"Oh yeah, I got this car on The Price is Right"

At 11:00 AM I turned on CBS for my morning dose of "The Price is Right."

The opening bid is for a trampoline. I remembered how badly I wanted a trampoline when I was little, but as I watch the model jumping on it during the segment, I realize how the trampoline could possibly be the dumbest, most dangerous toy you could possibly buy for a child.

A young woman gets the closest bid for the trampoline, and before Drew Carey can announce it, she screams, "I WON!"

I realize how much I waste my life watching this damn show, and I go into my text messages to find the number to call about getting my old job back.

The woman is now bidding on something else. I can't see what. A dining room set, perhaps?

My text Inbox: 15 texts

Shit. I deleted the number.

I panic for a moment when I realize that I purged my text inbox without first copying the number of "Donna in Accounting" onto a piece of paper.

A man is bidding on a car. I find the company's phone number on-line, but instead of calling immediately, I decide to see whether or not the man will win that giant red Ford pick-up truck.

It is an intense one. He keeps coming within one number, so they keep letting him play. I remind myself not to yell at the TV if he won. I had experienced a great deal of shame during yesterday's Showcase Showdown; I told the woman on the TV what to bid, and when she did, I felt for a moment as though we really connected.

The man wins the truck. I yell at the TV. Shame overcomes me.

I call, and the woman asks me when I am coming in. I say June 1. She says that's perfect.

My shame subsides and I feel good, until the contestants on "The Price is Right" start spinning the wheel and I find myself yelling at one of the guys to spin again.

Now a particularly confused group seems to be bidding, including a woman wearing a T-shirt that says "I'm 90, Fiesty, and Ready to Spin!" Me too, old woman, me too.

EDIT: Despite what my spell check says, that is what the shirt of the old woman actually said.

If my measurements are correct,

My sister-in-law gave me a coupon to a popular woman's store. I began to look through their website for any good sales, when I came across a particularly cute skirt. It was called the "modern mini," and on the model it looked just below slutty length, and just above credit card length. I was taken by the price- $10! And it was red! and so very, very cute! I wanted to make sure, though, that the length wouldn't be slutacious on me.

Figure 1: Didn't meant to circle "machine washable"

I have some spacial relations issues, so it was necessary to whip out the measuring tape and hold it to my leg. Upon doing so, I notice something of a problem. The length from my waist to my knee is actually 16''.

That's right, a full half an inch shorter than the mini skirt.

Here's the thing. I know I'm short (although, on an aside, after living for a year with Alana, I think I started to believe that not only was I on the tall side, I was actually something of a giant.) I am 5'3'' (but I know when other girls are lying about their height because I'm lying. I'm 5'2''.) According to my calculations, though, a 16.5'' skirt would only be a mini on a mutant (or Heidi Klum)--

Figure 2: Scientific calculations

So no $10 skirt for me, unless I want to look like I was wearing a red version of the Kellenberg uniform.

Megan vs The Children of New York

You knew I couldn't stay away for too long.


So I moved home from Boston this past weekend. Other than a meltdown over a cupcake, it has been relatively uneventful.

Figure 1: The cupcake in question. My good friend, Jessica Wanda, bought it for me as a going away present. Although my instinct was to eat it the second I opened the box, I waited so I could show it to everybody I knew. Despite talking about the cupcake for two days straight, right before we left, I popped it back into the fridge while I got coffee with my parents. About 45 minutes into the drive home, I realized that the cupcake was still in Boston. Remember that episode of Friends where Ross has a breakdown when somebody eats his turkey sandwich at work? Well, yeah. I remember that, too.

Back in early April, I signed up to volunteer in Chelsea with little kids doing arts and crafts. I got to the after school center with no problem, and as I sat waiting for the kids, I started to get a little excited. The other volunteers had all volunteered there before, and they seemed happy to be back. I saw a line of little kids parade through the sitting where we were waiting, and they all looked so adorable. Oh how naive of me.

One little kid was yelling at the top of his lungs for no reason. I should have known then. That was Enrique, my new buddy.

I would like to say that beneath these kids wild exteriors were little hearts of gold, but I cannot lie. They were bastards. Every last one of them.

I sat on a tiny chair for an hour while the kids slapped each other, tried to stand on the table, ratted out the 30-year-old volunteers to their teachers for being "mean," threw whatever they could get their hands on, ripped the paper we were supposed to play pictionary with, and tried to steal art supplies.

The hour was up and the moderators returned. The kids turned on their angelic expressions once again, and the moderator thanked the volunteers for giving our time. The other volunteers smiled and said how much fun they had and said goodbye to their kiddies.

I waved once, and ran like a bat out of hell. I don't think I felt safe until I was on the subway, speeding away from those kids as fast as possible.

I haven't much to say these days, so I suppose I'll take a break.

Catch you guys later.

She bought her a cat.

I am going to type very quickly, as I should be studying epidemiology instead of writing this, therefore you should read this very quickly, as I am sure you are rather busy with finals, too.

So earlier today I had a large mug of Maxwell House. The caffeine, along with my surging adrenaline, caused one of those caffeine buzzes that is just a bit more than you bargained for. My thoughts were rushing too quickly, and a bunch of random incidents kept popping into my head. Among other things, as I studied substance abuse/dependence for my psych exam, I couldn't get this conversation I had with my mom out of my head:

"Did I see a cat in the [family]'s window?"

Mom: "Yeah, they promised [daughter] they would buy her a cat if she quit cocaine."


......?

American, not British, Architects.

I spoke of this article during the week:



http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/4296975.stm



That is actually the British version. The American version is similar but has a few major differences; mainly, for whatever reason, in Britain the architects are miserable but the American ones are apparently pigs in shit:



http://hotjobs.yahoo.com/career-articles-where_do_america_s_happiest_people_work-569

We could listen to Phil Collins together.

I don't want to look through my blog archive to see just how many Saturday night entries I have made, because I know that there have been plenty. I guess I'm just not really a party animal. Or, more accurately, I managed to be a bit under the weather for most of second semester.

I just jumped about a foot in half because my roommate's purse, which is about ten feet away from me, fell over. I'll miss Scotty (177's resident ghost) next year. When I'm home alone next year and I hear a noise I'll just assume somebody is breaking in.

It was quite a strange week; I'd say bad, but I'm trying to be optimistic. I'm going to Hunter College next year, but I don't know how I feel about it just yet. I need some time to try it out. Some other shit went on, but none of it is worth recounting here. I don't need any of it in print, to be honest. I'm partially ashamed of myself for expressing anger, because I rarely see it as productive; I'm partially proud for standing up for a friend--which is negated by more shame for over-stepping my bounds. I discussed it with my mother, who replied with an instant "uh-oh" when I told her expressed anger this week. I told her I never yelled at anybody, and she said of course not, "you never yell. You're scary, like the Godfather." Thanks, mom. Always know just what to say (that is sarcastic, in case you couldn't tell. Type is tricky like that.)

Sighs all around. I don't feel as down as I did last week, or even a few days ago, but now I just wish time would move a little faster. I want to forget these past few weeks entirely. I want to see where things are going. I want the future to be less muddled and just a little clearer.


Note: SCORE! No spelling mistakes!