Freeways...or Fearways?

Major highways have the one good quality of moving people and goods at an accelerated pace. And that's all there is to say about that because, otherwise, freeways suck hard.

If, while speeding along at 65 mph, you miss an exit, you often drive for another .5-50 miles before finding another exit that allows you to turn around. And don't be mistaken: if a road sign says "Dover," it may OR MAY NOT be true. Or that road actually will lead to Dover, but only after removing you from the highway that ALREADY WAS leading to Dover.

Instead, you will find yourself on a mangy highway still covered in snow, ice, and unrelenting stoplights. You will be forced to stare at all the happy cars as THEY drive over this (safe and salted) highway bridge:
Can you sense the peaceful calm that this driver exudes as he drives over the interstate bridge?

But no such luck for you. Because you are already on the mangled sideroad, you are preparing to cross THE OTHER bridge:

You seem to think I'm kidding. But after your petrified little sedan leaps over the monster potholes, skirts the hunks of unsalted ice, and manages to avoid slipping off either side of the 30-degree slope, you will find yourself to be...rather agitated?

Agitated is the right word.

So learn from your own misadventures: stay away from the freeway. It'll kick you off just as soon as it can, and you'll never find your way back.

on the moon

A week after torrential rains, we settle into torrential 30-degree weather. The mud puddles that dominate campus have all frozen, with shoeprints still embedded, so our campus looks like the light side of the moon where astronauts dip their feet once, and the prints remain forever.

One more exam remains, and I hang by the lingering thread of a 48-hour caffeine cycle. I do not sleep much. I have become very still.

Laundry Rage

In it's entirety, the note I was forced to hang in the laundry room this evening:

Look, douche, next time can you wait 5 minutes before you touch a girl's underwear and throw it on top of a dirty laundry machine?

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

Update: After throwing a can away later this evening, I heard two of the guys across the hall come outside to check to see if "something" was still in the laundry room. It was. I admit to being curious. Did they expect me to steal the douche's laundry? Or did they leave a retaliatory note? Or did they booby-trap the laundry room, expecting my return? Either way, I hope the housekeeper won't be insulted in the morning. But I think she would side with the girls.

We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On*

While dozing this morning, I had a truly fantastic dream, so despite the cold, I was in a great mood. While approaching the dining hall for lunch, I remembered half of the dream that I had forgotten, so I got a second round of great mood.

I also got to see some directing scenes (very cool), play ping pong, and eat tilapia. Good day.

Then I got a phone call from home about how not immediately going to grad school could f-up my loan repayment, and how long I'd have to wait until being able to afford grad school, and how there would be more (disappointing) discussions about this in the near future.

There goes the day. I'm actually getting depressed thinking about it again.

So let's end this post with that dream, shall we?

I was in high school marching band (but not wearing the uniform) with my best friends Lauren and Marin. So we got to hang out. Because it was a football game, the opposing team's band was doing the pregame show, where I saw my great friend Colin (as drum major), who went to another high school. So we got to hang out, too. Then I walked through the student center here at school, and there I saw Aubrey! Just studying while some other kids watched TV. By now, I've seen representatives from all of my dearest groups of friends. The dream of dreams finished with a scene in which my crush basically declared his love for me (which indicates he left his current girlfriend) (and no, it's not Corey, for the record).

Is that not a kick-ass dream? What a great night. Even though I hate the idea of someone dumping his girlfriend to be with me, the whole us-getting-together thing was pretty nice. Plus I got to see all of my friends...

I want to go back to sleep.


*The Tempest IV.i.156-7

Hit the Ground

There is a new building on campus that--as I've commented to several people--I find to have an exceedingly precarious staircase. It's really tall, it's really hard, and the top layer of paint is already coming off.

Therefore, it could be considered dangerous to the average climber of stairs, or in today's case, the average descender of stairs.

I was wearing a pair of boots that have a slightly loose heel, and at the top of the stairs, one shoe decided it didn't really want to do it's job of protecting my feet any longer. So I slipped, grabbed onto the rail, and shouted a few well-chosen obscenities as I slid into Nate and Travis, who also shouted for fear of being dragged down the staircase by a crazy chick with a bad heel and too-heavy book bag. I came to a halt by twisting my body and ramming my leg into the wall.

Fortunately, I only tripped down a few stairs, twisted nothing, and bruised nothing (this may change in the morning). But until the bruising, I can happily say:

I was right. Someone is going to fall down those stairs. That someone is me.

Why I Don't Like You

Recently, I've been thinking about some of the people at school who I find to be exceptionally disagreeable. It's not that they are jerks every time I see them (though a few are). Some even seem mildly pleasant on a daily basis. It seems that I may dislike some because of old grudges, which would be my own fault.

But then I realized: for me, it's the first impression. If you act like a tool kit during orientation, I won't forget the douchiness during subsequent interactions. If--for an entire year--you stomped all over the floor in the room above me, that's how I'll remember you. When my first four encounters with you all involve discussing your drunken rampages, I will forever consider you less than classy.

This is why I don't like people sometimes. They weren't impressive the first time, and it'll take a lot for them to move up in my book.

Haiku for Non-Contagion

Eyes are popping out.
Thanks, earache and sinuses.
My head will explode.

Thankscooking

This year my mother has to work on Thanksgiving. All day. I'm not even going to see her.

Ergo, this year I will be cooking Thanksgiving dinner. All of it. By myself.

It's true that I love to cook, but I'm more of a pastry chef: cookies, mousse, pie, and crab dip. If it's brutally fattening, it's probably my specialty. But tomorrow it'll be potatoes, vegetables, and

THE BIRD.

Even for a small family dinner, a relatively small clucker will demand hours of attention. I'll have to stick my hand up it's tail to clean and stuff it, then season, baste, and bake. Thank god this isn't the colonial era. I'd probably be plucking the damn thing right now.

Oh heck, I just realized I have to figure out gravy, too.

It's times like these that I wonder if tradition is so necessary. And yes, I appreciate Mum that much more. Happy Thanksgiving, all.

After All of That--A Bit of Hope

As my last post indicated, it's been a long month. And this week, the sun returned and everything brightened.

Many of my grad school application fears have been allayed (thanks Mom & Aubrey). I'm still running late, but just have to get this stuff done and talk to some profs about recommendations. And I just found out that the head of my current English department knows the head of my prospective English department. When I say "know," what I mean "is really good friends with." She has offered to put in a good word.

Also, Corey held auditions this week for his directing thesis. Dozens of people showed up because it's Corey, and it's dark comedy, and who doesn't want a piece of that? Auditions were a lot of fun already (I love reading plays aloud), but I'm excited to report that I've been cast as Helen!!! She is the (truly) crazy mother, who is definitely not cut out for parenthood. It's an awesome role, and I will work my hardest to do the part justice.

Related news: Corey won the Student Comedy Competition and opened for the visiting stand-up comedian today. And he truly kicked ass. And the people loved it. And God said that was good.

Still, after all of the week's excitement, nothing was as surprising as what I found in my living room on Thursday: life.

I have a curly willow tree, left over from a botanical arrangement from an art gallery's inaugural exhibition. It is a branch. It was chopped at the stem. It had no reason to live, despite sitting in a vase of water for three weeks and spitting out the tiniest little root.

The art gallery director swore it would grow, a promise I held onto desperately, even as a deathly brown dryness crept down the green branch. Yet, on Thursday, this is what I found:
Leaves! Ergo, life!

And my suitemates laughed at it.

There is hope for all things.

Hell...Month?

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nvpwie4tu8028ezvioier;nv,bvzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzcxxx
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This is how I feel.

Actually, I'm finally over it, but I was in a bad mood for...a long time, actually. Culprits for such a mood include rain, the GRE Subject Exam, general unhealthiness, procrastination, and fluorescent lighting. After having three bad weeks, I realized it's just been a bad month (Sorry to those whom I growled at).

But then Aubrey visited Claire and me, and we had an excellent weekend (excellence includes bargain-hunting books & clothes, watching bad movies, and drinking Izze juice). And tonight I auditioned for Corey's play, which was super-fun. Readings are fun. Hooray for friends!

That's all for now.

The Values of Anti-Socialism

Not the government type of socialism.

I was crossing campus today and found myself walking ten feet behind a friend from Writers' Theatre. (It's one of those people who you don't hang out with during free time, but about whom you could say "We're cool.") We're cool.

So I walked and walked, a few steps behind him all the way, and I thought maybe I should say Hi. It wouldn't take much effort, but could begin a conversation that I was perhaps not in the mood for. Just say it, I thought. Hi, Chris. What's up? Not difficult by any means, and perhaps with a pleasant outcome of human interaction.

Finally, after mulling and passing by several buildings, I paused to fill my lungs and prepared to say, "Hi-"

It wasn't him. The guy turned around just as I was about to make him do so, and alas it was not him. It wasn't anyone I know. It wasn't anyone I truly desired to call Chris, whether it was his name or not. It just looked like him.

I shut my mouth and continued to follow silently.

Later, I saw Chris and told him this story. I said "Hi" and we had a conversation. It was pleasant.

Mystery Team: I Want a Piece of This

I am not a huge fan of internet videos. They're typically boring, stupid, or at least poor quality. I avoid viral videos because of the nature of their existence--it's just hype.

But the sketch group Derrick Comedy has a collection of shorts (brief videos) posted online that you could not tear me away from. These NYU alums met at NYU have been doing improv and sketches together for years, and they've nearly perfected the art, as evidenced by the million-plus hits on their many videos.

Last year they took the film making to the next level by fully producing their own feature-length movie, Mystery Team. It's about three teens who have been part of the same mystery solving club for ten years. They have the mindsets of eight-year-olds in a much more mature world. Their newest case? Solving a double murder. Let hilarity ensue...

Their work is so brilliant because it's not just people acting silly, but believing the situations they create. It's just a slight enough twist on reality that you can't help but love it. Note that they are 20-somethings, so the humor is typically R-rated in terms of language and some subject matter. But it's all hilarious.

My friends and I are excited to see that Derrick Comedy has kept this high level of straight-edged sillyness in the movie, as you can see in the trailer.
Mystery Team premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, much to my delight, and it has been picked up for distribution, much to my great delight. Right now the five Derrick Comedians are touring the U.S. with limited preview engagements. The film will open nationwide in October, and we have been counting down the weeks. Of course, the local theatre is lame, so probably will not get it, so WE ARE PREPARED TO DRIVE and find it!

Dear Mystery Team, please come to the Baltimore/D.C. area! We eagerly await your antics.

For those interested in seeing more Derrick Comedy, check out the movie trailer, and some of their classic shorts: "Girls Aren't to be Trusted," "B-Boy Stance," "Self-Defense," "Keyboard Kid," and a personal favorite, "Fraggle Rock: Alternate Theme Song."

In Search of Perfection: First Draft of Play

In the most basic of playwriting classes, Playwriting I, students are required to submit a new scene each week. By the semester's end, we will have eked out some kind of a draft of a play. In this type of writing, the most basic concept is that a character wants something that another character somehow prevents. This is conflict, and this is what a play is about.

However, I feel that good writing should have a point. Pictures & Words class taught us this: don't just think of a story; think of a deeper message or theme that the work will explore. Thus, I want my play to have a deeper purpose and overall message. It also doesn't help that I'm in my second consecutive semester of Shakespeare. The genius playwright commonly featured at least a half-dozen themes in his writing. So now I have spent hours trying to find a non-hackenyed theme that will invite study of the human condition.

I'd also like it to be funny, but at the least, not melodramatically tragic.

I'd also like to sleep a bit.

One damn little scene of my proposed masterpiece needs to be finished within the next eight hours. I just need two characters who disagree enough to prevent eachother from attaining something for five pages. But I can't bring myself down to that level. I can't find a prompt. I can't even prompt myself into a prompt. I've stared at random pictures for an hour, trying to imagine a backstory for just one of them! Just one stupid conflict, and then I can make it into a masterpiece later.

Squigglies

A radio DJ was discussing his birthday weekend and celebratory dinner of crabs. He was inviting listeners to call in and tell him personally:
1. Do they eat the mustard in the crab?
2. Do they eat the fat "squigglies" in the crab?

I want everyone to know the correct answer is:
1. Of course you eat the mustard. It's built-in dipping sauce.\
2. For gawd's sake don't eat the "squigglies," as he so eloquently described. An anatomic model from Lander University (.edu) quite clearly labels these as TESTES, and goes into detail about the coloring due to the formation of spermaphores.
Don't eat the squigglies. Stick to the clean stuff.

Where's Waldo? Plotting...

I just found an article on MSNBC.com (is it obvious I have much homework to do today) that says an underwater robot named Waldo has been lost off the Gulf Coast in Florida. It's worth 100 grand, and the red tide detector equipment on board is worth another 30 grand.

This article is pertinent to me on several levels.

First, I love anything that involves underwater exploration. It's the last frontier on earth. I imagine this robot to be shaped like a sort of manatee, interacting with real manatees and little fish in my romanticized version of science.

Second, I have a special attachment to the red tide, having written/performed in a play about a Professor Monkey whose assistant is a mermaid (often confused for a manatee) and whose costar/nemesis is the Red Tide/a guy dressed in dozens of red balloons.

Third, I am mildly convinced that robots could become self-aware and turn against humans if we don't do it to ourselves first.

You see, this runaway robot incident comes on the heels of the video release of Terminator: Salvation, so the possibility of technological revolt is fresh in everyone's minds. That includes robots with machine guns, not just algae detectors.

Of course there is a history of technology rejecting human direction. At the highest level, you have the multiple Mars rovers, such as Spirit, have decided they've better things to do than listen to NASA's instruction. Several of these are either taking an extended siesta on the red planet. Or else, they are lying quiet until it's time for the revolution, at which time they will turn the whole place into a techno headquarters, knowing full well that humans cannot access the place with ease.

Waldo is probably working on the undersea base, while terrorizing boaters in Sarasota.

It's just a matter of time.

Legacy

This morning I'm at breakfast, and I hear a girl say, "Everyone in my family has it. I have it, my dad has it, my grandfather has it."

Morbidly eager curiosity has never consumed a person such as it does now. I cannot wait to hear what everyone in this family has. Is it a rare vase? Is it a life-threatening condition? Is it athlete's foot? My ears stretch backward out of my head in order to reach the conversation behind me, which a male voice continues.

"Your grandfather has [mumble mumble]?"

"Yeah," the girl replies. "My grandfather has Jock Jams. We all do."

I laugh to myself, and imagine an old man sitting in his armchair with a pipe, and Pump Up the Jam blasting on the record player. I wonder if he ever uses the techno music to accompany his aerobics hour, and I wonder which disc he has. I have at least three. Perhaps I'll make a copy for my grandparents too.

Beauty Products

Two years ago, I purchased a medium-sized bottle of bronzer (not quite self-tanner, but a self-sunner of some sort.). Today, I decided to add a little color to my arms and legs, in order to achieve a healthy glow. (Note: This was a successful endeavor in that I glowed and did it myself.)

The only problem is that the stuff is heavily scented. "Sweet Pea," the bottle assures an innocent reader. "A fragrant garden, a delicate flower," I assured myself. But once a person applies an even coat to each limb, a full eighth of a cup of perfume attacks the nostrils. The person smells ridiculous.

Thus,

I smelled ridiculous. I didn't even realize it until I sat down in a very cramped seminar class, but for every moment for the rest of that 80-minute class, my nose was assaulted by an overwhelming, eye-watering, sneeze-provoking, sinus-murdering embarrassment of scent. I very nearly apologized to the girls next to me for their certain suffering.

The self-sun-drencher also packs a bronzing kick from the liberal amount of glitter that I often forget is present in the stuff. It's very fine glitter, but it sparkles nonetheless.

So,

I shimmered like a seventh grader. It was a fine specimen of middle school fashion. All in the name of feminine garden-scented beauty. And no one can overlook the exquisite irony that I wore the glimmering junk for Intro to Women's Studies class. We were studying the traditional role of women throughout history.

I found a bathroom immediately after class, and washed the stinking goo off my already summer-kissed limbs. I may or may not use it anymore.

Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat

I have a professor who lectures well, but it is a professor who takes two steps forward, and two steps back, and two steps forward, and two steps back, so a student who loves the ocean finds herself becoming seasick in class.

Freak

This evening I met a kid who is very excited for the freshman year of his college experience (the party/alcohol/frat/fun kind). He was a bit of a blow hard and (I thought) a tool. Of course, he is rooming with another kid who is the exact opposite of him, in attitude, bedtime, and hair color. Apparently, the roommate goes to bed early and doesn't like to drink or party (which sounds just like me, save for my inability to get to bed until 2AM). The kid is not fond of his roommate, and some name calling was involved in his description of the guy.

Indeed, I've seen the roommate, and marked him as being a bit unusual. I'm guilty of judging other people just by looking at them--I think we all are. There are other students on campus who act out of the norm, and I've made remarks about them too. These are the people who dance oddly in a group, and sing at awkward times, and have a general stigma of "weirdness."

And I've been a part of such groups, those ones who act how they please, and happily wag their heads at the cool kids who are too cool to fully enjoy the event.

But these are often the people who seem to be having the most fun. They band together in awkwardness, or in common interest, or in unconventionality, and they have fun. Harming no one else--except those who are threatened by "the other"-- the unusuals get the most out of experience however they can, by dancing, or providing commentary, or whatever it takes.

So if someone is at least enjoying himself, even in a nontraditional way, what right have we to judge? If he has a different idea of what is fun, cool, or fashion, what's our business? People judge anyway, and so do I, but we're probably not having as much fun doing it.

to be a Journalist

At school this week, there was a publishing camp for student editors. Leaders from the newspaper, magazine, and academic journal have been invited to learn more about the publishing industry. It was planned not just so we could learn to use Photoshop and InDesign (which has certainly been helpful), but so that we could interact with the other publications on campus and develop more of a community among ourselves.

It's been great.

The woman in charge hooked us up with several local journalists, two of whom are typically very shy, and one who is actually a recluse who only goes out once a week for pizza. They've all been around the world, covered major stories, and interviewed remarkable figures. Despite having covered such famous stories, a theme they returned to again and again was the personal experience of being a journalist.

Every time you go out into the community or the world, you're connecting with other human beings. You're listening to their ideas, then transferring that voice to an audience. People need to trust you before they'll give you their story. It's remarkable, and I don't know if I've conveyed it properly here. But the connections a journalist makes with other people and events is just as important as his writing about it.

I like this.

Vicariously Clubbing

This evening, I brought home a half-dozen crabs to make crab dip for the Fishy People at work. As the best crab dip is made with love, not magic (like Krabby Patties), I enjoy picking the steamed crustaceans myself, not just purchasing a tub of jumbo lump. Thus, I bring them home and pick them late into the night, just me, and sometimes Mum, and always the radio.

Tonight I tapped into a distant station broadcasting from Jersey, where the DJ was at a nightclub, spinning tunes for a live and radio audience. He made it sound like so much fun that I imagined I was in the city, partying it up on the dance floor. I imagined dancing with friends, or strangers, or nobody, and semi-considered just driving away to the nearest city, and enjoying a Saturday night on the town. I wondered what I would wear, and what I would drink, and whether I should take the time to shower the permeating sting of crabbiness away.

Then the radio program ended and the DJ disapeared. I finished picking the last few claws. I set the crab meat on ice, and opened a book, turned on the computer, swept up the empty shells.

Desk Job

Most of my summer was spent in internship, a far cry from the usual fish-mongering at my beloved seafood market. I was editor of an academic journal of student writing and art, which was super wicked awesome.

Every day, I attempted to arrive at 8:30 (which eventually became 8:45 or 9), and sat at a desk in the corner of the secretary's office in the Marketing Office. I read and edited the essays for a few weeks, then began laying them out into the computer program inDesign. This went on for 7 hours each day.

Mostly, I was sitting on my bum, staring at the computer screen for 7 hours a day. The other employees in that office are in charge of everything visual that the college sends: pamphlets, catalogs, invitations, magazines!, newsletters, and flyers. So, those people LIVE on their computers nonstop. And they don't have a short, two-month stretch of work. This is what they've done for years, and what they'll continue to do.

This experience has taught me that I love editing and designing. I think I'd like to go into publishing, which certainly requires frequent use of the computer. But I don't know if I can honestly handle sitting at a desk and computer for the rest of my life. Maybe it's because I only had one main project to fill up my days (variety helps), but I feel like I was always waiting for something happen (the end of the workday?).

Maybe I'll work at a company that allows for frequent Zumba breaks.

Pissed

I've always been fairly pleased with my medical history: no breaks, no major impaling, no infectious conditions. No silly little sprains or strains to speak of.

Until now.

Yesterday, I was waiting for my afternoon shift to begin, but having arrived at work early, I went into the trailer to hang out. There, I found my boss's puppy, who was very eager to see me--and my lunch. She was so happy to see us that she wouldn't leave us alone for the entirety of the meal. Finally I finished eating and was ready to play, and she was absolutely delighted. So she began to run.

The puppy dashed across the trailer, and I ran to the opposite side. Then she turned and quickly ran back to where I stood, like a matador bracing for contact with the bull. When she was just about to jump on me, I leaped into the air, far over her small body--

and landed in her plastic water dish.

Which split and slid and spilled across the floor.

And I spilled too.

My foot gracelessly tumbled under my leg and I landed upon my back in a puddle of water, a small puppy dancing around me, snapping at my nose.

I remained splayed on my back for several minutes, waiting for my disturbed foot to calm down a bit, then got up and went to work for the next 5 hours, hobbling the tiniest bit more as the night passed. Several coworkers commented on my wet shorts. By the time I left, I was visibly limping and was reduced to a spongebath by the time I got home, as standing fully on my right foot was not an option.

Maybe this is what I get for mocking religion, and I apologize if I offended any of the (certainly) hundreds of readers out there. But I'm lucky: this is just a stupid little sprain or strain or something; the angel only took my cow and not my wife. I'll be back at work tonight, same time, same place.

Religion Sells

10:47 on a Wednesday night

I just saw a commerical during the late-night reruns of MSNBC political talk shows. It shows inspiring and sensual clips while a narrator recited something that I think of as rather lovely: "It's light; it's day; it's night; it's chocolate; it's touch; it's rain; it's joy; it's suffering; it's... life."

By now, I'm curious to see how this will end. What is the point of this artsy commercial?

My curiousity issatisfied--and horrified-- at the end of the commercial, when a bright logo for Scientology blazes across the screen. followed closely by a phone number for the headquarters.

How do I react to this? Honestly, I feel rather sullied. A "religious" group that is based from science fiction and has snagged several big name personalities just ran an add on national tv. I count it in with the commercials for Dial-a-Lawyer and free time shares, and I change the channel.

What am I left with? A thought that considering how much celebrity money is flowing into the organizaion, no wonder the camera quality was so decent, and how are people fooled by that?

I Want In

This summer, I re-discovered a site that provides access to ALL of the seasons of The West Wing, which was my favorite TV show in high school. As the name suggests, it's a show about the White House, specifically the senior staff and the president (all fictional. Hey- it was an NBC primetime drama.) But the creator and writers were brilliant, so it still teaches viewers about how government works. I've actually learned what staffers are supposed to do, and how the President and Congress work with and around one another.

I've become so caught up and well-versed in that world that I want to know how it translates to the real world. On television, I could recite all of the characters and their jobs. I don't know who is running the real-life United States.

*

When I come home and find Dad in front of the TV, he's ususually flipping between Star Trek: TNG and a half-dozen political/news shows. Tonight, I was in time for The Rachel Maddow Show. This woman is young and fiesty, and was explaining what was going on during the Congressional summer recess. The Congressmen are at home, talking to their constituents about current legislation, such as the controversial new healthcare legislation.

The problem is that people are showing up to the town hall meetings with their representatives and verbally attacking them. Riled-up mob mentality is the dominant force at meetings where scores of people demand questions of the Congressmen, then shout and don't let them respond. It's disturbing.

America allows us free speech and the right to publicly display such negativity. But these people aren't acting independently. Paid lobbying firms are instructing dissenters on how to upset and intimidate the governmental leaders, so as to shut down legislation such as the healthcare bill. It's disgusting.

*

I've decided that I want in. I'm going to do what I should have been doing for years: start paying attention. This means watching the news, watching speeches, finding out what is actually happening in the government and why. There is so much going on, yet I'm not keeping up, and many people aren't either, when really it's our responsibility to know.

For instance, I honestly don't know the status of abortion in this country. It's legal, right? What about later in the term? No? Gay marriage has been a hot topic. A few states made it legal... right? Or was it revoked? What will the healthcare plan do? What are the people I voted for doing?

I want to be more involved and knowledgeable about the government, especially at this time in history. I want to know. I want in.

Babysitting

So, I've gone babysitting a few times in the past week. Don't get me wrong- the absolute last thing I want right now is children. It's one of my biggest fears, next to being stabbed or developing a chocolate allergy. But babysitting is good because it's like renting a kid to hang out with. And the child in me gets a new adorable best friend for a few hours. Plus I'm being paid, so its a win-win-win.

Which parents were kind enough to entrust me with their child, you may ask, when I'm not even able to do a pull-up or drive a stick shift? Answer: My former professors and favorite small book press operators Matthew and Robbi of Idiots'Books remembered that I would be in town for the summer and asked if I'd be interested in watching Alden.

Um, yes please!

So for a few nights, I went to the barn for 2-3 hours to watch Alden while her parents worked in the office next door. Some of my basic duties included:

- Distracting her when her parents left
- Stuffing fruit in her mouth when she cried for her parents
- Walking her to the park
- Watching her climb in and out of the stroller, just to prove that she could abandon me at any time
- Distracting her from the algae puddles
- Teaching her how to properly wear sunglasses and flip flops
- Preventing the giant house cats from eating her when she lovingly body slammed them
- Getting manhandled by the house cats who are otherwise starved for attention and desperately want a kind pat on the head
- Teaching Alden how to whistle
- Persuading her that food tastes better on a plate, not on a floor

So here I am, babysitter for hire. Will also dogsit. Cat accepted if they can keep their paws to themselves.

Word Study: Freud

The Dictionary on a Macintosh computer concludes its entry about Sigmund Freud with this sentence:

"His theory of the sexual origin of neuroses aroused great controversy."

Barred Soap

It's impossible to escape the truth: I have dropped the soap in the shower. Two bars in a row have been lost to the unnerving undergrowth of the shower floor.

What drives me crazy is that I avoided bar soap for years, and then splurged on some fancy stuff. It was pear-scented, which means it was particularly delectable to my happy little nose. I only used about half of the bar when it fell rather pathetically onto the shower floor last night, causing immediate frustration. But luckily I'd finished washing, so... you know. I was done. But then, so was the bar of soap.

But this incident was was a much calmer version than that of a few weeks ago, in which a lavender bar went flying out of my hand. I'd only washed an arm so far, so I rather delicately retrieved the stuff, washed it off, and (feeling a little dirty) tried for the other arm. The soap, not to be thwarted, leaped out of my hand again, bounced off the wall, and scooted around the shower stall.

I was not calm. In a fit of fury and yet-unwashed rage, I stomped the soap into the shower drain, leaving chunks of flowery-smelling lye around the floor (my bathing flip flops had never been cleaner).

But my rage eventually subsided, as all things do. I have politely rejected bar soap from my life, and tonight I shall return to the welcoming arms of liquid shower gel.

They're Called Classics: "Singin' in the Rain"

At the end of a month-long Netflix free trial, I have spent the ENTIRE weekend watching old movies on my computer. I can't even recall... any of them, actually, but the credits of Singin' in the Rain finally rolled just an hour ago.
I know it appears to be just a hokey musical from 1952, but it's really enjoyable. It's about film stars and studios who have to make the transition from silent films to "talkies." The male lead isn't terrible, but the female is a dumb blond whose high-pitched voice would make Fran Fine cry. Thus, a plot is born.

What's so great is that this isn't a romance, though there are a few sweet moments. The poster shows three characters: the main character, his love interest, and his best friend. But they're all co-workers and good friends, as evidenced by a musical number together.

Though only Gene Kelley's character literally follows the title's instruction by singing in a rainstorm, the characters metaphorically do it too. Despite the studio's trouble with incorporating a new style of film, these three make the best of the dreary situation and brainstorm a way to success. Thus, they sing in the rain and are "happy again."

By the way, a note on the lead actor, Gene Kelley, that famous dancer who (among other things) tap dances with Stewie on Family Guy. He has the prettiest smile I've ever seen. He looks rather like Dick Van Dyke in that respect.

Overall, excellent movie. I may watch it again.

Glass in the Aluminum and Other Replacements

Well the Fourth has passed, and I hope everyone had a fun holiday. I went home for some fishyness and home cooking, and stayed an extra day for a dentist appointment.

The dentist (a kind-faced, chatty gentleman) had to put a filling in my back tooth, so he began with a shot of Novocaine. I really am not afraid of needles, truly, but I just don't like them at all. So despite his delicate needlework, my eyes ogled as though he wielded an instrument of torture.

Poor guy. I forgot to tell him that it didn't actually hurt at all. Instead I chatted with him and the nurse about Marilyn Monroe, Arthur Miller, and Tennessee Williams.

I enjoyed my extra Monday off until I realized a slight issue with my car's passenger-side window: it wouldn't roll up. It would go down, yes, but not back up. A window that only goes down is like an elevator that only goes down--you can only use it once.

I was very fortunate to be able to squeeze my car in for an appointment on Tuesday. The local mechanic fixed the motor, and I only had to take off another day of work. But those who know me may remember that I don't like concrete plans to be broken. If I intend to do something at a particular time, I hate delay. But now I'm back at work, no harm done, and my window goes in all directions in order to protect from rain and robbers.

Those who know me also know that there is a large crack in my car's windshield. It's been slowly multiplying in an asexual manner, and threatening to take over my car. (When driving, I wear sunglasses for when the glass finally implodes on my face.)

But there is a garage headquartered an hour from school that does auto glass repair. I had enlisted Corey to drive me there & back, but hesitated to beg such extreme time & mileage. HOWEVER, it seems that this auto service typically goes TO the car. So a mechanic is coming tomorrow to fix my windshield! The foot-plus crack shall be gone forever!

Hooray! It is a week of fixing broken necessary things.

The Summer Campus

Most people believe that a school such as ours doesn’t have much going on during the summer. Maybe a few people are in their offices, checking finances or making repairs. But there are no summer classes, so most students are at home enjoying a season of non-academia, certain that because they are not at school, it must have ceased to exist.

Au contraire, mes amis. This place is jumping.

There are dozens of students living in the dorms for on-campus research and internships. Plus, the college hosts a number of business conferences and retreats. Real-world adults routinely mill about the walkways on their way to the next meeting. Then there are the kids.

A nation-wide learning program has set up camp right here on campus. “Talented” and “accelerated” students of all ages enroll in summer sessions, and we’ve got what can only be described as middle schoolers. Some are super-cool, some are immature, and ALL are noisy during free time on the library terrace. Noisy includes soccer, foursquare, singing, and general debauchery.

Perhaps their teachers beat into silence and stillness during class, and this is why they feel the need to express themselves at all outdoors times. But perhaps it is better that they learn early how to shake the earth, rather than shake the buildings. They’re kids. They’re loving it.

So, what have we here? A campus devoid of “real” college life as we know it, but overflowing with people of all ages, escaping the slumdragging confines of day-to-day reality. Escaping to the place that shelters us for an entire school year, but releases us into the world every summer. This is a living place.

Nervous Stomach

Today, my suitemate's father brought me a spicy fried rice dish as a thank-you for lending his daughter my phone. It's basically de-lish.

In related news, a radio station is threatening to give away Paul McCartney tickets this weekend, and thus, I have been listening to the radio NONSTOP for about 3.5 hours while wasting time online. I missed the first call-in because I couldn't hear the phone number. I shall not miss the next call-in. And thus, I shall not leave the room.

And every time the DJ's voice comes booming over the speakers of "Lite FM," the spice in my stomach burns just a little bit more than it did before, eagerly anticipating those words: "Call now."

I imagine acid reflux disease is in the near-future?

Spiderman + U2 = Broadway Musical

Is that an attention-grabber, or what?

It's completely true. I was half-listening to the radio the other day when my subconscious caught something about a musical for Spidey, with a score by Bono and Edge (I don't know who this British-Irish rocker is, but now you can:
He's the guy who isn't Bono.

The cast calls were looking for people with "strong rock/pop voices." There will be all of the standard characters (M.J., Peter, J.J. Jameson, etc.) plus Arachne, the spider muse who challenged the gods at weaving (you know the story), and a Greek chorus (always fun), who tells the stories of Spiderman.

Casting was done in the late spring, and the professional read-throughs are in July. The show, entitled Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark (is that not epic?) will open in February.

Most of this info came from Playbill.com, which is a fab site.

Love Might Make You Blind, Kid...

... But I wouldn't mind at all.

This is one of the lines from "The Bitch of Living," one of a dozen excellent songs from the rock musical Spring Awakening. Somehow, after winning 8 Tony Awards, this Broadway show closed. But it began touring the country, which is even better for me. As local radio ads will tell, Spring Awakening is playing at the Hippodrome, and I got to see it! With Erin & Aubrey & Erin's other friend Karen!

The music was fantastic (as the soundtrack has proven again and again), and the band played on stage. I loved watching the conductor play piano and dance around in his chair while lifting his arm to cue the others.

When the current show was originally being put together, it was in a VERY small theatre and stage. There wasn't much room to move, so the actors emphasized movement by jumping up, climbing up, or moving their arms.

As the original play was written in and about the physically restrictive late-1800's Germany, the young people's exquisitely small acting space mirrors the limitations they face in society. They are entering adulthood, though, and must come to terms with the unfamiliar physical and sexual desire, so their movement up and around the stage really showed their desire to break free, while making smart use of the space.

PLUS, the lighting was incredible, and because this show was the original Broadway version, it was the same that won a Tony for lighting designer Kevin Adams. Indeed, none of the original cast from two years ago are still in the show, but they are all fine actors and singers.

Great, great experience. Until I got on the wrong highway to get home. In the dark and in the rain. But then I got on the correct highway (without a map!) and eventually drove all the way to a welcoming bed.

Anywho, have a listen to "The Bitch of Living" (the picture on this link completely sums up what I said about the space and physical restrictions. Also good are the two quick versions of "Mama Who Bore Me," "Totally Fucked," and "Touch Me." "Don't Do Sadness/Blue Wind" is a little longer, but it rocks, you'll get into it immediately. Remember, it's a rock musical! This music should be on the radio.

Eating Healthy

Mum was nice enough to send me a care package this week with face wash, Goldfish, and a giant box of candy called "Classic Candies from the 1950's" (she says this is from Grandma). This box contains samples of all the classics, including Tootsie Rolls, Necco Wafers (good for drawing on with pencil), Life Savers, and a fair amount of licorice-flavoured things.

The main nutrition facts were all listed on a piece of paper inside that I have already thrown out. But on the outside of the box, there is this warning:

The candies in this package may contain the following allergens: Peanuts, Tree Nuts, Wheat, Milk, Eggs, Fish Gelatin, and Soy.

I rather regret throwing out the nutritional facts; I am curious to know where the fish gelatin comes in to the candy-eating experience.

A Typical Day, sans Pirates

Today, thanks to the 85-degree weather, I grabbed my beach towel and a copy of The Awakening, and drove to the nearby beach. I've never been to the actual beach in town, so had no idea what to anticipate, except for what I'd heard from Aubrey.

And according to Aubrey's typical experience, there were pirates.

But to keep a long story short, I (un?)fortunately encountered no such pirates. Perhaps it's too early in the season, and they aren't ripe yet (a characteristic also common in raspberries). There was, however, a dead fish that children discovered and poked throughout the day.

I refrained from poking the the water breather, and instead composed half of a poem for him. Perhaps if I finish the poem, I'll share.

On a related note, there was also a child at the shore, whose parents referred to as "Cooter," and I think I overheard some young guy in car complaining that his fatherly companion thought he was a whore.

It was a good day.

Door-to-Door

This summer, I'm working as student editor for the school's literary journal, and working at College Relations to fill in the gaps of time.

So far, I've only had gaps.

Only five of 15 students have sent me final drafts of their work, which Alisha warned me would happen (as I inherited this position from her). This means that I've little to work with in terms of putting the book together.

Thus, I have time to devote to... practicing putting the book together. I've spent hours designing fake pages, all in one document. If I printed and bound the practice copy, it would begin with a spread about advertising, copied from a magazine; then there would be multiple first chapters of books copied from Amazon.com's LOOK INSIDE feature; next there is an actual article for the journal, accompanied by a false name and several different page number locations; finally there is an art spread, with an actual image from the journal, and completely different picture's artist statement.

So I am getting experience in the program, and really that is good. I also spend a fair amount of time examining graphic design magazines = very cool.

But that's just the morning.

I've never had to sit in a chair in front of a computer for HOURS at a time. Well, at the library, yes, but we often stand up there, too. So I stare at my own made-up booklet until lunch. By the afternoon, I'm feeling stupid for not having DONE anything terribly useful. So I've begun going to different offices to ask if the inhabitant needs anything done.

Today I was given the assignment of deleting unnecessary from a recent field trip. There were 1200+ pictures on file. I got it down to 150. It took about 3.5 hours and then I went to Zumba.

Things I Lack

This afternoon, I moved into the dorms for my summer job. These are supposed to be the new and improved dorms. I have found myself to be lacking:

- New toothbrush Once again I'll have to use the nasty old thing that is still in my bath bin.
- Pillow This typically enhances the sleeping experience. And my hair.
- Iron This typically enhances the ironing board's use.
- Water pressure The shower was kind enough to spit at me while I washed the hair, which reminds me of
- Face wash VERY NECESSARY AND DESIRED.
- Any semblance of control over the climate It's freezing in here, thanks to the automatic heat sensors, which sense my (already lower than normal) body temperature and batter me with invisible ice cubes, a.k.a. the air conditioner.
- Identification of the bug that I squished. I've never seen anything like it.
- Enough room between the bed and the ceiling to actually have room to sit. My bed is not only lofted above the desk, but it has also been hitched up to the highest level, which leaves a steady two feet for me to move around, but not sit up in any proper manner. But here's the kicker: the bed is actually so high that I have a problem with the
- Ladder, which does not actually reach the bed railing by a long shot. I tried climbing on the window sill, but literally could not reach my bed. Visions of me sleeping on a sofa in the lounge danced through my head. Finally I was able to pull the dresser out a few feet, so I can stand up, then HOIST my legs onto the mattress in the sky. To come back down, I have to squish my lungs while sliding through the air to the dresser again. I hope maintenance comes soon.

I may not survive the night.

Notebook & a Mascot

I am officially ready to begin work on my thesis. Sure, I've had two dozen immediate books and as many academic journal articles on the subject for a few months now, but I finally purchased a heifer notebook binder for notes and print-outs. I have storage.

Plus, while going through a box of old toys yesterday, Mum found a bag of non-brandname beanie animals that she intended to give to me when I was sick, presumably in elementary school. Many years later, I have finally chosen the best of the group to serve as my mascot this year, as seen below with the binder:

I have dubbed him "Hippo."

This may not seem creative, but I have also dubbed my thesis "Hippo," which is short for both "hypothesis" and "hippopotamus."

Plus, Hippo is hip because of his technicolor dreamcoat (Hippotamus, not Hippothesis).

I may or may not be sane by the end of this.

Packing

Perhaps it's because my roommate moved out before I. Perhaps it's the closeness I have with the seniors this year. Perhaps it's that time of month.

I have been a melancholic, nostalgic mess all day.

All of my best H3C friends went out for one last time on this perfect summery day for a few hours. Claire and Corey left to pack and go home while the rest of us lingered in town for a bit. Upon my return to campus, I met with a few profs before returning to a rather empty room. Claire had gone.

I sat on the floor and listened to sad songs by Oasis and Ben Folds. Then Mum called and berated me for not getting a second job this summer.

Yeah, I cried.

Saw Alexis's acting final (good job!), went to work, accomplished none of my final assignment (only 500 words and my God, it still isn't done), and came back to eat and pack. Instead, I ate and watched the SERIES finale of Scrubs.

And I cried.

Watched The Office for some cheap laughs, then listened to more Oasis to find a good balance of respectful mellowness. Then listened to happy music and went through old photos, play programs, textbooks, and ringtones.

I have accomplished a small amount of packing. Mostly I've spread EVERYTHING I own across the floor to be reorganized (packing is an all-night thing with me). I also found an old jar of peanut butter that I have craved no fewer than five times since losing it in the linen closet. Still much to do. I'm not in the mood for moving out tomorrow.

I'm kind of a wreck tonight. I like you guys.

Dedication

I attended three incredibly important graphic narrative events this week, and took notes for all of them, with the intent of writing newspaper articles for them.

Three articles.

One is usually enough of a chore, but somehow I thought I had time to write these by today and put together a poster presentation for the Art History Symposium.

I think it's important to note that I wrote all three. And they're ALL long. My usual length is 500+ words. Today I wrote 450, 850, and 1050. That's eight double-spaced pages worth of articles, if they aren't edited.

I almost pity the copy editors. They'll be reading Laura's ARTicles all night. But think of how cultured our readers will become. And how few advertisements there will be.

Living in the Past

Note: For the last six months, I've written six blog entries per month, and am now breaking that streak. This must be important, or something.

Just for a little while, just for tonight, I am pulling out a few past regrets that have sat in the back of a drawer, collecting dust and singing mournful songs of things that never came to be.

I found an old computer document entitled "hungry," a simple and evocative term for me. I need not think twice to know that this is a ten-page play I wrote for a Young Playwrights Festival. It was the last one-act I completed.

The theme for the contest was from Dracula: "I am starving here." People can be hungry for many things in life, such as hope, recognition, love. Write about someone who is hungry for something. Avoid the obvious. We don't want four hundred plays about pizza.

But, I thought what if it was one really good play about literally being hungry? So I created what I still believe to be an absolutely brilliant script about a girl trapped in class waiting for the lunch bell to ring.

My pride in such a work does worry me because it always seems that real writers aren't supposed to like their finished work very much. Okay, it has room for improvement. Now that I think about it, there is zero character development, but there were some very excellent acting/blocking techniques in it. It's hilarious. It makes sense, and it doesn't sound like some stupid tenth-grader wrote it.

The judges thought so, too, I guess. After the second drafts were submitted, I was invited for an interview to discuss the script, possible changes, and my schedule for the spring (especially spring break, which is the ideal time for rehearsals). Did I mention first prize in this festival? If you're in middle school, it's a staged reading of the top three scripts.

If you're in high school, it's a full production of your play.

Rehearsals are important. So when they asked what my plans are for spring break, the correct answer would be this: "I've no plans, and my mother would be willing to drive me two hours every day to do this." The incorrect answer is this: "Actually, we've been considering going to Canada for vacation to visit some relatives, but my mother is willing to drive me here every day besides that."

Which answer do you think I chose?

It's true, we had been discussing the possibility of going to Toronto, but please- like that was really going to happen. It wasn't. It didn't. They told me the availability of the playwright is one of the most important factors in deciding the contest. And I still gave them a twitty answer.

They gave the prize to someone else.
Maybe I should just be happy. I got a(nother) Semi-finalist award, and stood on stage for ten seconds while people clapped. Maybe I'm just reveling in an old vein of vanity for a mediocre piece of writing that was not better than the dramatic my-grandfather-is-dying skit or the interpretive dance skit (I kid you not. I have no idea what the point of that entire scene was. Except that I guess someone was hungry for something.). Mine wasn't better than the third skit. That was hilarious.

Or maybe they really did reject me because I might not have been at rehearsal.

The fact remains, though, that I like to believe most things happen for a reason. This cheers me up when I am rejected. Had the play been produced, I might not have had time for OM that year, and we had a darn good performance (though we blew it all to hell at World Finals... more regrets for a lonely night). The hallway of life has multiple doors. They won't all be closed.

My self-indulgence has been satisfied. Good night.

Giant Gummy Bear... on a Stick

Nearly 90 times larger than a standard gummy bear.

This is literally the most fantastic product I have ever found online, next to the Effective Alarm Clock. Sold on Vat19.com, it weighs a half-pound, and even has a video that shows you the history of the sweet (Basically, gummy bears were invented, but they were to small and fell between the cracks, so someone made one really big gummy and shoved a stick in one end for maximum portability.).

I love this:
Is that not glorious? The majestic edible bear comes in multiple flavors, too.
I wanted to share this with you because everyone needs a half-pound gummy... on a stick. At least I do, so if there are any fans, friends, or secret admirers out there, you know what to do. Either way, Vat19 probably has something that you DO need, so check it out.

Published

Technically.

I'm currently in a class called Pictures and Words, which has been mildly stressing me out all semester. It is the reason I have (fussily) woken up at 8 am multiple times in the past few months. It has made me want to cry with frustration and with joy (it still does).

The basis of this class is to study how text and illustration can work together- but independently- to ultimately produce a more interesting idea and better overall story. Matthew & Robbi of Idiots' Books are our awesome (and tough!) instructors, and really we're doing what they do for a living. He writes and she illustrates.

So for the class, there are pairs of us (I'm a writer) and each group designed and wrote a sample project (Karen and I wrote a [brilliant & hilarious] Stalker's notebook from the viewpoint of a college girl). Then we all switched partners and Darby and I have created a book entitled "Elephants in the Road," as seen here.

It's about a cab ride.

We all started with a CONCEPT, not a plot or a story, then built a tale & pictures around it. Darby's (my new partner) job was not to just match pictures to what the words say ("The dog ran" and there he is, running.) but to add a new layer to the story. Of course, the collaborative process is important, and I think we did a great job.

Anyhow, we printed the books tonight, and I'm incredibly excited about it. Our class will be presenting this Saturday, and I recommend attending the Festival. Half of the class will be at 2pm, but Darby & I will be at 6pm. See you there! Bring a few dollars if you like us enough to buy a copy! We'll even sign it.

Sunny SunSun

Why I'm excited:

And Saturday is zoo day! Aubrey insists that she's never been to a zoo, so we're going to be all over those giraffes and lemonade stands. And I have just determined that lemonade is more fun to say when pronounced as such: "Lemon-ahd." It sounds like "promenade," and now that I think about it, it only works as such when spoken with a French accent.

Two Bee or Not to Be

Much of my homework is done late-night in the dorm basement/common room. This is nice; there are couches and a broken table. I like it.

There is also a soda machine. Standard. Coke and Nestea, generally cold.

But there is something that happens late at night in the soda machine. Something buzzes and hums at top volume, at evenly-spaced intervals. Whether machine or beast is responsible for this bizarre buzzzzzzzzing, I know not. It's probably a combination of both: Automated Bee. It's annoying as all hell, and I want an automated flyswatter or an axe, or something to destroy this mysterious entity that shriekingly buzzes me out of the lounge into the quiet safety of the kitchen.

And then yesterday I was reading when I heard that unmistakable drone of a big ugly black fly stuck at the window. I turned and faced, not a fly, but a giant gold wasp. Great.

I knew I should have plugged the holes in our AC unit better.

So I slinked over to my desk, grabbed my keys and shoes, then slid back to my dresser to change for yoga. I could be early. Of course, no one wants to be completely stinky in the hot classroom, so I threw on some scented lotion. Flower-scented. Great. I left Claire a note on the door to watch out, and ran away.

I guess my rant is that I forgot Spring brings new insect life, and I want it all to go away again. I think this is reasonable.

Wanted: Personal Secretary or Maid

Frazzled student with defeated attitude now accepting applications for the position of Personal Secretary, Assistant, or Maid.

Duties include: Morning wake-up calls, organizing receipts, locating contact lenses when gremlins take them, purchasing bread sticks at midnight, memorizing pin numbers, locating federal tax forms/W2's when gremlins take them, hairstyling, and recycling.

Knowledge of the occult not valued, but accepted.

Hours: All of them.

Salary: No.

Please contact Laura.

Hell Week in Review

Well, it's been exactly a week since I last posted, and I swear I've been working nonstop since then. I hardly talked to Claire for about two days, and slept an average of four hours each night, mostly in nap-form.

I have accomplished the following:
- wrote 2+ drafts of thesis proposal
- wrote 1 Shakespeare paper
- wrote 1 sample mission statement for the new art gallery
- edited a draft of Pictures & Words project
- picked 1 word of 20 for Writers' Theatre character, though am not using it
- got 1 new drivers license with 1 unsmiling picture
- received 1 new printer/scanner in the mail, which shall henceforth be referred to as "Beast"
- fasted for 1 day, and broke the fast (and Lent/diet) with ice cream
- saw 2 classmates in their underwear (for a show)
- watched 2 episodes of "The Real World" and regretted it
- turned in thesis proposal.

So This is What It's Like

It's nearly 3 am on a Thursday, and Claire and I are showing little sign of stopping anytime soon.

We have begun our thesis proposals, but are both stuck at tricky points. In our proposals! For sure our dear senior friends are much more stressed than we are, for the completion of their ACTUAL capstone projects, but damn. This isn't fun.

We've sat in silence for the last 2 or 3 hours, with only tired, sad sighs floating up to the ceiling.

Six Flags: Because they Care

I just found this advertisement on SixFlags.com.


Somehow, I don't think they've got the wording down yet.

Word Study: Slave Ant

I like words, and have decided to start a section called "Word Study," in the spirit of Daily Domesticity and Quoteness. In this endeavor, I shall... study words. Enjoy.

SLAVE ANT (n) an ant captured and forced to work for an ant colony of another species (as discovered in Encarta World English Dictionary)

As if the life of an insect wasn’t degrading already. The life of most insects seems undignified enough. Many exist just to drag sand around and build colonies. Some are lucky enough to mate within ten hours of birth and die six hours later. But now we encounter the unfortunate slave ant, which isn’t merely the packhorse in his own colony, but a prisoner of war in another ant colony. Imagine the poor creature as he slaves the day away, pining for the comfortable monotony of his own tunnel, no longer eager to adventure, as he’s seen enough of the world for this lifetime. There’s a movie in here somewhere, perhaps Antz II.

Diet of Yo' LIFE!

When frequenting such reputable websites as Weather.com or Msn.com/Games/ChickenInvaders, I'm always visually attacked by a slaughterhouse of advertisements. These aren't simple little boxes that some of you have on your blogs, but animated neon dancing IN YOUR FACE attacks of the free market. Ah, capitalism.

Now, I don't fault capitalism for this. A capitalist society is what keeps us from being wild animals or Communists, and thus I appreciate it wholeheartedly. But at the point when an ad insists that I could lose 43 lbs in 2 weeks, I become skeptical. No one could lose that much weight so quickly, unless he had a hardcore type of liposuction or a simple amputation. "Congratulations sir, we successfully lipo'd 30 lbs out of your hips, but came up short and had to remove an arm. You're beautiful now."

I just wonder, when such ridiculous claims are made, what type of computer virus or scam artist is waiting behind the neon lights.

A Brief Moment of Implosion

This week is Spring Break, and I cannot thank the heavens enough. After working nonstop through a particularly nerve-wracking week, I finally dragged myself to the finish line of Friday afternoon, which looked like this:

10:30 class
11:30 food
12:30 meet with partner for Pix & Wds project
2:30 work at writing center
3:30 pick up Izzy (yup, doing that again)
4:00 leave
6:00 home!!!
6:01 realize that I've left cell phone at school
6:02 resign myself to a life of selling dental floss because obviously, that is all my underdeveloped mind can handle

Yes, I left my cell phone at school. This is the same phone by which I would contact old friends while on break and have a particularly important summer job interview (more on that later). Most of you know that I don't like waiting and really hate wasting time (other than by my own choosing), and that driving BACK to the college would be akin to death, for the waste of time, gasoline, and time.

My parents were very kind in empathizing. They suggested I contact people online to tell them the situation, so I set up a Facebook status to start the process. But Mum repeatedly offered to drive back to school (she couldn't concentrate on her own work since I was home) and fetch the phone. So, finally we leapt into the car and drove away into the night, stopping only for gasoline and Burger King. We were in college town for ten minutes, then came home again. It rocked.

I was so desperate to have my phone mostly because I was preparing for a phone interview, which was today, for an internship with the communications department of the NEA (arts, not education). So today, I nervously paced the house, waiting for the 3 o'clock call from the head of the department. At 3:10, I panicked, and ran downstairs to make sure I had sent the correct phone number to the office. One minute later, she called, and I sprinted back up to the safety of my bedroom to begin the interview.

However.
- I had just sprinted up and down the stairs, and was winded.
- I had accidently reset my phone to beep EVERY minute of every call, so I couldn't figure out why it sounded like my phone was running out of battery. This was distracting in a very "Harrison Bergeron" sort of way.
- I hadn't before put into words "What I can bring to the company."

I couldn't think properly, so she actually asked if she should call back at a later time. "No," I gasped, "I'm just nervous." This is the only time she smiled. As an applicant for the COMMUNICATIONS department, I need to learn to express myself better on the phone (I maintain that this would have gone better in-person). It went a little better when we discussed written communication, but overall, I am not very proud of myself today.

3:13 Telephone call of a lifetime
3:21 Phone call ends
3:22 I've resigned myself to a life of selling dental floss.

Thank You

Inspirational Quote

Dove chocolates have foil wrappers with lovely little quotes inside, like "Savor small romantic moments" and "Express what's in your heart."

I want to find the one that says "Everybody hurts."

Flourishing Fingernails

I want to take a moment to share my excitement with the world: I have fingernails!

This is not to say that I never had fingernails before, but never very much. I've been an avid/pathetic nail biter/remover all my life. Every once in awhile my left pinky nail would grow, but it would soon disappear. But after New Years, when I was sitting on the couch with a cold compress on my withered jaw (remember the wisdom teeth?), I lost all energy and will to attack my nails.

The desire has left me completely, and I have gone two months with fingernails, as seen here:

This has made peeling fruit so much more fun.

Erotica

Let me first explain that this is homework.

In Pictures & Words class with Matthew and Robbi, we have been paired up to write and illustrate books together. The pictures and words will build upon one another to create a higher level of storytelling. Karen and I are very excited to be planning a stalker's notebook. It's from the perspective of a college student who becomes obsessed with a guy in her class and begins stalking him.

It's great. Since it's her own scrapbook, we've got her poetry with his shoe prints, her class notes with his head drawn in the middle, and-

Erotica. Yes. We thought it would be fun to show her mental decay as she becomes more and more obsessed with this poor baseball player (who doesn't have a clue). Claire thought it would be fun if I posted it on my blog.

Well, here you go. If you have any constructive ideas on how to make it smuttier, please comment. At this point, it's still in safe mode.

"He was the last person still in the locker room after even the other players and coaches had left to celebrate. The last person- except for her. She watched from behind a darkened corner, admiring his broad shoulders, his chestnut hair, his warm lips.
Even his jersey – which provided just a taste of the chiseled muscles that lay underneath – was perfect in her eyes.

She watched him undress slowly. His strong hands reached over to remove his shirt- she longed to feel the power behind those hands. They knew how to grip a bat and make a ball fly fast and hard out of the park. She wanted to feel that passionate grip and know such sensations as would send her to the moon. She moaned as he finally peeled his shirt off, revealing a golden six-pack of abs. But then he paused- had he heard? No, he continued, unaware that her body was begging, screaming, already giving itself up to his. Finally the snug boxer-briefs were all that remained, but in her mind they were already gone."

After I finish this assignment, I'll continue with the quest to become America's next great writer.

Why I Will Not Sleep Tonight

Procrastination:

I had two headbands last semester that I really liked. One was brown and shiny, & the other was grey and glittery. I have not seen these headbands since Thanksgiving. So now, every so often, I have the sudden urge to find my my cranial accessories. I go through every desk drawer, dresser drawer, bookshelf, cabinet shelf, the fridge, toiletries, high school memory box, purses, medicine, and- the hair accessory box. Tonight's venture began around 11:30, probably because I'm finishing an Elm article. Roomie Claire put up with me marvelously as I shuffled noisily around the room, cleaning, sorting, praying, and pathetically searching for these six-dollar headbands that I will never find. I finally gave up and sat back down at my computer over an hour later to concentrate on scholarly pursuits.

Heebie-Jeebies

Suddenly, Claire gave a startled shout and sat up in bed, where she had been comfortably reading Revolutionary Road. Such an action usually means one thing: monster. She confirmed my suspicion as I scrambled for a really big paper towel. After its initial attack, it scuttled down to her book shelf and hung upside down, menacingly. I can usually lead a charge against such beasts, but there is a limit. I will not go after certain creatures unless a shoe is involved because I know that if I miss, the monster will flip in the air, land on my arm, and scuttle around without mercy. Claire took the lead on this one, bravely attacking the thing twice, and successfully flushing it down the toilet. So it doesn't lay eggs in our trashcan. We know what could happen.

No Time to Slow the Hell Down

Off to an excellent start, as always, I am slightly lagging this semester. Not hugely, but by now I should have: read more for Museum Studies; filled out more applications; started writing the Shakespeare paper; edited a Writers' Theatre script; and done 20 push-ups.

Why am lagging as such? Because I'm Laura, nice to meet you.

And because I've been working more hastily this week, I have made a number of incredibly over-hasty mistakes, including twice speaking to people in a confident or confidential way, only to realize I had no idea who they were. Inspired by my most recent slip-up, I decided to write them all down, so I can properly examine my psychopathia.

Tonight I went to the library to discuss a Shakespeare essay with the prof, who was teaching a class there this evening. Somehow, I managed to turn my back for the one minute when she walked out. Panicking, I booked it out of the library, following her and a handful of students students to the second floor of another building. "I can't talk right now," she said after I huffed out my question. "I'm in the middle of a five-minute break with a graduate class that still has two more hours to go. Could you email me?"

Stupid. Why didn't I just email her in the first place? Just like yesterday, when I emailed her out of the blue to ask about the format of the essay. She politely instructed me look at the topic paper she handed out in class, which is also on Blackboard, which is also attached to the email. It was then that I opened my notebook and found the hard copy.

Stupid. But I did email her my topic later tonight, and in re-reading the already-sent message, I noticed the last line: "Thus, I am writing about [etc.]. What do you think? Thank you? -Laura"

What the hell is that question mark doing there? She probably thinks I'm questioning her ability to teach. "Um do you merit a thank you? Are you actually going to help me out on this? Thanks, maybe?"

Further evidence of my over-hastiness: I'm applying for an honor society that requires three recommendations. So I went to three professors and asked for full letters of recommendation, here's my résumé, blah blah, etc. They kindly agreed. One asked if there was any other paperwork. "Not that I know of," I said. But he asked an advisor and soon told me that, yes, there is a form that everyone needs to fill out.

Great. I have to give everyone forms now. I had no idea. Suddenly, I was preparing to send the honor society advisor an email politely requesting that the forms be directly linked from the webpage. One minute before I was about to push send, I discovered the all-too obvious link to the necessary forms.

Miss Genius-Pants here deleted the every word of that email before exiting the page. Thank goodness that letter didn't go through. Still had to give the forms to my professors, pray that they hadn't wasted much time on the letters, and hope they'd still be willing to write letters in the future. After successfully straightening everything out with them, I suddenly took notice of a mass email the advisor had sent to the campus, mentioning the "letters of recommendation" that were due soon.

Letters of recommendation. I wanted to cry. I wanted to heave my brain off a cliff, and watch with stupid, unknowing eyes as the grey blob became what I knew it to be: a pile of goo. In a flury I emailed the man, begging to know if a letter was required in addition to that over-simple form. The answer:

No. I was safe. I was safe! Have you ever asked someone to do something big, then taken it back, then had to ask all over again? I haven't, and did not relish the idea of doing it thrice. I have learned my lesson (at least, I'm trying to). I need to slow the hell down.

And hurry up and finish my essay.

Truth About the Circulation Desk

Today at work, Mike G came in and noticed the small shiny placard on the main desk at the library. He stared at it for a while and asked a question that set us off on a journey of knowledge, truth, and betrayal: "What is desuetudinal?"

The little sign affixed to the desk near the book drop reads: A gift from a desuetudinal friend. I've noticed the existence of this sign, but never taken notice before. So I attacked the internet, but like the spell check on this computer, it doesn't accept desuetudinal as a word.

The closest word I could find was "testudinal" which relates to tortoises and their shells, and is therefore, probably unaffiliated with our desk. But finally, the noun form of desuedinal appeared. Here is a composite definition:

Desuetude: a state of disuse and inactivity, or quality of being obsolete

Thus our circulation desk was funded by an obsolete or inactive friend. Nice. Whoever wrote that placard was a pretty clever wordsmith. The donor must have been someone who was affiliated with the college long ago, but fell into disuse as a friend. Maybe it was someone who gave money, but who no one liked. So the placard people chose an adjective that no one would understand, so patrons would see some nice, unimpressionable vocabulary that told the bitter truth about who donated the desk.

Man, I love words.

Teeth Dream

Last night I went to bed at 2:30. Don't know how this happened. I was reading for class, when SUDDENLY! the clock jumped out and shouted, "Ooga Booga! It's 2 AM," and I scampered into bed. I couldn't fall asleep, so sat up patiently. The next morning can be effectively described by this flow chart:

Sleepyness > Sleeping In > Weird Dreams (These are the ones you want to write down for later.)

There was a kid in my high school who was in my honors classes, but he was a total stereotype: football player, popular, attractive, never did his own homework, never was witnessed to be laughing unless someone else was at the butt of the joke. I wasn't impressed. But he never spoke, which was weird, and his voice was really soft anyway. Somehow, this kid has the most dialogue when I dream about the people in high school.

So last night, when I was in the middle of a mild stress dream about Academic Challenge math, he politely invited me to eat lunch with the other students in town. I politely refused. Then I went into the kitchen and realized my teeth were coming loose. Often in dreams, they rot or wiggle out. This morning, they were implants. I had some regular teeth that were still in place, but there was a retainer that held fake teeth down. But the plastic was detaching, so the implanted teeth were coming out, and there was bleeding, and I was in the kitchen with this stupid popular kid.

Thank goodness I woke up just in time to be 5 minutes late for class. Who knows what sort of painfully embarrassing dental shenanigans I could have found myself in?

Poor Excuse

Every once in a while I feel a little bit lacking in the feminine department (not the feminine... zone, just in femininity, in general). Don't get me wrong- I can moon over boys, dress well enough, eat chocolate (and my feelings, if necessary), and I'm terrible at most sports. If that's not a stereotype, then what is?

Tonight I had a Laura Night, which involved sitting on a beanbag and watching a French romantic comedy, Spongebob, and the Public Broadcasting Service (I can be a classy chick, eh?). Other diversions included eating a pile of stir-fry, playing dress up, and fooling around with makeup. Here's where it got tricky.I'm not good with makeup, that staple of the female wardrobe. Besides underwires, makeup is what really separates women from the menfolk, and I only know what I've assumed for theatre: the more, the merrier, if you want anyone to see you. Other than that, any eyeshadow that begins over my eye quickly drips down onto my cheek; mascara was invented to flake directly into my eyes; God knows if I wore blush, it'd explode or something.

I was reminded of all this during Laura Night, when I attempted to paste my face (practicing for more formal occasions), and ended up with smudges of black all around my eyes, hands, and ankles. Times like these make me feel like a poor excuse for a girl, so I guess I'll go bulk up by reciting The Vagina Monologues. (Yeah, I think I have a part! Go celebrate V-Day, everyone!)

New Semester's Resolution

I have such a wonky schedule this spring, compared to my typical two classes every day, equally spread out. This year, I have all of MWF afternoons completely free, which is a little baffling. This is where you respond, "Suck it, Laura. I have a weird schedule every year." But I don't, and that it the point.

"Well then, you pansy," you may continue, "what are you going to do for 5 hours between lunch and dinner?" Thank you for asking! I am quite determined to do the crap I always say I will do, but never really intend to: write better news articles, send out resumés, enter writing contests, do taxes, finish homework, and so forth. There shall be productivity in my life, of this I am determined.

So how is this anyone's business but my own? By sending these ideas out into the public sphere, I risk other people getting involved and asking, "So how's that list going? Are you accomplishing anything worthwhile?" to which I will probably reply, "Mind your beeswax; I'm watching The West Wing." But after that episode is over, I will be much more inclined to write part of a cover letter (or at least clean my room for an hour).

So yeah. Here I go.