No...Why....

[To be read as if shaking a hand at the sky.]
If you were me, your internal body clock would be telling you you're done with work. I mean, you'd have to be. Because it feels like 5:40 pm.
And you just ate 100 grams of digestive cookies. The kind that aid the digestive process, as it were.
And you think you might die.
Bleeehhhhh.
The worst part is, you weren't that hungry to begin with. And you brought them home as a gift. You selfish, evil woman.

Oh, you.

Stop. Stop right there.
I love Bloggy McBlogerson. I am not ashamed to say that I giggled aloud with glee at his posting about...well...about me. And his room. And the fact that all of our friends are getting married (which they TOTALLY are). In fact, we've (Bloggy and I) been searching for appropriate gifts of the non-engaged kind. I can almost see signs of chronic mild stress developing. Pacing and crying at Hollywood cinema.
If you talk to him, let him know that we're ALL a little nervous about it...not the crying; the marrying. Could you also tell him to stop worrying, please?

Direct quotes

From conferences this evening in which I attempted to drum up some support for the volunteer effort:
First: humor. While speaking directly to me, one woman said, "You know I was looking at you and I thought 'Somebody should help her!'" Should that somebody be you? Would you like for it to be you? It could be you, selfish person, but as soon as you said it you walked away.
Quote two: "It just smacks of...compassionate conservativism; makes me want to throw up."
Now,
Dammit. I can never seem to think of the right response in these situations, which is to say, when somebody is erroneously insulting everything I hold dear using words that are UNTRUE, you DUMBFACE!
Let it be known that last week, those capitalized words would be replaced with slightly equivalent expletives.
LET THAT BE A LESSON TO YOU!

Two Wrongs

K-Mart and Sears?

Legally High

During my trip to LA last week I discovered that I do like drugs, as long as they're flavored with mocha and blended to perfection with whipped cream on top (whip cream is how it's spelled in my head). Caffeine, mom. I was doing it every day and I liked it. I didn't even have to snort it or needle myself. The only painful part of the process was forking over my hard-earned $4 every time for "the stuff."
I assure you that I do not like coffee. This was a purely vacational romance. An affair followed by a little ear-ringing and some very sincere cravings for a sight of The Bean.

Home again, Leaving again

Oh, joyous day.
Joyous everything.
The vacation was wonderful, except for the mild* PMS I experienced. Matt took his fancy cam and documented all events including so very many of my facial expressions. Ashley and Keeler were terribly gracious hosts (also mightily photogenic). THANK YOU for having us, dudes. In the immortal words of an actual college students near an actual college in California inspiring an actual mouthful of bile: Oh, my gosh. Thank you SO much [for holding the door open for me. I totally just got away with the most falsified sincerity since the Pi Phis asked the Chess Club to the Homecoming Exchange!].
Ill.
Now that I'm home, I'm ready to go on my next trip.
Luckily, I scheduled these two vacations with incredible foresight. They intersect precisely with my menstrual pre- and during weeks.
Thank you to the makers of the following products for making these days possible:
Tampons, Chocolate, MPR, Boyfriends, Ridiculously Expensive Contact Solution, and Converse All-Stars.

*See: not mild.

The Unforgivable Offense

My eyeballs are bloodshot. And I'm not on drugs. I just spent the last fifteen minutes-no exaggeration-with my fingers poking around for missing contacts.
I had just awoken from a nap and figured that the sleep made them suction cup to my eye (just trust that it's happened before. And it F'ING HURTS). As I looked in the mirror I saw a little ring around my iris and began to grab for the elusive soft lens. During the following minutes of wailing and gnashing, Matt offered patient advice and Ashley phoned in support from her movie-viewing room.
The temper tantrum I threw could shame small children.
As I picked up the contact contraption to further bemoan the cursed lenses, I noticed something catch the light.
My contacts, actually.
Because I had already taken them out.
While I was peeing.

Nice Day for a White with Red Accents Wedding

So my friends got married this weekend.
For those of us just recently graduated, currently committed, and praying to remain so without immediately conjoining ourselves unto death, that's a big deal.
I didn't even stand in the neighborhood of the bouquet. Matt pretended not to know that garters exist. We grimaced to some painfully country music (you can take a girl out of Stearns County...) and feasted on the free booze.
And then there were mutual toasts from both bride and groom. At one point, Tim said, [edited for time and content] "my wife [...]". To which Kristen responded, "[blah blah blah] my husband [blah blah blah]". Shut UP.
Shut UP. They sound so married and that's because they ARE.

The Great Equalizer

School pictures.
Holy crap.
Holy, ungodly crap.
What was said:
"Would you like to fix your collar, Ma'am?"
"No, it's fine. I don't care."
What should have been said:
"Would you like to fix your collar, hair, and/or makeup, you hideous beast?"
"Yes. I'm going to hold up a picture of my cousin, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and you can take a picture of that."

Mad Skills

Every week now I get a dose of embarrassment built right into Thursday. I am in the practice of attending a hip-hop dance class with some girls from school. It lets them know I’m an adult who is dependable and trustworthy. And WHITE.
They all make fun of the way white girls dance. It's how they insult each other and themselves. "I'm/You dancing like a white girl." I hate to perpetuate this stereotype, but I have yet to see them disproved. They say we’re stiff and that we touch our arms too much (which is SO true. Damn. That is so true).
The instructor, an amazing and beautiful dancer moves her body in ways that my joints will not allow. She drills us with pop pah wooh breathy sounds as subsitutes for real words. I translate them to mean "this is obviously too hard for you. If you concede now, I won't tell the others that you're a big loser. Just pretend like you're going for water and leave. Leave. Shhh, baby, just get out of the class. You're holding us up."
I go home to my parents who really want to see some of my "moves". I put "moves" in quotation marks because even the word is humiliating. I make excuses because I know that without the proper music, it would be impossible.

Cracked in the bulb

Now I'm not saying it's haunted, but an open office door before I even arrived here and a little taptaptaperoo from an unspecified location signify something to me.
If it were haunted, wouldn't the tapping stop when I stand up to check it out? YES.
Doesn't the tapping stop when I stand up to check it out? YES.
I think we all know what that means: the Asian Beetles have taken over. Now they're sending their beetle friends from beyond the grave to nestle in the crevices of car doors and home windows. Apparently they didn't get the memo that Halloween is over. AND IT SUCKED.

I call this one: FREEDOMMMM!

So I get to the polls this morning, perfectly pleased at myself for arriving at such a reasonably non-busy hour, (Where were you, voters?) when after I was passed along from pre-registration to day-of (God Bless Same-day Registration) I discovered that I was in error.
At the WRONG PRECINCT.
I thought perhaps the sweet old man was wrong, until he showed me the map that got me to a pair of sweet old women who busily dolled out forms to my fellow procrastinators.
I should mention that the line at Precinct 211 was a biteen more lengthy. Also, that my heart swelled when I saw so many citizens realizing their civic duty (even if they didn't recognize the names of the 15 district court judges running unopposed). Which brings me to my final piece of election day import: I wrote in my dad's name for a position as the santiation and water commissioner. There was a shit joke somewhere in my brain, but I let it go.
Get it?
Let it go?
HA.
So, hooray, Americans. Let us celebrate this feast of elections. Who will carve the incumbent?

I hate you, Halloween!

Thanks for ruining my weekend and making me cry.
Thanks for sending in your clowns to chase me at the trail of terror.
Thanks for dismembering my monkey.
Thanks for getting me into a fight with Matt.
Thanks for getting me into another fight with Matt.
It's all your fault!!!
[stomp, stomp, stomp, slam]
I'm never coming out of this room.
I would tell the story, but it's too painful. It involved a Pippi Longstocking costume.