Cartoon Daze

This evening, I was inspired to sort through old school papers to see which are still good enough to keep and moon over, and which need to go. (When I say old, by the way, I mean everything from first to third grade.) Among those documents which will be in a recycling bin tomorrow are spelling tests, math quizzes, and Sunday School lessons. These are not interesting anymore. The more fortunate scraps of history include short stories, valentines, and all drawings that illustrate my genius as a young art prodigy.

One such picture reminded me of friend Corey's recent posting of what he would look like if he were a cartoon. His was more anime-ted (double entendre here, gang. His is anime style, plus he's in mid-leap/growl.). As you can plainly see, If I was in a cartoon, I would look like this->

Notice the bold lines and coloring. Probably I was channeling Picasso's rose period and cubism at the same time (note the square shape of the torso and legs). Other influences would have included Klasky-Csupo's Rugrats for the simplified mouth and Snee-Oosh's Hey Arnold for the round shoes.

Obviously, I drew heavily from classical and contemporary sources. I also drew with crayons.

Mio Bello Cilantro

Have you ever been to the grocery and smelled the most exquisite aroma of fresh cilantro? I can't even describe- it isn't musty and thick like oregano, but it's soft and invigorating, and it begs to be mixed into salsa with warm tortilla chips. And I cannot stop thinking about it. It also used to be known as coriander, which sounds delicate and European. But let this other word wrap around your tongue: my beautiful cilantro.

Mad Old Bat

It has become increasingly apparent that I am going to be a very looney old person. I've always wanted to be a cool grandma, not the type who drives in a comically dangerous way, but the type who does fun things with the kids (This sentiment is equally applicable to when I'm a mother). But now I find myself acting out in public, most notably at the grocery store. Sometimes it's more noticeable, like when I dance quietly in the aisles. Sometimes it's the subtle things, like saying hello to the cheesecakes (as they are soo attractive). Sometimes it's the maddening things, like audibly asking Mum if she's noticed the lacking news coverage on Bush's push for optional filling of birth control as we walk away from the skinhead at checkout.

I don't know why it is that I should be so fanciful when in public, especially when shopping with my mother. Perhaps it's a result of pent-up energy that comes from internetting all day and reading all night. After the mind and body have settled and stewed, I need to run about in the same manner as I have for the past 15 years. I'm still the youngest person at home and in the neighborhood, so the same immature history is still in the background of my mind. I no longer run around in the puddles after a rainstorm, but I always linger when walking through with rain boots. I don't stick fight in the woods anymore, but I carefully examine every tree for climbing capacity.

These feelings will continue into adulthood (whenever that's supposed to happen), and I joyfully embrace the golden strain of childishness that will accompany the silver streaks in my hair.

My Christmas Music List

"I Won't Be Home for Christmas" Blink 182
(Hy-larious. Please listen.)


"Wizards in Winter" Trans-Siberian Orchestra
(Please listen to this also- it just rocks so hard. The band played this after I had graduated, and a student played lead guitar.)


"Merry Christmas, Baby" Bruce Springsteen
(The great BRUCE on the Conan O'Brian Show)


"Do They Know It's Christmastime" Band Aid
(Musicians saving the world!)


"Eight Days of Christmas" Destiny's Child


"The Chanukah Song" Adam Sandler



"All I Want for Christmas is You" Mariah Carey


"Carol of the Bells" TSO again
(We played this once in band. Imagine our conductor, who has a Santa beard, playing a green electric guitar. It was wicked.)


"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" The Temptations


"Sleigh Ride" Instrumental- I really wish I knew who did this arrangement
(I don't know who these people are)


"Mistletoe Jam" Luther Vandross
(Listen to the first 40 seconds. Very funny)


Now just add every classic Christmas song (except for "Still, Still, Still) and that's the complete list of my favorites. Happy Christmas!

What's In a Name?

Msn.com has recently alerted the masses to- what I believe to be- a very important study: Top Baby Names for 2008, courtesy Parents.com. I'm no baby-namer, but as a writer, I think it's necessary to see which names are popular (for characters), and avoid them like the plague or stash them secretly away.

After studying the lists carefully, I've decided to add my comments immediately after the names themselves.

GIRLS
1. Isabella - Number one! I actually like this name (it grows on you). That Portuguese (or Spanish?) queen would be proud that my baby cousin is named after her.
2. Ava - Okay.
3. Emily - Same^
4. Elizabeth - There are about a million or so nicknames for this one: Liz, Lizzy, Lizzard, Eliza, Beth, Betsy, Betty, Virgin Queen, etc.
5. Abigail - Adams.
6. Madison -I'm certain that a fair amount of my readers had a Barbie of the same name.
7. Emma -I adore Emma Thompson, don't have any opinion on the name otherwise.
8. Addison -Misspelling of Madison so as to appear unique. This method was so successful as to have gained two spots on originality.
9. Madeline -Very pretty. I accept.
10. Olivia -I never really thought about this name until another baby cousin was born. Same family. Very pretty name also.

BOYS
1. Aidan - Why do I feel that I'm related to someone of this name? Must look into that.
2. Jayden - One step away from being jaded.
3. Jacob - Sturdy name which will probably last another six thousand years.
4. Michael - Good name. Wasn't he an archangel?
5. Ethan - I only know one person with this name. Plus Ethan Allen.
6. Caden - Suffers from Madison/Addison syndrome.
7. James - Had a giant peach and two very mean aunts.
8. Caleb - Makes me think of cale, which is probably a leafy vegetable related to spinach.
9. Andrew - Boss Man!
10. Matthew - Mark, Luke, and John.

It looks like most of the girls' names are English-based with lots of flowy sylables, while the boys' names are old or new testement-based and limited to two syllables.

Something to think about when naming your next child or lead character.

One Day She Didn't Wake Up At All

I enjoy sleeping. I don't require ten hours each night, and often make due with 6-7, but sometimes it's just so hard. (That's what she said.) So when I am so tired, I just don't wake up.

Freshman year, I found a huge metal clock with bells on top at Roses discount store, and kept it on my bed next to the pillow. That clock was beastly and exquisitely loud. Yet Alisha would still end up yelling at me from across the room to wake up. Meanwhile the clock itself would just be ringing and ringing in my ear. Alisha marveled that as the clock exploded in cacophony next to my face, "you didn't flinch." I don't know how someone sleeps through that. Except-

Last year in Harford 3C, there was a fire alarm in the middle of the night. Alisha and I took no notice to the blaring sirens in the next room. Finally Erin came in to get us, and we thought she was angry at us for something, and that's why she was shouting and making siren noises at us.

Then this year, someone got sick in the hall bathroom, so the RA knocked at everyone's door in the middle of the night. Loudly. According to Claire, the girl pounded multiple times on the door, but of course, I have no recollection of this, or any such pounding. I rather hope I don't die in a catastrophe that requires me to wake up (fire, earthquake, Communist attack).

So I don't hear some alarms, and ignore others. Most mornings I fumble for my cell phone alarm, hitting snooze if I'm lucky, and turning it all off if I'm not. Every morning, something in me firmly believes that this action of turning off my phone will be immediately followed by the action of waking up. This is not true. Instead I doze indefinitely. This lasts until I hear Claire or one of the elephants upstairs moving around. I often arrive at my morning destination just in time.

But lo! tonight I found the most fantastic contraption evah. Let me introduce you to my soul mate. His name is Effective Alarm Clock.

I found this machine at a very coowell website called ModCloth.com. The whole thing buzzes until you put the puzzle pieces in (aka Snooze button). Then they pop out, and it buzzes again until you wake up and use your mind to put it back together, thus effectively waking the heck up.

I've tried to fool myself with alarm clocks before. I've done the classic out-of-reach trick, where you place multiple alarms around the room. No good. I would probably climb down from a lofted bed to turn off a clock, then climb back up and fall asleep. I've even tried sticking a thumbtack on the Off button, then taping a box over that so I literally had to dig and maneuver for the button (that's what she said?). But this cannot continue. One day I'll have a job where I have to BE THERE at 8 am (I mourn the day).

But the ModCloth.com clock does the trickery FOR you. How great is that? I think it would guarantee my waking up for a good two months, at least. So this is at the top of my Christmas list, friends and neighbors. Perhaps I'll start a clock fund to promote the cause of waking up early. Until then, Alisha and Claire can exchange horror stories about my radio alarm.

It Just Needs Some Salt

The most popular weekend in food culture was fantastic in terms of Thursday evening itself. However, I tried some other concoctions that just didn't quite work out as well. First there was the eggnog.
1. I don't know what induced me to purchase this stuff. I consider it every Christmas, but haven't had it in a long time. My only recollection was that it tasted bad, but the reason why no longer remained. SO I took it home, and had a sip. Yuck. Another sip... no, the nog was still terrible. Basically, it tasted like bubblegum. NO LIE. Cinnamon did not help. I think I had expected it to taste like a spicy vanilla milkshake. (It did not.) The abandoned mini jug sat in our fridge all weekend until I dumped the contents down the drain. NO GOOD.

2. The presence of whipped cream always makes me want hot chocolate, mochas, ice cream, or pie. Having already eaten pie, I turned to hot chocolate. We had bitter baking cocoa, so I poured it in a pot with sugar and spice, then added the last of the milk. The drink was excellent, but I overestimated the amount of milk we had. Thus, when I poured the hot chocolate in a cup, this is all I came up with: NO GOOD. There is nowhere near a full cup here.

3. Mum picked up a box of brownie mix, and like a good daughter, I added eggs and water, and put it in the oven. That's odd, I thought. There is no heat in this oven. Realizing the pilot light had gone out, I tried to relight it: a terrible idea. I lit a twig on fire and waved it around the bottom of the oven for awhile. Fearing for my yet-unburned hands and face, I bothered the parental unit about the situation. Dad rummaged around for a bit and determined that the igniter and the gas will not function in the bottom half of our stove. The unit on top, however, works excellently. Thus, I broiled the brownies. But... it didn't really work. While scalding the top of the batter, without baking the bottom of the dish, the brownies came out like this: soup. NO GOOD. (But very delish. Think brownie pudding.)

Project Izzy

I've been battling a sense of complacency for the past few holiday seasons, so this year, I decided to shake things up a bit and throw a cat into the mix. I'm catsitting.

Who is the fortunate feline? Aubrey's little bundle of joy: Izzy. As she had little or no intention of shuttling him home on a commuter flight to Albany, she needed a catsitter. "Awesome," I said. "I can't wait for Thanksgiving dinner now!" Dad was of the same spirit when he heard the news: "Your mother hasn't made that since you were little!" Cooking-the-cat jokes aside, everyone (Mom) agreed to the visitor, so long as I cleaned up after it.

On Tuesday afternoon, Aubrey and I were in the apartment, collecting last-minute Izzy items and enticing him to eat a kitty treat. The kitty treat was so important because it contained a kitty tranquilizer pill that would knock him out for the drive home. Ten minutes before the airport van was scheduled to leave, we were left to chase a very non-tranquil Izzy around the apartment.

Izzy did not sleep on the way home. He meowed. A lot. An average of ten times per minute, I would guess, since I was counting for awhile. I even pulled over at a gas station to see if there was something really wrong, but realized that he was just being ornery, and I was the only thing wrong with him. I turned up the radio and we drove on.

So we've been hanging out for the past few days, and Izzy seems slightly more comfortable than before. He hides in the back of our linen closet during the day, and I bother him when I'm bored. Then when he wants attention and a scratch behind the ears, he meows at me when I'm asleep. Before I'm ready to wake up.

Before dawn.

But that's what I get for offering him a place at the foot of my bed. (It seemed more comfortable than the freezing-cold closet). It all tends to drive Mum a bit crazy, which is great. When annoyed, capricious, or emotionally-distressed, I holler, "IZZY!" So Mum thinks I'm going to be a creepy old cat lady when I grow up. Izzy often ignores me, so I call out, "Why don't you love me?" Mum thinks I should get a real boyfriend because she cannot handle me in such a state because of a cat. I think it's hilarious. Perhaps when I go back to school I'll tell her we eloped. But I wouldn't do that to Aubrey. I know he stole her heart first.

FOOD

It's Thanksgiving! This fantastic holiday usually involves sleeping in, lounging about the kitchen to occasionally help Mum cook, and wandering over to watch the Macy's parade. I always feel sorry for those famous performers, like Kristen Chenoweth and Ashanti, who have to lip-sync on the Build-A-Bear Workshop float. It's just sort of sad that the producers won't allow them to sing live. I'm pretty sure they could do it by themselves.

In other news, when my parents were young, there was a Thanksgiving song called "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie, which is a 20-minute holiday tradition in Mum's family, and it's absolutely hilarious. It's a folksy narrative about a guy who visits Alice at and is arrested for taking her garbage to the dump (she had been storing it in the downstairs of an empty church where she lived). How do I know all of this? Because right after Mum told me about it, it came on the radio: AWESOME. It's so great. Just look it up and listen to a few minutes. Srsly.

Dad & I are notorious for walking by a half-cooked meal and swiping bits of it, and today the victim of our nibbling is: stuffing. Yum!!!! This stuff has bacon and mushroom and deliciousness throughout. I ate so much of it in passing that it was basically enough to constitute lunch.

Dad has been otherwise hiding in the living room. He is astounded by the fact that "Miracle on 34th Street" is showing at the same time as "Rocky Horror Picture Show." He's never seen the latter, and called me in to discuss it.

Dad: "Guess who this is!"

Me: "Tim Curry."

Tim Curry: "... transexual from Transylvania... Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, sexsexsex..."

It was incredibly painfully awkward to be in the same room as my father and a man in garters and lipstick, who was talking about sex parties and such. I have not such a comfortable relationship with my dad, and was reduced to giggling embarrassedly and running away to eat more stuffing. Dad is now watching "Miracle on 34th Street." Christmas just a safer theme.

Musca domestica

House fly.

There is a dying fly in our room, and I desperately wish it would KEEL OVER, ALREADY. Flies are typically quick and buzzy as they leap from place to place. (Yes, they leap.) But not this one. This one is falling apart, so it hovers around at half-speed, like a failing car engine. When we swat and make contact with it, we can feel its nasty, fat little body as it escapes our murderous grip.

It cannot go on much longer.

This morning was particularly harrowing. I was in that lovely dream state, dozing between alarms, when I felt something tickle my hand. I woke up for long enough to swat the fly from my knuckle. I awoke thrice more to again brush the creature from my wrist. The bug must die: this declaration was confirmed by the next ten minutes, which the fly spent lazily drifting around my head. In bed. It landed on my nose. I wondered if it would make its way to Claire's face once I left for work, but apparently it did not. (Probably it couldn't find her face in there. She has a very thick blanket and sometimes talks in her sleep. It was probably too afraid to land on either of those characteristics.)

I am embarrassed to admit that my swear count has increased considerably since the fly has moved in. I hope it dies soon. Where is it right now? I'm really not sure, but I think it's rubbing its little feelers together, plotting against my poor knuckles. It never quite goes away...

My First: Energy Drink

Last night at 10 pm, I sat in the library computer lab with head and eyelids drooping into sleep. With a high majority of an essay to write, I was in a bad state. This will never do, I realized. Reenforcement is required. Reenforcement came in the form of a Rockstar Roasted Coffee & Energy drink, with an infusion of caffeine, guarana, ginseng, taurine, and an exciting assortment of B-vitamins.

I returned to the computer and noted after a few sips that I was at least awake. Good start. I drank about a quarter of the 15-oz can, and returned to my dorm at midnight. With much more work to do (I'm a hideously slow writer), I questioned the Rockstar's ability to get me through the night, and I desired extreme power.

"Claire, how much energy drink do you need until you start shaking?" I wanted to type- and think- much faster.

"Um, usually two cans," she replied.

I could see my fault in not purchasing more. But I went to the lounge to do the work, armed with my books and 3/4 can of liquid speed.

Now, I can't say that I wrote any faster than usual, sipping the coffee. Still, I didn't fall asleep on my keyboard, either. The paper was completed in the early morning, so I decided to take a nap while the housekeeper cleaned the showers.

It was 6 am, and I still didn't fall asleep. Okay, that was fine. I had energy enough- I went back to the lounge and did sit-ups for awhile. Seriously. I considered going to the gym, already being dressed in sweats.

I took the shower and was dressed by 8 am. There was now the choice of whether to go to the art studio, edit my essay some more, or catch up on reading assignments. With ceramics in mind, I attacked my body with coats and scarves, and sat down to get my books-

and then I considered going to sleep right where I sat fully dressed at the desk in my dorm. I removed the scarf and the jackets, and crawled up to bed, where I slept for an hour and woke up just in time to go to work, as always.

Craftily Inspired

Today was a fantastic autumn day, with just a hint of misty coolness, a semi-cloudy sky, and excellent Maryland leaves scattered on the ground. I decided it was a perfect day to walk into town, and intended to bring Roomie Claire, too. Conversation as follows:

ME: [bursts into dorm room, shouting] Claire!

CLAIRE: [no answer. She is not there. But her phone is, so she's probably still in the building.]

ME: [bursts into bathroom, sees Claire shower supplies and robe] Claire! It's gorgeous outside!

CLAIRE: [no answer. She cannot hear me over the shower, and is confused to have possibly heard her name.]

We finally spoke face-to-face, and I eventually convinced her to go into town with me.

ME: Hey!

CLAIRE: Hey.

ME: It's really nice outside. Wanna walk to town?

CLAIRE: Okay.

Mission complete. For a few hours, we drank coffees, examined antique Dutch dressers, considered transporting aforementioned dresser back to the dorm (uphill), discussed decorative pillows and beaver pelts, bought cheap plastic rings, dragged our weary bodies back to the dorm (having sat down not once), and ate chicken nuggets with current and past members of the drama department.

Having examined multiple expensive knick-knack shops, I am now inspired to sew my own decorative pillows, paint some pictures, and throw a few bowls, cups, and plates. I am, however, much too tired to do any of it, though, or to elaborate on the topic. Good night.

Thermostat: Dominated

Roomie Claire and I have noticed an intense drop in temperature in these last few days. We've no longer an air conditioning unit in the window, which is the first step in the winter transition. But, we've been staring at the whitewashed (oh yes, whitewash still exists) metal radiator in our room, and drawing a blank.

This miserable radiator- the likes of which I haven't encountered since I was ten, and my parents controlled all things atmospheric- laughed at our every attempt to extract heat from it. In fact, it is probably an endothermic system, which has been sucking up our meagre body heat to warm itself. It probably eats our food when we aren't looking, too.

Tonight, lacking slippers and facing a wind chill of 39 degrees, I attacked the block of metal, quite determined to make the heater work, or make a maintenance man come work. (Someone was going to work, and this room was going to be warm.)

I found the two little steam valves on either side of the thing, and asked a neighbor to show me how hers are set, and SHAZAM! One little twist of the valve, and that cretin is roasting quite nicely.

I've made a sign for my door for all to see and experience my joy.


Why, yes, I do rock, and am accepting applications for a personal assistant and whipping boy for when I rule the world. Today, the radiator; tomorrow, the world.

Hear Me Roar

Note: I've decided that my last post was too long, so will now treat readers to a short, yet entertaining entry, in the form of a farce.

There is a new women's group on campus, which I think is great, truly. We are a glorious gender. But I just can't seem to move past my desire to attend a meeting, and introduce myself as such:

"Hi, my name is Laura. I like to cook, sew, and iron, but my real passion lies in the laundry arts. I- [here I falter] I- I believe the male is the superior sex, and [here's where I break down and cry] I need help! I want to be saved!"

I just think that would be more fun that sitting around and talking about voting.

A Good Alumnus Attends

This weekend was Fall Break, and I just happened to be home in time for my high school's Homecoming. This year, I decided, I'll support the public school system that supported me. I decided to go to a football game.

It took twenty minutes for me to figure out what to wear. Why? Because I'm like that. It's this incredible inability to make basic decisions. There are heaps of clothes in my dorm room because I can never decide which shoes to pack, so I take both. So, I finally made it out the door, eager to watch the football team dominate... whoever they were supposed to dominate.

Actually, I never made it past the door. Instead, I swept it open and gaped at a downpour of rain, which had been the cause of a sinus headache earlier that day. I'll support the football team, I decided, after I change my clothes. Now came the exciting drama of which sweatshirt would puff the least under my raincoat, the answer (of course) being: none, as the raincoat itself is puffy.

My puff-n-fluff and I prepared to leave again, and this time got as far as the high school. There are two entrances that are on opposite sides of the property. If one is locked, cars must continue through another two miles with two annoying stoplights to access the opposite road. Of course, my entrance was blocked.

The parking lot was full, so my nervous car trembled into that ominous Pepper Spray and Just-Say-No territory that every place seems to have. By the time I reached the main lot, our team already had a touchdown, and was in the process of kicking the ball to get more points. I paid the five dollars, and was on my way in.

Throughout the night, I recognized four people from my graduating class, eight people from the seafood market, and a dozen members of marching band. (This is a consistent ratio for people I liked in high school.)

By halftime, the score was 28-0, and everyone was thoroughly damp, including me (in all it's glory, the rubber raincoat protects neither my head from rain, nor my pants from wet bleachers). The rain had cleared by second quarter, but then attacked the band's halftime show with double strength.

As a novice immorally-minded creature, I appreciate even the most crippling of ironies. So, I must remark on the Homecoming Court's shivering its way down the 50-yard line as the announcer semi-butchered a bio or two.

But let me say this: my darlings Anna and Zoe were crowned Homecoming Queen and Princess, and they looked lovely. Everyone looked great. I can't pull off that I'm-sitting-in-the-rain-but-I-still-look-good look, but if you're on Homecoming Court, you probably can. And they did.

I left after halftime, having gotten my fill of football, small talk, and memory lane. But despite the fact that everyone and everything was drenched, including one hundred dry-clean only band uniforms, everyone had enjoyed a fun night. It was time to go.

And as I walked out, the football team made another touchdown, the perfect fanfare as I drove away.

Weather Discussion

In response to that girl in the library:

Why, yes, it is getting a bit chilly. This could have something to do with your wearing a tank top tonight while I'm contemplating a parka, you goat.

Instead of Writing an Essay, I:

- Checked email
- Contemplated signing up for a credit card
- Compared multiple credit cards
- Emailed Mum for advice on credit card
- Called Mum for advice for credit card
- Received email with advice

- Checked email
- Considered going to RoFo
- Considered cooking a crab cake
- Made a Hot Pocket
- Decided to go on a diet
- Decided to simply eat healthier
- Ate gummy bears and chocolate bar

- Checked email
- Watched part of Mean Girls
- Watched part of American Dad
- Adjusted NetFlix listing
- Watched Derrick Comedy videos
- Read bad roommate stories at CollegeHumor

- Checked email
- Took a shower
- Brainstormed haircut
- Brainstormed winter wardrobe

- Checked email
- Listened to radio
- Wrote blog post
- Contemplated writing essay

- Checked email

Unnatural Bread

I purchased a loaf of bread at the end of August after moving to school. At the grocery store, I took far longer than I should have in choosing which bread would be the healthiest, in regard to whole grains, low-fructose corn syrup, etc. I came home with "Baker's Inn," which seemed healthy and only cost $2.50 + tax.

Good deal.

However, I have recently begun to question its legitimacy as a food product. It should have expired the first week of September, but it's still going strong. Week-old loaves turn green faster than my seasick aunt on a dinghy, but not this stuff. It looks fine- it tastes fine, and that's creeping me out.

How many preservatives must the inn-ful of bakers have shoved into that bread before they let it loose on the market? An incredibly and unnaturally high amount, I have determined.

But I say this only because the its "sell-by" date was a month ago, and it has shown no signs of aging. Perhaps my bread has been botoxed. It should probably move to L.A.

Sausages!

Many TV commercials are incredibly bad, and the American public has mostly recognized this. SAUSAGES!

Half of the gimmicks don't even relate to what they're advertising. Example: There was a fabric softener commercial where a woman tossed a full laundry basket on top of her SUV and spent most of her 30 seconds driving through the winding wilderness. "This is an SUV commercial," I SAUSAGES! determined. "The basket isn't tipping over, which shows how smoothly the car rides to and through a person's dream destination." Alas, I was wrong.

The woman began to hang her laundry on a line (in the middle of a meadow, or something), and suddenly the Snuggle Bear leaped out and snuffed her, or whatever it is he does. Then the flowers danced, the planets aligned, the lady smiled, and there was world peace. (I'll leave it to you to cut off wherever believability crosses the line here.)

My point is that I think that commercials are bad, especially the J.G. Wentworth "It's my money, and I need it NOW." But the fact remains that we still lap it up and allow it into pop culture. Who can forget the SAUSAGES! Budweiser frogs belching in our faces, "Bud-weis-errrr," or the eternal "Whazzzaaaap?" (Was that a phone commercial? I don't even remember, and I remember weird things.)

However, there is one beer ad that I particularly adore this year: the Bud Light Talking Animals commercial. Those who've heard me mention it will know it as "Sausages." SAUSAGES! Let's take a look, shall we?



I'm not trying to induce others to worship this ad in a cult-like manner, but come on.That's funny. Mum and everyone I work with think so, and that's enough for me.

But all the other commercials are bad.

SAUSAGES!

How Badly Do You Want It?

I think it's interesting how some people so blatantly treat their bodies like crud.

Working at the summertime seashore, I witness a number of people whose sunburned skin could rival the steamed red of the crabs they ordered. Once at the beach, I saw a rather large woman baking in the sun (who wants his well-done?). This overweight woman was completely burned, and then she lifted a cigarette as I passed. So, she has two chances at heart disease and two at cancer. Hope lobster lady gets enough antioxidants; those free-radicals won't stabilize themselves.

Recently, a pair of spray paint artists came to my school to make nifty little pictures for anyone willing to wait in line for long enough. They wore big gas masks to keep the fumes away (imagine sitting in a tent for hours with a dozen cans of paint). But as my turn approached, one artist got up to take a break. He coughed once in the fumes of the paint, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes while walking away. Way to beat up your lungs, bro. How badly do you want it?

Gilded Donut

gilded: (adj) having a pleasing or showy appearance that conceals something of little worth

In the spirit of Harford 3C, the English suite from last year, I wanted to point out the correlation between my life and a book I'm reading for class.

Mark Twain's The Gilded Age features a great deal of false impressions of grandeur. For instance, meagre dinners are said to be made of rare and imported ingredients and stage coaches rush merrily through towns, just to trudge lamely again through the countryside.

And today, a seemingly perfect jelly-filled donut was smuggled from the dining hall without my prior knowledge that it contained NO JELLY. I was utterly fooled, and horribly disappointed when I reached the end of the pastry without having encountered the lovely fruit filling, as had been expected. I ate a gilded donut.

If These Walls Could Speak...

They'd probably tell all of your secrets.

Last year, my friends and I lived in a tower-fortress dormitory, with large concrete bricks on every side that contained and siphoned noise, as appropriate. Our suite's position on the top floor added to the peace.This year, Claire and I are in the middle of the hallway, on the middle floor of a slightly thinner-walled building. (I'm not complaining.)

When I awoke the first morning, it was at 8:15 am to this:
[BANG!] "Hmm" [BANG!] "This door-" [BANG!] "It won't lock properly." [BANG! BANG! BANG!]

The freshmen had begun to move in, which is perfectly natural, so I ran away to hide and eat breakfast on the benches next to a construction zone (a more productive source of banging).

As days progress, the dorm bathroom has begun to reveal its affinity for... revealing. Though they have dividers and curtains, the showers are all in a line, directly across from a room-length mirror. There is a window in the shower area (why?), which has blinds with various rips, so it almost doesn't matter that it was wide open the first time I jumped in the shower, then crept modestly out.

Also, the toilet stalls are next to a window, so it's possible to see another dorm's entrance from between the large plastic wall on the end stall. Very interesting.

These little details just add to the fact that it is a more public bathroom than we had last year, and it allows everyone to fairly accurately guess what each other is doing. I'm not a fan of this; I'm worried I'll offend someone by shaving too weirdly, or something.

On the way from my bathroom to bedroom, I have on more than one occasion attempted to walk into my neighbor's room, having misjudged the distance between takeoff and destination. Luckily the door was locked, the neighbor screamed, or some other preventative measure halted my progress into the room. But this just illustrates how no one is safe from inadvertently intruding in this building.

Dorms Now Available With Hair Accessories

I moved into my dorm today, and there was a hairband on the bedpost. That’s understandable, I decided. Another girl slept here before now. But there was also a multicolored hairclip on the window blinds. (This one is tricky.) The cord to the blinds is held together already by a bead or something. I don’t know why someone would want to store her clip up there, but it continues to stare down at me, so I think I may check it for bugging devices.

So I’m here, but my roommate (and her superior amenities) won’t arrive until Saturday. So what I lack in a TV, microwave, and someone to talk to, I make up for with a computer, dorm oven, and ABBA’s Greatest Hits.

The room is decent, and fits my oversized cabinet, which Mum insisted we purchase once she saw that my previous roomie-for-life had a real cabinet, versus my stackable Tupperware boxes. Perhaps she felt lacking in parental ability for not sending me with actual furniture. I hope she feels compensated by the fact that Alisha’s mother soon sent a set of dishes, which I had originally brought and Alisha had not.

So the cabinet and all of the other over-packed items fit, and Claire will still fit, and she’ll hopefully feel that I have left her a fair amount of living space. And not crowded the walls with lame posters/ photos, which was hard to do, considering the density of the bricks here. I may have to use a hammer and nails to get my delicious Orangina poster on the wall.

Speaking of yummy-ness, I have a ridiculous amount of food here. Not snacks, but FOOD. I recently prepared and froze some crab cakes and dip for school. Then I visited the seafood market and was loaded with smoked fish and soup. My freezer is about a square half-foot in size, and works as efficiently as a half-foot. The following illustration demonstrates my predicament:


As you can see, the fish won’t fit, my roommate (not an accurate physical representation) thinks I’m nuts, and my hair is exploding. I’ve fixed the first two problems by storing it all in the communal Frigidaire downstairs. Now the whole dorm will know I’m quite mad, as the wild hair suggests (though I am looking into a new line of mousses, never fear).

So I guess I’ve survived the first day alone in the dorm, even after having to search for my eco-friendly, lemonade-smelling, all-purpose cleaner for 40 minutes. (There’s no way I’m sleeping on that mattress without cleaning it with something). More exciting tales will follow.

My Last Day: Penguins and Raw Fish

Yesterday concluded my fifth and final season at the seafood market, and O! how lovely it was.

In honor of liking their employees (and a little for the added occasion of my last day) Boss Man and Boss Lady took everyone out to a new sushi restaurant. This was a unique experience for me, in that I actually ordered and consumed the stuff. I'm not a huge fan of raw fish because of the texture, so never actively go after it, but this food was so de-lish that we all stuffed ourselves on almost everything on the menu. Here are two of the four platters, minus appetizers and dessert:

Gorgeous, right? Andy and Zea (Boss People) are the most generous couple I could ever imagine, and continue to feed us night after night (not always in such a fashion, but close).

After dinner, everyone gathered round the table (actually we gathered round the table before dinner, and simply remained in position throughout the meal), and presented me an exceptional gift: a DVD of Surf's Up.

Let me explain the significance here. We watched this a week ago for movie night at Boss People's house, and I laughed for the first ten minutes NONSTOP. It's a documentary-style animated film about a penguin who loves to surf, but lives in Antarctica, where the main career for a penguin is in fish-mongering. So here's this young, bored penguin who is sorting fish and says, "So I've been working at a fish market my whole life. SO LAME." I nearly die every time I hear it.

This apathetic penguin was my going-away gift, PLUS everyone wrote a message on the inside of the DVD paper packaging, so I have fond farewells from my dearly darling co-workers. It was the greatest lay-off of my life. (Just kidding.)

Next summer, I fully intend to find an internship or other relevent work experience in publishing or design, but maybe it'll only last a month or two, so I can still return to the market for a bit. We'll see.

If not, I have a million hilarious memories of my fishy family, including last night at the sushi bar. And I have a pretty decent recipe for crab cakes.

Maternal Instinct Questioned

Just a few moments ago, I had my bi-weekly urge to water the strawberry plant that has grown more and more neglected as summer continues. At the beginning of the season, I was inspired by a former suitemate to grow my own fruit. Aubrey was stoked to bring a small plant from her New York-based strawberry forest backyard and keep it on her Maryland-based balcony. It continues to feed her, as far as I know.

I decided I would grow my own little seedling from the non-molding remains of a strawberry that I found at the bottom of a store-bought package. If I could grow just ONE strawberry, I thought, it will have made up for the yucky one that we bought. (The same experiment was begun with a blueberry.) That was about three months ago. It seemed reasonable to have something that might feed you after you raised it from infancy, which is how I imagine child-rearing works.

However, I don't want children yet. Yugh. I once had a dream that I had a baby, but Mum had to raise it, due to my incompetence. So, the child called her Mommy and me Grandma. I was disappointed that it didn't know who I really was, and I think that's how I would feel if my parents got another dog while I'm in college (dogs being preferred to babies, and strawberries being preferred to both when I'm hungry).

The strawberry plant started REALLY well. It's very tall, and even had to be transplanted. (This is the proud, maternal side.) But as it now becomes increasingly shrivelled (and blueberry plant nonexistent), I wonder if it will ever produce just ONE little berry. I think this is comparable to me leaving my hypothetical child in a nursery and hoping she photosynthesizes. There is little chance she will feed or nurse me when I'm old and inept.

Perhaps I should work on this motherly instinct/ my memory in general. I think it's indirectly linked to strawberry-and-eventual-self-preservation. But until then, I'll just go to the grocery store and buy fruit there.

Public Singing: Round Deux

In every good romantic comedy or chick flick, a woman proclaims her independence by going crazy in some way. Alcohol and liberating music often accompany this romp. True to form, after (mutually) ending a very pleasant relationship a day ago, I went shopping and then went with my beloved seafood market on the most exciting and unique field trip in market history: we went to karaoke night at a local pub.

I haven't sung for an audience in about 7 or 8 years. That was middle school chorus, which I quickly escaped. I had never sung solo until this year's Musical Theatre class final project. (Each student had the choice of singing a song in public OR writing a ten-page paper. I put much thought into my decision.) It's only fitting, therefore, that I stepped up to the plate last night to sing The Divinyls' "I Touch Myself," as modestly as possible.

Fortunately, 8 other people were laughing and cheering just enough so that no one could else in the bar could think I was that bad. Another girl sang the Fugees' version of "Killing Me Softly" (lovely!) and one kid sang Johnny Cash. It was pretty great. But the best part of all:
all nine of us shared three mics to serenade the remaining country music-lovers with "Kokomo." Lovely lovely Beach Boys.

What a blast. And don't worry- there are pictures.

Crab Dip

I'm so stoked. Sometimes Boss Man has extra blue crabs that aren't heavy enough to (in good conscience) sell. Should there be a large enough quantity, he offers them to us to take home. Last night was such a night, and let me say:

Score.

I ended up with at least three or four dozen hardshells, which required only 3 manhours for Mum and me to pick. Armed with mounds of cream cheese, mayo, sour cream, and cheddar, I am prepared to make a beastly amount of crab dip for home AND the market. AND IT WILL BE GOOD.

This is my way of saying, "Thank you, seafood market, for being such a wonderful place and providing money and food as needed, and I'm sorry I didn't hang up the mats properly last night, and forgot to charge that lady for her extra garden salads. I love you all the same." Hopefully the seafood market will answer, "Holy Old Bay, Batman, this is delicious. What were you saying about that salad?" Or similarly.

By the way, have you seen Batman yet? Does anyone even read this blog yet to see the aforementioned questioned? If the answer is yes to either (and therefore both?), then you rock, and so did "Dark Knight." My coworkers and bosses went to a late-night showing and let me say, it was EPIC. I love superheroes who rely on their own wit/intelligence/technology, rather than just a toxic waste pit or radiation. Perhaps it isn't as impressive that they rely on tech to fly, but I'm impressed. They're smart. Batman has for while been my favorite super, and Robin... I don't know, maybe he'll be in the next Christopher Nolan version.

I'm making crab dip tomorrow. And it's gonna rock.

That Was Fast

For the past few days I've been working nonstop, but occasionally remembering that I need to read my favorite updated blogs.



This only worsens the fact that I forgot I have one, too.

Probably Moving Forward

I've worked at a seafood market all summer, every summer, for the past five years. I love it desperately. I adore my bosses, coworkers, the seafood we sell, and the fun we have, and I would happily work there forever. Thus, I've named this blog by the question I ask dozens of people everyday when they order crabs and shrimp ("Would you like that steamed and spiced?"). This may or may not remind me that I'm trying to one day have a future outside of the summer job industry. Maybe not.

I want to write or draw or design something. And make a living from it. But right now, it feels like this student life will never end. I don't mean that in a negative way, but I haven't truly grasped the idea that one day I'll be living in "the real world," with large student loans to repay and food that isn't automatically prepared by parents or cafeteria staff. Instead, smaller jobs dominate my life: fish-selling in the summer and book-scanning at the library in autumn. What I do is important to those I help. But I'm planning for something else and at times wondering if I'm going anywhere.

The best I can think of to do now is DO SOMETHING PROACTIVE. Good word, eh? Desperately I'm trying to accomplish something each day. If I'm going to sit around the house all day, I can at least clean something. If I'm going to sit on the computer all night, I can at least apply for a scholarship. Day off? Visit a friend, go school shopping, go to the bank or doctor.

So it kind of feels like I'm doing something. There is hope for a future beyond day-to-day life and labor. I'm probably moving forward.

Am I Even Doing This Right?

Two of my friends have created blogs, and I figure it's my turn to jump off that cliff.

I've been considering doing this for awhile, but there are several reasons why I have not yet.

1) I don't know how much I have to say to the world. I don't want to be a boring or whiney writer who talks about nothing, though I love reading anything other people write, including colanders. I don't think they're boring.

2) If I can compose this online, why can't I stick it in my diary? Several lovely, lonely journals sit on my bookshelf, begging for purpose, but all I ever end up doing is being whiney when I write. This returns us to the original problem (See #1).

3) I hate the word blog. It sounds like "blob" or "bog," and is therefore too swampy for my taste.

4) Mum always says not to put too much information on the internet, and how am I supposed to write about anything if I can't write about it in explicit detail?

With this in mind, I now have a blog, and shall perhaps write again sometime.