate surrounded by bags upon bags of our stuff, Christmas presents hidden among the luggage.

My Grana was pretty much done with dogs ever since the last English Setter died about ten years earlier. My Mom met Bob, the dog, right before he passed. He placed his head on his lap to be pet and as he walked away a string of pink slime connected his drooping mouth to my Mom's knees from across the room.

My Grana was in no way ready to have a one year old puppy at the house at this point but I give her credit for not killing him in the week we stayed. My PopPop though was ecstatic to have a dog in the house again. He thought we did a terrible job naming him though and re-named him Spencer. To this day my PopPop still calls Wesley Spencer.

To a good dog (Part one - The Great and Pathetic Plot)

2010-04-02T08:37:00.005-04:00

My family got Wesley about a year or two after the death of the previous dog, Cassidy, who to be honest I don't remember very well. I saw a picture of a west highland white terrier in one of my mother's magazines. His eyes were shiny, his coat perfectly white, there was a curious and friendly tilt in his head. I was resolved that this would be my family's next dog, and this time he would be mine.

My plan was that if I visibly and pathetically longed for a furry companion (specifically this furry companion) then my parents would take pity on my poor soul and give in. Assigning myself "longing duty" for at least seven minutes a day I would wait until my family was up and about and sit visibly on the couch holding the advertisement with the westy on it staring into those sympathetic black dog eyes of his.

Christmas eve finally rolled around, being what i did not know then as my last Christmas eve in that home, state and region, the weather must have known so it provided us with a picturesque rare Delaware snow of about half a foot. Usually, due to being fairly surrounded by water Delaware mostly just ices into a frozen dangerous 9th Circle of hell. I knew I had to get the dog tomorrow or not at all so all day I was a jittery mess, waiting until a special package came for me.

My Dad was off buying his contribution to our gifts (he insists that once a year we get a toy, not just a kit, book, or sweater but a toy like a remote helicopter which he bought me for my 17th Christmas or the pooping rain deer he got me last holiday). It was late, the snow still falling on the two magnolia's in the front yard, when he finally got back. He came in through the back door as my Mom was pretending Santa wouldn't come this year because we were bad children, so naturally my sister and I were in the front room trying to convince her otherwise.

"Look what I brought!" my Dad yelled from the kitchen as a white slipper waddled into the living room after reliving himself in the hall. A red bow marking the puppy as a gift.

Screaming I jumped on the couch so he couldn't touch my legs, I had been terrified of dogs ever since I was attacked by a white Shepard two years earlier. I thought I had gotten over my fears...Apparently I was wrong.

If My Vagina Could Talk it would say "That's what she said."

2010-02-21T22:44:00.002-05:00

For the past few years I have been longing to play one of two parts on stage 1. Lady M in a full production. 2. Be part of the Vagina Monologues. I like playing the part of strong women, I can't help it, I am a woman, I am strong, it's only natural.

This semester acting dream numero two come true when I was cast in the Athens Vagina Monologues (by Eve Ensler). I would get to do the Intro to the Show and introduce and preform in I was There In the Room.

To be honest, before I became part of the show I considered my self a feminist but a shy one, a feminist who hated to wear bikini's, not because of fear of objectification but out of fear that I would not even be worth that. I would stand in front of the mirror examining myself in my bathing suit looking at my thighs, my arms, my belly, even my feet were not above my scorn. I even HATED wearing flip flops because of a large scar on my toe (it's not from anything epic...I lost a fight with a low lying hotel refrigerator when I was 10). I even thought my vagina was gross, not because of anything it was or did or looked-but because it existed.

There is something about getting down on all fours in front of an audience of 200, though, and trying to look my own powderbox in a full length mirror (I was wearing pants, no vagayjays were exposed during the making /preforming of the show) illustrating the difficulty of even seeing my "down theres" that made me forget everything I thought about it. The more I listened to the other women preform pieces where they talk about the wonder of their mushmellows, their awe of their VAs, and their acceptance of their coochisnortchers the more I became aware that my Gladis Seagalman is a part of me, deserving as much respect, tenderness, and acceptance as any other part of me.

This show changed me. I never knew it would have this effect on my life when I was in tenth grade trying to figure out what exactly the show was about. Now three years later, I walked on stage declaring that consita's deserve both awe and reverence. They sacrifice themselves to push us into the world.

I was not the only one the show changed. But that's their story and not mine to tell. I can only say this-
If my vagina got dressed it would wear a folded plaid bandanna and a t-shirt with a peace sign on it.
If my vagina could talk it would say "That's what she said."

Fight violence against women, fight when it comes from the world, your friends, neighbors, media, strangers, and especially yourself. Keep fighting until the violence stops.

The Nihilist

2010-02-02T23:46:00.001-05:00

She wore black all her life
Mourning the death of the sun
And when it rose each morning
She rejoiced the chance to mourn a new one

Pass the sippy cup.

2009-12-12T00:13:00.005-05:00

Sometimes it seems like college is the magical land where everyone is given one last chance at a childhood before they must drift off into the land of the adult. This can manifest it's self in many ways. For example, in early October my roommate and I built a blanket fort connecting our two beds and a door that blocked the inside of the room from the hall. We do random wizard duels on our way to class. We eat animal crackers. And it seems we are not alone in our pursuit of youth.

Some seem to want to travel back all the way to infancy, while my room mate and I are content in the 8-12 range of maturity. They stumble around like they've forgotten how to walk and even burp up on themselves. Each to their own I suppose.

At the moment though, I am convinced a pair of feety pjs would simply add to the overall joy of my life, although locating a pair of this sacred clothing in my size is beyond difficult. It's not that I'm very tall, actually I'm the shortest of my friends (a fact they never let me forget) and am of average weight so I'm not sure why my quest is so difficult.

There is something pure in the concept of the feety PJ's, something safe, something fulfilling on a level that it is difficult to place. It would be the holy grail of sleep ware. I have a hunch that wearing these would give a feeling of safety similar to that of running across a dark room, jumping into the bed, and promptly pulling the sheet over my head. My heart rate would slow, my breathing would soften, planets would align, and there would be peace on earth.

A zipper in the front is required so I could get in and out of them by myself. Also, slip resistant pads on the feet would be a must. The outside should consist of some form of flame retardant felt. To zip into this should be like zipping into heaven.

I'm not sure I would be able to wear them out on the hall or to the bathroom for fear of someone seeing me. I know that I shouldn't care what people think but to be honest I'm not sure they would continue to let me live here if they caught me in them.

So until I get a place of my own, locate the perfect pair of PJ's, and build up a certain degree of disregard for pride there is one part of my childhood I'm not sure I can indulge in just yet.

Platitudes

2009-11-30T15:52:00.003-05:00

If You Just Act Like Your Self Every One Will Like You. Everyone Is Different. We Should All Be Friends.

Have you ever heard such BS? I mean we spout these things over and over again to our youth even though we all know it's just platitudes which amount to nothing. What if I'm an unapologetic communist vegetarian liberal? I doubt that Rush Limbaugh would want to be my life long bud.

I bet you told your parents that they just "Have to let you be your own person" you felt like you were unique, your poetry was a revelation. We are not unique, and there is nothing wrong with that. Once we realize this we can start realizing that your neighbors problems are most likely similar to your own. We are not alone in the world.

Now of course everyone does have differences but we have far more similarities with each other than we are differences. There is a reason why we have the word average-because most people are.

And no, we should not all be friends. Simply because we should not feel compelled to be around people we do not like. I do not like a lot of people, yes, I'm cofterable with that.

Yesterday I was sitting on the second floor of a Barnes and Nobles. Sitting alone at one of the tables was a guy in gangsta clothing totally engrossed in this rather large book.

I went back there because I didn't want people to walk in on me doing tarot card readings for my two Friends. I was afraid they would judge me, tell my mother, or any number of things. I simply didn't want anyone to see what I was doing. I chose the seat in the back next to this kid because I was fairly sure he wouldn't be disturbed by quiet conversation.

We sat down and I laid down the cloth and started shuffling the cards. Next thing I knew I heard the scraping of metal against the floor. The kid had quickly gotten up and left in a nervous huff.

"Hey" Said Caleb, "I just though you'd be interested in knowing that kid was very engrossed in that Calvin and Hobbs book."

"What?!" Rachel and I said in unison.

"Yeah, Calvin and Hobbs."

I think that the better things to teach our young is Act Like Yourself And If They Don't Like You They Don't Matter, Embrace Our Differences And More So Our Similarities, We Should All Treat People and Their Ideas With Respect No Matter Who They Are.

A Response I gave in class that I am perticularly fond of

2009-11-18T22:00:00.000-05:00

On the other end of things. I am from the North. The land of carpet baggers and loud mouthed Phillies fans (Santa totally deserved what he got. If you don't know the reference i would Google it, its amusing and disturbing at once.). We have a reputation for being brusk, rude and mean. But I have to be honest, we do have manners. We pass our bowls at dinner in the correct direction. We know what fork to use first. No, we usually don't purposefully let doors slam in the faces of elderly women. I honestly don't know where it comes from that manners are soul property of the South.

What is different in the North is the treatment of women. My father threatened me with sending me to Cotillion as punishment if I did something bad. I was terrified of learning the complex social norms of the new land we had moved to. I was brought up to expect to be treated just like everyone else, and if I wasn't to do something. If anyone ordered a meal for me stab him in the hand with the dessert fork.

I can remember getting flicked on the ear for not holding doors open for men, for not giving up my seat to my elders, for chewing with my mouth open. But what I was also taught is a strong appreciation and pride for things I do myself. It might have been a safety measure from my father or a sense of pride from my mother who escaped poverty- pay your own way, there is no such thing as a free lunch. (yes my father taught me basic economics at the age of 8, I was raised to be a nerd)

I'm in control of me. I am independent of my parents once I become financially independent. Will I always love them? Yes. Will I always learn from them? Yes. But will I let them grant me permission to marry the one I love? No. It would make me feel like an object. I would feel de-valued. And i'm not saying everyone feels this way, or that they're wrong but this is just how I feel. I would want my parents blessing after the decision has been made but their blessing would have no baring on choice to get married.

If I can do it myself, I will. And I will take pride in it. But maybe that’s just the Northerner coming out again.

A ride

2009-11-18T12:27:00.004-05:00

It doesn't take much to mess with the human mind. A whisper of a rumour becomes a devastating event. A whisper of air becomes a ghost. A whisper in the ear becomes a creeper. Anyways you get my point. Sometimes there doesn't have to be even a whisper of something before it becomes a real fear. Just potential can wreak havoc on my mind.

For example. Sunday night I was driving home from my boyfriends house, because we're having a long distance relationship it takes about an hour and a half to an hour and forty-five minutes to get from where I live to his house and back. 70% of the trip is through beautiful rural areas of Georgia. It's fall and the leaves are spattered yellow and red along the hills that follow the road. Signs advertise jams and fresh harvest vegetables in little shacks. I always enjoy the ride down.

At night though the trip turn into something of an entirely different nature. During fall and winter the homeward bound trip is taken after the sun has set so the bounds of my vision are confined to my headlights, the moon, and the light provided by other cars. The peaceful landscape is transformed into a Tim Burton set compete with arching reaching trees, bent scarecrows, and fog that laps in waves against the side of the car.

While the logical fear in these surroundings include deer and other wandering animals, other drivers, and car problems, my fears are confined to one thing- Skunk Ape.

Laugh if you like at my ignorance but in surroundings like those it seems completely plausible for a huge country-fried Sasquatch wander around the woods, walking out in front of unsuspecting cars.

Around every corner I expected to see one of these creatures. Yes, I realize most sightings were near the southern swamps but I don't like being unprepared.

My mind drifted to what was I to do if I accidentally hit a Skunk Ape? Does my insurance cover cryptozooalogical critters? Would I report it at all and just try and blame it on a bear in order to protect the species? Or would I report it and help create a grassroots protection movement for it? The possibilities really were endless.

I have yet to see a Skunk Ape. I do not even know if they really exist. What I do know is that next time I'm driving home alone on a moonless November night I'll make a playlist to keep my mind off all those possibilities.

I do.

2009-10-20T15:06:00.003-04:00

When they started handing out those little silver rings in my eighth grade sex ed class, you know the rings I mean, I refused to take one. I'm just not one for commitment. Well, sort of. I mean I'm ok with long term relationships, television shows, and even life style changes. What I refuse to commit to is an inanimate object.

If I took one of those little pledge rings it would be like wearing a neon banner telling the world just what I believe or what I think I'm supposed to believe. Even then I knew that committing myself to inanimate objects would never be something I could do. Going gaga over engagement rings and cell phones and purses was never really my thing. So I don't know what I was thinking when I took one of those confound reading lists.

Now there are lots of reading lists out there, some teachers give, some televisions hosts give, and there is even one that a rapper gave out but this list is of a whole other quality. This is a self imposed EPIC reading list consisting of over a hundred books and people keep adding onto the end. It includes everything from Atonement to Live from Golgotha from Atlas Shrugged to the Vampire Chronicles. This book covers all of it's bases. It separates the literature buffs from the literary scensters- The Library lovers from the Boarders posers- the... the Socially and metaphorically literate from the illiterate! ( ok I know that I'm just reaching and grasping now but I really wanted three examples.)

I taped the booklist to the end of my bookshelf at home and started checking off the ones on the list I've already read. Green Eggs and Ham? DONE. Enders Game? FIN. ok... ok... what next? The Hobbit!? DUH. The I continued to look down the list and much to my dismay I realized I had well over a hundred books to go. Yes, I finished Perks of Being a Wallflower in no time flat as well as its predecessor Catcher in the Rye but Les Miserables?! WTF! That would take at least a year. I mean it takes Hugo over a hundred pages before we even meet the main character.

Commitment is not something that should be taken lightly. When I picked up that shabby booklist from that stack I thought I would be committing my mind to self improvement and literary expansion but now as I look back on the ever growing list I realize in truth that I should be committed.

Socrate's used to flirt with his young male students. (FYI)

2009-10-06T09:49:00.000-04:00

There is a mystery in reading. The images in the book sift through my head as I read depositing sounds, smells, and images, which is in itself a mystery yet the mystery I care more about has to do with time.

I'm no physics kid but I have heard that Einstein said time was relative. Okay, Albert, I gotta say I never believed you more than when I was reading Augustine's On Free Choice of the Will for my Philosophy class. I was able to read the last Harry Potter book in less than 2 days yet somehow this little flimsy book seems to consume my life like no other book.

Time always drags when there is BS going on.

Two nights ago I had my second philosophy class nightmare. I dreamed that a paper was due and I found out that it was due a week before I found out I even had to write a paper. Now second may question, then what was the first.

In my first philosophy class nightmare included my class' TA ( a doctoral student with what could be the prettiest and shiniest hair I've ever seen on a man) holding an apple in front of the class. Half of the apple was red and half of the apple was green, it was as if someone had painted it lengthwise.

"What color is the apple?!" he would ask the class.

I tried to answer him but when I tried he threw the apple at us as said," I don't care what you think! Argue about it!"

Next he held up a spork and asked, "Is it a spoon or a fork!?"

Once again I tried to answer but once again he yelled, "I don't care what you think! Argue about it!" and threw the spork at me.

After telling this nightmare to about everyone I know, because looking back it is a perfectly hilarious metaphor for how I feel in classes sometimes, one of my friends sent me a link that pretty much floored me. The picture showed the apple from my dream. I thought it was kinda totally cool.

Just in case you were curious how Zombie Walk turned out

2009-10-05T12:53:00.000-04:00

Yeah. I know. Awsome.

An exercise in rediculousness

2009-10-02T09:52:00.010-04:00

Lecture halls, as they slowly fill up with my fellow classmates who also just so happen to be complete strangers, are a very awkward place. Everyone sits together in a room, eyes usually forward or on some menial task such as shuffling papers, reading, listening to music, texting, or blogging, anything to keep their hands busy.

Shuffling papers says "I am important and actually do my schoolwork unlike you slackers. I stayed up late last night just pounding the books like British Imperialists do to peaceful protesters. And NO! I refuse to stop making awkward noise breaking the silence of this ginormous lecture hall. And although I can feel the eyes of everyone one around me I will not stop! YOU CANNOT KEEP ME DOWN!"

Reading says "I would throw this book at Mr/Ms Shuffling Papers if the do not STFU in the next five seconds because I am deep and intellectual and I happen to be one of the few who read for pleasure. Frankenstein was a breeze for me because I am smarter than everyone around me and I really want them to know and believe that I am smarter. I keep all of my amusing funny books under my bed, concealed from all prying eyes just so I can appear high brow and superior."

Now Listening to music is completely unique, and a complete conformist in the fact Listening to Music is trying to be, " I bet you don't even know the band I'm listening to," Listening to music thinks even though it is difficult because his/her incredibly tight pants is currently cutting off blood flow to his/her brain, "I bet no one in here has even been to a real show, and when they do I bet they don't even understand the music! but! Me and this band, we just get each other."

And little Tommy/Tiffany texter love to announce to the world there there is conclusive evidence that they A. have friends and B. Their friends have the deep need to converse with them at all hours of the day. These people will pause their conversation with you so text someone else, as if announcing that your time and companionship is optional to them because they have so many other options. You are a plan C, D, T, or Y to these folks when it comes to the social ladder.

And then there is me. Now I may be the worst of all of these because instead of contributing to the akward unfriendliness that goes on between these strangers I am judging them for it, creating dialogues and making their menial tasks most likely designed to do nothing more than fill time, keep their hands busy, or because they enjoyed into something snooty and superior.

All the little things

2009-10-01T10:38:00.003-04:00

This weekend I'm going on my first Zombie walk, I cannot express just how excited I am, it's like Santa and the Tooth fairy road tripped in the Easter bunny's VW Van to come personally give me the 8th Harry Potter book. It is that exciting.

I'm stuck though as whether 'to theme or not to theme' (insert cleshay Hamlet line here). I mean I know that by theming I would probably satisfy my deeply girly need to look pretty and well put together yet at the same time, should a zombie look pretty and well put together?

I do have a theme all planned out. The dress I have looks like a 1940s dress and I'd curl my hair into a frizzed out and white socks with my flats. I'm not sure as whether to wear red lipstick or not. If I don't theme I'll try and look as normal as possible + infected with a zombie virus.

I've heard that zombies can represent everything from the governments, mob-mentatlty, and/or anger against a racist/classist/sexist/generally oppressive society. But I don't think many people see that when they watch things like Dawn of the Dead or 28 Days Later. I'm curious as to what the zombies in Zombiland will represent or if they will symbolize anything.

The sad secret of it all is though, that I have a secret phobia of zombies. When watching zombie movies every light in the house or dorm room must be turned on and something is usually clutched in a death grip in my small hands, sometimes someones arm or even my sweatshirt.

Maybe the zombie walk will help cure my fear, maybe the dead Anderson sister look will be totally cute, maybe Zombieland will be a deeply satisfying intellectually. But all that is really known is that this weekend will be totally freaking awesome.

Something Wicked this Way Comes... or maybe went...

2009-09-28T17:49:00.002-04:00

There is always a house in the neighborhood with to many Christmas trees, not three or even four but about 7 or 8. They may even be themed.

"This is the Disney tree. Now this one is the cat tree. And this one is the disposable income tree." They will tell you as you nod complacently at everything they say.

Their house will have a blow up thing in the front that may or may not sing which you will want to stick pins in when you see it. They may have moving white deer statues that are supposed to look graceful but in truth look odd.

Everybody loves that they have this person in the neighborhood while simultaneously pitying their neighbors. I have always had a feeling this is what people thought about my family concerning Halloween.

While most local families carve pumpkins or maybe hang little cute white cloth ghosts from the trees in their front yard, I was writing witty things onto Styrofoam gravestones with permanent marker for my Mom to put in the front yard or holding the edge of plywood as my Dad perfected the look of rustiness for the Celtic cross in the cemetery in the flower beds. I would stand behind my Mother steadying the ladder as she hung curtains around the garage which would turn into a thrown together haunted house.

The sad truth of the matter is that it would be more important for me to come home for Halloween than for Thanksgiving. And I have to admit to being far more excited about it. I mean I don't have the joy of planning out Thanksgiving a month in advance. (I'm going as Boudica the Celtic general this Halloween and am still trying to hunt down that perfect shade of blue body paint.)

Its always been this way as long as I can remember. The only house people were more excited to come to for the holiday was this one house down the street because they gave away sodas to the kids and Guinness to the parents. When I would take a friend down to listen to records in the basement or play the Atari (yeah, cause I'm just awesome like that) I would have to warn them about the severed heads and Fred.

Fred is a five and a half foot tall zombie thing my Dad built out of plywood, old clothes, and a House of 1000 Corpses mask. Oh yeah... he's holding a chain saw. We actually had to start putting a bag over his head during the off season because he was so creepy.

I can remember touring a friend trough the jungle of weirdness that is my basement.

"Why yes, That would be the plastic electrical tombstone section, and over here is the anamatronic ghouls, Thank you for noticing the coffin, it was just a pain to find."

Vice city.

2009-09-19T18:04:00.007-04:00

I pulled them from my purse and my computer bag then threw them in my drawers trying to look casual and inconspicuous. But as with most neon colored things they tend to attract attention.

"You had more of them?!"

I looked over my shoulder at my roommate who was putting away her snacks, smiling slightly I shrugged continuing to stuff tank tops into the drawer.

Its so hard to pass up tank tops, I guess there may favorite item of clothing because I can wear them without anything over them and look cool, under a t-shirt to make the shirt longer, and at the end of the day I can just peel off the top layer and wear it as a night shirt. THE LOGIC IS UNQUESTIONABLE!

Everything in moderation, even moderation must be in moderation if I try and follow this proverb, Silly Aristotle. One of my few things I do in excess is own tank-tops, I think I may have close to twenty, which i find very reasonable and helpful when getting dressed in the morning. Maybe I'm just rationalizing my addiction.

My other vices, though, only are visible when I have access to them, gum for instance, I can only chew an excess of gum when I buy it, which is about once a year. Toffee is only consumed in mass quantities if my Dad brings them back on a business trip. I do sometimes admit to watching the ANTM marathons, for maybe the whole day. But none of my vices are very dangerous or even obvious.

People only talk about vice when it's in excess and not in shortage. For instance everyone talks about people who purposely take to much of a medication but no one cares if someone doesn't take their vitamins. No one cares if someone speaks to quietly but everyone is so rough on those poor loud talkers.

People mention when someone is in excess. It's actually kinda rude. No one even mentions if someone is getting less of what they need until its too late- anemia, anorexia, insomnia, when it becomes noticeable it earns an -ia suffix.

Maybe they have a cool name for someone who owns to many of one style of clothing so that next time the kid next to me in Philosophy says "Wow you own a whole lot of tank tops"

I can say "Yeah, its a symptom of my disorder, ittybittytopia."

It came from above... DUM DUM DUUUUM!

2009-09-17T23:24:00.003-04:00

"Freaken sex dudgeon that's what!" I responded a few nights ago to the question that has been eluding Rachel and me for about a month now. What on Earth can those girls in the room above us possibly be doing at one o'clock in the morning.

"Maybe they turn into wolves and run into the walls."

My roomie, Rachel, and I first noticed it at our first weekly movie night, we were watching Girl with a Pearl Earring and all of a sudden we hear a constant and odd noise, it sounded like they were rolling a Bowling ball across the floor. We both looked at each other and then slowly lifted our heads towards the ceiling.

"Maybe they have a moon bounce!"

It was only a few nights after our first encounter with the noise from above that the slamming started, and it started at 2 am.

We were asleep warm in our extra long twin loft beds, I think I was honestly dreaming about pumpkins or puppies they're both so adorable that it really doesn't matter, what does matter is that it ended abruptly as Rachel and I both jolted awake. It sounded like they had lifted up their bunk beds and let them fall to the ground the slam was so loud.

"Maybe they're confused physics majors obsessed with disproving Newton."

The sound became an almost constant for us. People who came over noticed it and wondered at it. We discussed the unknown noises with the girls on our halls and it seemed like everyone had similar stories of the hall above us and were even awoken by the mysterious banging noise.

Only a few nights ago Rachel and I were laying awake listening to the sounds above us. I rolled onto my side and looked down at her bed across the room.

"You know what?" I asked.

"Nope."

"I'm convinced its a sex dungeon."

"Well you know what?" she asked.

"Nope."

"They may have the sex dungeon but we have the fun dungeon." She said before we turned out the lights and drifted off to the constant lullaby of violent sex, werewolves, or geeks.

Then End of A good thing

2009-09-15T12:23:00.000-04:00

There comes a point in all relationships when the glow of first lust has faded and all that is left is the bare and lonely truth, that special someone is simply not as pretty as they looked the day before. Yeah, you've had a few laughs and some fun but it just seems like the communication isn't there anymore. My Toshiba and I have unfortunately come to this point.

I find myself cheating on Giovanni (my laptop) with every Apple I see, I just can't keep my eyes of their smooth and pretty curves, the glowing white exterior, and the amount of free software that they come with, I want it so bad.

I can remember when I first got my PC, his shiny black exterior looked so welcoming. I took him out immediately without bothering with the instruction manual and started to figure him out then and there. I found Word easily, being able to write my ideas without having to worry if I'd be able to read my own handwriting later was so appealing. Next I found the Photo Manager, and oh! the ability to bring out the contrast and colors in my photography. We spent so many blissful nights staying up late, playing solitary together in the confines of my bed room. But those times have long passed.

I knew we were having problems when my boyfriend brought his Mac up on one of his visits. Although it took a few strokes and tries to figure out how to maneuver I quickly learned why they are so popular, they were so quick and easy.

After he left, I started noticing all the little annoying things Giovanni did; like when he would ask my permission to open a program after I clicked on it.

"Of course I want you to open it! Why else would I have clicked on it?!"

"I was only making sure," Giovanni stammered.

"Whatever."

Soon I was sure he was out to sabotage my creative career when I tore through every file in his virtual cabinets trying looking for recording software, all I found was Movie Maker and a mic. Nothing that let me layer or experiment with sounds.

"You know, Rachel's Apple had it for free, you don't even have it for purchasing."

"I don't want to be compared to Rachel's Mac! It's all you ever talk about to me these days, Mac book this Apple that. Why don't you just marry Steve Jobs!"

"Maybe I will!"

I'm trying to find a good couples councilor for my PC and I but seeing as all of our communications seem one way lately I'm not sure how much help it would actually be.

My new life as a G

2009-09-13T20:48:00.001-04:00

I have recently joined a gang. No, it's not the kind of gang that commits crimes or fights, actually the gangs leader (my roommate) is a pacifist who rescues flies from the viscous bloodthirsty average human. Even though I have changed from a normal suburban college student to a straight up G my life has changed very little. As a member of the Friendship Tasters Rainbow Club (Athens Chapter) my responsibilities are fairly simple--staring at people to make them feel self conscious, eating licorice whips, drawing unicorns on desolate walls, and of course, being awesome.

I pledged to be part of this gang sitting on my dorm floor passing stale Twizzlers between my roommate and two of our friends after watching Running with Scissors, a delightfully demented film. The room smelled like an odd mix of popcorn and coffee with a twinge of Root beer. Looking down we saw that only one red Twizzler was left at the bottom of the bag. Picking it up, I divided it into 4ths and passed it to everyone in the room.

For some reason the sharing in the one stale Twizzler was a bit like sharing in a communion of awesomeness.

As now an official member of a "gang" I started thinking of what my exposure was to other gangs. The first one I could remember was the Greasers, they wore cool minimalist clothes and sang and danced. The next gang I could remember was the Jets and the Rockets, once again gangs who dressed like James Dean, got into unlikely relationships, sang, and danced. Maybe if the modern gangs were more like the movie gangs and Sambaed at their meetings instead of committing crimes or teased cops with witty songs instead of shooting them gangs would be friendlier more interesting groups.

The members of the Friendship Tasters are not a very intimidating group most of the members tend to smile a lot and have edgy haircuts or odd t-shirts. We've worn Burger King Crowns and do bad-ass things like watch the Last Unicorn, have jam circles that include ukuleles, and sneakily draw penguins onto our friends notes while they're not looking. So all in all, we may not be as badass as the Jets but we sure are cooler than those pansy Greasers.

Hi! my name is ___________

2009-09-11T09:42:00.000-04:00

I am bizarrely enamored of awkward and strange moments, sometimes it's overhearing a conversation, sometimes its seeing a failed high-five, but the jackpot of awkwardness is the occasional person who simply tickles my imagination. These are the stereotypes of the world and when I see people who fit them perfectly I am nothing short of awed.

When driving back to campus from a weekend trip I was stopped at a red light when two cyclists crossed my path. Both had bright yellow helmets which attracted my attention but in all honesty what held it was the fact they were both identically dressed. White shirt, black slack shorts, ties flapping behind them, black horned rime glasses, pocket protectors, and white socks with their sandals. I had never actually seen someone use pocket protectors and didn't even know people actually bought them. They were oddly adorable in their coordinated absolute success at nerdiness. Some people just bring joy to the cockles of my poor young heart.

I have the odd habit of naming the characters I see but do not know the name of with the help of my wonderful roommate. Only a week ago we ran into "Leon James 2nd". His sandy blond hair was perfectly cut and shaped around his boyish face. His khaki shorts and Ralph Lauren polo shirt seemed like he had steam pressed them that morning because of the crisp lines in the fabric. The heady smell of money was so thick around him we were almost left swooning in our chairs. This was the first old-school prep I had ever seen outside of the Tommy Hilfiger adds and posters at the mall. Even his strappy sandals displayed they fact he probably grew up calling the family yacht "the Little Dingy."

I hope to add a stereotypical "player," "Jock," and "Artsy hipster" to my awkward mental collection of people as soon as possible but until then I will have to be satisfied with "Dirty Harry" the accounting major," Sarah Sorority Sister," and of course "Joe" the flirtatious musician.

don't eat the green icing

2009-09-08T13:29:00.000-04:00

I've been using public school eating establishments ever since i can remember. In elementary we were served by large women who placed precarious amounts of caned vegetables on our trays.

"But I don't like corn, Mrs. Lunch lady!"

"You'll eat it and you'll like it!"

"But I have a bean allergy, Mrs. Lunch Lady!"

"Good! maybe you can build up an immunity now."

Middle and high schools were not much better, yes we got to decide what went on our plates and the amounts which we were willing and able to eat but still the lack of choices did not make our eating experience much different.

It was at a summer program I first came into contact with the two topping dessert rule. Every topping that is added to a dessert equals one day old. It becomes a math equation when you look at it long enough. Brownie+ Whipped cream+ sprinkles= 3 days old. This rule didn't change when I got into college. In truth it was more difficult because at orientation I was forced to listen to a twenty minute hype about the amount of awards that the dinning halls had received but to be honest it's like getting an A in a gym class, its not hard if you pretend to be doing something.

Its not that the dining halls are all that bad it just takes an adjustment for example, knowing that they overcook the noodles just means I was forced to switch to a whole wheat noodle option because they are naturally tougher anyways. Its also pleasant to know that if I randomly become hungry at 4:30 am its only a ten minute walk to find a place where i can find pizza.
And the people I've been able to meet at the dining halls has never stopped amusing me. Not to long ago the "THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE" button fell off my bag without me noticing and as I got myself a drink I felt a tap on my shoulder and saw what looked like an athletic boy gingerly handling my button with a pained look on his face.

"Um... Uh... is this... um... uh.. yours?" he asked. I would have thought a condom or tampon had fallen out of my bag by the level of awkwardness he obviously felt.

"Yup!" It always seems easier to handle awkwardness with inappropriate levels of friendliness, "Thanks for returning it to me!"

After that encounter I had though I had reached my level of total awkwardness for the day but much like any day in college I was proven wrong. I was waiting for my friends to get to the dining hall so I sat at one of the larger tables and started eating. A boy sat down uneasily at the other end of the table, he had a red Stooges (as in Iggy and the Stooges) shirt on and a black book bag he looked over to me and said a quiet "...Hi..." Which I, in my infinite infantilness, responded with a vigorous hand wave and an exuberant "Hello!"

My friends finally found their way over to me and sat down, but the kid at the end looked lonely so looked up and said "Hey! If you wanna come down and join us your welcome to! You look all lonely and stuff down there!"

He paused and looked slowly at each of us with an analyzing gaze and shook his head.

"Nope, I'm good," he said with a finality to his tone.

What can I say? I tried.

I wanted to warn him about his piece of cake, to be honest. It was cake+whipped cream+ sprinkles+ green icing= 4 days old. But I guess sometimes it's best to remain uneducated.