Book Club

For Chi Omega book club, we're reading Greg Mortenson's "Stones Into Schools." He keeps referring to the idea of sharing three cups of tea with everyone he meets in Afghanistan/Pakistan. All I can think of is how bad I'd have to pee after that type of encounter. This is why I am a close-minded fool who will never advance beyond The Box Car Children series. The end.

Mount Pleasant

Is where I live. It is pristine. It is family-oriented. It is, to state the obvious, Pleasant. And what I find hysterical is the most prominent businesses. Everywhere you look there is an auto repair shop, an eye doctor or eye clinic of some sort, and a veterinary hospital. So I've decided this: Mount Pleasant is pleasant, alright, until you drive too fast and hit a dog, then need a place to take it, and a place to take your car to get fixed, and you realize you probably need your eyes checked.

But there's an all-you-can eat Lowcountry buffet five minutes from my house by foot, so all is right with the world.

Here I am in Charleston

How is Charleston different than New York? Tough to say. I was expecting lynch mobs and throngs of morbidly obese people, but things aren't that different. Except that we live two blocks away from a megachurch. And the heat. Oooooh, the heat. You don't know heat-related discomfort until you move to the south. Where everything is heavily air conditioned but it's still NOT ENOUGH. A walk on the treadmill at the air-conditioned gym has me dripping with sweat. Dripping in the literal sense. As in drip stains on the treadmill. Good enough imagery? Moving on. I get out of my car and my glasses fog up. Walking across a parking lot is so torturous I've demanded Joe let me stay in the car on quick errands. The problem is that it's so gorgeous outside (we live right on preserved foresty land and it's so pretty and I just want to sit on the deck and enjoy), but the second you open the door to explore, it's just too much to bear. So I'm currently enjoying the great outdoors via the fabulous invention of windows.

Anyway, it's been a fairly easy transition moving back in with Joe. To all the ladies out there who have yet to move in with a man, take note: you will have NO SECRETS any more. Take this example. I love to get my upper lip waxed. In New York it's a mere $8 for the delicious, indescribable bliss of smooth and numb under-nose skin. In South Carolina, they charge you $10 to sit you in the middle of the salon in front of horrified-looking southern housewives, NOT apply numbing agent to your skin, subtly disparage your eyebrows, oh and then SCORCH YOUR SKIN WITH THOUSAND-DEGREE WAX WHILE GIGGLING. Needless to say, I overpaid to have an angry, flaming red scab under my nose for the past three days. Which cannot be hidden from my lover/roommate. Who thinks it's hilarious. It hurts to smile and laugh. Good thing I have nothing to smile and laugh about (seriously, keep me unemployed for three more days and I'll start up with really, really dark poetry. I am not meant for sitting around. Because you have to sit around when you are unemployed. Otherwise the second you go anywhere you spend money you don't have! Gah!). Draaaaama teenager.

Anyway. So I had a job interview Monday and actually managed to cover up the scab with enough makeup to hide it, but not too much to look obvious. Oh, but then I left my house. And sweated it off in 4.2 seconds. Not to mention I did NOT anticipate the parking garage at the hospital being full, so by the time I found a spot on the top floor and parked and jetted down 7 flights of stairs IN HEELS, sprinted across the parking lot and into the clinical building, I was a fully-scabbed, drenched, shaking, soaked-hairline mess in a wilted suit arriving a minute late. What a way to make a good impression!

Alright, I've been staring at the treadmill for an hour and should probably hop on. I know that the second it becomes inconvenient for me to answer the phone, it'll start ringing, so let's bring on the interview calls!

Maybe blast from the past?

I'm cleaning out my Word documents (Read: NOT packing) and found this, and although I may have posted already, here I go again on my own. Blogging down the only road I've ever known?

There are so many times I’ve wished there was an “Instantly Regret!” button that, when pressed, could take you back to 10 seconds ago, no strings attached. Like when I was being careless and went to cut the tag off my brand new Ann Taylor button down for work and accidentally cut a hole in the back of the shirt. Or walked into a branch and ripped a hole in the sweater I purchased the day before (sensing a trend?) Or when I say half the things I say. But recently, I’ve decided it would need to serve a new purpose. And this one is entirely my fault. I mean, so is walking into branches and being haphazard with scissors, but stay with me. Because I keep asking people what their dissertation research is on, and OH MY YAWEH IN HEAVEN do I regret it in 3 seconds. I’ll admit it- I’m self-centered, boring, and impatient. So unless your dissertation is on Allison and Joseph’s Wedding, Rapid Weight Loss By Consuming Only Peanut Butter and Animal Crackers, The Many Ways In Which Allison Looks Pretty Today or Dissertation Photo Montage on Cute Golden Retriever Puppies, I am sorry I asked. And I don’t hide it well. God, I need to just stop asking. But one of my New Year’s resolution* was to be more interested in other peoples’ lives (lol.) so I thought this would be a good way to check that one off daily. New method: “What did you eat for every meal today, and what are your dinner plans?” Because this, my friends (me still has friends?), is a topic I could talk about until the cows come home. I love that expression. Where did they go in the first place? California? To hit on cow babes? I love TV.

*Since no one is ever in this crevice of my room where my computer toils, I posted my chicken-scratched New Year’s resolution list on the side of my dresser so I can look at it for “inspiration” (or to get disheartened and hate myself). Now our new cleaning husband-wife team is cleaning my room once or twice a month (guess the Westchester cat is out of the bag!) and were in here last Wednesday and totally saw the list and think I’m ridiculous because I swear Sonya was smirking at me and and and but I mean wasn’t “Stop assuming the worst in people” one of my resolutions? Along with “Dwell less on stupid problems,” “Stop the self-doubt” and of course, “Be less of a raging bitch”?

Hey what's up my blog's back!!

I'll write actual post posts when I'm settled in Charleston, but in my packing I've come across my usual random slips of paper with thoughts on them, that I want to share with you all. Here is what I found on my "to blog about" slip:

"Susan Boyle. NOT good." Well that's just self-explanatory

"Intellectual Disappointment." That's the little nickname I've given myself, because in my immediate family, that's my role. Example: I learned most of my vocabulary from teen movies. You know the scene in Clueless where Cher says "I felt impotent, and out of control"? Weeeelp until I was far too old, and got corrected by an adult, I used the word impotent to mean "restless" or "crazed." I learned the word "amenable" from Legally Blonde, and used it often, and then once I had that Clueless epiphany, I wanted to hide under my bed forevs in fear of what amenable could actually mean. Turns out I've been using it correctly. PHREWF! And of course, Bring it On, which taught me words like "alacrity" and "afulgence" and I still don't know what the latter means. My senior year of high school our Christmas Day choice of movie was Something's Gotta Give and my mom said I didn't have to go because I wouldn't like it. Why didn't she think I'd like it? It didn't have teenagers in it. She'd been taking Rachel to Tennessee Williams plays and poetry readings since the ripe age of approx. 4 months, but I wasn't trusted to like a ROMANTIC COMEDY STARRING DIANE KEATON. Bring onnnnn the chorus: Intellectual disappointment!

And the last notation we'll explore today comes from my first day of Dr. Judy's Psych of Intimacy class this June: "Cal at dinner being condescending"

This is because as we're sitting down for our first class (haha, foreshadowing), Dr. Judy calls everyone's attention to the back of the room to point out that Jason, one of the tech support guys employed by TC, would be joining us because he asked to sit in. But her tone was so condescending, and pointing him out so entirely unnecessary, the first thing I could think of was that scene in Titanic when Cal says to the table, "Jack is joining us tonight from the third class..."

God I love Titanic. Probably because of all the teenagers.

Conversations with Malka aka And Then I Cried #2

Malka is 4. I babysit her and her brother. I love asking kids what they want to do when they grow up, and what they think I should do. The responses are normally hilarious. Yet after last night, I'll never do it again.

Allison: Malka, what should I be when I grow up?
Malka: You ARE a grown up!
Allison: I guess you're right. Well, what should I be?
Malka. Nothing. You're just a babysitter.


...and then I cried

How To Scare Your Mom

Today I'm going on the van at work to volunteer somewhere. Jovan parks the van at health fairs and such, and then people come aboard for condom demos, questions, pamphlets, etc. I wasn't smart enough to ask where we're going or...when we'll return...which led to this conversation this morning:

Mom: Are you home for dinner?
Allie: I have no clue. We're leaving at 4 so chances are we won't be back until 7 or 8.
Mom: Where are you going?
Allie: I wish I knew. All I know is that at 4 pm I'm leaving my car in a parking lot, meeting up with a black man, getting into his van filled with lubricant, and driving away.

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEH FUN TIMES.

Shh I'm not updating I swear

okaaaay fine I had to just put this up because Henry out-cuted himself Friday and it needs to be shared. I was bathing him (rephrased from "We were taking a bath," which is untrue as I am always fully clothed around children, thanks Maddie) and I referred incorrectly to a TV character, so he corrected me, and I apologized. Then I sang to him "It's too laaaate to apologizeeee, it's too laaaaate" and he looks at me with the most sincere eyes and says: "You ALWAYS get a second chance."

And then I died a little and took the cryogenic lock off my ovaries because maybe I will have babies.

I'm Sad

Because I think I have to take a blogcation. I have a lot to say and I love to say it; however, this summer semester isn't just kicking my ass. It's grilling it. In the center of the grill, not the cooler side areas where you put the food to stay warm but not overcook. Even though writing is therapeutic, thinking about updating the blog has become yet another "oh my GOD stress more to do!" thing so for now I'm just taking a blogatus. Like a hiatus. For a blog. I'll be back. Who knows, maybe tomorrow, now that the pressure's off. From all 3 readers...

I Just Ate 4 Dinners

Both me and my dad have "It's Complicated" at home from Netflix. I love that so, so much.

You know what I don't love? People who are too publicly emotional. Yeah, I know, I'm Sobfest 2006 at any funeral or viewing of A Walk To Remember, but otherwise, I keep my shit together. People who start to cry when talking about their great aunt Shirley who died in 1974 before they were even born? GET.OVER.IT. And yes, I know I'm not nice. This was established July 1, 1986, when my mother says I came out of the womb with a judgmental scowl on my face.

So in my Intimacy class Monday, we're going over potential project ideas, and a student from the prof's 2002 class comes in to tell us about his project: he wrote a song. About 9/11. You can't see my face now but...use your imagination. (Since you asked, I firmly believe that songs shouldn't have themes except "Christmas." A song whose sole purpose is to make you cry is a BAD BAD THING. BAD. Let's walk in a winter wonderland and rum pum pum pum but I DO NOT want to be reminded of people jumping out of windows to certain death (his lyrics, not mine). So then he goes into how the woman singing along with him was a dear friend who died last year. Ok. That's sad. So get teary, make your point and sit down. Don't try to fight it. Don't continue on and give me a story about how we're all waiting to become stars in the sky lighting the path for the living when we croak (ok, my word and not his. He's the "passed on" or "in a better place" type, clearly). So it goes on for like, five more minutes and he gets sad about EVERYTHING.

"And we sang it by this statue? That survived (squeak) Hiroshima (voice cracks)?" I mean, granted, I only just got over Hiroshima in 2009, but come on buddy, come on...

Ok this entry really petered out quickly BUT moral of the story: emotional people drive me nuts. I wish everyone were cold, stoic and dead inside like me. We can all wear black and mope and only show emotion during "Party in the USA"

Hip THIS

I really kind of miss my Health Promotion class. It was just six students and our awesome professor joking around a table for two hours. I likened it to the gang from "Community." When my mom asked which one I was, and the best match I could think of was Ahbed, the one with Asperger's...I felt sad.

So I'm at the point where if I hear the term hipster used one more time for just an average young person I might de-eyeball someone. Why does this bother me? It's often used derogatorily, or in a joking way, and always as an "us" versus "them" thing, but I don't get it. WHAT IS A HIPSTER?!

From my sad sad corner of global thought, I have come to realize that based on what people tell me, hipsters are a) trendy b) too cool for me c) insecure. And this makes no sense. Because essentially everyone is a hipster under those terms. Everyone under the sun who wears a hat or leggings, has a low-paying job, drinks cheap beer, doesn't get a lot of sleep, is under the age of 33, and has at one point in their life lived in Brooklyn qualifies. Narrow the parameters people! I mean sometimes I wear leggings with a long button down because it's comfortable and the top was super cheap at TJ Maxx. Does that make me a hipster? I have a superiority complex. Does that make me a hipster?

I guess what I'm saying is that overall the word is too often used, often by people who don't know what a hipster truly is so then just open up the umbrella of the term waaayy too wide. I always thought hipsters were unaffected young city people who make no money but spend all their parents' money and are ridiculous music snobs and act too cool to know you and smoke and deeeefinitely don't shop at TJ Maxx. True hipsterness is not me.

But seriously if one more person claims someone else is a hipster because they wear odd shoes or are <28 and live alone I will murdaaa.

Happy Wednesday!

So this Mucinex pill I've been encouraged to swallow is approximately the size of a small votive candle. And because this medicine is apparently imported from East Timor, the little side label has about 2 lines of instructions, none of which say whether it is for AM or PM, or what the side effects are, or essentially if I'll die. Interestingly enough for my purposes, all it DOES say is that the product can't be crushed, chewed or broken. Hello, votive candle. I'd like to introduce you to my trachea- enjoy your experience getting lodged. Haha, that sounds sexual.

So here goes! T- one hour until lunch, when I will take this with food and my new anti-acne oral antibiotics, which Dr. Kaplan neglected to mention may decrease the effectiveness of oral contraceptives say what the fuck?! And here's hoping the Mucinex and Soladyn and Gummy Vites and leftover pierogi/kielbasa don't interact and make me drop the baby this afternoon...or poop my pants.

I Am Really Dumb. Repeatedly.

I consider myself a pretty smart person, because I work hard and get good grades and mostly because I live a life of comparisons to others and most other people in this world are just nincompoops to the 8th power. But lately I've been thinking I'm a dummy bear, mainly because this situation keeps happening: I'm stretching out for a run, and I think, "Gee, I should really put some SPF on my face, now that I'm all high and mighty about the horrors of tanning and skin cancer and wrinkles blah dee blah." I ponder it for a moment, then shrug, thinking, "Whatever, I'm moving quickly, I'm never in one place long enough to need it."

I smile to myself, walk about two feet, then realize HELLO THE SUN IS EVERYWHERE. IT IS NOT A SPOTLIGHT ON YOU IN ONE PLACE. EVEN IF YOU MOVE, AND BOUNCE, IT IS STILL HITTING YOU.

DEAR ALLISON, YOU CANNOT OUTRUN THE SUN. LOVE, COMMON SENSE.

And then I feel ridiculous and hate myself a little and maybe this should have been tagged as "And Then I Cried" and guess what THE SAME THING WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IN TWO DAYS.

And Then I Cried

This blog has become sort of my outlet for self-deprecating humor...or often not humor...so I thought I'd corral the funnier Allie Sucks stories into the title "And Then I Cried."

I watched "Precious" Friday night after I put the babysitting charges to bed. What was I thinking when the movie concluded? That I was horrified by Precious's struggle, and how it compares to my adolescence? That I was inspired by her new devotion to parenthood and her own future? That with JUST THE RIGHT TEACHER anyone can learn? That Mo'nique is a great actress? That my gosh my golly welfare has certainly changed since the late 1980s? No. As the credits rolled, all I could think about was how I can find Mariah Carey's daily makeup artist and hire her for my wedding. And that I wanted some fried chicken.

...and then I cried.

Unusual Reason Why I Need To Move Out of My House #1

My friendly neighborhood walker saw my boobs this morning. Why is this such a big deal? Because I'm talking about him:
http://easywayin.blogspot.com/2010/03/old-man-and-tree.html
(for some reason blogger doesn't allow me to simply have the link say "him." Oh blogger...how non-Wordpressian you are.)

Anyway, I always get dressed with the window open, playing by the rules that if it's light outside and my light is on no one can see me. Well, friendly walking man was definitely looking in as he walked. He saw my yabos and now I need a new running route. A picture speaks a thousand words*:



*Picture not drawn to scale. Or reality. My boobs = NOT that saggy, I do not tower over my computer and lamp, and friendly neighborhood walker still does not wear a sideways cap.

Why I Need To Move Out, Reason 232493284:

Uttered Tuesday night, April 27, 2010:

"Once Allie sees "Precious," I think we should pick out a day to only talk like Precious's mom. Close tha fuckin dishwasher door, bitch!" -Larry Markowitz, high-powered attorney, father of two, whiter than the Tuscan sun.

And so that's that.

cont'd

5. I just used the word purse
6. Last Halloween I had nothing to do and my parents went out so I was in charge of handing out candy. I got SO INTO my costume. Four kids came, and I got really upset.
7. In less than a year I'll be Mrs. and that's old and scary

I Am Old

My mom has a humor book called "How Not To Act Old." And I should read it. Because the last time I acted 23 was, well, last Friday (but I spent aaall Saturday repenting to the porcelain gods of Maddie's apartment AND a breakfast diner for it), but before then, WHO THE F KNOWS MAN. My life consists of assessing the architectural styles of homes in my neighborhood with infant children who are not mine. And crankily yelling at the people who drive too fast on the Saw Mill. And talking about burial plots with my mom in daily conversation.

Welp, I've come to terms with it: I am old, and I could share my battle stories with that book's author for her sequel. Today I:

1. Spent 20 minutes on the phone with a woman I've never met before (she's running a health fair I'm working next month), talking about her daughter's college choice, running pros and cons of the two contenders, assuring her that she'll make a good fit with whichever college she chooses, and that her five-year-old sister will adjust after a brief rough patch. We discussed the merits of local public schools and if we think the property taxes are worth it. I think if this woman finds out I'm 23 she'll be really quite surprised. And that saddens me.
2. Mentioned watching the Today show during my presentation to the response of AUDIBLE LAUGHTER from my fellow classmates.
3. Came home, threw down my purse, and said, verbatim, "I think tonight I'll wind down by making an inventory list of what's in the freezers."
4. Repurposed funky-shaped jelly jars into awesome containers for cotton balls and q-tips and was more proud of myself than when Dr. Marks suggested I seek out a fellowship for my research proposal. Ok that's a lie. I'm clearly proud of myself beyond belief about that and hence that's why I had to find a way to work it into my blog to brag. But seriously, the jars look SO COOL and my bathroom has been TRANSFORMED.

The Three Worst Things A Friend Can Ask

I've been thinking a lot about sucking at life. And as much as I suck now, I used to suck more...or at least differently. Because I used to be "OMG Can I Tell You About My Dream?" girl.

I think "OMG Can I Tell You About My Dream?" girl is only slightly worse than "Promise Me You'll Come To My Play?" girl but still a little better than "Can I Borrow Some Money?" girl. Because here's the cold, hard facts I had to come to grips with: no one cares about your dream. Dreams are hard to describe. No one is ever envisioning it the way it happened in your mind. In fact, no one is even listening. I do, however, have some hilarious dreams sometimes, but I've discovered that if the dream must be shared, it must have a punchline, and be under two sentences. Case in point:

Former Allie:
"So last night I had a dream that I was being chased by these chickens. They kept following me everywhere it was SO annoying, and they smelled like poop, and then I realized it was actually ME who smelled like poop, but I hadn't pooped my pants, so I went on this huge journey to figure out why I smelled like poop...(five more minutes of babbling on about nonsense, often involving running late, not being able to find a prom dress, driving off a bridge, or being imprisoned)...and then crazily enough I bumped into John Stamos in a public bathroom, who assured me that sometimes people just smell like poop. But then he also reassured me that it really was the chickens. God, Uncle Jessie is so hot."

New Allie:
"I had a dream last night that chickens chased me until I bumped into John Stamos. He is still so hot. What's he up to these days?"

BAM. THAT is how you share a dream.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up, I'm a Judgmeeeeeental Wang

April 20th makes me feel like such a boring school marmy old person. I smoked a bit in high school and rarely in college then gave it up because a) it sparked panic attacks and b) I'm a judgy wudgerson and I think pot smoking becomes pretty lame and "I don't have my shit togetherish" after 21. But ask me about binge drinking! Wahoo!

Anyway, 4/20 just brings out a few things on society: poser behavior in people who smoke twice a year but think they have street cred when they talk about "celebrating the holiday," my bitchiness towards people who actually have fun in life, people who need to grow up and get jobs and stop smoking and take obscene pride in feeling productive one day of the year, oh and my smug bitchiness.

Today on facebook we had choice tidbits from:

1. Very obvious typical pothead who did nothing after high school posts "Happy 420!" I smile sadly. He is very pathetic.
2. Guy I met once who is 23 and so into 420 he CHANGED HIS PROFILE PICTURE to marijuana. Laugh smugly and think "Get over it!"
3. A recent new mom posts, wishing all a happy 420. YOU'RE A MOTHER NOW. TIME TO GIVE UP ALL THE THINGS YOU ONCE ENJOYED. LIKE POT. (Clearly, I've already given up the things I most enjoy, and I don't even have kids!)

I just...I get that I've snapped and become the least fun person imaginable. I really get it. And I can't exactly pinpoint when. College graduation? Getting engaged? Moving back home and turning into my mother? MY VERY BIRTH? But all that aside, I can't help waving my cane, adjusting my hearing aid and tearing out my overzealous, sprouting ear hair in exasperation at the damn kids who wont grow up.

Theeeee end.

Sisterly Love

Now if you know me at all you know I laugh at nearly anything- especially if it a) isn't actually funny, b) is inappropriate c) is highly offensive or d) is a situation where people fall down. The fatter the person, the funnier the fall.

Every time I run (yes, run. I have a crazy fear of missing my train on Thursdays even though I allow myself 45 minutes for a 12 minute bus ride) by the second floor office nook at school, I have to stop, take a moment, and giggle like a hyena. Because Kuwana Bullock's name is on the door. And WITHOUT FAIL, whenever I see that name plate, I immediately think of Sandra's African American sister and all the fun they must have together. I imagine them on a reality show where they just live like the Kardashians and drink together and get leg waxes and talk about boys. I mean hey this could be totally real- Sandra's mom is apparently German, like born in Germany, so perhaps she has a black sister. So I just went to People.com because I reaaaally don't want to once again rehearse my presentation for tomorrow, and I see the a headline announcing that Sandra's sister is aware of Sandra's whereabouts and that they are fine and Sandra just needs time, bla bla. And my first thought? Aw, Kuwana! Always there for Sandra! I wish I had a sister like Kuwana.

Yeah.

Did I Grow?!?!

Seriously! Because all of my short sleeve shirts from last year aren't as long as I recall. And I've lost weight since then, so it's not a tightness-ride-up issue. This would imply that I've grown in my torso, and not, you know, the all important leg area, which would really be a happy occasion no longer having to hem my PAJAMA PANTS but hey, I'll take what I can get.

OR I've been doing weight lifting entirely wrong and I've bulked up my shoulders instead of slimmed them down and this in effect makes my shirts ride up. For someone so insufferably vain I surprisingly haven't looked at myself in the mirror closely in awhile, so this could be entirely possible. Like how I noticed recently that even though I dyed my hair brown December 30 it is now blonde again and I freaked out like "How long has this been?!!"

THESE ARE THE PROBLEMS I FACE. THESE ARE THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES.

Hands up, baby hands up, water drips down dripping dripping drips down dripping dripping

Today I spent a solid 5 minutes feverishly tearing my room apart looking for my towel. Only to discover it was on my head. Time I will never, ever get back...anyway

I have a serious bone to pick with a) the people in charge of paper towel placement in public restrooms and b) the giant bumblebee climbing the inside of my window at present. There's not much I can do about either, but the paper towels make for a better story, so here goes:

WHAT THE FUCK?! I understand I'm smaller than the average human, but anyone who isn't a legal giant (haha...imagine having to legalize your giant status, poor Hagrid...God I'm a dork) has to lift their arm up at a 90 degree angle to reach for the paper towels. What happens then? Oh. Water drips down your arms. Sometimes, in a rush, a lot of water drips down. Pours, even. Because I might be physically incapable of properly washing my hands, BUT that's neither here nor there.

This is more of a problem in the winter, when long sleeves are involved, and then the sleeves are soaked for a good hour after (and NO I refuse to roll up my sleeves. Sometimes they wont roll, like button downs. Or puffy jackets. OKAY?). Now I can just use said paper towel to dry off my arm, but I'll still bitch and moan about it. Because at an institution of higher learning- cough cough Teachers College cough- someone should have been smart enough to kindly instruct paper towel dispenser installers to EASE UP on the height. The end.

I'm in a funk. That is why I stuff vanilla meringes in my face and don't blog.
But I think Glee's "Power of Madonna" episode will help me pull through. WORDS CAN'T DESCRIBE MY EXCITEMENT.
The end.

Update x2

In I Am Charlotte Simmons lots of things annoy me and make me want to throw the book at the wall or just stop reading it, which I can't, because I'm OCD and also because despite how much I hate it I do sort of wonder what will happen to ALL THESE ABHORRENT PEOPLE. Brief examples of things I hate (uh oh, dissertation sneak peak!): Wolfe's constant use of the words hide, brute, fannies, cretin, rhinal cavity, solar plexus, etc etc. But nothing bothers me more than when he describes sex with the noise "rut rut rut." Who does Tom Wolfe have sex with? The Little Engine That Could?

God that drives me nuts. Like makes my arm hairs shoot up and my nostrils flare and make me want to throw a pizza in Mr. Wolfe's face.

I have to go pierce myself with forks now to refocus.

Update

Dear 3 Readers,

My apologies for my absence of late. I've been furiously outlining my dissertation, whose working title is "The Reasons Every Copy of I Am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe Should Be Burned"
How I will relate this to Health Ed, I am not sure.

Also, I'll write more if people comment. When there are no comments I am once again aware that only Maddie and occasionally Kati and once a month Holly read my blog. And this makes me asad.

I Think I Can Safely Say I've Eaten Too Much Kimchi

Recently at an STI presentation a 7th grader asked me when we know we’re going through puberty. That’s a tough question to answer, especially if you’re me and awkward and bumbling and not quick on your feet. I gave him some half-assed answer about how our hormones usually give us signals, like how we’re suddenly interested in people sexually, or get moody more often and can’t always figure out why. So the next day I was out lightly jogging, and I thought about his question again, and vividly remembered when I realized I was going through puberty. One June night in sixth grade, I guess I either dreamed it or I don’t know just thought of it somehow, but I heard in my head the song “One More Try” by Timmy T. (oh yes, had to Google that one*) and woke up SOBBING. S-O-B-B-I-N-G. The lyrics just broke my heart and I sobbed from about 3am through my alarm clock. Oh jes, that is puberty. Unless we’re counting the sex dream I had in third grade about scissoring Yosmendy in my powder room. Third. Grade. Sigh.
*Here is Timmy T c. 1991 and O M G thank me later. I love the Star Search-esque background, the obvious superior dancing skills of Backup Dancer on Left, Timmy’s extreme need for Clean & Clear’s Oil Absorbing Strips, his sharp enunciation…it’s just classic. TRY not to cry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPLZIdetFSc

ART IMITATES LIFE

This happens to me ALL the time. In this case, we're using "art" loosely, although in all cases we use "life" loosely in my situation...anyway, my bra strap just broke and I was fixing it while listening to that heinous Drake (Jimmy! JIMMY!) song and suddenly he says "make your bra strap pop" and out loud I yelled "SEE?!THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS" Because this always happens to me. Ok bye.

Things that bother me for no real reason, and don't harm anyone at all, but still bother me, #3535

The way magazines MUST credit every scrap of fabric shown. It'll be an article about forehead wrinkles, right? So it's totally zoomed up to a forehead. But wait! WAIT! In the bottom right-hand corner, almost completely out of view, we see a blur of what seems to be the collar of a crew-neck tee. Gray, perhaps. But lest this go without credit. There WILL be a note: "Shirt, Gap; see 'Go Shopping'" and that's also what really irks me, I need Glamour's expert advice on WHERE TO FIND A GAP STORE? For a gray crew-neck tee? Okay, enough. It just really bothers me. Theeee end.

Whoever smelt it

Now this may only be a phenomenon known to me, but you know how sometimes you're in the shower and you notice a distinct scent of food or something not shower-related? And you briefly have a shock-and-terror feeling of "oh my GOD is this coming off me? Do I GIVE OFF this smell?" Although with me it's a feeling of power and grace because I'd love to constantly smell like meat/other odorous foodstuffs all the time. But tonight, it was egg rolls. And not a quick whiff of "hmm, that smells most like egg rolls." No. First there was that aroma of overcooked pork chunks. Then came the distinct layer of cabbage. And then, what's that? Delicious deep fried shell? Don't mind if I DO! (or smell).
So my new invention is shampoo, conditioner, body wash and shaving cream that smells like food. Not "Cotton Candy!" or "Brownie Decadence." I'm talking "State Fair Corn Dog" or "Brownish Slightly Burnt Area of Mac n Cheese."
Investors, speak up early.

To a man in the streets but a freak in the bed

I think I respect Ludacris the most of anyone ever...in the world. Only because of the way he insists on loudly introducing himself before he cuts in on any song. Seriously. Whether it’s “Heeeeeeey LUDA! (watch out for outfits ridiculous…)” or just the no-frills “LUDA!” in Justin Bieber’s newest chart topper, he makes himself known. I was thinking of this last night when I was in bed waiting to fall asleep (in retrospect, mentally singing along with rap songs doesn’t do much to lower the heart rate…), how weirdly jealous I am and how much I wish I could do it myself. Then I imagined this scenario: I raise my hand to contribute to the discussion in class, get called on and, “ALLISON! So I completely agree with Phoebe’s points but would also add…” and I think I laughed myself to sleep. God, everyone would think I had Tourette’s. Or Aspergers. Or something else other than a deep, heartfelt respect for the one, the only, Ludacris.

True Life: My GPS Is Trying to Kill Me

Yesterday it demanded I make a left turn. Down a one-way street. Then it took me up a huge windy, potholey mountain road with no outlet at the top. Surely so I would get a flat. And have to walk to find help. And get raped and die. Yep. It’s got an agenda alright.

Song Lyrics Come to Life

I just got off the phone with HP tech support and acknowledge that I am experiencing murderous thoughts. That I want to board the next plane to "The United States" and give "Erelin" a piece of my mind. Every time I nicely ask if it's possible to speak with a supervisor to solve my problem, please don't tell me this wouldn't be an issue if I'd just purchased the full-year plan at double the price. It's the grown up HP way of saying "naa naanny poo poo." AND I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. Hence, I decided to take the edge off with a little Diet Swiss Miss and Fun with Paint. This is my new de-stressor; I just open up Paint when I'm down, draw out my thoughts, and feel instantly better. And this is one I've been wanting to draw for awhile. You know how in "You Belong With Me" Taylor Swift sings "Walkin the streets with you in your worn out jeans" but it sounds so much like "Walkin the streets with you AND your worn out jeans?" And you start to imagine that scene in your head? And giggle? No? That only happens to me? Well...FINE THEN. I decided to draw it and I haven't stopped laughing since. It's hard to make jeans look worn out, okay? Enjoy.

Reason #24234 Why I Have to Move Out of my Parents' House

Because living with people in their 50s means you sometimes forget the magic of the Internet and spend entire afternoons trying to remember the name of the SNL actor who played Corky Romano, literally breaking into rooms and conversations with guesses like "Rob...Myers?" and then figuring it out thanks to IMDB in .49 seconds.
Reason #24235 is that I need to live in an environment where there is more exciting conversation than that involving the Corky Romano

The Old Man and The Tree

Here is how this entry was supposed to go:

"I think the hardest part of wedding planning thus far has been trying to find a rabbi who I see fit to officiate at the ceremony. I want a jolly old man who looks the part of a rabbi but isn't so religious he wont co-officiate with Catholic clergy. I will probably end up settling on a woman, even though she wants me to cover my shoulders. Which is so obviously not going to happen. Anyway, I figured out my ideal wedding officiant: Mysterious Cute Older Man Neighbor!

MCOMN is a jolly soul who lives a few streets down from me. I do not know his name or anything about him, just that he spends a LOT of time walking around the neighborhood. Not in a creepy, lurking or mentally disturbed way (I'm looking at you, gangly older woman who walks around Lauren's neighborhood from midnight-3am but isn't old enough to want to take her in and be like aww ma'am how can I help?), just like he's retired and loves to take the time each day to enjoy our lovely neighborhood. I usually see him twice each run. The first time we smile and give the compulsory "good morning" salute. But the second time, he waves his arms and grins like "I can't believe it's you again!" and I giggle and want to hug him because he's so unbelievably cute.

So yeah, in a nutshell the only reason I want him to officiate at our wedding is because he's cute and arm-wavy and I'm always on an endorphin high when I see him so I can't wait to get married and I project that onto him. But if he's actually an ordained rabbi, well, then all bets are ON LIKE DONKEY KONG. So I thought I'd draw the scenario for you so you can sort of understand what I'm talking about. And here is what I came up with:



There are SO MANY THINGS wrong with this picture I don't even know where to start. First, I am supposed to be running towards him, and clearly that didn't work out as planned. I can't even blame this on the difficulty of using Paint. I just have no ability to portray motion adequately in my art. My art. "Lol."
Second, if this drawing is to scale, I'm an eight-year-old, 56-pound dainty butterfly and he's a 7-foot-tall sea monster on the attack.
Thirdly, in my attempts to bring MCOMN to life in a drawing, he has basically turned into early-90s Will Smith. What should be basic black pants-that-aren't-jeans and a light winter coat now looks like a super awesome rapper track suit from the days of "Parents Just Don't Understand." But neighbors do! And in an attempt to show his adorableness, I basically made him halfway through the "SUCK IT!" gesture, or arms up yelling "HAY BAY-BEEEE" while chasing after me.
Fourthly, it's really hard to draw hats, ok? He doesn't wear his cap sideways. He wears it in the front like a normal proper elderly neighborhood walking gentleman. And I don't run wearing berets. Glad that's understood.

So...how do I ask him? :)

I Have A Guardian Angel

Just now I was walking to class and I swear I have an angel looking out for me, because had I been walking a split second faster, I'd have been in the line of fire of a domestic dispute and essentially would have been impaled by a fork. Literally, a set of lovely silver cutlery fell from the sky approx. 1 foot ahead of where I was.

But all I could do was laugh because, let's be honest, what a hilariously appropriate way to die that would be! Think of all the food I've mercilessly speared...it's like that innocent crusty brown burnt part of the Stoeffer's mac n cheese finally getting revenge on me after years of torture.

Eyeball jigga what?

I'm good at a few things in life: babysitting, lying, never getting a speeding ticket, folding towels...but there's one thing I'll never be able to do: "Eyeball."

When a recipe tells me to chop something in 1/2 inch slices, I'm likely to get out a ruler. Because I can't just eyeball things and trust it'll be right! My 1/2-inch chunks will much more likely resemble 3-inch rhombuses (rhombi?) or 1/8-millimeter slivers of slices than the ideal chunk. It's like the episode of Full House where Aunt Becky and Michelle are making a family-secret meat dish, and the recipe calls for a smidgeon of something. Neither of them knows what is is (seriously though, Aunt Becky? She was 8, she had an excuse...) so Aunt Becky goes, "I guess...like the size of a pigeon?" And that is how I, too, cook and live my life.

Seriously, at my old job my editor was giving me a quick tutorial in how to mail out our monthly statements, and a big part of this tutorial was teaching me how to fold everything to get it correctly in the envelope. Some had multiple invoices, ok, and we had those envelopes with very specific locations of the clear window so everything had to be folded right, OK?! Anyway, I was making my neat tri-fold and Jessica said, "eh, go about half an inch higher" and it was literally like she had asked me to diffuse a nuclear bomb in just 30 seconds or all of San Diego would be destroyed. I tried to casually glance at the flat surface between my finger joints, because isn't that an inch? And then cut that distance in half, all the while stalling by making really idiotic jokes about paper cuts and I'm sure at this point she's wondering if hiring me was a crucial mistake because seriously WHO CANNOT ESTIMATE HALF AN INCH?!

Me. That is who. Anyway, all this talk about eyeballing makes me giggle as it's now starting to sound like a sex act. "Oh yeah, she eyeballed me. I got eyeballed. It was hot." Commenter with the best description of what eyeballing would mean in a sexual context gets a bag of almond M&Ms. Go to it Maddie.

Haikus: Winter Weather Edition

Full-time all wheel drive
Subaru I love you so
I no be in ditch

Branches on the road
Careful you don't hit one now!
...Unless I hate you

Thirst for winter drinks
Where the F is Kahlua?
Chambord NOT the same

Power comes and goes
What the hell does family do?
We all want to die

Dodger loves the snow
Comes up to his fat belly
WE CANT ALL BE DOGS

In other news...you know how sometimes, you go out, have a kind of unfulfilling, crappy bar dinner, then you come home and there is a 2-gallon tub of lentil soup in the fridge? And you're like "Well, so what if Mom's in the doldrums and dad yells and I have so much revisited teen angst? I is NEVER moving out!"?? Yeaaah.

Gosh my feelings are tasty!

I got a not-so-good grade on a paper and yesterday a fat kid called my presentation lame and pointless and I have a zit on the underside of my chin just about where it meets neck so every time I scrunch up my face to make a double chin it hurts- you may ask yourself, then why do you continue to scrunch up your face to make a double chin? Because I am a masochist, that is why- and my supervisor is mad at me and I can't do origami. So I eat.

Anyhoo, in an effort to make myself feel a little less pathetic, I thought I'd take a moment here to list all my hair-brained moneymaking schemes, because with the exception of Scraps, they're not half bad. Maybe someone will find this entry and pay me millions for my brilliant ideas. OR steal them and never show me a cent. The chances I take to entertain my reader. That's not a typo.

Scraps: My first idea, from high school, is a restaurant called Scraps. The main area is a typical Fridays/Applebees type of restaurant, but then there's a secondary section where people can eat the leftovers from the main section at a drastically reduced price. So if Jen in the main dining room leaves half her chicken club on the plate, she can then essentially 'sell it back' and get a buck or two off her check, and then the restaurant can then put that half sandwich on the buffet on the scraps side and sell it for like, 2 bucks. Reduces waste, right!! Scrap side patrons would understand that the restaurant holds no liability for what could have happened to the food between its exit from the kitchen to its place on the buffet line. YES I now see this as completely ridiculous. BUT I came up with this idea late in high school when the dream was to have some place to go when drunk where you could eat incredibly cheaply and still enjoy the ambiance of a fine dining establishment such as one T.G.I. Fridays. Also good for families on a budget and those with exceptional immune response.

The Cleaner Weiner: Women have a plethora of products to choose from to help cleanse if they're not feeling "so fresh." Men got nada. And if all that 'adjusting' means anything, things get moist and funky down there. So I invented the Cleaner Weiner, scent-free, discreet wipes that get the job done just for men who want to feel their best. They can also come in scents like Rugged Outdoors or Extreme Glacier or whatever sells for men.

Bibs that tie at the neck AND waist: The 9-month-old I babysit for has this frustrating habit of lifting up his bib to gnaw on it in the micro-second breaks I take putting the spoon back into the food to give him more. So since he's a baby and literally can't breathe without spitting up/drooling/pooping on me, naturally his bib is a mess, and it smears all over his face and neck when he goes to chew on it. My invention is a bib that fastens around the neck like traditional bibs, but also tight around the waist so he can't lift it out of position. I think my original idea- strapping babies' arms in a device slightly resembling stocks to keep them from touching anything- might be considered abusive.

A bar that serves healthy 'bar' food: Why is it that sports bars have an impressive selection of wings, greasy chili, cheese fries, greasy chili cheese fries, chicken fingers, jalapeno poppers, etc. but the only remotely healthy option is something like "grilled seasonal vegetable platter," and we all know that's just two strips of sad-looking zucchini and a defrosted eggplant segment, and you just look ridiculous ordering that in a sports bar. You're now the "watching her weight" girl who can't "loosen up" at a sports bar and you look like the most unfun person ever and your friends resent you for bringing down the fun/festive/bingey mood. So my dream sports bar has stuff like this on the menu: mini pizzas with veggies and not a lot of cheese; grilled buffalo chicken tenders; baked fries and onion rings, etc. Because you want to look like you fit in at this kind of place, while not totally obliterating your diet goals.

The baby food diet: I feed Luke (and his nose, eyeballs, hairline...see above) Earth's Best organic baby food. I sometimes snag a bite. Because it's delicious. A whole jar of that mush is like, 70 calories. They sell for around 50-75 cents a pop. They are filled with nutrients, vitamins, and no artificial flavors or preservatives. You know, filled with the ideal stuff to take babies through the most important developmental stages of their lives. So let's put this together. Here we have a self-contained, CHEAP, organic snack that's tasty, healthy, and portable. This new diet will be called The Marko Method and I will get rich.

Le end.

Dear Zeus and Other Weather Gods,

please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day
oh and please ensure that I get my 10-piece OXO snapware set I registered for. And bless Mom, Dad, Meghan, Jeff, Lynnie, and even Buzz.

Thanks, grad school

So in order to graduate, I had to take a wee little research methods class. Groooan. Well I learned a lot, and I know this because I am seeing problems with EVERYTHING. Case in point: Charmin.

The new commercial for Charmin Ultra Soft claims that in studies, people "got the job done" in 7 sheets of Charmin versus 24 of that "other" brand. But where's the scientific rigor? For one, was there any way to verify that the poops were of equal status? You'd need identical poops to really be able to substantiate that- obviously if one is messier, more sheets will need to be used. And what about the wiping tendencies of the subjects? Maybe the one in the control group was normally a toilet paper waster, while the one in the Charmin group was an eco-conscious clean pooper? WHERE is the note on internal validity, Charmin? And are the results generalizable? What's this population like? White women? Latino men? Details, Charmin, mama needs details about your poop study! If I've never outted myself as a) a huge dork and b) disgusting, I think this did the trick.

I'm doing this in the den watching the Olympics with my family. My mom just asked if I was really typing this fast, which is a PERFECT SEGUE into my next topic. "People Over Age 35 Really Bother Me When They Use Computers." Have you ever watched a 50-year-old try to type? They go sooo slowly and deliberately, it just drives me mad. In the time it takes them to type w w w . y a h o o . c o m I have already checked my email, updated my facebook status, checked the weather, caught up on celebrity news via Perez Hilton, bought a new bathing suit, drooled over 5 restaurant brunch menus, Hopstopped my way through seven errands in Queens and figured out my BMI on Self.com. There's really just some invisible dividing line between "Adept with computers" and "I'm pulling out my hair watching you try to Google the nearest Applebees" and I think it's around 37. And then there's my mom. She types fast enough, but she gets very confused by the Internet. She doesn't understand that the Internet is the same, no matter where you are. For instance, she came downstairs today while I was on the elliptical to check her email. I was logged on, and she got really frustrated trying to find "Switch User" so she could log on and get on "her" Internet. She didn't even want to use one of her bookmarks or anything; just go to Hotmail! I had to explain that the Internet is the same on every computer, every time you cue it up, and she could go to Hotmail under my username. It was a revelation. And she works in IT!!! Gaaah old people/people who aren't me and hence are frustrating and slow.

What I Do On Friday Nights

So Lauren had a nightmare about my wedding last night. She wore the wrong dress- a fuschia number with sleeve puffs that could detach to be worn lower on the arm (exhibit 1), a skirt pleated like, and I quote, "When Jessie on Saved By The Bell designed those really long skirts as the cheerleading uniform" (here is where I burst in with "Oh weee are the ladies of Baaayside") (exhibit 2), unshaved legs (exhibit 3) so she had to wear pink sweatpants underneath the dress, and finally schlopped-up messy hair (exhibit 4). I found this so entertaining I needed to mock up a visual to show the world. So there you have it. After I organized my room, thought of witty facebook statuses about the Olympic opening ceremonies that I promptly forgot 10 minutes after, cleaned the kitchen and made my sister's bed, I clicked on "Accessories," found "Paint" and had myself a time.

Adventures in Babysitting: 343542

People with "real" jobs always have fun work stories to tell. Mine are rarely fun. They are sometimes cute, sometimes disgusting, but mostly awkward. I thought I'd share an awkward one now. Flash back to a month ago. I'm babysitting two houses down for the Kids Who Are Too Old To Need A Sitter who are the children of Mom Whose Picture Is Next to the Dictionary Entry For Narcissism. Seriously, all she does is talk about the kids and ask leading questions that I'm supposed to answer to prove how brilliant/special her children are. "Was ___ reading three grade levels above where she's supposed to be again? Oh, that girl of mine!" Well, she now knows I work with high schoolers doing sex ed. Where do you think this is going?

She started talking about how her son is mature emotionally (of course) but more obviously, he's quite physically mature. I respond with stoicism- an encouraging squint of the eye, perhaps. She continues, "I mean, he looks so old, older than 15 even!" Now pause. What do I say to this? I immediately think that agreeing with her, that he looks older, implies that I look at him like he's older, and that's...ick. But if I disagree, then I'm denying her the smug satisfaction of her child once again being ahead of the curve. So I decided to be non-committal and say "mmm" as in, "yep, sure, whatever." But it came out more like "mmMMmm," as in "this dinner is sensual" or "yeaaah, feel that knot in my back? That's the spot..." so basically now I'm the creepy sitter who isn't just looking at him and thinking he looks way older than his age (TWELVE), I'm the creepy sitter looking at him, thinking he looks way older than his age, and...taking pleasure in it. I mean she hired me again for a million more dates the next day, so I guess now she's the woman who takes pride in a creepy sitter implying that she finds her very-underage son "mmMMmm"-worthy.

In not-as-creepy news, I spend a lot of time with my family in the next neighborhood over. I believe I've mentioned Henry once, twice, 8,000 times because he's adorable. But he often brings up his old babysitter...Joani (you have to say it the way Seinfeld says "Newman," for dramatic effect). In ways of longing: Joani did this, he misses Joani, Joani let him finger paint, etc etc. So naturally, since I have what one might call a "competitive spark" (read: ridiculous "am I good enough?" issues), I have begun to try to constantly one-up Joani. And I'm doing well. We recently finger painted and there was snow on the ground, so on our way inside we grabbed patches of snow with our painty hands to "turn snow different colors" and the idea was a huge hit and duh now I'm clearly his favorite babysitter. But she's got me beat: in his room there's a picture of him sitting on her lap, giggling in favorite babysitter glee. To confirm my suspicions, I asked, in a manner I deemed non-chalantly enough (he's a perceptive 2-year-old, you know), "So bud, who's that lady in the picture?" "Oh, that's Joani" he said, adding after a moment, "And Henry." Hmm. "Oh...Joooaani," I said, drawing out her name for dramatic flair. "She's...pretty." Indeed she is. But dammit, I want a cuddle picture on his dresser! I'M the one changing poop diapers and making up songs! Stealing his snacks and letting him have one (4) more show. NOT Joani. JOANI had the audacity to return to college in September. And what do I get for my utter devotion? NOT a picture on the dresser. So I amend the first sentence of this paragraph completely, as this is beyond awkward and I need new life aspirations.

Allie is Sad

I have had no invitations to hang out for a million years* and I haven't socialized with anyone under 50 in what feels like a jillion and it feels like no one likes me and my fiance is a million (or at least a few thousand) miles away and incommunicado and my parents are tense and my dog ate the Greek salad dressing and I AM SAD AND WANT GOOSE ISLAND SEASONAL BREW but it is not to be found at any local liquor proprieter and whine whine whine small problems but whatever I feel bad about myself and I am wearing a mismatched sweat suit with no bra which means I have given up on any hope of ever leaving my house this weekend.

That is all.


*Except Maddie, but mom's fragile state means I can't venture too far or overnight, ie anywhere outside of town. Thanks Maddie! Your desire to spend time with me makes me happy :)

Fun Fact

I recently came across a food review that involved the term "head cheese (testa)." I had a vomit-worthy field day in my head imagining just what it could be. Thanks, Wikipedia!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Head_cheese

Because now I know it isn't actually a cheese made from brains/smegma with the consistency of chocolate mousse.

You're welcome.

Things I Hate #357983: Throats

What a weird thing to hate, you might be saying to yourself out loud, at your job, because you have nothing else to do but read my sad sad little bloggy on a Tuesday morn. But I hate throats and all things associated with them, minus their part in eating and speaking. Here is why:

1. I hate when people clear their throats, pretty much more than anything. I hate when men do it and it's this loud, open-mouthed roar, almost a territorial noise. Or the noise of people clearing their throats but you don't hear any mucus shifting and it just sounds like the throat is getting more irritated. Like a nervous throat clear. That's not to say I don't cringe at hearing a much-needed throat clear, when phlegm shakes up somethin' fierce. I hate when people snarf up their snot instead of blowing their nose (in a room with tissue boxes a'plenty!), then immediately have to clear their throat when the snot drips down. Thanks gravity. I hate when people do it so loud it interrupts a conversation. I mean, how is it NOT considered rude to clear your throat at a maximum decibel level in the middle of a lecture, disrupting the professor, or during a test, breaking peoples' concentration? (I'm not saying don't do it if you feel the urgent need, but didn't parents ever teach their kids to accomplish necessary bodily functions discreetly? At least the voluntary ones- I'm a loud sneezer and as much as I've tried, I can't change that) I am not perfect; I too sometimes need to clear my throat. But first I try to swallow the scratchiness away, or drink water to clear things up, to avoid causing a disturbance/drawing attention to myself. If that doesn't work, a quiet and swift "mm MM"* will do the trick. There is NO NEED to "EEUUUUEEEUHH" so loudly I actually jump up in alarm.

2. I think the marker of old age is the complaint of something "caught in my throat." Seriously, spend 20 minutes with a person over 70 and you'll hear them reference their venus fly trap of a throat at least once. I highly doubt the esophagus constricts and declines in function over time, like bladder control or gum health, making swallowing a game of chance. Do the elderly just walk around coal mines with their mouths agape? Oh, and just for kicks, February's meeting of I'm A Proud Ageist will meet at 4:30 pm at Denny's tomorrow.

3. It drives me nuts when people have a cough or sore throat and hence vigorously rub the front of their necks. That is your larynx. Your voice box. But really it makes me cringe because a) I HATE the way that area feels, it actually makes me nauseated to think about it and b) I have a huge and slightly ridiculous fear of someone rubbing their throat and knocking their neck junk out of place then having it pop out all weird under the neck skin. Yep. I said it. Almost as irrational as my fear of Ronald McDonald watching me sleep if I don't have the covers over my head.

4. Somewhat unrelated, but I have pretty much come to the decision that spitters are the scum of the earth. When did anyone ever get the impression that it's appropriate to just expectorate on the sidewalk when one feels like it? HOW MUCH EXCESS SALIVA DO YOU HAVE? But the worst, WORST, is when I hear someone hock up a huge wad of it, THEN spit. TWO heinous noises combining to form Allie's Worst Auditory Nightmare (coming to theaters February 12, sneak previews this Wednesday). But beyond the fact that I'm incredibly sensitive to bodily function sounds, it's just unsanitary! You are spewing your germs! It's like when you cough and sneeze you (in a perfect world) cover your mouth to avoid getting your germs in the air, then there are people just spitting theirs out freely. There's a guy who takes the train with my on Thursdays, and I've seen him park his car at the station, which means he has a Manor sticker, which means he lives in an affluent area. Which implies he has a fairly good job, which would potentially imply being educated and possessing enough social graces to climb the corporate ladder. And he spits. CONSTANTLY. Onto the train platform, apparently HIS personal train platform. Usually I see young guys spitting, but he's a well-dressed middle-aged man and GAH I just hate it.

Ok, that's enough I guess. I'll be waiting by the door for the padded truck to come get me and take me to my Cave of Seclusion, where I will live out the rest of my life alone and in peace.

*Rachel Green on Friends has the perfect throat clear. It's succinct, volume-appropriate and never misused (ie only happens before she's about to talk. Then again, Friends isn't known for its scenes of all the gang quietly reading together in a group at the library.)

Quick Thoughts

It's amazing how low expectations are for young people these days. When my grandmother was 22, she was a happily married homeowner with an infant. At 23, I shuttle people to and from a diner effectively and remember to unplug the toaster when it's not in use and thus to all parent-types I'm an incredibly responsible, put together, special person, a cut above the rest. What does that say? Our world must really be going to shit.

No real time to post. Although I have ideaRs. Totally exhausted from the hospital and moving mom to (spinal) rehab today. Cannot keep eyes open. I need to take a personal day from being a grown up.

I Talk To Cute Guys About My Word of the Day Calendar

So Lauren, Leah and I enjoy going to the local upscale bar/lounge in our town because the drinks are good. And the ambiance is lovely. Oh, and because the three of us, all spoken for by high-quality, gracious, loving men, have massive face-crushes* on the bartender and take pleasure in flirting shamelessly with him. He made quite an interesting comment last night: "People don't pay prostitutes for sex. They pay them to leave." Now, in my semi-drunken state, this was THE WORLD'S GREATEST EPIPHANY. My eyes lit up as the pieces clicked together. I demanded high-fives from him 7-10 too many times. I mean, think about it. Getting any insecure, somewhat slutty girl at a bar to have sex with a guy isn't that difficult. But getting her to leave- no strings attached, no snuggles, no tip-toeing around until you half-heartedly ask for her number, no "so where should we get brunch tomorrow morning?"- is a feat. A prostitute's cache is not that she is having sex with you. It's that she's leaving you alone afterward. I thought this was the most genius thing I've ever heard. And I still, now sober, think it's pretty interesting. Thoughts?

And now, in a completely different direction, the more I interact with fathers, the more jaded I get. There is no Danny Tanner character in real life, shuttling kids to carpool and knowing their food allergies and disciplining them and making sure they eat and wear seasonally appropriate clothing. There is just a population of men who have absolutely no idea what to do about their children. Like when Henry's dad comes home before his mom and he kind of gives me a pleading look like "Do you have to leave before she gets back? I mean..." and my heart sort of breaks slash turns to ice. Today I was rudely awakened from a still-drunken slumber at 9:30 to babysit, which involved picking the girl up at temple, taking her home for a couple hours, then driving her back to meet her parents later. (They have requested stranger things.) Anyway, I'll sum it up with this: a mother knows what making two trips back and forth to temple and entertaining an 8-year-old girl and her friend entails. A dad shoves $20 in your palm and confidently says "that'll do it, right?" and you just have to grin and bear it because you're too awkies to negotiate. My mom always says that with a good supply of sperm and turkey basters, actually having men on earth is pointless (note: she and my father have been happily married for 30 years). I'm starting to understand...so many things...

*What's a face-crush? Well, I'm happy you asked. We all know what a baby crush is- when you have a little eeeeety crush on a guy, often in a way that you just sort of want to snuggle and/or pet him. You could have a baby crush on an old grandpa teacher, even. A face-crush is where you want to bone someone based solely on their looks, without ever having to know their personality. This is also referred to as "Superficiality," or "The way life works."

Soooorry I can't be perrrrfeeeect

I think my biggest flaw is expecting every juncture of my life to be greeted with a medal ceremony. Example: today I was bored and had time to kill in the city- but not enough time to do anything like think of a museum to visit (hard without an Internet-enabled phone in these trying times) then visit said museum, or see a show, or find a homeless person and give him/her a dollar to rebalance the world after Cecily threw it out of orbit when a homeless man gave her a dollar last November- so I decided to take a bus instead of the subway and then walked the remaining 40 blocks to class. The whole time I'm thinking WAHOO LOOK AT ME I'M WALKING 40 BLOCKS GO ALLIE GO ALLIE! and kept thinking of ways I could bring it up to grad school friends (haha jk I have none)/my mom on the phone when I called her for no reason but to brag that I walked 40 blocks/random strangers because omg 40 blocks is a huge deal! Note to Allison: no one gives a shit. You don't get curtsies for having no life and thus hoofin' it. Go donate money to earthquake relief.

Well that would be my biggest flaw if I wasn't so lazy. I am in a pickle because there are 3 courses I could potentially take to fill up my schedule this semester, and one is clearly the topical standout (Health Promotion for Children/Adolescents) and relevant for my future desired work, but the amount of reading/paper assignments is just off-putting in a way that makes me want to vomit/strangle kittens. The second option is also relevant (patient-provider communication strategies), yet is taught by the same professor as my required Thursday night class, and she's dull and dry (although a fairly easy grader. Ahh! I gave away the punchline of ma flaw!) and I just don't think my entire classroom experience with only her this semester would keep me off a rooftop ledge (brandishing a strangled kitty? Sup with the drama?). And her class, although less work than option 1, is still intense and involves creating a brochure. Option 3 is health promotion for college students, which I find quite interesting, BUT it's only offered online. I'm already taking an online course on HIV Education, and I feel like I'm shortchanging myself taking two online courses when I live close enough to school and enjoy being on campus. However, the topics for option 3 are quite interesting, and the workload is much lighter than the other options. So we've hit the nail on the head here: What's my other flaw? I AM A LAZY BASTARDO (!!! Titanic smokestack falls on my head. Too soon?) WHO ALWAYS TAKES THE EASY WAY OUT (IN)! Although any guidance in Class Selection 101 would be appreciated.

Of Bayside and Geometry

Before I begin this entry, I must describe the events of this morning. I turned on the glorious 13-incher, hopped on the elliptical, and gasped. ON TBS THERE WAS AN EPISODE OF SAVED BY THE BELL THAT I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE. Honest. I take pride in having seen every godforsaken episode of SBTB- the ones from the beach club at least 5 times a pop- and had to swallow my pride as I comfortably worked at a no-incline level 2 and watched in a daze as Slater quit the wrestling team because he knew he couldn't make a career out of it and would eventually be over the hill, so he joined the cooking club, but Zack HAD to get Slater to wrestle and beat Niedec (from Valley obvi- there are only ever two teams in that conference) on Friday or he'd get his FACE RIDDEN THROUGH THE DIRT. This begs the question: What other episodes haven't I seen?!?! And why aren't there any other teams in the Los Angeles area? I may have to go to the official web site and read every episode synopsis to make sure I retain my bragging rights. Goodbye, productive Tuesday.

#1 on my to-do list yesterday was to call a woman whose last name is Quackenbush. I repeat. Quackenbush. Every time I go to dial her number, I have to stop. And laugh. And die a bit inside (of jealousy. Because that isn't my last name.) So at this point I'm physically incapable of taking this important step in my work. This is almost as bad as last Thursday, when Henry asked me to cut his toast into triangles and I basically stared at a plate of toast for 5 minutes, totally perplexed and stalling until I could wrap my head around how to get A SQUARE into TRIANGLES. I ended up cutting it simply in half, straight down into two smaller squares, and hoping for the best. Because he's 2 and not a heartless dictator, he either didn't notice or went easy on me. I don't know what I'll do next time...

Morbid Thought of the Day

So we all know I dread and dwell and think ahead while life passes me by, but here's a legit thought: Eventually, cemeteries are going to run out of room. WHAT HAPPENS THEN? I'm serious, there's only so much room, and you can't dig up graves to squeeze more in, or have people buried in all the open areas in like, Montana, because then no one will visit them. If cemeteries get their profits mostly from the one-time fee of burial (omg please don't tell me our families pay RENT on a cemetery plot once we've kicked the bucket. That's just too much to take in), and then they're out of space, does the whole system just go broke and they can't pay the caretakers and weeds grow around tombstones? AAHHHHH MIND TURNING INTO A BLACK HOLE OF CONCERRRRRRN.

This is why I want to be cremated. Seriously, if my lazy ass never gets around to writing a will, please refer to this here blog for my final wishes. I want to be cremated and I want my ashes used to plant a tree of life (or "accidentally" thrown on people I don't like, whatevs).

Thoughts from a coach bus

My cover letters always boast about how I'm a people person.
I am not a people person. I am a dazzling hand-shaker and introduction-er (Oh, you went to college there?! Oh my it's so beautiful! You've been married how long? Oh that's lovely!), and you may even get 2 solid minutes of eye contact out of me before I need to run to a private corner, curl into a ball and be by myself. So after a full day spent in Albany today, never getting a moment to myself, I got on the bus, popped in my iPod and BAM Pure Moods came on, and...instant ZONE. Sometimes a little synthesizer and tubular bells is all a girl needs to recover. I should add that into my future job negotiations. "Yeeeeap, I'll need a bag of edible things that crunch and Enya's "Sail Away" on repeat after every presentation, can that be arranged?" God I love Pure Moods. Eff the haters.

In other news, winter has made my skin so dry that it's the consistency of parchment, and when reaching in the carton to get a 100 calorie pack of chocolate flavored Chex mix (yum), my knuckles merely grazed the box and consequently both started to bleed. Is that even real? I looked at them for a good 20 seconds wondering if that really just happened. It did, I have the scabs to prove it and now it hurts to dig in my purse for Lifesavers. What a tough suburban white mom's life I have. That's what I get for eating when I'm not hungry.

And finally, I have a bone to pick with JC Chasez's producer. Long bus rides yield deep thoughts, and mine of the evening was this: JC was always the most talented of NSYNC, and I will debate ANYBODY ABOUT THAT AND WIN, but Justin had the successful solo career. Why? He teamed up with Timbaland, collaborated with 50-cent, and clearly had a great producer pulling the strings. JC, oh poor sweet JC, fell prey to a producer whose vision was bigger than his talent, and thus we were stuck with "Blowin' Me Up With Her Love," which is now associated only with Tara Reid and trashy green highlights and...I think feathers? Was she wearing feathers? So now JC is relegated to judging dance-offs and like, guest starring on Secret Life of the American Teenager while Justin is using his ridiculous success to "design jeans" and "cure AIDS" and stuff. Thoughts? Who wants to pull a Gaston in Beauty and The Beast, amass the brawny village men who've had too much to drink, pick up an abandoned tree trunk and BREAK DOWN JC CHASEZ'S PRODUCER'S HOUSE??

omgggaa blogspot you annoy me

I just finished up a post I started December 15. So if you wanted to read something new, you can find it there.

Gotta go now, working on the script for my new reality tv show, "True Life: I Binge Eat Clementines And Spit Them in the Sink"

Tru Confessionz

It's about time to get this off my chest:

I hate "That 70's Show"

Why? I can't really explain it. It's not the decade that gets me- I happily watched enough Brady Bunch as a child to write a dissertation on complicated family dynamics and the importance of multi-colored sleeping bags. It's just that the seasons are so interchangeable...if it comes on I can never tell what season it is, what the plot lines are, etc. (I mean come on, 7th Heaven characters changed their hair every season to help me keep track) and I get fwustwated. I don't do well with frustration. It usually involves settling on watching something like Inside Edition or camping out in the kitchen and getting handsy with the cereal. Oh, and also, the show isn't funny.

But I've always felt I had to keep this to myself because it's such a fan favorite. I've never met another hater of That 70's Waste of My Time. I'm scared if I admit it in a public forum (well, vocally, and heard by more than 3 people), I'll get attacked. Like if I said to a group of 17-year-old girls, "Sex and the City is lame." Or to a group of 12-year-old girls, "I hope Justin Bieber's floppy delightful hair gets accidentally caught in a ride-on mower during a freak accident straight out of Final Destination." Or to a group of sassy gay men, "There's just no humor or adorableness to be found in The Golden Girls."

But no longer will I suffer in silence! You suck, "That 70's Show," you suck right on into the early '80s, and maybe into the 90's in Canada since time arrives slower there.