I'm sitting here,

listening to Howie Day's "Collide," wondering if and when my roommate is going to get out of bed, thinking about all the things I should be doing and need to do, and pondering why I put myself through this on a regular basis.

Is there something fun about stretching myself thinner than the facade of truth on George Bush's statements about the response to Hurricane Katrina? Do I secretly enjoy running around like my five-year-old brother on a sugar high? Am I in denial about being a masochist?

Quite simply, I think the answer to each question is a blatant "no."

Why?

Well, I'm going to blame society. I'm going to blame credential inflation. I'm going to blame unrealistic expectations of my age group--the multi-tasking generation. Essentially, I'm going to blame everyone and everything except myself. (If my field says aleatory factors are the way to go, who am I to argue?)

Seriously, I'm not allowed to just write this. I have to be doing something else at the same time, i.e. reading or carrying on an instant messenger conversation. The key here is not productivity or purpose, but rather action. (Just pretend you're running for office and need to look like you're doing something, so you pick up a couple kids, kiss their grubby little foreheads while trying not to grimace, and then vow to add a soap provision to Food Stamps after getting elected.) That's right. You're not allowed to just be reading this either. You better be multi-tasking or the Anxiety Troopers might storm in and force you to open a book and some Word documents. (They're the bastard children of the Patiot Act Police. Be scared. They're ten times worse because they have ten times less power. We all know how low-level bureaucrats try to pretend they're in charge.)

Anyway, the point: I'm surrounded by piles of books and mail and pajamas and notebooks and I don't even know where to start. So I thought I would try to write something unrelated to my futile attempts at getting an education. So much for that. . .

A Gift for You

I have decided that, because I'm feeling generous, I want to impart some wisdom upon you. And because I am especially well-qualified in one particular area, I thought my advice should relate to that one aspect of life: dating and relationships.

Now now, I know that the majority of people would say, "Allison, talk to us about Mock Trial, talk to us about social work, talk to us about classwork, but please, for the love of Allah, do not talk to us about dating."

To those people I say, "Fuck off. I want to give you the gift of my wisdom and if you don't want to accept it, then I can always give you a little lecture about the impropriety of being a rude asshole."

Moving on.

This letter was recently sent in by a loyal fan:


Dear Ally,

I like this guy in my sociology class, but I don't know how to get his attention. If he would just notice me, I think something good could happen. Can you help?

Thanks!

Frumpy in Florida


Dear Frumpy,

Who the hell calls herself "Frumpy"? You definitely have some problems.

Here's what you need to do: Go to the local Salvation Army or Goodwill store. You are looking for bright colors and small amounts of fabric. Find the tackiest, tightest, most outlandish outfit possible. After squeezing your (undoubtedly big) ass into a leopard-print mini-skirt and pink/black zebra-print halter top, go to Sally's Beauty Supply store. You need a temporary hair dye. Get green or blue. Then streak your hair. Make sure the chunks of dyed hair are noticeable. Maybe curl the rest of your hair and straighten the green/blue stuff, or vice versa. Then put on some huge "goldtone" hoop earrings, knee-high boots, and a spikey dog-collar choker.

Unless he has a brain, in which case you should ignore everything I said and try showing that you, too, have a brain by participating in class.

Or you could say hello.

Either way.

Quit being a dipshit,

Ally


Dear Ally,

My boyfriend is seven years older than I am, and he says that if I don't lick his. . . you know. . . he's going to dump me. . . what should I do?

Please help!

Scared in Shawano


Dear Scared,

Where the hell is Shawano?

And let me ask you something: are you twelve? Can you not say "penis"? Or are we discussing a rim job? If the latter is the case, then dump his ass. (No pun intended.)

Seriously, now. These actions are your choice. Don't let any man tell you what to do or pressure you into a decision like that. And keep in mind, if he has to put that kind of pressure on you, he's most likely compensating for something. By a LOT. Who has a little winkydoo? That guy.

Dump him,

Ally


Dear Allie,

Why would you ever try to give dating advice? Did you forget writing Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club? Yeah. . . we know all about you.

You're a bitch,

Obviously Smarter than You in Oregon


Dear Obviously a Smartass,

If you're going to write to insult me, why not try spelling my name right? Hmm? Yeah.

And if you choose to live in Oregon, you can't be that bright.

To answer your ridiculous question, I am writing this because I have found that if you do something wrong enough times, eventually you just stumble upon the correct way. Yes, it takes much time and effort, but I feel that my struggles through the wasteland of relationships that can only be described as horrid mistakes has qualified me to help the rest of you on your journeys to relational bliss.

Plus, Singles' Awareness Day is approaching.

I bet you're really just a lonely little bitch,

Ally


Alright, folks. That's all for now. Trying to save the world one sad and lonely female at a time is tiring. But feel free to send your questions my way. I'm here to help.

What can I say? I'm a people-pleaser.

Minesweeper

That's the answer.

Minesweeper.

Ever played?

It's really simple. You've got a box ("window," for the more computer literate among you) full of little gray squares. Behind each square is either a number or a bomb. The numbers indicate how many bombs that square is touching. From there, your objective is to use the numbers to clear every non-bomb square in the shortest amount of time possible.

It may not sound very exciting (and it's not), but for the more lame of the human race (like myself), it is all sorts of entertaining.

So there you sit, clicking away at little gray squares, staring intently, wondering, "There are three bombs touching that square. . . where are they?. . ." and then, before you know it, you're dead because you chose the wrong square. My personal favorite is when you have to try ten times to even start the game because the first square you choose is always a damn bomb.

Thesis statement: Human relationships are like Minesweeper.

Reason One: Sometimes you can't even get off the ground. You're surveying the field of potential human interactions out there, and you blow a kiss in one direction only to receive a look of contempt; you say hello to another person and are blown off with a "get lost;" you smile in someone's direction and she doesn't even acknowledge your existence. The possibilities are endless. The point is that you try to establish something and the bomb explodes in your face.

Reason Two: Sometimes you make an initial hit. You get something started. But it's not long before the bomb explodes and you're a double amputee with bad hair. You send an email to a professor, trying to build an intellectual relationship by expressing curiosity, and you receive no response; you ask her out on a date and she says, "It's not you, it's me, I just can't be in a relationship with you right now. . . or ever;" you invite him to come over and study and he says, "Sorry, darlin', women with brains aren't my type." Again, the possibilities are endless, but the point is that you clear just a few squares and appear to be off to a good start, only to have a damn bomb come out of nowhere and explode. If bombs could laugh, this is when they'd do it.

Reason Three: The board is almost cleared. Things are going well. The end is in sight. But then, you make a stupid mistake. You know that square is a bomb. But you still click on it. And then you're left cursing your fingers for not consulting with your brain first--that is, you would curse them if they hadn't been detached during the explosion. You know he's insecure in his masculinity and you still crack a joke about his manhood; you know she hates pet names and you still insist on calling her "sweet thang;" you know they just broke up and you still ask if they want to go on a double date. Basically, you're a dumbass and you pay for plaguing society with your idiocy by exchanging limbs for scar tissue and a ventilator.

Reason Four: You're down to the last two bombs. You're truly almost there. And if you can keep this up, you're going to break your record. This is an exciting moment in your history as a Minesweeper connoisseur. But then you run into a roadblock. There are two equally viable options. The bomb could be either place, and there's no way to tell without taking a leap of faith. Is it okay to propose already? How will she react if I tell her I love her? Will he commit suicide if I dump him? And you'll never know until you take action. The Gods of Minesweeper will either smile upon you and say that you've completed the puzzle (although by now you've stalled too long, trying to figure out the right answer, and so your previous record remains unbroken) or they will smite you for thinking you can predict their fickle ways and proceed to place third-degree burns over your entire body. Either way, the pressure is on, tension fills the computer screen, and the results could be either devastating or glorious--but you have to make a choice first.

Reason Five: I said so. I like odd numbers. I can't make an argument with an even number of reasons. Can't be done.

Conclusion: Minesweeper is a useful tool in examining human interaction and relationships. And also a great way to keep yourself from away message stalking when you have nothing better to do. Plus it has a smiley face on the clear button. Who can beat that?

I found him.

He is the one. He was born to perform this role. He was made to fulfill one simple purpose: to be the first Nascar driver to use a campus shuttle in competition.

Now, hear me out.

I'm not a fan of Nascar and I couldn't name three Nascar drivers off the top of my head. I consider it pointless to sit and watch rich people waste fossil fuels (an UNrenewable resource, mind you) to drive around in an oval for hours on end. Even the crashes aren't terribly exciting. You know it's going to happen: Oh no! The M&M car has sideswiped the Viagra car! They're currently melting into one big, hot lump of metal; wow, I wouldn't want to be the clean-up crew; that's going to be a really hard lump of metal when it cools down. . .

Sorry. It was too easy.

So, anyway, I don't like Nascar, but this guy was made for it. Normally when I take the campus shuttle from the parking lot to my "residence hall," the ride lasts approximately eleven minutes. Why? Well, shuttle drivers don't seem to believe in acceleration. Perhaps the gas pedals are especially difficult to press down; I don't know. The point is: they're slow.

But this guy was different. He had a need for speed. He had a mission, and that mission was clear: Drive as quickly as possible to reach the shuttle stop where the giggly damn teacher-to-be sorority girls would be exiting the bus.

And complete that mission he did. Shuttle speed limit? Not for this guy. Complete stops? No more. Consideration for the pain incurred by passengers when driving quickly over bumpy campus roads? Out of the question.

Most importantly though, dumbass sorority girls? Gone.

This man's goal was preordained by a higher power, and I do dare to say that he's going to Heaven. Or Nirvana. Or the divine ever after. Hell, just pick your term; I'm tired of being PC.

The guy rocks. We'll leave it at that.

The Gods of Bureaucracy are smiting me.

Every now and then

something happens to just rip you open. I'm not talking about when you're sitting at work opening transcripts from other universities and you absentmindedly stop paying attention to how you're holding the letter opener and before you know it the envelopes are covered in your blood. I'm also not talking about those occasions when your roommate thinks it will be funny to try headbutting you and busts your forehead open.

I'm talking about when you're sitting at your desk, peacefully dancing in your chair to Mariah Carey's latest hits, doing some homework, feeling great because if you keep your rates of productivity up you can probably sleep tonight, and out of nowhere, it's like a gang of samurai warriors rush into the room and attack you with machetes until your heart has been fileted and wrapped in seaweed, served on a bed of fluffy white rice, with ample quantities of wasabi on hand to be used in the wounds.

There is that one thought or statement or idea that just cuts to the core of you like you're on Jerry Springer finding out that your brother has been cheating on you with the transvestite next door, who happens to be your baby's daddy's brother, who has also lovingly passed herpes to you via your baby's daddy and your brother. Yeah. It's that kind of hurt. That kind of betrayal. That kind of, "Holy shit, are people really this fucked up?" moment.

Yes. Yes, they are.

Sushi, anyone?

Someone once told me

that the definition of insanity is the process of repeating the same actions and expecting different results each time.

Example 1: Not reading or doing your homework and then expecting to get better grades just because that was your New Year's resolution.

Example 2: Dressing like a skank and dancing like a whore while intoxicated in public, and then expecting to meet Mr. Right, or at least a better guy than the last schmuck you dated (who you also happened to meet in a bar. . . go figure).

Example 3: Voting far-right Republicans into office and then expecting the country to be a better place each time. Ha! Only if you want to redefine "better" to mean a conservative Christian empire ready to go around the world, pulling out its rifles when someone fails to worship democracy as we've defined it, playing cowboy abroad and then flat-out ignoring the people who need help here at home. . . but that's a different issue than what I meant to be writing about. (Yes, I see the hanging preposition. I just lack the will to edit the sentence right now.)

So now let's turn to the ever-popular rhetorical question: What's my point? And let's add a new rhetorical question to the repertoire: Is it sad that we have to ask the previous question almost every time I write? Perhaps I should begin each post with a thesis statement so that we avoid this problem. But, alas, I'm off track again.

My point is that most college students, by the aforementioned definition, are truly insane. We do the same things every day, we follow the same routines, we see the same people, we say the same things, and yet we expect different, new, exciting happenings each day. Just once, I'd like to see someone look at the alarm clock and admit, "Every day is exactly the same. I know what's going to happen today. And I know I'm not going to like it. . . . Here we go."

Let's just get over this notion that some day it's all going to change. It's not. You're going to let the art building suck the life out of you; you're going to watch as a law journal drains your blood from your veins; you're going to find it as no surprise when a physics lab has your brain in a jar; and I can't even feign shock when the Mock Trial doc[ument] box contains my vital organs.

This is the way it happens. This is what we do. And until we learn to deal with it and embrace the mediocrity that is slowly sapping away our zest for life, let's just admit we're insane.

If you guys need a role model, I'll be the first. Let's call it Nuts Anonymous. Our own version of NA.

Welcome to today's meeting of NA. My name is Allison, and I am insane. I do the same things every week--I go to classes that don't mean a thing, I go to a job that doesn't pay enough, I go to meetings that are truly pointless, and I spend what little free time I have worrying about an extra-curricular activity that will have escaped my mind in two years anyway. The grand result: I whine and whimper and wonder why I even bother, only to remind myself: Hey! You stupid bitch! You're insane!

And then we begin the process of moving on.

Who wants to go next?

I should be studying right now

But instead I need to tell you about what happened this morning.

There is a flaming conservative in the class I'm peer facilitating. (For those of you unfamiliar with the term, peer facilitation refers to acting as a teaching assistant of sorts, only you get paid less, have less authority, and are supposed to be the best new friend your students could ever have imagined. Needless to say, I'm not exactly who the administration envisioned when they came up with this role.)

He is in the military; he likes Bush; and he's very Christian. Considering the context, he is the beginning of a great new sitcom.

The class is called "The Common Good," and it's all about the debate regarding how the government should go about ensuring the common good, or the general social welfare of its people. We can reasonably assume that anyone who would want to teach this class is pretty liberal. After all, if you weren't fairly left-wing, this wouldn't even be a question. Instead we'd be taking a business class, wondering why Bush helps those deadbeat crackheads suck the life out of the economy with their damn Food Stamps and Welfare.

So anyway, today we were in class discussing how various sects of Christianity conceptualized the common good. The idea was to look at how someone's personal beliefs might influence their take on what the government should be doing.

About a third of the class is Roman Catholic; two of us are agnostic; there is one atheist (not counting the instructor, who goes to a Unitarian church nonetheless); and the rest are various types of Protestants. So, naturally, first we heard about Roman Catholicism and how they tried to put the burden for everything on the government.

I decided to speak up because no one else would (amazing how no one has the homework done the day a paper is due), and I had research the Presbyterian Church. I was honestly impressed by them. They're more politically active than this college campus, and they even go so far as play with their influence in the economic sphere.

I focused on one strategy in particular during my little schpiel to the class: they will buy large amounts of stock in a company, and then manipulate that company (as shareholders are entitled to do) so that they are sure the company is acting in accordance with God's will.

I think it's brilliant. Their website boasted of forcing an energy company in Ohio to divulge a full report about its emissions, pollution, and climate change. A good use of power, if you ask me.

But no one asked me.

Instead, Captain Conservative spoke up. "That's wrong. That's manipulative."

Me, "It's not manipulative if it's working for God's will." (Of course the look on my face sent the rest of the class into a fit of laughter, which only sent Lieutenant Lynch-the-Liberals further down a spiral of rage.)

Admiral Abstinence-Eduation-Works then said, "That's just wrong. They shouldn't be manipulative."

Me, "It's not being manipulative. It's being situationally intelligent. Do you have a better suggestion for how they can accomplish their goals?"

Petty Officer Peace-is-for-Pussies then informed me, "No. That's just manipulative. And I'm not Presbyterian. I don't have to approve what they do."

With that, Corporal Close-Mindedness packed up his books and glared at me until it was time to leave class.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to be his new big sister and best friend if he shuts down as soon as I suggest that we should take steps to care for one another? I was so looking forward to beginning a friendship with him, that I fear life is pointless now. . .

"Ohhhh, Connieeeee, come out and play with me. . . Bring your rifles three. . . Climb up my apple tree. . . Slide down my rainbow. . . Into the bunker door. . . and we'll be jolly friends. . . forever More. More. More."

*sigh*

Who am I supposed to invite to my tea party now? No one else has the exclusive Rootin' Tootin' Gun-Totin' Missile-Droppin' Civilian-Killin' Submissive Godly Woman Barbie.* Damn thing sold out within ten minutes nationwide.






*All rights reserved. Copyright 2006, Commission for a Conservative Empire, formerly known as the George W. Bush Reelection Committee. Small parts may not be appropriate for children. Remote detonator sold separately. Remove all explosive components before giving to small children or Republicans. Also available as a life-size blow-up doll.

Confession

I want to believe. I want to really, truly believe.

I want to hear that sweet sweet sound of amazing grace; I want to feel the blood of the lamb wash over me; and I want my worries to fall into the sea like a million tiny pieces, trading my sorrows for joy.*

Lately it has become more and more apparent that life just keeps spiraling out of control, much like God's wrath when the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah had way too much fun, or the time he decided to flood the whole fucking Earth during a toddler-esque temper tantrum.

But let's think about the days when I did believe. What did I have then that I don't have now?

Well, I think it is best seen as an equation:

Extreme amounts of stress

+

Horrible classes

+

Dysfunctional family

+

Bitterness and rage

-

Sleep

-

Meaning

-

Sanity

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

Joy

+

Peace

+

Love

I can hear you now: How the hell does that work out? That is the farthest thing from a balanced equation since Bush tried to come up with a federal budget.

Let us not forget one key passage from the Good Book, "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" Taken from somewhere in Jeremiah (I want to say chapter 19 verse 11, but I'm too tired to look it up right now), the verse was always my comfort.

No matter how shitty life was, there was a benevolent God just waiting to show me that it was all really okay. No matter how pointless my life was, there was an omniscient God just sitting there waiting for me to realize that my purpose was His.** No matter how cruel the world seemed to be, there was a loving God just holding out His hand, waiting for me to accept His grace.

*Sigh*

How I long for those days. Blessed assurance. Amazing grace. Faith, hope, and love.

Simple. Perhaps too simple.

*I'm betting less than three of my readers caught all of the references to song lyrics hidden in broad daylight in that sentence.

**That makes as little sense to me as it makes to you. I've really never known what it meant, but somehow it always felt good when I thought it was true.

For you, Killer Taupe

My most devoted fan recently wrote, "I find your blog to routinely be the most elegant and hilarious combination of words and phrases I have read in a long, long time. AND I've been reading Dostoevsky." This post is for you.


Last weekend, the Mock Trial Team ventured into the west. We flew into the desert, and from a cloud of dust and sand, we emerged as the team that would be remembered. . . we would be remembered as the bitches from captains' meetings, the team that did cheers before the rounds started, and the team that got its ass kicked the first day and then spent the second day beating up on teams that should have their numbers revoked before they further disgrace the sport known as Mock Trial.

What happened, Allison!? Tell us! Tell us!

*Sigh* Calm, my children. I will explain.

Friday. We arrive in Arizona. We decide that playing on a mountain in the desert would be great fun. So we hop into two vehicles--a Chrysler Town & Country and a Jeep Wrangler. Yours truly decided to ride in the Jeep. And she was even daring enough to zip down the back window and let her hair down.

Then things got interesting. Riding around in the desert with the wind blowing through the vehicle, the stereo blasting, and inhibitions fading, the music moved me. Before we knew it, there was an all-out dance-off taking place in that little Jeep. We danced to everything from Nine Inch Nails (luckily, Frat Boy Mike did not die from the trauma known as the musical genius of Trent Reznor, despite his valiant efforts to cover his ears for the entirety of "Head Like a Hole"), to some eighties song with "Promises, Promises" in the chorus, to that song with the whistling, to that Pussycat Dolls crappy love song, to Lisa Loeb's nineties classic "You Say."

Suffice to say, there was a whole lot more fun happening in the Jeep than the minivan. And Frat Boy Mike even entertained us by successfully eliciting the most contemptuous blown kiss from another driver ever. She seriously looked like she wanted to stab the kid for daring to flirt with her from the other side of the dotted white line. You would've thought he was a poor black kid sassing the white mistress of the plantation (which is really amusing when you consider how white FBM really is).

Anyway, let us talk about the trials.

Round one. Captains' meeting. We called witnesses. Then, the following happened:
Them: Oh, here. We need you to sign this.
Me: This has to be presented before witness selection.
Them: Well, aren't you going to sign it and acknowledge it?
Me: No. . . . It's too late.
Them: *bewildered look, as though they had never encountered a bitch before*
Me: We'll see you in the room. :-D

In the room: Alicia: "Gimme a V, Dot the I, Curl the C-T-O-R-Y, Victory! *clap clap clap* Victory! *clap clap clap*"

Round two. Cross examination of the expert:
Me: Ms. Nathanson? Is it Ms.?
Witness: I prefer Dr. Nathanson.
Me: . . . you don't have a Ph.D., do you?
Witness: It's an honorary doctorate from the FBI.
Me: *nods* You filed a curriculum vitae with the court for today's proceedings, didn't you?
Witness: Yes.
Me: *all that jazz about approaching the witness with the document and having her identify it* Nowhere on that document do you mention an honorary doctorate, do you?
Witness: No, my colleagues awarded me the honorary doctorate when I retired from the FBI and I really just find it a bit embarrassing.
Me: But you still prefer to be called "Doctor"?
Witness: Yes.
Me: *nods* *retrieve the document* Now, . . . Doctor. . . Nathanson. . .

Dumbass.

Third round. Awful team. Same witness role as above. Supposedly someone who has worked for the FBI for twenty-five years. Supposedly someone bright. Someone who consistently referred to "the investigatory process" and who couldn't pronounce the first phase of her three-phase method, the antecedent phase (she pronounced it "anticidint").

Fourth round. Even worse team. The little brother team of the team from the third round. Before the round began, we sat there making fun of "the investigatory process" and "the anticidint phase" only to watch as their confused faces cried out in unison, "Why are they laughing?"

Then, the poor team's parents sat in the jury box and laughed with our witnesses and held hands when we talked about families and community during opening and closing statements. How awful must it be to get your asses kicked in front of your parents, and know that they loved the team that was kicking your ass?

It was almost as satisfying as having a father from the Air Force's team come up to me after the round, put his arm around me, and say with a huge smile, "I just wanted to tell you that you're probably the best attorney we've seen. You tore our Walsh apart, you had him sweating, and you did it so smoothly."

Oh, but wait. That wasn't even the most satisfying thing. No, no. The most satisfying moment had to be the realization that the number one mock trial attorney in the nation only out-ranked me by one point, and that's because I got jipped by a retarded judge. Plus, she has acne.

So there.

Take that.

And if anyone runs into Bill, tell him I'm heartbroken that he stood me up. After watching what appeared to be his lovingly diapered ass wobble across the courtroom in his stained pants as he made a fool of himself by having not even the slightest clue what he was doing, and after seeing Alicia whisper "hott" and lick her lips in his direction, and after losing a bet about who could be the loudest attorney in the round, I just knew I had to have him. It's a shame he wasn't on our flight home. The mile-high club always sounded like so much fun.