The Mohair Sweater

I actually had about half this post typed out, and then my computer refreshed itself. I wonder if that is the gods way of telling me not post this, but whatever. Here goes again:

I have wanted to make posts like this in the past, but then decide against it, allowing that little nagging voice in my head to win out--the one that says "But what if the person you are writing about ends up reading this?"

I seriously contemplated this last night, though, and realized the absurdity of that sentiment for a few reasons; first, only my friends (semi?)regularly read this, and second, my blog isn't linked to my facebook. I only occasionally put the link in my away messages on AIM. Basically, for one of the people I write about to read this means that there is some serious stalking going on (although, I would probably be flattered. But I digress.) So that was my rationalization, or my disclaimer before I continue with the story I want to tell.

Last night, Sarah and I attended Mass. We work on a cycle that roughly spans a month--we go one week, then feel that going one week counts for the following week as well, then one of us feels guilty so one or both of us attend the next week, and then the guilt reaches a breaking point and we both go. Usually I dress a little better than usual; dress pants instead of jeans, or heals instead of sneakers. Yesterday was laundry day, though, so I just went in whatever schlepy (is that spelt right, A?) clothes I happen to be wearing. There's no real excuse for my unmade up face and dirty hair.

It turns out the Bishop was saying Mass last night. During his homily, I couldn't help it, my mind drifted. I started looking around at our fellow church-goers, when someone caught my attention. The guy sitting only two pews in front of us looked oddly familiar, especially considering I was only looking at the back of his head. I knew that back, though. He turned, and my heart started to pound. It was the same guy that I've had an inexplicable crush on for over a year. I feel like such a 12 year old when I talk about him, because I really don't know him at all. The few times we have spoken, I have managed to be at the peak of my awkwardness and say things that instantly make me want to smack myself. I have no reason to like him the way I do, but preteen style, my heart starts pounding and my tongue gets tied every time I see him.

While that may have sounded cutesy, just so you know for sure that it is in fact me writing this, I can also tell you that I became a tad upset. Church was the one place left where I could tame my normally vulgar, teenage-boy thoughts. Not last night!

I've rambled to anybody who will listen about my little encounter. We said hi during the sign of peace, and at the end of Mass he said bye (and I responded by saying hi again. Gah.) When I told my mom this story, she told me once again about the big crush of her life, the boy in the mohair sweater. When she was a freshman in high school, there was a boy in her math class who she still believes was quite possibly 20 years old. He couldn't graduate because he kept failing math. He wore a mohair sweater all the time, and my mom is also pretty sure that he didn't even know she existed. I'm not sure how this story is supposed to make me feel; I guess I have my own version of the boy in the mohair sweater. I just wish that my version can have some fantastic romantic ending instead of "he either dropped out or they finally just let him graduate."

Clean Slate

In preparation of going home, where my laptop will once again be shared with my family members (we have a family computer, its just the family computer can't be used on the couch, in front of the TV, the same way the laptop can), I finally cleared my google history. I knew it needed to happen. Some of the highlights:

prostitute salary
pimp salary
most addictive drug
is heroin more addictive than meth?
drug testing
how long do drugs stay in system?
crack prices
shot glass with chewbacca on it

I guess I have had a lot of questions about street drugs over the past few months.

That's How People from Queens Do It (aka Thanks Inner Voice!)

Two important (i.e. not really) points for today's post:




I covered the window with sandwich wrap last night to keep the draft/ inconsiderate smoking roommates' smoke smell out of the room.





I'm not going to lie; I am pretty damn proud of my handy work. If you walk around my neighborhood in the winter, you'll find a great deal of homes with some sort of plastic over the windows and/or a backdoor.

My second, unrelated point:

Today as I walked back to my dorm from class, I thought about my future. I wondered if everything will work out, and my inner voice said "I'm pretty positive that everything will work out fine." Thanks inner voice!

Saddle up your horses, bitch.

my head is so stuffed that I feel like I can't think straight.

I'm using somebody's library on itunes, and I'm thrown off because she has an acapella group that sings all Hebrew songs, along with a Creed album and a Switchfoot album (Christian rock).

If my life had a soundtrack, and there needed to be some Christian/inspirational rock for some sort of revelation scene, I feel obligated to go with a Stephen Curtis Chapman song.

I used a box of my roommate's tissues and bought her a replacement box, which I am now going through. Sorry about the Indian giving, A. I promise I'll buy you another box that is even better than these ones--with more lotion!

blarg. one of those days.

Somebody Call George Michael, Looks Like We Need a Father Figure

As many of you already know, this weekend my roommate and I adopted Splenda-Claudine. We know that her father is nothing but a deadbeat fish that she doesn't need in her life (mostly because he would probably eat her. Apparently beta fish are known for doing that.) Nevertheless, she has been acting out quite a bit lately, first successfully jumping out of her tank and scaring the shit out of me, and then by continuously trying to jump out every time a feeding rolls around.

Although Alana and I try our best, Splenda-Claudine seems to be thirsting for a father figure (ala the George Michael song.) Because she is a fish, it is okay if her father is just a picture. She responded positively to more than possibility:

Sexy Movie Star Dad^Oprah (good enough to be mom and dad and messiah all in one!) ^

Crazy Old Dad^

Note the way she looks at him^

Four texts

This morning, I received three texts within an hour:

The first had to do with having an orgasm from playing BINGO
The second involved finding out where someones apartment was located
The third was lyrics to the Backstreet Boys song, "Way Back to Your Heart"


If that wasn't enough to totally make my day (and prove that these three girls are psychic), I then received a text during calc about eating bear.

If you sent any one of those four texts, then you should know that I love you to pieces and you just about made my week :)

Sorry Splenda-Claudine

This weekend Alana and I became parents to a beautiful beta-fish, Splenda-Claudine.

Ok, she's actually kind of ugly, but when the pet store owner told us that no one wanted her because she was ugly, we couldn't say no.

Today, I lifted the lid of her fish tank. As I did, my phone beeped. I turned to look at my phone, when suddenly I heard a weird ass noise.

It was Splenda-Claudine, laying on the floor about a foot away from the bookshelf that her tank is on top of. She didn't even flop around.

After I shrieked, I froze for about 30 seconds.

As much as I didn't want to tell my roommate that I killed our fish within 48 hours of buying it, I really didn't want to pick up the little black fish off the floor.

I wrapped her in a tissue, but her scales got stuck to it. So I plopped her into the tank, tissue and all. She promptly sank to the bottom. Upset, I texted Alana that our fish was dead.

Within two minutes, though, she was swimming around like nothing had happened.

She attempted to jump one more time after she woke up from her brief coma, but hit the lid. As I look at her right now, she's just sort of swimming slowly around, that fiestiness that she had yesterday gone. Maybe it's because she's disheartened from her failed escape, or maybe because she needs help after an attempted suicide.

Or maybe it's because she plummeted like two feet, which is pretty damn high for a fish.

Whatever it is, I'm sorry Splenda-Claudine for being a shitty mother, and hopefully your other mother understands you better. If it's that you don't have a father figure, then I'm sorry, but not all families are alike. We can print out a picture of Matt Damon and place it next to your tank. You can pretend that he is your dad if it will make you feel better.

Is it bad that I sort of relate to my pet fish??

Some honest truths

I drool when I focus too hard.

Actually, I once drooled in Rite Aid because I was distracted by what type of eye drops I wanted to buy.

I bought fish oil because it sounds like a panacea to me. Better hair, better memory, lower cholesterol. Sounds like a miracle drug to me!

I am afraid that I will never be as good at a real job as I am at jobs like making sandwiches or hanging clothes.

^I'll stop here. There are a few things that I really wanted to say, but sometimes the truth is a little too much.

Heart Warming (and for once I am not being sarcastic!)

On a serious note:

Despite how young we are, our generation has witnessed some of the worst moments in American history. My most vivid memories of crowding around the TV with my family to watch the news include September 11, invading Afghanistan, and invading Iraq.

Among these moments, though, I can finally add something truly amazing. Last night, I sat a foot and a half away from my TV and watched as Barack Obama gave his acceptance speech. Sure, I voted for him with more than a little reservation, and of course the real test is not the result of the election, but the result of his work over the next four years. It was so surreal, though, this morning to wake up and read all the headlines and realize that America has finally turned over a new leaf. This was the article that really gave me shivers (in the best way possible)

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/11/05/world.reaction/index.html?eref=rss_topstories

Ode To Angst

Today as I walked to the grocery store, I continued to mope over another unfortunate calculus grade. I had earlier calculated that unless I get 100s on the next three tests, there is no way I can get even an A- in the class.

Which caused me to start thinking about a story from Chicken Soup for the Kids Soul. It was called "What's Wrong With a B+?"

Well, I'll tell you what's wrong with a B+. The girl in the story's friend was crying at soccer practice because she got a B+. The girl asked the million dollar question, "What's wrong with a B+?" and the other girl told her that her dad beat her with a belt whenever she got anything less than an A.

From there I forgot about by calc grades completely and reminisced about some other Chicken Soup for the Now Traumatized Kid's Soul. Like "Hero of the Hood," about a young man named Mike who took care of his crack baby siblings while his mother continued to do crack, or the one about how the girl sang the song from the Lion King at her best freind's funeral, or the one about the kid who didn't have his karate belt because he put it in his sister's grave.

I then laughed when I remembered that I was 9 when I read most of those. I remembered how I was always riveted after yet another story of death and gloom from the writers of Chicken Soup.

Thank you writers of Chicken Soup for the Kids Soul, for reminding me that, even if I get a B+, at least my brother isn't dead from AIDS and my dad didn't steal our family's money for meth and booze.

The Start of Something Wholesome

So Halloween has come and gone.

So has All Saints Day, but for some reason people seem to care more about Halloween.

This evening, Heather, Arturo and I attended a dance recital! It was fantastic-- Sarah is my new favorite Irish step dancer (sorry Michael Flatly.) Heather and I decided that we would start our own step crew (not Irish step, but like, "We pirates because they represent the struggle" step). Here are a few of our possible crew names:

Whitey Gone Steppin
White Chocolate
Out of Africa

and, if we instead decide to form a Bhangra crew: White Curry.


So that's all for now. The blog post title comes from the desire Heather expressed to go back to a wholesome lifestyle. Tonight certainly was wholesome, and next Friday, with the help of Sinbad and maybe some Apples to Apples, it should be a wholesome night of family fun!