I'd Rather Ruin My Carpet Than My Life

Why does almost every adult person on the planet have at least one child? I don't get it. Kids are loud, smelly, time-consuming money-grubbers. I don't know about you, but I value being able to pee in peace without a little hyperactive rugrat barging in on me. Call me selfish or crazy, but I just don't have the desire to have children. Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me and what happened to my maternal instincts that I'm supposed to have as a female of child-bearing age... Woah. Seeing that in writing makes me feel like a very old 25. But then I think those instincts have just been focused somewhere else: pets. I'm weirdly attached to my furfriends and I'll probably wind up being a crazy old cat lady someday. And the worst part is, I like that. Thinking of playing mommy to my kitties, puppies, and chinchillas makes me happy. Yes, I have a chinchilla and her name is Gwen Stefani. Don't judge me. But thinking of chasing around some screaming, ungrateful kid makes me vomit mentally. Basically, I'm going to have lots of pets instead of children, because I'd rather ruin my carpet than my life. (I got that from a Facebook bumper sticker. Genius.) I know I probably shouldn't feel this way, but I really believe that if more people reeeeally stopped to think about it, less and less would choose to have kids. I think it's just 'the thing to do.' People are 'supposed' to have children. My mom drives me batsh*t crazy with this topic, too. She's always saying that I don't mean what I say, and that it's just a phase I'll grow out of. Hmmm... this phase sure has lasted a long time. Like ten years long. But who knows? Maybe she's right and I'll end up having like three kids someday :::shudder::: And if I do, I'm soooo dressing them up like animals until they're old enough to fight back.

Does Not Play Well With Others

I'm desperately trying to get into a dental hygiene program at a local college this fall, so I've spent the last 8 months of Saturdays rotting away in classes like chemistry and anatomy & physiology (microbiology fun is to come this summer). Stop me if you disagree- haha you can't actually do that 'cause this is a blog -but pretty much ANYTHING would be better on a Saturday than spending 9 hours in class. One of my fellow classmates does not feel this way.
For the past 3 months, "blondie" has been slowly killing my soul with her incessant, pointless, self-important, incoherent blabbering. She is the worst version of a grade grubber, and I'm pretty sure the professor hates her as much as the rest of the class does.
Blondie is roughly 45 (I'm guestimating) with the social appropriateness and maturity of a sixth grader. On any given day, she will cause us to be stuck in class for at least an extra hour, due to the fact that she won't shut the hell up. At this point, I'm seriously considering violence. It's bad enough that she never stops talking, but her rambling is always pointless AND no one can understand a word she says 'cause she runs all her words together. She sounds like she is speaking in tongues.
On top of her chatter-boxing, blondie is also a rude b*tch. She bumped me out of my lab station during an exam, causing me to miss three questions. She also ratted my two friends and I out to the professor because we were "distracting" her during a test (we were eating bagels quietly in the back of the classroom). And it's not just us she badgers. Last class, she angrily told a very nice classmate to stop chewing her gum so loudly... and accompanied this with a "shut your mouth" hand gesture. When my friends and I heard this, we all stuffed giant wads of gum in our mouths and started snapping our gum as loudly as we could. I may or may not have blown bubbles and popped them extremely obnoxiously as well. It kinda sounded like a balloon deflating.
So I'm throwing this virtual gauntlet out into cyberspace: bring it on, blondie. Keep rambling like Porky Pig... Keep shushing my friends and I and telling us to leave the classroom... Keep ratting us out to the professor like you're an angry, pouting pre-schooler. Bring. It. On. I dare you to say one more thing to me. You ain't seen crazy 'til you seen a stressed-out college kid who's waiting for an acceptance letter.

Freaks, Geeks, and Pre-pubescent Cheerleaders

*Unrelated Note: My life isn't all that interesting, or even blog-worthy. In case you're wondering why I don't update more often.

Valentine's Day is nice, but let's admit it: it's a tad bit silly too. I don't know about you, but I'm with all those people who say, "I don't need a holiday to show you I love you." Now, I like being wined and dined and showered in gifts just as much as the next girl, but it all seems so forced. Anyway, this year, Valentine's Day truly was a wonder to behold. Let me start at the beginning, where all good stories should start.
Because neither myself nor Colin (my freckle-faced Irish delight) could get our sh*t together that evening, we left for Providence, RI at roughly 8:30pm. Slightly late for a V-Day dinner excursion. Not to mention I was still feeling kind of like poo from the tail end of a lovely strain of the flu. (it rhymes!) So things were off to a rough start.
Our plan was to eat at Fire & Ice, one of Colin's most beloved restaurants; I think he enjoys the interactive environment. It didn't occur to either of us, however that perhaps we may not get seated on V-Day at a place that doesn't take reservations. We be smart. So we got to the front desk after 5 or 10 minutes and lo and behold, there was a two and a half hour wait. Note: this would mean that we'd be seated just a little before midnight. They closed that evening at 11pm.
But I digress. We wandered around aimlessly, looking for someplace, any place that would seat us in a semi-timely fashion. But to no avail. So we went to the food court at the Providence Place Mall. Mmmmm Subway. Eat Fresh. Colin and I shared a small meatball sub and decided to check on room rates at the Westin, since we were there and all. Walking through the skyway that connects the mall to the hotel, we passed by a dozen or more teeny-bopper cheerleaders followed by a couple of cheer moms. You know the type: frazzled shoulder-length blonde hair, tapered mom jeans that rise just a little too high on the waist, T-shirt tucked into said mom jeans, and just an overall look of not-so-quiet desperation that screams, "I STILL FIT INTO MY CHEER COSTUME FROM '87!"
Yeah, so we passed that group and found ourselves in the upper lobby of the hotel, surrounded by a couple hundred more adolescent cheerleaders in many different school uniforms. Cheer convention! This was fun for me because, having admittedly terrible taste in movies, I had watched Bring It On: All Or Nothing a record 3 times that week. Living the dream, baby, living the dream. We continued down to the the main lobby and WHABAM!

A hairy old man in a pleated pink skirt and black shiny maryjanes, a middle-aged geek dressed up like Robin Hood, a skinny goth in a too tight corset being led around on a leash by a man in black leather chaps, a couple of heavy early-thirty-somethings in sequined tutus.........

"Ummm, what's all this?" I asked the concierge.
"Oh. The fetish convention." and then he took a phone call.
Colin and I were thrilled. The saving grace of our Valentine's Day had just been delivered to us by the gods, wrapped up nicely with a black spikey bow on top. The only logical thing for us to do was to go back up to the second floor balcony and stare down at the freaks, geeks and weirdos for a solid hour. We pointed, we laughed, we ridiculed. It was good times had by all. I even took a couple pictures. Come on! If you dress like that, you clearly want attention.
Then something occured to me. Who the hell was responsible for booking the fetish convention and the underage cheer convention on the same weekend?! I'm no prude, but methinks those two particular events are about as oil-and-water as you can possibly get. It'd be like booking a boyscout convention and a N.A.M.B.L.A. convention at the same time.
Creepy.
On the other hand, my faith in Valentine's Day has been restored.

Some Beach, Somewhere

Here in New England, it has snowed a sh*t ton already, and it's not even half way through February. Now, I like the snow (except for having to clean it off my car and drive in it) but there comes a point where enough is enough. And that point came about two weeks ago after our umpteenth blizzard that buried us in the white stuff once again.
Since I'm happier nowhere than at the beach, I've decided to completely ignore winter and pretend that it's summer and I'm down the Cape, or in the tropics. People may think I'm a nutter, but it makes me feel better to put myself in a summer mindset. I do this in a few simple ways: 1) I rock out to my "Luvin' Summertime" playlist on my Ipod whenever possible. It has songs on it like "Lime in the Coconut," "It's 5 O'clock Somewhere," and "Escape (the Pina Colada Song)." 2) I dress in summery colors like coral and sea green/turquoise. Also, popular opinion says that white after Labor Day is a fashion no-no. But I say that when one's mental well-being is at stake, that silly little rule can go screw itself. 3) I drink things like Bud Light Lime and pink lemonade with citrus vodka when I'm in the mood to get shmammered. They are delicious, and one sip whisks me away to a hammock under a palm tree. And 4) I drench myself in beachy scents such as my Tahiti Sweetie lotion from Bath & Body -BEST EVER. GO BUY SOME NOW.- my tropical passionfruit and pina colada lotions (both also from Bath & Body), and the most awesome beachy perfume in the world, Tahitian Holiday by Avon, for which I have my friend Jordy to thank. Oh wait, and 5) I also like to wear my Tiffany starfish earrings that Colin bought for me a couple years ago. They're so freakin' cute I can't even stand it.
So I urge you, band together with me, friends and tell Punxsutawney Phil (jaysus... just had to Google the spelling of that one) and his 6 more weeks of winter to go f*ck himself. Awe, that actually just made me feel really bad 'cause I think Phil is adorable. Sorry, Phil, it's a metaphor. But seriously, join me in my summery movement. Because really people, life's a beach.
I need to move to San Fran like now.

Happy New Year! (again) ???

I've been re-reading my last few posts for grammatical errors and whatnot, and I noticed that none of my recent blabbings has been particularly fun or cheerful. Now what kind of way is that to start 2009? Therefore I've decided to keep this short and sweet, and regale you with a tale of early onset senility.
I was on a mission today to find a pair of snow boots for my upcoming ski trip this weekend, when my quest found me in the shoe department of T.J. Maxx. Despite their disappointing array of footwear (not a single pair of snow boots!) they did have some very cute dresses. And they were on sale! I perused a number of racks and found five dresses that I brought to the fitting room to try on. All the while I was thinking, Wow! Any of these would be so cute to wear out on New Year's Eve. I wonder why they have such a large selection... All the cute dresses are usually sold out by now. I must be in luck!
...It wasn't until I shimmied into the first dress that it hit me. Mmmmm, New Year's Eve was like two weeks ago.
Holy crap on a stick.
I stood there in that lovely jewel-tone dress for a full minute in utter shock and horror at what I'd done. How is it possible that a 24 year old girl could come down with an acute case of Alzheimer's?
Happy New Year!
Wait.
Where am I?

Ha-Have You Seen My Stapler???

Miltoooon! My homeboy. Red of face and full of reserve, he lingers at the bottom of the totem pole at Initech. Yet day after day he shows up and at least attempts to do his menial job to the best of his abilities. Milton and I are kindred spirits.
While I am not naturally red of face - I do use a lot of blush, though - I chomp at the bit in a workplace where I feel my contributions are wholly overlooked and unappreciated. It's a silly little job, really. I am a bank teller. It's the first job with health benefits that came my way after graduating from college, and I'm only going to work there until I'm in school full-time again. I feel the need to explain and validate my choice in working where I do, because it IS such a ridiculous and slightly embarrassing job for a 24 year old college grad to be doing.
Back to Milton from the movie Office Space: all he wants out of life are his pay check and his stapler. In the movie, his boss steals his red stapler just to get to him. Boss man knows that Milton's red stapler is the one thing in the workplace that is his; so he takes it from him, along with his last shred of personal wholeness.
I feel you, Milton. I feel you.
I just want to keep this job until I'm accepted into school. Then I'm OUT. I wanna go in each day and do what tellers do. I want to cash people's checks, deposit their cash, redeem their bonds, be pleasant to the customers AND OTHERWISE BE LEFT ALONE. I'm all set with being talked down to and treated like a child in the workplace. I'm also all set with management forcing sales down our throats. We shouldn't be responsible for sales. We are tellers. We have bankers that work in our braches who should be the ones solely responsible for sales. I don't know about you, but if I want to open a CD or apply for a credit card, I'll ask for it. Otherwise, if I'm coming into the bank simply to cash a check, I'm gonna get annoyed and maybe even a little pissed off at a teller who accosts me with a sales pitch.
STUPID GIANT CORPORATE BANK A$$HOLES.
:::::breathe:::::
I shouldn't swear at them just because they make my work day miserable, and because they set the teller's sales goals so ridiculously high that none of us will get a bonus this quarter... And I definitely shouldn't feel hostile toward corporate just because they blocked us all from taking summer vacations this year. It's fiiiiine.
In Office Space, Milton goes berserk and burns the building down.
I'm not saying I'm gonna go Milton on this bank's a$$, but I also wouldn't cry too much if a freak tornado whipped through town and took it out.
Here's to hopefully being accepted to school in the fall.

Karmic Retribution

People with peanut allergies aggravate me. It's a peanut, people; an elephant's snack of choice. When buttered, it is jelly's fondest companion. It is a staple bar food. Really? We've become so dainty and fragile a people that some of us could literally drop dead from aspirating a single peanut particle? TOUGHEN UP!
And then there's the mothers of peanut allergic children, or rather, the mothers of peanut allergic teenagers. They are the worst. I'm not particularly fond of children, but if I ever had a :::whoopsie::: moment and ended up with a little screaming nugget of my own, you best believe I'd take good care of it. So I can totally understand the need for a parent of a young child with a severe allergy (even if it IS a totally dorky allergy) to be overly protective of the kid. That's fiiiine. What really gets my knickers in a twist are the "PA" parents who can't loosen the reins and let go once their kid's, oh ya know... twenty-five. These are the parents who literally would love nothing more than to follow their kids to college and prepare all their meals, crusade for a completely peanut-free campus, and ultimately have their kid walk around in a giant bio-suit so as to save them from the spores!
OK, so maybe the bio-suit was a bit melodramatic, but believe me these parents are NUTS (haha I made a funny). I know this because I've done a good bit of reading on the topic of peanut allergies - mostly in the form of online community boards... which I like to troll and stir up mischief on. It's fun for me to get the crazed, smothering parents of adult peanut allergic children all riled up. They don't seem to like it though...
...and this is why I believe the universe has come back to bite me in the a$$, in the form of some potentially miserable karmic retribution.
I was chit chatting with my family yesterday and the subject of my chronic headaches came up. I've been having these headaches weekly, if not daily, since about 7th grade and thus far no doctor has taken the problem seriously enough to get me an answer as to why. My aunt has been getting horribly debilitating migraines pretty much her whole life and had been to numerous doctors and tried many medications to relieve the pain, but nothing had really worked. So when she told me that she had been migraine-free for a while now, I was shocked. She told me she had been diagnosed with celiac disease; a genetic auto-immune disease that damages the small intestine and can lead to other really lovely things such as osteoporosis and even cancer if left untreated.
Celiac can manifest itself with very different symptoms from person to person. They can include digestive problems, anemia, depression, lethargy, chronic headaches, etc. It's because of the wide symptom range that most people who have celiac never get a diagnosis. The only reason my aunt found out she had this condition was because my cousin, her daughter, was diagnosed with it first. My cousin had been having stomach and digestive problems for a long time, and no one knew why until she was tested for celiac disease. Since her test came back positive, both her parents were tested because one of them had to have it as well, or at least be a carrier. My other cousin, not a daughter of my aunt who has celiac, is also being tested for the disease, and my sister has mentioned to me that she is "allergic" to wheat gluten. So this disease is on both sides of my family, apparently.
Now, what does wheat gluten have to do with a genetic auto-immune disease, you ask? Here's where the karma comes into play. The damage to the small intestine caused by celiac is triggered by the consumption of, or in some cases, contact with wheat gluten.
Beautiful.
***and then the sky opened up and Coco Chanel said, "Laura, I hate you."***
Let me be perfectly clear; I have not been tested for celiac disease, and I really hope that my cousin who is being tested soon does not have it, because it's a pain in the a$$ to treat. The only treatment for celiac is to completely alter your diet and even some of the products you use on your skin so that you're not coming in contact at all with any wheat gluten. And that little sh*tter is in soooooooooooo much stuff. Ugh. The good news is, if you avoid wheat gluten, whatever symptoms you have almost always seem to subside, and the damage can even begin to reverse itself. The bad news is, you're right up there with the kids who can't breathe in peanut spores.
I'm making an appointment soon to be tested.
Let's cross our fingers for my cousin-
and for myself; an *innocent* victim of the universe and her sick sense of humor.