So far away....

So, I am moving.

To a big city that is not the small town that I have lived in practically my entire life.

I am scared shit-less.

I have chosen to move immediately after I finish classes. This was probably one of my more ridiculous ideas. I do get to paint my apartment though. Paint is good.

Icky "what if's" creep into my head and I can't stop worrying that I'll end up scared and alone in a big city all by my lonesome. You know, ALONE. Am I conveying my codependency to you? AM I??? ALONE. ALL ALONE.

I have to keep reminding myself that the proverbial move to the big city after college is practically a mandatory experience for young career women.

Mary Tyler Moore did it.

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

I am alive. It's been a long time. I fully recognize that in the world of blogs, "absent" equals "bad" and I really could have written, really should have written, really wish that I had written, but until today I simply didn't have the strength.

I'm Back. Again. And hopefully not for the last time.

Thanksgiving was yesterday. I would be lying my pants off if I claimed that I did not have more to be thankful for than any human being rightly deserves. I thought I would mark my entrance back into the blogosphere with a list of the things that I am the most thankful for. In no particular order,

Reasons The Blond Recluse Has to Be Thankful:
1. She graduates from college in December.
2.Her entire family is healthy and happy.
3. A very good looking, smart, funny, loving boy is watching football in her living room.
4. The boy in the living room loves her.
5. Her dog.
6. Her blog.
7. Her new camera.
8. Wine.
9. She quit smoking.

Short but sweet. There are literally thousands more reasons for me to be thankful, but I must trot off to the wine emporium to purchase tonight's beverage of choice. It's good to be back.

Do your eyes hurt? Because they're killing me.

Y'all. I have a cyst on my EYEBALL. Well, sort of. I don't really know if it's classified as a "cyst" per say, but it is a clear, fluid filled, something icky resting on my poor right eye. I am a little freaked out about this. Said freaked-ness can be illustrated in following conversation that I had with my dad, the lung doctor. Disclaimer: I may have the slightest flair for the dramatic.

Me: I HAVE A TUMOR ON MY EYEBALL.

Dad: Riiiiiiight. Like the pulmonary embolism you had in July that turned out to be heartburn?

Me: NO. This time it's serious. I don't want to freak you out or anything, BUT MY EYE IS EXPLODING.

Dad: Pulmonary embolisms aren't exactly fodder for comic relief.

Me: No. My eye is STINGING. AND with the lumpy ness and the clear ball that is on my EYE.

Dad: Right. Well, come on up to the office and we'll have a look. But hey, run to Starbucks and get me one of those latte things first.

Me: Sigh.

So, I went. And he looked. And he asked me if I'd quit wearing the three hundred dollar sunglasses he and my mother had given me for Christmas because it appears that my eyes??? Have been damaged by the sun!!!!!! EEEEK! So, the eye doctor was called all "beep beep stat." But he was in surgery. So I'm back home, waiting to hear what exactly is the matter with my eyeball. Trying not to freak out........a lot.

"I like you. Now watch this die"

So. I'm dating someone New. And this has been Fun.

Also, stressful.

Mainly because things over here have been pretty busy.

OK, that isn't entirely true.

But yes with the funness and dating and also, he brings me flowers. I am sort of torn on this issue. It is so depressing to watch a symbol of some one's feelings for you turn brown and start to smell, but they're gorgeous while they last and it's such a nice gesture.

Moving on, it's been Shark Week on the Discovery Channel and I've had exams which has resulted in a conflict of interest of sorts. Forgo my love of shark facts and ace my exams OR slide by with minimal studying and spend the week with my ass fused to the sofa, eating diet pizza and soaking in as much shark related material as is humanly possible.

I'll let you guess which one I picked.

Lets just hope I don't fail out of school.

old greg

Hello

Its finals week for summer term. In my attempt to procrastinate as much as possible I'm catching up on....well...anything that doesn't involve statistics or paleolithic cave drawings. Blogging falls into that category. So, in one of my last entrys I entertained the idea of a photo essay situation....that was before my camera was unceremoniously thrown down a sewer by my brother. Who should sleep with one eye open for a while.

The Long and Winding Road

SO, I’m writing this on my way to this thing I have to do that required me to
a) wake up at 4:00 this morning and
b) ride in the car with my mother for twelve hours.

I am not a happy camper right now.

Also, Montgomery Alabama smells like feet . It is incredibly nauseating. We are currently stuck in traffic and listening to quite possibly the worst radio station in the history of the world. I know this because they have played a stream of music so offensive to the ears that even my mother commented “dear goodness where did these people acquire their taste” which is really saying something. My mothers music taste includes KAREN CARPENTER people. Echk.

Anyway, so yes with the traveling and the boredom and the traffic. Also, today is the first day it’s been sunny in like, a week. I really really wanted to get some sun but as I am trapped in this sardine tin on wheels, it looks like I’ll be purchasing my makeup in the shade “near death” for a while now.

In case you haven’t noticed, today it’s all about angst. Lots and lots of angst. Also: the smell of feet. Which, no lie, may make me retch. Other fun trinkets include, a trip to the IMAX to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix…..which in theory sounds marvelous but in actuality was a neck breaking, nausea inducing window into hell. I will explain this sentence more effectively in a list of greivances that start now.
1. The dome is way to close to your face. If you have ever been to an IMAX, you know what I’m talking about. It feels like you could be having a really great viewing experience if only you were twenty feet away from the screen, it’s the adult equivalent of sitting RIGHTINFRONT of the tv, the manner of an eight year old except this time you get a headache.
2.YOU MAY NOT LEAVE THE THEATRE FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER WE DO NOT CARE IF YOU ARE MID-ANEURYSM, WE ARE SORRY. This includes bathroom trips. This makes eighty ounces of diet coke and a freakin’ Harry Potter epic a BAD COMBINATION, PEOPLE.
3. One ticket is ten dollars. TEN DOLLARS.
4. Because of previously discussed proximity to the screen, your eyes can only focus on a tiny portion of it, preventing the ultimate movie viewing experience.
5. You’re eyes will bleed from being stretched so widely.
6. BLEED!
Oh well. So, the NEW book is coming out FRIDAY and I'm not going to lie, I am really excited. I would post all of my theories about the plot but I think that might be taking things a little too far. Right now I'm just refusing to expose myself to ANY news outlets that might think it was oh, I dunno, FUN to tell people spoilers that they have waited LIKE TEN YEARS to know.

Aside from loathing this car trip and being really inappropriately excited about a children’s book, not much is going on. I'm thinking a picture blog might be fun for a while....I'll take some shots today and we'll see what happens.

Hiatus, Interrupted.

To an outsider, it would appear that I am a person who accomplishes things in a one-step-ahead fashion. To the trained eye, it is evident that I am a person with a running list of priorities that are shifted in the manner of rapid machine gun fire. One thing always outranks another, and lately my little adventures in blogging have been shuffled to the back burner.

Since my last post I have...
Completed a semesters worth of Theater Appreciation (I made an A, whoo hoo).
Been on four semi-intoxicated, highly-successful dates with someone who is neither an axe murderer nor a drain on society.
Broken three cell phones.
Purchased four cell phones.
Figured out how to change a tire.
Attended a baby shower, three birthday parties and several wedding themed events.
Started exercising.
Figured out how to jump start my car, with no help from a man.

and a bunch of other things I can't think of right now....

Nevertheless, I am back. In my usual non-full, probably-more-like-weak force.

Exciting, right?

I thought so.

So, not much new worth going into. It's blazing hot outside and I've taken to wearing those awful jersey material, garbage bag look-a-like dresses that are about the only things that don't make me feel like I'm going to burst into flames the moment I stride onto the frying pan that is my front porch from the ice chest that is my house. A la this. Also, Lilly Pulitzer. Lots of Lilly Pulitzer. My friends hate it....in fact I believe an exact phrase uttered by Macy was "dear GOODNESS, you're blinding me with your floral abomination. WE ARE NOT IN STEPFORD."

Screw Macy.

But seriously, is it heinous? I need some outside input.

At the risk of turning this into a shopping blog, I'm going to stop now. Rest assured, there is an entry in the works involving a box of wine and a box of throwing stars which should entertain EVERYONE.

xx,
me

Orlando Bloom is beautiful and that's really all I have to say.

SO, it has been a little while.

Mainly because every time I started to update I shut my self out of my own blog with the depressing diatribe that was my birthday post. Y'all, I needed a bottle of scotch and an industrial sized Prozac.

What's ever sadder is that I actually had a quite nice birthday...complete with flaming shots and dancing on tables and spending ungodly amounts of money on hamburgers at 4 a.m. that no one ate. Also, I had a pretty blue party dress that made me look extra special and shiny. Then I had work....what with the slinging of the coffee and the selling of books.....and summer school....with the taking of notes and the urge to stab myself with my pencil to make sure I can still feel pain....and well, that's about it. Aside from my new obsession with Orlando Bloom (ya'll....he is smokin' hot with a bandanna tied around his dark curly hair at the end of Pirates... but I won't get into that, or the life sized cutout I've taken to carry around with me wherever I go....ha....ummm, just kidding-----or am I??)not much is going on.

I didn't turn 22 and automatically gain a sense of perspective or direction or anything that surpassed the feeling one gets from swirling around in a giant teacup and a desire to make out with someone. That sickly "I hope I don't fail at life" feeling is still lurking in the pit of my stomach and every time I'm at a cocktail party for an friend who happens to be graduating from law school or getting married or being knighted by fricken Queen Elizabeth I hear the words, "what are your plans" and want to shove my head in the blender and add a special red tint to every one's margaritas, instead I end up downing another glass of Chardonnay and staying away from anyone who has ever uttered the words "five year plan." But things are OK....and I should learn to be content with that.

Happy Birthday.,

I will turn twenty-two in exactly two hours and fifteen minutes.

I haven't stopped crying since around eight.

The fact that I can even type this out with any remote efficiency is, quite frankly, magnificent, and something that deserves commendation.....a word that is oddly similar to condemnation.

I'm engaging in a sort of stream-of-consciousness typing that is ridiculously difficult to express and even more ridiculous to read. I have an undying urge to insert an "anyway" that leads off into a paragraph of seemingly coherent, informative garble that gives cause to the writing of this post in the first place but I know that that would be the equivalent of using a piece of gum to patch a whole in the Hoover Dam.

All I can think of is...

" my mother was 22 when she was engaged..."

" my father was 22 when he was accepted into medical school....and asked my mother to marry him"

"when my favorite aunt was 22, she was living in New York....by herself....chasing her dreams"

"my grandparents considered themselves middle aged at 22"

"the probability of me sucking at life is increasing on an hourly basis"

"I AM 22, FINANCIALLY AND EMOTIONALLY DEPENDANT ON MY PARENTS AND COMPLETELY VOID OF ANY REDEEMING QUALITIES THAT COULD POSSIBLY LAND ME:

A) a place at a decent grad school (Med, Law, Underwater Basket Weaving, ETC.)
B) a boyfriend
C) a job that pays more than $5.50 an hour.

bring me vodka.

NOW.

Wine and Worry

Finals are over and I have a few days before I go back to slinging coffee for minimum wage.

I really hate my summer job.

I work at a book store/ coffee shop where I spend most of my time making cappuccinos for people who order lattes and switching out the decaf with the regular. I know it seems petty but if you worked there for ONE DAY you would totally understand. So, yea...aside from the morning rush for coffee and the lunch rush for sandwiches I get to read whatever I like, it's really not that bad of a situation. Anyway, so today I cleared all of the weeds out of my flower beds and then decided that it would be ok if I opened the wine at 2:30. I don't know what's gotten into me but lately I have really loved having a glass or three of wine in the middle of the day lately.....then cooking dinner and going to sleep.

Oh God, I am an eighty year old woman trapped in the body of a twenty one (soon to be twenty two) year old. Pass the polygrip.

Other than dreading the start of my summer job, nothing exciting has been happening, just wanted to update to say that I'm thinking of switching from pinot noir to syrah.......

I gave the dog a bath, he smells a lot better.

I got sick of the black background, it was kind of depressing.

SO, today was my final in Ethics. The thing about the last day you'll be in a class is that people who haven't talked the ENTIRE semester will engage you in conversation.

I guess they figure they'll never see you again so what the hell, right? Anyway, the same guy has sat right next to me for the entire semester and has never said ONE word. No "hey" or "can I borrow a pen" or anything. So today, I walk into class and sit down and skim my notes for the final and the silent guy starts talking to me!

It was insanity, I didn't know that he COULD talk.

It was a pretty normal conversation, but looking back I think he was asking me on a date. Ya'll. I am SO BAD at picking up on stuff like that. He probably thought I was being mean, really I was just being an idiot. You tell me....

Silent Guy (heretofore known as SG): You ready for the test?

Me: I'm probably not as prepared as I should be, are you?

SG: Yea, I feel pretty good about it. I'm sure you'll do fine, you take really good notes.

*****editors note : apparently he has been observing my note taking...it is a little obsessive....lots of color coding and extremely thorough.

Me: Oh, um...yea I guess.

SG: So, have you got more finals?

Me: Yea, one tomorrow, I'm going to try to spend the rest of today at the library (*editors note: It's 2:15 and I'm already on my second glass of wine. See how well THAT plan went)

SG: Oh, well, me too, I finish tomorrow too. What are you doing this weekend?

Me: I don't know,....I might go to the river.....I haven't decided yet.

SG: Oh, well I have tickets to a concert on Saturday and I don't have anyone to go with me.

Me: Well, good luck finding someone!

*then the professor walked in and the test began.

and, scene.

Yea, he totally wanted me to go to that concert. Damnit. I'm a moron. He seemed nice, too....not at all "it puts the lotion in its skin or else it gets the hose again."

I fucking hate writing papers, the dog smells like rotting flesh.

SO, a dove has built its nest inside my front porch. I have this thing about leaving the front porch light on at all times but now I am freaking out. What if the light makes the dove think it's day time and it somehow messes her up? I would feel TERRIBLE if she went berserk because she thought it was ALWAYS daylight and murdered her eggs.

I actually spent the night at my parents house last night so the dove could have a night away from the light. How f'd is that?

We have previously discussed my psycho mother. Well, she has decided that the dove situation is a good omen. That "doves don't build their nests just anywhere, you are special." I think she has finally come to the realization that she is the mother of a child who is, in fact, not special. She is now grabbing for anything that she can to assure herself that I do not suck at life.

She gets it honestly. Last week, I caught my grandmother telling one of her friends that I would probably be engaged by December.

People, I'm not dating anyone. What is she talking about?

Who the fuck does that? And why am I still living in such close vicinity to them? More importantly, why can't I stop using rhetorical questions? TELL ME.

I think this whole dove/familial disappointment obsession has more to do with stress over other matters that is somehow infecting my ability to reason. I've been working on a fifteen page paper on language use and sentience and it is just really getting to me. I feel like someone stuck a vacuum up to my ear and sucked everything out. I just want to sit on the couch and watch Paris Hilton milk cows or something equally irrelevant.

I have not bathed my dog in a month. He is excreting an odor so offensive that if you are closer than three feet to him, you will retch. I'm going to drink two bottles of wine and scrub the stench off the dog tonight. Fun times.

My "things to do" list keeps expanding....I have four dresses in my car, absorbing the car stank because I have to get them altered. By altered, I mean: reduced from the size of a circus tent to that of a dress. HI! I was fat last summer. If there's one thing I've learned in college, its that you cannot drink beer and eat pizza and burgers and not expect to blow up. It took three years to realize this and one year to get the past three years weight off.

Also, there are bills to pay and groceries to buy and all the other grown up shit that I hate doing. I know this is all of the utmost interest to you. Hopefully I'll be more entertaining after exams, .....but I wouldn't raise my expectations if I were you.

Passover Coke.

I love Coca-Cola. I wish I could get myself to like diet as much, but it isn't going to happen. I have tried and tried and tried and it just never sticks. I secretly believe that regular coke has an ability to cure ANY ailment and somehow, when they remove the calories, they lose this special magic as well. We've always called it black aspirin because of its wonderful medicinal qualities. My mother has used it to cure us from everything from fainting to the flu. Every time something goes wrong she immediately suggests "ya'll go get a Coca-Cola and you'll feel better," and she is usually right. So, imagine my excitement when I discovered that this exists! Imagine! No high fructose corn syrup...but PURE cane sugar! Yeee! I'm going to Target tomorrow and they had better the fuck have it in stock.

Fucked up.

Apparently, Miss. Tyra Banks has gotten herself into a bit of a pickle over some photographs for a competition on "Top Model". Each of the women posed as the victim of a variety of different murders, beatings, apparent rapes, and various assaults because, HEY! Being a victim? IS HOT.

Wrong-o.

So, I read about this about a week ago and the cable news networks are just starting to pick up on it. Every time I see a clip about it, my blood pressure shoots through the roof. Every. Time.

You can see the rest of the photos here

If Tyra Banks is supposed to be such a good example for young women, what the fuck is she playing at with this? She should be empowering women, not gushing about how beautiful their massacred bodies are. I have no words but I wholly agree with what is being discussed here. You won't believe what the judges said about how sexy it is to be attacked.

The Beach is Back!

Spring break is here! My family owns a condo on the Gulf Coast. It was destroyed in the hurricane and has since been rebuilt bigger and better than before. We've been down here moving in shiny new furniture and eating seafood by the truck load. I've been coming to this same beach for twenty one years. I am so happy to be back.

I have been at said beach for one solid week. I cannot possibly convey the awesomeness of this to you. I've been drinking wine and listening to Joni Mitchell and reading Margaret Atwood. Three of my favorite things in this WORLD. However, all of this wine and frivolity has not been altogether worthless. I've been thinking. A lot. Also, I have been trying to get some sun. Ya'll, getting sun? Is hard! I am so fair I'm practically translucent. It sucks.

Tanning is futile.

Does anyone have any melanin I can borrow? I promise I'll return it. I'm very conscientious about those kinds of things.

I just finished reading The Edible Woman and I desperately want someone to discuss it with. It's like this every time I read a book. The immediate second I put it down, I need to shred it apart in minuet detail.Obsessively. I would like to be the kind of person who doesn't insist on finding metaphor in EVERYTHING. Alas,I am not. That's just not how I roll. Unfortunately, no one in this condo shares my preferences for literature.

This leaves you, dear reader.

SOMEONE. ANYONE.

Please. Read the book. Discuss it with me.I will pay you in seashells.

Tell me, is Duncan supposed to be some tangible manifestation of what is going on in Marians head, or is he just someone who is a little bit off and in need of a job that doesn't involve literary criticism. Is she being destroyed or doing the destroying! Is it just me, or is Ainsley the most insane of all?

Help!

Bad Poetry.

Ode to Dr._______.
(brought to you by the lengths that I will go to in order to avoid studying for my Epistemology midterm and a bitter pill I may or may not have swallowed.)

On Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays
I sit at my desk in a blank daze
you're smug condescension
makes me form the opinion
that you came from Hell's brimstone and blaze

We KNOW we are not great philosophers,
but a chance to succeed you don't offer
you want me to fail
so I'd like to nail
a sheet of demands to your coiffure
(*offer is not a very rhymey word. Shut up.)

Number one, can you please fucking halt
discussing your life partner Walt
we all understand
you've got a great man
when you gush I need booze, single malt!

At first I thought, "he's a smart guy!
With his wit and his flamboyant tie."
but the longer I sit
the more I admit
that I'd love to stab you in the eye.

I know! Kant's hard to comprehend,
but good grief! We are NOT fucking TEN.
I KNOW I just saw
you ignore "moral law"
when you killed my soul with your red pen.

In conclusion I'd just like to ask
that you please ignore this silver flask
you see it's a must
you'll just have to trust
deal with this or red wine in a cask.

I know, it seems harsh. But y'all, if I have to hear about the "most adorable thing that Walter did last night" ONE MORE TIME, I will vomit. Call me bitter and lonely if you would like, but I ask YOU to sit in a class on Valentine's day (when you happen to be single and pissed off) with a professor who spends the first thirty describing his AMAZING dinner plans and the second thirty minutes informing you that you read "Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals" ALL WRONG and you are, in fact, a complete a utter moron.

funny. not funny.

Two months ago I bought this book.

I keep putting off reading it.

HA!

The fact that I find this highly amusing exposes a new level to my nerdyness.

And yes, that is a word.

So, it has been absolutely gorgeous outside this week and then Saturday rolls around and....shitty weather. I am so pissed about this. I told myself that if I don't miss any classes and stay in and study that I'll be able to hang out in the sunshine this weekend. Alas, there is no sunshine to hang out in. I'm stuck in the house, cleaning and studying and wishing desperately that I had gotten outside during the week. On the upside, I'm watching Notting Hill for the nine hundreath time and the "fruitarian" chick cracks me up every time.

Hugh Grant's character: So, um...these carrotts?

Fruitarian: Have been murdered. Yes.

Heeee!!!

Stinkin' Philosophy

I am sick of philosophy.

Like, ready to shut my head in a door, sick. I am beginning to wonder why the hell I chose this schlock as a minor.

I haven't come up with any answers.

In fact, the only thing that I am absolutely certain about (regarding philosophy) is that the freak that sits next to me needs to stop rolling in a mixture of tabacco spit, garbage can water and refuse from the tire plant. Also, take an f'ing shower? Would be awsome. So do it already.

I mean, we get it. You are obviously so concerned with the Gettier Problem that you aren't even thinkin' about scrubbing your stanky body in the shower but PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD put on some deoderant.

That's all.

Dr. Strangelove, Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb

I bought the MCAT study guide the other day.

Damn that thing is thick. Oh, and EIGHTY dollars. Which, um.....kind of a lot of money. SO anyway, I've been working my way through it, trying to dedicate two hours every weekday to studying for the test.

The first twenty or so pages are really just chocked full of tips on how to learn properly, how our brains regurgitate information and what we can do to ensure that we can access the information that we've packed into our heads....its really strange how we remember some things and don't others.

Thursday I sat down with my dad to discuss what course of action I need to take. This was scary because it made it real and I have waited and waited to tell him about my aspiration because of something he said to me when I was in the tenth grade. Some college kid was working in his office to have some clinical experience to put down on his med school application and dad was giving him all sorts of little jobs to do. Drug reps are always bringing by cakes and candy and food in the vain attempt to persuade him to prescribe their medication to his patients,...dad never eats any of it because I think it makes him feel like he is in some way obligated to return the favor and that causes all kinds of ethical dilemmas SO ANYWAY I had come up to the office to partake in whatever feast had been assembled in the lounge. I was sitting in the chair across from my father's massive desk and the college kid came in to ask some question about Mr.So-in-so in room one, Dad answered and the kid walked out. Next, he looked up at me and said "the best advice I can give to anyone who wants to go into medicine is not to".

Looking back, I remember it in the way that one remembers a scene from a movie watched years ago....but it has always stayed with me. Only recently I have decided that it might be a mistake, but if I never try I'll regret it forever and that really isn't an option for me.

So, failure is not an option. Acknowledging that I have always wanted to be a physician has created an eight million pound gorilla that sits in the room, glaring at me, wearing a stethoscope around his neck. Denial is a very effective coping mechanism.

In which I have a dream,....and it is scary.

I hate it when people talk about dreams they've had, mainly it's just that I don't like being told a bad story. So, I try not to tell other people about mine unless they are particularly amusing.

I've just realized that the sentences I've just typed out expose some irritating character flaws.... I need to work on that. Anyway, so yea... dreams, are kind of...freaky? Sometimes. I should probably first say that I've been around guns since I was a little girl, but I've never really been comfortable around them, which is pretty odd because I've been hunting before and like, shot things and it was sort of OK when it was happening but something I don't really like talking about because the pheasants still kind of haunt me. SO, last night I had three dreams in a row about guns. First, the girl from Scrubs was checking my vitals at the hospital from the show and someone came in with a gun, shot someone else and ran away. He left the gun though. In the next dream it was Christmas and I was hanging out with Judy Garland and my family and we found a gun on the floor. The last one was the scariest. I was at a gas station with Caro and we were standing outside when a man with his hand in his coat walked up, pulled out a gun and pointed it across the parking lot. I walked behind him trying to act casually, like I didn't notice (yea, apparently the dream version of me is a dumb ass) and when he pulled the trigger I felt like I had just fired a shotgun....you know, that weird kick back thing? I kept walking and hid behind a van but was horrified to realize that I had totally left Caro out in the middle of the lot! EEEEEEEEE! Luckily, she was safe. ANYWAY, the guy ran away and left the gun and Caro picked it up and was waving it around and then my mom showed up and it was just freakin' weird and not at all fun and I woke up all anxiety ridden and I wanted to call Caro but it was 4 a.m. I totally forgot that she is Miss. Party Woman 2007 and would probably be up and dancing on tables. I looked up "gun" on Dream Dictionary and it said this....


Gun
Violence. Aggression. Threat. Danger ahead.

Grrreeeeeaaaaatttt. Just fabulous.

Because I am sick of looking at the picture of my IV...

I'm just posting a wee tiny placeholder to get it off of the screen. I've been cooking today......the results are interesting to say the least.

Can you hold on a sec? I need to puke....

I had so much work to do this week.... tests and papers and a presentation that all had to be postponed due to my inability to move without puking.

Oh, yes.

The little girl in The Sixth Sense and the chick from The Exorcist don't have shit on me because I HAD THE STOMACH FLU FOR DAYS, PEOPLE. DAYS.

It was horrifying and I will not go into detail except to say that it is not fun to hurl your guts up while your father attempts to shove an icky, icky needle crucial to the administration IV fluids INTO YOUR POOR LITTLE ARM because, Hi! You will DIE from dehydration if he doesn't.

The worst part was that after I'd gone through two liters of fluids I started feeling better so Dad sent me home to rest. Before shoving me into Mother's car, he decided it would be best to hep lock the IV(basically just leave the tube in my arm and tape it down so that if I needed more fluids later he would only have to hook a bag up instead of sticking me again). I must tell you that I abhor needles. The only reason the IV was even put in was because I was too deliriously sick to care if someone was peeling my skin off, much less sticking a tube into my arm. After I began to feel better I was much more concerned with the plastic tubing protruding from my arm.

I had to sleep with it that way.

EEEEEEEEEKKKKK!

I decided the best way to handle the situation was just to not look at my right arm at all and hold it at a constant acute angle. Well, I was spending the night with my parents so that they could take care of me (and it was either that or the Hoppie. When given the option of spending the night in Hospital Hades there is only one appropriate answer: Hell to the no.)

Anyway, when I woke up this morning Daddy was already at work and my Mom was gone and I couldn't find my cell phone and well......I had a melt down when I looked down at my bruised hep locked arm and I decided that the thing??? had to come out. NOW. Not in an hour, not in twenty minutes. RIGHT MUTHAFUCKING NOW.

So....I un-did the tape holding it down and pulled the long plastic tube out of my vein and bent my arm back to stem the flow of the bleeding and then my head exploded because, um? I DO NOT do shit like take out my own IV???????????

Drastic measures were taken. The more time distances me from the event, the more disturbed I get.

Let us never speak of this again.

I suggest wiping down all surfaces in your house with the cleaner of your choice, washing your hands hourly and staying the H away from anyone displaying symptoms of what I lovingly refer to as the dog flu.

SOMEbody needs a Bahamavention.

AND IT IS ME.

So, feel free to stop by with plane tickets and a keg of beer with a straw in it. That would be gggrrrrreeeeeaaaaaattttttttt.

It snowed today and to my dismay, class was not cancelled. Ha, that was sort of rhyme-y. Anyway, yes...snow and still with the class and the test and the APPLYING FOR GRADUATION because, Hi!It's getting closer to being "that" time. I have mixed emotions about this.I am planning on going to graduate school for sure. I just don't know what "kind" of graduate degree I want. My father suggested I take the MCAT. I promptly informed him that he is INSANE but have started to consider it....I mean,....it wouldn't hurt just to seehow it goes..

It is entirely possible that I am too stupid to be a physician....er....probable.

Anyway, I will most definitly be slogging through the mire of at least a couple of Kaplan study books. I know, this is all so thrilling.

NotSoMuch.

In other news, Veronica Lario is highly entertaining.

To the left, to the left...

So, tonight I was trying to explain where a particular city was to a friend. Somehow, my twisted mental process tried informing said person that the city (which is east of where I live) is "to the left". Said person was (understandably) confused. I decided to draw an amateur sketch. This is it.

"Hate the Baby Syndrome", Coldness

I am not really a "fan" per say of winter. I fully realize that this is not a new revelation but one that has been covered in excruciating detail in previous posts. I'm not fired up about the whole global warming thing either....but that's another post for another day. Anyway, I would like to reiterate the fact that I? HATE HATE HATE THE COLD.

Personally, I think that this fear/hate/loathing is the direct result of a traumatic incident of my youth.

First, I should inform you that I am the oldest of four children. That means that I experienced not one, not two, but THREE episodes of "hate the baby" syndrome. The second-to-last episode was the worst. When my mother was expecting my baby sister (the last episode), my younger sister and I decided that we were not so much interested in another sibling as we were in a poodle. We begggged for a poodle. We NEEDED a poodle. Why? I do not know. I guess we've always been a little high maintenance.SO,we did not get a poodle. We got a sister. We called her Poodle. We still do. Anyway, we were pretty used to not being the centers of attention (I know, feel SORRY FOR US)so we just sort of dealt with it by pretending that she was not so much a "baby" as a "dog".

You see, when "the boy" was born there was a massive freak attack. In a family of five granddaughters and ONE grandson, being a girl is not so much something special as something that inspires fear and regret due to the immediate realization that shoes? are expensive. Make up? is expensive. Louis Vuitton? IS EXPENSIVE.

Anyway, when my brother was born it was all "Thank You Jesus" and everyone was collectively amazed because, Hi! a boy! SO, because no one wanted to watch our tap dance shows and have tea parties with us anymore, my sister and my cousins and I were stricken with the worst case of "hate the baby" yet.

Symptom included:
Whenever asked, "how is your little brother doing?" I would reply "we gave him away" or "he left" or "mom doesn't like him", my sister gradually caught on and even took it a step further to inform all inquisitive persons that my parents and my brother? DIED. They had not. This lead to some interesting conversations:

Adult: How are your mommy and daddy and new baby brother?

Caro: They died.

Adult: Ummm.....noooooo. They're at home, remember? You came with your grandma!

Caro: She died too.

Adult: You're an odd little person.

Caro: It's true, just ask my sister.

Adult: Now Lauren, please be a big girl and tell the truth.

Self: Yes ma'am. They are not dead, but we hate them all so they might as well be.

Adult: .....

That gets us to why, on one fateful day in January, my hatred for all things not warm began. I was fed up with being ignored and more than a little pissed that my mother would not stop cooking long enough to watch my autobiographical play entitled "Why I Hate My Family" (a cautionary tale of a young girl whose parents neglected her, refused to watch her roller skating shows, taste her Easy Bake Oven delicacies and had the audacity to ask her "can't you play that somewhere else?" so she ran away and joined a travelling circus and her family spent the rest of their lives searching everywhere for her because they felt SO COMPLETELY MISERABLE for ignoring her talents...shut up). The play starred Nibbles (our three legged dachshund) Caro (who played the part of "Anastasia" a.k.a. "ME") and assorted dolls, stuffed animals and a pillow with a belt and a hat that played the part of the ecstatic ring leader of the circus (he was ecstatic because he had NEVER found ANYONE with the kind of talent Anastasia possessed. Again, shut up.) SO, the stage was set. The actors were in place. I had positioned myself in the front "row", prepared to verbally disembowel anyone who fucked up my play and

......we waited

........and waited

Five minutes later (I've never been very patient) I stormed into the kitchen all, "EXcuse me MOTHER but you are MISSING my play!!!!!" to which my mom replied, "can't you practice a few more times? I'm cooking dinner and your brother needs to be fed and your dad had to stay late at work.."

All my little eight year old head herd was, "bla bla bla, you aren't worth my time"

Retaliation was swift.

I immediately stormed upstairs, put on my coat and hat, packed a few essential items in a bag (a Polly Pocket and my latest copy of Hi Lites magazine)and stormed out the front door yelling something subtle like "I AM RUNNING AWAY".

At the time, we were living on about one hundred acres. The front of the house faced a big field, the back faced some pretty thick woods. Guess which I picked.

After walking as far into the woods as I could get without crawling through underbrush, I sat down and proceeded to play with Polly Pocket.

And then, it started to snow. Not a little snow. A TRUCK LOAD of snow. Almost as if the heavens had opened up and articulated "Greetings O Bratty One! See what happens when you threaten your parents?" in the form of wet coldness.

I know, what the fuck? I imagine my eight year old self was thinking something along those lines, but less profane.

I live in ALABAMA. It is cold, yes......but snow?

This "snow" that I am referring to would later be known as the "Blizzard of '93". It took about a half of an inch falling from the sky to make me realize that my plan had been foiled by mother nature. I imagine my mental process went something like this:

"Snow? SNOW! I BET I DON'T HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW. Which is....AWESOME. I hate stupid school and stupid Mrs. Chisolm and her STUPID "no no tree". I can't believe she made ME sign the dumb tree just because I wouldn't share my crayon with icky Christopher. I mean, Christopher! who is a BOY! and therefore is not capable of producing the type of artistic GOLD that I am only able to create WITH MY CRAYON."

****

"Ummm, this doesn't really look....ummm...familiar..."

****

"I have been WANDERING for HOURS (more like seconds) and SURELY I will freeze to DEATH in a SOLID BLOCK OF ICE LIKE BUGS BUNNY."

****

SO, I wandered in the blizzard for oh......minutes? The pathetic part is that I was so cold that I was crying. The snow was flying into my eyes so I had to pull my hat down over them and wander around bumping into trees until my little eyeballs were warm enough to see for a while. I made my way out of the woods and by the time I had gotten to the front door everything was covered by a blanket of snow. I ran inside to inform everyone that IT IS OK! I AM ALIVE. As you've probably guessed, my mom yelled from the kitchen that she would be in to see the play in a minute and could I please not scream like a banshee. Caro was still sitting on the "stage" playing with a Barbie. They never realized I had been gone. Anyway, ever since I have been petrified of freezing to death, in a solid block of ice a'la Bugs Bunny. Unfortunately, this little phobia has created a "problem" in the form of a power bill exceeding four hundred dollars.

Hope you're all staying warm!

The Winter of Our Discontent

Mocha and I are freezing our asses off....collectively.

Coldness is not something that we enjoy. We are the kind of beings who like the warmth...ness. I guess I shouldn't bitch so much, I mean....what with global warming and melting iceburgs and all....who am I kidding? Fuck cold weather.

So, because it is cold and because my life consists of class and sleep and I really would like to spice that up, I have been cooking up a storm. Lasagna and cookies and bacon, oh my!

Unfortunaly, I have a feeling that the casseroles that are taking up space in my fridge will soon be taking up residence in the form of about ten pounds on my ass. Because: I. Can't. Stop. Eating.

Do ya'll ever do that? I mean, go through these phases where you cook and cook and cook and eat and eat and eat? It's like I'm the love child of Paula Deen and Brad Pitt's character from Oceans 11. So, freezing and cooking and eating. That is about it for the excitment over here.

Usually, I think about blog topics in the car on my forty hour commute to class and back every day. Admittadly, this is dangerous. My mind can wander into some pretty scary territory. Some topics that I have come up with lately have included:

corpses
husbands
Cartesian Dualism
beauty pagents
corn

Anyway, I think that it's pretty much safe to say that this is the worst post ever. I'm sorry. I promise that as soon as I stop eating and find a warm enough coat I WILL WRITE A BETTER POST!

Update!

Just dropping on in to say that the anti-diet is going fabulously.... thanks to a Southern Living recipe for roasted chicken and some bananna pudding. Happy Weekend!!!

Diet,Interrupted.

So, reading over the last few posts, I believe that one specific inference can be made. That inference being: I am well on my way to a nervous breakdown. OR....in the middle? of one? Yea, so... Hi!

Because my laptop is a piece of shit, you are unaware of the ridiculous and stupid and lame and dumb and DID I MENTION FUCKING RIDICULOUS diet that I am...er....was? on. That diet was: stop eating.Yea, sooooo, it wasn't really that bad. It was more like a fruit and vegetable diet where there were 1. no carbs and 2. no booze. For the past four days I have lived off of Diet Sundrop, oranges, tomatos, salad and bottled water and coffee.

Let me explain. New Years resolutions, people.Mine were: stop smoking, lose ten pounds, exercise more.

Betcha wondering how well THAT worked for me, aren't ya?

Let me first explain that as I am typing this, this very second, I have consumed:

1) one bottle of Pinot Noir
2) two bowls of pasta
3) seven red Starbursts
4) half of a pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream
5) one Lean Cuisine
6) a half a pack of cigarettes

all in the span of about two hours.

Anyway, I tried. It didn't work. On the up side, eating and drinking and smoking makes me a much nicer person to be around.... so, yay that.

Soon there will be a positive, uplifting entry about...I dunno, bunnies or world peace or something. Until then, will someone please come over and pry this bag of Doritos out of my hand?

Anger Managment.

So, I just spent...oh, I dunno, A WHOLE FUCKING HOUR on a post that just went away. I do not know where. WHERE DID YOU GO LITTLE POST?

Honestly, it is probably in your best interest. I started a diet and I am (as my mother would say) in Rare Form.

The lost post contained:

1. Two peices of hate mail addressed to two particularly irritating people that I came into contact with today.

2. The details of my diet.

3. Roughly four paragraphs of expletive laden whining.

I know you're upset that you're missing out on all of that. I promise, you'll live.

School Anxiety

Hellllo Spring Semester. I hate you. Yes, you personally.

I am taking eighteen hours. Just typing that sentence makes me want to run for the liquor cabinet.

PEOPLE.

Eighteen mother fucking hours, and class starts today. The silver lining is that (unless I go to grad school) this will be the last spring semester ever! Ya-yuh!

I want a job in the Real World. Show me the money.

In other news: Mocha is being really clingy lately. I think it's because I left him at my parents a lot over the holidays. He's worried I'm going to run away and leave him. Bless his little heart. Not in this way but in a nice way because I love my little pup.

Also, new episode of Grey's Anatomy on Thursday so maybe this week won't totally suck.

Humorless

Ya'll, today I had a revelation.

I am not funny.

I was on the phone with my aunt, who incidentally is totally freakin' hilarious, and we were talking about super powers and as usual she said something that made me want to fall on the floor and laugh hysterically until I died and I realized that...I? AM NOT FUNNY. SO that is the super power that I have decided I want to have. I mean, Aunt Sue makes up words like "squanch" and "coo-ma-cah-lie" and works them into sentences with "important" adult people who will actually reply seriously to a sentence like...

"excuse me but if I could just interrupt you for a minute. I'm sure you're presentation is very informative but if I could just squanch in before you and throw this coomacahlie up for everyone to see I think we would make a lot more progress."

I mean, what the fuck? Like, the writers for "Arrested Development". THEY were funny. Why come funny is not like a nose? EVERYONE HAS A NOSE. Why come EVERYONE can't have a little funny. PLEASE TELL ME.

Stick A Fork in Her....

Class starts back on Monday.

Yucka fucka.

It isn't that I don't like learning, it isn't even that I passionately abhor the FORTY FIVE MINUTE commute EVERY DAY. Mainly, it's that I'm going to have to get off of my ass and Do Things. My holiday was really lovely. No one was forked to death.

I guess I should probably explain that. When I was thirteen years old my family decided it would be a fabulous idea to collectively embark on a ski vacation to Colorado. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings....everyone. We all stayed in one super lovely and pretty and fabulous house. Then one night before dinner, my mother and my aunt got into a heated discussion over what to season the turkey with and it lead to MY AUNT PULLING A FORK OUT AND THREATENING TO STAB MY MOTHER. People, this was not acceptable. My grandmothers brain exploded by the intense UN-Southerness of her daughters behavior and my cousins and I promptly collapsed on the floor laughing hysterically at our mamma's acting like heathens. Anyway, we've always gauged the level of family tension by this handy dandy chart:

1. 'bout to get a fork: someone has been wronged to the point of inconvenience and/or mild discomfort. Retaliatory measures include: ignoring requests to pass something (i.e. question: Aunt Bessie, will you please pass the grits? answer: Why Michael, what a lovely tie you're wearing. Did you hear something just now? Because I DID NOT.), a snide remark being made to the entire family regarding perpetrating family member, or "accidentally" tipping the gravy boat into the lap of the wrong doer.

2.....now that I think about it, there's only the one. Either you're about to get forked or you're getting forked. The latter has not happened to date. The former is a relatively daily occurrence.

How did I get off on all of that? Anyway, so yes it has been a really good holiday. I was in Charleston, South Carolina for the New Year and it was so much fun. Charleston is a really beautiful place. Y'all should go.PLUS it was like seventy five degrees the whole trip!

Because I have been in Charleston for the New Year and at my parents house for Christmas, my poor little house is rather in need of a good scrub down. That will commence in about four seconds. So, if you need me I will be up to my eyeballs in cleaning supplies. Whoo hoo.

Place Holdin' Fun

I have decided to stop smoking. I am finding this to be an incredibly difficult task, mainly because I heart cigarettes. They are lovely little cancer causing sticks of joy that can no longer be a part of my life. I must persevere. In other news: I went to Charleston for New Years. It was fab five Freddie. More will come on that later. So, consider this a nice little place holder.