"I Heart Evolution"

That is the kind of graffiti you will only find spraypainted on the sidewalk outside a science building on a liberal college campus. It made me smile.

Anyway, here's what's going on:

Perhaps I'm just tired and stressed out because it's the end of the semester, but I'm extremely disenchanted with humans in general. I wish I could take to heart the stoic who said, "I used to be upset; now I'm just amused." I know I can't change people at large; hell, I can't even change the people in close proximity, but isn't that something to be upset about?

I'm not saying I want to reform everyone to be my little cronies, running around doing my will. That's not my desire at all. In fact, the world would be more than a bit scary if people actually listened to me. Mass murder might suddenly be on the rise, not to mention all the people who would end up locked in cellars so that they could no longer plague the world with their existence.

What I do want is for people just to care. Is that too much to ask? Is it too much to ask people to simply acknowledge that they are, for lack of a better word, blessed? We may be lower middle class or working class and only at this state university because we were offered scholarships that enabled us to be somewhere/anywhere, but aren't we here? We have places to live, food to eat, and clothes to wear. Is it too much to be thankful for that? I'm not even asking people to run out and donate their time or money to any causes. I just want people to realize that they're not the worst off and that not everyone has or will have an MTV Cribs life.

And while I'm bitching about people, how about acknowledging our faults? Goddamnit, we're not fucking perfect, so quit acting like it. I'm tired of feeling bad about myself because some self-righteous Prophet Holier Than Thou (try screaming PHTT! (pronounced Feh-Teh-Teh), it sounds like a curse word) took it upon herself to chastise me for being human. Way to go. You're so much better than me. That nose ring, the tattoos, the earrings, the curse words, the hair dye, the agnosticism, the liberal ideology. . . man. . . I better just prepare myself for hell--assuming it might actually exist. Fuck! There I go again.

I'm going to end the bitchfest now. Just go forth and try to have some empathy. No one's worshipping you. And if they are, they should die.

A Reflection

Before I went home for Thanksgiving, I called my grandparents to try to coordinate a time to visit. (Read: to find out whether they were having Thanksgiving dinner so that I had a reason to get out of my house, where my mother's husband's family would be invading.) Unfortunately my grandmother was not cooking a big meal on Thanksgiving because my uncles were going to Kentucky to see their wives' families and my mom was having her husband's family over. As noted previously though, I managed quite well on Thanksgiving day.

My mother woke me on Sunday around two in the afternoon to tell me that she was headed to my grandparents' for lunch and that one of my uncles and his sons would be there. In my half-asleep stupor, I told her I might come over on my way out of town but that I didn't know, so she told me that my grandma had sent my birthday present over just in case. When I stumbled out of my room and ventured upstairs, I saw the gift sitting on the table.

Now, I'm an adult, right? I'm turning twenty. No longer a teenager. But I'm turning twenty in mid-December. . . and as a mature adult, I should be able to wait to open my present, right? No. I blame it on being half-awake. I haven't been in the mood to assign personal responsibility to myself lately, as I'm sure you noted when reading about the spumante incident.

Anyway, I opened the gift and it turned out to be two matching pieces of jewelry--a necklace and bracelet. I can't really describe them other than to say that they resembled the Silpada jewelry my mom was ordering for me. They're chunky and weird and empowering. I don't own anything like them, but I like them. And I was a bit touched. Now before you laugh, let me explain.

My grandma is a bit predictable. She's been an Avon lady since my mother was a teenager, and so we know that Christmas and birthday gifts will always be Avon, but it works out nicely. I absolutely love gift baskets that are full of makeup and jewelry. Okay, so, the reason I was "touched" by this present: it was thoughtful. I'm almost certain she asked my mom what I would like. One year she gave me real pearl earrings on sterling silver posts because she knows I'm allergic to everything else. She's also given me a sterling silver watch, and one of her old silver necklaces.

Why am I rambling about this?

Because I neglect my family. And I realized it this Sunday as I sat at my grandmother's table. I looked around: my uncle and my mother's husband watching football, my little brother and little cousins playing in the next room, my crazy aunt wandering around looking for a cookbook so she could share some gluten-free vegetarian recipes with me, and around the table: my greatgrandfather, my greatgrandmother, my grandma, my mom, and me--four generations of women at the same table.

I seldom reflect on how rare that is. And I don't remember often enough the time that I spent the day at an Avon demo show with my grandma. (Shut up. This has a point.) I went in my mom's place, and my grandma introduced me to her district managers and such as we walked around. Then, at the end of the day, as I was hugging her goodbye, she made a remark that hit me like a brick wall: "This has been fun. I never thought all those years ago that you and your sister would be my only granddaughters."

A bit of context: I have an uncle who was really my grandparents' foster kid as a teen, and he just kinda stuck around as an adult because he liked us more than his biological family. Anyway, he has two daughters, and I've always just considered them a part of the family. I forget that older generations have certain hangups about blood relation that I just fail to understand. So when my grandma made that comment, I had a rush of remorse for not being closer to her. More context: my grandma has cancer. When I was in elementary school, she went through radiation treatment and the cancer went into remission for five years, but it came back while I was in high school, and she was told she had ten years to live when she turned down chemotherapy.

So as I sat around a table handcrafted by my grandfather, looking at my greatgrandparents, in their nineties, and at my grandmother, a woman with a definitive deadline, and my mother, to whom I've never been especially close, it just kinda hit me. Family only lasts so long. And you might get annoyed with the crazy aunt who insists on telling you everything she's eaten for the past week and all of the allergies she's imagined since the last time you saw her, as well as all of the herbs she's taking to help cure the nonexistent allergies, but there's something special when you have four generations around the same table. And there's something special about the look in a parent's or grandparent's eye when they hold a child for the first time. I'll never forget the look on my grandpa's face when he first held my little brother, and I cried when my mother held my brother for the first time after the delivery.

Perhaps I'm getting sappy with old age, but it's finally sinking in that these people aren't going to be around forever, and I can't keep pretending I'll have time to spend with them later. I don't want to mourn relationships I never had.

We need to talk.

I'm all for partying and being inebriated--that much should be obvious. What I do NOT support is wandering into public places in an intoxicated state and proceeding to be a total nuisance to anyone within a fifty-foot radius. Even worse are those of you who wander into restaurants and are complete assholes, then leave a one-dollar tip in the middle of the table which you've covered in cheese, water, ashes, and various bits of torn paper. Yeah. You.

So what stimulated this little chat? you ask. I'll tell you. My job at home is that of a waitress (politically correct term: server) in a twenty-four-hour diner. For fear of being sued (this is America) I shall not name the restaurant, but know that it is of the variety that makes you feel greasy just because you walked in the door.

Anyway, I worked Friday and Saturday, third shift. Now don't get me wrong; I worked third shift all summer, and I know what to expect on a weekend. But let me tell you about three choice tables. Then, when you're done reading, please reevaluate your behavior when terrorizing the public in a drunken stupor.

1. Table of five. Obnoxious. Drunk. Loud. Bitchy. They're waiting on food and they spill a full glass of Mr. Pibb. No problem. I get it cleaned up. I jokingly ask the guy, "Do I need to bring you a plastic cup with a lid, or are you okay to try again?" So I bring him a new Mr. Pibb. Five minutes pass. I hear glass break. What did they do? You guessed it. They spilled the Mr. Pibb, only this time they broke the glass for good measure. So I had to convince them not to try to help me because they're a liability if they cut themselves, and I got it taken care of. He didn't get another drink. Here's the lesson though: this table left me nine dollars and our dear Mr. Pibb drinker handed me ten. If you're going to be drunken idiots, tip well.
2. Table of five that suddenly becomes a table of four and a table of three, with one girl who can't decide where she wants to sit and keeps switching tables. Loud. Demanding. Obnoxious. Very very drunk. These people were in Friday night and another server took care of them, so it was only fair that I waited on them Saturday night. Big mistake. Within a two-minute span, one male asked for water at least seven times, and began reaching his hand over the half-wall into the service station, proclaiming he needed water. I brought their drinks. Then he ordered a cheeseburger, and within the next ten minutes, he asked at least five times whether he could just pay extra money to have his cheeseburger right then. People: when the restaurant is full of drunks and the drive-thru is busy, do not think that you will have your food in five or ten minutes. In dealing with the table that somehow spawned itself from the original table of five, I had to take three different drink orders because the bitches couldn't make up their minds and ordered coffee, only to forget they ordered coffee and demand water, only to then decide that they needed another cup of coffee and creamer. The best part: all the while, one of the girls kept telling me, "Don't worry; I tip really well." One day as a server and you will know that that means they never leave more than three dollars, usually less. What did she leave? Nothing. Do NOT be that girl.
3. Table of two. Old. Drunk. Friendly. Too friendly. I take their orders and bring out drinks only to have one of the men look up at me through bloodshot eyes with heavy lids, and tell me, "I like to watch you work." My response was, "That's just a little creepy." I set down the drinks and left. And I quickly discovered that no matter where I was in the restaurant or what I was doing, if I looked up, he was watching me. Please please please people. Don't ask me if I come on a plate with whipped cream and strawberries (yes, an old man has done this--in front of my manager, no less) and don't watch me while I bus tables.

Be courteous, people. Please.

Happy Thanksgiving, All

Thanksgiving. . . Breathe it in. Say it again: Thanks. giving.

What is this holiday all about? Why, spending time with family, relaxing, listing all of the things for which we are grateful, eating enough food to nourish the entire nation of Ethiopia, and then passing out on a couch.

What have I done with my Thanksgiving break? Oh. Let me tell you all about it.

Monday night: Knowing that I had to work at eight in the morning on Tuesday, I went with a former roommate to pick up a supplier, then proceeded to Kroger to acquire coconut rum. While waiting in the car for the supplier, who happened to call me? My great aunt--a pastor's wife. So I had what was a normal conversation for us, got the alcohol, and got drunk while watching Shrek on a Monday night.

Tuesday: After work and class, I drove home, arriving around seven. By nine, I was out with my step-brother, headed to a friend's house to get trashed. By ten, I was drunk and high. By one, I was passed out on a couch.

Wednesday: I slept all morning, got up for a little bit, slept all evening, got up for a bit, and slept all night.

Thursday: Thanksgiving. I got up and played with my little brother, then tried to find a place to hide when my mother's husband's family showed up. I spent most of the day following my older brother's puppy around. Then we sat down for dinner and my step-brother decided I should drink a glass of Spumante. At this point I made a huge mistake. When my step-brother made a comment about getting drunk after a couple of glasses of Spumante, I challenged him; it's only eight percent alcohol. And what did he do? Had me drink four glasses. Then his dad poured me a fifth. My stomach wasn't happy. And my head wasn't the clearest. So I slept for three hours. Then I went to a second Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's husband's ex-wife's house. Meeting my step-siblings' aunt and uncle for the first time, my step-brother decided to tell everyone I had consumed half a bottle of Spumante by myself, and that in the summer, I drink whiskey and smoke cigars with his mom. All the while, I'm sitting there holding a glass of Spumante that my step-brother told his mom I wanted. Lovely, eh?

Such a traditional, family-oriented Thanksgiving. Excitingly enough, the rest of the night is still open for activity, too. Who knows what will happen? I may end up back at my mother's husband's ex-wife's house to drink whiskey and watch movies. Or I may end up out with my step-brother, getting drunk somewhere else. Or I could just sit here watching Law & Order all night. . . So many options. . . So many wholesome ways to celebrate another empty American holiday. . .

Wow. . . five days without posting. . .

What happened? Well, I went out of town for a book discussion all weekend, and when I got back the strangest phenomenon occurred: productivity. I was really truly productive for two days straight. I still don't understand it. . .

Oh well. That's not what I want to write about today. Today, I thought I would pass along some valuable advice. You see, I work in the Graduate College of a mid-sized (20,000+ students) university; so, I see the admissions process first hand. I know just how impressive and just how shitty those applications can appear. Thus, in an effort to do a good deed as penance for behaving like a typical college student last night (getting drunk for no reason on a Monday night when I knew I had to be at work at eight the following morning), I bring you:

What NOT to Do when Applying to Graduate School

1. Do not send a handwritten application in smudged blue ink when you know your handwriting is illegible. Your teachers have been telling you since third grade, so don't pretend. We can't read it.
2. Do not go pick up your transcripts, open them up and take a gander, then send us taped envelopes containing "official" transcripts. It's not going to work. You're just going to have to start over.
3. Do not send us certificates of achievement from high school, junior high, or elementary school. Trust me, we don't care if you were teacher's pet.
4. Do not send us transcripts from junior high and high school. This is the Graduate College. Think.
5. Do not send us awards you got from amateur piano competitions when you were five. (You think I'm kidding? I was putting together a file today when I ran across one such award and decided I had had enough. Hence, this post.)

Moral of the story? Don't be a dipshit. If you call the Graduate College and I'm trying to tell you where to find the Graduate Catalog online, the conversation should not proceed as follows:

• You want to go to the college's homepage.
• Okay, that's _____ dot what?
• It's _____ dot E D U.
• Okay, wait. It's _____ dot what?
• Dot. E. D. U.
• E B U?
• No. E. D as in dog. U.
• Okay. _____ dot EDU. . . ?
• Slash. Colleges.
• Dot what?
• No. Slash.
• Dash?
• No. Slash.
• Slash what?
• Colleges.
• Okay. Slash colleges.
• Slash gradcol. G-R-A-D-C-O-L.
• C A L?
• No. C O L.
• Okay. Thanks.
• You're welcome.

Should that person really be applying for a Ph.D. program? I think not.

The world is coming to an end.

Don't worry. I'm not going to claim Christ's second coming is approaching or anything like it. I don't think the universe is going to implode just for the hell of it. And I don't believe any deity is preparing to split the Earth in half because he got bored and wanted a good laugh--imagine all of us running about, screaming, crying, and (most ironically) praying. Quite simply, I think people are flat-out losing their minds.

Let's review the kind of headlines that have appeared in the University newspaper this semester alone. (Let us also keep in mind that this was not the norm when I arrived on campus in fall 2003; rather this is a late-breaking trend.)

1. At the very beginning of the academic year, there was the hot iron fiasco. Two girls had been randomly put together as roommates, and one girl (we shall call her "Psycho Girl") accused the other (she shall be known as "the victim") of having a camera hidden in the room. So then Psycho Girl grabbed her hot iron--which had been heated--and fucking attacked the victim with it! Psycho Girl fractured the victim's skull, burned her face and shoulders, and then claimed the victim fell out of bed after she was found crying in the hall, outside someone else's door.
2. There was a kidnapping in my residence hall. Some guy held his ex-girlfriend at knife point for a significant period of time. (Note: "significant period of time" simply means I can't remember how long and, because I'm accustomed to using the phrase for this year's mock trial case, I thought I'd throw it in.)
3. Last week, some 18-year-old kid (not a student here, for once) shot his 14-year-old girlfriend's parents when they started an argument about her being out past curfew. He then drove off in his parents' car with his girlfriend, only to be caught 600 miles away, after a chase at speeds topping 90 mph.
4. The very next day, what do we see but an article about someone being arrested for domestic violence in one of our residence halls? Apparently some guy was visiting his girlfriend, who is a student here, and when her neighbors complained about his yelling, he grabbed a baseball bat and went out into the hall to exchange words. When police arrived her wrists and arms were red, but she denied that he had assaulted her. Even better: one of her friends posted bail for the bastard.

Kevbo used to say, "Bitches be crazy," when Bethany and I would have roommate arguments. Sad as it is, I don't think the quaint statement is adequate any more. Kevbo's adage may encompass the first event, but what about all the boyfriends who are losing their goddamn minds? Seriously now, people. What is going on?

I am a pathetic creature.

I have known for quite some time that my taste in music, much like my taste in men, is nothing to brag about. Luckily, I have friends who invest more time in finding noteworthy music than I waste on this blog. And fortunately enough, those same friends are willing to let me leech off of their great finds. [If you have no interest in the music I listen to or from whom I have acquired it, skip the next paragraph.]

My older brother has exposed me to Nine Inch Nails, A Perfect Circle, Tool, Free Dominguez, Incubus, the Crystal Method, and Snake River Conspiracy, among numerous other industrial/rock/techno bands. From my older step-brother, I've taken more Tool, Mindless Self-Indulgence, and System of a Down. From my little sister, the Spill Canvas, Coldplay, Blink 182, and Tracy Chapman. From Curtis, Marilyn Manson, Juno Reactor, and John Powell. From Bethany (who leeched from Justin and Liz), Ani Difranco, Elliot Smith, Death Cab for Cutie, Modest Mouse, the Postal Service, Nellie McKay, Mike Doughty, and Rufus Wainwright. From Dev, Luna Halo, Loreena McKennitt, Helium Vola (I think--I can't really remember), and Lacuna Coil. From Steve, Broken Spindles. From Jim, Fatboy Slim (rhyme unintentional). Then there are always the bands that no one really pushes on you, they just appear somehow: Dave Matthews Band, Linkin Park, Alanis Morisette, Broken Social Scene, Damien Rice, John Mayer, Jack Johnson, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Norah Jones, and RX Bandits.

Anyway, now that you have a general idea of what is in my iTunes library, I'll get to the point. My senior year of high school, I began collecting music like none other. You might say it filled the procrastination time in my schedule that this blog now occupies. I created playlists based on mood and genre because I have a habit of liking only one or two songs by any given artist. I've also been known to acquire several CDs at once, but get so addicted to the first one I listen to that I never really even give the others a chance. But once again I've lost track of the point.

I still have the CDs I burned my senior year from the mood- and genre-based playlists. My roommate and I enjoy listening to "Old Old Pop" in the morning, which basically means a bunch of old Michael Jackson with some Mariah Carey and George Michael thrown in for good measure. However, the other day I pulled out "Slow/Sad" for some calm, nap time music. I hadn't listened to the CD in years, and I really didn't remember what was on it.

Ladies and gentlemen, please, feel free to laugh as you read the following playlist. I have offered a list of men I dated as proof of my poor taste in men, and I now bring you proof of my poor taste in music.

[Allow me to explain the color code. Songs that I contend were a part of the sappy pop repertoire of every girl in my age group (Read: I liked them and probably still do, but would prefer not to admit it so as to maintain some sense of dignity as a consumer of music). Songs of which I am so ashamed that I must be repressing memories of ever liking them. Songs I still listen to and would defend. Songs I honestly don't remember ever liking enough to put them on a CD.]

1. K-Ci & Jojo, This Very Moment
2. Blessid Union of Souls, I Believe
3. Blessid Union of Souls, Light in Your Eyes
4. Blessid Union of Souls, Standing at the Edge of the Earth
5. Boyz II Men, Color of Love
6. DJ Sammy, Heaven
7. K-Ci & Jojo, Now and Forever
8. K-Ci & Jojo, Down for Life
9. K-Ci & Jojo, Crazy
10. Amanda Perez, (God Send Me an) Angel
11. Peabo Bryson, If Ever You're in My Arms Again
12. Righteous Brothers, Unchained Melody
13. Rufus Wainwright, Hallelujah
14. The Temptations, My Girl
15. Toni Braxton, Unbreak My Heart
16. Whitney Houston, Exhale (Shoop Shoop)
17. Daniel Bedingfield, If You're Not the One
18. The Fugees, Killing Me Softly
19. The Verve Pipe, Freshman

Mockinating the Countryside

I am quite certain that you all noted my absence and spent the majority of the weekend in a fit of sorrow. I apologize that my greatness has left you so dependent. In an attempt to make up for the pain of leaving you all alone, I have returned with a present: tales of Mock Trial hilarity.

That's right, folks. This weekend our Mock Trial teams ventured deep into the heart of Tennessee, where teenagers dressed up in suits performed before "judges" who had suspiciously thick hillbilly accents and who were obviously oblivious to courtroom proceedings, e.g., the "judge" who said "substain" every time she sustained an objection.

Let's start from the beginning. We took a charter bus to Tennessee, and being that our two teams filled approximately half the bus, we stopped and picked up two teams from a school on the way. When we arrived, at least two members of their teams were clearly intoxicated. I mean to say that these guys spent at least four hours in the bus bathroom, vomiting, and when we finally arrived at the hotel in Tennessee, they just sat on the bus, heads between their knees, unaware that the bus was empty. Driver: Are you getting off? Drunk: Huh? Do I have to? Driver: Well, everyone else is going in. . .

Then we went to the opening ceremony. This generally means that a bunch of loud, hyperactive teenagers in polyester are crowded into an auditorium, waiting for someone (who is always surprisingly bad at public speaking, especially considering the nature of the competition) to ramble about "Thank you to *insert name of any witness or location from the season's case here (I swear they're like one huge in-bred family)* and we hope you'll have fun and blah bliddy blah" so that the teams can find out whom they will be competing against and then get the hell out of there. The opening ceremony is really pointless--unless you enjoy people watching as much as I do.

At this opening ceremony, I was diligently people watching when I spotted the most atrocious sight one would ever hope not to imagine seeing at a Mock Trial tournament. Really, people. It was that bad. This woman must have weighed around 250 pounds; she had bleached her hair blonde and permed it into an 80s' style poof; she was wearing a skin tight bright teal halter top that showed every inch of cleavage possible--think about her size people! that's a lot of cleavage!--and over the teal halter top, she was wearing one of those tiny sweaters that ties/buttons below the bust; just in case people had somehow missed her enormous breasts, she felt it necesary to wear a sweater that would emphasize their presence. (Yeah. And the grand canyon needs a "Warning: Huge Fucking Hole Ahead" sign.)

Next, we went to our first round of the tournament. Everything was going fine; the other team was nothing fantastic. But then they called a witness that will long be remembered. Let us refer to her as "Bisexual Bobblehead Micky." You all know what those bobblehead things are, right? People keep them in the car; it's a little person or animal with a tiny plastic body and a gargantuan head that moves around in every direction. Okay, well, after every answer she would turn to the attorney and just move her head side to side and back and forth and every which way, making me think of a bobblehead. It was bizarre. Then, she spoke. "Yeah I worked at the hotel with Peyton; she was hottie! *bobblehead*" "I found this kid handcuffed to a pipe in one of the rooms, and I took off the blindfold and gag, and, well, I'm familiar with handcuffs, but these weren't the fuzzy kind, so there wasn't anything I could do about it. *bobblehead*" "I usually work the front desk because I like to be in control, I like to dominate. *bobblehead*" Why would anyone think that character would fly when our judges are predominately sixty-year-old near-deaf, near-blind, conservative, traditional, grumpy men? (Don't even tell me it's hot. I'll kill you.)

Now, I can't claim that other teams are responsible for all of the stupid things that happened this weekend. Our witnesses had some moments of their own. For example, a freshman from our second team was playing the same witness as Bisexual Bobblehead Micky. So our Micky shall be known as "Toilet Fetish Micky." At practice last week she was speaking about finding the victim handcuffed to a pipe and felt the need to tell the court that "the poor dear had soiled herself and so I took the sheets out from under her." She was told not to talk about soiled sheets in court. It's not charming and the judges just don't want to hear about a little girl urinating and defecating on herself. In competition this weekend, Toilet Fetish Micky told the court that when a guest complained about pipes clanging in the next room, she thought it must just be the toilet again--people are always flushing weird things down the toilets, it's a perpetual problem.

Possibly the most humorous things to happen during any of the trials involved one witness: Frat Boy Mike. (No, that's not a nickname for the witness. That's the real guy's name.) Now, FBM was playing the role of a criminal profiler. You have to understand, this profiler is well-educated, lectures for the FBI and Northwestern University, and owns his own business. This character should be played as an educated professional. As you can probably guess, Frat Boy Mike has to act quite a bit for this role. In fact, we have coined the term "ellisisms" for all the words and uses of words that he invents during his testimony. My personal favorite: discertain (used in place of ascertain). Other classics, "We use these to attribute the perpetrator of the crime," "At this point we deal with fingerprints. . . at this point we deal with DNA evidence. . . this phase deals with post-offense behavior," and "We look at behavior correlated with evidence."

Then, we got on the bus to go home and FBM was scripted to ask Dr. Browne, "I was wondering if you could briefly explain for me the deontological necessity of modern man's existential crisis" (definitely stolen from the early 90s movie Reality Bites). We died laughing as he added, "I understand the deontological necessity part, but what gets me is modern man's existential crisis." Then, he and another witness (Toilet Fetish Micky) slapped on their best hillbilly accents and had the fight to end all fights.
FBM: Woman, get yer ass in the kitchen!
TFM: If you want it you better cook it yerself!
FBM: I already shot it, now you gotta cook it!
TFM: Do it yerself, yer a grown man!
FBM: That don't change a thang. I'm hungry!

It was an interesting weekend. And needless to say, I'm glad I don't have to do it again for another couple of months.

I must have a death wish or something

Oh. That's right. I do.

Some of you know the plan: heart attack by twenty. Well, I've been beginning to worry because I've got just one month and a few days to meet that deadline, and try as I might, I don't seem to be on the right path. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm taking many steps to bring it on. I sleep around four/four and a half hours per night--generally because I know I shouldn't stay up working any longer, so I take a sleeping pill before I can talk myself out of it. I work too much. I spent six and half hours straight working with a mock trial witness this morning. I've agreed to publish an article at the end of the month, meaning I'm going to have less than three weeks to start and finish it. And my chest pain and headaches have returned. Plus, let us not forget the smoking. I'm working on getting my caffeine intake back up to par as well. I think I'm going to need something drastic to seal the deal.

Hence, I will be departing for a mock trial trip tonight, allowing me to waste two and a half days pretending to be perky and optimistic to keep team morale high, only to return to write papers, do research, work on the article, finish a book in about two days, and try to remain functional, all while working and going to class and meetings.

Myocardial infarction, here I come!

Warning: Environmental Hazard

On my walk across campus to work this morning, I had the opportunity to observe my surroundings, a simple yet pleasant act. I hate getting out of bed--as I'm sure my roommate would attest while telling you about my neverending series of alarms that fail to wake me up. So anyway, (I distracted myself with that aside; I'm sure I could write an entire blog entry about the saga that is waking me up each morning, but here I go again... back to the point) I was walking across campus, not paying too much attention to the wind until I looked up.

The sky was hovering ominously above (no, I'm not about to say it was "hovering" in the sense that it was just waiting for Chicken Little to run across the parking lot so it could fall) with this intense gray hue. The wind was pushing leaves across the wet pavement, occasionally creating miniature tornadoes upon colliding with a building. And as I was enjoying the peace of walking across a desolate campus in the grimness of pre-storm weather, I heard a humming, buzzing sound that could only be one thing: machinery.

"Who dared to intrude upon Allison's morning walk?" you ask. Well, I'll tell you. It was the grounds staff. They were out there blowing leaves into piles and then sucking them into a plywood box with some noisy oversized industrial vaccuum thingy. (Don't you just love my use of technical jargon?) At the time, I was perturbed by the noise and by the fact that they were sucking all of the color out of the campus and soon it was going to look like the dead, barren, arctic tundra that reminds us yearly of the relatives who wanted us to go to college in southern California.

Now, fast forward to my walk home from work. The sun was shining brightly behind the gray clouds, making the day appear significantly less like armageddon. However, the wind's intensity was frightening. I'm talking about the kind of wind that makes you walk on a diagonal path when you fully intended to go straight ahead (and you're not even drunk). The kind of wind that takes a tree, shakes the hell out of it until you think it's going to crack and start bleeding sap in Quentin Tarantino proportions, and then launches the falling leaves at you like projectile weapons.

I'm serious. Leaves are deadly weapons on this campus. You're just walking along one second and the next you stepped into a cross-roads of wind tunnels and leaves are flying at your face, you raise your hands quickly to protect your eyes from injury, and then one of two things can happen: a leaf can hit your face, traveling at a good twenty miles per hour, stinging like a bitch and perhaps causing a visible injury; or you can walk out of the cross-roads without getting hit, only to realize that you look like a total dipshit with your hands to your face and your shoulders hunched in fight-or-flight mode, with no opponent to be seen.

As I hurriedly put my hands down, I was overwhelmed by a sense of appreciation for the grounds staff who were so diligently trying to keep us safe by sucking those bastard leaves into the box thingy this morning. (No, I don't actually believe that's what they had in mind. More likely than not, they're still being pushed by the administration to worry about the appearance of the campus because the parent/prospective student tour season isn't over yet. But can't I pretend that people actually care about one another? Come on. Work with me here.)

So, on behalf of all students, this one's for you, grounds staff. Unlike all those times your work has caused us to, say, jog through obstacle courses of sprinklers, or slip on thin layers of ice that just so happened to not get removed from some of the most-used sidewalk paths on campus, you've actually done something useful. Today, we were reminded why our tuition and fees should pay your wages. Good job. We appreciate it.

College: Land of Idealistic Young Adults

I was once vegan. Last year, in fact. I lasted a whole three months--if that. It all started because my roommate was vegan, and as I listened to her reasons for being vegan, I found that I agreed with every single one. So then my mind said, "Allison! You agree that this is a big deal but you're not doing anything about it! You know that we could more effectively feed people by giving them grain directly rather than channeling it through animals and then eating their flesh. And we could do it without torturing animals on commercial farms. So what are you waiting for!? It's time to be vegan." And from there I decided to be vegan.

Do you know what it's like to be vegan? The diet isn't especially hard. . . unless your body actually does need protein (something my body decided to tell me by getting very fatigued and sick). Did you know you're actually supposed to consume fifty grams of protein every day? Yeah. Well, you are. After being harrassed repeatedly by various relatives (namely my mother (a nurse), who actually forced me to eat a scrambled egg while I was home for a visit and who lectured me so much that my little brother (who was three at the time) ran into the kitchen and said, "I don't want you to be vegan any more because I don't want you to be sick!") I decided to try a protein powder shake thing.

I got some chocolate-flavored soy protein (made especially for hunky body builders, which amused me) and some chocolate soy milk, and I mixed that sucker up. You should've seen it. I have a texture thing about food, and as I looked into the cup, I saw a brown lumpy liquid, just full of chunks of soy protein. So I decided to stir it some more. And some more. And some more. Eventually I gave up. I closed my eyes, repeated a mantra of "hot chocolate, hot chocolate, hot chocolate, you know you like hot chocolate. . ." and contorted my face as I drank it one disgusting gulp at a time. The mantra didn't work. I quit being vegan within days. I decided there was no way I was going to drink that on a regular basis, and I couldn't afford to be sick all the time.

Now let's consider the ramifications of such a decision. (1) The guy I was dating at the time, Dennis, had told his friends that he would've turned me from being vegan by the third date, so he was just thrilled to find out about it right before the third date. Asshole. Made me wanna reverse the decision. (2) Being an idealistic young college student, I had to reexamine my self-worth. (No, I'm not kidding.) I mean, really, if I couldn't stand up for a cause, then what good was I to the world? (Yes, every college student needs to believe she can change the world. Shut up already.)

You may be asking yourself, "While all of this very interesting and only proves to me further that Allison is a charming genius who deserves everything her heart desires, what is her point?" Good question.

Lately I've noticed a dangerous trend. College students are getting even more idealistic. It's like they've dreamt up their own perfect little world and when this world doesn't conform, good god watch out for the temper tantrums and self-deprecation. I'm all for pushing myself to be a better person; I think it's essential really. But there comes a point when we do nothing but convince ourselves that we are awful and worthless and don't deserve to be alive, thereby inhibiting any positive growth or development as human beings.

Most of you can probably guess what I'm about to do. That's right. *nods* I'm bringing back the list. For those of you who don't know, two years ago when I broke with Christianity, revamped my morality and worldview, and started truly living by my own standards, I had a crisis about how to define a good person. I became so convinced that I was not a good person that I made a list of reasons I was a bad person. In fact, I made two lists because someone accused me of being too abstract, so I had to write another list in concrete terms.

But I digress. I want to present this list (unaltered from its original form) as a warning to all of you. This is what comes of being idealistic. This list caused me to have conversations in which I actually said, "Well if all humans are that way it doesn't matter. I hold myself to a higher standard and it is therefore unacceptable to be human!" (I'm a little more rational now. . .)

Why I am a Bad Person and will Never become a Good Person. Ever. Never Ever Ever.

1) I am never satisfied. Ever.
2) I am overly competitive. To the point of obsession.
3) I am a bitch. Really.
4) I am mean. Hateful even.
5) I am selfish. I don’t care enough about other people.
6) I am not motivated. I procrastinate.
7) I am nosy. I intrude into my roommate’s business.
8) I am cynical. My pessimism is most disconcerting.
9) I am doubtful of humans as a whole.
10) I lack the ability to change any of the preceding nine qualities.

Because I will never change any of the above, especially number ten, I will never become a good person. I will therefore post this paper wherever necessary to remind myself at each and every turn that I am a bad person and will remain so forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and that being positive and attempting to care about myself or others is a useless effort and should be avoided at all costs and is heretofore abolished as an option in my mind. I pledge never to reform my thinking or to get rid of the closed system inherent in this statement. I will dutifully convince myself that the above-mentioned ten truths are, in fact, truths and that I am incapable of anything different. Every day I will remind myself diligently and thereby prevent change because change is bad. Change is always bad.

Cost-Benefit Analysis

Okay, ladies. Being female sucks sometimes, right? But what about the benefits? In all fairness to the men, we need to acknowledge that sometimes we do use our gender to our advantage (and don't you do dare deny it, because I will rat you out in an instant).

[As an aside, I have intentionally used the term "gender" rather than "sex." "Gender" refers to the characteristics attributed to the sexes by society, whereas "sex" refers simply to the biological distinctions between males and females. I don't intend to focus on the many wonders of having a vagina, but rather on the social advantages of being classified female. With that said, let us begin.]

1) We do need to address pure biology for just a moment. Ladies, we live longer. That's right. Men start dying off and we keep trucking. In fact, research has shown that widows tend to feel a bit of freedom when the old guy finally tuckers out. Now men, don't feel completely neglected. Some of the women do embrace your deaths, moving in with their widowed friends to repeat the slumber parties of adolescence; but others are lonely and start searching for a new man. So, if you happen to live longer, older men are definitely in demand.

2) The menstrual cycle. You knew it was coming, so don't groan. Every girl likes to bitch about this. And let's face it: bleeding for five days, without the comfort that death is imminent, does suck. Quite a bit. However, let's just look at the perks. Do men get a universal and unchallenged excuse to sit around in mismatched, baggy pajamas, watching television, eating more junk food than the average human-hippopotomus-hybrid-creature, yelling at anyone who speaks, and crying at the most mundane of Lifetime movies? No. Not only do men not get any such excuse for sloth, moodiness, and uncleaniness, but they also don't get the excuse for five days out of every month. And women, you know if you're really good, you can make the excuse stretch for at least two weeks; we all know we've started a fight and then said, "I must be about to start my period," or "My period just ended." That's right. Fess up, bitches.

3) Cosmetics. Can men go out, drink/study all night, get absolutely no sleep, and then make it look like they just spent eight hours snuggled in bed between thousand thread-count silk sheets? No. And why not? Because they're not allowed to wear concealer. Sure, makeup can be a pain in the ass--especially if you're running late and don't fall into that category of dangerous drivers who think they can apply mascara while navigating through morning traffic downtown. But we all know we look good once we're done. And there's the advantage. We can take a tired, sleepy visage, and turn it into a fresh, dazzling face in mere minutes.

4) Highly related to point (3), we have each other. Okay, so we tend to be backstabbing, conniving, man-stealing, gossiping witches. However, think about the last time you really tried to look good. Who noticed? Not the (straight) men. Women can tell when another woman has tried. We just have this sense about it. And we know we should compliment the other woman. We just do. Isn't it great? It's reaffirming. It makes us feel good. (As long as we don't hear each other go to the back of the room and start laughing hysterically afterward.)

5) Manipulation. We're born with it. We know how to work people. And we try to say only the dumb blondes do it, but allow me to confess in an effort to spur you all towards honesty. When I went home for Fall Break, I got conned into working at Steak N Shake from 8:30PM to 6:30AM on a Saturday night. At this point, my thumb was still wrapped in a cumbersome bandage, meaning that making shakes would not only take extra time but would also inevitably lead to dirty bandaging and paranoia regarding the risk of infection.* So what did I do? I told my manager how much I loved him, smiled and batted my eyelashes, and got him to agree to make all my shakes until he left at 2:30. What was I going to do after he left? Well, you see, I learned long ago (read: this summer when I waitressed for the first time ever) that, in the waitressing business, you make your life richer by flirting with customers and easier by flirting with coworkers. So all night I had been just flirty enough with my male coworkers that when the manager left, and I got a table of twelve who all wanted shakes, I could whimper a little bit, call on my male coworkers, and have them offer to make the shakes. That's right, folks. I never asked them to make the shakes. It just so happened that I made less than five shakes on a Saturday night--for those of you unfamiliar with Steak N Shake, that's just unbelievable; drunks love ordering shakes and normally waitresses have to make all of them on third shift. Now ladies, I know I'm not the only one who's done this. If you've ever leaned over just a little bit to reveal cleavage while in the process of manipulating, you are as guilty as I. Don't deny it. Just don't even try.

In conclusion, we've all learned about the glass ceiling of the business world, the 76 cents that women earn for every man's dollar, the discrimination, and the domination. We know being a female has serious downfalls. But next time you ladies are sitting on the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry's watching Lifetime while your boyfriend rubs your back and listens to you cry and whine about your awful day and how tampons, panty hose, and high heels must've been invented by men, just remember that you get away with a lot too.




*For those of you who don't know, almost two months ago I cut off half my thumbnail and a rather substantial chunk of the nailbed while using the office papercutter at work. It was quite the fiasco, involving a trip to the emergency room to be treated by the incompetent worker's compensation doctor. My thumb is healing and the nail is growing although it still looks disgusting and I hide it under bandaids every day.

The Disgusting Creatures that are Human Beings

Normally, the ground outside my residence hall (the administration's preferred term for "dorm," because they somehow think they can take away all preconceived notions about dorms if they get rid of the word) is littered with paper, aluminum cans, and plastic bottles. Not so tonight. Tonight, the ground was relatively debris-free, allowing me to notice all the little things I failed to notice before. A few examples:

• Petrified vomit that now looks like a light brown crusted layer of filth near one of the benches.
• Dried saliva that has feathers stuck in it.
• Chewing gum with two dead ladybugs stuck in it.

Gross. Really. What are people thinking?

Which brings me to my next reason for the title of this post: The headlining article in the University's newspaper today pointed out to me by a friend/editor of the humor page. The article was about how University Dining Services has refused to donate leftover food from the eight on-campus dining halls to a local food pantry/soup kitchen. Their excuse? Federal regulations say you can only reheat once. Validity? Very little; other Ohio universities have gotten lists of specific food items that the Health Department has approved for donation. So what was the reaction of our University Dining Services director? She's willing to work with students and the Health Department to try to make it happen. What is that?! She can't claim it's not possible any more, so she won't stop students from doing all the work? Lovely lovely woman we have in charge. You know, those few hours on the phone with the Health Department, and then with the soup kitchen to coordinate pick-up times, would just kill her.

I hate people. (Yes, I know there is an inherent contradiction in wanting to help those I hate. Get over it.)

I love my job (today)

And here's why:

1) I rarely make it here on time--in fact, at least three times this semester I have slept in and arrived an hour to an hour and a half late--yet they will never fire me.

2) Where else can you find menopausal women who will flick rubber bands over their cubicle walls to entertain you?

3) I get paid to do my homework, check my email, and engage in other un-work-related tasks (such as writing this).

4) I have access to the records of every student at the University--both graduate and undergraduate. Power trips can be great fun sometimes (until people figure out how limited those powers are and call you on it).

5) They bring in food for no reason and then tell me to go get food while they do my job for me (receptionist). Today is the designated "birthday food day" for the month of November. Within thirty minutes of arriving at work, three of the women came up and asked me if I wanted to go get food while they watched the desk. I asked the first if I could take her up on it later, ignored the second because I was on the phone, and argued with the third. It went something like this:

Chris: Allison, if you want to go back and get some food, I can watch the desk for you.
Me: That's alright. I had a bagel before I came to work this morning.
Chris: Hey, Irene! Allison said she doesn't want to try your breakfast dish!
Me: I said nothing of the sort! All I said was that I had a bagel before I came into work and I'm not hungry.
Chris: See. She doesn't want to try it.
Dorothy: Allison, you really need to go try it. It's good.
Me: I'll grab some later, when Corinne takes over at the desk. I'm just not hungry.
Dorothy: It'll be cold then. It's warm now. *Stares* Just go try one bite. You have room for one bite.
Me: [chooses to withhold comment about presence of microwave] Fine. One bite.
Dorothy: *Grin* Good.
Chris: Look! She's going to try it!
Irene & Tanya: [recognizing the absurdity of this situation, continue doing their jobs]

So I went to the back of the office, stared at the breakfast casserole, knowing I hate casseroles and their textures and their tastes, and knowing that I told the women I would try it. Then I got a sudden wave of courage. I got a small piece of the casserole, put it on a plate, grabbed some fresh fruit from a bowl, and sat down (with my back to the door so I wouldn't be caught making some disgusted and nauseated face). I hesitated once more, staring at the potatoes that had been cooked into what appeared to be a scrambled egg-like mixture, and then baked with cheese and sausage on top. Then I tried it. I took a bite, noted the mushiness of the potatoes, and was relieved to find none of the sour-cream-taste I was expecting (read: dreading). Then I ate the additional three bites that comprised the small piece.

Perhaps you're failing to see the gravity of this situation. Allow me try again: I (the girl who refuses to eat mashed potatoes, gravy, creamed soups of any kind, puddings, white sauces, homemade noodles, butter, any number of casseroles, meat that has the slightest bit of gristle on it, and just about anything deemed "homestyle" or "country cooking," not to mention anything I look at that appears even slightly gross) actually ate a piece of breakfast casserole and didn't gag! This is a momentous occasion--nothing like my cultural experience with Ethiopian food.

[Allow me to digress long enough to explain the Ethiopian food. My learning community was on a new-member's retreat in Ann Arbor, MI, where our directors decided to take us out to dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant. I know I'm averse to pretty much anything with flavor or texture, so I was dreading the meal. Even worse, they sat everyone around a table and then brought one huge platter of food and told us to eat with our hands. They brought the food. First, a plate of sponge-like bread. Then the gargantuan plate of food: a vast array of lumpy green stuff, creamed orange stuff, chicken on a bone that looked like it had just been hacked from the carcus with a pocket knife, a pile of stringy beef in red sauce, some lamb, and what appeared to have been carrots and potatoes coated in "creamy butter." As you can imagine, I was mortified. My roommate, sensing my apprehension, convinced me to just try it. So I took some of the sponge-bread in hand, and grabbed a bit of the lumpy green stuff with it. Alright. I gagged only slightly as the bread disintegrated into a mush around the lumpy stuff. Then I tried some string beef, which only disintegrated with the bread into spicy mush. I thought: potato! I could actually see what it was, so I thought (rather reasonably, if you ask me) it had to be safe. No. "Creamy butter" mush. Four bites. I was done. And I was convinced that the chef was either a henchman passing off jars of babyfood as his own creations or a maniacal little man with a blender.]

Anyway. The original reason for this post: As I was sitting in the back eating some fruit, Dorothy approached. "Did you try it?" "Yes." "Okay, well, now you have to play it up when you come out there. 'Oh! Dorothy, why'd you make me try that!? Ugh!'" So I smiled and agreed. She laughed, grabbed some food, and went back out front.

A few moments later, I made my entrance. The ladies were huddled between cubicles, chatting it up. Dorothy was in my line of sight, perfect placed. So I walked briskly said, "I've got a bone to pick with you," and walked back to the front desk. I knew my eyes would give me away, so I stood in the safety of my cubicle while saying, "Dorothy, when you told me I had to try it because it was soooo good, you failed to tell me it was opposite day." (Everyone paused because they didn't know what to do.) I stepped back out where they could see me and said, "It was awful. Irene, you should burn the recipe--just pretend you never found it. ...Ugh!" Irene looked like she was going to cry. Then, Tanya had to chime in, "Wait. She said it was opposite day. She would never say those things." So of course Dorothy started cracking up, high fived me, and proceeded to do a happy dance back to her cubicle. Poor Irene. It was great.

What's my point? I love my job. (And I'm a drama queen.)