New Life Low

So there's something you need to know about me...I eat. I eat a lot. I binge (can be seen running from cabinet to cabinet when the urge strikes), I graze, I stuff m'self silly.

But you already KNEW that!

Anyway, one of my favorite things about babysitting is binge eating all their food when the kids are asleep. Well, my standards have taken a turn down pathetic lane recently. I used to steal food only while Henry was asleep. Then when he was in the other room. Now I downright pig out next to him and don't share. I really am a terrible person. This is especially bad because he is quite verbal and could easily say, "Mommy, Allison is always eating from your tub of $6 per oz. organic shelled pistachios"....or, "Mommy, Allison is constantly texting." Oops.

But today we hit a new low, my friends. After we got back from the park I pulled out a paper towel to fill with snack goodies to much on while we watched Busytown Mysteries in preparation for a nap (a nap that didn't happen. I deserved this.). On said paper towel (rule #1 of babysitting: NEVER leave evidence of your binge on dishware) I put a handful each of cheddar bunnies, TLC crackers, almonds, pistachios, raisins, chocolate covered almonds, veggie chips, leftover pasta from their fridge, random chunks of Thai-ish chicken leftovers in their fridge (low gets lower...), a partridge in a pear tree and just for good measure a small apple. We sit in front of the TV, Henry looks over at me, stares me in the eyes, and asks quietly:

"Do you have enough food at home?"

I looked at his pleading, pitying eyes. I looked at my heaping towel o'snacks. And I died a little inside. I am now the charity case of a 2-year-old. Someone save me.

On another "kill me now" note, I had two classes held online this week, with two separate assignments. One was on the future of the Internet. The other was "write about a funny sexual behavior" (I kid you not. We can pick through this one later, friends). Well, I have trouble staying on course, so halfway through my first post (I do it all in a Word doc so I can save then copy/paste), I started the sex one because I didn't want to forget my idea. I believe you can see where this is going...

"bla bla bleedi bla and that's where the future of the Internet is going.
The Bus Driver is when a man and woman are having doggy-style vaginal sex and he inserts a finger into her rectum, slowly turning it as if he's maneuvering a steering wheel. With his free hand he uses her breast as a horn, "honking" to let everyone know he's coming (take that as you will.
bla bla bleedi bla Internet Internet Internet."

Yes, still kidding you not, this is what my posting looked like for my Psychology of Media class. As soon as I realized my error (ohhh this morning after posting last night) I had a heart attack and posted an apology, begging the class to understand that I'm taking Human Sexuality Education and I didn't mean to offend anyone. So much for getting voted prom queen.

"Allie, Henry and the Ghetto Retard Picnic"

Here we see a pretty photo of a scene from my neighborhood. It has nothing to do with my blog post. The weather is just outrageous and the leaves are pretty and I felt like showing everyone. Anyway, moving on.

So I spend a lot of time with this kid Henry. He's adorable and precocious and hilarious and I talk about him entirely too much and everyone is getting horribly sick of it. His mom basically pays me to get cracked up while he's awake and to study while he naps. He does bratty 2-year-old stuff a lot because he is a human being but that gets overlooked when he asks me if I want a glass of wine. What kind of wine, you wonder? Bordeaux, he says- it's his favorite. He's too much.
ANYway, I'm now going to continue talking about Henry. Because nothing else in my life is cute or exciting. I mean I read a really fascinating article in the American Journal of Public Health for school about an intervention that will change the way women view the female condom, but no one cares about that. They care about the Ghetto Retard Picnic*.

Pause to absorb

Here is where this little blog of mine is gonna get all kinds of scandalous. Because I tell it like it is. And Henry and I, well, we were the guests of honor at the Ghetto Retard Picnic. We were playing at the park when a huge white van pulls up. You can picture it- the kind of van that has but four functions: transportation to Korean churches, getting old people from the nursing home to the mall for field trips at Christmas, making deliveries for the Michael Scott Paper Company, and taking the mentally challenged out on excursions. Anyway, out comes the most funky bunch a fellas I've ever seen: They are dressed head to toe in ghetto chic, from sideways hats and gold chains to sports jerseys and baggy shorts. And they are...to put it kindly**... mentally challenged. So just close your eyes now and try to imagine the show put on for me and Henry. Bonafide gangsta-dressed men skipping around gleefully with plastered-on smiles and seemingly not a care in the world. Golly, one even decided to take off his pants next to the shed.

And then I had to take poor innocent Henry home.

But when you study too much and your main social interaction involves singing with a small child, stuff like this becomes It-Made-My-Week material. And it did.

* In fact, no one cares about anything I write. This blog has no meaning and no purpose except to be a way for bored college friends to pass the time at work and for me to feel like I do more in my life than read for school. And that is that.
** It takes a lot out of me to put things kindly

Gripe

There should be some sort of dictionary where people can learn to spell commonly-used words that are either insulting or refer to unsavory activities. Words you don't learn how to spell in the fourth grade spelling bee where you misspelled "believe" and somehow the pseudo-retarded kid in class beat you and the winning word was "carriage" which you totally knew how to spell INJUSTICE INJUSTICE I SAY! Anyway, back from that trot down memory lane, perhaps I'll call said dictionary "Allison's Dictionary of Words People Use Constantly in College But Never In a Context Where They Learn How To Spell Them"
In the D section: Douchebag and debauchery. Because I am so sick of facebook statuses that shout words like "deuschbag" or "debotchery"
I am a spelling snob and I have more work to do this week than I can possibly comprehend so I am being a bitch yaaay great bye.

Stool For One

When I was younger I had a definite vision of how my life would go. Especially how I'd meet my husband. First, let's backtrack. I love friends. I love having friends and socially engaging with others. Yet for as long as I can remember, and I'm talking well through high school and even freshman year of college, the adult life I envisioned for myself was very lonely. And I was totally okay with that. I never thought of it as lonely or depressing, but I was convinced I'd live alone and enjoy a lot of chicken noodle soup in a strange city where I didn't know anyone, and that I'd go to bars by myself. Yeeeeep, what I used to envision as a typical Friday night was heading home after a rough day of work then walking out of my apartment in Mystery City (Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston, any place but New York really), heading to the local bar and kicking back with a beer on a stool at the bar. By myself. Not in an "I'm bff with the bartender and such a regular that this is expected behavior" kind of way. Just a "sittin here by my lonesome enjoying winding down while making myself available to the many men around me" kind of way. I had absolutely no inkling that this would be considered weird behavior. I assumed everyone went to bars by themselves and sat there just thinking, or perhaps reading a book. A lovely man would buy me a drink, sidle up next to me for cozy conversation, and he'd be The One and we'd wed. When I told my mom how I used to imagine this scenario constantly, she raised an eyebrow and said, "So when you were younger you thought you'd be a hooker when you grew up?" Sigh. Why can't women go into bars by themselves at 5pm and just think and sit there waiting to meet husbands?
Well, fortunately/unfortunately that's not how my story goes/went. ("How'd I meet Joe, strange person asking me on the street out of nowhere? Well we were buds freshman year then one time he invited me up to his room with a couple people to drink some beers and watch Animal House and somehow we ended up alone and kissed for 2.5 seconds then we both remembered he had a girlfriend so I left and didn't really care because he was just my bud Joe and his lips were really dry and then the next morning he knocked on my door at 7:30am to tell me we made a big mistake and he loves his girlfriend and it could never happen again and I hid under my covers and wouldn't let him see me because my face was smeared with crusty white pimple cream and so he thought I was a crying wreck and then three years later we fell in love for real and stuff.")
But is it wrong that I sort of have a fantasy of sitting at a bar alone, nursing a Stella, when another one rolls my way courtesy of the strapping lad in a dirty Poochies shirt who then comes to talk to me and it's Joe and we fall in love that way?

Blast from 1999

I found a folder full of all my high school crap, and included was a floppy disk. I was SO excited. Could this be the disk with, you know, my diary, or those surprisingly compelling 60-page novellas I used to write in 2002? One way to find out. After searching around my laptop like Derek Zoolander and Hansel (you know exactly the scene I'm talking about: "The files are in the computer?"), trying to force the floppy into every opening (ha) and eventually just hitting it against the computer in frustration to see what would happen, I remembered the downstairs computer is from 2003-ish and def sports a floppy drive. God, I love the word floppy.
Anyway, I guess I could title this micro-post "Allie Is Computerally Retarded" BUT I'm not that down on myself because I'm sure no one else today has any idea how to work with floppies. I popped it in the drive, patted myself on the back a million times for remembering it's the "A" drive, then just kind of sat there. Waiting for documents to magically appear. Like a DVD. It took me a good 3 minutes of sitting there impatiently, staring at the computer tower looking for some sort of flashing light, to realize I had to actually go into Word and physically open the folder. Which, of course, has apparently "Not been formatted or was formatted for a Macintosh." My computer is such an elitist whore. And I guess I never will see my stories/diary/amateur porn novels. Such is life.
Now I'm getting all these acid-trippy flashbacks where I'm like "WHOA! I totally remember that if I leave the disk in the drive and shut down the computer wont start the next time!" What a fun morning. Highly recommended.

Scenes From My House

"SHELL!! SHELL!!!!"" Dad screams from the den. Mom has taken Dodger for a walk, so I race to the scene. In 6th grade he had a mild stroke so naturally I worry something's gone terribly wrong if he's screaming like that. Even though the stroke symptom he presented at the time was...inability to make noise.
Anyway, I run in and tell him she's walking Dodger, but is he ok?!?
"Yeah I'm fine," he says, flipping the channel on the remote. "I just wanted her to stop paying attention to you and come back and pay attention to me."

Hey, one time senior year I made a joke and then immediately fell out of a chair which made Maddie projectile spit her drink all over the living room, but WHO SAYS living with parents isn't just as much fun?

Why Aren't You Posting This Weekend, Al?

So pleased that you asked that...self.

From tonight until Monday morning I will be here: (Err, see above. I still can't figure out how to put things where I want to put them)

Whilst enjoying the low 80s, humidity-free sunshine of San Diego (cya next week, purple hoodie/pink sweats/fuzzy socks uniform!), I plan on eating my body weight in fish tacos, Sushi Deli, Subway Buffalo Chicken $5 footlongs (can't get those anywhere else, duh), and of course, frozen yogurt. Froyo in the morning froyo in the evening froyo at suppertime. When froyo's on a bagel...j/k that's when I get Mountain Mike's Mt. Veggiemore pizza. mmmm blubber.

Mix in some bar hopping, a rubix cube-themed party, just enough school work so I don't have a panic attack come Monday, and 24/7 snuggling with that man I'm marrying while watching How I Met Your Mother season 2, and it should be a great weekend. Bon voyage!!

The Best Part of Waking Up Is Kashi Blueberry Harvest Cereal in My Cup (large mixing bowl)

Ok, now that "Holly" has proved she reads my blog, I can post agayne. I have a lot of random things on my mind right now:

1) I just heard, for the first time in forever, Miley Cyrus's song "I Can't Wait To See You Again." I don't know if that's the title, but anyway, upon deep, reflective listening, I observed the following: Leslie, you are an asshole. You are nobody's best friend. If I stuttered or couldn't breathe around a guy and my best friend, rather than perform ohh say CPR or an adept shuttling to the ladies, just giggled to him and implied that oh, I'm ALWAYS an awkward fuck, I'd kick her in the 'gina. After I got my breath back, that is. Stupid bitch. But anyway, I do have such fond feelings for that song. Mainly because of spring break 08 roooooad trrriiiip from Chicago to Key Largo. Blood pumping with slap-happy confidence, I went in for the big solo after the interlude: "The last time I freaked out! I just kept looking dow-own!" etc etc. Now I DO NOT sing publicly (see below), but I was so into it, going for the gold, just to promptly get whipped in the face with the buckle on the strap of Bear's back pack. Quite a moment. So typical.

2) It's approaching winter time now, which means cozy sweaters, beef stew simmering all day on the crotch pot (yes, I will always be a 12-year-old boy), and of course, my quest for a delicious, soothing, warm-the-cockles-of-your-heart cocktail. A hot toddy just wont do. Bubbling brandy? I'll pass. So in the middle of an endless, heartbreaking Research Methods class yesterday, it hit me: Long Island Hot Tea! How do we make this happen, people? I'm taking suggestions eagerly.

3) So my parents are finally home from their Southwestern vacation, with minor casualties only present in my dad's misguided purchase of silver and turquoise cuff links with fossil creatures engraved on them. I'm happy to have them home, because talking to myself and feeling all post-partum depressiony about having to care for the dog all by myself well, it was all getting old. But this also has a downside- no longer can I sing. I have this incredible weirdness about singing. I have a pretty heinous set'a pipes, you see, but I do really enjoy singing. So I relish when I'm all alone in the house, or driving on an empty road, so I can really get down with my bad chords. I get so embarrassed that I can't sing on crowded highways (spring 2007: belting "Big Girls Don't Cry" only to look to the left and see a car full of 20-something guys cracking up and pointing at me. Therapy inducing) and I even blush at the first note of The Star Spangled Banner, just waiting for that moment where he or she messes up the high notes. So anyway, I have to really play it safe. One time in high school I was sitting on the toilet getting waaay into Something Corporate's "Hurricane" when all the sudden I hear "second verse, same as the first!" in the hallway: Dad had come home early. My singing secret was out. And my public pipes have gone into hiding since. Everyone who heard this story felt no sympathy to my plight. Some asked "So, why were you embarrassed? He's your dad." Doesn't matter. Even Dodger hearing me sing embarrasses me. ME hearing me sing embarrasses me. But everyone managed to ask: "Why were you singing on the toilet?" God people, big picture here!! But I do my best singing/thinking/problem solving/dirty song lyric creating on the john. It's just how it is.

4) Still on singing here, I do, however, show talent in two forms. I have a beautiful, sultry voice when singing Sublime songs and, randomly, "Ooh-oo Child," as in "...things are gonna get easier." So basically I'm the hybrid of soulful Motown and heroined-up lead singers. Put that in your (heroin) pipe and smoke it. Do heroin pipes exist? Greetings from 45 Under-a-Rock Lane, Shelteredville, NY.

5) Susan Boyle isn't good. I've never gotten what all the fuss is about. Because she's just fine. That's right. It's clear that the hype isn't because she's amazing, it's because she's a fugly gal who still, somehow, manages to contribute something to society, and Hollywood is mystified by this. Watching everyone's surprise, then their treatment of her like The Little Martian That Could, is such a hoot to me. Hello, judges: Ever been to the OPERA? Walk into any opera performance and omigosh, look, everyone has superb talent! And many are FAT! Leaving Susie Q over there in the dust. God I hate people.

6) In my Research Methods class, like all my classes, there's a mix of all ages and races (but always 99% women). Anyway, yesterday I volunteered an answer that was completely wrong. Not just wrong, it was the exact opposite of the right answer. Anyway, there are these two women who are both very good looking but clearly in middle age. They sit together in the back and constantly whisper while the professor is talking (such a pet peeve, hi I'm a dork I know) and make comments just to draw upon their personal experience assisting with pediatric cancer trials, bla bla bla, using cool terms like "peeds," for child patients, bladi bleedi blah. Anyway, right as I'm awkwardly trying to explain my wrong answer, one of them shouts out, "No, that's wrong, it's retrospective!" Like, are you kidding me? Is this fifth grade? I swung around to look at her like "Sister, are you for real?" Then I fought her in the courtyard and we both got sent to Mr. Alterbaum's office and yes, I'm easily offended.

But we do have a very pretty courtyard.

Here's the Deal

Not writing a new post until Holly comments on my most recent one. Basically, we have a hostage situation.

Magazine Design 101: Sure Beats Writing a Paper

And considering my paper is on a Wii video game and I'm making 99% of it up because my professor is not actually going to research the technical attributes of Wii controllers, this really shouldn't be such a mental calamity.
Anyhoo, in my early stages of wedding planning I've been buying the really basic wedding magazines (read: sponsored by local vendors and dress stores) to gather my thoughts and find vendors. Magazines like Martha Stewart Weddings and Modern Bride can't really interest me until I at least know where we're holding the damn thing and who's officiating. And I mean, no offense to you Ms. Stewart, but I doubt I'll ever care about exploring 49 new derivatives of ivory for my wedding table linens and then hosting a grand soiree to weave them with my bridesmaids over a locally-procured loom.
So the magazines I've been picking up are well...to say the least...not for the bride of means. As my mother said, "Why do you keep buying these bridal magazines meant for 17-year-olds with a bun in the oven?" Because moooom I want to see all the venue ratings duhh! And you just can't get that in a national glossy, DUH! But anyway, following the footsteps of Modern Bride and Elegant Bride, I now present to you, based on my research in the aforementioned magazines I've bought, the newest incarnation of bridal literature: White Trash Bride

Here are some sample story ideas! This sort of makes me miss working at a magazine...like 4%

Shine like the stars! Why everyone really does look best in pure white shimmering satin with ample beading

Got gel? Our point-by-point comparison of Dep vs. LA Looks will help you keep your bangs curled under and your updo shellacked until the sun comes up!

Home-y Moons: The Jersey Shore's got romance on the menu

Wedding Makeup 101: Make dark brown lipliner work for you

437 dresses for all ages and all stages of pregnancy, all under $499!!

Fettucine alfredo or penne marinara? With today's pasta bar stations available for your wedding, no one has to choose!

Tiaras and Plastic Gazebos: More really is more when every bride deserves to be a princess!

"My Wedding of 45,327 Rhinestones" How to make this woman's true story happen to you!

Yes, you CAN register for bullets, big screens and blenders at the same place!

Pre-Wedding Workout: Get rid of that stubborn back roll that hangs over your ill-fitting strapless dress!

"Your mine 4ever" and other beautiful wedding ring inscriptions to inspire YOU!

I haven't been this entertained in years. But seriously though, it's hard to describe a WTB. You just have to see her, whether morbidly obese and demanding on Bridezillas or in real life just demanding with an annoying voice and bangs halved down the middle and glued to each side of her face. When you meet her, score yourself an invite, because that wedding is bound to have the best fried calamari this side of the Hudson.

I Worry About A Lot Of Things

Like one time the woman in front of me leaving the library set off the alarm, and I for sure thought it was me even though I've never, not in my undergrad nor early graduate career, have taken out a book from the library. I had this image of library police running after me like STOP, MISS! And me sprinting yelling IT WASN'T MEEEE and darting into Grace Dodge Hall and getting tackled and strip searched for a library book while the REAL culprit got away. Now every time I walk through the library exit I squeeze my eyes shut and my heart beats really fast because I'm totally anticipating the alarm. Like how in high school Ali and Christina used to love to wait in corners and pop out at me because I'd jump like 4 feet in the air, and so I spent my entire high school career swinging my arms out around corners feeling for them and...I am going to die at 38 of an ulcer. Because when you worry enough, ulcers get frowny faces and teeth and KILL.

I also worry about lots of things pregnancy related. Not if I am. No, not anymore. If I suddenly got pregnant they'd have to make a new TLC show called, "Somehow I got pregnant by sitting on the couch watching Greek." Nope, I worry about things like, What if when I'm pregnant I get morning sickness while I'm driving? What if I don't have time to pull over and I get in a huge accident because you can't logically drive and puke at the same time? Will I have to spend my entire first trimester in the right-hand lane with my blinkers on, just waiting? And then I always wonder what would happen if I miscarried in a public setting. This is a serious worry. Television shows are portraying miscarriages more, which I think is good because 30% of pregnancies end in miscarriage and nobody seems to know this (!!), but they're always shown in the comfort of your home, in the middle of the night so you're already super comfy in your jammies when you go through what is probably the most traumatic experience of your life to date. But what if you're at work? Do you have to go to HR like "Um, I'll need to take the rest of the day/week off?" If you bleed profusely and need an ambulance the whole office knows and yes these are the things I worry about. In the bathroom at school today a girl next to me in the stall started mumbling "oh no, oh God no," and I figure she probably just had her period early, but I also thought omg what if she's miscarrying what do I DO? This is why marrying rich is good, you can spend your entire pregnancy on the couch eating ice cream and watching cable, not risking any discomfort or embarrassment. I think I'm going to get shot for my thoughts sometimes.

EUREKA!

No, I haven't figured out how to embed. I simply invented THE most delicious fake cup of coffee ever.

Directions for Allie's Killer Cup of (she misses) Joe

To cup of regular coffee, add:
Remainder of milk left in cereal bowl from blueberry Kashi/Banana Nut Cheerios mixture
One Equal packet
Splash of fat free french vanilla International Delight coffee flavoring

Enjoy, then savor slow death as insides rot. Seriously, this is a mug-gasm.

Hi

All I want to do is embed a youtube clip into my blog. And have some fun. Haaaylp?