It's that time of year again!

I proudly introduce my resolutions for 2010 (written in the second person, so Drill Sargeant Allie is yelling at resolution-failing Allie):

1) Stop eating when you're full, even though you have OCD and need to eat another 7 bites or leave food on the plate juuuust a certain way

2) Engage others when conversing. I.E. stop waiting around for other people to ask you questions about your life and nodding and smiling while they talk about things that are actually more important than the awesome bowl of soup you had for lunch.

3) Be less of a stingy tightwad. I.E. stop ordering your second choice on the menu because it's $1 less than the first choice

4) Make more of an effort socially. (This will be the hardest, because often I am much more inclined to put on sweats and watch a TBS marathon of the same movie three times in a row than actually send out inquiring text messages which will then most likely a) lead to feeling rejected when all friends are hanging out with their boyfriends or b)lead to putting on makeup (uggg) and meeting people in a public situation where it isn't acceptable to wear my hair in a huge clip stacked right on top of my head.)

5) Dwell less on stupid problems, as there are actually children who are indeed starving in Africa while you whine over having to research a report on health promotion theory.

6) MAKE EYE CONTACT WHEN TALKING TO PEOPLE. This is a rerun from last year. Changes were not acceptably incorporated into daily interactions :(

7) Eat less crap. A tortilla chip is still a tortilla chip even if it has organically-grown kalamata olives baked in. AND said tortilla chip is still unhealthy in quantities of FIFTY SEVEN CHIPS IN ONE HANDFUL.

8) Be less of a raging bitch and love more. (Mmm, always the trickiest. This could fall along the lines of my college resolutions, "Make people hate us less." And it always leads to an argument where people tell me I'm not a raging bitch and I have to admit that, yep, I am. Freshman year Nikki once told me I was the sweetest person she knew in the dorm and I think I laughed out loud. Me being the sweetest person in the dorm = we have spoken once and that consisted of "Hi, I'm Allie, where are you from?" or we have never been in the presence of a fat or ugly person together.)

But I can do it this year. THIS IS CONQUERABLE. See you in 2010, 4 readers.

I am single

Because, here in San Diego, helping Joe pack up the apartment, I came across his CD collection:

Mudvayne
Metallica
Stain'd
System of a Down x2
Linkin Park x3 (ok, I own Reanimation, but that's a great CD so whatev)
Godsmack
KID ROCK

And now I have to leave him.

I have lost my will to live

I am in San Diego and gloriously refreshed (Ambien + time difference = eleven hours of sleep what whaaat) and thought I'd take a whack at a good ol' blog entry. After all, my life is filled with excitement, from free airline meal vouchers that turned Cibo Gourmet at JFK's terminal 8 into a post-WWI-era Germany bread rationing session, to being chased down by a rabid (albeit cute and cuddly) chihuahua as I ran through my old hood. Good times as Princess Lame-a. I just made that up right now. Cute.

Anyway, I go to post but first make the crucial mistake of checking People.com. And the second headline was "Find Out Who Peed on Kim Kardashian." And that's it. I have to quit life. I HAVE TO GIVE UP. Because how can I live in a world like this, where this is news and, more importantly, this is the news I seek out? I may post later if I have a change of heart between here and the medicine cabinet full of expired OTC drugs calling out to me.

Deciphering the Past

Now that I have time again I thought I'd post! But nothing remotely funny has happened. No epiphanous moments. So in my de-cluttering, semester's end zeal I decided to go through my Word documents and delete things I wont need again (this is fun for me- shut up). I found this gem of a document called "Blog Ideas." And who wouldn't want to read about (copied and pasted as is):

Men who drive minivans

I don’t like Disney songs that made it popular on the radio, like Luther Vandross and Celine Dion (I think?) and their rendition of “Beauty and the Beast.” Or whoever decided that putting “A Whole New World” to a saxophony, smooth-jazz soundtrack was in the best interest of society.

Why I hate people who aren’t me and thus I need to be a hermit

Can’t understand why Diane loves cheese sandwiches. Is she five? (*December 22 time-in: seriously, WHAT was this about? What kind of mood must I have been in to begrudge someone their love of cheese sandwiches?)

So I hate a lot of things. But one of the most annoying things to me is the “ahhh” noise people- mostly people on commercials- make after they take a drink. Was it really THAT refreshing? I think the hatred was exacerbated by my boss, who can’t breathe like a normal human, and every other breath will breathe through his mouth and make the “ahhh” noise. Mostly, I think I hate it because of its very 90s-era association with orange juice, which I’ve always found unappetizing, kind of how I feel about most 90s-era commercials in general. It just makes me think of people with morning breath drinking their pulpy (GROSS) orange juice and “ahh”ing, spreading the orange-tinted morning breath around.

So I can’t work on Fridays. I just can’t do it. It’s funny, because it’s so rarely that I have HUGE weekend plans occupying my mind and making me unable to concentrate. I just have this ridiculous sense of ‘IT’S FRIDAY!” entitlement that stops my brain from doing anything more than reading menus and checking People.com. So especially on Fridays, I rely on emails for entertainment and basic time passing. To get the ball rolling I answered any unanswered email in the inbox and even sent out new ones. I told mom of my travel plans, my friends of my surely boring and obnoxious dream, and me and Joe’s friend about Joe wanting to go out to a restaurant rather than cook. Tick tock. Tick tock. Email from career services. Tick tock. Someone’s apartment is available in Chicago! Whoopdidoo!! Tick tock. Inbox (1)- the vision that sets my heart aflame. It’s from Brian! Maybe he’s suggesting a new restaurant for tonight. Maybe he’s included the website link to save me a whole 7 seconds of google action! No. It’s a one-word response to Joe not wanting to cook. I waited all day for “Fucker.” F MY LIFE.

(*Time in, I may have already posted this. I am disorganized) Today I was eyelining and, somehow, I got a rogue eyelash in my eye. I say somehow in an astounded tone when really it’s not that scandalous thinking of say, pressing down on your lash line and having one of those guys fall in. Anyway, I went to sip my coffee and felt the tell tale skin-crawly feeling of something in my eye. Suppress urge to vomit. Blink, roll eye around, push eyeball with lower eyelid, in an attempt to get the lash into the corner to fish it out. Now, not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty talented at getting eyelashes out of my eye. As in, I’d add it to my resume as proof of my performance-under-pressure skillz if it was normal. But this one isn’t budging…until it gets to the corner, and to my horror and bewilderment, disappears into the vast abyss behind my eyeball…THE BRAIN. So now I’m living in terror today, wondering when said lash is going to land in the wrong brain crevice, stop oxygen flow to an important organ, and I’ll die. I see it* like one of those cartoons in a heart medication commercial, but instead of plaque filling my arteries, there’s some brain tunnel that’s crucial to my survival, and when the lash flows through it, it flips upright, causing the tunnel to be rendered useless, and I die an embarrassing, vain death. Seriously, I’d be embarrassed to have people attend my funeral if I died from an eyelash/brain blockage. So far I feel ok, and normally oxygenated. We’ll wait and see.

*I also see it as a cute traveler through my bod, like Arnold in The Magic Schoolbus goes like, inside the human body or something. A little adventurous eyelash, holding a stick with a bandana tied to it, filled with its lashy necessities.

Don't Count Me Out Yet!

I have thoughts, I really really do, but I've been so swamped by finals (Read: not motivated to do anything, A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G, but bake and eat cookies) I've ignored le blog. And now Joe and fam are here until Monday. I will update again soon. I HAVE THOUGHTS!

This is Going to Show a Post Date of A Long Time Ago Because Blogspot is Haaawhack

I've been working on this post a long time, really reaching into the depths of my suckiness to fully flesh out the sucky things about me that I want to change. I've narrowed it down to: pathetically limited interests; money hoarding; bad babysitting; and not living for today whilst dreading the future.

First off, limited interests. I desperately need a new passion/activity. I thought of knitting, then remembered my attempts at crocheting at Explo in 2000 and what turned into a line of knots. Yes, a line of knots instead of a potholder. Not even two lines of knots. One. Then there's pilates, which I'm fairly good at already thanks to Mari Windsor DVDs (I find focusing on her one eye that is larger than the other helps ward away other distractions. I am mean.), but why not take a class, improve, get constructive criticism, MAKE NEW FRIENDS? Oh, hehe that's right, my gigantic, keeps-me-awake-at-night ginormous phobia of farting or queefing in public. So I thought, why not immerse myself in learning to appreciate poetry? As long as I don't become a Poetry Douche, I could really grow as a person and an intellectual. I could be someone smart people want to talk to. So I bought a book of Pablo Neruda love poems and found my dusty old copy of an Emily Dickinson book I got as an award for being a great English student in high school (anyone else seeing the irony?). And away I go! Let's see how long this lasts...

Suckiness Correction #2. While I don't consider myself stingy and I'm a grrrrrr8 (!!) tipper, I'm a total money hoarder when I'm the only person involved. Does that make sense? Meaning I'll always contribute at least what I owe in a group function, but if it's just me sitting at my desk at work, damn straaaight I'm brown baggin' it and delighting in my savings, clawing through my gold like Scrooge McDuck with golden dollar signs gleaming in my eyes. So my first goal in reducing my lame tightwad-ness is "treating" myself to lunches more. Like $5 foot longs and fast food tacos. Really breaking the bank. But it's a start.

Additionally, I'm often a terrible babysitter. How so? I will play with the child the bare minimum amount, all while dreaming of the food in the fridge and cabinets that I'll forage into when the kiddles go to sleep. Case and point: Last June I was sitting in San Diego and I noticed a coconut cream pie in the fridge. Her parents had made me promised I'd 'help them out' and eat some. Encouragement from parents to binge? Ohhhhh hollermygoodness. So by the girl's bedtime I was actually seeing her as a walking, talking coconut cream pie: that's what a sucky (and err...food obsessed?) sitter I can be. Oh, and also I'm texting a lot. A looot. But I'm changing! I will now vow to earn what I make through quality educational play with the kids! And let's be honest who's really texting me??

I also need to focus on living for today. Case in point, my thoughts of "I really don't want to get sucked into wedding planning and have it be this huge thing in my life. Then when the wedding's over I'll feel really empty and useless and who wants that?" So rather than letting myself enjoy things, I find myself distancing from the process in order to avoid feeling sad later. Other similar thoughts: "Why is she dating a guy 20 years older than her? Doesn't she know men die around 7 years before women? Why is she setting herself up for even MORE heartache?" I don't think like a normal person and this needs to stop.

So dear friends and readers, if you notice these traits surfacing, smack me over the head with a breadstick and convince me to change. Then dip that breadstick in olive oil and eat it menacingly in front of me while I cry inside. Punishment enough!

My mind is full of epidemiology and...this

I think the best thing about living at home is free stamps.

When I lived with Joe it was a life of constant stamp deprivation. Here is a sample Saturday morning interaction:
"Do we have stamps?" Allie asked. "I need to mail this form that's basically more important than anything else and my life depends on it getting in the mail today."
"Nope, last time I checked we didn't have stamps," Joe said casually. "Have you bought some since two Saturdays ago?"
"Nope."
"Then we don't have stamps."
"Ok, I guess it wasn't that important," Allie said, shrugging.
Literally, things just didn't get done because neither of us had the motivation to actually buy stamps. (Ok, Joe didn't have the motivation. I played the poor card: "OMG a book of stamps is like EIGHT DOLLARS shouldn't free mail be a RIGHT in America I mean SERIOUSLY?")

I need to find a song that speaks to me. I thought of this because I was listening to "Kanye's Workout Plan" on a run and I was filled with nostalgia about how, during senior year, that song just SPOKE to us. There's a party tonight? We WERE so excited! We couldn't WAIT to find out who was invited! It was just so US! (note: conversations like that actually happened. Because Kanye was definitely, absolutely writing his lyrics while thinking of bored suburban high school senior girls). On that note, nothing pumps up my 1.2 mph jogs like hearing a blast from the past. I was chugging up a hill ("I think my lazy fat ass can, I think my lazy fat ass can" said the Little Blue Engine) when "Say You'll Be There" by the Spice Girls came on and almost palpable was my desire for a time machine to come and instantly whisk me to fifth grade in Courtney's living room so we could choreograph a dance that included a lot of hip bouncing and finger wagging on a circular motion. Then we could sit around talking about what it must be like to get your period. And maybe call Paul. Oh the good old days.

I think what I hate most about the holiday season is how lame I feel. Yes, I know magazines are inherently aspirational and articles about budgeting your time and calories between 45 Christmas parties aren't actually meant for the average person who isn't a socialite or the CEO of Loews hotels or...something. But guess what. I have not been invited to attend one Christmas party this year. I think the closest I've come is babysitting while the moms baked Christmas cookies upstairs and got drunk off Bailey's. And I'm baking cookies to bring to class tonight. Does that count? WHY DON'T YOU LIKE ME??! Yeah, maybe it's because I don't have a job and can't tag along to Joe's not one but two holiday fiestas with the ship. And because my friends around here a) live with their parents so can't host or b) live alone but are boys and don't get the urge to host parties.
Maybe.

It's that time of year again when I hate other students. Students who just talk about how hard they're studying, how much time they spend in the library, while I'm sitting around writing this hurr blog, drooling over what cookies I will bake for my imaginary party and glancing half-heartedly at my epi notes that I've already looked at 47 times while babysitting. Just like at Northwestern, people make me feel bad and doubt myself because I'm not a hobbit who curls up at a study carrel with a pillow and one 100 Calorie Pack of Chips Ahoy for 12 hours (please...I'd pack that and an apple and popcorn and cheese puffs and a Luna bar and almonds and sushi and a whole duck to roast under the desk and...). It's not like I don't study, nor do I do poorly on the tests. I just hate when other people make me feel bad about my minimal work efforts. This paragraph is poorly written and makes no sense and makes me look like an asshole. Thank God I'm not in law school.

The party's over

I never thought it would happen to me. I was so high and mighty! So innocent! Squawking about, haughtily saying it would never happen to me, I was immune, my love would last forever. But the time has come: I am officially over "Party in the USA"

Moment of silence

No longer am I filled with a rush of happiness at the opening notes. No longer do I involuntarily throw my hands up at the appropriate parts, sometimes in public. Now I just half-smile, say "hmm" and go on with my life. WHO AM I WITHOUT MY "PARTY IN THE USA" OBSESSION? This is seriously an identity crisis. Now what will I demand my harp player pluck as I walk down the aisle? Pachelbel?? Mozart? You've gotta be kidding. I need a new obsession and fast.

bah

My mind is a swamp of psychology of media references, health education thoughts from the 1950s and fun vaginismus facts. I got nothing funny for yous. So may I present "What Happens When You Type 'Funny Animals' Into Google:

Yeah, I'm awkward...but so are you

1.
Scene: Last night in research methods
Actors: Me and Not-As-Hot-Hot-Mom, otherwise known as the woman who yelled out the right answer when I got it wrong, otherwise known as wears a fuzzy black scrunchie and has a somewhat inscrutable age.

NAHHM walks into the classroom holding a sparkly silver Neiman Marcus gift bag with a present poking out. Feeling friendly, I walk over to her, body language OVER THE TOP (this is important), point to the present and say in a sing-song voice, "For me?!! You SHOULDN'T have!" and giggle.

NAHHM: "Um, actually...it's uh, for Kerry*?" She looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

~ sound of record screeching to a halt~

I don't know man, I'm just at such a loss here. Did she think that I, who had never said more to her than "Hi, how are ya?" would ACTUALLY expect a random gift? Or that anyone would react so overzealously to a gift? It was sooo clearly me joking. Has no one ever made a dumb, cute joke before? Yes, noting that she is a relative stranger and that I randomly approached her could make this situation come off as an awkward one on my part. I'll take that. But I see it as me being friendly and having a giggle with a woman who I see every week in a very small class. What's so wrong with being a goofball? I have a big personality. The whole thing just seems so obvious to me. I guess it just irks me because I felt awkward after, but I was just being friendly and making a ridiculously obvious joke. So she is the awkward one. There. I feel better now.

2. I really, really hate quiet talkers. (Yes, I also hate loud talkers, but quiet ones more) If you are called on, and all I see is your mouth moving, I sort of want to smack you. I hate being that obnoxious person yelling "Speak up!" in the back but seriously...can YOU hear the words coming out of your mouth? Quiet talking has its place: the train, the hospital, asking really urgent questions in mime school. But not when others are explicitly supposed to hear you. There. I feel better now.

3. Sometimes I wonder if Lady Gaga ever just feels...silly. I'm not talking about the kermit poncho or near-constant leotards. Those are fierce. More fierce than Tyra putting on a fat suit and getting real**. I'm talking lyrics***. I found myself singing along to the beginning of "Bad Romance" and feeling like an absolute turd. Go ahead, try it. It sounds like you're having a seizure. I have these images of Lady Gaga penning the lyrics, like "Ok, hmm, this jibberish sounds good here, no, scratch that, replace it first with this mumbo jumbo- you're totally fired, Peter- add my name here, some fake French, and tada!" Or when she yells things like "Cause I'm a freak BITCH baby!" Gagz, your parents are listening! SHH!!


* The present recipient's name is Suzanne. I know this. We had involved introductions. NAHHM gave the present to a woman whose name is Suzanne, and she called her Kerry. Is that her nickname? Like, hey, I'm Allison, call me Rebecca?
**Sorry, I can't associate fierce with anything except Tyra. Or Uncle Scar, who, the more I think about it, is definitely gay.
*** Ra ra bo ba baaah ro ma roma na Allison ooh lalaaa...