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...

Thanksgiving Leftover Haikus

Ode to the current state of my fridge:

Reddi Whip spray can
Happiness squirts to and fro
Mouth not closed since Thurs

White meat dark meat meh
Turkey I don't like you much
But I eats you up!!

Random chocolate cake
Bought you cuz Uncle Bob lame
WHO hates pumpkin pie?!

Mashed potato clumps
I saw what went into you
Butter was on sale?

Sweet potato mush
All day in the slow cooker
Hot tub- can I join?

Josh's applesauce
Made with bourbon...and lovin'
Maddie will get that

Stuffing made with sage
Crusty ends give me reason
Not to end my life

Cranberry relish
I did not eat you last week
Look like crime scene bleck

Karen's pumpkin bundts
You ready for this jelly?
She put crack in them

Fajitas from Fri
Grandma says they gave her gas
We so related

:(

I have not posted in awhile. This is not because I am a blog quitter. This is because my life has changed due to Thanksgiving activities. Classes canceled, babysitting nixed for the week, family coming into town and throwing off my exercise/focus entirely on myself schedule...what's a girl to do? Ahh yes, lose all her inspiration and become a grumpasaurus rex.

Things just get weird for me when I veer too far from my routine. I forget how to read for class. How to run. How to enjoy soup. Haha jk that would never happen. But seriously, I've worn jeans around the house for longer than the time it takes to get from my car to my bedroom, and that's saying something. How EVER will I survive Christmas break?

Pinkish-Purple Bedroom Confessions

Because I can't afford taxi cabs.

So I recently acquired a dandy refurbished iPod, a situation which I'll entitle "The best thing that has ever happened to my pathetic running career." With the motivation of music, I can now run 0.7 miles rather than 0.5 before my left knee breaks off and I melt into my own sweat and die. Let it be known I was not an iPod v-card holder before this magical occurrence. I had a first generation iPod that I got for my 19th birthday, and after a good three years of life, it pooped out. Convinced that I'm not one of those "music snobs" or "boring people" who constantly need tunes blaring in their ears because they don't have the mental capacity to create their own entertainment (because getting your jollies from staring out train windows and imagining people getting pizza pies thrown as them is mature and intellectual thinking), I didn't replace it. Read: I don't like to spend money on things that are not wearable or don't come in cheese-melted-on-bread form.

But on Friday, I remembered why I so adore the iPod. I always run with it on shuffle, but this time THE best playlist kept forming. And then I had what can only be termed a playlistgasm as, right after "Gimme Just One Night (Una Noche)" by 98 Degress (mmm hmm. Judge away) ended, I hear the one and only Sisqo telling me "Hold up" and I knew, I KNEW, it was Lil Kim time.

So yeeeep CONFESSIONZZ I'm a small little white woman from the suburbs, and my role model is Lil Kim. Why? Because she is a sexual mama and embraces it. Because she made a career for herself with lyrics that, when broken down, are basically just "GO DOWN ON ME FOOL!" And oh, fool will. Because Lil Kim gets what she wants; she can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth, and that's my definition of power.

In my Human Sex class we learn how important it is to be a sexual person, to take pride in our sexuality and help others realize their own sexual potential. It's the only way to get what we want in bed (and some could argue in life). And the one and only Kimberly is not afraid to demand what she wants, without even the slightest blush. I mean,

"Puerto Rican papi, used to be a deacon
Now he be suckin me off on the weekend" ???

Pure. Poetry.

I used to argue with my super conservative ex-boyfriend constantly because he thought her music was terrible and slutty and distasteful and incredibly harmful for women. I argued the opposite, that if more women embraced the power of their sexuality and demanded orgasms 'round the clock, we'd be a happier and more productive society. And "How Many Licks?" is such a prime example! You get the melodious voice of Sisqo, a great representation of diversity (a white dude- his name was John, the Puerto Rican papi, the BLEEEP from down south, Tony who was Italian, and the black dude we'll call King Kong) superb descriptive language ("a hurricane tongue"- genius!), and, well...you get 15-year-old me and my friend Ali listening and looking at each other asking "Is this making you horny?" "...aaaabsolutely" and come on, every girl needs that sort of bonding moment.

If Lil Kim knew the fan she had in me she'd probably laugh and maybe want to jump me. And I think that makes me love her even more.

sigh

seriously? That was a pretty good would you rather.

Note to self: when coming home drunk and bingeing on mom's cookin, don't leave a note that says "Loved the eggplant parm, next time easy on the rosemary?" prob wont go over well we shall see.

Would You Rather?

I thought of this one in class. I'd love to hear thoughts:

Would you rather have the power to lightly zap someone when they're doing something annoying, or a tiny button on your abdomen that, when pressed, made the urge to pee go away for another 3 hours with no health risks?

Zap:
Pros include getting out your anger as well as training people to behave better in public. It's just a little zap, like the electric shock you might get in winter when touching a metal door, but it could condition people to quit their behavior if used wisely. For example, the guy on the train clippity clippin' those nails behind me? Clip ZAP. Clip ZAP. Eventually he puts two and two together and stops clipping for the moment. The annoying women who sit behind me in Research Methods and whisper constantly? Whisper ZAP. Whisper again ZAP. You get the picture.
Cons, for me at least, are minimal, BUT we have to consider that I might take too much pleasure in it and become a full-out sadist.

Pee-Control Button:
Pros include never having to race to beat the line at intermission during a show- you've got another three hours before you need to go! You can comfortably enjoy an entire baseball game or avoid a skanky bar bathroom. Long car trips can be planned to avoid stops, since you pee when you eat or get gas, never in between. No constant peeing when out on the town enjoying drinks. Never having to pee in a bush.
Cons include having a ridiculous button to explain to the man or woman you take home after meeting them at a bar and enjoying a blissfully uninterrupted 3-hour talk-and-flirt fest. And people thinking you are a robot. Or have really concentrated, goldenrod-colored pee.

So White I'm Almost Translucent

Slapping my forehead and grunting, "My GOD I am so white" has become a daily occurrence. Like when I find myself saying things like, "My dad gets so pissed when the cleaning ladies move his scale and the calibration gets all whacked out" or "I can't believe the dog groomer didn't put a bandana on Dodger- good thing we have three just lying around!"

Nothing makes me feel whiter than listening to "Sexy Can I" by Brandy I-Accidentally-Plowed-Into-Another-Car's younger brother, Ray J. The first time I heard the line "Sexy can I, visit you at work?" I immediately thought of this scenario*:

Ray J. enters his lady friend's office building hiding flowers behind his back. She sees him out of the corner of her eye from her cubicle. While taking off her adorable work glasses and straightening her blazer, she rushes towards him with a big hug/kiss for being so thoughtful.

Too bad the next line is:
"While you slide down the pole no panties no shirt." Right. Don't think Bob McArthur in HR would find that appropriate.

Next:
"I make it rain in the club." This was actually the first time I ever heard this expression, and the first thing I thought of was everyone frantically trying to cover their Chi-straightened hair after the overhead sprinklers came on, running and screaming and causing general chaos a la the Mean Girls scene after the Burn Book turns the junior girls into reglur ol' jungle animals.

Finally:
"Got a girl at the crib, we can take it to the mo-mo." At first listen I thought he was suggesting taking his date to the MoMa. As in the Museum of Modern Art. Mmm hmm. That's right.

WHAT THE HELL IS A MO MO?

*I'M NOT ACTUALLY RACIST ALERT*
Let it be known that I always imagined these scenarios taking place with Ray J. and his African American lady love. Let's just clear that up. I'm not trying to imply that only white people can do certain things like work in cubicles, receive flowers mid-day, visit museums and use Chi irons. I'm just tres naive for assuming an employed woman featured in a hip hop song isn't automatically a stripper. My bad.

My God I'm Uninspired

Nothing exciting has happened to me recently. Nothing even remotely funny or that I could possibly turn into being funny. I Googled myself and read some of my sex columns from college, which I now find remarkably un-funny, so I've lost all faith in myself to ever be funny again.

A really fat woman sat on me on the train while she tried to sit down. That's about it for any material I've got. If my left thigh was a rainbow, she woulda made Skittles. badumchaa

The $6 Offer Returns...

So yesterday in class my Intro to Health Ed professor reached into his pocket, grabbed his wallet and said "I'll give all the small bills in here to the person who can tell me what McGinnis argued and why" and he pulled out a FIVE and a ONE.








Ok that didn't happen, it's a complete lie, but my life is really boring these days so I thought I'd spice it up.

More!

I'm not the only one! Read this from the NYT complaint box. I came down to breakfast this morning and my mom had left it out for me with the simple note: "OMG". She knows me too well.

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/11/06/complaint-box-public-grooming/

Thoughts from the class?

Rather than post to my online discussion section (no, I am not 'a Phoenix,' I am a ghetto wannabe Lion who takes the Easy Way Out, which as a title was taken when I wanted to create this blog), I thought I'd present some discussion topics here that have been burning through the gray crevasses of my brain.

1. When two people get married it would make sense to get on the same cell phone family plan, right? Or at least, in my case, to cut the cord and break free from my family plan that I'm still on and that my mom still pays $9.99 a month for or something (thanks Shel!). But Joe and I are on different networks and I'm sure our contracts wont end at the same time. How can we ever combine plans without one of us lurching through life for a few months on a GASP pay as you go plan? Is there a special Marriage Waiver that allows you to break a contract as long as you show a marriage license from the past three months? DOES ANYONE ELSE EVER THINK ABOUT THESE THINGS? Thoughts?

2. Why is it physically impossible to take more than 45 seconds to eat a banana or a string cheese? You can actively try to slow yourself down but seriously, time yourself, that shit's gone in under a minute. THOUGHTS?

3. A vast amount of people today seem to think it is socially acceptable to clip their nails in public? What do you think has changed in American society over the past 50 years to let this travesty occur? How can we, as a clean and considerate society, fight back against this evil breaking us apart from within?

4. Ever since seeing "Man of the House" in 1995 at the height of my JTT-lovin phase, I've always been afraid of my brakes cutting out when conveniently coasting down the hilly streets of San Francisco, like what happens to Chevy Chase's character. Why am I a cognitive fartmonger? Discuss.

5. Are crevice and crevasse the same thing? Why or why not?

I hate dreams

Last night I had a dream that my Introduction to Health Education professor invited me over for wine and offered me $6, a five and a one, to be precise, to have sex with him. I can never go to class again.

Joe Arrives Tonight!

When I flew to San Diego to visit Joe, I was very clear that I wanted to be met at baggage claim with flowers. Because I am needy and I like pretty things and feeling loved. And I will not let Joe give up on romance before we're even married. No way Joe-say. So when Joe arrives this evening, I, being the true wannabe feminist I...wanna be...thought, why NOT meet him at baggage claim with flowers? Why can't we get equal loving treatment?

And then I thought...

But what if he gets off the plane from China and he's with an Asian woman and omigod he's clearly with her and now I have to pretend the flowers are for her even though golly woops how would I have known she'd be with him as their newfound love is a surprise!!! And then somehow I'd get punched in the face. And my life is produced by Bright Kauffman Crane.

Bringing Awkward Back

Everyone always talks about how socially awkward they are. And yes, at times, we all are. But I think I'm more awkward than most. Take my absolute inability to make eye contact. Or maintain a conversation about something other than myself without fumbling my hands or tripping over things or accidentally falling asleep. Or not blush when my name is spoken. Or the name Allison is ever spoken. "Gah, ME, WHAT?"
After a phone conversation with Planned Parenthood reps yesterday- you know, in an attempt to make a great impression and pitch my idea for my integrative thesis project, essentially deciding the fate of my second semester in grad school- that went something like this "HI let me immediately jump into my pitch giggle giggle OH you're just a volunteer answering phones hee hee snort nervous voice OH see I just don't even know if what I want to do is possible la la oh it is SUPER DUPER giggle breathy voice haven't stopped talking at all oh, you want my NAME? Oh hee hee sorry guess I should have told you that earlier!" ...so, yes, after this phone call, I took a breather to reflect on the awkward moments of my life. Not the embarrassing ones, as there is a difference (getting a bicycle wheel thrust between your legs while walking, then having it catapult you forward, landing in a heap in front of Tech, was NOT awkward, ok? It was humiliating. People confuse awkwardness with other emotions/acts, but let me be clear, awkwardness involves your being at fault, so here the bike wheel was awkward, I guess, or the bike rider who LEFT ME IN A HEAP and rode off, but hey, I'm over it...clearly).
And I came across what stands out in my memory as social awkwardness in its purest form. To this day the upcoming memory gives me chills and makes me blush:

When I was a sophomore I was pretty much massively in love with this guy Lew. After getting a mutual friend to give him my screen name with the implication that I Want His Bod, and us engaging in two months of endless IM bantering (I'm so much better online than in life, at...everything in life), we finally met up for a vodka-infused-get-all-the-way-to-second-base rendezvous at Jen's grandmother's friend's house. Anyway, the time finally came when Lew (who was a senior, and effortlessly cool, and had millions of friends in other places and absolutely no motivation to hang out with a lame sophomore who rolled her eyes due to an astigmatism and was a big ol' whoppin' virgin) made the plans to come over to my house when my parents were out. When the car dropping him off pulled up I broke out into nervous sweats, practically soaking through my mustard-colored "Ride 'Em Cowboy" Abercrombie shirt Lauren had gotten me for HannuChristmas that seemed so adorably appropriate for this night. (Note: I wasn't planning on losing my v-card to him and did not, but I was under the impression that no guy is immune from being turned on by mustard-colored innuendo). But Abercrombie shirts are notoriously tight in the armpit so you're really asking for it. So he knocks on my door, and completely I lose my cool. I had images of racily jumping on him and wrapping my legs around his waist in the doorway, or seductively running my hands up his scrawny bod while he pulled me close. Either scenario involved a quick journey to my bedroom. Did this happen? No. I opened the door, yelled "HI! WANNA GO ON A TOUR OF MY HOUSE?" And proceeded to take him all over, with a mid-point stop in the basement. The highlight of this, and what is memorable to me as an experience of my insane awkwardness, is when I took him even further away from the bedroom to show him our cedar closet in the basement.

That's right: "Here's the cedar closet! I like, didn't know we even had it, but it keeps off-season stuff smelling good!"
I vividly remember the look on his face. The look of boredom, impatience, confusion, wanting to shoot himself, pity towards me- the look of a guy who had clearly taken valuable time out of his night with the simple expectation of being fellated and is now face to face with a rack fulla winter coats.

Soon after that we had the "and thiiiis is my bedroom!" unsexy Vanna White moment and we proceeded to very uncomfortably get to third base this time. He left that night and we never hooked up again and I'm convinced the reason he didn't fall madly in love with me is because I'll always be The Girl Who Bragged About Her Cedar Closet in his head.

The end.

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?

What I Like About Youuuu...nothing

My main pet peeve in the world is people who clip their nails in public. And how I can't effortlessly embed an awesome Legally Blonde clip into my blog. Aaaanyway, I don't even have words for how sickening it is. I find the clip clip noise as heinous as nails down a chalkboard, and thinking of all those flying bits of dead human cells in nail form...oh dear God. But today I discovered two new pet peeves.

Well, the first one isn't new per se (Weasley. If Joe read my blog he would laugh. Joe doesn't read my blog, cricket cricket). I've always had a 'thing' with slow walkers (see photo), if by 'thing' we are referring to vendetta or intent to kill. But I thought I was over it after high school (me 2000-2004: crazy short girl making concentration faces running to class basically leapfrogging the Ecuadorian kids with rolly backpacks gottagettoclassomg!). I thought college cured me. But no sireebob. Today I was walking from the subway to class (God, I feel so cool saying that...I know), fighting the magnetic pull to the Sweet Treat cart, when the sidewalk ended and we had to all corral ourselves into the covered scaffolded sidewalk thing. Y'all know what I'm talking about, and by y'all I mean Maddie, because she is my readership and she lives in the city and understands my inarticulateness. Inarticu...lance? I digress.

This basically means that you have to walk single file if people who dare walk in the opposite direction should need to get by. Which they do. Because it is New York City. So I'm walking along, halfway through the makeshift sidewalk, when I find myself approaching a typical Cool Lazy Girl in my lane. Just for reference, a Cool Lazy Girl is the kind of girl who goes to class in a sloppy (yet smooth and shiny) ponytail (why you gonna just shlop it up if you clearly spent time to blow dry it?) with thin sweats that fit just right and a North Face that will always look painfully cool to me and an awesome bag and...basically I aspire to be a Cool Lazy Girl. Anyway, it takes about 2.5 strides to realize how slow she's walking. Quick decision time: I could pull a total cheetah move and pounce around her, weaving back in just in time to avoid oncoming traffic. Or, to stay behind her I'd be walking awkwardly slow, looking ridiculous having to practically come to a complete stop, and I could already see myself like bouncing around behind her, looking around her and over her looking for an exit lane. So I found a break in the traffic and 4 seconds and my bag bumping a small child later, I had passed her. Six seconds later she's standing next to me at the cross walk. One of the millions of situations where Allie Feels Like a Doofus, No One Even Noticed She Was There (But Still) and I Really Hate Slow Walkers.

A new category of people who presented themselves to me as pet peevable today are the Bathroom Teases. Ok, so say you're on line at a public bathroom, and you hear a flush from the second stall in. You automatically expect that stall door to open in 3, 2, 1...wait, no? What are they DOING in there? I've always been a fan of pee, wipe, pull up pants, adjust, flush, go. That way I'm not leading anyone on. The next person in line hears my flush and knows they're getting my stall and not that one next to me where there's a fat lady and you just sort of know it's going to smell. I just don't see the point (unless you've pooped, but that's courtesy flushing, which is a whole 'nother issue) of flushing then letting yourself be a pee-cloud receptacle while you lazily button your chinos. There were three stalls in question today, and the girl in front of me on line entered one right as the other two were flushing. So when no one came out of those two and girl in front of me came out a minute later, I tried to make eye contact with her like "Gosh WHOA what are they doing see how I got your stall and...and...you were right in front of me heh heh?" but she looked at me like "Bitch, you crazy" and washed her hands. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME (commence running up the stairs).

And that, my friends, is how I feel about that.

Why I Have To Give Up Drinking, For The 23434th Time

I think I need to see a doctor about these hangovers I get. I am so jealous of people who drink 74 vodka tonics then wake up the next morning, clear their throat a few times, pop 3 Advil and head off to work slightly tired and sluggish but still entirely capable. Then there's me. I have 4 rum drinks Saturday night and that guarantees that my Sunday will be spent lying facedown on my bed taking deep breaths to try to steady my crazy erratic heartbeat while willing myself not to throw up...again. I don't even know if I get headaches. That nagging "Oh, I think I might actually be dying right now" concern sort of takes precedence. Around late afternoon I usually come back to life. It's the kind of situation where I know that if I eat or drink something I will feel better, but the thought of chewing and swallowing is so horrendous to me, such a far-fetched idea, that I remain horizontal and moaning.

This morning I woke up in my party clothes, clutching a piece of raisin bread and wrapped like a burrito in my comforter, because even in a drunken state I'll never put clothes that have been in direct contact with cabs/bars/smoking on my pristine sheets. Far be it for me to actually CHANGE my clothes. Goodness no. That thought at that hour is just a joke.

I sometimes wonder if I'm allergic to alcohol, or if there's some other reason my body just rejects it. I'm short but I've certainly got the meat on my bones to support a couple drinks. It just sucks that the amount it takes me to actually feel drunk is always an amount that will give me a kill-me-now, but-I'm-serious-please-kill-me-now hangover. There's no happy medium. 3 drinks and I'm stone cold sober and 473432 calories fatter and what's the point of that, but 4 and I'm passed out standing up at the bar and hating my sad, sad life the next day. I spent a year waking up with the man that I love; raisin bread, you do NOT suffice.

It's not like la di daa I'm just going to bed after I drink. Considering the fact that my favorite part of drinking is binge eating and all. I usually try to force a Poland Spring down too. I think a doctor would just tell me "You have an alcohol problem." Which is probably right. So now I shall suffer in silence, when perhaps this is happening because I have some strange form of pancreatic cancer that only manifests its symptoms in easy-to-come-by hangovers.

Talk about a waaap waaaa entry. Apparently, alcohol is a depressant.

Nubby Bubbys

Apparently I'm not really Jewish because I pronounce Bubby like "boeh-bee" like the first syllable of booger as opposed to "Buh-bee."

I love New York because yesterday, when I was walking to the subway, a youngish minority feller sitting on a stoop in the Bronx said to his friend, "If I paid you $20, would you kill that lady?" Ok first off, it was 3:45pm and they didn't look armed. I WAS the only lady in the vicinity, but rather than be afraid my first thought was "Why don't they like me?" I'm so, so sad. But who just asks that in pleasant conversation?

I also love New York because there is a cart that makes fresh-to-order waffles right outside an entrance to Columbia. If orgasms had a smell- and it was something different from eau d'sex- it would be the Columbia waffle cart.

At the park today with Henry, I was thrilled to see a 30-something dad begrudingly follow his little girl onto the playground. It was empty besides us, so I welcomed the opportunity to shoot the shit with hot daddio, talk about property taxes, immigrants stealing jobs, why we ever wanted our lives to end up like this, ya know suburban grownup talk. Rather, he stood silently next to me, and it was up to me to fill the silence. Sample sentences:

"Henry, how do you know Katherine?" Note: they are 2. I don't think I was expecting, "Oh, we go way back, and every now and then we love to just take some time out and catch up over mocha fraps and scones." Although omg with Henry's voice that would be such a YouTube hit...

"Uhh...sooo...does Katherine go to nursery school yet?" This actually got Dad to answer. He mentioned that since his wife is due in two weeks, they've decided to, and I quote, "Take Katherine out this semester." Let me reiterate. This semester of NURSERY SCHOOL. It took every fiber of my being not to crack up and then fart in his face. I mean do they understand the repercussions of this decision? She'll TOTALLY fall behind in her alphabet and fake cooking. I mean, I guess they're just looking out for her best interests- with that baby wailing through the night she'd be in no shape to wake up, slog through counting to 10 and barely share her child-size spatula with Sage. Best to just keep her self-esteem high. But HOW will this affect the dropout rates at her nursey school? Will it fall in the Princeton Review rankings? (I shouldn't joke about this, in NYC preschools are ranked and such, but this is Tarrytown, and our preschools have no maximum enrollment and take even severely retarted kids for the bargain price of $20 a day. What, not politically correct?)

ANYway, happy almost Friday. I'll be hunkering down to write my first grad school paper, which I'm making mountaining-from-molehill so hard right now. It's a 3-page max, BULLET BY BULLET critique paper (as in, no transitions necessary. There is a God). But obviously the trajectory will clearly go, write one paragraph, watch episode of One Tree Hill, write one more, blog about nothing/life being too hard, write second to last paragraph, go on People.com to analyze why Khloe Kardashian is REALLY getting married, then conclude whilst eating leftover zucchini casserole and feeling bad about eating too much casserole so bingeing on apple cider bread.