First, a series of (seemingly) unrelated facts:
1. My cat is a troublemaker. I found him in a parking lot, and ever since he has either been terrorizing me or eating/pooping his brains out. Crass, but true.
2. I have a cockroach phobia. Water bugs, palmetto bugs, cockroaches--they're all the same to me. My phobia stems, I believe, from the time I stepped on one in my bare feet while running to the car. I was 7.
3. I couldn't come up with any material for this, my last mandatory blog post. It has to be good, I thought. I have nothing.
So last night, I go to bed at a decent hour, having completed my homework in a shockingly timely fashion. I wake to the sound of my dog barking. I'm angry. I sit up in bed and he's standing halfway in the bathroom.
Great. The cat is standing on the shelves or something. (Sulley is very good about tattling on Squeaky.) I have to use the bathroom anyway, so I get out of bed and walk into the bathroom.
Squeaky is sitting on the toilet, just chilling. Weird, but not weird enough to wake me from my stupor. He jumps down, I use the bathroom, so on and so forth.
I exit the bathroom to find Squeaky sitting directly on my pillow, facing the wall. Again, I'm angry and confused, because Squeaky doesn't usually hang out on the bed, especially with people in it (the boyfriend was asleep on the other side).
I stood for a minute in the dark, squinting at squeaky, who was staring at the wall above the bed.
I followed his gaze to the wall.
Giant. Cockroach.
The size of my face, crawling up the wall, falling back down on the pillows.
I start screaming, my boyfriend leaps out of bed and proceeds to sleepily try to kill it while I cry in the background.
I passed the rest of the night staring out of the window and flinching at the phantom bugs crawling on my body.
I'm still in shock, I think.
And, somehow, I think I'm the one to blame. Damn you, blog jinx.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
More awkward moments
I was working on my abs at Club SCAD yesterday, minding my own business in the side room.
There was one other person in the room, a guy wearing a bright yellow sleeveless shirt and tall black socks that he scrunched down as low as possible.
He was doing his routine, I was doing mine--no big deal.
As he came to the end of his workout, he walked across the room, and grabbed one of the wet sanitizing wipes out of the industrial sized container. He then wiped his blue foam mat down.
So far so normal.
Until he walks towards the trash can and blows his nose with the same wipe he just rubbed all over the mat.
Never mind the warning signs about MRSA posted all over the gym. Forget the threat of staff infection, germs, or chemicals that are now traveling into your nasal passages.
How about it's just weird?
Just. plain. weird.
There was one other person in the room, a guy wearing a bright yellow sleeveless shirt and tall black socks that he scrunched down as low as possible.
He was doing his routine, I was doing mine--no big deal.
As he came to the end of his workout, he walked across the room, and grabbed one of the wet sanitizing wipes out of the industrial sized container. He then wiped his blue foam mat down.
So far so normal.
Until he walks towards the trash can and blows his nose with the same wipe he just rubbed all over the mat.
Never mind the warning signs about MRSA posted all over the gym. Forget the threat of staff infection, germs, or chemicals that are now traveling into your nasal passages.
How about it's just weird?
Just. plain. weird.
Awkward bathroom moment
Public bathrooms are always awkward, even if you're not using urinals.
For example: I'm standing in the bathroom at Arnold Hall, washing my hands. A fellow bathroom patron walks up and begins washing her hands intently, bending over the sink in concentration.
What the? I think to myself.
I look closer and realize she has on fingerless gloves. You know, the woolly ones you wear in the winter? Yeah, those, but with the tips of the fingers cut off. The glove girl proceeds to delicately place each finger under the faucet, painstakingly avoiding splashing water on her gloves.
She places one finger, her pointer finger, under the soap dispenser, then proceeds to rub the soap on each finger. She then rinses each finger individually, pulling her hand back suddenly when she thinks she's getting too close to the water.
At this point I realize I have been washing my hands for far too long, and I leave.
I know, I know. There's only one way to express how I feel about this: ????????????????
The end.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
A post about posting
I'm officially up to date on my posting with this post!
Today is my little sister's 16th birthday, so I'll use this post to take a break from my usual angry ranting to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEGHANN!
(Did anyone notice I used nothing but exclamation points in this post?)
If you're in graduate school...
1. Don't ask if Wikipedia is a legitimate source
2. Don't offer up positive comments when the workshop had moved on to what needs work
3. Do not turn in papers with the assignment name for your title
4. Do not surf the internet on your laptop for the entire class
5. Do not make offensive, broad generalizations about people or groups of people
6. Do not eat a packet of cream cheese in class with your fingers
7. Do not start every criticism with "Maybe it's just me..." If it's just you, don't say anything.
8. Do not expect your teachers to proofread your paper for grammatical errors before they grade it
That being said, doing any of the aforementioned things does not make you a bad person, simply a surprisingly unprepared student.
2. Don't offer up positive comments when the workshop had moved on to what needs work
3. Do not turn in papers with the assignment name for your title
4. Do not surf the internet on your laptop for the entire class
5. Do not make offensive, broad generalizations about people or groups of people
6. Do not eat a packet of cream cheese in class with your fingers
7. Do not start every criticism with "Maybe it's just me..." If it's just you, don't say anything.
8. Do not expect your teachers to proofread your paper for grammatical errors before they grade it
That being said, doing any of the aforementioned things does not make you a bad person, simply a surprisingly unprepared student.
Oh mighty Rosetta Stone
I'm learning spanish from the computer program, Rosetta Stone. It's a pretty fascinating program, but I have to admit something:
I'm afraid of it.
I'm afraid of it the way elderly people are afraid of computers. It's a mix of distrust, paranoia--the feeling that it's always watching you.
Why?
The pronunciation portion of the program (check out that alliteration) can tell if you're saying vowels correctly, sounds, entire words. Mispronounce something and the computer makes a sad little noise and prompts you to try again. It's incredibly sensitive, and seems to know when I'm not paying attention, or not trying hard enough.
So I find myself acting like a little kid with a strict teacher as I sit in front of the computer. I sit up straighter, sneak glances at my cell phone only between lessons, and whisper to people over the top of my screen as if I'm talking in class.
As I type this, the Rosetta Stone logo on the bottom of the screen is watching me.
It's for class, I swear, Rosetta Stone. This not a leisure activity. What? O.K., I'll go study.
I'm afraid of it.
I'm afraid of it the way elderly people are afraid of computers. It's a mix of distrust, paranoia--the feeling that it's always watching you.
Why?
The pronunciation portion of the program (check out that alliteration) can tell if you're saying vowels correctly, sounds, entire words. Mispronounce something and the computer makes a sad little noise and prompts you to try again. It's incredibly sensitive, and seems to know when I'm not paying attention, or not trying hard enough.
So I find myself acting like a little kid with a strict teacher as I sit in front of the computer. I sit up straighter, sneak glances at my cell phone only between lessons, and whisper to people over the top of my screen as if I'm talking in class.
As I type this, the Rosetta Stone logo on the bottom of the screen is watching me.
It's for class, I swear, Rosetta Stone. This not a leisure activity. What? O.K., I'll go study.
Cats don't like water.
There are times when I try to express my thoughts truthfully. Really, I try. I don't sit inside my own head and think catty little things without expressing them all the time. Really, I don't.
So when my boyfriend decided to give my cat a bath a few days ago, I started off being nice.
Boyfriend: I think Squeaky needs a bath. It's been a while.
Me: Yeah, since we found him in a parking lot and he was too young to have teeth.
B: I think he'll like it.
Me: He was so funny when he was little. He would just sit in the sink and look so sad, wouldn't he?
B: Yeah. Come on Squeaky. Let's go in the bathroom.
This is the moment where I had two choices: tell him that, no matter what their kitten experiences were, cats are inherently afraid of water. Or, let him figure it out the hard way.
I took the middle road.
Me: You know he is going to freak out, right?
B: (dismissively) Oh we'll be fine.
He brushed me off. He gave me that I-got-this look, and so I sat back and let him figure it out.
Me: Just get ready, I'm telling you.
The two of them went in the bathroom, the water turned on, and shit started to go down. I heard things falling off shelves, water splashing everywhere and the garbled cry of a human in pain.
I jumped off the bed and opened the door.
B: CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!!
Me: Are you O.K.?
His forearm was already swollen with a gash that looked like someone had hammered a nail in his skin and dragged it about 4 inches towards his wrist.
B: (sadly now) Please just close the door.
So I did, and we said nothing else about it.
So when my boyfriend decided to give my cat a bath a few days ago, I started off being nice.
Boyfriend: I think Squeaky needs a bath. It's been a while.
Me: Yeah, since we found him in a parking lot and he was too young to have teeth.
B: I think he'll like it.
Me: He was so funny when he was little. He would just sit in the sink and look so sad, wouldn't he?
B: Yeah. Come on Squeaky. Let's go in the bathroom.
This is the moment where I had two choices: tell him that, no matter what their kitten experiences were, cats are inherently afraid of water. Or, let him figure it out the hard way.
I took the middle road.
Me: You know he is going to freak out, right?
B: (dismissively) Oh we'll be fine.
He brushed me off. He gave me that I-got-this look, and so I sat back and let him figure it out.
Me: Just get ready, I'm telling you.
The two of them went in the bathroom, the water turned on, and shit started to go down. I heard things falling off shelves, water splashing everywhere and the garbled cry of a human in pain.
I jumped off the bed and opened the door.
B: CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!!
Me: Are you O.K.?
His forearm was already swollen with a gash that looked like someone had hammered a nail in his skin and dragged it about 4 inches towards his wrist.
B: (sadly now) Please just close the door.
So I did, and we said nothing else about it.
Love of hamburgers: ruined.
I overheard a guy talking about this commercial the other day, in which Padma Lakshmi orgasmically eats a Hardee's burger.
"It's so hot dude," he said to his friend. "So fucking hot."
I didn't say anything at the time, but this commercial makes me want to vomit. You know the part where she licks the ketchup from her finger? You know, the ketchup that used to be on her ankle? I gagged the first time I saw it.
"It's supposed to be funny, Holly," my brother says. "You're supposed to laugh a it."
There is nothing funny about making me lose my appetite for hamburgers.
"It's so hot dude," he said to his friend. "So fucking hot."
I didn't say anything at the time, but this commercial makes me want to vomit. You know the part where she licks the ketchup from her finger? You know, the ketchup that used to be on her ankle? I gagged the first time I saw it.
"It's supposed to be funny, Holly," my brother says. "You're supposed to laugh a it."
There is nothing funny about making me lose my appetite for hamburgers.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Have I made my point yet?
I forgot to mention one thing: she ran from the 13 post position. That's her, all the way on the outside of the track. No one has ever won the Preakness from the 13 post position.
The only thing that could make me cry harder? The Kentucky Derby winner, Mine That Bird, ran from the back all the way to second. So close.
The only thing that could make me cry harder? The Kentucky Derby winner, Mine That Bird, ran from the back all the way to second. So close.
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All the ladies in the house say yeah-uh
In literary journalism today, we had a brief discussion, during break, about crying during movies--specifically cheesy movies (ahem MK). I listened, sympathized, but openly admitted that I don't cry during movies. It's not because I don't want to--it's just that I guess I rarely get invested enough in a movie to be moved emotionally.I do, however, sob--wait, that needs more emphasis--SOB during a much more obscure televised event.
Horse races.
I cry during the pre-show of every horse race I ever watch. I start crying because they montages they do are incredibly epic and well edited. I continue crying because our family business used to involve adopting racehorses after they couldn't run anymore. My mom, sister, and I adopted trailer loads of broken, slow, and unwanted horses from racetracks on the east coast. We taught them how to jump, how to relax, how to eat grass--and most of them were no more than 3 years old.
I know how devoted thoroughbreds are to their job. They know what they're doing, they know they want to win, and the amount of sheer talent it takes for them to make it around that racetrack is incomprehensible.
All of that being said, I cried through the whole Preakness this past Saturday. Why? The super filly, as they call her, Rachel Alexandria. Most people don't believe in racing girls against boys, but she did just that and she won.
She won without any balls, any testosterone, any male aggression. She just ran (and not even as well as she could) and became the first filly to win the Preakness in 85 years.
Yes, girl. Yes.
photo credit: Jason Szenes/European Pressphoto Agency, from http://therail.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/05/16/live-from-the-134th-preakness-stakes/?em
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Soggy fish
Four words: Long John Silver's commercials.
Imagine: you're sitting in your local Long John Silver's, about to chow down on some deep fried crispy fish when SPLOOOOSH--a huge wave crashes over you, leaving you, your hushpuppies, and your fish dripping with water.
I know fish come from the sea. And I know it's tempting to put water with seafood. But if the point of your restaurant is to have crispy fish--and you dump water on customers--don't you then have soggy fish?
Take a minute to image what soggy fried fish tastes like.
I'm just sayin'.
Imagine: you're sitting in your local Long John Silver's, about to chow down on some deep fried crispy fish when SPLOOOOSH--a huge wave crashes over you, leaving you, your hushpuppies, and your fish dripping with water.
I know fish come from the sea. And I know it's tempting to put water with seafood. But if the point of your restaurant is to have crispy fish--and you dump water on customers--don't you then have soggy fish?
Take a minute to image what soggy fried fish tastes like.
I'm just sayin'.
Monday, May 11, 2009
7 courses, 1 hour. Go.
I, lucky girl that I am, got asked to be a judge at Greenfest's Top Chef competition this weekend.
Noble Fare versus Cha Bella.
7 courses delivered at the speed of light into my inadequately sized stomach.
At the end of the event, we had to turn in score cards.
There were four categories for each course:
Score card collector guy: It's not rocket science, you know.
Me, laughing lightly: I know, I know.
S: I mean, hurry up. We're all waiting on you.
Me (glancing down the 10-person-long table): O.K., I'm just trying to do a good job.
S (slaps the already collected scorecards against his leg impatiently, whistling).
Guess what I wanted to say? This:
Listen, asshole. You're not as cute or as funny as you think you are. Your only job today, possibly your only job in life, is to gather cardboard scorecards and give them to someone who can actually do the math. That's right, I saw you looking at them, discreetly counting on your fingers, trying to find out who had the advantage. I caught you. Your lack of math skill automatically prohibits you from accusing me of being too dumb to score my seven dishes. I was doing the math on my own card so your English pea-sized brain wouldn't have to do it.
So excUSE me for taking my job seriously. And excUSE me for actually caring about who won the award. I hope the scorecards get recounted, the award gets recalled, and you get publicly shunned for being horrible at your job AND rude to guest judges.
Damn--that was harsh even for me, wasn't it?
It's been a rough couple of weeks.
Noble Fare versus Cha Bella.
7 courses delivered at the speed of light into my inadequately sized stomach.
At the end of the event, we had to turn in score cards.
There were four categories for each course:
- Taste
- Presentation
- Creativity
- "Green"ness
Score card collector guy: It's not rocket science, you know.
Me, laughing lightly: I know, I know.
S: I mean, hurry up. We're all waiting on you.
Me (glancing down the 10-person-long table): O.K., I'm just trying to do a good job.
S (slaps the already collected scorecards against his leg impatiently, whistling).
Guess what I wanted to say? This:
Listen, asshole. You're not as cute or as funny as you think you are. Your only job today, possibly your only job in life, is to gather cardboard scorecards and give them to someone who can actually do the math. That's right, I saw you looking at them, discreetly counting on your fingers, trying to find out who had the advantage. I caught you. Your lack of math skill automatically prohibits you from accusing me of being too dumb to score my seven dishes. I was doing the math on my own card so your English pea-sized brain wouldn't have to do it.
So excUSE me for taking my job seriously. And excUSE me for actually caring about who won the award. I hope the scorecards get recounted, the award gets recalled, and you get publicly shunned for being horrible at your job AND rude to guest judges.
Damn--that was harsh even for me, wasn't it?
It's been a rough couple of weeks.
Wait! There's more...
I was relaying my parking experiences to some friends the other day, half laughing, half raging about my expired tag fiasco (that you all now know about). We swapped stories back and forth, commiserating on how terrible parking people are in Savannah.
"You guys don't even know how bad the officer is around my house. I caught her, just the other day, ticketing someone because their bumper was barely over a yellow line. Barely! It's ridiculous," I said foolishly, unknowingly daring the parking gods to strike me down.
And they did.
I come out of my house this other morning. Parking ticket. Improper parking on yellow.
It was less than a bumper on the yellow. Less than a sliver. There's only 4 inches of yellow curb before it disappears, and I had to get a ticket.
$15 dollars, down the tubes.
*$^*((*&(^%^&%&$^
"You guys don't even know how bad the officer is around my house. I caught her, just the other day, ticketing someone because their bumper was barely over a yellow line. Barely! It's ridiculous," I said foolishly, unknowingly daring the parking gods to strike me down.
And they did.
I come out of my house this other morning. Parking ticket. Improper parking on yellow.
It was less than a bumper on the yellow. Less than a sliver. There's only 4 inches of yellow curb before it disappears, and I had to get a ticket.
$15 dollars, down the tubes.
*$^*((*&(^%^&%&$^
Thursday, May 7, 2009
It's ON
I woke up this morning with one thought in my mind: my tags are supposed to arrive today. I had a tight schedule, so I was planning on receiving my tags, going to parking services, trying to get the ticket voided, returning home and going to my other obligations.
First of all, the post office person didn't even KNOCK on the door. I'm sitting upstairs, folding laundry when I hear the mail slot open and close. I go flying down my (dangerous) metal stairs to see a pepto-pink Sorry We Missed You slip. "You can pick up the package after 1:00" the slip said.
So I angrily wait until 1:00, head to the Post Office. Whew. Great--license plate and registration are in my posession.
I head straight to Parking Services, park my car, go inside, show my ticket and my registration. The clerk voids the ticket and I skip happily out of the office, feeling like a responsible and productive adult for the first time all day.
I drive merrily home and just when I'm about to park, I see it: another ticket crammed under my windshield wiper. I jump out in insta-rage. Ticket says: Expired tag. 50 dollars. I squeal tires in my angry U-turn back to Parking Services.
They void it, again, and I storm out of the office, my day throughly dampened.
Officer Pinkney--I blame you for everything.
First of all, the post office person didn't even KNOCK on the door. I'm sitting upstairs, folding laundry when I hear the mail slot open and close. I go flying down my (dangerous) metal stairs to see a pepto-pink Sorry We Missed You slip. "You can pick up the package after 1:00" the slip said.
So I angrily wait until 1:00, head to the Post Office. Whew. Great--license plate and registration are in my posession.
I head straight to Parking Services, park my car, go inside, show my ticket and my registration. The clerk voids the ticket and I skip happily out of the office, feeling like a responsible and productive adult for the first time all day.
I drive merrily home and just when I'm about to park, I see it: another ticket crammed under my windshield wiper. I jump out in insta-rage. Ticket says: Expired tag. 50 dollars. I squeal tires in my angry U-turn back to Parking Services.
They void it, again, and I storm out of the office, my day throughly dampened.
Officer Pinkney--I blame you for everything.
Parking Officer Pinkney
My Dad keeps forgetting to give me my new license plate and registration. He forgot 2 weeks in a row, after which he passed on the duty to my mother, who proceeded to forget this past weekend.
So my Dad sent the license plate in the mail today, express, to get here tomorrow at 11 a.m.
Today is also the day that Officer Pinkney, the plague of my life, gave me a 50 dollar ticket for an expired tag.
She let the expired tag slide for a whole week, drove by it multiple times a day, but nooooo, she couldn't wait 6 freaking hours today, of all days, for my tags to get here.
I'm watching you, Officer Pinkney.
So my Dad sent the license plate in the mail today, express, to get here tomorrow at 11 a.m.
Today is also the day that Officer Pinkney, the plague of my life, gave me a 50 dollar ticket for an expired tag.
She let the expired tag slide for a whole week, drove by it multiple times a day, but nooooo, she couldn't wait 6 freaking hours today, of all days, for my tags to get here.
I'm watching you, Officer Pinkney.
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