"One For The Kids"

I've known my mother for twenty years, and before that, I spent eight months in the womb listening to her heartbeat and making her throw up whenever she walked into the mall; this has made me very, very familiar with her tricks and her manners. So it tickled me to no end when I walked into the kitchen the other day, thinking about taking a nap, when she told me that the schedule I was planning for my evening wouldn't work, as we were having dinner in five minutes, and then the home teachers were coming over, and then I needed to vacuum. I looked at her, the little cogs in my brain working, and informed her that she and I both knew dinner would not be ready in five minutes, that she was exaggerating as usual, and my vacuuming job wouldn't take more than ten. And I was right. Then later that night, I walked into the empty living room to use the computer. My sixth sense tingled again, and I KNEW my mother had just used the computer, even though I had been folding shirts upstairs in my room and would have no way of knowing that. It just seemed like the time of day she would have chosen to be on the computer... and as I flicked the mouse, her desktop background materialized, and I knew I'd been right again.

Knowing my family as well as I do, though, will never prepare me for the events that occured at dinner the other night. We were sitting down, having a nice meal, and my father remarked that he had accidentally left Nascar on on the television. I figured this was some kind of slang, or perhaps a setting on the surround sound I didn't know about, so I asked. He looked at me, and said, "Nascar. You know, cars racing?" Excuse me, what? You don't watch Nascar. You fiddle with computer code and slice golf swings and buy electronic equipment by the truckload when Mom's not looking. You do not do things like watch Nascar. You're my FATHER. I misheard. Yes, somehow, a neuron misfired in my brain, and I misheard what you said.

But I didn't mishear. And when I ventured toward the television later, cars were still zipping around in all their high definition glory. I don't know how to even begin to handle this.

I thought that was all, until this evening. I was at Kohl's with my mother and grandmother, and at the checkout they have a pile of books that no one in their right mind would ever buy. Just the other day I'd been in there visiting Kristin, saw a book of 1,000 uses for duct tape, or something hideous like that (I'm not making the duct tape part up, it's the number I'm unsure of), and wondered out loud what kind of person would find such a thing amusing enough to purchase.

Well, I received my answer tonight. My mother spotted the duct tape book, thumbed through it, and started LAUGHING. Laughing at the hilarity of it all! I hope I'm not a carrier of whatever gene causes that, because I can tell you right now, I will not be passing it on to a future generation.

"Out With The Old, And In Comes The New"

I was going to help a friend make cookies last night, but we were both incredibly tired (if you spoke to me post-11, I apologize; chances are the conversation was tortuous and confusing, but fatigue does that to me), so we decided against it. Those plans left me with a craving for homemade cookies today, so (after my luxurious afternoon nap... mmmm) I got out my favorite chocolate chip recipe and got to work. It's not incredibly difficult, but still, I put effort into the project, and I haven't really baked in a while. I was rather proud of the result, and admired it by devouring two.

Then The Parents arrived home from their adventures up in Golf-Land, and asked me to open a package that had arrived today from who knows where. I did, and discovered a tin full of chocolate chip cookies. What the heck? A. We do not need that many cookies in one household. B. My cookies had better be eaten first, or I will be Very Upset.

All that, of course, became a minor distraction when Mom started telling the story of how my father is a brutal murderer. And I'm not even joking on this one, he was going to take a shovel to a baby bird that he had de-nested in the process of cleaning out my grandmother's forsythia. If there's one thing I cannot handle, it is animals, especially baby animals, being killed. I know some of you like to hit birds with your car and get them lodged behind the front license plate, but I am just not that kind of person. Roadkill doesn't sicken me, it saddens me. I guess maybe I anthropomorphize too much.

And I wasn't trying to show off by using a big word just then; I use it a lot, so you've probably heard it if you talk to me with any kind of regularity. I just wanted to make that clear.

"Oh, The Summertime"

Do you know what's tragic? Walking outside at 5 p.m. after working all day, stepping into the dwindling sunshine, and realizing that you missed basically the most GORGEOUS, PERFECT DAY EVER. Sheesh. But do you know what makes up for that? Stepping outside your house at 10 p.m. with your friend and realizing it's basically the most balmy, beautiful, clear night ever. Sigh. And then sitting in the car with the windows down and the music on, trying to negotiate free pizza from a friend who works at a pizza place. That was kinda my day yesterday.

I promise, that was it.

Okay, but I might be misleading you.

It's possible that I also, while waiting for friends to finish eating at McDonald's, stuck my nose in one of those plastic containers of ketchup and then walked deliberately to the restroom so people eating elsewhere in the establishment would see my be-ketchuped nose. That's possible, right?

Man, ketchup looks hot on me.

"Right Now Is All That Matters, All The Nights We Stayed Up Talking"

You know those days where the excitement is so tangible you could cut it with a knife? Well, I'm (quite literally) bouncing up and down on my very nice (hint hint, Mom and Dad), non-squeaky (HINT HINT), rolly (HINT HIN -- oh wait, the one at home rolls, nevermind) office chair.

Why such excitement, you ask. Oh, nothing, really, just PARTY AT JEN'S HOUSE TONIGHT. No, you're not invited. Well, unless you happen to be Jen or Meg, and then you're certainly invited; in fact, if you're Jen or Meg and DON'T come, I shall curl up in a ball and cry bitter tears. Other than that, go away. We have Very Important things we need to discuss. It's been killing me talking to these girls of late, because it's always a "I'll tell you when we do the party" thing, and people, I NEED TO KNOW. Curiosity! So as soon as I get off tonight, I'm jetting up to Middletown along the roads that are windey and terribly familiar, past the corn field that would be the perfect spot for glowing red eyes to appear at night, up a driveway, and tearing out of my car with my voice shouting the names of the people that I love who have been absent from me for long, long, too long.

I miss the laughter, the easiness, the inside jokes, the giddiness of it all. I miss getting mixed up by Teo (granted, we are about the same age, blonde, same build, just different heights and eye colors, and when we all have the same haircut, I can see it being a tad difficult; but every time?). I miss winking at Meg across a room when I'd spot a hot boy. I miss Baltimore every Saturday, playing Egyptian Ratscrew, and ordering orange chicken. I miss Phyllis' crazy (and wonderful) ideas, being banned from Fruitopia, and sprinting across university campuses in 100 degree heat. There's a lot of history behind us, and a lot of laughter yet to come. It's nice just to be gotten.

"I Dreamed I Went To Singapore, Got Bored, And Robbed A Liquor Store"

My life has taken on a predictable spin, for which I am saddened. I love having a pattern, but when the pattern stuffs me into the box labeled "boring," then I start having issues with said pattern. ("Stupid pattern," I say, sullenly and bitterly. "Come out here so I can kick you in your face. And stick ballpoint pens in you." You don't want to get on my bad side; the six-year-old mentality is brutal at times.)

My typical day goes as follows: I get up, stumble into some clothes (Usually--I'm planning to boycott pants to protest The Law; ask me for details about said boycott and the story behind it later.), go to work, come home, eat dinner, do whatever it is The Parents would like, go to the gym, come home and shower, go out with one of my friends, come back, get online, and crash. That's it; that's my life. There is no room for adventure or intrigue in it, and the lack of potentiality is killing me. The only excitement I get is when I think for a few seconds that Art has managed to break the internet (again, and for reals this time). Then I realize he's been misleading me with his wiliness and his vowelage (vowelage, n. -- the overuse of vowels in a word to convey underhandedness or suspicion, such as in "maaaaaaaaybe" or "riiiiiiight").

I wish I had some thrilling story to relate to you. I wish some breathtaking something had happened to me, and I could carefully craft it in words for you here. I'm not above getting married just to break the monotony, so look for that in the near future, but for now, all I have are plans. Planning, I might mention, is my forte: Be afraid. That said, plans are all about the future, and the future is not now, and the future not being now, and the plans not being now, now is very, very boring and dull.

Ooh! Ooh! Someone came in to check how I was doing! Human contact!! Sweet merciful cabbages, what have they done to me. Did you see that excitement, that overuse of punctuation? I was really that excited. Yes, I really have become this lame. Okay, ya know what? This weekend = me + trenchcoat + hat + (fake glasses + nose + moustache). A good disguise makes everything better. If you wanna come along, just give me a shout.

"Save My Pennies For A Rainy Day"

There's nothing like driving over rain-slick roads in the early afternoon to cheer a so-so day. What would've made it even better was if the CD the car had swallowed two days ago had actually popped out of the CD player when I hit it, but no dice. Last weekend, I learned that you hit something, then you unscrew it -- the two steps to fixing any problem. As soon as I get home, I'm snagging a screwdriver. Maybe even two screwdrivers. I can see it now, The Parents coming outside, and their stupid car is in pieces around me; it would be a surreal moment, I'm sure.

Speaking of surreal moments, I was cruising through the corporate district of Frederick today at lunchtime, and there was no traffic. A few cars out and about, sure, and I'm certain it would've qualified as "traffic" to some of my more countrified friends, but for Frederick at noon, it was like The Rapture had happened and the remnants were left behind in a Godless world to scuttle around for what we could. I'm a little glad such turned out not to be the case, because I would've been sad to have been left behind. Though upon more reflection, I haven't actually talked to anyone since then whom I'm positive would be caught up to meet God, so maybe my musings were correct after all. Though upon still more reflection, I don't believe in The Rapture anyway, so why am I wasting my time with this?

In conclusion, rainy Fridays are great, but not as great as sunny Saturday afternoons with nothing to do but be lazy.

"I Don't Want Your Boring Life, And I Don't Want Your 9 To 5"

I started a summer job today, and let me tell you, it's a real thrill and a half. It pays well, and the people view me as some sort of Messianic figure descended from the vaulty towers of heaven itself for the work I'm doing, but not all the flower petals in the world strewn about my feet can relieve the absolute monotony and isolation of it all.

The good news is, I was promoted to an office an hour into my first day simply because I am amazingly wonderful; or perhaps because I need an internet connection, and the one in the corner of a cubicle they had me in was MIA (how you lose an internet hookup is beyond me, but it seemed to make sense to them); whatever the case, I'm sitting at a large cherry desk in my very own office with my heels strewn mercifully below me on the ground, and I have a stunning window view of, well, of an interior white wall, but still. I HAVE A WINDOW. And it's MINE, ALL MINE, YOU FOOLS.

Where there's good news, you know there's also bad news, or else I wouldn't have bothered with the modifier "good," I would've just labeled it "news," not knowing which sort of news it could possibly be. I mean, let's say one of my "news items" was that the giant shark in the fish tank behind me had burst through the glass and eaten my legs, and now I was legless and sopping wet with salinated fish water. Then the "bad news" I'm about to relate would actually be "good news" in comparison to my run-in with aquatic carnivores. Having no legs trumps most pieces of news in scales of badness, including illness, homework overloads, tax filing complications, and bad dates. [Does Jason try to woo you with the wilted stench blossoms he stole from your neighbor's yard, has he not changed his Spiderman t-shirt in three weeks, and is there a warrant out for his arrest? It could be worse -- you could have no legs!!] But I digress.

The bad news is, I have no legs. No, no, wait, let me start over. The bad news is, the door to my office is open along with the blinds on my window, so anyone walking by can peer right in, and they do this frequently. For a while, I wrote it off as normal office proceedings. I work in a busy place, which is a good sign, as all the industrious milling and scurrying about means a nice, fat paycheck for me at the end of the week. What I cannot write off is an overheard "Ahh, Breeegham Young, verrr nice. She a nice girrr. I gonna see how she doeeng." (They have accents, it's not just me trying to spice things up.) What also creeps me out is when someone walks by and stares in at me. Um, hi. I'm going to do my work and try not to think about your highly-skilled, MIT-educated, ultra-huge-and-extensive brain producing thoughts of putting something in my cocoa to cause my femurs to melt. This has happened to me five times so far (the staring, not the laced cocoa). It's started to wear on my nerves, to the extent that I now probably appear visibly chafed, which is fairly not cool as I'm already under powerful office flourescent lighting which does nothing for my pallor nor general complexion besides make me look inhuman and ugly. Ah, that must be it. I don't blame the little savages for staring; I'd stare too.

In alternate news, I'm getting sick of New England. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it's a very nice place, especially on tart autumn evenings while wearing a wool sweater and cuddling up to the spicy embers of a fire with the family and Jackie, the golden retriever puppy, and maybe it's nice if you like history and Bostonians and such, but really. Why must there be so many universities and research labs located there? It probably doesn't help much that New York and Ohio are both counted as New England states (which hurts me as much as it hurts you, or possibly more, if you were previously unaware that New York is a Mid-Atlantic state and Ohio is a Midwestern one, and so both very, very not New England states) due to severe vagrancies in the Territory database I am using; but it's not all bad, as I'm looking forward to getting down to Duke University on my list and checking "Mid-Atlantic" instead of "Southern." The South's not going to rise again so much as it's going to be sucked into the general province of Delaware. Haha, suckers. Please don't hurt me.

"I Must Be Dreaming"

Supposedly it's impossible to view numbers (for instance, a digital clock) when you are dreaming. Supposedly.

I always took comfort in that fact, actually, because I had a trick up my sleeve to know if I was sleeping or not. The number of times I have gotten that confused makes it very useful indeed.

Except... except a few nights ago, I was sick, and I got in bed late-ish, and I set my alarm clock for 8:40. I woke up the next morning, picked up my clock to look at it, and it said 10:35, and I panicked. I had a lot of things to do that day, and I was way behind... until I fell asleep again. I woke back up a while later, looked at the clock again, and it said 8:40. I checked my cell phone, and it read 8:40 as well. The clock on my wall offered another confirmation of the time. Turns out I had only dreamed the wrong time.

But wait a second... only?? Not only. I, my friends, have done the impossible. I have been dreaming, and I have seen numbers display themselves correctly on a digital clock. I always knew numbers would get me in the end, and who can tell if I'm even awake as I write this. I will never know anymore. Pity me.

"The Black Widow Drains The Blood Of Butterflies"

There is a corner of my room I don't go near. Geographically, it is located the farthest from my head when I sleep; it feels foreign to me. I won't even dust there, though dust is my mortal enemy, because it is dark and quiet and undisturbed, and a perfect spot for spiders. I know they're there, skittering their macabre ballets in the dust. Don't think I'm overly paranoid and imagining things; one showed its spindly legs just the other day, lurking on the wall until the cover of darkness hid its shape. I sat there looking at it for a time, delighted that I didn't panic, feeling the breath whisper in and out of my lungs quite steadily and normally. Once I realized what I was doing, I left the spider to its own devices and quit my room, certain that where one is, more will come.

Arachnophobia will kill me... curses on you, JJ.

"Lost And Gone Forever"

I'm sitting on Art's couch right now typing this -- it's a lot nicer than my couch back home. So nice, in fact, that I've decided just not to leave. And that's actually quite probable, because I could fall into the cushions at any second and be lost forever.

Someone's going to need to check my e-mail for me.

"I Will Buy You A New Car"

Me: I've never done this before
Art: What's that?
Me: Gotten a part for a car
Art: Ah
Me: And dressed slutty to get a discount

Rachael encouraged me to wear a low-cut top and lean over the counter for our trip to the salvage place. Our purpose was to find an interior panel for a Mazda Miata. I didn't actually end up with the low-cut top, but I DID stay in the outfit I had been wearing for an interview earlier today, so I was wearing a pair of (amazing) heels while trudging about shattered car remains.

Rachael and I pulled up, invented a parking space, and walked in hesitantly. I told the nice man what I (Art) wanted, and he told one of his lackeys to take us up to the Miata they had to look for the part. So Rachael and I walked out with a grubby, skinny, wife-beater-clad young man to his ancient truck, Rachael told me I got to "make a friend," and we climbed in the truck, with me sitting next to the nice young man.

We checked out the Miata, called Art, something wasn't right, he called me back, I called him back, and there was a large hole where there shouldn't have been. The nice young man needed to get back, so I got to "make a friend" again, and we got back to the shop, where the guy at the counter who was fully-clad (I really do think there is some correlation between amount of clothing and intelligence) informed us he had recently sold the exact part I (Art) needed, so I called Art again and tried three times to tell him what was going on, but the phone cut out right as I was getting to the crucial part those three times. I sent Rachael out to discuss while the fully-clad man and I bantered. He noticed Rachael's shoes, which were black platform sandals, and mentioned he'd like to have a pair. I promptly offered Rachael's shoes in exchange for the part we wanted, but he said he'd rather have them in neon green. I actually know a woman who has those shoes... eww. After the banter, I was called outside, Art finally made up his mind, and then changed it again. He did that a lot today. He then decided he wanted the, for lack of a better word, thing that is black plastic that goes over the gauges. Some wife-beatered young men were dispatched to get it, Art called back wanting an ashtray, the man behind the counter laughed and radioed it up, and general merriment prevailed. Until the young men radioed us back and told us those same parts likewise had been sold. I didn't feel like asking them for the travel package of Kleenex sitting under the driver's seat, so Rachael and I left, discouraged, and told Art the unhappy news.

On our way back, Rachael saw a car pulled onto the shoulder and asked if it were a Miata. It wasn't, but if it had been, our plan was to hit it from behind, grab the parts we needed, and split; or even better, to fold down the seats in the Suburban, grab the Miata (it only weighs 7 pounds), put it in back, and let Art have what he wanted out of it. But it wasn't a Miata, so the plans were foiled. Dang.

"Living In An Amish Paradise"

I'm pretty sure there were Amish people out on a boat last night, and it wasn't one of those rowboat dealies either.

It would be fun to be Amish, I think. For maybe a day. Then I'd want a hot shower and some internet cuddle time, and I'd go on my Rumspringa and never return.

P.S. A weekend update is coming, I just have to edit it so it's not too long to be readable.

I've been busy. So sue me. Eventually I'll write something important in my blog, but I'm waiting until, a. I can think of something funny or interesting to say, and b. I get more than a couple hours of sleep a night. Not that I'm begrudging my sleeplessness; I'm quite enjoying it, in fact. I'm just thinking of you guys, not wanting to assult your minds with drivel. But you can leave fun comments.

"Wanda Looked All Around This Town, And All She Found Was Earl"

Another conglomerate post. If I were a rock, I would be... some kinda sedimentary thing. Scratch that analogy, I hated geology. If I were an ice cream flavor, I'd be rocky road. So, we have our chocolate base, which is this blog, and now it's time to throw in the marshmallow pieces (I demand pieces in my rocky road, none of this swirl nonsense) and the almond bits. Ready?

.Turns our Michael Arts, my future History of Philosophy professor, is the worst professor in the history of the universe, and I will fail and go to hell if I take his class, unless I were God Himself, and even that is questionable, as God would fall asleep during the lectures and be marked off. Good to know, right? Except the only other open section is during my English 452: Literary Theory class, which is the only section offered, and it is scheduled for the F Smith building, and the class size is nice and small, and I will not give it up. My choice is either to postpone an essential GE- and minor-required class EVEN MORE, or to take it with a boring, older version of Lucifer himself. Fantastic.

.I say this with the utmost sincerity and concern, which you will witness with my use of caps: DUMP THE BOY, NOW NOW NOW, BEFORE THINGS GET WORSE AND YOU REGRET EVEN MORE!!! If this were a movie, I'd be throwing popcorn at the screen. Actually, if this were a movie, it would be starring Freddie Prinze, Jr. and that one girl with the ugly shoes, and we'd be watching it together. I want the bad movies to stay on the screen, where they're mostly harmless, and we can laugh about them together. You are NOT in Movie Land, and you won't be going to Movie Land, so please... I'm begging you. Don't make Kristin and me commit acts of violence and do jail time. We're afraid of jail.

.From Ben:

"East Coast chicks... delicious."

.From Art:

"It is done."

I think the summer has begun, now. (Note: period inside quotation marks. As Americans, that's how we do things.)

.As annoyed as I can get when fighting to keep cat hair off of my possessions, and keeping my J Crew pants scratch-free, sometimes it's really nice to have a warm, soft, purring body curl up next to you in the middle of the night. And I like how the cat knows when I'm upset and becomes protective.

.Some things you can only do with certain friends. Evading the police is one of those things. Bra shopping is another, even more separate, category. I'm just glad the two groups don't consist of the same people, or we'd have problems. I'm also glad at least one of my friends likewise refuses to touch the underwear in the 99¢ bin, 'cause, well, ew.

.Throwing stuff away feels so good. I really like bringing a bunch of trash bags up to my room and filling them with the random junk I don't need or want and tossing it. I've filled three so far, and my room is starting to finally feel like home.

"I Don't Wanna Hafta Pay For This"

I had thoughts I'd wanted to write down. Instead, I'll be bottling it all up and filing today under Terrible Days That Would Have Been Better Spent Unconcious, except if I had spent the day unconscious, I would've felt lazy and unproductive on top of everything else, which feeling would be absolutely super.

If you need me, I'll be trying to find somewhere that's actually comfortable. Then I'll probably fall asleep and ruin that, but I get points for trying.

"It's Like I'm Paranoid Lookin' Over My Back"

Confession time revisited? Yeah, let's do this. Today's topic is celebrity fears and quirky imaginations.

I will confess right here and right now that 50 Cent frightens me. Badly. To the point that I can imagine him coming to kill me. I don't really know why this is, but look at the guy... and I can just see him getting annoyed with something I do, like not buying his CDs or being afraid of him or correcting his grammar, and just killing me with one bare hand.

What gives me hope lies in the fact that I also have an unnatural fear of Avril Lavigne. I know it doesn't make sense now, but wait for it. Okay, so you know how Avril has this really tough image and she talks about beating people up? Yeah, she'd totally catch me off guard in some dark Canadian alleyway (don't ask me what I'm doing in Canada; frankly, I don't know) and work me over. Exceeeeept... she'd be coming to kick me, and would find 50 Cent on the way to my house to enact a scene of mass carnage, and they'd get into a tussle, kill each other, and free me to go about having other irrational fears about celebrities. Perfect, no? I certainly think so.

But that's not all. No, I want to talk about Jay-Z next. I don't believe he would actually shoot someone. I really, truly cannot picture it at all. I mean, look at that face! Aww, he's so cute. So not a killer. Sorry, Jay-Z, you're gonna hafta work harder to impress me. And I KNOW you read this blog. Call me sometime, k?

Right. Is there anyone else I can talk about? Prolly not, so let me close with a little reminscent bit. [Reminiscent Bit] I was thiiiis close to going to Denny's tonight and writing "gummy worms" on the menu. Yeah, it's been a year. I wonder if it's raining in Baltimore right now. [/Reminiscent Bit]

I need help.