I read somewhere that Oreos are as addictive as crack cocaine. If that's the case, then Law and Order: SVU is the new Oreo. (Hey, at least it's fat free!)

So it's New Years Eve blah blah blah whatever whatever. I'd rather pretend it's just Tuesday. Because if it's 2014, that means I'd have to face the fact that I'm graduating this semester--and I am not about that life, okay? You can go sing Auld Lang Syne to your heart's content (psh, like you even know the words), but I think I'll just ring in the new Hump Day, December 32nd.

Also I know, whoa, a blog post, you never thought you'd see the day. Neither did I. The holidays are a magical time.


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Okay, so the story I'm about to tell you may irrevocably change your opinion of me. It's even worse than the voodoo doll story. Seriously.

Confession: I was a Twi-hard.

That's right, I was one of those crazy Twilight-obsessed vampire groupies who wore a "Team Edward" t-shirt and purposefully used words like "kismet" and "moot point" because Stephanie Meyer did. Now, let the shock of that statement sink in first before I go back to the beginning. Drink some water if you need to. I know this might be difficult to hear.

For starters, I blame Megan.

Megan, a fellow member of a group of friends self-titled The Posse and one of the coolest #cats I know, brought this curse upon me. Back in the days of tenth grade, we were both pretty weird (not that we aren't even weirder now, I'm just trying to give you context). And until each school day officially started, we weren't allowed to go to our classrooms because, well, what kind of kids except delinquents and troublemakers would want to be in their classrooms before they absolutely needed to be? To prevent raucous behavior, we were required to stay in an orderly formation in the hallways on the main floor, and Megan and I used to sit together next to the wheelchair kids. I'm not really sure why we chose to sit next to them, as they were highly aggressive and angsty and would often get into fights, ramming into each other with their tricked out death machines and yelling obscenities at kids who had nicer rims or cooler LEDs--it was a little traumatizing. Anyway, one day Megan and I were sitting there, trying not to get run over by one particularly angry redhead (which, I mean, was understandable--he was probably like "I'm in a wheelchair and I'm a ginger!? Why, God, why!?) (I'm just kidding, I have nothing against redheads and their gene pool is slowly dwindling so let's not antagonize them) and Megan turned to me and asked me that fateful question: "Have you ever read Twilight?"

Twilight? I'd never even heard of it. Sounded kind of stupid to me. I mean, it's titled Twilight? What's next, a book called New Moon? Give me a break. "What's it about?"

"Uh.....Well don't judge it based on this but.....it's about a coven of vampires."

"What!? Vampires!? Are you serious?" Megan had clearly gone insane. I couldn't believe she thought I'd be interested in this garbage.

"No! Seriously! It's so good! I'll lend it to you--just start reading it and I promise you'll love it!"

Yeah. Right. We'll see.

The next day, she brought the book in. "What!? This book is so long! I don't have time to read this!" Between homework and stalking pop punk bands and sulking in my room, I didn't have a whole lot of free time.

"Once you start reading it, I promise, you'll finish it in no time!"

Yeah. Right. We'll see.

That night I took the book home and opened the cover, not expecting much. But by page five, I was hooked. I finished it in a matter of a few days.

There was something about Twilight that was almost intoxicating. It certainly wasn't the genius of the prose--though I wasn't judging that as harshly as I probably should have at the time. It was the characters. Okay, definitely not Bella. Bella was essentially a nincompoop: she made pretty stupid, irresponsible, and nonsensical decisions all the time (here, let me walk around alone in this random town where there are random dudes who could murder me). She was a shell of a personality in an unusually pale and twig-like body, and by the end of the book you really don't know that much about her--but that's the point. Bella was supposed to be a surrogate for the reader. It was brilliant, really. Instead of Edward and Jacob falling for some actual character in the book that you'd then have to be jealous of, Edward and Jacob actually fell in love with you. Isn't that nice?

The Cullen family was the epitome of cool. The ideal super young parents who were concerned for your well-being but not bossy or judgmental. The super hot siblings (who weren't actually related at all so it would have been okay if they had called each other super hot) (they didn't) who enjoyed being smartasses to one another but protected each other when it really got down to it. They'd been alive so long that, not only were they filthy rich, but they had accumulated a gazillion diplomas, lots of awesome clothes, and the best stories to tell at parties ("One time, the Dalai Lama and I were having lunch with Prince Edward and the craziest thing happened") (that story's not actually in the book). And they had a badass house that was 90% glass in the middle of the woods for god's sake--I would probably wet the bed every night if I had to live there. They were all way excited to have a cute little human friend (except Rosalie, but she was just kind of a bitch anyway) and, like, they were vegetarians so they only murdered animals--Bella was totally safe with them (unless she got a papercut, then it was like...sucks to suck). Alice dressed her up like she was little doll (because otherwise she'd only wear drab sweaters that were totally wrong for her body type) and everyone always had a jolly good time playing baseball, the great vampire pastime.

And then there was Edward himself. What's not to love? That bronze hair (though in my mind he had black hair and looked a lot like Gaspard Ulliel--I recommend Googling him if you don't mind drooling all over your keyboard). That sparkly skin (I always did love a dude who liked to shimmer). Those golden (though sometimes terrifyingly red) eyes. Sure, he was kind of obsessive. Sure, he was kind of controlling. And sure, he may have wanted to kill Bella every second that they were together--but he was suppressing it! C'mon, that shit's basically heroism. He just loved Bella so much--and since I was essentially Bella, he loved me so much. There was something slightly dysfunctional but absolutely wonderful about it. I'd be like "Oh yeah, Edward, stalk me to this random town and angrily drive me home in your Volvo" and "Oh yeah, Edward, lurk outside my bedroom window like a total creep." His brooding and occasional murderous rage was somehow charming.

And of course there was also Jacob. Poor kid. Never stood a chance really. All in all, I found him to be pretty annoying in the books with his whole "WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME" routine. But I guess going through your awkward teen years and learning how to morph into a humongous killer wolf would be a little stressful on anyone. And let's be real, Bella was such a tease. (Wait--does that mean I was such a tease too? Whoops.)

I read the second and third books, New Moon and Eclipse in a matter of weeks and I could not get enough Twilight in my life. I stocked up on all kinds of memorabilia--for my birthday I even got the bracelet that Edward gives Bella in Eclipse, with the little wolf charm and the little crystal heart on it. And I wore that thing with pride.

I also got into Twilight around the exciting time when both the first movie was in the process of filming and Breaking Dawn, the super shitty fourth book in the series, was about to come out. (Seriously, I went to the midnight release of Breaking Dawn, read the entire book from 1am to about 3pm, pausing only to snack, and it was a complete disaster. A stupid mutant baby? That Jacob imprints on? That the Volturi get super pissed about and are ready to start an epic battle royale over only to get there and be like "haha jk nvm we'll just leave"? I was livid. I almost burned my copy but then decided I needed it for aesthetic purposes). It was an exciting time in the Twilight world. So what did I do? What any mega super fan does: I joined an internet Twilight forum.

I know, I know, you're rolling on the floor laughing just thinking about this. It's fine, I understand.

As with my initial induction into the Twilight cult, Megan was responsible for this as well. She told me about the forum one day, so I went home to check it out--and of course I ended up joining. Unlimited Twilight news!? Discussions about the accuracy of casting in the movie!? Lengthy explanations about how vampires mate!? (I kid you not, the VMT, or "Vampire Mating Thread," was one of the most popular on the site, and it was full of super committed members who really had a thing for extended metaphors.) It was like I was in heaven. I could indulge in my nerdy obsession with all of these fellow nerds and no one would judge me. And everyone was so welcoming--users seemed genuinely happy to "meet" new people and have them join in on discussions. It was a new sort of phenomena to me, but it was endlessly intriguing.

I started out just posting on Twilight-related threads, talking about which book was the best (I'm a fan of the original Twilight), who would make a better snuggle buddy (obviously Jacob since he was so warm and his body wasn't hard as a rock), and what it would be like when Edward and Bella finally did it (the answer: anti-climactic--thanks for nothing, Stephanie Meyer). But eventually I branched out into the non-Twilight sector, known as the "Flight to Phoenix" section, where people could talk about whatever they wanted. And I became quite a regular poster on the "NBOAD" a.k.a. the "Never Been on a Date" thread.

The NBOAD was more of a general thread about dating and relationships, though there were quite a few true NBOADers, myself included. I'm not really sure what gave me the idea that I could give could dating advice. Not only had I never been on a date, but, at that time, it didn't look like I'd be going on one anytime soon (especially given my extracurricular hobby of being a Twi-hard). But the girls (and few guys) on this thread all seemed pretty desperate, and I'm a good listener, so I soon became the resident expert. I helped people through nasty breakups. I helped people figure out how to approach crushes. I helped people regain their self-esteem after some asshole had torn it down. It got to the point where, if I didn't post at least once a day, people would start freaking out. "Where are you!?" "We need you!" "I could really use your help!" I was even so well-known for my love-guru status that people would refer other users to me: "I heard maybe you could help me. There's this guy..." Two of my fellow NBOADers even dated themselves, over the internet, while thousands of miles apart (it didn't quite work out...but guess who was there to help them through the breakup).

It was a very weird thing. I love helping people, and that's why I was so committed to the thread for so long (well over a year). But the amount that people were willing to share about themselves with a complete stranger on the internet was mindboggling. People would share their deepest, darkest secrets and issues without hesitation. I once had a girl go missing because she was suicidal--and it struck me that there was a person (somewhere in Europe) who was really having these real problems and could really cause herself harm, and I was one of the only people who knew about it. (She came back a few days later and assured us that she was fine, though I don't recall hearing from her ever again.) Nobody truly knew anything about me outside of my reputation on this internet forum, and yet people trusted me without hesitation. And, eventually, some of these people even started adding me on facebook--destroying the security of their anonymity, but still being just as open with me. (I must have looked trustworthy; I don't know, does Taylor Swift look trustworthy?)

Eventually, I couldn't handle all that responsibility to help the masses--and I had to do real-life things like apply to college and rehearse for a show--so I sort of resigned my post as Dr. Love. I still keep in touch with a few people from the NBOAD; one of them is a dear penpal of mine from the UK, and we still love to swap juicy stories and dating advice. But, when I look back at my experience on the Twilight forum, I think about all of those people I encountered and where they might be now--and I wonder if a few simple words from one stranger on the internet to another may have actually made an important difference in someone's life. The fact that a thread on a forum could be a support system for people from all over the world, who'd been brought together by nothing more than a common interest in a poorly-written vampire novel--just like Twilight itself, it was simultaneously dysfunctional and wonderful. (My NBOAD days really helped me in thinking about the show that I co-wrote about our behavior on the internet, Sparksource.)

Also eventually, I got sick of Twilight. The movies were garbage, the books got to be too mainstream, and I moved on to actual pieces of literature like East of Eden and The Sun Also Rises (yeah, so I'm a pompous English major, deal with it). Although I think what actually did it for me was the one meeting of the Twilight Club that Megan and I attended out of curiosity. Never in my life have I been more afraid of being murdered by a group of girls with purple hair and black clothes and vampire fetishes. I think I threw in the towel right then and there.

But Twilight served its purpose in my life, and I served my purpose on the NBOAD, and now all I have of those days are the memories, letters from my penpal, and a leftover interest in vampires that I indulge in with The Vampire Diaries.

Shut up, you know Ian Somerhalder is a babe too.

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And yet another parental occasion inspires a blogpost...

If you know my dad, you love him.

I honestly cannot think of anyone who has met my father and doesn't find him endlessly entertaining.

Except for that one friend who thought he was a bank robber because he tends to dress in suspicious black clothing all the time . . . But aside from her, people tend to think my dad is both crazy and hilarious. Because he is. (Though he's usually more crazy than he is hilarious when you have to live with him 24/7 . . .)

My best friend Rachael and I are so humored by his everyday weirdness that, for her birthday one year, I bought her a bag of personalized M&M's that had a picture of his face on them. My mom thought it was a little strange, but Rachael totally got it. She refused to eat them so she can keep them forever.

You see, my dad sort of lives in his own little world. For one, he doesn't really like to have friends. His mantra in this regard, as Groucho Marx (and later Woody Allen) put it, is "I don't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." So most friends are out of the question because who would want to be friends with him? (The real answer is everybody, but I'm not sure he's aware of that.)

Since he therefore doesn't really have anyone else to chat with, he tends to talk to himself. Like, a lot. As I have once quoted him saying, "Yeah, I talk to myself. At least I listen!" At any given time he's usually mumbling something incoherent under his breath--that, or if he's at home, actually blatantly talking out loud. I used to ask him what he was saying, but I've come to realize over the years that I would probably rather not know.

His favorite place to talk to himself is in the shower. This is where he whistles (and he is actually a darn good whistler--like, we're talking professional quality whistling here), sings (usually songs that he's made up on his own--"Half Drank Sodas for Sale" is a classic, as his major pet peeve is when we open a Coke and only take a few sips out of it), and talks to himself, sometimes as different characters. I listened in on a shower conversation he was having with Charlie the Tuna once: "Sorry, Charlie, but there's only room enough in this town for one of us!" I have literally no idea what he was talking about, but I'm sure it was completely rational in his mind. Sometimes my whole family will just camp out outside the bathroom door and listen to him--it always promises to be a rollicking good laugh.

When Daddy does talk to people, it's usually to complain. He is one for ranting, that's for sure. (If you'd like an example, take a look at the quotes section on my Facebook. It will not disappoint.) Driving aggravates him. Going to stores aggravates him. Watching TV aggravates him. But when it comes down to it, he's all bark and no bite. "That guy cut me off! If you weren't in the car, I'd stalk his ass down and brandish a baseball bat out of the window!" "Right, sure you would, Dad." I've never seen him so much as get attitude with a cashier or a waiter--nothin'. He's like the little chihuahua that thinks it can take down the pitbull across the street: sometimes a little loud and snappy, but mostly just cute and harmless.

He likes to complain about work too, as everyone does. But he's worked for thirty years (or something crazy like that) on third shift. Third shift. I mean, you couldn't pay me enough to work third shift for three decades. Him working third shift helped mine and my brother's childhood flow almost perfectly, though: mom works during the day and entertains the youngsters/drives them to activities in the evening, we all get to have dinner together, dad works at night and picks us up from school/goes on field trips/takes care of sick children during the day. I remember it working so well as a child that it never occurred to me that other families didn't operate like that. But Daddy always took care of us, no matter if he'd had four hours of sleep or forty minutes of sleep. My mom always describes him as a good provider, and I think that's an apt description--he's always there when we need him.

Most of my friends tend to think he's some kind of CIA spy or FBI official or something, though. And there is some evidence to support this theory. No one in the family has ever been to his current place of business. I couldn't even tell you what he does; his title is "Operations Analyst," as if that isn't the most dubious thing ever. His last place of business I went to a couple of times as a kid, but all I remember is an endless row of tape slots . . . and all I remember him doing is taking tapes out of certain slots and placing them into different ones. Thinking about it now, it sounds like some serious sorcery. Also, there is the fact that my dad has supposedly worked with "computers" for 20+ years now, and yet he still types with two fingers, like a chicken pecking mercilessly on the keyboard. He also can't figure out iTunes to save his life (although with this new version, who really can). So, with these pieces of evidence in hand, as well as the fact that he is super stealthy always, I think FBI agent is probably a good guess.

Outside of work and taking care of the chilluns (pets included), my dad has few major hobbies. He likes to watch TV (with Duck Dynasty and Redneck Island being two of his favorite current shows, Seinfeld being his all-time favorite show). We often joke that if he likes a show, it's going to get cancelled, because his taste in TV is usually pretty strange. He also likes NASCAR (if you've ever seen our garage, you couldn't have missed the wall-sized mural of Tony Stewart's bright orange #20 car) and a plethora of other sports. He enjoys cooking--he almost always made the dinners during my childhood, and the guy could open up shop in his own restaurant tomorrow and make millions of dollars as the next Bobby Flay/Anthony Bourdain hybrid. But mostly, these days, he likes to run.

A couple of weekends ago, he ran his first marathon. And not just any old marathon: a trail marathon. Like creekbeds and rocks and mud and stuff. Now, this may not seem that daunting considering I told you that he likes to run; however, it helps to know that up until that point, he had never run more than maybe 15 or so miles. Definitely never 26 (point two, for you technical ones). And definitely not on trails. Needless to say, my mother and I were a bit worried that he might not make it through. We showed up to support him at the finish line, and we waited well past the time he'd ballparked that he'd be done.

He had told us that if you didn't reach the 20-mile marker by a certain time, they'd pick you up and drive you to the finish line. My mom and I sat there, anxiously hoping we wouldn't see him ride-of-shaming it in some windowless van to meet us at the end. Each time I saw a runner come into view around the last bend, I'd strain my eyes, hoping and praying it'd be him. Finally, after a total run time of about 6 hours and 45 minutes, I saw him come trucking down the road in his signature gait, one arm pumping steadily along, the other flopping awkwardly against his chest. We cheered for him as he crossed the finish line with a look of triumph. The marathon people then handed him a mini Louisville Slugger that said "Back of the Pack": he had come in dead last.

But honestly, I couldn't have been more proud of my father that day. He did something a lot of people--me included--could never do, and he did it with more perseverance than I could ever fathom. And he did it in his own way, in his own time, as he does everything else in his life. He inspired me to continue running a few times a week, even though sometimes I hate it and sometimes it's awful. He inspires me a lot in that way--always working hard, and always staying true to himself.

My dad used to be the party man, hanging out with my brother and his friends, downing mint juleps at Derby. Now he has to wear readers to look at a menu and he enjoys his "robe time" on the couch snuggling with our dog more than most things he could probably think of. But he'll always be the fun, the funny, the freak: my father. And for that, I will always love him dearly.

Happy Father's Day, ya'll!

Doing the Steve Zissou

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It Ain't Just Any Other Sunday, Ya'll.

When you're out with your mom, people (usually waiters looking for a fat tip or sales clerks looking for some commission, and almost always males) often say, "Oh, is this your sister?" And they usually get that fat tip or commission because, well, that's sweet--even though it's pretty obvious that if he really seriously thought your mom was your sister, he'd probably need to see an optometrist in the near future.

But, in my case, this comment gets made by many different people on a regular basis, whether when my mom and I are out together or when someone sees a picture of us. Because my mom and I are actually twins.

Okay, not actually, because we all know genetics doesn't work that way.

Unless I was cloned . . . which is not entirely out of the question . . .

Nahhh, I've got my dad's weird sense of humor and tendency to talk to myself. (Exhibit A, the conversation I just had with myself via text. Oops.)

But my mom and I are pretty darn similar--in looks, mannerisms, the way we think, the way we interact with people. And when we're together, we act like sisters, giggling at the silliest things, talking about shopping and mani/pedis, and people-watching like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes she sends me pictures of Ryan Gosling just so we can bask in how attractive he is.

Now, I don't have an actual sister, but my brother and I certainly aren't sitting around trading pics of hot dudes.

In her role as my sister-mom (though, now that I think about it, I'm not a huge fan of that term, as it reminds me of something you'd hear on some weird Mormon polygamy compound--but I digress, you know what I mean), she is always there for me when I need her. She made sure I had the perfect pair of expensive prom shoes even though she knew I was only going to wear them for three hours of my life. She helped me torture a voodoo doll of my high school arch nemesis (if you missed that story, you should check it out here.) She always made sure I had the coolest themed birthday parties when I was a kid; one was a "Surivivor" party (like with buffs and Jeff Probst, not like with Destiny's Child, although that would have been pretty sweet too) complete with bonfires, sleeping in tents, ridiculous obstacle courses, and nasty food challenges--which was all pretty sick until one girl almost got blinded by smoke and was sent home. (But hey, survival of the fittest, I guess.)

My mom is always trying to protect me too. When we're in the car and she has to stop quickly, her arm automatically flings out across my chest (because that will definitely stop all the momentum of a several thousand pound hunk of metal crashing into us . . . although moms are supposed to have super strength in times of crisis, so maybe I shouldn't joke). One time, when we were staying at a cabin in Gatlinburg for my senior spring break, she thought a bloodthirsty serial killer was on the loose in the night, and she was poised and ready to call 911 with one hand and karate chop that bastard to Timbuktu with the other. (It turned out some hillbillies were just hunting raccoons or something at three in the morning, totally normal.) Another time, when she came to visit me when I was staying at Wolfie's farmhouse, she woke me up in the night because she thought a strange white van was in the driveway, and she was more than prepared to use Wolfie's century-old farm tools to go all Saw VI on this rapist/robber/killer's ass. (That one turned out to just be MY car in the driveway . . . but it was dark . . . and the house probably had a gas leak causing hallucinations . . .  or something.)

Whenever I need someone to run lines with me--a semi-banal activity that most of my friends hate--she'll gladly spend hours going through my script, using a different voice for every character.

When I was four and I wanted to be a witch for Halloween, she spent an exorbitant amount of time painting my face to perfection, complete with a nasty witch wart and all. When I then cried upon seeing myself in the mirror because I was too scary, she washed her masterpiece away to ease my fears.

When I got in my first wreck in her car (which pretty much consisted of me knocking this woman's side mirror off while she was sleeping in her car, and her aggressively bitching me out--talk about over-reacting . . .), and I called her crying, she had someone drive her right over, and she even let me buy a dress to make myself feel better.

When my dad cut his finger open one Halloween and needed stitches, she dropped me off at a friend's house so that I could still get my mad candy swag on while they were at the hospital. I got a whole bag of freshly-popped kettlecorn and a new toothbrush to compliment it that year.

When I was at a dance competition and someone else's mom drew ridiculous dark brown eyebrows on my already ridiculously gem-covered face, my mom scrubbed those suckers till they were almost a normal shade so I wouldn't look like a scary eyebrow monster in all the pictures.

When my boyfriend broke up with me right before finals season freshman year, she sent me my favorite kind of cookies--chocolate chip sans chocolate chips--the very next day, along with an encouraging Hallmark card with bunnies on it.

When her mom (with whom she had a very strained relationship) was in the hospital, we roadtripped up to Illinois together to see her, and despite the deep emotional issues involved with the situation, we laughed and laughed and almost peed our pants everywhere we went, joking about Schwan's root beer floats, and people crunching ice, and Grandma Fran telling me the stuffed puppy I bought her at the gift store was ugly. We kept each other sane.

And that's what we always do: keep each other sane. We try to make sure we're not being stupid. Should we text that person back? Should we eat that massive dessert? Should we really watch all twelve hours of that crime show marathon? We look out for each other and support each other and, of course, make sure that we always look fabulous.

Most college kids don't talk to their parents much. They might text, maybe call them occasionally. But I talk to my mom at the same time every single day.

Because we're two peas in one genetic pod--or probably more like a Twix bar, because, let's be real, peas are too healthy for our taste. One of us without the other is like Olivia Benson without Eliot Stabler (before they got rid of him on SVU, which is just malarkey, as we all know), or like Mary Kate without Ashley, or like Tommy without Chuckie (the goofy redhead with the untied shoes, not that creepy murderous doll). We're a team.

When I was little, my mom used to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight with the same little routine. She'd say, "I love you *kiss* God bless you *kiss* Sweet dreams *kiss* See you in the morning *kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss* You are my world." I remember that mantra sometimes, and I realize that the reverse still is, always has been, and always will be, true. You are my world, Mom. A huge reason why I am the crazy, fun, caring, driven, mostly-put-together-at-least-in-public person that I am. And for that, I will never be able to thank you enough.

Happy Mother's Day, Momma!

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Wait a Second, Is This a Blogpost? OH SNAP.

...Hello there.

Clearly I haven't blogged in like a million years. And by that I mean over a year. Which is basically the same thing.

My bad, ya'll.

I can't make any promises about how often I'll keep this up in the future...but I thought it was at least time to make a little comeback from my hiatus.

For Valentine's Day, obviously.

So here's a story for you...I don't really care if you like it or not. (Okay, actually I do, but put me on the stand and I'll LIE.)






For a long time, I was a cynic about love. "Who needs it?" I would say to myself. "It's gooey and icky and gross." Whenever Valentine's Day rolled around, my mom would send a bouquet of flowers to me at school. The teachers and other girls in class would swoon, thinking some stupid knight in shining Levi's was making some grand romantic gesture. But I, bitter and begrudging, would set them straight: "These are from my mother, you plebeian romantics. Boys are stupid and ugly and if one gave me flowers I'd send them through a wood chipper." (Perhaps I wasn't that vivd with my imagery, but you get the idea.)

This cynicism did not just blacken my Grinch heart one day out of the blue. It was inspired, as many things in my life have been (see: vegetarianism), by a boy. A cute boy. The cutest boy, if I do say so myself.

I was five. It was kindergarten. The big leagues. Boys in preschool had been whatever, I guess, but I had been too busy learning how to tie my shoes and playing on the monkey bars to care. But in kindergarten, I noticed boys. Or, rather, I noticed this particular boy.

Nathan Wall.

Yes, that was actually his name. Not very poetic, I'll grant you that, but what did I care? I'd stare at him during shaving cream playtime (that was seriously a thing--I can't be the only one who partook in that), during storytime, during show-and-tell. Basically, there weren't very many minutes of the school day when I wasn't staring at Nathan Wall.

He was beautiful. Blonde bowl cut hair. Dreamy brown eyes. Super cool Michael Jordan-inspired outfits complete with badass light-up shoes. I mean, what was not to like about this boy?

I was in love. I was convinced. Most of what I knew about love had come from Disney movies and Boy Meets World, and I was quite sure that he was both my Prince Charming and my Cory Matthews. It was destiny.

Being young and mostly uninhibited, I did whatever I could to be around him, talk to him, do things for him. "Oh, do you need a swing!? Take mine!" "What a cool crayon color you're using. That dinosaur is practically anatomically correct!" "Snack Pack for lunch!? No way, me too!" Before I knew it, I was in like Flynn. We were best friends. During storytime, he sat by me. During show-and-tell, he'd show and tell right to me. During shaving cream playtime, he'd give himself a Santa beard and make faces only at me. I was ecstatic. He thought I was cool: he complimented by velvet scrunchies, he invited me to his kickball games at recess, he even shared his Oreos with me at snack time.

I started fantasizing about marrying him. I'd scrawl "Christine Wall" in my ratchet kindergarten handwriting on all of my steno pads. I made crude wedding dress designs and thought up ways to get the Spice Girls to sing at our reception. It was Nathan Wall and me, 4ever and ever and ever.

So naturally, when Valentine's Day came along, I decided to make my grand declaration of love. I stayed up for hours and hours the night before, crafting like I'd never crafted in my five years of life. I made him the biggest, sparkliest, most beautiful pink heart Valentine that the world had ever seen. I was seriously expecting Martha Stewart to start asking me for tips. It was a triumph. I carefully slid it into my Lisa Frank backpack and stayed awake all night with giddy excitement to present it to him in class the next day.

At the beginning of the day, the teacher announced that we would have a special time for Valentine exchanges later that afternoon. I bursted with anticipation all morning, stealing looks at him all the while. I was constantly asking for a hall pass to trek to the bathroom and check my strawberry lipgloss and magenta jumper. I had been so confident the night before, but for some reason my apprehension was building: what if he's grossed out? what if he thinks I'm a weirdo and never shares his Oreos with me again? I was sure I'd die.

Finally, it came time for the Valentine exchange. I got the usual Looney Tunes and Winnie the Pooh Valentines, even a few with suckers or candy inside. But I couldn't even get excited about my spoils. I was too nervous.

I somehow found the courage to walk up to him. I hid the ginormous Valentine behind my back, the sparkles shedding all over the floor like shiny dandruff. I tapped him on his shoulder.

"Hey, Nathan!"

"Oh hey, Christine."

"Get some cool Valentines?"

"Oh yeah! I got a whole mess of Sweet-tarts."

"Oh awesome!"

Then there was a pause. I took my chance.

"So listen, Nathan, I--"

"Hey, do you think Amber likes me?"

I stood, dumbfounded, my stomach dropping straight into the soles of my jelly shoes.

"Wha--what?"

"Amber. She's really cute. Do you think she likes me? I want her to be my Valentine."

The whole Earth opened up and fell into the depths of Hell.

"I...I guess so. I don't know how she couldn't like you..."

"Cool! I'm gonna go see if she wants to swing with me at recess."

And with that, he walked away, ripping my five-year-old heart out as he went. I didn't know what to do. Here I was, holding this big stupid pink heart with no one to give it to, my face haphazardly smeared with strawberry lipgloss. I once again asked for the hallpass to go to the bathroom (my teacher, at this point, had become quite suspicious, but I assured her that I had simply consumed too much apple juice at snack time). I ripped the pink heart into tiny pieces and sat on one of the toilet seats, bawling my pathetic little eyes out.

From that moment on, I renounced love and all the dumb stuff that went with it--namely, boys. I stopped hanging out with Nathan Wall, and became best friends with the class psycho who breathed heavily and had a family not unlike that of the creepy foster parents in the classic Mary Kate and Ashley movie It Takes Two. Nathan and Amber went on two playtime dates before she dumped his ass for a kid with spiky hair and an extensive Hot Wheels collection.

And on this Valentine's Day, I look back at this first spurned kindergarten love with the knowledge that, while there will certainly be other disappointments in life, I will one day find someone I'm meant to share my Oreos with.

Besides, "Christine Wall" is perhaps the worst name in the history of naming. Being "Mrs. Wall" sounds about as interesting as being "Mrs. Piece of Beige Construction Paper."

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After Watching Countless Hours of BBC America, I Have Come to the Conclusion That Gordon Ramsay Is a Peach.

I don't mean that literally. Obviously Gordon Ramsay is not a delicious fruit that appears on Georgia license plates. But he seems like an okay guy. Sure, all he does is yell profanities at people. And tell them that their food is terrible. And make them feel like failures. But...
Okay, I call Stockholm Syndrome.

Anyway, clearly I haven't really done anything productive with my break. Why haven't I blogged more, you ask? Because that would require brainpower, of which I have precious little right now. Going back to school shall be a rude awakening.
Ah, well. I wrung out all of my mind mojo to write this blogpost. You're welcome. Here's an embarrassing story from my childhood.





My fifth birthday occurred in the middle of life-altering changes.
My family had just moved to a new house.
Only months before the move, my brother's and my turtle, Leonardo, had run away.
Only weeks before the move, my dad had built this radical treehouse in our backyard--only for us to move away from it. 
Only days before the move, I found out that my best (male) friend owned more Barbies and Barbie paraphernalia than an Al's Toy Barn. 
The new house was barely even five minutes away from our old one, but this whole concept of "distance" had not yet entered my consciousness. For all I knew, we could have moved three states away, never to see our precious neighbors and friends ever again.
And the cherry on top of this melted, sugar-free sundae was the fact that I'd be transferring to a new elementary school the next month. With my awkward social skills, it had been difficult enough to make friends at my previous school (never mind the fact that these so-called "friends" were slightly psychotic--beggars can't be choosers, y'know), I didn't have the capacity to make a whole new set of friends at this "accelerated" school they were sending me to.
Basically, my tiny five-year-old self had been through a lot and I was under the impression that my abbreviated life was over. No turtle. No treehouse. No friends. How can one live without these essential components? Exactly. You can't.
Thus, in the midst of such emotional turmoil, my fifth birthday was kind of a downer. My family had gone out to dinner to celebrate the occasion, but I wasn't much in the celebration mood. I opened my presents at dinner with little enthusiasm. "Oh. A Polly Pocket. How swell." At least it's not a Barbie. "Oh, look. An Easy Bake Oven. Yipee." Now I can go bake semi-real treats for my nonexistent friends. It seemed that nothing was going to jerk me out of my pout sesh.
The ride home was eerily quiet. Suspicious glances were shared between my other family members. They even appeared to be giving each other a secret nod. I didn't think much of it until we stopped in the middle of our street.
My mother looked back at me from the passenger's seat. "Mitchie and I are just gonna go for a walk, okay, baby girl?" My brother exited the vehicle.
"Wait, I wanna come!" I unfastened my seatbelt. No way I was gonna let them leave me out of something fun on my birthday.
"No, honey, why don't you just stay in the car. We'll be home soon. We just wanna go for a walk."
"Yeah, and I wanna go too!"
Before I knew it, my mom had shut the door and my dad was gunning it down the street. What is happening!? I began to bawl my eyes out. Not only had my turtle, my treehouse, and my friends abandoned me, but now my brother and mother were too? This was beyond offensive. Can't a girl catch a break?
We pulled up to the house and I immediately went upstairs to lock myself in my room. These savages! Have they no sympathy! I'm not invited on a stupid, lousy walk? I didn't get it. My self-pity bout lasted only briefly, however. I moved on to bigger and better plans. Like making my family some yummy dirt pies in my new Easy Bake Evil.
Minutes later, I heard my kinfolk arrive back at the homestead.
"Baby girl, come down here a minute! We wanna show you something!"
Ha! Like such a banal request would get me down those stairs after what they did to me. I wasn't biting.
"Come on, pinky lee, we've got a surprise for you!"
Wait--a surprise? No, no, no, I cannot be so easily swayed!
Well, hold on, what if it's a Barbie Jeep? Granted, the Barbie thing will probably haunt me, but no sane five-year-old girl would pass up a Barbie Jeep!
I bounded happily down the stairs, imagining how my brother and mother drove the Barbie Jeep from down the street, jolly grins on their faces, the pink and purple flowers shimmering in the sunset. I turned the corner into the den, expecting to be lead outside to take that beauty for a spin. I suddenly wondered where my blue-tinted sunglasses were; obviously I was gonna need to joyride in style.
But what appeared around the corner was not at all what I expected. In my mother's arms, she held the most adorable blue-eyed orange kitty I had ever seen. I squealed.
"Really!? For me!? No way!!" I had been under the impression that no one in my family liked cats. (According to them, that is still true.)
"Yup, she's all yours. The neighbors down the street rescued some kittens who had been abandoned and they were giving them away for free. What're you gonna name her?"
"Angel!"
Only a few days later, that name was altered to "Sassy," so as to be more fitting to her temperament.
Only a few years later, that name was again altered, this time to "Fatty," so as to be more fitting to her physical appearance. She is pictured at the bottom of this blogpost. (And yes, she really is that fat.)
Sassy and I were inseparable. She didn't really like anyone but me--and she still doesn't--but we were the best of pals. I treated her like she was my very own child, and she snuggled with me because I put food in her bowl. The logistics of this relationship remain about the same today.
Because she was a new member of our family, and because we (read: I) were all excited about her, we bought her lots of toys and treats those first few months. One of the items we purchased was a little cat house. (An example is pictured below.) Little did I know, that cat house was to almost end my life.

The actual one was a god-awful teal color.

********************This is supposed to denote a transition, okay?************************

It was a fairly typical night in the Noah household. We were all gathered in the living room, watching television together, listening to my father talk to himself, snuggling with our animals. For some reason, I was seated on the floor--I probably got kicked off the couch because I suck the glass when I drink (true fact) and this disturbs my family members, particularly my brother. I began rolling around on the floor like a bloody idiot (see, there's that BBC America creepin' in), making noises and doing weird gymnastics moves. My usual behavior.
And then I spotted the cat house.
And for some reason, I got the ingenious idea to stick my leg in the cat house. Up to my knee.
My relatives found this a little strange, but I was hamming it up, having a rollicking good time, pretending I was an amputee and all that good five-year-old stuff. We all had a laugh. Good, clean fun. No harm done. I went to remove my leg from the cat house.
I wiggled. I jiggled. I jaggled.
My face transitioned from computer paper white to tickle-me-pink to lavender to purple mountain's majesty.
It turned into a fearsome battle: in this corner, ugly teal cat house, in the other corner, the featherweight five-year-old. We wrestled and wrestled, the cat house and I.
Nothing else existed but me and a carpeted feline lodging.
A few exhausting minutes later, I had removed the sock of my free leg and was waving a white flag.
My leg is stuck inside a cat house. I cannot believe this.
At first, it was belittling. How could I let such a ridiculous thing happen to me? Seriously? But this self-loathing soon turned to panic. Oh my god, my leg is stuck in a cat house! It's going to have to be amputated for real! I may bleed out and die! What am I supposed to do!? Dear God, lend a sister a hand!
It was not until I erupted into eardrum-shattering screams and fountains of tears that my family finally noticed my plight. I guess whatever was on TV had been too compelling. Must've been Boy Meets World.
"Sweetheart, is your leg stuck in the cat house? Aww, come here, let's have a looksie at it!"
I plopped over to my parents, irrationally distressed. My father got a hold of the cat house and yanked. And yanked and yanked and yanked. No go.
"Wow, that sucker's really stuck in there!" Yes, thank you for that gem of information, Captain Useless.
They were all clearly amused, much to my dismay.
"What if they have to cut off my leg!? What if my leg is stuck in here forever!? I'll be a freak!" I guess at this point I wasn't self-aware enough to know that I was, in fact, already a freak.
"Yeah, well you'd be okay," my family joked. "Maybe you could be in a circus sideshow or something!" Not only was my family having a good ole laugh at my expense, but they were also trying to exploit me! I have no doubt that, had the thought occurred to them, they would have videotaped my ordeal for America's Funniest Videos. I'm sure Bob Saget would've gotten a real kick outta that one.
I continued to cry and scream dramatically to show my folks that I was not messin' around. I then noticed that all the wrestling and yanking had caused my leg to rub up against the edges of the cat house, leading to a nasty rug burn that was on the brink of drawing blood. We needed to get this thing off my poor little leg, and we needed to do it like yesterday.
"Okay, okay," my father declared. "I'll just cut it off you with a steak knife."
"YOU'RE GONNA CUT OFF MY LEG WITH A STEAK KNIFE!? I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME, DADDY!" When you're in a frenzied state, it's easy to misinterpret.
"No, sweetie, I'm gonna cut the cat house so you can get your leg out. You'll be fine."
He went to fetch the instrument of destruction. By this point, all of the excitement and anxiety had gotten me really worked up (not to mention that, because it had been in the same position for so long, my leg had gotten a charlie horse), and I was starting to see stars. Any more sudden movements, and I'd be out cold.
He returned with the steak knife and bent down next to where I was splayed across the floor. I trembled. "Okay, hon, just hold still and I'll getcha out of there." I winced, as a reflex to the nonexistent pain I thought he was about to inflict.
I heard some sawing for what felt like hours. "Sorry, sweetie, this is really hard to cut through. Just hold on a minute." Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw. "Almost got it." Saw, saw, saw, saw. "There! Take your leg out now!"
I shook my leg with all my strength and the cat house came flying off. FREEDOM! I moved my leg around, stretching it out and walking around on it. I had never been happier to possess an appendage. It was glorious.
For the next few weeks, I took my aggression for the incident out on my cat, playing extra rough with her and withholding her daily treats. Of course, she could not possibly have been responsible for my own ridiculous stupidity--but hey, she was easier to blame. And, at the end of the day, she was easier to forgive because she was so darn cute.
And I still think she's just as cute as she was as a kitten. Despite all the fat rolls.

Sassy Angel "Fatty" Noah

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I know you probably think this post will be holiday-themed. It's not. Didn't want to discriminate. Happy Festivus?

Do you smell that? It's like a... burning kind of smell? Like... a bonfire or something..?
Oh wait, that's just me. I've finally risen from the ashes. Is this Arizona? 'Cause I'm a phoenix.

I don't know that I've ever opened with a worse joke. Sorry about that. Guess this lengthy hiatus has left me rusty. (I was going to take that comment into another extended metaphor, but I just saved us both the embarrassment. You're welcome.)

This latter half of the semester has been tough. Very tough. But it's officially been a month since The Little Foxes closed--though it feels more like it's been a year--and finals and papers are over and done with. I am three full semesters into college... Surreal.
But being on break means you get blogposts! And I get normal amounts of sleep! It's a real win-win situation all around.
Anyway, I know you're all just dying to chuckle at the ridiculousness that is my reality show of a life. So here's the story of the worst day of my summer.








I had a weird summer. Not weird in the sense of, like, I got abducted by aliens or something--although that would have been pretty rad (assuming I got rescued by Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, I mean). It was just generally weird: I got paid to critique my professor's writing (a bewildering concept for a freshman), I literally cried in Harris Teeter one day because I couldn't figure out how to buy groceries (hey, wise guy--buying food for one person is a lot more difficult than it sounds), I spent three hours trying to work a can opener (I'm still convinced it was broken, even though I know it was really just me being kitchen gadget-deficient). In short, the accumulation of seemingly insignificant oddities cast the whole summer in a weird light.
But perhaps what felt the weirdest to me was my constant moving. (Okay, maybe "constant" is a strong word--but four times in ten weeks felt pretty constant to me.) First I lived in an on-campus apartment surrounded by people I didn't know. Then I moved to house-sit for a poli-sci professor and care for her dog (who wouldn't come within a 20-foot radius of me). Next I moved to house-sit for a physics professor (who lived on a farm and got water from a well). Lastly, I moved into my car and was virtually homeless for a week, locking myself in a classroom in Chambers for most of my spare time. Yes, each of my living situations was fairly bizarre in its own right. But the worst day of my summer occurred when I moved out of Wolfgang's.
Wolfgang lived on the farm. Now, I'm using the term "farm" a little bit liberally here; he had plants--pear trees, apple trees, peach trees, strawberry bushes, grape vines, tomato plants, and several other varieties of fruits and herbs--but he didn't really grow any "crops." He wasn't exactly reaping and sowing, if you know what I mean. (...That came out weird.) Nor did he have any animals--aside from his adorably spastic dog, Java (pictured below.) But when he introduced me to the place, he termed it "the farm," so that's how I've referred to it ever since. It was tucked back in a little lakeside neighborhood in Mooresville, hidden behind a wide expanse of trees and down a long gravel path. He had three barns, one of which was no longer operational, but which probably had hobos crashing in it (I never actually checked up on that assumption). I'm not entirely sure what was in either of the other two barns, but I figured I probably didn't want to know--if Wolfie was secretly a spy for the Austrian government or a notorious serial killer or something, it was really none of my business. I was just there for the bed, the shower, and the big screen TV.
Wolfie and his family had gone to Africa, I think to do some kind of volunteer work, though he never actually specified. All he said was, "Well, once we leave, you won't really be able to get a hold of us. We'll be in Africa." (I know, how helpful, right?) He told me they were due back on July 17th, sometime around six in the evening, so I just needed to be moved out by then and have a fresh gallon of milk waiting for them in the fridge (apparently they were big on calcium). Simple enough, right?
The month I spent in their house went by quickly. Between spending a week trying to figure out how to work their DVD player, my mother almost breaking one of their door handles with a hammer, and me almost getting kidnapped by a creeper browsing the neighborhood looking for his "lost dog," the move-out day sort of snuck up on me.
The day before, I started to box up all of my belongings that had been strewn about their ten-year-old son's Spiderman-decorated room. I do not travel lightly. I get too absorbed in the idea that I "might" use something, so I end up taking fifty times more than I actually need. (I had two boxes filled with a total of about thirty pairs of shoes; I think I wore a total of five all summer.) Essentially, I had way too much stuff. Boxing it all up took a lot more time than I had anticipated, so I decided to get up early to pack it all in my car the next day. I had tickets to see Next to Normal in Charlotte that afternoon, and I wouldn't be able to be back by six, so I had to be completely moved out before I left for the show. Again, simple enough, right?
I woke up the next morning and hit snooze. Unlike normal people, whose snooze is five or ten minutes, mine is an hour.
Mistake number one.
I finally got up and got ready. I decided to go ahead and put on the nice dress and tall wedges that I was going to wear to the show--after all, packing up my car really wouldn't take that long, would it? I dilly-dallied around, making some coffee in Wolfie's French press pot (not so much because I wanted coffee as I wanted to feel like Dexter) and dancing to embarrassing top 40 hits on their kitchen radio. As I was popping and locking around, looking for Java, I came across some clothes that I had forgotten I needed to wash. At this point, I was low on funds, so paying to do laundry wasn't really an option (isn't it great being a poor college student?); it was do this laundry now or leave it in my overheated car for a week. Time to get crackin'.
I whisked my laundry downstairs to their creepy basement, where century-old farming tools covered the walls and huge-ass spiders covered the floor--and, of course, where there was a mini-physics lab full of dangerous chemicals in the back, totally normal. It was like a combination between Dr. Frankenstein's digs and a psycho's kill room. (And, y'know, a laundromat.) I put the laundry in the washer and then bounded back up the stairs to start packing up the car.
Box after box was carried by my weak little twig arms out to my car. I started feelin' the burn on box number two. And the scorching southern July heat really wasn't helping the situation. Little tiny beads of perspiration started dotting my face like they were trying to compete with my freckles (which is no easy feat during the summer). Well, I guess I'll have to change before I leave. I don't want to go see this show in such a saltified garment.
I checked my watch. I'm not really sure why I neglected to check the time up until that very moment, considering that I'm a pretty time-conscientious person and I knew I had a deadline to meet. But, alas, for the first time that morning, I let the abstract concept of "time" enter my brain--and it was not a pretty meeting.
I had less than an hour before I absolutely had to leave to pick up Justin and get to the show. Which meant I was screwed.
I tried not to let this affect me, as I knew that it would only make things worse. I put my game face on and went back to work.
Laundry! I ran down to the creepy basement and threw my laundry in the dryer. The timer said 1:25. Oh no. I don't have an hour and twenty-five minutes! But if I took the laundry out before it was dry, I would have had a huge pile of semi-wet clothes stewing in my car for a week. I didn't even want to think about the kind of mildewy mold monsters that would arise from that situation. I did some time crunching in my head: Okay, if I leave the clothes in the dryer until after the show, and I rush over here as soon as possible, I can probably be in and out just quick enough to miss Wolfie and co. Okay. Yeah. Good plan, self. You get a pat on the back.
With that crisis seemingly averted, I went back to packing boxes in my car. As I came outside with a (particularly large and heavy) box (probably filled with all the books I never read), I noticed that Java had somehow escaped through the door and was now pacing around outside. She'd noticed me packing the day before and knew something was up, and me moving boxes to my car only solidified her doggie deduction. And she was not happy. I don't think she totally understood where her family had gone, but I was her owner now, and she wasn't about to let me scamper off and leave her behind. She plopped herself down in front of my trunk and sprawled out on her back. She gave me a look like, "Yeah, I dare you to back over me. I dare you." As cute as it was, I didn't have time to process her adorability. "Javaaaaaaaaaa! Come on! Don't do this to me!" I pulled on her little legs and body, but she wouldn't budge. "Fine, I'll deal with you in a minute."
I went back to packing up the car. But at this point, "packing up the car" became "throw shit in the hatchback as fast as possible." It wasn't exactly organized, but boy, was it efficient! I hastily cleared out the Spidey room and the rest of the house, and then I raced outside to goad Java. "Here, lookie, Java, I brought you a Milk Bone!" No go. "Java, I brought you a donut!" Still no go. "Java, I really don't have time for this, sweetheart." (Yes, I was having a full-on conversation with a canine. I do this regularly. Dogs... they really get me, man.) Finally, I started to give her my angry face and say her name like it was a curse word. That worked. She shamefully got up and followed me back to the house. "I'm sorry, Javie Jav, but I really have to go. I'll be back, though! Hang in there!"
I set Wolfie's alarm and rushed to my car. It was two minutes past the time when I absolutely should have left. Well, shit. Better get going.
I sped down the gravel path out to the road, stopped and looked both ways (like the top-notch driver that I am), and turned to gun it down the street. As I drove down it at exactly the proper speed limit, I heard several loud thuds and felt a breeze go through my hair. "What the--?" I looked up in my rear view mirror.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Somehow, my hatchback had flown open and several of my boxes and belongings had tumbled out onto the road. My heart sank. I do NOT have time for this.
I pulled over to the side of the road (which happened to be kind of like a ditch, so my car was essentially sitting on its side) and removed myself from the vehicle. I ran (in my three-inch wedges, mind you) down the road to where my stuff lay scattered about. I stood there for a moment, breathless, resisting the urge to cry. Okay, clean shit up first, cry later.
I scrambled around the scorching pavement, collecting items and throwing them into boxes. Luckily, the road I was on wasn't a very popular cruise spot, so there wasn't much traffic to bother me. I picked up this shoe and that blouse and those books, running them back to my hatchback, constantly shouting to the heavens, "Dear God, whyyyyyyyyyy!" (But actually, I was doing that.) It occurred to me several times that I was parked entirely too far away, but I never decided to move my car closer because--well, because I was in crisis mode and I was acting on impulse, not logic. (Thank goodness I rarely have to enter crisis mode, 'cause it's not really a good state for me to be in.)
After I'd picked up most of the big stuff, I noticed a small white item that had been crushed to little tiny pieces: my jewelry box. I started to hyperventilate.
Not that anything in that box was particularly meaningful or expensive, but, if you know me, you know I've got a shit-ton of jewelry. A shit-ton. And at that moment in time, it was all sprawled across this road, melting into its pavement.
I scurried back to my car and changed into some Toms. Probably the first smart decision I made that day.
I collected as much jewelry as I possibly could. But, considering jewelry is tiny and the road (and surrounding three-foot-tall grass) is large, it wasn't exactly a walk in the park to spot all of the pieces. Drivers started to pass me, some slowing down just to stare at me (thanks a lot, assholes), some stopping to ask if I needed help. I briefly considered enlisting the aid of some nice country bumpkin, but, after almost getting kidnapped by one, and thinking about how I would have to explain my situation to them, I opted out. Thanks but no thanks, y'all.
By the time I had gathered all the jewelry that I could see--melted, broken, or otherwise--I was obviously running dangerously late. I was also drenched in sweat--and by "drenched," I don't mean glistening like a classy lady, I mean it looked like I had taken a dip in Lake Norman fully-clothed. You could have literally wrung my hair out and gotten a cup full of briny water. It was absolutely disgusting. I was also thoroughly exhausted--I wasn't used to that much physical exertion and I hadn't eaten anything all day. Frankly, I was on the verge of passing out. But I was determined to make it to this show. I texted Justin to tell him that I was finally on my way.
After I secured my (stupid) hatchback, changed shoes, and started to speed away, the overwhelming nature of my day began to settle over me. Time to call Mommy.
The line rang a few times and she answered. I began to bawl like a baby (trying very carefully not to muss up my makeup--though, really, at this point, caring about my appearance was essentially moot) and I explained what had happened.
She laughed. She thought it was hysterical. I, however, most certainly did not find it hysterical. "Thanks, Mom, for laughing at me. 'Preciate it. I've gotta pick up Justin."
On the way to the show, I told him the story. He was sympathetic, which was helpful. Also, my hair and my dress started to dry, so I didn't feel quite as disgusting. We got to the show just before late seating, and it was absolutely fantastic, even with half of the cast being understudies.
Afterwards, I dropped Justin off and sped back to Wolfie's house. It was 5:35. Perfect. I'd be able to get my laundry and be gone before they arrived. Surely I was getting some good karma to make up for the "haha, this will make your day totally suck" karma I'd gotten earlier. I pulled down the driveway and got out of my car.
And then I heard a car pull in behind me.
It was them. They were home.
Cripes.
"Hey, Professor! You're home a little early. How was the trip..?"
"Long. It's been a forty-hour journey. We just want to go to bed."
"Oh, yeah, totally... I was just going to check to make sure I got everything."
"Okay, let's go inside and I'll write you your check."
We all awkwardly entered the house together. Java went buck-wild with joy at being reunited with her family. I clomped down the stairs and gathered my laundry in my arms. When I came back up, Wolfie gave me a weird look and set the check on top of my clothes pile. I stood there with his wife for approximately ten minutes discussing the events of the past month. I mentioned nothing about kidnappers or hammers and door handles or (unconfirmed) hobos in the barn. Finally, we said our goodbyes, and I waddled out to my car carefully, trying to see over my heap of tank tops and night shirts.
I double-checked my hatchback, waved to the family, and immediately drove to the nearest Panera. I was beat, and ravenously hungry. I ordered and settled into a booth in the corner, sighing with relief. Time to relax. The manager of the Panera brought me a free cookie. I think he could tell I wasn't having such a great day. Panera is a my haven.
My bad luck continued that week when my class ring irretrievably fell down a three-inch-wide hole in Summit's bathroom. But, by that point, all I could do was laugh. The prevalence of these incidents in my life is amusing.

I wonder if Wolfie could explain why gravity hates me so much. Ah, physics.

The lovely Java

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When life gives you lemons, you better make a dentist appointment, because those things cause erosion of enamel and other irreversible oral hygiene frustrations.

OH MY CRIPES. It has been ages upon ages upon ages since I last posted . . . Okay, not quite that long--but it certainly feels like it. It's been over a month--verging on a month and a half--which is, of course, absolutely awful and horrific and a plethora of other negative adjectives. So first of all, I'd like to apologize for my lengthy and unintended hiatus. Well, really, Davidson College is to blame for preventing me from meeting my blogging quota--but I guess I am a little guilty by association . . .
Anyway, it's been quite a semester here in good ole D-Son. Lit Crit is sucking all my hopes and dreams right out of my frail, philosophically-beaten-and-marred body, but the rest of my classes are (pretty much) manageable. Working in the chemistry department is tip-top, as per usual (I mean, who doesn't like free band-aids?), and tutoring in the writing center is (somewhat) fulfilling--that is, when I'm not babbling like an idiot and making my tutees think I'm all hopped up on meth (which is rare). And tomorrow, rehearsals start for The Little Foxes, which is A) unfathomably exciting and B) another reason why I probably won't get another blogpost in until the end of the semester . . . And if you have a problem with that, sue me. (But really, don't, as I have $4 in my bank account right now and I hear a good attorney costs at least $8.)
But without further ado (of course, I say that and I'm actually further adoing it right now just by making that addendum), here is a (fairly short) blogpost about--well, let's just say, if you didn't think I was crazy already . . . you will after you read this. Cheers!



My senior year of high school was not the super-fun, epic, lounge-by-the-beach-everyday affair that my predecessors--not to mention several prime time television shows--had fooled me into thinking it would be. This was possibly because we were nowhere near anything you could confidently refer to as a "beach," but I'm more convinced it was due to my ridiculously rigorous course load, with the added Shake Weight of college applications. This combo, mixed with a cornucopia of extra-curricular activities (e.g. rehearsal, volunteering, various clubs, varsity breathing, JV sleeping, etc.), set the stage for a stressful fall semester. Because of this, I had very little time for that thing called a "life" that I often heard people talk about during the tender moments between each bang of my head against the wall--and social drama was completely out of the question. Or so would have been the case in a fair world (and by "fair," I don't mean "corn dogs and carnies" kind of fair; I mean "just, impartial, and all that constitutional crap" kind of fair).
But this was no such world. And she was going to make sure of that.
Regina (not her actual name, but a much more fitting one--and, ironically, the name of the character I'm going to be playing in The Little Foxes) was out to get me. What I had ever done to her to cause her to loathe me, I had no idea. I mean, I may make myself out to be slightly (read: absurdly) angsty and confrontational, but it usually bothers me when people legitimately dislike me, because I like to think of myself as a generally agreeable person. I'm not actually the murderous automobile that Stephen King makes me out to be (though, admittedly, I get pretty bad road rage, so maybe he was onto something there . . .) But with Regina, it was different. I hated her back. She didn't know me, we'd barely had a conversation longer than two sentences, and yet she looked at me like I shot Tupac or had Hitler's babies or unironically watched Jersey Shore or something. Everything I did was stupid or uncool or pathetic, while she was the Queen of Sheba--or probably of somewhere more hip, like Seattle or maybe that obscure coffeehouse in that sketchy part of town. I didn't understand her hatred--so, logically, I reciprocated it. Is it possible I was imagining her hatred and dirty looks? Maybe. Did the hare imagine that the tortoise beat him in the race? I don't think so. Is that a bad analogy? Of course. Will I continue to ask questions and proceed to answer them? Only time will tell. Shut up? Okay.
And thus, Regina was my arch nemesis. It was a pretty widely known fact. We pretended to be civil in person, but, behind closed doors, the animosity abounded. Now, I had had arch nemeses before (remember the guy who's the reason I'm a vegetarian?), and it hadn't necessarily caused me any emotional strain. My world didn't revolve around my arch nemesis; she was more just a fact of life, like Tootie or Jo. I hated her, she hated me, but there wasn't much that actually resulted from this relationship. Over the course of the semester, however, it was certainly tested, like the new, longer GRE for hatred.
First, at the beginning of the semester, she turned one of my best friends against me. (I know, how 90210 of her.) That sucked. I was not a fan. But I had other friends, and if he wanted to be friends with the female equivalent of Chinese water torture, that was his problem. I sucked it up and moved on with my life.
But then, blow number two came: she gave me mono. No, we didn't play "Spin the Bottle" at some party or decide to "experiment" with each other behind the bleachers of the football stadium--or any typical Hollywood-high-school-thing like that. We didn't even accidentally drink from the same bottle of Fanta or something more probable. As if it weren't bad enough that I had to go through having mono, missing two weeks of school, and getting crazy behind on homework--she gave me mono through her sweat. You see, she was my double in the play we were doing that fall--The Importance of Being Earnest, a gem--and she got mono during tech week. I did the entire first week and weekend of shows, and part of the next week and weekend's shows--but then she finally got "better" enough to perform. So she did the show in our costume, sweating buckets and buckets of salty, contaminated fluid which promptly soaked into the fabric. The next night, I had to perform in that very costume. Did they wash the costume? Of course not, that would be courteous and thoughtful and hygienic. Instead, they allowed me to don what was essentially a gigantic cloth virus, and her mono cooties seeped right into my pores, infecting me with illness and rage. I could have sworn she was looking at me with a smirk during my whole performance that night--like she knew I was gettin' mono all up in my orifices and she thought it was just a hoot. What is the likelihood that this was a malicious attack, that she weaponized a virus in order to deliberately get me sick? I'll admit, the odds are pretty low--she wasn't exactly a biochemical warfare whiz or anything--but I still blamed her for it. Giving people contagious infections is not a nice thing to do; just look at all those people in The Walking Dead--I don't see them giving any of those zombies a break from that crossbow. But I digress. She gave me mono, it also sucked, but, once again, I moved on with my life.
Lastly came strike number three. It's actually interesting because the severity and impact of the strikes actually progressively lessened, so number three was actually pretty petty and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But, for some reason, it sent me over the edge: she got the part I wanted. We were doing auditions at the end of the fall semester for the productions in the spring semester, and I was dying for a part. This really made zero sense, considering that I knew the spring semester would be full of stressful college decisions and scholarship interviews and AP tests, and that being in a show would just bring completely undue stress upon myself for no practical purpose. And yet, these auditions mattered to me. I'm pretty sure it may have subconsciously been about me getting back at her for giving me mono, but that statement cannot be confirmed. All I know is, I wanted that part, and she got it.
I flew home in an uproar. "How could she do that!?" Because obviously she made that casting decision. "She's not even good! I'm way better than she is!" Because obviously modesty is my best quality. "Dkjfosjflwejdlshflsk!" Because obviously I can pronounce long strings of consonants nonsensically mixed with random vowels more coherently when I'm angry. I screamed. I hit things. I cried. Actually, I bawled--like sobbing, heaving, barely-able-to-breathe-and-when-I-did-it-was-to-yell kind of bawling. Now, it takes a lot to get me to that level of tear production; it usually requires a fight with a family member or hillbilly aliens passing me right next to a "Do Not Pass" sign. I had never cried over something so petty in my life (yeah, that's right, I'm going out on a limb here and saying that I was a pretty deep baby who only cried over serious global issues). I knew how ridiculous it was, I knew letting her get to me like that was beyond preposterous--and yet, I couldn't stop myself. And, along with all of her dirty looks and snooty comments and misplaced modifiers, those three strikes kept playing over and over in my head: she corrupted my best friend, she gave me mono, she stole my part, lather, rinse, repeat.
By the time I called my mother on her way home from work, I was basically floating in a giant vat of my own tears (which, as they were so salty, created a perfect buoyancy, so I didn't have to worry about drowning on top of everything else--thank god). Despite my inability to effectively articulate the cause of my pathetic, puffy-eyed state, it didn't take long for my mom to figure it out (partly because moms have crazy mind-reading abilities, and also partly because I kept saying Regina's name like I was possessed by a demon, or had turned into James Earl Jones and someone had made a stupid comment about me being Luke's father--like I hadn't heard that one before--or something). After a while, I finally calmed down long enough to explain why I was so upset--or at least, try to give it some sort of rational merit. "It's okay, doll," she said to me. "I know just the thing. I'm gonna make a stop and then I'll be right home." Okay, Mom. Thanks for that vague sentiment. She was probably just gonna go buy some chamomile tea--maybe some cookie dough--and act like caffeine and raw eggs were going to solve all my problems. Upset that even my own mother couldn't help me feel better, I buried my face in our couch and prepared for a long night of wallowing, self-pity, and possibly a crime show marathon.
When I heard my mom arrive home, I didn't budge from the couch. All that senseless crying and yelling had left me quite sleepy, and I was in no mood to defend my ridiculous behavior or "talk about it." I really just wanted to lay there and feel sorry for myself, because that was something I never ever did. Just that once, I wanted to say "Wah, poor me," instead of pretending like nothing bothered me. I covered my head with a blanket when my mom walked in the room.
"Babe, I know you're upset, but I got ya a little something that I think might help. You just . . . probably shouldn't tell your friends about this."
This peaked my curiosity. Was my mother trying to booze me up? Get me all strung out on cocaine? Get me laid? (Clearly my imagination has been tainted by an overload of inappropriate and poorly-developed French films. Thanks, French 210.) I slowly pulled the blanket from my face.
There stood my mother, smiling, her blonde hair gleaming in the light from the TV, perfectly angelic . . . holding a brand new Bratz doll.
"Um . . . Mom . . . I don't get it . . . " I mumbled, barely audible with all of the snot clogging up my sinuses from my sobbing binge.
She looked at me, a little disappointed I wasn't catching on. "It's . . . supposed to be, like . . . a voodoo doll."
My jaw dropped.
OH MY GOD, MY MOTHER BOUGHT ME A VOODOO DOLL. THIS IS INCREDIBLE.
As if the facts that I came from her womb and we look almost identical weren't enough, I knew right then and there that this was, indeed, my real, true mother. "I thought you might wanna . . . do stuff to her. I figured this might be a good way to get out all that anger." Of all the things I had ever expected my mother to suggest I do in times of trouble, making a voodoo doll was not--nor never would have been--one of them. For about two seconds, I hesitated--is this wrong? Is this normal? Am I a freak of nature? What would my friends think about this? You know what? Who cares, let's mess this doll up.
I ripped open the package and yanked the doll out. I then proceeded to perform a series of semi-disturbing violent acts upon her. I gave her a really ugly mullet haircut (take that, Little Miss Fashionista) and then stabbed her with the scissors a little bit. I cut off one of her legs (but just one--c'mon, I'm not that terrible). I gave her a swirly--yes, I actually dunked a doll's head in a toilet and flushed it. I smothered her with a pillow and hit her against some walls. I took a Sharpie and wrote obscene things on her--with an especially big, bold "SKANK" going across her forehead (I was pretty proud of that one). Last, but not least, we made a mini noose out of a shoe string, and hung the doll in my closet.
We stood there, beaming, triumphant, like two badass antelope who had just defended their family from a pack of wild lions--or, more accurately, like two people who had just mercilessly defiled an innocent children's toy, but I find the lion image to be more picturesque. We high-fived. We hugged. We had won--it didn't matter that we had essentially "won" a nonexistent battle against a plastic cartoon personality with a street-smart fashion sense; we had conquered the doll, and, in so doing, we had conquered Regina.
"Feel better now?" my mom asked with a wry smile.
I regarded my masterpiece and took a deep yoga breath. "Yes. Much, much better."
"Good. Now let's go make some cookies and watch some crime shows."


That doll hung in my closet for close to a year and a half before I took it down. And, honestly, in the end, I don't think it had much to do with Regina and her essentially faultless attacks on my personal happiness and welfare. I think it had more to do with everything that was getting me down--school, college stuff, people, self-doubt--and how I just needed a way to overcome all of it, show it who was boss. And what better way to do that than to destroy a voodoo doll? I left it hanging in my closet, not as a memento of how I got over Regina's hold on me, but how I stuck it to the Man of Life--and how my mom was there to help me through it.
But you've gotta admit, giving me mono through nasty costume sweat at least justified the swirly and the mullet. At least.

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