13

May

I Was on a Boat

This week is *~Senior Week~* for my school, so naturally, I crashed it. REBEL ALERT: I’m officially a “junior” because of that whole “year off” thing – I didn’t choose the thug life, the thug life chose me. Anywho, today’s college-sponsored event was the BOOZE CRUISE!! Well, that’s the unofficial name. The politically correct name is the Harbor Cruise. Basically: 260 graduating women (from a lesbian cult), 20 socially-awkward faculty, 2 bars, 4 decks, and 1 giant boat. 

My friend and I started off the cruise in the ladies’ room. Not because we were seasick, it just happened to be when nature called. Unfortunately, this was the same time that the boat pulled away from the dock. Being a land-loving lass, I wasn’t familiar with the rumbling gurgles the engines made as they turned on in advance of our journey downriver. Nope, I had no clue what was going on. All I knew is that it sounded like the boat was exploding from the inside out and that the walls rattled like they would cave in very soon. I internally panicked. I really didn’t want to die but I especially didn’t want to die in a bathroom stall. I may or may not have run out of the bathroom. Eyewitness accounts are inconclusive. 

After that initial terror, I calmed down and spent a lot of time wandering around the boat and re-enacting scenes from Titanic on the deck. Unfortunately, being out on the deck and exposed to the elements had its limits considering the low temperature. It was 40 degrees and windy. Not exactly weather that allows prolonged re-enactments. Besides Titanic-related activities, there was also a good amount of questionable dancing and a general lack of voLUMe ContROL.

The highlight of the entire cruise was when one of my friends asked if she could drive the boat and stupidly surprisingly, one of the crewmen thought that it’d be a mighty fine idea. So, near the end of the cruise, he came down to get us and we got to sneak into the operating room (is that what it’s called? I don’t know, I didn’t graduate from college yet so these things are intellectually elusive for me). My friend took the helm and I helpfully stood  over her shoulder (mostly to assuage my own fears that she wasn’t steering the boat into other boats or the shore) and chatted with one of the crewmen who wore glasses. Naturally, I started calling him Glasses because I’m mature and a people-person. 

This is an actual conversation that I had with him, not a dramatization:

Me: “Glasses, did you go to school around here?”

Glasses: “Temple.”

Me: “Did you go to boat school?”

Glasses: “..No”

Me: “Did you go to optometry school, you know, because of your glasses?” 

Glasses: “No.”

Me: “Are there any icebergs we should be aware of, Glasses?” 

Glasses: “..um”

Another crewmen was chatting with us as well and he explained the different horn rhythms and lengths and their meanings. Again, maturity was at the forefront when I asked: “Is there a horn sound that means a swear word in boat language?” 

Eventually, I tired of watching my friend gently guide the boat along at a slow speed: “Glasses, where’s the turbo drive on this thing?” 

Shortly thereafter, we were ushered out so the crew could dock the boat without having inane questions being hurled at them every five seconds.  

A good night was had by all! In fact, my college president who is a 70-something lady who wears neon pantsuits, got down with her bad self on the dance floor. I am unsure as to whether the memories of her dancing will lead to humorous dreams or nightmares. Only time will tell. 

- Daughter

 

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5 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Humor

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06

May

The End of an Era

Yesterday was my college’s end-of-term festival. As such, we did the usual things college kids do: commune with lesbians, dress up in all white, drink al juice, sing the songs of our foremothers bashing the patriarchy, bounce around in giant bouncey things, and just generally conduct ourselves like the  cult members we are and will forever be.

It was a hot day and the festivities attracted members of the surrounding community and even – dare I say it – boys. It was quite a scene. There was a circus performer (whom I was very weary of) who entertained the crowd during the day. He juggled flaming torches and made funny faces but mostly, he scared the living daylights out of drunk college students. Nobody was sure whether he was just some crazy old man who stumbled onto the festival or if he had been legitimately hired by the college (and, if that was the case, two words: BUDGET CUTS).

At one point, he was juggling his flaming batons and dropped one of them ONTO THE GROUND WHERE THERE IS FLAMMABLE, DRY GRASS. Luckily, this didn’t end in our entire college being burned to the ground as he swiftly picked up the baton and continued on his merry way like the consummate professional my college obviously thought he was.

There was also a lot of drinking games but they mostly made me feel bad about myself. Beer pong reminds me that I will never be an NBA star. (I’m sorry I’ve failed you, Dad.)

At the end a long day of running around and being an extremely mature young woman, I settled down at my apartment and wished upon a star that tomorrow would bring more members into the cult, so that it will forever brainwash the young. Carry the tradition, ladies! And may the flaming batons be with you always!

- Daughter

12 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

College

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05

May

I Miss My Truck!

yakima

“Yep. I think that will fit.”

In about one week’s time, I fly back to the East Coast to retrieve Daughter and My Truck from college, in that order.

Before abandoning leaving Daughter at her Lesbian Cult School in January, we spent many hours together behind the wheel of my crew cab pick-up, which theoretically should have translated into a modicum of familiarity and experience for her with a larger vehicle.  Unfortunately, the master plan failed to deliver, resulting in episodes such as this one, and another, and another.

In other words, I try not to think about how my truck has fared in the hands of Daughter during the last five months.

I am hopeful it is in one piece, is relatively clean, and hasn’t begun to succumb to the salty winter roads of Philadelphia.

But then again, who am I kidding other than myself?  I’ll be very, very happy if it’s almost in one piece.

Upon my arrival, I expect:

1)  The gas tank to be empty.

2)  The cab to be filthy — choose your definition here.  To me, that includes lots of scattered foo-foo coffee stains, discarded paper products, hair, miscellaneous make-up items, and a fair share of unidentifiable, miscellaneous crap.

3)  The tires to be low on air.

4)  Other things to be wrong that Daughter “conveniently” forgot to mention during our many texts and conversations since January.

I guess I am anticipating disappointment, and I will be genuinely happy if I turn out to be overstating my anxiousness and fears.

On the other hand, since I have been without a pickup for quite some time now, I have been required to “improvise” when required to carry large and bulky items here at home in SoCal.

So without a proper truck, I have been required to improvise.

You see, the nice thing about a convertible is that with the top down, it has no roof.  Literally the sky’s the limit if you can fit something in.  In many respects, using Daughter’s Killer Cabrio for hauling has been a better alternative than my Spouse’s van.  Earlier this week, for instance, I picked up a used bicycle and retracted the convertible top so that I could neatly lay it over the back seat.  And in a fit of Middle Aged Bravado, I even went home via the Interstate, just to tempt fate.

I can happily report there was not a single instance of a flying bike, though I did notice I had very few people following closely behind me on the highways here for once.

Maybe I’ve hit on something.

But today marked the Mother of All Cabrio Hauls, as pictured above.  I have been looking for a large Yakima car storage box for months, and my  diligence was rewarded with a Craigslist purchase no more than ten minutes from the house.

I really didn’t put too much thought into how large the thing was.  The guy was selling it so cheap I had to hustle over to his house as quickly as possible and figure it out when I got there.

Well, the box was exactly what I was looking for, but it was big.  I mean Denali National Park Mount McKinley Big.

As I pulled into the seller’s driveway, he waved and said he’d already had three other emails about the carrier.

It was a good thing I hurried over.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll take it.”

“In what?” the seller replied.

“Oh, I’ll put the top down, and we’ll just wedge it in there.”

“I think you’re going to need some help,” he offered.

“You’re right.”

And we proceeded to scoot the front seats forward and cram the box between the back seat and the sky above.

“I guess I’ll head back home,” I said.  “Thanks.”

“That looks kind of funny like that.  You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yep.  I’ve got experience with this kind of thing,” and I slowly drove away.

I can happily report there was not a single instance of a flying Yakima storage box on the way home, though I did notice very few people followed closely behind me once again.

I definitely have hit on something, I’ve discovered.

I definitely need my truck back!

- Dad

 

 

13 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Embarrassing Stories/Family/Humor/Lesbian Cult/The Daily Trip

02

May

How to Build a Box

Well, don’t ask me. Look how mine turned out…

 

The saddest part about this box is the fact that I am so proud of it. The handles were cut with a jigsaw that I was terrified of using. It turns out that being terrified of the tools you’re using does not make for controlled cuts in wood. It actually makes your lines horrible and askew. Despite the failings of the box, it is a box I created with my own hands and carpentry prowess. My carpentry professor approved of my construction and even went so far to say that, yes, “it definitely looks less crappy than when you started.” That’s a success in my book.

So, while I have spent the last four years of my college education learning some pretty obscure knowledge about things I will (probably) not have to use again, this seems to me the most practical and humbling course I have ever taken in college. Who knew that five pieces of wood could take multiple hours to put together? Who knew that screws make a terrible nails-scratching-across-chalkboard sound when they go through a high density material? Who knew I was capable of using a saw without chopping off limbs? Well, I know now. Sort of.

Unrelated: I have decided to give up my dreams of a career in writing to become a carpenter and inspire others to build boxes.

- Daughter

 

16 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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01

May

The End is Nigh

It is close to one in the morning here as I sit looking at these stupid portraits of Lindsay Lohan that I chose to focus on for my thesis. I wish I could travel back in time those six months ago when I chose these images and give myself a nice slap in the face. (And also go back a bit farther in time to stop myself from dyeing my hair such hideous shades of blonde. Ugh.) I’m not sure why I thought Lindsay Lohan would be a good subject for a 30-40 page paper, but at some point, I was really into it.

That point is long gone.

My thesis is due Friday. Which is tomorrow. It has been a long, hard road to get to this stage. I have burned through a lot of ink and friendships have been put to the test by the bad mood that inevitably occurs when I have to work on my thesis (all of the time).

I like to think of myself as the Lindsay Lohan of thesis writers. I had so much promise in the beginning, then I fell into patterns of irresponsibility, and now I’m scrambling to put the pieces back together. I am hoping that my thesis turns out better than LL’s current life. I believe she is now going on a 90-day court-ordered rehab stint? I’m not going to rehab that I know of, so I guess that’s good! Hey, look at me, Dad! I could be Lindsay Lohan going to rehab but instead I’m really smart and am writing about her!

You done good, parents.

Also, I’m sorry that I burned through my money this semester. I blame Lindsay Lohan.

- Daughter

 

 

17 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Humor

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30

Apr

Liberal Arts Majors are Useful

When they make your coffee.

I guess that’s a tired, used-up joke by now. Yes, yes, liberals arts majors are going to live on the streets and slowly de-evolve back into apes because of their lack of practical skills.

Potential Employer: “Are you familiar with content management systems and SEO?”

Liberal Arts Major: “No. May I ask you a question?”

P.E.: “…Sure.”

L.A.M.: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”

P.E.: “YOU’RE HIRED!!!!”

The above scene did not happen in real life. Nor will it ever. Unless you’re interviewing to become a Buddhist monk or nun, a potential employer is unlikely to be impressed with your knowledge of Zen Buddhist philosophy riddles. Usually, hiring managers are more interested in, say, actual skills.

However. HOWEVER. HOOOOWEVER. I find them useful. Especially because my dear old dad is one (and also because I’m one..). I know he secretly pines for the moment when his skills of the English language are called upon. Consider this your bat signal, Dad!

I called up my dad today and asked him to correct a sentence for my thesis that I had been reading for approximately an hour over and over again. I read it so much, in fact, that I started questioning what language it was in. The letters started morphing into crude shapes and then I fell down a rabbit hole. But that’s a story for another day.

Well, I read the sentence out loud to my dad and he immediately honed in on the grammatical error and discussed the structure of the sentence in a way that suggested he knew what he was talking about. He justified the correction using big words and it sounded authoritative so I went with it.

After all, if there’s one thing being a liberal arts major has taught me, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.

- Daughter

18 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Humor

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29

Apr

The Last Monday I Will Ever Spend at the Lesbian Cult

It is raining which is par for the course at this point and fitting for the current state of my mood.

Me.

 

This is the last week of classes and as much as I resisted getting sentimental about the end of my time at the Lesbian Cult, there are telltale signs of emotions bursting forth. It started yesterday when I was in our school’s community art studio happily painting on a scrap of cardboard with a good friend. It suddenly hit me: I wouldn’t have this for very much longer. My friend is going to go on to live in New York and I am headed back to California. I slowly put down my piece of cardboard and looked at her. She was busy painting projects for a class but then she noticed I was staring at her with a sad expression.

Me: “EMILYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY. OH MY GOD I’M NOT GOING TO SEE YOU AFTER THESE TWO WEEKS.”

And then we would both nod solemnly and continue on with our respective work.

Ten minutes later, another attack of the feels would come on and I would get quiet and then repeat with a whine: “EMILYYYYYYYYY. AHHH fkajfioaju98uraifhiasf.”

I am always pleasantly surprised when I feel real, human emotions  like a normal person (?). I was not expecting to feel emotional about leaving undergrad because my college experience has not been the most… traditional. Nonetheless, I find myself very attached to the people here (all lesbians, because obviously). I’m also attached to Philly because it’s in this city that my groundbreaking thesis about portraits of Lindsay Lohan was written. And my local town’s hidden gems I will miss too – whether it’s over-enthusiastic spin instructors or bars that are inhabited solely by jerks - it’s a cool little place.

Ah, yes. Feeeeeeeeeeelings.

Now I’m going to go put on Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” and cry for a bit.

- Daughter

 

20 days ago Short URL Comments

College

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25

Apr

Job Searching is Demoralizing

Oh gosh, I hope he calls me back. I would die of joy if he called me back. Literally, I might die so be ready to call 911 because dying is a distinct possibility. 

No, these are not the thoughts of a lovelorn person, this is me, waiting to hear back from a job. I am just waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Nay, not just waiting. PINING. Literally, pining. I’m pining so hard I turned into a pine tree. (That was so bad, sorry.) I have checked my e-mail every five seconds for the last week to see if the job people will tell me *thumbs-up sign here* or *thumbs-down sign here*. I sent a follow-up e-mail today with no response so far. I mean, seriously, this is the worst. THE WORST.

I have all these made-up plans in my head that just gets worse when I have time to daydream about what will happen in my life if I actually got the job. Psychological torture.

If the job people – you know who you are – happen to read this, I just want to say that I am super smart and have a way with kittens and homo sapiens. I am also adept at burning things in the oven and painting my nails. I successfully pulled out my own tooth twice at ages 8 and 9, respectively. I once saved four people from a life of boredom by showing them the wonders of YouTube cat videos. I can order takeout without messing up the order that much. I can almost follow directions half of the time. Sometimes, I pay attention. I am real, real good at grammar and such. I have a special fondness for really fancy water with bubbles and herbal infusions. I don’t know how to use a staple gun, but I try, and that is what counts. I’m a fun-first, safety-second type of person. I’m funny to some people on the internet. AM I HIRED, YET?

- Daughter

 

23 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Humor

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24

Apr

I Have Instincts

Or, rather, my body does. I swear, every time my body senses I am going to have fun or something like it, it shuts that sh stuff down so fast.

I was bouncing around yesterday, happily doing my laundry (“happily” = I had no clean clothes left so I had to) and, while I was folding my underwear, I realized I didn’t have that much to do on my thesis before the deadline next week. Therefore, I could definitely fit in time to go hang out with a friend at a bar that night. And then horror struck. My body, sensing that fun was imminent, immediately – and I mean, within the hour of deciding to have fun – shriveled up and receded into itself… like some sort of sick hermit crab.

I developed some sort of chest cold (although, I said “infection” to other people because it sounded worse and more worthy of pity) and was coughing all over the place. I cursed my lungs and the virus infecting them (?) (/I’m not a pathologist) and begrudgingly texted said friend and said I couldn’t go. I was very displeased.

So displeased, in fact, that I tunneled into my bed covers and sat there for a while, thinking dark thoughts about my lungs and their various treacheries.

Harry Potter gets me.

My new plan to have fun is to focus on achieving a surprise attack. I am only going to have unplanned fun so as to not tip off my body that fun is in the near future. I’m hoping that when I walk down the street I will randomly be pulled into a bar where I will proceed to fun.  (Yeah, it’s a verb now.) Or, maybe while I’m writing my thesis a llama and a mariachi band will pop in and again, unplanned funning will happen!! I’m really looking forward to surprise funning.

- Daughter

24 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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23

Apr

Witty Professors

I got a paper back today from my carpentry professor. The paper was describing a partner project in my carpentry class that involved lots of headaches and general stupidity (on the part of me and my untrusty carpenter pal). We had to build a device that dropped snow from the ceiling of our theater onto a hypothetical actor below.

My professor was there to witness it all. In fact, he was right there when I couldn’t figure out how to use a staple gun. In case you didn’t know, a staple gun consists of a trigger and an end where the staple comes out – that’s it. I guess my education in the liberal arts only gets me so far these days.

Speaking of education, and back to the main story, my carpentry professor SCHOOLED me via essay feedback today. He left this zinger on the paper:

“Oh, you two. Thanks for remaining enthusiastic during your many trials and errors.

Ultimately, you made something resembling a snow drop which somewhat effectively made snow fall. So congratulations!

Your collective senses of humor were, I think, your greatest asset during this project. MY sense of humor is your greatest asset to your grade. A”

I put a copy of the actual paper below so you could see the proof for yourself.

 

A for effort!! But really, it was an A for effort. It definitely wasn’t an A for execution.

You know, I may not have no dignity or real life skills, but I have an A and that counts for something. Somewhere. Maybe.

- Daughter

25 days ago Short URL Comments

College

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18

Apr

That Moment When Your History Professor Starts Talking About Star Trek

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.

My history professor: “Well, let’s think about the production of history, you guys. Let’s think about travel. About exodus. About the ephemera of life. About the absences and silences in the system of history…. Has anybody seen Star Trek?… Any Trekkies here? Where are the nerds at?”

Class: *almost everybody raises their hands except for me and a few others.”

Prof.: “So, let’s talk about Star Trek. I’m a Trekkie.  Are we talking about colonialism when we talk about Star Trek? What does history mean in this scenario? Do the members of Enterprise feel obligated to explore and conquer? Are they colonialists? Are they the conquistadors of the stars?”

Me, in my head: “LOLWHATISHAPPENING.”

But actually, I am a fairly nerdy person. I enjoy reading. I enjoy nerding out with fellow students occasionally about different ideas. This? Too much. I wish I could have posted the rest of the lecture here from my professor but it was based on a particular episode of Star Trek and therefore, I didn’t listen. Because she was speaking some sort of alien language.

- Daughter

30 days ago Short URL 2 Comments

College

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17

Apr

How to Interview for a Job

A company likes me a tiny bit! Enough to want to discuss a possible position over the phone. Is this what real life feels like? Is this aura and halo that suddenly appeared the mark of a True Grown-Up Person? I don’t know. I’m either a grown-up or Jesus.

Anyway, this is my plan for my interview, and one I recommend for all interviewees everywhere.

1) Don’t giggle uncontrollably unless the interviewer makes a joke. In which case, laugh. Your job depends on it.

2) Speak with a British accent. It is proven that people like accents (?). They will hire you just to hear you talk.

3) Sound educated. It doesn’t mean you HAVE to be educated, it just means you take out your folksy talk.

4) Do not pass out. It interrupts the flow of the interview.

5) Do not fall asleep. It interrupts the flow of the interview.

6) Name-drop. Preferably, work in some connection to Oprah.

7) Nod a lot.

8) Use the word “ambidextrous”. It’s provocative and thoughtful.

9) Do not say Ke$ha at any point.

10) Brag. “Yeah, I can really turn in some mean essays.” “Microwaves? Yeah, I guess you can say I’m an expert on them.” “I went to Canada once.”

And, hopefully, you will get a job. Because Canada.

- Daughter

31 days ago Short URL Comments

College

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16

Apr

The Hamster Wheel of Misery

I like to think of myself as a hamster sometimes. And the never-ending to-do list that has consumed my life and my very being is the hamster wheel that compels me to run, run, run and GO, GO, GO. My little hamster feet get tired but the wheel doesn’t care, hence: “The Hamster Wheel of Misery.” This sums up my life as of late.

Self-Portrait as Hamster.

Self-Portrait as Hamster.

I am constantly trying to just get one thing done at the expense of other things. Sometimes, that thing is a shower. Sometimes, it’s socializing with human beings. Sometimes, it’s calling your dad back …

As a result of pushing various things aside to give attention to more immediate concerns, mountains of undone work have built up until I give up and go to bed. (Usually, I stress-eat wasabi crackers and then sleep, actually. I digress) I’ve started to have nightmares from stress. And it’s the same nightmare every time: a favorite professor comes up to me and shakes her head slowly from side to side and says solemnly, “You are a great disappointment.” And then I wake up screaming until I comfort myself with the knowledge that I am a speshul snowflake.

I have also sprouted gray hairs from stress. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the salt-and-pepper look. I just thought I’d have a few more years before I rocked that. Apparently not! I got all excited when I first caught the extra shiny hair glittering in the bathroom lights because ALRIGHT, HIGHLIGHTS!! Upon closer inspection, it was a silvery hair. I pulled it out and examined it. In this little hair marked four nights of endless restlessness as I turned in one essay after the other in a rapid procession. It was a keepsake, really! But I try to avoid collecting  tsotchkes at this point in my life.

So, yes, Dad, this is my direct response to your post that I’ve been radio-silent. Well, yes, I have. But not without good reason! Your daughter has been attempting to fend off fire-breathing deans, thesis advisors, and professors. All of whom seem to have a personal vendetta against me this semester. I’m not sure whose death they are avenging, but they are pretty intent on killing me regardless.

Also, Pops, I’ve been, like, sending in job applications everyday. I’m trying to be a Real Person ™.

Yes, Dad, I know this is an entire post where I whine, justify it, and then whine more. It’s how I roll, Dad. Speaking of rolling, t-minus thirty days until we roll right on out of here! Couldn’t be a moment too soon. I’d rather not have to dye my hair to cover the gray…

- Daughter

32 days ago Short URL Comments

College

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15

Apr

No Rest for the Weary

The title of the post is a lie. There IS rest for the weary. Although, this wasn’t the case when I was a freshman in college. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (I’m a squirrel?), I walked onto my college campus ready to take on any academic work that came my way. I was going to do anything necessary to get my work done. And not only would I get my work done, I was going to do it well. I read every book, article, page, paragraph, sentence, word, syllable, and punctuation mark that was assigned. Literally, not a single semi-colon or essay was safe; I was all over it.

I pulled all-nighters so many times it became second nature. In fact, I’m pretty sure I grew fangs at one point and hid in dark recesses but that is a story for another time. The point is, I was immune to the effects of all-nighters. I was Night.

Fast-forward to yesterday when I had looked at the amount of work that needed to be done for my thesis and resolved myself to my fate: an all-nighter was necessary. I knew things were going downhill when 11pm rolled around and I was already at the point where my face was on my laptop instead of my hands. Typing with your face is not efficient. It’s good for laughs but doesn’t make for good syntax.

Somehow, I got past the various slumps and make it to 3:30 am. I decided to reward myself with a  ”nap”. I knew this wasn’t a good idea but I lied to myself and decided I definitely had the self-control to rouse myself from a dead-sleep to finish a much-detested paper.

Turns out, I hit snooze and slept until I had a handful of hours of sleep under my belt. Whoops.

Luckily, I scraped by finished everything on time.

There is rest for the weary. You just have to hit the snooze button first.

- Daughter

34 days ago Short URL Comments

College

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14

Apr

Bad, Daughter! Bad!

20130116-135740.jpg

“Where’s the coffee? Give me coffee!”

Apparently, Daughter and I will be embarking on yet another Epic Road Trip in approximately 30 days. 

What goes to the East Coast eventually must come back. 

I have it on Good Authority (the AAA Route Planning Lady who provided TripTiks for our original journey) that we will absolutely, definitely not encounter snow anywhere along our path in mid-May, unless we take a detour through Canada — which, by the way, we may end up doing if we have to depend on either my defective Tom-Tom or Daughter’s defective iPhone Maps app. 

“Dad, this road doesn’t exist on my phone.  We’re in another dimension.”

Yep.  I’m looking forward to that again, all righty. 

And that AAA Lady?  To quote her words to me in early January:  “I’ve looked at the ten-day forecast and you will have smooth sailing all the way.”

Two snow day delays later had me looking for her business card to make sure I avoided her travel advice in the future at all costs.

But our return trip, no matter how exciting it may turn out to be, is in quiet jeopardy today, because it is completely dependent on Daughter’s planning and responsiveness, especially to Yours Truly.

We have texted (not talked) about tentative travel dates or, rather, Daughter’s determination to depart from her Lesbian Cult College as soon as is practical this semester, but I find it very challenging to make arrangements when the responses from the other end are episodic, at best, and completely absent, at worst. 

I’m not sure exactly what kind of higher education she’s receiving, but if her blog posts are anywhere near accurate, she has replaced the contact sport of Varsity Soccer with Muggle Bar Pinball.  Given the lack of overt communication with me, Daughter’s posts are a frightening scary pathetic insightful look into the workings of the Modern College Female.

So, Daughter, I’ve got a medical appointment on the 13th.  That means I can fly out on the 14th.  As far as I’m concerned, if you have the truck packed up you can meet me at the airport and we can launch from there.  If not, we will leave bright and early on the 15th, and we will stop for your last cup of East Coast foo-foo coffee on the way out of town. 

I have planned for you to read to out loud to me for most mornings, beginning with Paradise Lost, and ending with Heart of Darkness.  I have also chosen some selections from My Losing Season, my all-time favorite book about basketball, for those times we find ourselves in the endless plains of Kansas, dodging tornadoes and flying cows.

Because like good literature, basketball heals all things. 

In the meantime, Daughter, please answer my texts, or write me an email, or even, God Forbid, give me a call on a real, live telephone. 

I look forward to talking to you.  I think you know my number!

Namaste!

- Dad

35 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Humor/Road Trip

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08

Apr

Fool Me Once

I had this crazy idea that bars are supposed to be this grand social space where you go to have fun and chat with different people. I was wrong.

In case you don’t remember, during my first weekend back at school, I went out to a bar like college kids are wont to do. Unfortunately, it turned into a NFL tryout in which I had to spin-move, duck, and tackle my way through a crowd of people in varying states of inebriation. I’m pretty sure I got hit in the face multiple times. But it was fine. I mean, it wasn’t, but I pretended it was. Plus, I was with my friends I hadn’t seen for a year, which makes it easy to suffer through a night of shoving and pushing and drink-spilling and slurring.

Well, I made the mistake of going to the same bar again, thinking it would be different. Nope. It wasn’t… The only difference is that this time, I came prepared. I put on my 5 inch platform heels so I was hovering around the 6 foot mark. The key to pushing your way through the crowd is to be visible and man, was I visible. I was a giraffe in a sea of hobbits and other small fantastical creatures. I felt like a meerkat popping up out of its hole, surveying its surroundings. It was great feeling like all of these different animals!!

Sadly, my height did not stop me from having multiple drinks spilled on me, being shoved into a wall, and generally, getting beaten up pretty good. A guy did tell me he liked my bangs to which I replied, “I like yours.” Because he didn’t have any. He didn’t think it was funny. But I sure did. And if I can’t laugh at my own jokes, what can I do in this world??

- Daughter

40 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Social Dysfunction

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03

Apr

Bad Mood

I don’t know if it’s just because I’m stressed out and my stress has been spreading like some sort of grumpy bird flu but my relationships have been… tense lately.

 

It started this Tuesday when my friend and I yelled our way through carpentry class. Even our professor was a little shocked at the way we worked together. Our M.O. is to criticize each other to get things done. And we do get our projects done and they happen to look amazing, it just takes splinters, frustration, and screaming to get there. Class is an hour and a half of this:

Me: ”That’s straight.”

Friend: ”That’s not straight.”

Me: “Fine, you do it.”

Friend: “Fine. See? It’s straight now.”

Me: “Now it’s straight but it’s the wrong angle and you chopped off my finger.”

I’ve also, admittedly, been absolutely miserable this week. And miserable to be around. Sorry. Public apology for being a Debbie Downer. And a Sour Sally. And a Negative Nancy. And a Dour Delilah. And a Grumpy Gertrude. And a Horrible Helga. And a Terrible Tina. And a Lame Lizzie. And…. we’re done here.

I guess I like to think I am a bubbly, glittery ball of sunshine that spreads happiness and fairy dust every waking moment. But, apparently, lack of sleep and pressure from school have chipped away at my sparkling personality until I became this horrible shrew. And not in some fun, Shakespeare-y way à la Taming of the Shrew, just someone you don’t want to be around.

I’m hoping that I still have friends after this week. And if not, that’s what crying was invented for: when you feel sad about having no friends. Crying also burns calories!* So, if I cry hard enough, it’s just like going to the gym. Positive thinking!!!

- Daughter

* This statement has not been evaluated by the FDA.

 

 

45 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Social Dysfunction

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02

Apr

Public Speaking

Dear God. Is there anything more heinous than getting up in front of your peers and talking about some subject that you have vague knowledge of but are definitely not an expert on? That’s what I did today. I presented on my thesis. Most of the presentation went swimmingly but then, there were a few times where I started a sentence and the end just never happened. Poor Sentence, he had a tough upbringing and the odds were against him from the start. All he wanted to do was finish what he started, alas, it was not to be.

It was also embarrassing because, well, my thesis largely centers on images of Lindsay Lohan. So, I had to explain who she was to my class as per my thesis advisor’s request, which is in itself, very depressing. I do like to think my subject is entertaining. And it is! But I am never ever ever ever ever ever ever going to write about something that I truly despise in a lengthy academic paper ever again. I thought it’d give me some fire if I didn’t like the artist I’m working on or the model in the photographs, but instead, I just want to rip out my hair.

I think I basically blacked out the rest of my presentation because I don’t remember what exactly happened. I sounded half-way coherent, which, in my book, is good. I also didn’t throw up during it or cry or accidentally swear. Success!! Okay!!

A part of me does wish I had come in a red wig while smoking and crying while also re-enacting through interpretative dance the stages of Lindsay Lohan’s downfall, but that is something I will have to save for later.

Ah, well. I have my whole life to get better at presentations. Until then, I will haphazardly stumble through my thought process and hope that somebody, ANYBODY, will understand me.

- Daughter

46 days ago Short URL Comments

College

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01

Apr

Things That You Shouldn’t Say to Me in Bars

Nobody can say no to this. Nobody.

Nobody can say no to this. Nobody.

“I’m not actually that smart.”

I went out Saturday night and that was perhaps the quote of the night.

Before that quote was uttered, however, I had dinner with friends at a Thai restaurant. I ate enough for three people and a horse and a malnourished cow. It was one of the best meals I have had in my life. Unfortunately, the experience was marred a bit by a really mean waitress. She had a thick Thai accent and judging by the way she spoke to one of my friends, it was as if she had only learned English in order to insult people.

I, of course, initiated this interaction with the waitress by telling her one of our friends was “trouble.” To which she replied to said friend, “Why do you make trouble for your friends? This is why you won’t have any friends.” And I laughed. So did the friend. But then, it kept going. “You will have no friends, they don’t like you.” “I would give you a fortune cookie but it’s pointless because I know what it will say, ‘You have no friends.’” “You look like my great grandmother… she’s been dead for fifty years.”*It started to make everyone uncomfortable as the waitress went from being funny to being a bully. Thankfully, we left soon after and headed to the bar.

I was tired before we even got to the bar. I half-heartedly two-stepped to Ke$ha and reluctantly fox-trotted to Rihanna. I wasn’t feeling very social and I would have been perfectly happy sitting at the bar, observing the antics from afar. But I ended up being right in the middle of the throng. I got shoved a lot, which is par for the course, I suppose. I know it’s loud and crowded but there has to be another way to get around me other than pretending I am a bowling pin and you, the bowling bowl.

After a few pushes and shoves, I ran into a guy who looked like a Jersey Shore reject. Promising! But, he wasn’t nice so we chatted for a while. He was a local preschool teacher and in the world of small talk, I thought I had struck gold. Ah, clearly, he will be intelligent and articulate and I’ll have a normal conversation with someone in a bar for the first time ever!!!  However, this was the end of my enthusiasm. He proceeded to list his grievances like the Martin Luther of the Bar Scene. He complained about the kids he taught, girls who weren’t skinny, and then avoided answering my question, “What classic literature have you read?” (never a good sign).

I asked him if he was smart – mostly in a joking manner to which he replied, “Yeah, I’m smart…. Nah, actually I’m not that smart.” He could have just been being humble but as he said this, he allowed a bit of drool to escape his mouth and his eyes glazed over – something told me he was telling the truth.  He wasn’t the sharpest stiletto in the closet as no one says they say. I got up to leave after some more unsatisfactory conversation. He was confused as to why I was leaving and said, “…Wow, I put a lot of effort into this…”

I didn’t have anything to say to that. I was literally dumbfounded that he said that to my face, he could have at least pretended to think of me as a human being. He said I wasted his time with my presence. Ah, yes, clearly someone I want to see again. If there was ever a time for a hashtag in this blog, it’s now: #sorrynotsorry that I wasted your time, friend!

No, I’m not even sorry that I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I’m not sorry.

- Daughter

*The last two comments I made up. Because I can’t remember what she actually said. #sorrynotsorry

47 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

College

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31

Mar

I’m Certified; But That’s a Good Thing.

referee

No self-respecting referee really gesticulates like this guy, but he looks to be a bit of a dandy anyway.

For various reasons, most of them bad (complete and utter lack of time away from work being primary), I have been unable to become re-certified as a soccer referee for 2013.  I usually knock this process out some time either in November or December for the following year.  But four or five months ago, I absolutely could not spare even a few moments to schedule, much less study for, my recertification test. 

As a result, I have been working on an occasional basis what we call in the trade “unsanctioned” games.  That’s a fancy way of saying the particular soccer league at issue does not enjoy inclusion into the United States Soccer Federation umbrella or any other similar organization.  It’s not really a huge deal to me, but to give you an idea of the level of adult competition involved, no slide tackling is allowed and audible profanity results in a mandatory five-minute send-off. 

I have to watch my own mouth as much as the players, as in, “I can’t believe I’m fu freaking doing this.” 

The games aren’t particularly challenging, but they are somewhat enjoyable in a laid-back sort of way.  I don’t even take the time to warm up before taking the pitch (field).  I simply stop for a foo-foo coffee on the way over to get my “caffeine on”, and I’m pretty much good to go by game time. 

In a way, it’s sad, because I’m used to working much higher level, more violent and demanding matches.

So, since the cauldron at work has recently begun to cool, I decided to schedule my referee recert test and get back in gear. 

I reserved my place online about a month ago, and yesterday morning was the exam session.  I had a solid plan in place for the week prior.  Starting on Monday, I was to study just a few pages each night so that by Friday evening, the bulk of the prep work would be complete and I would be good to go for Saturday.

You might have guessed what really happened. 

I only managed to crack my study book after supper the night before, and I managed to review the necessary text while simultaneously watching the NCAA March Madness basketball tournament.

Note to Daughter:  Don’t try this methodology at your Lesbian Cult College.  It is proven to deliver mediocre results, at best. 

Saturday morning dawned bright and early, but it was only because the test site was about a 40-minute drive from home.  I had to build in enough time to pick up a foo-foo coffee on my way over.  Just like working a real game, I knew I needed that caffeine boost to encourage the gray matter to kick it up a notch during the test. 

The first bad sign was when I rolled up to the elementary school where the test was scheduled; it looked like about a thousand cars were parked all over the place.  I just wasn’t really up for a group cluster. 

All I wanted was an easy multiple guess choice test, and an instructor who wasn’t shy about giving away the answers ahead of time. 

The second bad sign was at the registration desk, after I finally found the correct room.  Yes, I was on the list, but, no, I had no idea what the guy checking off names was talking about.

“Yes, sir, I’ve got you on the list.  Now I need your $20 facility fee.”

“My what?  I already paid for all of this online.  Are you saying I owe twenty more bucks?”

“Sir, you’re the only one who didn’t get the word this morning.  No one else has had a problem.”

Well, I already was not in the best of moods, and now this.  I really had no choice but to pay the piper.  Thank God I had more than the usual two dollars in my wallet, but this was really beginning to piss me off upset me. 

This day was not starting out well at all. 

Once inside what appeared to be the school cafeteria, I grabbed a seat right up front, since it seemed there was going to be some kind of presentation which I was going to have a very difficult time seeing, since I forgot my glasses.

In fact, I was woefully unprepared, not even taking into account the lack of studying.

To wit, I was supposed to bring a couple of pencils — nope, I brought one pen.  Note taking paper was encouraged — nope, I figured I could write the really important stuff on my hand in ink.  The instructor had some kind of pre-test lesson planned — nope, I left the good ole hearing aids at home, too. 

Geez.  This was shaping up well, I figured.

I had been sitting at the table for all of two minutes, when another older dude plopped down beside me, either because he was as disadvantaged as I was, or because almost everyone else in the room was fourteen years old.

He did seem to have a lot of notes with him, so I casually asked if I could use him to cheat.

“What kind of work do you do?” he asked me in an Australian accent.

I told him I was a program manager.  I just as easily could have said architect or veterinarian, but I didn’t feel like I could pass for either at the moment.

“I just needed to make sure you weren’t a lawyer.  These notes are from the pre-marital agreement with my new wife.  We just got married, and now I’m reviewing them.”

Clearly, I did not have a monopoly on issues this morning.  In fact, this guy turned out to be really nice, and he spend the better part of the next two hours whispering to me about not only various refereeing problems, but his new marriage, as well.

Since I didn’t have my hearing aids in, I understood maybe, maybe about ten percent of what he said.  I just smiled, nodded my head frequently, and occasionally gasped “really?” to any comment that seemed especially important, or so I guessed.

When it came time to take the actual test, we broke up into groups, and we could actually talk and reason through the answers together.  Since I was one of the few adults in attendance, I was saddled with assigned a group of four teenagers to mentor through the exam.

This pimply convocation of hungry ennui was a life-saver for me, because they both studied and remembered the answers to last year’s exam, and could cite specific problems for reference.  However, the kid at the end of the table was only a little more clueless than me.  He, in fact, didn’t have a clue, but was clearly benefiting from the brainpower around him. 

As was I.

Long story short, we managed to complete the exam in about 45 minutes, and then spent 30 minutes waiting in line for it to be graded. 

We all passed, and we only missed two or three questions. 

The Pimpletons pulled me through.  Hooray!

Second Note to Daughter — do what I say; not what I do.  Prepare, study hard, write outlines, revise, and then revise again.

Or find a damn good graduate student tutor to help you out.  It only gets worse as you get older.

- Dad

48 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Family/Humor/Lesbian Cult/The Daily Trip

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28

Mar

I am a Carpenter

I am taking a theater carpentry class currently and it is honestly the best decision I have ever made in my life.* Especially right now as I struggle through my thesis word by word, it feels good to start and finish something successfully, even though it’s nothing more impressive than a basic wooden structure.

Not to brag but I can wield carpentry tools like  a young, precocious Jesus (he was a carpenter, FYI – and, yes, I just compared myself to Jesus.) Avoid run-on sentences? No. Cut a piece of wood with a table saw? Yes. Structure a logical framework for paper? No. Sand down the edges of wood successfully? Yes.

My carpentry partner, a good friend, “cannot do math” and therefore, according to her, “cannot make measurements”. She also claims that she is unable to read. So, clearly, I had to take the reins and make a lot of the executive decisions in class today. It really tested our friendship. They say travel is the best way to know if you’re really friends with somebody but I think that taking a shop class together that involves saws and other dangerous power tools is the true test. Trust falls? Hah, try running a saw within inches of someone’s fingers – now that’s trust. Good thing I don’t have fingers.*

One of the executive decisions I made, however, ended up ruining a piece of scenery that’s going to be used in an upcoming show. Whoops. But we fixed it. Sort of. I was supposed to be cutting a straight line but it ended up squiggly. My professor came over, looked at it for a second, and burst out laughing at our handiwork.

After a little sanding and praying to Jesus (the god of carpentry), the piece of wood looked less like a spaghetti noodle and more like a straight line. I guess you could say I’m a carpentry genius, but I don’t want to be immodest.

- Daughter

*Hyperbole alert.

*I do have fingers.

52 days ago Short URL 3 Comments

College/Humor

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26

Mar

No, I Will Not Be Your Groupie, Spin Instructor

I have an on and off relationship with exercise. I’m either training for a half-marathon or eating my feelings via vegan brownies and watching Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo on repeat. I avoid exercising sometimes because it tends to exacerbate old injuries from my glory days as a varsity college athlete. Not there was ever any glory in those days.

But then something happened this weekend. I woke up feeling like Mary Poppins. I floated out of bed and danced my way through a music playlist before deciding that today would be a good day to start running again after my long hiatus away from workout clothes and uh, working out.

There are many problems with this decision. First of all, running where I go to school is like playing a game of Russian roulette.  The odds are against you.

People in cars: “Oh, walk signal? No, you must be confusing the walk signal with my green light, which trumps all pedestrian rights. MOVE ASIDE.”

I almost got hit twice WHILE IN A CROSSWALK. I’m assuming it’s because they just didn’t see me but really, I think they just wanted to hit me.

The point of that rambling was to say that I’m on an exercise kick. And today, that kick continued. I took a spin class which was embarrassing in about 3294821 kinds of ways but for the sake of time I will only describe two.

Embarrassment #1: I never know the right height to adjust the bike seat. I’m sure I could ask the spin instructor or simply Google it, but I am much too proud to resort to such plebeian ways. Today, I seemed to have adjusted the seat too high and felt like I was riding a unicycle. Not that I’ve ever had the pleasure of riding a unicycle to confirm this.

Embarrassment #2: Because I’m more of a random-spurts-of-exercise person than a steady, daily exerciser, I am totally and utterly out of shape so within five minutes of the spin class, I was out of breath and staring at the clock, willing the hands to move faster. Pretty sure they went slower.

At one point, the spin instructor took off the outer layer of his outfit and extended it out to me, jokingly asking if I would hold it for him. I wanted to laugh and make a witty retort, like I am wont to do, but instead, I tried to quell the overwhelming nausea from eating an ill-advised amount of eggplant right before class.

He also pointed to my roommate and I and said we were his groupies. I wanted to say, “No, I shall not be your groupie and I resist your labels,” but my brain was focused on not allowing my body to die so I couldn’t say anything. He then commented on my orange shoes which really offended me – they are hot pink. Nobody likes orange. Again, I said nothing because I was having a Near Death Experience.

I barely, barely made it through that spin class and the only reason I did was because every time the instructor said, “Okay, turn the resistance up!” I turned the knob waaay down. And then put on my best grimace and pretended it was on a high resistance level. It was scientifically proven that if you pretend to be working out harder than you actually are, your body will believe it and burn more calories. (This is false.)

When the class was finally – thankfully – over, I breathed a sigh of relief. Well, it was more like hyperventilated but I WAS DONE! I DID IT.

But then, there was a core class  to “get a six-pack”. I seem to have been confused because upon finishing the core session, no six-pack of beer was in sight. How disappointing.

- Daughter

53 days ago Short URL 3 Comments

College/Humor

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20

Mar

They Didn’t Teach Me This in Driver’s Ed.

I was out in Philly, driving around, pretending I knew where I was going. The usual. However, this time, things went terribly wrong and I almost died. Not to be dramatic or anything.

Here I am, in my truck, trying to figure out how to get to a grocery store parking lot that I could see but failed to actually find an entrance. It was one of those optical illusion parking lots. Or a mirage. Or a mirage of an optical illusion. Regardless of what it was, I could not get to it.

My roommate suggested I follow the cop driving in front of us, surely the cops knew their way around! Indeed they did. I followed them down to an underground police station parking lot. Internally panicking, I executed a three-point turn and  screeched drove quietly away.

Upon exiting the parking garage, I took a right as per my roommate’s suggestion. I thought to myself as I drove along the road: My, this road is awful narrow… they should do something about that. 

Of course, it was a one-way street and I was driving the wrong way down it. Luckily, there were no other cars except for a car that was about to turn down the street. That is, until they saw me whereupon they honked and made unhappy faces. There was also probably swearing.

In driver’s ed, they teach you defensive driving techniques. I was told to always assume everybody else on the road is an idiot. But what if the idiot is you? How can you defend yourself  against yourself? That, my friends, should be added to the driver’s education curriculum.

- Daughter

 

 

59 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Embarrassing Stories/Fail/Humor

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19

Mar

Allergies versus Hurting a Waiter’s Feelings

Sometimes, I ignore the fact that I am an unemployed college student and go out to dinner where people make food for me. This reduces the risk of me setting fire to things as I am wont to do.

My roommate and I, intrepid city explorers that we are, picked a trendy restaurant neither of us had tried. We were seated at a table overlooking the kitchen so we could watch everyone else’s food be made while waiting for ours, tantamount to torture when you’re hungry.

Eventually, we got our food and ate our way through three courses very successfully. So successfully, in fact, that at the end, we didn’t have room for dessert. And because of inconvenient food allergies, I couldn’t eat anything on the dessert menu anyway.

And this is where comedy ensues. The waiter handed us the bill for the meal in addition to a crème brûlée on the house. My roommate and I  looked at each other as he handed us the dessert;  we both happen to be allergic to dairy.

Our shared dairy allergy doesn’t veer into the “life-threatening” category so we occasionally have a bit of ye old cow juice and cow-juice derived products. But only after judging whether or not the food is worth the inevitable stomach ache and digestive issues that follow. However, this was not “a bit” of dairy, it was an entire crème brûlée.

It was culinary blackmail essentially. (Except for the fact that the waiter had no idea, but whatever.) If we didn’t eat it, we’d look like ungrateful jerks. If we did, we’d be consuming something knowing our bodies would ultimately reject it.

We decided to plunge in and eat it because we didn’t want to hurt the waiter’s feelings. He’d been too nice and accommodating to snub him in any way.

The drive back from the restaurant was what could only be expected: misery. My roommate and I  exchanged pep talks encouraging each other not to waste our money by throwing up the food we had just paid for. Positive thinking worked! We managed to keep and digest every last cent. We paid for that meal in more ways than one, however.

- Daughter

 

60 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor/Social Dysfunction

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14

Mar

Being PC in an Amish Town

Today, I drove with my aunt, uncle, and cousin into central PA. There were many desolate landscapes to peer at whilst ruminating on one’s mortality and ultimate demise. Nothing quite like a Northeastern winter to bring you incandescent happiness.

We drove through a small farming community populated in part by Amish. It was my lucky day! The Amish are pretty much the original hipsters. Straw hats? Check. Vintage style clothing? Check. Beards? Check.

Just because you’re in a place with Amish people, however, does not mean you can act like you’re in some sort of human petting  zoo.

I was very aware of this and I did my best not to act like their community was some sort of wildlife exhibit. A couple of Amish boys saw me gawking politely staring at them and gave me a peace sign. I’m not sure that was an Amish-approved gesture but it was a Daughter-approved gesture. I felt like we really connected. Then again, maybe that was an Amish way of making fun of me.

I managed to get this horribly blurry photo of a horse and Amish buggy. It’s a terrible picture  because I was trying to be respectful. It was my fear that the mere sight of an Apple product like my iPhone would induce a craving in these people, a craving that could only be sated by a re-introduction into modern society where the Apple God would be venerated above all others. And I don’t want to single-handedly destroy a centuries-old community. I just can’t have that sort of thing on my conscience or record if I am going to accomplish my goal of becoming the next pope.

- Daughter

 

65 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Fail/Family/Humor

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