shoesonwrong

The ONE time they don't run that annoying pre-show announcement telling people to shut it

We saw the latest Harry Potter in the Henry Ford IMAX last night. The first fifteen minutes were in 3-D. Not the whole movie. Not even half the movie. The first fifteen minutes. I don't know if that was a universal choice to make the first fifteen minutes in 3-D or if our theater could only afford a little bit of 3-D, but it was weird and sort of pointless. The best part of the entire 3-D experience was putting on the glasses before the movie started and saying things like, "Everything looks so real!" Or "My hand looks like it's coming RIGHT AT ME." The people sitting around us probably found it pretty charming.

Which brings me to my next comment on the movie-going experience:if you are a parent and you have a child who doesn't understand the difference between being quiet and being a ill-mannered hellbeast, then maybe the movies aren't the family outing for you. I know it was a kid's movie, but we chose the late, late show for a reason. That reason was that we would be able to watch the movie from our wildly over-priced seats in peace. People three rows in front of us were shushing the kid behind me, but his parent seemed blissfully unaware that their pre-teen was quickly becoming the most disliked person in a group of three hundred people.

I got stuck in front of the kid, who looked to be between eleven and tweleve, and he spent the entire movie talking, laughing loudly enough during innapropriate moments (death scene, anyone?) to drown out the (IMAX) speakers, kicking his balled up popcorn bag around in front of him, squeaking his plastic straw in his plastic cup, kicking the back of my seat, and narrating the movie (OH! THERE'S HARRY POTTER! THE BROOM PART IS COMING UP NEXT.).

As if the bum ovaries weren't enough, now I've got these stone-throwing kidneys

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, two-thirty to be precise, I got up to pee because I drink a lot of water and have a bladder the size of an acorn. At two-fifty-seven, I had a sensation that I can only describe as an explosive and searing pain that felt like someone had planted a tiny bomb directly in my left kidney. I was a bit confused because I didn't see any bleeding or shrapnel, but I was a little too busy screaming in pain to ponder it further.

By three-thirty, Ryan had decided that he'd had enough of my wailing and I was going to the hospital, like it or not, so he went to go get our car. The battery was, of course, dead. We arrived at the hospital at four in the morning, after a car ride where Ryan hit all three million potholes in Detroit and I threw up into not one but TWO old fast food bags in our backseat.

In triage at the hospital, the nurse kept asking me to sit still instead of pacing or pedaling my legs so that she could get better measurements. I kept asking her if she wanted to vomit on her like I did a little bit on Ryan's leg in the car. She said no, and so I kept pacing to help reduce the pain a bit. Then she snidely said that if I have a kidney stone, I'm getting a taste of what it'll be like to have a baby. I roared back that I was never going to have a baby, then, and if I got pregnant I would HOLD IT IN. This entire process took six hours, according to me, or twenty minutes, according to Ryan.

The next, nicer nurse got my IV in on the first try, but in her haste to try to pump anti-nausea and pain relieving medicine into me, she pumped the anti-nausea stuff in too fast and blew out a vein in my hand. The anti-nausea medication made me throw up, which I proceeded to do for the next five minutes while she put the IV into the underside of my wrist and FINALLY administered some pain medication.

The pain medication didn't work.

Well, that's not entirely true. It turned my head into a balloon and made it float away. I began to fall asleep while screaming in agony -- one of the weirdest experiences of my life. Then I had to wait another fifteen minutes while they ran some blood work to make sure I wasn't pregnant before they pumped me full of something delightful that took away all my pain and got me high as a kite.

On the wheelchair ride down to get a CT, I kept trying to wave my lead-filled arms while shriek-slurring, "I'm flying, Jack!" Then I waved at everyone like I was in a parade and fell asleep in the CT machine.

Later in the morning, I had apparently passed the stone and gotten a diagnosis of a kidney stone, severe urinary tract infection, and a yeast infection. I am positive I only went in with the kidney stone and that they planted the other things on my person in order to charge me more.

P.S. Did you know my real name is Andrea? I'm not entirely sure I did until I was four years old because everyone called me Annie as a baby and have ever since.

I Also Wear A Five Ring Size, But I Didn't Want To Short Circuit Her Brain

I'm a fat kid. When I say that, most people either look awkward or they try to half-heartedly say, "No, you aren't..." Because they think I'm fishing for reassurance that I'm not a hideous beast. But you don't have to feel awkward or try to reassure me; I'm fat, and that's okay. I'm not some lump who sits on the couch all day in sweat pants that I had to order in a special XXXXXXXXXL size. I don't have to be lifted from my house with a crane. In case of an emergency, a firefighter could drag me from the house without herniating. However, I am fat.

I wasn't always fat, and I might not always be fat. Maybe it's genetics or the insane amounts of medication I currently have to be on. Maybe it's polycystic ovarian syndrome. (Which, all things considered, I am lucky. I escaped with just my large butt in tow rather than adult acne and insane amounts of body hair, like some unfortunate souls with PCOS. Though I could live without the type II diabetes it has given me.) Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. I've got an hourglass figure, great hair, and a confident strut: I am HOT. Being fat doesn't make me ugly. Being fat doesn't mean I'm unhealthy (great blood pressure and cholesterol, I keep my blood sugar level in check, and I eat my fruits and vegetables every day -- how about YOU?). Being fat doesn't mean I'm lazy. My fatness isn't a moral issue, like diet experts, fashion magazines, and Oprah would lead you to believe.

It's taken awhile for me to be able to think all those statements above and believe them. But I DO believe them. I'm confident in my own skin most of the time, which I think is a pretty good thing to be at twenty-three.

However. Last night, I finally had to face the fact that my two pairs of jeans had both gone to live in the big denim heap in the sky. They were ripped, worn, stained, and one pair had super glue on them. I went to Lane Bryant to begin the epic battle of Finding Jeans That Fit Properly And Don't Bind In The Thighs Or Bag In The Butt. While I was there, I asked a sales lady what size bras they happened to have in stock because I am also in need of new undergarments (shopping: I don't do it). She tells me the range of sizes (36-something to 44-something, I think), and I say "Okay, thanks." This is where things start to go downhill.

She asks what size bra I wear (awkward). I tell her (34G, even more awkward to admit to a stranger).

(I really try not to judge anybody's body, no matter how big or small, but this is probably the time to point out the sales lady is relatively thin. Like, too thin to actually wear any clothes that Lane Bryant sells type skinny.)

Her response is to look at me and incredulously say, "Um, you do not. I don't even wear a 34, and you're way bigger than me." I explain that I've been fitted multiple times by multiple people and yes, I am a 34. I attempt to continue perusing the jeans selection, but she won't let it go. She follows me and insists that she measure me for a bra. Before I can answer, she measures me and tells me I am a 40C or a 42B. (And here I am not joking: SHE MEASURED ME OVER MY WINTER COAT.)

I explain that I am wearing a 34G bra right now. She says, "Well, then it must not fit right. Because YOU can't be that small. I'm not even that small." (Side note: if I wore a 42 and tried to shoehorn into a 34, it would pinch me in half, like some horrible medieval torture.)

Look, I've had sales people at Lane Bryant and Victoria's Secret try to convince me that I'm a 38DD or whatever before. They're trying to sell bras, and I get that. It's not a big deal. I know my bra size, and if I wear anything other than my bra size, my boobs spill out or the band flaps in the breeze. It didn't bother me if she was trying to get me to buy a Lane Bryant bra, but she wasn't. She was harassing me. She was publicly belittling my knowledge of my own body and simultaneously calling me fat in a derogatory manner. Other patrons were actually staring because she was being so loud and rude.

Her tone of voice was what bothered me the most. It was one that suggested I should be ashamed for thinking any part of me could be thin because I am so clearly fat. As if it was okay for me to be shopping in this store for fat people so long as I knew my station in life. Her words dripped contempt as she said, "You do not [wear a 34]. I don't even wear a 34, and you're WAY bigger than me."

I am fat. I am fat and I have a small ribcage. I have a big butt and thunder thighs and skinny wrists and bony fingers and a small ribcage. That's my body. I know it and I like it. However, that harpy at Lane Bryant made me feel bad. And that's why I am not shopping at that store again and am calling corporate. Because being fat is not something I am ashamed of or anyone should be ashamed of. And it's certainly not something someone else should have a problem with.

So, What's New With You?

I keep getting emails from the Michigan Humane Society trying to guilt me into either giving them money or take home another pet. Uh, they spent a few months threatening to sue me and then temporarily lost my kitten. I'LL GET RIGHT ON THAT AS SOON AS I GET DONE ICE SKATING IN HELL.

(Did I ever mention that they lost Wicket? We took him into the Detroit branch (we had adopted him from the Rochester branch) to get his produce removed and then tried to pick him up the next day. Cue forty-five minutes of a bored receptionist telling me that our cat wasn't there and wasn't on file. They eventually found him -- mixed back in with the cats that were ready to adopted -- and he still had his balls. Seriously, how heartbreaking would THAT be? Drop off the family dog for a snip snip and you come back to NOTHING AT ALL, SORRY KIDS.)

Speaking of college (which we are now), two things. First, I keep getting emails and mail regarding a bill from my old university for zero dollars. Now they're just taunting me, but I can't figure out why. It's like it's not enough that I gave them the best years of my life and emerged from university a withered old crone. Second, I have nightly dreams that I'm in my last semester of college. I think I'm about to graduate, but because I skipped five weeks to play Parcheesi day and night, there's no way I can pass my finals. Because of my crippling Parcheesi addiction.

We have interent. I can finally unclench!

We called the comcast support line one last time, mostly because we really enjoy exercises in futility. This time around, Ryan casually mentioned that we had been in touch with someone at corporate (Mark), and it was incredible how fast they got someone out here. 45 minutes later, two guys showed up at our door, adjusted the levels, and replaced the modem. They weren't even actual comcast techs -- they were from a company comcast farms work out to.

comcast nightmare continues

I was contacted by Mark, a comcast employee in the digital media department or the press department or something. He was very courteous and helpful, which is refreshing in comparison to all the other reps we've dealt with. Nothing happened today, but hopefully it will tomorrow. This is just getting absurd -- we've waited nearly a WEEK for Internet service, and there's still no indication of when it will arrive. Instead, we've just been warned to wait for a line tech to show up. We have been waiting for FOUR days now and spoken with nearly twenty unhelpful reps. If I had any other option than comcast, I would take it, but we don't have any other providers where we live.

I understand things can take awhile, but promising and the failing to show up and fix the problem on four different occasions is just ridiculous and a poor excuse for customer service. Hopefully Mark will be able to help us out.

we're all moved in and mostly unpacked. now it's down to random bit and bobbins, which are driving me nuts. we also made the trek to ikea and bought good mannered, courteous, thrifty Swedish furniture. come see my flarke and glarkenflubb -- I assembled them myself!

comcast has hooked up our cable but not Internet yet. the tech said it was something with frequencies and a special tool, which I think is code for I ain't working anymore today, but whatever. it should be hooked up on Monday, and then the shakes should stop.

A study in idiocy

As I may or may not have mentioned before, our landlord is a preschooler. Last year, he asked me to buy him beer because he's not old enough, suggesting that if I did buy him beer, he would come and fix our leaky shower. I told him that I wouldn't buy him beer because I think he's a tool and also, what do I care if the shower eventually makes the floor start rotting out? I'm not living in this hellhole forever, dude. Game, set, and match.

Anyway. Our neighbor across the landing moved out a few weeks ago, and Eric (the preschooler) finally got around to getting over here and cleaning (though I am playing fast and loose with that word) as well as taking out a few stray pieces of furniture the neighbor left behind. One of these pieces of furniture was a small, beige chair that was ugly as sin but very comfortable. I know it was comfortable because it used to belong to me until I gave it to the neighbor. The chair is pretty tiny as armchairs go, and we had no problem getting it up our deathtrap staircase and into our apartment, and moving it across the landing was just as simple.

The time: this afternoon.
The place: my apartment.
What I was trying to do: take a nap because there were three phone calls before 8 a.m., and I didn't get to bed until 3 a.m.
What I ended up doing: listening to Eric make some awful pounding noise over and over until Ryan started to go out of his gourd and eventually marched over to see if Eric doing some sort of pony polo thing with the white horse of the apocalypse.

It turns out that knob of a landlord was whacking on the chair with a hammer because he, and I quote, "Thought it was impossible to fit the door through the hallway and doorway of the apartment." WHACKING ON THE CHAIR. WITH A HAMMER.

(If this demolition project hadn't already been an exercise in absurdity, the way he was hammering would have made it so. He was doing this namby-pamby hammering at the chair in general, like he thought if he just hit it enough all over, it would fall apart into a neat pile.)

Suppressing the eye twitch, Ryan pointed out that the chair had, in fact, been brought up the staircase and into the apartment, so it must be able to fit back down. Then he grabbed the chair away from Eric, stood it on its side, and slid it easily through the doorway.

My landlord thought that a small armchair must have magically appeared in the apartment because he wasn't able to figure out how to TURN IT SIDEWAYS. His solution to this magical chair was to hit it not particularly hard a very small hammer in hopes that it would fall apart.

Killmekillmekillmekillme

I've been under the weather the past few days. At first, it was just the usual my throat hurts, that's funny, I don't remember eating gravel sort of stuff. Last night, I had an unsettled stomach. I didn't think much of it and assumed it had something to do with the gallon of snot that had leaked down the back of my throat.

Today, I started throwing up everything I've ever eaten. And everything you've ever eaten. I have thrown up more than my own body weight. I have a hypothesis that my mouth has become a portal, spanning space and time, that is connected to every garbage disposal in the world. It's the only logical solution for throwing up rutabaga, which I've never eaten, and soap bubbles, which I only consume on very special occasions.

I'm sick enough that I can't even do anything fun. I tried to play Bubble Bobble (On the Virtual Console. Apparently Bubble Bobble came out for VC in December. It's as if I have been given a second childhood.), but after about 5 minutes I realized what a stupendously bad idea that was. Persistently, I attempted Half Life 2 later in the day, and now I never want to play it again because I will forever associate it with blowing chunks.

I could SCREAM

As previously mentioned, I signed up for a graduate seminar. I had to have 3 different forms signed by 5 people and then still have a bump card to get into the class. I dropped all of that off at the College of Graduate Studies and was assured that as soon as the dean reviewed my forms, I would be right in the class, no big deal. So I got all that signed this week (I honestly had a good reason (that's long and boring) for waiting this long to get into the class) and dropped off the papers.

TODAY, the LAST DAY FOR ADDING CLASSES, I get this email:

Andrea,
 
On behalf of the College  of Graduate Studies I have received your Request to take a 600-Level Course for Undergraduate Credit.
Unfortunately, you have not completed the rationale for taking the course correctly.  While what you wrote about Dr. Graham is
Very nice, what the College of Graduate Studies expects you to outline in this box is how the course you are requesting to take
fits into your undergraduate curriculum, why you must take a 600-level course (is there no group theory course at the undergraduate
level), and what you hope to gain by taking this course. You can email this information to me. As soon as I receive it we will be able
to review your request.
 
Please contact me if I can be of assistance.

                  

The hideous color and weird formatting is all theirs, not mine because I actually know how to write emails that are supposed to be read by HUMANS.

Anyway. I wrote a perfectly good rationale about this class for them before I gave them my paperwork. It was thoughtful and persuasive, and pretty much pointed out that I have the perfect background for the class and the grades to go with it. My VERY LAST sentence said, "I would also like to take a seminar with Dr. Graham (the guy teaching the class) because I enjoy his lectures and the way that he presents the material."

One sentence. ONE SENTENCE and that's all I get. You would think that I had written, "Me loves Dr. Graham and his maths!" in crayon or something. And as for why don't I take a group theory class at the undergraduate level, well, there is no such class. It takes like 3 seconds to look that up. What are they getting paid for?

So, now I might not make it into this class and there is no other open class that can fulfill my requirements for graduation. Graduation. As in that thing I am supposed to do in the SPRING.

A Blood Diamond is Forever

I know that a lot of people thought it was preachy, or that Leonardo Dicaprio can't act (they may have a point), or it was too long, or blah blah blah. But me? I really enjoyed Blood Diamond. Aside from Little Miss Sunshine, I think it was the best movie I've seen all year. To be fair, this year has been crap as far as movies go, and I am a vehement boycotter of diamonds (so this was right up my alley).

I don't have a diamond wedding or engagement ring, just some silver bands (I don't like the way gold looks, for some reason) with engraving on them. Diamonds are plain gemstones that aren't rare, but since the 1940s, when DeBeers started pushing those plain old stones pretty hard, lots of people have bought into the hype that diamond = love.

I know that we (especially us Americans, and myself in particular) exploit others every day. I'll bet the only piece of clothing I'm wearing that wasn't made by under-paid and over-worked Chinese people are my Crocs, which were made in Canada. (But I have another pair in my closet that I believe were manufacture in China.) I drive a car that runs on gasoline, a lot of which comes from countries where those in power recieve the profits and let their countrymen live in abject poverty. Sure, I buy American-made clothing when it's available to me, and I ride my bike to do errands when the weather permits, but the fact of the matter is that I participate in exploiting other human beings -- even if it is indirectly. But I guess every person has their own personal line in the sand, and mine is diamonds. I can't and won't spend an absurd amount of money on a gemstone that:

1. Isn't that rare
2. Has for years been in the near-monopoly vise grip of DeBeers
3. Potentially is a conflict diamond.

Of course, The World Diamond Council (set up to reduce the number of conflict diamonds on the market) will assure us that's not the case, but it's members include representatives from DeBeers (they're ALWAYS trustworthy) and the South African Diamond Board. So they must be trying to make the world a better place, right?

I Hate Wal-Mart

4th of July Weekend was less than stellar. Then when we got home, my neighbor hit Dog with her car. Dog was in our yard on her lead, so it was essentially like shooting fish in a barrel. Except more like hitting a captive dog with a car.

So I haven't blogged for two main reasons: 1) It would probably be boring to read an entire post where every other sentence is "I WILL HIT HER WITH MY CAR. I WILL." 2) A post like that will probably be incriminating to me WHEN I HIT HER WITH MY CAR.

Dog is okay now. Neighbor was (I think) drunk, causing her to be even less polite than usual and just sped off afterwards. We called the cops, but there wasn't a whole lot they could do.

Also, today some enormously unpleasant woman in Wal-Mart was trying to check out with 80 zillion things in the self-checkout, and I probably looked mildly impatient (It's genetic. My dad can't watch the same TV channel for more than 12 seconds.). I, in my favor, did not say anything or do one of those annoyed sighs. Even when she decided to pay by check, but oh, she couldn't find her checkbook, and no, she wasn't sure if she wanted to pay with a card and hmmm didn't she have a coupon for 30 cents off around here somewhere? I may have done my pee-dance a little bit because, well, I had to pee. But on the whole, I was a model citizen. Who was about to have an aneurysm. Imagine my surprise when this woman turns around after writing the check and says loudly into my face "Do you have a problem? Maybe you should keep your rude comments to yourself," As though I was the clown whose mouth you order into at Jack-In-The-Box.

Of course, everyone turned around and stared at me. My first instinct was to crawl under the magazine rack and peek out from behind the latest issue of People Magazine, but I decided to go with my fail-safe backup plan: Turn red and do nothing.

Two days ago, I read the first 15 pages of Anna Karenina and have since started reading some sci-fi book instead. However, the official party line is that I'm reading classic literature like Anna Karenina over the summer. Okay?

I Can't Come Up With Good Subjects All the Time, People.

I tried to post twice in the past two days. The first time, TypePad ate my post, sending me into a snit. The second time, the dog crashed my computer. Well, she crashed into it, actually. She walked all over the keyboard, hit (I'm assuming) the escape key, and thus lost an entire post.

The events of this past week have caused me to have a revelation: there should come a point in people's lives when someone takes them aside, sits them down and administers a basic human intelligence test. This test could have questions on it like:

1. You pull into a parking lot. There is an open parking spot. You see a sweaty, tired looking woman sitting in a car with her turn signal on, clearly showing her intent to take said space. Based on the white knuckled grip and hint of an eye twitch, it seems obvious that she's been waiting for a space for awhile. Do you:

a) Let the tired, sweaty woman have the space and then calmly wait for the next available space like a decent human being.
b) Race her to the spot and almost hit her car in an attempt to steal the spot out from under her nose.
c) Race her to the spot and almost hit her while honking and giving the finger repeatedly because, clearly, she has deeply offended you. What with the waiting patiently and the turn signal and all.

There could be 25 questions or so, and if you don't get a passing grade, then your exam comes back, "You are unfit to be a human," and you have to wear a special helmet around. Just a thought.

Yesterday, the dog whined all day long, it poured down rain that froze as soon as it hit the ground, and then I took an enormously bone jarring spill on the ice. I was reasonably optimistic that today would be a better day; birds chirping, sun maybe shining for a few seconds (it's Michigan -- I'd have to be on crack to dream up something like a day full of sunshine), not falling flat on my back, the like.

But seeing as how it's 7:50 in the morning and the stereo has been stolen out of my car, I may have been a bit too optimistic. Hm.

And Then One Day You Find Yourself Blogging About Dog Poop and Using the Term, "Grease Smackdown."

Number of times I yawned during the last two hours of class: 63

Tried to stifle yawns and make them seem less obvious by: Gritting my teeth and clenching my jaw

I hoped I would look: Casual

Instead I looked: Like I was stuck in a wind tunnel and trying to give myself a face lift with a car battery AT THE SAME TIME.

The cause of my facial contortions was due to my lack of sleep and THE DAY THAT WILL NOT END. Last night, I couldn't sleep. I tried reading my textbooks, doing deep breathing, relaxing all my muscles, and even resorted to counting sheep. None of it worked, and I just tossed and turned until well after 3:30 in the morning, while Barenaked Ladies "Who Needs Sleep" played on repeat in my head.

7:45 rolled around, and I peeled my eyelids open. They immediately slammed back shut. I eventually had to resort to using toothpicks to prop them up, ala [INSERT CARTOON HERE].

After hauling myself to a completely pointless class, Ryan and I came home to a smell. A very distinctive smell. A smell that I blame on my husband. My husband. My brilliant, programmer, computer genius, math prodigy, well read husband fed Dog bacon grease. Lots of bacon grease. Once in awhile, he gives her a teaspoon or two on top of her food, and that's fine. Zoning out and accidentally pouring ALL the bacon grease on her food is NOT okay. Which is exactly what he did yesterday. Imagine little brown bits floating up and down in a big bowl of grease. Now imagine my dog eating it.

Needless to say, she was not happy today. She alternated between sleeping for hours at a time (which, come to think of it, is not all that different from her normal routine) and sitting sadly on my lap and farting. When she wasn't doing that, she was out in the yard doing things that even I won't blog about (THE HORROR. THE HORROR.), eating cooked noodles out of my hand, and throwing up on the door while freaking out and flinging herself at it and trying to get inside. One day, those kids next door who obsessively watch Dog from their window are going to need therapy, and they will trace it straight back to this day.

So, to recap: slept approximately 13 minutes; there's a lot of grease doing a smackdown on Dog's intestines; had to watch over Dog during smackdown so she didn't desecrate our apartment/car/the world at large; missed a class while watching Dog during aforementioned grease smackdown; am so tired my eyeballs are about to suck back into my head and be lost forever.

Technorati Tags: Bacon, Puppy

Religion and Lobsters Crawling Out of My Ears

Ryan & I had been seeing a flier all around campus for a couples board game night. (I know, lame,  but we don't know ANYBODY here.) And since apparently Ryan has some objections to me becoming a hermit and collecting hundreds of stray cats instead of having friends, we went. Once there, we found out that those sneaky sneaky Christians had deceived us. It was 2 hours of Bible study and then a game maybe with leftover time. Oh, and there was one couple. Not even a couple of couples.

I, in a surprising turn of events that nearly sent the world tilting off its axis, decided to be positive about it.

**Back History*** Ryan & I are both Christians. We haven't attended church regularly in over a year or at all in about 5 or 6 months. (If this bothers you, please don't comment.) That's because we feel that most churches are really just an excuse for some pastor (probably male) to try and boss people around and guilt them into giving money. (Again, opinions to yourself.) I had a string of horrifyingly bad experiences in my younger years with crazy fundie churches, and frankly, if that's what a church is, PLEASE count me out. I don't support Bush. I don't run screaming from people who are gay. And I don't think that trying to "witness" to people by scaring them with hell or trying to "bring people back into the fold" by scaring them with hell is right. Morally, ethically, spiritually, whatever. It's just wrong. And it ticks me off. I don't think that you have to read just Christian novels (though there are a few I enjoy) and listen to just Christian music (MOST OF WHICH SUCKS. Cranking out music, slapping ambivalent lyrics onto it that sounds like maybe they have something to do with God, and putting some hip looking band on it does not fool me into thinking that it DOESN'T SUCK.) and shop at just Christian bookstores in order to be a Christian. (I'm going to nip this Christian retail thing in the bud before it works up a full head of steam.)

I DO think that being a Christian means loving others. Whether or not they agree with you. Whether or not they have the same religion as you. Whether or not they've made you mad. Whether or not they hate you. It doesn't matter. God loves every person, and if you're supposed to be representing God on earth, then you should love every person too. (*cough* I know, I'm about --> <-- this far from being jaded and cynical myself and punching some skinny girl in Old Navy who elbows me out of the way to get at a rack of sweaters BECAUSE I AM SICK OF RUDE PEOPLE. So, um, do as I say and not as I do? Or something.) ***End Back History***

So I decided to give the couples Bible study a chance. I mean, it couldn't hurt. It couldn't be THAT BAD. Right? And while I do have a problem with much of the modern, mainstream church as a whole, I have no problem with some Christians as individuals. Or spending an evening with them, having fun and maybe a debate or two in which I get to play devil's advocate and annoy everybody. (Oh. I love that.)

Oh, it was  THAT bad. The couple was bossy, overbearing, and wanted, clearly, to educate us in the ways of Christianity. Because, apparently, they're FAR wiser than us, so they are obligated to explain the story of Adam & Eve and what it means. And if we tried to pipe up with any thoughts, then they would stare at us because, hey, they're WISER. WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LISTENING TO THEM.

I SWEAR I really was trying to be positive when we got there. I didn't let the fact that it was being held in an apartment that smelled funny and had all the windows darkened squash my enthusiasim. I didn't even let the fact that there was only ONE OTHER COUPLE squash my enthusiasm.

I did however, let the "praise and worship" portion of the bible study squash my enthusiasm. It was mandatory, it was long, and it was BAD. There was BAD CHRISTIAN POP MUSIC playing that apparently we were supposed to let "wash over us" and help us "get in the spirit." Um, okay, I met you like two minutes ago, and I'm already feeling nervous and uncomfortable, I have no idea what you want to wash over me, and I HATE CRAPPY CHRISTIAN POP MUSIC.

So, after the music washed over us and they showered us with their wise words, I fled the apartment like it was a sinking ship. Ryan and I sat in our car, dazed, for about 5 minutes. I'd go, "That was... It was just so..." And Ryan would kind of say in an awed tone, "Bad. It was BAD."

So I've decided that maybe there is something to being that crazy cat lady.

Seriously, though, it was bad. I don't remember it being this hard to make friends at MTU, or anywhere else for that matter. I swear. I have friends. I have made friends in the past. So what's going on? Is it me? The town? The school? Me? I really am trying. I try to chat with people in classes, but usually they just stare at me like I have lobsters coming out my ears.

It's totally me. Hey. At least my dog likes me. Sometimes.

While I Live and Breathe

The Alltel check arrived today. I almost passed out in front of the mailbox. I kept looking around for a hidden camera and waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come running out. (Yes, I totally am famous enough to be on Punk'd. I am. Shut up.) I started fanning myself with the check, then I realized it might blow away, and it took 13 weeks for the first one to get here and I was NOT GOING TO GO THROUGH ALL THAT AGAIN. So I stopped. And put a death grip on it.

Ryan: "Basically, Alltel was like our pimp. We had to go out and get money for it all the time, and sometimes it would drive by us and be like, "What are you doing on that street corner talking with your friends? You should be making me money." And then we had to be all, "No! No! I was making you money. I was on my phone, see. My phone! Money! For you!" Then it would beat us and make us switch to a higher minutes plan so that we had to give it more money. Even when it owed us money, it beat on us."

An Encounter With a Member of Generation Y Do I Have to Work and Be a Polite Functioning Member of Society?

Rude employee at Meijer: Maybe, JUST MAYBE you could be a little bit polite seeing as how you WORK IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY. If you don't want to be congenial, then please find a different line of work. If you can't find a different line of work, well, then BUCK UP AND BE PLEASANT.

This concept may be very hard for you to grasp, which is totally understandable. I mean, it IS difficult to focus on work and be a decent human being when you are like, so totally hungover from all that Jack Daniels you had this weekend. So here's a few tips:

• When I walk in with things to return, don't glare at me because you have to stop leaning against the wall and flirting with the cute girl you work with. Believe me, if there were any other people manning the service counter, I would have gone to them. It's not like I actually want to deal with you and the hate ray shooting out of your eyes.
• Attempting to sort of SHOVE my stuff back at me while demanding "DO YOU HAVE A RECIEPT?" is just rude. And annoying. And oh, did I mention really rude? And when I say, "Yes, for every item but one, and that one has a Meijer price sticker on it." Do not practically hiss at me, "WE STOPPED TAKING BACK MERCHANDISE WITHOUT A RECIEPT IN JULY." While rolling your eyes. It's not like I have ESP or check with Meijer daily to see if they are still taking merchandise back without a reciept.
• When you do find out that yes, I have a reciept and yes, I am still planning on returning items despite your oh so clever move of SHOVING MY STUFF BACK AT ME, do not sneer at me while you process it, as though I am somehow personally responsible for the suckfest that you feel your life is.
• Do not distrustingly glare at me while you check every single crevice on the DVD shrink wrap to see if I managed to sneak the ENTIRE DVD out of a hole in the shrink wrap the size of a grain of rice using my magical, natural-law defying, kung-fu abilities. If I could do that, do you think I'd be worried about getting a lousy 15 bucks back from Meijer?
• Do not ask me in a very snide tone, "Exactly why are you returning all the stuff?" While still glaring at me. I will answer in an louder, even snider tone, "I found it cheaper somewhere else. Meijer is incredibly expensive." and then people will look, and you will blush, showing that you are not as much of a tough guy as you want the cute fellow employee to think you are.
• Finally, don't mutter at me, "Yeah. You're done." when you finished processing my requests. Frankly, just consider yourself lucky I didn't drag a manager in and pitch a hissy fit.

Synaptic Misfires

The dog started watching television today. She watched it for almost half an hour. I just might refrain from sticking her in the front lawn with a sign that says, "Farting wrinkle bag, free to a good home. Very stubborn."

I used to call picnic tables "knick-knack paddywack tables" as a little girl.

Today, I heard a girl in the grocery store on her cell phone going, "You want me to buy two pounds of beef? I don't see any two pound packages. What should I do? What? Buy two one-pound packages of ground beef? Why? You said you wanted a two pound package." In a voice so loud and so annoying that it could be heard in space. And it annoyed the people on the space station.

Dear Frat Boys Next Door: when you're so drunk the only thing you can say is, "Woooooo!" repeatedly, it's probably time to call it a night. Please don't kill any more brain cells. You'll need them in the future -- I hate it when the guy taking my order can't remember to ask me if I want fries with that.

Secret Asian Man!

Today, we actually did our textbook shopping. Total cost for books in Central Michigan University's bookstore? $524.65 Yes. As in half a grand. (I know, I know, that's pretty cheap for 2 people.) Total cost for books that I hunted down on the internet using my sneaky-sneaky textbook finding tactics? (Fine. I used half.com. I'm full of crap.) $216.85 with shipping. HA HA HA. TAKE THAT CMU. I AM NOT GIVING YOU ANY MORE OF OUR HARD EARNED AND QUICKLY DISAPPEARING MONEY THAN I HAVE TO. I take way, way too much pleasure in that for some reason. Whatever it is, it's the same reason I printed out a million copies of my resume from my computer lab (FREE!! WOOO!), and horded up crackers from the dorm cafeterias. I think it's my small, pathetic, half-hearted attempt to STICK IT TO THE MAN. Either that, or it's the early signs of a mental illness. Only time will tell. Well, time and those thousands of crackers.

Unfortunately, we might still have to buy a book at the bookstore. For well over a hundred bucks. It's a stupid, probably pointless book that's packaged with some crappy CD that Ryan will never use, but it's a "special CMU-only edition." Meaning that's most likely exactly the same as every other copy you can buy online for 9 bucks except for the fact that the problem sets (which will be mandatory and graded) are slightly different. Wouldn't you know it's also a book for a FRESHMAN class? (Which, unfortunately, both Ryan and I have to take a few of due to our transferring universities.) Freshmen will buy ANYTHING. I know, I was one of those gullible freshmen.

Hey, I should stand outside the bookstore the week before classes start, selling teeny tiny cups of ice cream to bright eyed freshmen and their tired parents who are, by this point in the summer, writing checks in their sleep and calculating exactly how much longer they have to continue financing their money sucking offspring.

On a more cheerful note, I've fallen in love with this bag and this shirt. Both from Secret Agent Josephine, whose blog I love, but whose name does bad things to my brain. I find myself humming "Secret Agent Man" which slowly morphs into "Secret Asian Man." And then it's lodged there, in my brain, ALL DAY LONG. SECRET ASIAN MAN! SECRET ASIAN MAN!

In an attempt to eradicate the secret asian man, I started listening to Relient K. Which didn't help things, actually. Because I walked around all day singing, "I'm only gonna pierce my left ear! And I been working on this mustache all summer long!" Which, understandably, disturbs Ryan.

I can't wait till the dog gets here, so I have someone to blame the farting on. Because Ryan doesn't buy it when I blame it on him. I can't imagine why.

(Talk nerdy to me.)

IDIOT.

What makes an already sucky day even suckier? If you said slicing open your toe, not noticing it, and walking around the kitchen, bleeding everywhere, you would be right.

I got five hours of sleep, and now my kitchen floor literally has several PUDDLES of blood on. To call me cranky would be grossly understating the situation. How I managed to not notice I was profusely bleeding, I have no idea. Obviously, I'm an idiot. Seriously. PUDDLES. Didn't notice. IDIOT. The idiot factor really comes into play when I realize that I cut my toe when I stepped on broken glass. Broken glass from a glass that I broke. When I threw it across the room in a tantrum last night.

Basically, because I am a big baby, my toe is bleeding, and I have to mop my kitchen floor. IDIOT.

For the past few days, I've been trying to figure out how to vent without sounding like a big whiney baby. And I've reached a conclusion: there is no way for me to vent without sounding like a big whiney baby. I keep thinking that if I look hard enough, I will find the humor in this situation. If I just dig deep enough, the whole situation will strike me as funny, and I will be able to share my humor pearls (does that sound dirty to you too?) with everyone.

I've been trying for days, and I've reached the conclusion: it's just not funny. I'm sorry. I tried so hard for you guys. SO HERE GOES THE BIG WHINEY BABINESS.

Darla, my mother in law, is giving me an ulcer. You'd think that someone with the same name as that cute little can crushing, eyelash batting, girl on Little Rascals would be sweet. Or nice. Or at least, you know, a decent person. Sadly, no. She is manipulative, selfish, and when things don't go her way, she acts hurt and bats her eyelashes. I realize that she is not the devil incarnate, but I wish that she could just TRY to get along with me sometimes. Or if she's not going to try to get along with me, I wish that she would at least NOT TRY TO DRIVE ME SLOWLY NUTS.

I know what you're thinking; I am a drama queen, and I am SO overreacting. She is my mother in law, and I need to just get along with her, because she'll be around forever. Basically, I just need to buck up and take it. And you know what? I AGREE. I am a drama queen. I do overreact. I do need to figure out how to get along with her. And I DO need to overlook things because nobody's perfect.

But I'm having a very hard time trying to balance the things I can overlook for the sake of peace with the things I can't. For instance, I can't overlook her drinking a huge martini right before she drives the vehicle that I'm riding in. (But oh no! Can't suggest that I would prefer someone else to drive! She doesn't like it when people question her because it lowers her self esteem!) I can't overlook her 10 and 11 year old children treating me like crap in public (or anywhere else, for that matter), and her just pretending that a) It's okay or b) she just didn't notice. I'm sick of them ignoring me when I'm sitting across the dinner table trying to talk to them. Or saying things like, "Shut your mouth." I don't take it from random strangers, I don't take it from my friend's children, and I won't take it from my brother and sister in law. (But oh no. Can't ask them to not say things like that. She doesn't want other people to tell her children what to do, even if she won't take the time to raise her own children.) And try as I might, I just can't deal with her taking weird little jabs at me when Ryan's not around. Like telling me how other members of Ryan's family don't like me and "just aren't sure about me."

I try. I try so hard. I bite back saying things like, "Your children are brats. They are rude to me, no matter how hard I try to be nice to them. I don't want to die in a car accident because your already bad driving is impaired by that martini THE SIZE OF A BIG GULP. And maybe your family members don't like me because YOU SAY MEAN THINGS ABOUT ME WHEN I'M NOT AROUND. And could you stop telling me how much it hurts your feelings because Ryan just doesn't want to spend as much time with you now that HE'S MARRIED?? DING DING DING, that's WHY I married him, because he's not a p*ssy whipped momma's boy who always chooses him mom over me. Ryan has his own life, and he loves you, but you're not the centerpiece of his existence."

(If you're reading this mom, I'm sorry I said p*ssy whipped. I hope dad didn't have to revive you.)

I really have tried to bite those words back. And so far I've been successful. I know that saying those things to her wouldn't solve anything; it would just make it all worse. (And I'm sure that if she stumbles across it on the internet, it will be way better for her to find out about it this way. Maybe not.) So instead, I try to calmly and politely ask her if we could maybe talk about stuff. I tell her that we both know our relationship isn't perfect, and I know that both of us would like things to be better. But does it work? NO. No it does not. She avoids all conversation, or if we DO talk about stuff, she gets offended at any mention that we both need to try and make things better. Because, apparently, it's all my fault. She's trying. That's what I hear every time, "Well, I don't know what's wrong. I'm trying."

I don't know what she's trying. Perhaps to drive me nuts?

We're back to the fact that again that I'm an IDIOT. I keep trying to talk to her, to be friendlier, to listen more, to compliment her. TO MAKE IT WORK. Over and over and over. But it doesn't work. I just keep getting my feelings hurt. IDIOT.

Ryan's at the point where he just wants to keep his mother at arms length. And I feel horrible, like if somehow I could make it work, he wouldn't have to keep his mother at a distance, and our future children wouldn't hate me for hardly ever letting them see their grandmother, and everyone would just be happier. So I keep trying. LIKE AN IDIOT. IDIOT.

I am at wits end.

Am I in Hell? Brit. Lit.? Same Difference.

So, today in Brit. Lit. Miss I'm-A-Chemical-Engineer-And-You-Only-Wish-You-Could-Be-One-Too (known hereafter as the, "pain in the butt") decided that, even though she cannot write to save her life and is currently getting a C or a D in the class, she is an expert on the analyzation of writing. Needless to say she went after my (relatively well-written) piece of writing and ripped into it like a monkey on a cupcake.

"Too long, too much fluff, and hard to understand. I can't believe you actually get good grades for this stuff."

I think what really made the experience delightful was the 45 minutes of writing commentary was sprinkled with comments like, "I can't believe you're a poli sci major. I'm going to make so much more money than you. And all your classes are so easy."

Believe it or not, I did not say any of the million comments I was thinking. I just put my head down on the desk and pretended I was someplace more pleasant. Like standing in line at the secretary of state.

Aside from the delightful discourse in Brit Lit, the day was pretty good. I got about a million pages of material printed off for my war on terror research project (how american foreign policy possibly caused 9/11), finally learned how to spell the word "foreign", and am now one day closer to MOVING AWAY FROM HOUGHTON!!! Woooooo. Plus, Ryan got his program done (QT and widgets make my head spin).