Misconceptions about Missourians

Ok, now that I am in a new city, I keep getting the same questions.
Usually people will pose questions about Missouri that aren't surprising...for instance, "How is Missouri like Illinois?" "What are the notable differences between here and there?" Or sometimes I get questions like, "Why are you EVEN HERE!!" Quite frankly, I am not amused.
Sometimes though, people are confused/ignorant to the ways of my great Show Me State.
1. We don't have an accent. YOU DO.
2. It's soda, not pop. C'mon. I never even heard of the word pop being used for the word soda until I was 17 and someone from Kansas City came around St. Louis and was spreading the heresy.
3. We're a city too, ya know. Sure, not as large, but a city nonetheless.
4. We're not liberal/we don't give the public assistance, Transit, help, cutbacks.
5. In the CITY city, we don't have country areas. Again, see #3. This woman I work with said, "Oh yeah, you're from St. Louis? I visited St. Louis one time....it was beautiful. Such country areas. Lovely wildlife and scenery."
Uhhh. If by scenery, you mean, smoke stacks, then yeah, we have nice scenery. Or, if by scenery, you mean a preponderance of glock-bearing citizens, then yeah, great view. If you are seeing wildlife other than dead fish and mice in the city of St. Louis, then YOU ARE NOT IN ST. LOUIS.
6. Oh, we don't just have one type of pizza. We, unlike you, have thin crust, crust and thick crust (and our sauce goes UNDER the cheese, as God and all mankind intended).
7. Our hot dogs suck in St. Louis.
8. Polish population in Chicago: 1.999 billion. Polish population in St. Louis: 10 people total (5 of which are just visiting from Chicago). Haha.
9. We're a lot like you, except we're from Missouri.
10. We're to the left, to the left. A young girl I work with said, "So, where exactly IS Missouri?" And then later she said, "So where exactly IS St. Louis."
Man, if she wasn't my favorite Chicagoan.....

One among us

I was walking (in circles) around downtown Chicago trying to find an entrance to get on board the brown line after an interview this morning that did not go well. By the Washington and Wells stop, a homeless man wielding a cup o' coins said, "got change?" I told him that "I barely have my head on straight, much less spare change" then proceeded to wait until the light turned red so I could safely cross the street. While still waiting, he asked me again, "Got the time?" To which I then said, "Nope. We're Oh for two." This is probably why I don't have a job, no sweet Rolex and no spare change for the needy. I am the needy.
(Where was he heading? Is he is homeless and jobless, what event was he heading to?)
As I was waiting for the longest light in the history of the world, I realized that if I didn't get a freakin' job, I'd be the one on the side of the street, wondering what time it is, using my thrift store McDonald's recyclable cup. But, when I realized I would have to give up the many thrift store cups I had in my possession and I almost started crying. If it wasn't for my anger at the goddamn invisible train stops, I would have. It is very hard to find the locales to get on and off the train. Very tricky, Chicago Transit Authority.

Baby Etiquette

Yes, you are right. I should write my own guide to proper every etiquette. Not that fancy schmancy type of etiquette books that tell you you can't eat dinner when your shoulders are not at a 90 degree angle. I am talking about everyday fo' real etiquette.
Today's topic: Babies.
1. You have a child. Great. Now, after the usual three questions someone is properly supposed to ask when said child is brought up (aka, 1. What's his/her name? 2. When did you have him/her? 3. Awww. Tell me one interesting fact and then please zip da lip), I need you to end the conversation, unlike the alternative which is talk about your baby daddy issues, talk about every bodily/physical function the child in question does.
2. When talking about baby daddy issues, after 4 minutes, I am cutting you off or leaving or inventing my own baby daddy issues even though I don't have a child and am merely mocking you for my own enjoyment. When you find out in three minutes or three days or three months, I'll just play it off like a hilarious joke.
3. If you REALLY won't stop talking about baby daddy and I can't hang myself or escape through a stage door, after my two questions about baby daddy, (aka, How long have you been going out and How's it going with you two?) please, I don't want to hear about it any more.
4. When you ask if I wanna see pictures of the fruit of your loins and I reluctantly accept please show me at max 15 photos. I run out of comments after the 20th photo. I end up just saying things like, "You'd never expect THAT to be THERE" or something even more ridiculous like, "Baby made a bold move wearing red in the sun."
5. When you force me into an 80 minute discussion on baby etc, por favor, please excuse my attempts to end the conversation.
6. If the conversation is not ending, please end my in-depth discussion on breast milk, my biggest fear. Also, please don't mind the vagina canal questions. I have one, but haven't used it yet, for the obvious reasons you can infer from above.

Proper Bus Etiquette.

After my recent adventures in Chicagoland area, I have decided it was time to impart my wisdom on the masses. What has brought this about, one might ask. Well, I will tell you. Burglaries, annoyance and ill-tempered, insanely uncomfortable meetings with inner city bus traveler. That is what has brought this on. Yes, I have not only been a witness to a burglary, but I have also been witness to an insane bus passenger who became and nuisance, to put it gently, to those around her. This one woman was on the bus, had a seat next to her and refused to let anyone sit there/sit there in peace.
So, in conclusion, it has come to my attention that Chicago needs me to tell this the rules of the route.
1. If you have to make a call, please try not to YELL AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS FOR ALL TO HEAR. Seriously. And, on a side note. If you are a "regular" like I am and take the bus at the exact same time I do everyday, please consider not making phone calls every single day and abstain from YELLING AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS FOR THE ENTIRE PHONE CALL THREE DAYS IN A ROW.
For one, no one cares about your multiple baby daddies and child sitter issues. Secondly, I definitely don't want to hear about your baby daddy issues for three days straight on a gawdawful bus jam-packed full of sweaty, testy, shady Chicagoans.

2. Por favor. If you speak another language, do not think you are exempt from the previous rule. We/I can still here you, even though you are speaking Russian, French, Spanish, etc. I know at most 22 words in the spanish language but, I know enough to know that what you be sayin' on the telefono on the bus can wait until you arrive at the local Laund-ro-mat.

3. If there is 89 people on the bus (maximum occupancy 62), this is probably not the time to take up more than one spot on the bus. And, if someone wants to sit down, and, I may be out of line here, but, perhaps....LET THEM SIT DOWN. Also, move your shit out of the seat next to you. Why are you traveling with 3 garbage bags on the bus anyway (true story).
I know, I'm a heretic.

4. Leave your (literal) garbage at home. This goes back to the third example of proper etiquette on the bus. Where are you going that requires you to bring 3 garbage bags full of god-knows-what? Fo' real. What is in those bags. They seem fairly light. So, I assume they aren't clothes (some people use garbage bags to transport their dirty laundry). So, this leads me to assume that he a)keeps his receipts in there b) crumples up old newspapers to use later for ransom notes or c) he is doing the city a favor by going around town, picking up trash and carrying it elsewhere, using the bus as his mode of transportation.


All in all people, let's get classy on the bus.

$14.83

I just returned from Starbucks. Yes, I know, how cliche. But, I'll have you all know that I am the first person to "sell out." I am a poser, tried and true. But, that's not the reason I am writing today. I went to Starbucks to read Julie and Julia, by Julie Powell, and to get my daily fill of espresso. I don't know what it is but chocolate mixed with espresso is better than sex at its best (sorry Englishman, but that's mostly true). So, I walked the couple of blocks to my local Starbucks (which is all you need to walk in Chicago, there's a 'Bucks on every corner here, not unlike CVS, Walgreen's and Dunkin Doughnuts) and I decided to get an iced Grande Mocha, and it should go without saying that I purchased a chocolate chip cookie as well even though this drink contains enough chocolate to satisfy the regular chocoholic (but, I've built up a tolerance over the years). In plain English, an Iced Grande Mocha is just a medium-sized drink containing milk, espresso, fancy schmancy chocolate over ice, overpriced. I usually think iced drinks and frappachinos are for babies and prissy high maintenance women, but it's hot out there today and I am feeling especially high maintenance, so, get off my back. Anyway, my total was $5.25, which I had to balance my checkbook right then and there to make sure I could afford it. SWIPED the Visa and then sat down on one of the slightly used Grandfather chairs which contained what appeared to be a cigarette burn hole. Hmmm. How. Why?
I opened my J&J and then carefully eyed the other patrons. I like to creep on other people in coffee shops because generally, coffee shops are magnets for posers, creeps, addicts of all sorts, hippies and pseudo artists. I like to think that I fit into all of the categories, so I fit right in. One guy was on his laptop, another was on his laptop, other woman was closing her laptop and across the room, another man was YES, on his laptop, if you can fathom THAT possibility.
Why are so many people laptopping at coffee shops? I think it goes back to the type of people who frequent those establishments. Posers, creeps, addicts, hippies and artists.
Anyway, as I was secretly developing back stories to all of these Starbucks characters, I glanced down at the table and there was a receipt in front of man #2 on laptop. No biggie. Starbucks gives out receipts just like normal establishments and places of business. But, here's the weird part. The receipt for this man was for $14.83. I look around and he wasn't with anyone, but in front of him was several empty cups and dishes.
Here's the gist:
Man wakes up, says, "Man, I'm grumpy. I don't want to make food all day. I am also low on espresso drinks in my body. I also don't want to use the internet at my own house. I'm going to Starbucks. I'll feed my 12 cats (people like 'Bucks people always have 3-15 cats in their possession) and I'll be gone until dark."
Then, he goes to Starbucks and hangs around, eating multiple meals and drinks until dark.
I mean, he went to Starbucks, according to the receipt and ordered two to three meals, including multiple drinks totaling $14.83.
I mean, I was flipping out about my measly 5 dollar bill. Who spends 14 dollars on Starbucks? Insane.

Hello, Sunshine

I am dating that guy. You know the type. Perhaps you are the type. The type who rises early. A little too early, if you ask me. That's right ladies and gents, my boyfriend is the Early-to-bed, Early-to-rise type. Except, the Englishman takes it to a whole new level. Living in sin is very nice. No marriage b.s. to worry about, no stress, no kids in my hair but coming together in the Cosmo sense of the phrase is more or less dealing with THE AWAKENING HOUR. I, like many unemployed Americans, like to sleep in until a modest 10, 10:30 (who am I kidding, it's more like 11). There I am, my eyes adjusting to the beautiful morning light coming through my blinds. I turn over and nope, no Englishman to be seen. At first I wonder if these previous few years have been nothing but a dream. But, then I see the remnants of the Englishman's tracks. He's moved things around....he's been in the storage space....on the internet....here...there....everywhere!!!! I roll out of bed and there I see him---awake and sunshiny. Although his bright green eyes are lovely to see first thing in the morning, the inane chattering of a busy body unfortunately is not. You see, I am not trying to hurt anyone's feelings, I just am a sleep person. Not an awake person. Never have been. Plus, when I get up, I need at least an hour to adjust to the light, much like a bat or a vampire who has been in his crypt for hundreds of years. I need some time, senor. I wake up to:
"Hey Erica. How are you?"----the Englishman speaketh.
"Hey."---me
"How are you, whatcha doing?"---Englishman
"Fine...what have you been doing?"---me
"Oh, I went for a 6 mile walk and I read three newspapers, checked my email, got some coffee, finished two crossword puzzles, boy were they hard, and then I took a shower after I ate some breakfast."---Englishman.
"What??!?!?!?!?!? I just set foot on a floor."---me
"Yeah I know."---Englishman.
At first I blamed him. He's the best at everything. Everything. Then, I realized. THERE ARE MORE LIKE HIM OUT THERE. More people who get up, on weekends like he does, at the crack of dawn (8 o'clock) and roam around the street with their baby children and their papers and freshly poured caffeinated beverages (although I am sure they only get those flavor-infused delicacies so they can 1) bond with the same species, other 8 a.m.ers. 2) do something with all of the time they have and 3) make sure they don't look weird for being up so early---they need to have an excuse as to why they're functioning at an alien hour.

Hot Child in the City

Discrepancies in the Chi-town persona are numerous.
For one, the "Windy City" is not very windy. It's very hot and thick in the town and I find myself begging for a slight breeze to ease the heat. Very hot and yet no breeze.
What to do? No se.
We (me and the Englishman) live on the top floor of a building constructed in the eighteen twenties, I'm sure, and the main problem is it's cool at nights here, yet, it's hot as Hades inside. I mean, I've probably lost 5 pounds in mere sweat alone. Ridiculous.

Am I on candid ******* camera???

OK. So, living in the city is expensive. Housing (rent, utilities), food, restaurants, transportation (bus and train tickets and gas) is EXPENSIVE. So expensive. It's not like you can walk all over the place to save money, either. So. expensive.
So, I decided to venture out into the job market. I took my bad self and my resumee with 1 error and took it to a local realtor. This experience, like many of my previous employments was ridiculous, to say the least. This man, Mike, was ridiculous. There was only one worker, him, in the entire store. He refused to answer any of my questions and told me he'd figure out what my pay rate and approximate hours per week would be. No prob, I thought. I'll roll with it. No big deal. I just want a job.
First of all, he YELLED at me day in and day out. I only worked two days, but everything I did was WRONG. But, here's the kicker: If I went to ask a question, he would say, "No questions. Every time you ask a question, I lose my concentration and I forget what I was doing. Seriously, I'm earning 50 dollars an hour and if you ask me 20 questions, I lose money."
"But, how am I supposed to know what I'm doing if you don't explain it to me?"---I said.
"I'll let you know."---Mike claimed.
Then, there was the peaches.
He kept staring down my neck....kept going....at my peaches. (some call them melons, but mine are more like peaches). I wasn't wearing anything revealing, either!
Then, he kept touching my hands. I was like, "Whoa man, get out of here. Stop touching my hands," but to no avail.
Then, more of the yelling. "PUT THIS FOLDER OVER THERE. OVER THERE........THERE.....THERE......ON THE PILE."---Mike
What fucking pile, I thought to myself. All there is is random papers thrown EVERYWHERE.
"Where?"--me
"DON'T ASK QUESTIONS. YOU'LL LEARN, EVENTUALLY"----Mike
I took a look at the papers, even though he told me, "Don't look at anything or tell anyone anything," and there were so many bills and unpaid invoices he neglected to pay. Lawyers and collection agencies kept calling and he either: lied or he hung up on them. This is absurd, I thought. Is this a real business?
Of course, I asked, "Is this a real business or am I on candid camera?" and he claimed this place was four businesses rolled into one. And he then proceeded to hand me 12 business cards that claimed he owned and operated all 12 of such business ventures. This is absurd.
The next day, he made me call up three (3) different phone companies and made me wait until they connected me to "someone in the United States." Even though the customer service representatives in the Philippines spoke perfect English, he made me wait for confirmation that I was indeed talking to "someone who spoke the same language and was from New Jersey."
Wow.
He yelled at everyone, everyone. Friends, lawyers, architects, printer cartridge sales attendants and ME.
Then, at the end of the second day, I asked, "Mike, how much money am I going to make?"
Then, he looked down, pondered and said, "I was thinking......Six dollars, under the table, no tax forms."
"Mike, I can't work here any more."---me
"Why not?"---Mike
"One, quite frankly, I'm stressed out."---me
"WHAT? I GOT A BAD EAR....YOU. GOT. TO. SPEAK. UP."---Mike, who has a "bad ear/an addiction to yelling and hearing his own voice."
"I'M STRESSED OUT. STRESSED. I'M STREEEESSSSSSED OUUUUUUUT."---me
"Well, sure, you're not trained yet."---Mike
"I can't work for 6 dollars, I got ends to meet."---me
"Well, I lost all of this time training you. It's a little unfair to me."---Mike
(I wasn't trained, I didn't do anything except write things down, print out an invoice, fax something and yell at Vonage reps.)
"You'll find something, Mike. Someone more suited for this job."---me
Then, he wrote me a check for my 10 1/2 hours work (at six dollars an hour) and then I peaced out of that hood. God, that was awful. So I went from unemployed to employed to confused to ulcer-ridden to angry to unemployed within 48 hours. Nice.

Updates

I moved from Kirksville to Chicago! I'm currently living in sin with my one true love, The Englishman!
It's been such an adjustment moving from farmland to the metropolis.
Let me make you a list of differences I've note:
Kirksville:
small
rural
so much farmland
not urban
field mice, at worst
three coffee places (one with AMAZING chicken salad)
three octogenarian taxi drivers, to make up the public transit
you can't leave your house without running into 20 people you know and whom you feel compelled to chit chat awkwardly with
republicanville, USA
one large wal-mart
friends (granted, most aren't there anymore either)

Chicago
large
urban
so many buildings
not rural, at all
THE LARGEST RATS YOU WILL EVER SEE
three coffee places....on my block alone (one with amazing atmosphere)
no chicken salad
thirty nine methods of transportation, buses, trains (all sorts of colors), taxis, cars, bikes
you can wander the city all day and not see a familiar face
democrat (blue state)
one satellite Target (small)
no friends (yet) :(
exciting

Hilarious Sci-Fi Story for you

To save face with my slightly nerdier constituents, I have decided to write (and produce and direct) a short sci-fi, aka science fiction story for you. It'll be hilarious for all you non-nerds or closeted nerds out there.
In a land far far away,
There was a, undiscovered by Earthlings, PLANET!
(cue background oohs and aahs)
In this planet there was only a small family. One of the members was a girl named Schmerica. This alien girl, Erica....I mean....Schmerica, loved to eat cookies.
Yes, I do believe aliens like cookies just as much as any respect-worthy human of the Earth race.
One day, the cookies RAN OUT. Since the planet was undiscovered and there were only so many resources on the planet, she was sad to find out there was none left.
"No cookies left, by golly!"---Schmerica said.
What was Schmerica to do? She didn't know anyone else, she couldn't borrow some from friends? There was no grocery store to buy some more.
What was she to do!?!
Finally, after much consideration, she hopped into her Unidentified Flying Object, which aliens just call space module, and went into space.
After traveling through a black hole (freaky, right?) she went BACK IN TIME! Here, she discovered Americans in what is now present day (The Year 2010). These Americans gave her cookies and she taught them an even better way of making cookies. With her help, the face of cookies was changed FOREVER. I like to believe this woman's name is Schmerica Fields. Aka, Mrs. Fields. She is an alien from the future. Amazing cookie-baking alien.

View from my front porch...errrr....my desk

As I sit here at the library, I notice many different things. Seeing such a wide variety of people can only mean one thing: my internal commentary is going haywire.
I love to people watch, especially when I have nothing better to do than sit here at a desk, waiting for people to ask me about EBSCOhost.
Right now there is:
A man of cocoa brown skin "stealing" the free paper than is available near my desk. He's very shifty-eyed even though he isn't stealing--it's there for your convenience.
An Aryan woman with light eyes and blonde hair sitting at a weird desk that is rarely used. She is wearing a pair of cowboy boots with a brown jacket and skirt. Very weird considering she is probably from the suburbs....like most of the students and this particular university. The weird thing is....she's only writing a five page paper (that's right....I'm that creepy that I checked when she scrolled.
In another corner, there is a group of beautiful black students chatting among themselves. Are any black people not beautiful?
Walking towards the circulation/check out desk I see a man making use of an Ipod. Clearly he's not getting any work done with Motley Crue singing in his ear.
There is a man here clearly confused about the weather. Leather jacket over a long sleeved shirt and shorts with an umbrella and a red back pack. Maybe he likes rain on his calves.
There is a girl who came in with a very tall boy. Very odd looking in a pretty yet ordinary sort of way. Her head's shaped like a oval round bowl. Flat in front, round in back. The bowl head didn't bring in any work to do. I think the boy with bowl head did. She did bring in water. Hmmm.
Man with the Ipod is still at the Circulation/check out counter. go home. you and Tommy Lee.
Man with shorts and umbrella is looking through the library catalog....coming up with....not much, because he's checking out some girl exiting the library. Boy, is he checking her out. Whoa man. Whoa now. Thorough.
Another man comes in, confused about the weather. Wearing a beanie, some white khaki shorts, a Columbia jacket with a shirt underneath. And a blue backpack.
Asian girls leaves with a yellow backpack, head down. Very sad looking. Today was not a good day for her at the library. Especially if she's leaving early, looking sad. Has given up---school's taken all she's got.
The paper "stealer" is BACK! Now he's shiftily eyeing computers. Going back and forth between the rows of computers.
Woman at the circ desk, checking out so many books. This late in the semester?!?!?!? No she "diddd ent." I feel that. That's real. I've completed many an assignment with the loyal, constant support of the drug known as procrastination. Oops....procrastination girl just exited the building in a hurry! Touche.
One lady is writing a paper, head as far down, into her book as humanly possible. Head so far. Can it get any farther.....nope. I don't think it can. So far....too far. HOW IS HER NECK HANDLING THIS. I can't keep my eyes off of her. She just shot a squeeze of water from her water bottle. Keeping hydrated. The neck'll thank you later.

More for later.....

Techno babble

Do you have a blackberry? Are you one of those people with an Ipod, Ipad, Ipole, Iphone, Ipoll, Isad. Quite frankly, I am sad.
I, President of the United Luddite Federation am here today to make it known that the only technology I own are: cell phone. No Internet connection. MP3 player with 200 songs max on it. And a calculator.
Even if I owned a blackberry, I wouldn't know what to do with it. I am so lame in those regards (and in other regards as well). I think I would put it into my shirt or coat pocket to protect myself against oncoming bullets. This act shows just how up-to-date I am and just how paranoid I am and the lengths I will go to protect myself against stray bullets (I live in Rural Town, USA).
I just am being passed by...at light speed...by all of this change in technology over the past few years.
I have a laptop....but, the only Internet sites I ever frequent include cnn.com, nytimes.com, blogspot (to write), facebook (because I gotta) and my email account.
Someone was talking to me about how much time they spend on the Internet and it's ridiculous. What do you people do on the Internet? After I check my email and facebook, the computer remains unused until tomorrow at 10 o'clock when I CHECK THOSE TWO SITES AGAIN. I even considered going back into the dark ages and getting a land line phone instead of my cell phone. All of the techno freaks beware. I am your worst enemy.

Library news

I, like any country-loving American, works.
And, like any good, well-raised and good mannered girl that I am work at the library.
Last night, at the library, I came in to work the late shift, a little unhappy about not being able to sleep or chill at home in my own abode. Here, I sat and took questions and read Chelsea Handler's latest book. Well, after a student came by, asked for a pencil to borrow, I said sure. As I was rifling through desks and nooks and crannies for a pencil (who doesn't bring a pencil to the library), I came across a veritable cranny of booty. I came across such deep treasures anyone of distinguished taste would dream about....mints and hand sanitizer. All free.
One of my favorite things in the whole wide world is deals and things that are free. It's better than sex. Getting things for free is better than theme parks, medicines, any high I've ever heard of and almost better than eating.
The point is: I found smelly-good hand sanitizer (I love hand sanitizing and am currently addicted to the act therein of sanitizing these hands) and mints. Well, I had seen the mints before (had one then) and yet many weeks later the mints remained. Well, I opened up this treasure trove and found three to four mints (my mathematical skills goes right out the window anytime I come across free shit). So....what did I do?
I ate a mint.
an hour passes.....
ate another mint.
another hour or maybe it wasn't even half an hour and I was craving the free minty glory.
So, I popped another into my mouth. Deal.
Then, there was only one left...and since I am a firm believer in not being silly and keeping a mint like that (free!) all by its lonesome. I popped it into my mouth and Kobe'd the Altoid box into the trash. Man, I felt good. Real good.
Too good.
Come into work the next day, refreshed (which wasn't a coincidence, to me...it had something to do with those mints) and a supervisor came up to me and said, "Hey....did you eat so-and-so's mints....I know you worked last night...."
Me: "Uhhhhhhh. Mints were there.....they might have been eaten. What's the low-down?"
"So-and-so's looking for them."--Super
Moral of the story: I had to make an extra trip to the local grocery to pay for a whole box to reimburse so-and-so for the three to four mints I had rescued from prison/the Altoid box.

Mountain Men

Back in the olden times (yes, as a history major, we describe it such) there were these people who navigated and explored rural, western America. These people, usually single men, roamed the wilderness (again, as a history major, I feel privileged enough to describe it as 'wilderness') in search of wealth. Most of the time, they were living off the land, battling Indians and trapping fur-covered creatures, probably with their bare hands. These men, mostly young, single, hairy (probably) manly beasts of men were known as Mountain Men. Well, now that 150 years has rolled by, Mountain Men have made their return: to State University, where I attend college.
Now, clearly, I am no prim and proper princess prodding around Podunk, Missouri. But, recently, I have seen an uprising of men who are doppelgangers of Mountain Men.
In the age of vegan/vegetarianism, pro-animal, pro-rights, pro-faux fur, or no fur, pro-hemp, pro-electric, pro-environment, there are these groups of humans cohabitating the earth with these people.
On one side of the spectrum, the vegans/pro-animal/environment hippies *no offense, really, I'm just getting my point across* while on the other side, the Mountain Men.
These Mountain Men, perhaps once a part of the vegans. Maybe they drank too many herbal teas and smoked too much of the "green goddess" that Mother Nature provided. They might have taken their agricultural science class a little too far. Perhaps they spent too much time camping one weekend and ended up relinquishing all responsibilities they had. I can just see it now, average, nuclear families coming up to this small small town wondering what happened to Timmy. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY TIMMY?? The wilderness got him. Yes, he's still going to class. Yes, he's chasing rabbits into the sewers, Timmy's mom. It's best you leave a note. Or, forget his face. The wilderness has got him now. The wilderness changes a man. Or, changes a twenty year old infant child with a bow and arrow.
Whatever the case, these hobos are wild. Wild looking, wild in nature and wild in their actions. Wild. Whoa wild. I've heard urban myths (with several complying sources) about trapping wild animals (except, in towns, animals aren't wild, they are partly domesticated) and then killing and roasting them in the road. In. the. road.
Another thing, they never shower. Never. No grooming. nope. Definitely no shaving. The extent of their facial hair is astonishing. The lengths it will go. Hair on top = half the amount on face. Beardy gentlemen prowling the streets at night looking for townie game to hunt and kill and eat over a slightly urban, slightly illegal fire. They always travel in packs too. They ban together. Or, maybe it's like a cult. A cult gathering of MOUNTAIN MEN.
Anyway, today, I almost was ran over by their "community bicycles" from the late 60s, probably stolen or "borrowed" from another Mountain Men. Because, in the wilderness, the strongest, and in this case, the beardiest, survive.

Cookies

What is it with me and cookies? Sure, some people are addicted to cake...chocolate (that's a big one for me too), brownies, pie, cigarettes, booze, but, I take cookie addiction to a whole other level. It's not just an obsession, it's a lifestyle. When I wake up, I think about cookies, when I go to sleep, I think about cookies. Every time I eat, I need to have a cookie afterwards. This is not right. This is not kosher (do they make kosher cookies?? I hope so. I would think so....for Jewish people who are addicted like I am). But, no one can be as addicted as I am. I have a problem. And the solution: more cookies.
Seriously. How can I fix my cookie downfalls?
Answer: Rise up and kill the cookie makers of the world. Only, that will not solve it, because eventually, in the future, someone else will invent the cookie and the process will happen to someone else....the cycle will continue (like in The Terminator). MAN, Sarah Conner is a badass.
Seriously. Something must be done. We could lock me in a cell. But, then, I'd get so psychologically tainted that I would dream up cookies...or make cookies out of cell block ceramic material. That's no cure.
Any ideas? What is there to do?
Nothing. Nothing is to be done.
I love cookies. Ever since I was a kid. Ever since I strangely bonded with the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street. Hooked.
Ever since my mom made warm chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with milk on a spring day (It might not have been spring). THE BEST. Thanks mom for making those cookies.
AND FOR GETTING ME HOOKED! I love me some cookies. Recently, my doctor told me I should cut back on carbs, sugars, sweets, soda (probably includes cookies, but I didn't ask to confirm). Therefore, I took it as, "Erica, you should cut back on carbs, sugars (not including cookies), sweets (that probably just means candy...who eats candy, anyway, I'm not a child....except I do kinda like some candy...and chocolate, of course) and sweets (semi-sweet chocolate chips obviously don't count) and soda (EASY....right? No more diet coke?? Well, we'll see about that one, doc).
The point is: I can't live without chocolate chip cookies. I love all cookies, cookie brownies, oatmeal, milanos, Girl Scout Cookies, peanut butter cookies.....all cookies, but chocolate chip is the best by far. I can't live without them.
I have a problem.
My name is Erica, and I am a cookie-holic.
****Hi, Erica.

Bad hur day

How come every time I look pretty good, makeup on, legs shaved, no wind, no granola bar/almost chunks in my teeth, hur (that's hair, for all you non-Nelly listeners out there) looking fly.....I see no one.
I look my best, yet, no one is there to see me looking my best/barely presentable.
It takes me months to work up the strength and courage and determination to fix myself to a certain standard of presentability. There are people I know (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) who get up every morning and 1) shower 2) shave off 75% of their body hair (yes, wild, I know) and 3) put on makeup.
EVERY morning. EVERY. MORNING.
I barely know where the shower is in my home, much less the mascara. I like to think I am making some sort of point about the struggles of women against the patriarchal regime controlling women as mere objects by subjecting them to this horrific, unobtainable standard of beauty.....but, no, I'm just lazy....and hella busy. I am TOO busy for that activity.
There's a war going on (no, not the unwarranted, habitation in Iraq and the middle East created by men controlling oil prices): the war of schoolin'. I gots to read, folks. I gots to do it and do it well. Good news, though: I will only have two more years after I graduate from here and then I will.....find another excuse not to put on makeup.

Sister, Sister

I got one. Many people do. Some don't.
Some have the boy version....others don't. I personally love one.
What I am talking about is SISTERS.
And the one I got happens to be the best. She is hilarious. I want, in general, to keep her out of the limelight (from my blog exposure) but there is something I must say.
She is the funniest person I've ever met or will ever meet. Some people try to compare...and fail.
Good news, though, the second funniest person spot is still up for grabs.
EW2: my sister, hilarious, has said some hilarious things in her span on Earth. As many many years my junior, she provides my life with constant sarcasm, wit, hilarity and much much more.
Too bad YOU don't have an EW2. (I am EW1, because I was born first).
One time, when we were visiting someone in the hospital, my mom passed out some mints to help ease our boredom and our breaths, of course.
So, on this very serious, grave occasion, I was 11 or 12 and my sister was 5 or 6. Just as my mom is sitting down to talk about options with a MEDICAL DOCTOR, with my aunt and my uncle....my sister comes around with her shirt Up. WAY UP. And my mom, like all of us, said, "EW2, Put your shirt down, honey."
EW2 left it up.
"EW2, really. Knock it off."---mom
"What's the deal, sista?"---me
shirt still up
"Smell."----EW2
"What?"---mom
"Smell my breasts."---EW2
"What.....Oh. Hahahahah. Babe, it's not breast mints, it's BREATH mints."---mom
Everyone: "hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha."
Best. sister. ever.

Chi-town

I am moving to Chicago (because I want to get even more of the Midwest in my system) and over midterm break I went to check out the town, sign a lease, etc.
Well, let me tell you something about Chicago that you might not know.
Yeah, everyone has heard of the (failing) Cubs, the Valentine's Day Massacre, Al Capone, Barack Obama's lovetown, the weird saucy pizza, and lastly, apparently there was also some huge fire there in the late 1800s. P.S. My spell check on this thing thinks 'Obama' is not a word. Damn Republicans.
Well, what they (society) don't tell you is all of the crime and the lack of popos taking care of all this crime.
Crime: Insane Traffic of the first, most deadly degree.
Participants: everyone with a car, taxi, bike.
First of all, I almost died about 18 times in the time span of oh, let's see, 24 hours!!!
Secondly, who would ride a bike in these conditions? Insane in the membrane.
Inches from death, nauseous at every turn....I couldn't wait to see Iowa and then to see a real state (Missouri) again.
Lastly, I can't wait to live in constant turmoil and probably receive many ulcers from my experiences driving in Chicago.

Librarians, SHHH!

At my current place of employment, the library, I have come to expect the impossible and the improbable. When one thinks of the library, I would imagine they picture quiet, serene, dusty bookshelves and mean old women shushing everyone....this is not the case at my library.
People do things that I would never expect them to do. Such as: steal things, yell, talk on the cell phone, eat a full, four-course meal at the library right under the sign that says, "Please do not eat or drink. Bottled water is okay."
But, the weirdest thing about working at the library is the lack of shushing from the mean librarians in wide-rimmed glasses. Nope, no shushing takes place here!
In fact, there is this one librarian who I am sure is a novice, although I know she isn't a novice because she's been a librarian for decades that I want to shush myself.
She is THE LOUDEST LIBRARIAN in the world. It's an oxymoron, no? A loud librarian. Ridiculous.
She just talks at an abnormally loud voice. It's almost too loud for the outdoors, it's that loud. When she starts on a voice bender, I like to call it that, I scooch down in my chair and hunch my shoulders because I am so embarrassed by the sheer volume at which she is talking. I am not exaggerating here. I talk loud. My voice carries...but this woman. Good gravy! So loud.

Dreams I've had

I've had some whopper of dreams, let me tell you.
Really, you have no choice in whether or not you want to hear my blog---it's my blog!
Let me reiterate that this, and every other blog is true, very true.
I have THE strangest dreams.
I have dreamt that I was in prison on a conjugal visit from my boyfriend.
I have had a dream where my ex-boyfriend proposed and that within 30 minutes, I was married, with a big white wedding in a library....family planned.
I have had a dream where I have died from natural causes at the age of 21 (which I am now).
The sheer range and variety of dreams is quite impressive. I dream about death, life, fun, sex (I've had LOTS of sex dreams. Lots.) and babies/pregnancy/birthing.
A huge category of my dreams is about the latter: babies, pregnancy, birthing and child rearing.
For one, I am quite disgusted at the act of breastfeeding and many of my dreams include me, breastfeeding my baby but being disgusted and ashamed of both my act of feeding, my own child and the whole world who accepts me for this shameful act (all in a dream).
I have also had dreams that I was pregnant...but didn't know it/refused to accept my fate.
My dreams are very odd.

Death, pt.2

Every time I am seriously ill, I think that I am dying. I don't know why I am so morbid, but it's just the way it is. That's my fate: to be morbid and on the verge of death perhaps.
So, I went to the doctors after Extreme pain in, on and around, as my Grammy B would say, "lower nether regions" (now is the time to exit this screen if you can't take the extreme talk). I used to make every one who went down south to fill out an application, take me to dinner and successfully pass a Polygraph test to see it. But, ever since I've come of age and grew into myself (aka, got older and wiser and less bashful), I let everyone who's interested take passage down in the nether regions. My goal, like I told my very supportive, probably weirded out, boyfriend how it was my goal in life to have as many people as possible see my Whositwhatsits. So far, I am up to: 6 doctors and nurse practitioners. Six....not including countless one night stands (just kidding, loyal readers, relatives, and the Englishman). I am only 21 years of age.....already 6 people. I haven't even had a CHILD come out of my WHOSITWHATSITS!! I like to think I'd go down in history....maybe make the newspapers and have people blog randomly about my blog. It'll happen.
Also, I like to give nicknames to all of my parts...especially the ones I can't see. Especially my nether regions. Like my ovaries, I named Bert and Frank (it came to me in a dream, I swear).
The V zone, I give TONS of names. TONS. One of which is Whositwhatsits. Another of which is The Holy Grail.
Anyway, so I went to Dr. Moustache (he had a great, large, white, moustache) and after asking me if two students and an RN could watch my doctor perform a whatever procedure he does down there, there was so many people that I could hold a lecture, a class, conduct a statistically sound survey and probably write a research paper about my experience.
There was so many people in the room.....my Whositwhatsits probably felt special. After doing whatever the hell he's digging around down there, he looks up at me and says, "Your problems can probably be reduced by almost eliminating carbohydrate and sugar intake."
Then I say, "WHAT."
At this point, he probably misunderstood and thought I did not know what carbohydrate means....because he said, "Like, pasta, rice, potatoes, candy, sugar, and chocolate."
MY LIFE IS OVER.
THIS IS THE END OF ME.
After the shock of being naked, embarrassed, red-in-the-face and insulted by even the mention of giving up the holy trinity of foods: Pasta, Potatoes, Chocolate....I said, absolutely serious, "What else is there to eat?"--me
At this time.....probably due to the nudity....the only thing I could come up with to eat, after all of those eliminations was: WATER.
In my head, I thought, Could I only eat water for the rest of my life. That's gonna be rough.

Of course, Dr. Moustache starts rattling off the limited number of options:
"Well, there is meat..."
Then I said, "DONE."
And then, he smiled and continued..."Vegetables..."
"Ooh....well. We'll see," I said with squinted eyes and a frowned mouth.
This is how I am leaving this world, I am sure of it.
"And dairy is okay too."--Dr. Moustache.
"Well....I think I am lactose intolerant, so.....probably not."
"And....fruit. Fresh fruit."---D.M.
"Well, that's okay...but, we'll have to negotiate the other foods. I can't just eat meat and bananas for the rest of my life."---me
(Literally stuttering), "Bbbut, what about the vegetables?"---D.M.
"Vegetables might have to take a backseat....or earn my respect."---me
I am so funny in the nude and exposed to 4 people in the medical realm.

next up.....Dreams I've had.

Death

I have been having a lot of health problems and if you can't bear to read about it in this delightful post, I suggest you man up and click the reddish box in the upper right hand corner of your laptop's screen.
So, I've been having a lot of health problems and since I can handle almost anything (or, at least I THINK I can handle almost anything life throws at me), having a health scare is very weird to me. I can't buck up and handle it. Let's just say, tears and me have been acquainted recently. So, I couldn't figure out what was going on, and after a half-hearted, super-failed attempt at self-medicating, I went to the doctor's office. Besides, I recently had a dream that I was going to die soon....so I figured I'd play into the karma/destiny game and speed the process along. And, the pain I was feeling resembled death, so I checked in! I have health insurance, so why not?
What is with doctor's offices anyway? They are always rambling on and on about privacy policies, yet, I always know everyone's business in the waiting room. Just by overhearing their conversations with the registered nurses and the receptionist and the medical biller and coder. I know their symptoms, their Social Security Number, their copay and their doctor. Even if I had a mind like a steel trap, I would not know what to do with a SSN. I still don't know what goes on with a SSN. Then, there is the waiting room. And...if there is no television or magazines (which this one lacked), all there is to do is talk. And, the relation between chit chatters and age is a positive correlation (aka, as age increases, the tendency to gossip and chitchat increases too). What's worse, the older you get, the state of your health worsens. Anyway, chit chatters, by nature, want to know your business and more importantly, want you to know their business. So, I got the scoop on a very gentlemanly fellow. Had trouble parking, was very hot in the waiting room....wanted a magazine, but couldn't find any....was waiting for a long time....was only in for a check up.
To be continued.....

Everyone's a critic, I am a fan of none.

I went to visit my oh-so-lovely western European Senior Seminar professor, from France or Switzerland (who has great looking lips and a great hint of an accent) and we went over a couple of papers I have written about history (you know how I do). I think I write more history papers than I have had original thoughts. Number of original thoughts: 16, number of history papers written in life, 39+.
So, Good Lips and I chitchatted about all that was wrong with my papers. One of my papers was an opinion piece about me as a writer. He made me (and the whole class) write about our strengths and weaknesses as a writer. For me, I can't stand criticism. Helpful or not, I do not appreciate any one's opinion. I wrote this, among other problems in paper #1. After having read these insightful, amazing opinions, he then critiques my faults in paper #2. HELLO!!!?!?!??!!?!!! I don't like criticism!! Stop criticizing my beautifully constructed, error-free paper that has little to no faults. ever. never ever. Then, after criticizing my paper(s), he looks deep into my eyes and....silence. No words. I have nothing to say either. Yet, he examines my eyes still. Then, he looks at me and says, "I can tell from my comments and your expression (I swear, I put my BEST, best poker face on) that you don't appreciate or like criticism."
And then, I swear, I tried to hold it in....I said, "Actually, I hate it. Loathe it. Can't stand it."
Then after seeing past his curvy lips, I looked into his eyes and again....silence. So not American. If he was an American, he would have spoke up....told me to 'Buck Up'.... and then given me more unhelpful, helpful advice. But, he was silent.
Then, after all of this unbearable silence, I said, "Sorry....I really am....it's just that....this paper is over. M'over it (translated to, 'I am over it.')."
The meeting was pretty much over after that remark.

Up next: look forward to: my weird body probs, dreams, and a post about death.

You're welcome, Webster Dictionary.

Sometimes, I like to create my own words. Yes, out of thin air. Yes, for no good reason and for no one's benefit except my own.
For instance: jokery. Jokery, meaning the action and sequence of joking around. In a sentence, "No one understands my jokery. I'm just joking and they ain't feeling my jokes."

Also, cynicality: cynicism which can get you into trouble, like a technicality. In a sentence, "My cynicality made me unfavorable with the folks in my Bingo group."

Next, preditated. A lousy joke or punchline which one could smell coming from across the room....like a predator...in which, you were the predator, yet being preyed upon, all at the same time. What irony! For instance, in a sentence, "During the sermon, when the church lights came back on, I preditated he was going to say, 'And God said let there be light...'."

Lastly (for now), ignorenda. This is when you ignore someone in hopes of procuring your own agenda. Used in a sentence, "I was so mad at her that I initiated the ignorenda. Hopefully she'll call and apologize tomorrow."

My cats, myself.

I started housesitting for a professor who is out of town and in her house she has these adorable cats. I never really spent time with cats, I've never had any of my own (even though my biological clock is ticking and if I wanted a family, I should start having cats now, so they tell me). haha
Public Service Announcement
***I am literally, Always Joking. Don't take me seriously.***

So, the more time I spend with cats, the more I realize that they are just like me. When they are hungry, the circle the kitchen. So do I!
When they eat, they are very defensive about their food. So am I!
When they are finished, they want more. Me too.
They sleep all day, they play all the time, they want to be rubbed on and heavily petted. What. a. coincidence! Seriously, they nap all of the time. Dogs are such different creatures to cats....dogs take naps if you do, but cats take naps all of the time. All day, all night. Up for minutes, then they turn around a sleep for hours.
I like how snobby cats are. I want to play, so I throw a toy, then they look at the toy, then up at you, give you the stink eye then walk away. So snobby.
I never thought I would say this (because I am a registered Dog Person), but I like cats, or rather, I like these cats.

Stuff White People, like me, Like.

I read this book recently and it gave me an idea for a blogpost:
The Book: Stuff White People Like, which was based on a blog by a funny man.
Here's what is true for me (which may or may not correspond with the book):
1. Ipods. White people can't get enough Apple gear. My bff, Dr. W, we'll call her lost her Ipod and could not live another hour.
Don't get me wrong, I love music when I work out, but not to block out the sounds of oncoming traffic on my way to school. I need both ears to hear the squealing tires I initiated when I crossed the street without looking. Both ears.
2. Farmers' Markets. White people can't get enough of fresh veggies that aren't tainted by the scheming corporate America. This is also related to those reusable grocery bags. Whites love to carry around those bags, chock them full of 2 dollar uber ripe tomatoes and 4 dollar sack o' apples from local growers.
3. Religions their parents don't belong to. I know a lot of kids who converted to Judaism or became Buddhist or Athesist and as it turns out: they are all white and their parents are not those religions. Why? Who knows. Maybe it was because of their neglect and contempt and resentment for their parents' religions. Maybe it was because of their higher education. Maybe it was one to many hits off the old b***.
4. Yoga. This one was also in the book. People go crazy for crossing their legs and doing little to know actual exercise. Sorry folks, it's true. I could do yoga all day....in my sleep....while having tuberculosis....in three feet of snow. Yoga is too easy and white people love it. LOVE IT.
5. Another thing not on the list is having a show that no one else watches. For me, it's Star Trek, TNG. For others, it's Flight of the Conchords, may it rest in peace. For other groups of people, it's Mad Men (like my roomie). Even more people like to watch The Colbert Report. Some even watch Real Housewives of whatever-rich-place-the producers-came-up-with-this-season. All of the these are white people shows. Some people have a daily talk show they like to watch.
6. Having a strange disease or ailment no one knows about or can fix, yet said white person will continue to talk about ailment for weeks and years to come.
For me, I am lactose intolerant. No cure. No remedy, really. Yet, I still complain about it to anyone with ears....or another ailment they can relate to mine.
7. Drinks.
White people love their drinks.
Tea, chi, green, black, grey, cold, hot.
Coffee
Weird wine (this is my forte)
Beers, imported, exported, draft, ale, inhaled, exhaled.
Flavored waters
soda *aka pop, aka coke aka sodapop aka sugarwater*
smoothies--why do people even get smoothies. It's really not that much better for you than a milkshake....plus it tastes like chalk, when that chalk is rotten. Plus, people always add a shot of immunity boosting supplements. Why? really? Really. Why? Are you not getting enough vitamin c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, n, o, p and zinc with your veggies from the farmers' market? Stop adding those chalking supplements to your weird combo smoothie. What is with those combos. Orange+strawberry+blueberry=gross.

Bingo, prunes, AARP

In many ways, I have an old soul. Yes, in some ways, I am very child-like and playful. But, mostly, I have an old soul. I like oldies hits (hits from the 50s, 60s and 70s) and not in a cool, hipster sort of way. I like BINGO, I like to eat early and I definitely enjoy naps. I used to loathe laying down in the middle of a perfectly good day. My, oh my, have the times changed. I love to sleep.
I love to take naps. I get cranky if I don't sleep 13 out of the 24 hours in a day. I love to complain about "kids today" and talk about how "when I was your age things were different." I am an old person (but I am only 21 years old). I am THE stereotypical old person. I don't like rad, hip cars, I prefer Hondas and Volvos (even though I drive a Pontiac). I get irrationally mad at people playing loud music, I talk about their future ear problems because of the decibels of music pounding their young ears. I get choked up about the war and the good ol' days on the beaches of......
I talk about gas prices, I enjoy listening to NPR and I like to use coupons whenever possible. Plus, like many older gentlemen and ladies, I am immune to the cold. People have to tell me to use extra coats because my skin isn't as sensitive to the elements as they were when I was young.
Why am I so old?
I'm not complaining; this is fact. I probably have most 70 year old men and women beat for oldness. They really need to work harder. I aim to succeed in the old realm.
I can just imagine myself in fifty years---what will I be like then?? Worse???
Or: here's another option:
Maybe I am like Benjamin Button--I'm just getting younger as time progresses.

Love

Recently, I have come to fully understand America's stance on love. Love. love. Big Love. regular love. Small love. No love.
We, as Americans are obsessed with love (and the lack thereof). We show love in cards, in gifts, in public displays of affection, in songs, in more songs, in poetry, in songs (all kinds of songs, really).
We also like to use metaphors and similes to talk about love. We, as Americans, love (here that word is again) to make huge generalizations about love. We also like to have cute, memorable sayings for love. For example:
Love is a battlefield.
All is fair in love and war.
Roses are red....sugar is sweet and I love you.
L...is for the way you look at me. O...is for the only one I see. Etc, etc.
Love will keep us together, think of me babe whenever.
Love your enemies as yourself.
Love; two minds, one thought. (WHAT???!?@?@????)
All you need is LOVE.
It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all (someone clearing who is a third party in a break up scenario....no one would say that if they are in the process of breaking up.)
Love the one yo' with.
The grandest one of all is those paintings that grandmas have in their bathrooms (my grandma has one in her bathroom) and it says: Love does not hope, love is kind, love is forgiving, love is not envy....etc, etc. By the time I am through reading all of those and analyzing my own love/life, I've been in the bathroom 36 minutes. I get so confused and my head gets dizzy---how am I supposed to remember so much from just one painting?? Ridiculous.
I like to invent my own.
Love is like a pineapple: Hard on the outside, sweet on the inside.
Love is like a pill. Difficult going down, once you got it, it's worth it.
Love is like a beach. Pretty rocky, expensive, you can find shells in the sand, you see grown adults half naked all of the time, someone there to get your back with sunblock. the end. (Although I've never been to the ocean, I am sure this is accurate)

Would the real slim veracity please stand up

There has been some question as the veracity of my blog posts. You know who you are.
All of my stories are real. I think I only embellished a little on a conversation (only for humor and dramatic appeal). The things I post are actual events. Let's face facts: Weird things happen to me. More weird things happen to me than to most people. I am a magnet for weird.
One time, I was in a college dormitory, checking my email (my house is living in the dark ages, without internet) and this strange girl is walking in my direction. This strange girl, you know the type. Probably weird in high school. Probably had a circle of weird friends. Fit in with her group, so not a loner, gets her kicks off of her unique sense of style. Wears a fedora hat, plaid pants, dyes her hair black. Well, anyway, she comes up to me and twists her body into an 'S' shape, like she's grooving, squints her face into an ugly squash, points her finger at me and says in a Gothic, British voice, "Helllll-OOOOO." It was reminiscent of the hunchback, from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Except, she was just trying to get a reaction from me. Here. I am the victim. She thinks I am some sort of uppity, sorority girl from the suburbs. Well. I have news for her. I am an uppity weird girl from the suburbs. HA!!! Fooled her, no?
Besides that, she has met her match for weird. I am the monster. I am the freak. She dubbed me WRONG. I am not some Marketing major (anymore) with a casual, usual, normal upbringing of conservative, orthodox normality. I am not normal. I am not the run-of-the-mill person you would run into. She has met her match for strange.
In response, the usual person would give her an awkward glance, scale the walls to pass by her and not (definitely not) respond. Normal people are hesitant to interact in any way outside their normality box. So, instead of being normal, I gave her a taste of her own medicine. In return to her saying, "Helllll-OOO," I said, "Why, Guuuuud Even'ing Govna. Top of the Morn on this merrrrrrry daye." (All in a goth brit accent and sly eyes with my own hunch back, snarling mouth and common temperment). Booyah, judge me at your own risk.

Pet peeves

I got a long list of pet peeves and since I am in a pet peevey mood, I'd like to share them all in a passive/aggressive/assertive (only when absolutely necessary will I use assertiveness) way.
I, as an amazing and infallible judge of character, have excellent tastes in all things, especially food, drinks, people, events, activities, sports, friends and last, but not least, pet peeves. Here are only some of my pet peeves:

1. Kicking the back of my chair. I do not understand. There is plenty of ways to use your foot. I don't even mind if you kick your own chair. But, please. Don't tap on my chair all throughout class time. I probably have an inner ear problem, it makes me a little dizzy....and studies are inconclusive, but, I am sure that your tapping on my chair leads to me wanting to punch you in the kidney.

2. Leaving all the electricity on in a room or house.
My dad taught me this one. I learned it from corporal punishment. The sun is there for a reason. IT'S A NATURAL GIFT. This is actually not pointing to anyone in particular. I do this all of the time (hence, why I hate it so).

3. Saying, "I was just gonna say that..." before everything you comment on in-class. I don't know why this bothers me, it just does. For instance:
"Yes, Adam, I see that your hand is up, I am now calling on you."---teacher/professor/discussion leader.
"Oh, well, I was just gonna say that Napoleon was a badass but shouldn't have invaded Russia."---Adam.
_______
Later in the class...
"Yes Adam"---professor
"Oh, I was just gonna say that....women were treated as inferior, per usual."---Adam
_____
POINT IS:
Don't say it. It gets on my nerves, gov'na.

4. Unless you are entering a Podunk town's block party, stop spitting. I am not a fan of spitting. I think it is because it is ever expanding. You never know who is going to do it and where.
Also, every time someone does it (usually a man), another man-type feels they have to do it....BUT BETTER.
Spitting now becomes a sport for these saliva stockers. One must out-do the other by spitting faster, carry more distance and hold more loog in the loogies. Yeah, I said it. Loogie.
I fear for their immune system and intestines---aren't they dehydrated?? Just food for thought.

I'm sure I'll have more pet peeves that I will write about later. DON'T YOU WORRY.

Reading

This post is going to be short and sweet. Just like....short and sweet things.
Anyway, I was reading at the library (again....again......again) and one of my classmates who is in more than one class with me comes up me and says: "Hey, how's it going? Whatcha up to?"
So I say, "Oh, not much is going on. How are you?"
"Pretty good. Have you read that essay for Class number one?"
Then I respond, "Yes."
Then he shoots back another question: "Have you read---"
"---Yes"
Then, "How about---"
"---Probably." (from me).
Moral of the story: I can't stop reading. I think I have read my life away thus far. I just read and then read and then read. I probably have thousands of tiny tiny paper cuts all over my hands from all of the pages I've turned in all of the books I've read. It's gonna burn when I take a shower tomorrow morning.
"AHHHHHHH, it burns......goddamn you History."

library 101

In desperate need to find something to write about, I decided to write about my lovely library gig. I call it a gig because it really isn't a job. It isn't a full time job. It isn't even a part time job. I'm going into the librarian circle. I don't want to be a hostess of books. I just work this gig like a prostitute. I get paid by the hour. I walk circles around the building making sure people know I'm available {for assistance; wink wink} and they can get all of their needs satisfied by asking me. I am a prostitute. A library ho. The library system (and corresponding networks) is my pimp.
Libraries are so different from all the other places I've worked. It is very relaxed at the library. There is no need to upsell anything because we're not selling anything. In fact, we would probably prefer that you not take so many books (and get jam hands all over the book covers). We are here to help....but don't get CRAZY. Take your own initiative. Patron....meet: the computer. Touch it. Get acquainted with it. Press a couple of buttons. Be nice to it....it will be nice to you. DO NOT, under any circumstances, do the following:
Come up screaming about some article on Ebscohost. Don't scream, for one. (For one, Shhh....this is a library and secondly, I am not shy or quiet, so you have met your voice match, blondie. My voice CARRIES. It carries far....it carries long.) Anyway, don't come screaming about some article, I am not researching with you. I don't know what just happened on your computer on the third floor. You haven't even formed a sentence. This is probably the first time you've ever seen my face. And today, I've only been here an hour and a half. I am a student. I do student things. I do not even have a degree yet. They pay me 7 dollars an hour. That's like 1/2 of what they pay kids in Tibet. Lay off.
Also, it might be a good idea to structure your questions, sentences, statements in a way that it non-threatening or offensive. Do not come up threatening to kill by mama, my first born or anyone that I love.
This is how it could go down:
"If I don't have this article in my hand, I will cut out yo motha's face."---mean patron.
"WHAT?!?!?!? How do you cut OUT her face."--me
"I will go inside her face and cut my way out....sucka."---mean patron.
"Wow. That's extensive."---me
"Sure is."---mean patron.
It's just inter-library loan. Like fish in the sea, there is more than one article out there.
--------------TO BE CONTINUED------------

Boyfs, girlfs, dating

If you have ever been in a relationship, I do not pity you.
I am in a relationship (it's a love thing), but when it comes to social interaction and dating faux pas, I am queen.
For one, I don't know how to obtain a man. I am very silly and I really am the strangest person when it comes to flirting. Bears are probably more gracious and subtle. The problem is patience. I don't have it. Some do. I do not.
No patience here.
Another thing is that when I am in a relationship, I always say or do the wrong thing.
For one, the golden rule of dating and relationships is: Do not mention the M or the P words.
I am here to help everyone learn from my mistakes:
Sure, you love him. Sure, he's probably the best thing that has ever happened to you. But, for god's sake: Don't mention weddings, marriage and babies. Nothing turns a guy off of sex like settling down and popping out screaming infants. No sex fo' you: no babies fo' you.
Seriously. I don't know what it is about people, but some are really into ruining relationships (mostly me). This is the time where you can feel sorry for the Englishman. He puts up with a lot.
Also, have you ever met one of those people who are born to settle down.
Like, one of those people who are really smart, stay in on Friday nights, have already done their taxes for this year (it's mid-January), think teachers are really hot and have purchased baby clothes for their future children....they are born to settle down. At first, I pitied them. But, then I realized that it is so much better than the opposite extreme: Falling for a guy on a broken down Harley, sporting a cash-only job, living off of the streets with an awesome mullet and some homemade "tea."
But seriously: back to social problems. Don't talk about M and P. Also, don't talk about your ex lovers. Unless you still love said person, leave the talk in your head, your diary or your amazing blog at blogspot.com.

In case of emergency

If there is ever a fire, flood, storm, tornado or earthquake (or all of those terrorist attacks we seem to have and are worried about) I will be the first to go.
For one, there are so many procedures that I would probably duck and cover under my desk for the earthquake instead of filing out of the building in case of a fire.
Then, there is the instance of me being bored. I can't stand it when I have to sit and wait to be shot. I would probably just gather my things and then peacefully (and hopefully sneakily) head out the back door. I am just too bored and too anxious to wait around in the dark for some teenage boy with daddy issues to come and empty his hunting rifle. I am sorry if this sounds crude, but this is just how it is. Also, I probably would be the first to get a cramp in my leg, stretch it out and then piss the terrorist off or alert the enemy to my/our position.
Lo siento, victims, I got a leg cramp.
I feel like when it comes to everyday life situations, I am like a 74 year old man. I'm stubborn, I don't care that much, I hurt people's feelings when I don't mean to do so, I'm very loud, my voice carries, I complain about the government, how things were better in the good ol' days, I can't sit still, I listen to old timey music and I like to eat my dinner early. I also have this quality where I do not like to do extra work unless it actually needs to be done. Like, I don't like to straighten my closet until I can't close it any more. Another trait is my fondness for Bingo, although that is crossing over into my grandmotherly traits.
Anyway, after hearing about the Haiti situation, I realized that I would be the first to go. I wouldn't want to take cover, I wouldn't lay low to the ground, I wouldn't be responsible or help other young fellows. I would be pissed off because the electric was off and I couldn't watch the news. I am a 74 year old man.

Snotty Snubs from the Snob System

I am here today (and everyday) to blog about my life.
The blog seems reasonable. The blog seems innocent. The blog seems harmless. People who read blogs (that is, not mine, no one reads mine, I am sure of it. Those who do, I love the most, of course) seem nice, harmless and considerate.
This would be INCORRECT.
Blogs are nothing more than a self-indulgent online diary.
And I can't get enough of it.
Every day I think about what I can/should write about in my international blog of mystery. Before I go to sleep, I think about what I could comment on....what about my VERY strange life/events in my life/things I do, that would interest those loyal reader(s).
But beware, future bloggers: everyone is a critic. Everyone knows that to read a blog is to be a critic to a blog/blogger.
I've had a recent revelation. Bloggers (me included) are subject and worthy of attack. But beware: don't preemptively judge bloggers. Like me, I blog not to be pretentious, but to get into the journalism realm. An adviser (aka, the Internet) told me if I wanted to be a writer, I should contribute to the information super highway (the world wide web). I also do it because I like the small-time attention I get and the feeling of contributing to a willing society (aka two to three people--who are the best, ever).
So, all in all. Bloggin' ain't no crime. 'S all good.

Emily

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I start to think about weird stuff. I start to combine different events with people who aren't even in the same state as me.
Like, for instance. I thought I heard gunshots coming from outside the house. I was alone, in Missouri, and I immediately thought, 'When did Emily buy a gun, bullets and then come to my house.'
Why would I think that?
Why would Emily buy a gun?
Why is she not in Illinois?
Why would Emily visit me, guns blazing?
Why would Emily want to shoot at me?
Turns out: Oops, I did it again (thanks BSpears)....I combined two different feelings/events: I combined my lack of friendship/insane loneliness for Emily with the alleged gunshots coming from outside my house.
In the end, I doubt it was gunshots, I think it was someone banging on their car with a blunt object in the middle of the night. Ghetto hos.

Correction: When I was talking about lack of friendship....I meant my lack of seeing friends because I was at home and away from my Bffs.

My Favorite Christmas Songs

I know it's a bit late, but if I don't write this, I think I am going to explode. I have a bone to pick with whomever is responsible for singing/listening to/making popular Christmas songs. You are picking the wrong ones to make popular and glorify. I'm here to set you straight (with passive/aggressive blog posts.)
Here are my under-appreciated favorite Christmas songs:
1. Baby it's cold Outside
Guy tries to convince the girl to stay awhile because it's cold outside (baby)
2. Santa Baby
Girl lists all the extravagant gifts she wants for Christmas: yacht, ring, convertible.
3. I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In
(On Christmas Day, On Christmas Day)
That's the only lyrics I know (or anyone knows), but I still love the song. So catchy.
4. Good King Wenceslas
"...looked out, on the feast of Stephen. When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even." (I had to look these lyrics and spelling up on google). This song, as you might recall, was made popular by Love Actually (Hugh Grant's character sings this song for a bunch of cute, dancing, demanding British girls).
5. Mary Did You Know (that your baby boy)
Kinda preachy, but beautiful. Especially when played with a full orchestra.
6. Rocking Around The Christmas Tree
Thank you, Brenda Lee. I would rock with you any day, home fry. This song's the bomb.
7. Walking in a Winter Wonderland
When I was a kid, I used to play this song year round. Now that I turned 21, I've stopped.

Just for the record: I do NOT like the song about Grandma getting run over by reindeer. Makes me cry every time. I also cry at the song I'll be Home for Christmas (if only in my dreams). Tears. Just writing it makes me have tears.
The worst of them all: Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. Why isn't anyone (like Santa, or Mrs. Claus) punishing the other reindeer for being so mean? Why didn't Santa notice Rudolph's gift sooner? I am sure other Christmas nights were foggy....why didn't Santa take notice. Sketchy to me, Santa Claus (if that IS your REAL name).
Another bad song: The Twelve Days of Christmas.
I always get confused, 11 pipers piping, 6 geese a-laying, 5 calling birds?? Not only can I not count backwards from 12, I skip many levels of gifts (maids: skipped, drummers: skipped, turtle doves: non-existent).
Also, by the by, how come Christmas songs are either so happy, or they make me cry and depressed. I guess that's just how the Christmas holiday is.
Anyway, thanks for reading! Catch ya here next time.

Coming to America

My best friend, ARod, came home from Studying Abroad for too many months. I wasn't too worried about my other friend studying in Africa, I knew that that friend had made it back okay. I knew she was coming home sometime in December, but I didn't know when. Instead of calling her directly, I first scouted out the other friends. I must have asked two of my other friends, like, 80 times when ARod was coming home, if she had arrived and what her feelings were toward being home, how she felt, jet lag, happiness, etc.
Of course, after the fourth time of not knowing how ARod was or what her location was, the two bffs got quite tired of answering.
All of the hub bub starting affecting other areas of my life: The Dream Realm.
That's right, folks, I had a dream about ARod's status as a non-U.S. citizen. I dreamt that ARod wasn't allowed back into the country, and not only could she not come back, she wasn't at all unhappy about living in her new country. In my dream, this made me very sad because I like to be missed and I miss her (still). The weirdest part was the fact that the dream was in the perspective of ARod. It was so trippy. An out of body experience, to say the least.
So, here I am, several days past Christmas and I kept receiving and dialing calls to ARod. Phone-tag, I think it's called. This only added to the mounding stress. I could see up-and-coming game shows featuring ARod:
Where in the World is Carmen San ARod
Wheel of Unfortune (because ARod is stuck somewhere, can't get back, and I can't properly receive her calls!!??!?!!!)
Jeopardy (her life's in jeopardy)
Deal or No Deal (making deals with some sleazy Euro-creep for ARod's life/passport back into the country).
The Price is Right (for ARod's passport)
Are You Smarter than A 5th Grader (I'm not, so that's a toughy).
Blind Date (I don't know how this relates, but I don't like it...)
Family Feud (I don't know how this relates either, but it sounds good and I am sure it plays a role).
Anyway, I can't receive her calls/she can't receive mine properly...she may or may not be in danger, I would like to take a nap in peace without the dreams of my ARod in jeopardy.

But then, I called her again, at a reasonable hour and she answered!!!!!!!
All is well. I think the only area that has long-term effects is my sleep pattern. And maybe PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.