There might be ghosts.

After my first week living in this historic house I wrote a post about how it's haunted, citing mainly the fact that we have a medicine cabinet and none of our lights really work.  I have settled in to the house since then.  I am no longer weary of the tiny door to the attic at the foot of my bed nor the demon stove, which only seems to attack Marca.

I did, however, have a hard time sleeping a few nights ago because I dreamt that there were two children jostling me awake every hour or so to tell me something important.
They might be ghosts.

sometimes, they don't even know they're ghosts.

BUT if they are dream-children, this (according to DreamDictionary) means I am repressing my inner child, because I was mad that they were trying to wake me up.  It could also mean that I need to wake up to my full potential, or something. You know. If you believe in that sort of thing.
(Dream interpretation, that is. Not ghost children.)

It is also possible that they are trying to tell me something. Like "stop eating tomatoes" or "you're going to start having problems with indigestion...oooOooOOoo"  - which is entirely possible because I woke up with chest pain the next morning and was told it might be esophageal spasms. 

Anyway, I named that post "Ghost Adventures: Charleston"  because it was about ghosts, adventures, and being back in Charleston.  But recently that post (and my blog, as a result) got a bit more attention when GHOST ADVENTURES CAME TO CHARLESTON.

just a few honest guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts lookin to tell a story

Yep, they came here, stayed over night in a "haunted" jail a few blocks away from campus (that is now a school for textile arts and historic preservation) and caused a general ruckus.  But unfortunately, I confused a few people with the title of that post, which of course was the second item when you Google searched "ghost adventures Charleston" or "ghost adventures in Charleston" etc.


ALSO, even though I had a HUGE paper due the next day, I knew I couldn't be in the same city with these guys and not try to see them.  I didn't want to tell my grandchildren the story about how I almost met Zak Bagans, but decided it would be more prudent to spend my adventuring time in the library. So I went.

staging a boo hag hanging at the jail. gotta love twit pics.

And there was nothing to see.
A few other fans meandering around the building, a mild greenish glow from a room upstairs, and dashed hopes.  But at least we tried. At least we ventured.  And I got the paper done, don't worry.

Though I am still a bit upset I didn't make a weird noise that could later be analyzed in slow motion and captioned to say "Die Zac" or "Go home" or "Boo hag's gonna get ya."


Tune in for the Charleston episode on Travel Channel on December 16th!

this type

"Claire!"

My ears prick up at my name. I am walking from the MARTA station to my office and halfway through one of the tunnels between two buildings (the kind that go over the street) when I hear someone call my name. Who would be calling my name this far from the office? Maybe it's one of the people I work with who ride MARTA.

Anyone who knows my name can't be a stranger.

I turn around to face the person who has called my name.   ...And I do not recognize this person.  He is about my height, mid forties, African-American, bespectacled. I've definitely never seen him before.  But how could he know my name?
Maybe I met him around the office.  Maybe someone directed him to one of the interns because he needed help on a project.

I put on my polite face.

He says hi, and allows his business card to do the introduction.  He talks to me about working in the building, asks me about my job, what I am doing, what I am studying etc.  It dawns on me that the only way he could have known my name is if he had read it off my ID badge.

As the topics get more personal, I realize this is not a business transaction.  And then as he walks with me through the lobby towards the elevators, my suspicions are confirmed.

"So, what are your lunch plans?"

I told him it was my last week of work and burrowed myself through people deep into the back of the elevator.

It's happened again!  Sometimes people have a "type" that they date/are attracted to...but what if a type has you?

I did not get this kind of creeper attention before...

1. I got a job, and
2. I got my hair cut.

This damn Zooey Deschanel hair is just too cute for its own good. And all kinds of creepers are getting trapped in it like a fisher's net. Made of bangs.
 

Oh, Zooey.

one more New York story

I'm trying to decide the best way to tell this story. It needs to accurately convey my emotional states through every point: exposition, rising action, climax, denoument, the whole enchilada*. So here goes.

(*side note: don't ever use the phrase "the whole enchilada" in an essay on an exam about Skinner's learning principles, or your professor will leave the comment "...no" next to it and [along with the receipt of a crappy grade in the first place] reduce you to a shapeless mess of low self-esteem noodles in tepid weak sauce)

The last advice Mallory gave to me before heading to New York for the first time ever was

"Make sure you get a window seat on the left side. You'll get to see Manhattan from the plane as you fly in!"

So when I checked into the airport and picked my seat at the ticket printer, of course I got the last left-side window seat. 30A. Success.  Boy, I thought, what a super lucky day for me.

As I boarded the plane, I realized I was not so lucky after all.  For some reason, this was the stupidest plane ever and there was a big ole jet engine obscuring my view.

I took my window seat and began to read my book.  The man in the seat next to me (the aisle seat - this plane had a [][]  [][][] set up) sat down as he was chatting to his friend. They were play-arguing about how many apps he had on his iPhone.

"I've got everything I need. Why would I put anything else on here? ...yeah I know, that does sound cool. But I don't need anything fancy! I've got what I need, I'm happy, leave me alone!  hahaha"   

Hmmm, I thought, that is the most sensible iPhone user I've ever eavesdropped on. A few minutes later, he broke the silence between us, the pointed silence created between two people on public transportation (and that's all a plane is, really. Public transit. Just like taking the bus!), to say

Plane guy: Don't let me hog the arm rest. I'm always hogging this thing.  (friendly smile)
Me: Oh, no, I'm fine. Thanks though.
      (inner monologue): Shit. Now when he does hog the arm rest I'm not allowed to get upset about it. ...Wow, I am pretty crammed up against this window. I look like I'm trying as hard as I can to be as far away from him as possible. And he's just trying to be nice. (I try to loosen up my body and unroll from the ball I have hunched myself into.)

 Then, a few minutes later:

Plane guy: So, whatcha readin'?
Me: (tilts book to show cover) It's one of the Game of Thrones books. It's the second one. It's pretty good. But I don't usually read fantasy so... I dunno. I like it, I guess. (inner monologue): Why am I talking so much?? I'm one of those annoying plane people. No. Wait a minute. Why is this middle-aged man interrupting my precious book reading time by asking stupid questions?  ...He must be one of those nervous fliers who talks to people to pass the time and distract him from worrying about his impending fiery death.

So, in an act of kindness from the "hey, this guy could be Jesus" school of thought that I learned from my mother, I indulged his chatting.  We talked about what I was studying in school (a lot to say) and the city of Atlanta (less to say) and local sports teams (even less to say).  He asked my advice about schools and SAT scores because it turns out his "friend" sitting in the aisle next to us was actually his sixteen year old son.

Eventually, I realized our conversation was none too interesting, and I began to check the time more and more frequently. But I kept smiling, because I had no way of escaping the conversation (I couldn't think of a cleverer way to say "Can you please stop talking now, I'd like to read at least two pages of my book before we land, thanks.") But as I've learned before, my please-let-this-conversation-be-over-soon smile is virtually indistinguishable from my you're-my-favorite-person-ever smile, at least to people who don't know me.

As the plane began to lose altitude, I finally got my first view of the city.

taken by snaking my camera-arm around the sleeping woman in front of me

Then the man next to me turns to me to shake my hand.

Plane Guy: I just realized this whole time we've been talking and I don't even know your name.
Me: Sorry! I'm Claire.  (no last names. my momma didn't raise no fool)
Plane Guy: Claire? Claire. nice name. I'm *****.   ...hey listen, Claire. I was wondering, I'd like to have your number. 

UM WHAT. wait, wait, wait. Maybe this man is just trying to be nice. He knows I have never been to New York before, and he probably wants to exchange numbers in case I get lost or need help. Or maybe to give to his son? Claire, you never should have told him you've never been to New York before. He'll probably murder you. Don't give him your number. WAIT, unless if you don't give it to him you make him angry, leading him to murder you. Walking on a razor's edge... 

Me: Um...O...K.... it's ***-***-**** (give him a fake area code. genius. that way, there's no hesitation when I roll off the numbers, so he won't get wise and murder me on the plane.)

Plane Guy: "yeah, I was thinking we could grab lunch sometime at Atlantic Station...
WHAT. NO.

...maybe grab a glass of wine...

FULL OF RUFIES AND POISON????

...you are old enough to drink, right?"

CREEPY DUDE, you KNOW I am in college. Also, your 16 year old son is watching you try to make lunch plans with a 20 year old girl from the plane. I WILL NOT BE HIS NEW MOM.

At this point,  I am refusing to move my head at all. I am staring straight ahead, towards the front of the plane where the stewardesses are ushering people off the plane. Away from other creepy passengers. To safety.

Me: Um, no, my birthday is in a month.
Plane Guy: (playfully) Well you do eat, don't you?
Me: Um... (the blood has drained from my face) yeah (I am petrified by uncomfortableness and fear of upsetting a potential murderer)

Plane Guy stands up and begins to get his belongings from the overhead bins. (Thank you, Jesus)  He has stopped talking to me and I am using the silence as an opportunity to plan my escape route. Then he looks over at me, and adds as an afterthought:

Plane Guy: Hey Claire, ...you tall?

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? I believe I replied something to the effect of

Me: uh, kinda, but not as tall as my DAD or my THREE BROTHERS. They're tall. And pretty muscly. Quick to anger too. And as protective as mother geese. So, I dunno. Does that answer your question?

I then waited for everyone else to exit the plane, hoping that this man would get far far ahead of me.  Then, just for good measure, I hid in the women's bathroom for about 20 minutes.

Welcome to New York City, Claire!

NYC

30 Rock is filmed in Brooklyn. Sad face.

I just got back from New York!  For the first time in my whole life. Until this weekend, all I knew about New York came from movies and TV.  And in the case of a few of those (like How I Met Your Mother, Friends, Will & Grace, and Seinfeld) they aren't even filmed in New York. Or even on the East Coast.
So all I knew came from

• Jungle 2 Jungle
• Home Alone 2
• Big
• Kate and Leopold
• Someone Like You
• You've Got Mail
• Hitch
• ...I don't need to list these. Just think of pretty much every movie ever made. Except the ones by John Hughes.

Overall, this did not give me a very good idea of what the city is actually like and gave me a weird set of expectations going into this trip.  Mostly that the city of New York exists to be filmed: with wet streets to reflect lights at night and the streets perpetually bustling around a single person as he or she walks slowly, obliviously through them with a look that betrays the fact that their thoughts are far, far away.  Thinking about him. Or her. Or how to keep their superhero costume from bunching under their day clothes.

But surprise(to me)! New York is a real place. That exists. It exists when the cameras aren't there. It exists when the Glee kids aren't dancing around all over the place and the Gossip Girls aren't...gossiping.  So if I learned anything from this trip it's that New York is real and real people really live there.

There are lots of opportunities to take pictures of people taking pictures.

I also learned all those apartments in shows like Friends don't exist. Unless you have a trust fund. Or you're in Brooklyn.


My goals for this trip:

Eat real New York Pizza.

check.

Eat a real New York bagel. 
- Russ and Daughters - check.


Find Bret and Jemaine's apartment.

check.

See a famous person.
- BAM! Saw Brian Williams walking around NBC Studios wearing hipster glasses. - check.

Overall, a COMPLETELY successful trip that surpassed all my expectations and thoroughly exhausted me.

THANKS MALLORY!

Middle-aged Adults Really Take Aim

I have made it through my first week of work! Cubicle life is cubicle life. I have a wicker cornucopia (damn hard word to spell) that was left by the previous occupant and I have decided to fill it with odds and ends. Right now I have a stress ball shaped like Freud's head and a tiny plush monkey wearing a tiny College of Charleston t-shirt. Other than a picture of Randolph Hall, this is my only decoration.

To travel to and from my downtown office (don't I sound grown-up?) I either ride with my dad or take MARTA.  Something about riding the train reminds me of Universal Studios. or Disney World. So even though it is a 40 minute commute, there is some majesty to it (to me). This makes me wonder if people who ride trains to work everyday go to Disney World and think "Oh no, this crap again," when they board the monorail. Or "It smells like trains. This can't be Amity Island" and the Jaws ride illusion is ruined. I, on the other hand, think "Oh, it smells like fun rides!" when I descend into the Peachtree Center Station.

Maybe the majesty is not lost on all.  I was standing around waiting for my train the other day when I saw an older man staring inquisitively at the train tracks.  He stared, took a few steps, and looked down.
I thought about how wonderful it is that we never really lose our sense of childlike wonder. This grey haired man still took the time to stop and wonder at mechanics and how things work, like every over-alled Thomas the Tank Engine kid.
And just as I made a mental note to tell someone this wonderful story, he leaned over the tracks.... and spit a foot long stream of tobacco spit into the crevasse.

So much for child-like wonder.

girls rule and dogs drool ( a lot)

I took Einstein to the dog park today!

notice the drool that is about to plummet from his mouth to the floor below. number one downside to an exhausted dog.

 This probably wasn't the best idea considering I was freshly showered and would inescapably be flecked with mud within minutes, OR because it is pretty freaking hot outside and Eistein and I have too much hair to really be comfortable (except when in the shade). Yet still we ventured to the park and enjoyed the adventure.

At first, it was just poor Einstein. No friends, no Frisbee skills, incapable of fetching a ball (he doesn't even run after it- how is this possible?).  Then some other dogs showed up and he revealed himself to be That Dog. That jerk dog who play-fights with everything and humps everyone. Bros, bitches, soccer moms. He's not picky, just overly enthusiastic. But he's fixed. Go figure.

Oh, I forgot to mention that these other dogs are attached to people. Presumably their owners, but who can tell? And as I sat at my loner table, reading Tina Fey's Bossypants and periodically intervening to keep Einstein from trying to "dominate" a German Shepherd puppy, I realized that this is about socializing dog owners as much as it is about socializing the dogs. I know what you're thinking: Duh, Claire. Where have you been? And I knew this, but it was illustrated brilliantly to me today.

Women come in with their dog(s), and you exchange pleasantries.  

• What's his/her name?  
• ...What is it? (this means "what breed?" but I take it slightly offensively because my dog isn't clearly identifiable and the supposition is that he must be some sort of mixie. which he is, but whatever.)

who doesn't love a panting pooch and a refreshing beverage?

These people very rarely learn anything about you, however.  The very least they will come to knowing about you is why you named your dog Vermouth or where you can get the best vegan dog food. I overheard one woman today say that she had a live-in dog trainer for four months. A LIVE-IN DOG TRAINER. I think live-in nannies and maids are lush, but a dog-trainer? I quickly realized I was out of my element.
I didn't have any cute stories to share about Einstein ("the little rascal ate poop this morning! It was adorable- like, we give you food, silly thing! Oh, parenting can be tough, right?? Hahaha. Oh, you!") so I decided to let the two women entertain themselves and I cracked open Bossypants and slurped my iced coffee.

That's when I realized: if this is people socialization too, I am failing. Big time. I am that kid in middle school who sits by herself at lunch so she can eat her food and read at the same time. I am the kid who pretends her backpack is taking up too much room so no one will sit next to her on the bus. Oh, who am I kidding? I was that kid in middle school. Why should that change now? I may have thought years of proper socialization and a strong friend group over the last ten years would change that, but again, who am I kidding?

I understand now that just because I didn't jump in to their "my dog is so silly" conversation doesn't mean I am some sort of loner deviant or a taller better-dressed version of Claire in middle school. I might just not be a dog person (the term "dog person" always makes me think "dog-person" like the Egyptian god Anubis) or at least not a coo-over-my-dog person. Which is fine with me. Just as long as I'm not reverting back to this person:

Actually, I look pretty happy to have gotten that i-zone camera, so it might not be so bad. But if I have to be in 6th grade again, I am straight up skipping health class this time.


EDIT: I totally forgot to explicitly say this: Read Bossypants. It is fantastic. Fantabulous. Wowza Hilarious. Read it. You can borrow my copy, because I won't be able to restrain myself from finishing it in the next six minutes. 

a brief glimpse into the mind of a crazy person

Sorry about the brief hiatus. If anyone noticed. Today is the last day of classes, so of course this past week or so has been hellish.

I have had a few ideas for posts but haven't had the time to write anything that didn't involve the words "independent variable" or "arbitrary matching to sample."  So here are a few mini-posts. Let's call them vignettes.

#1
25 April: 
This weekend was Easter weekend, which unfortunately got overshadowed by the sheer magnitude of work I had to do for Happiness class and Conditioning and Learning. On the brighter side, I was able to spend a good part of Saturday enjoying friends, hot dogs, sunshine and pool floaties.

this is not me. but I DO really want that floating fruit table.

On the redder side, this left most of my upper body sunburnt and angry.  I sat at my computer for hours gulping down ice water to counteract the heat emanating from my body and my overworked computer, to no avail.

When I finally went to sleep, I considered throwing my down blanket on the floor, but decided against it. (Our floor is really gross.) Instead I went to sleep in my sports bra and shorts (let me know if this is too much information).

Soon after closing my eyes, I heard a strange scratching sound coming from my ceiling, right around the overhead light.
...and my imagination ran away with itself....

(WARNING: the following is not factual, but a brief glimpse into the mind of a crazy person)

eeeeeeeeeeeeeewww

I open my eyes and look up to see thousands if not millions of fat angry cockroaches pouring out of the hole where the light used to be, coating the ceiling as they crawl out of their hiding place toward each wall. I see this, and calmly hop out of my bed, potentially spraining my ankle as I land clumsily on the small rug beside my bed.

I don't think to grab anything as I race to the door, calling to Marca who is finishing watching Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (it is Easter, after all). I slam the door shut behind me and try to coax her off the couch and downstairs where it is safe. She doesn't believe me at first, until the hoard begins crawling from under the door and oozing across the floor.
We bolt down the stairs and outside, where it is safe.

Who do we call? What do we do? Can I ever touch my stuff again?

As things calm down, I realize I am outside wearing just shorts and a sports bra.
And I realize, I am OK with it.

And that is the moral of the story.

Welcome to my brain.


#2

from right: Tory Belleci, Kari Byron, and Grant "Third Wheel" Imahara

Jake and I were watching Mythbusters a few weeks ago when I wistfully stated something to the effect of "I wish Kari's baby had been Tory's. I want them to be together." There was talk of whether this exists on the world wide web in the form of fan fiction, and it probably does. But alas, I have been too busy to research further. 
Jake suggested that I write some, and I said something like "haha sure" which really means "that's funny, but I probably won't. Also DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO."  As I was falling asleep the other night a few lines came to me, and I will post them for you. But that's as far as it's gonna go. 

"Kari," Tory began, "I love the way you spell your name weird and how your nose squinches up all cute when you use a sledge hammer to destroy a car," she blushed, "but we can't let the world know about us.  They're just not ready. We're just not ready." She opened her mouth as if too argue, but he continued, "I'm too reckless, you're too refined. You're an artist! Plus, Grant will be outed as a third wheel-" 

She silenced him with a passionate embrace. He was almost thrown off-balance by the surprise. She pulled back, looked into his eyes and said, "I'm pregnant."

In reality she married some artist with a mustache. Puh.

And that is all you are getting. I feel ridiculous. And hardcore nerdy.

Mob mentality

It's pretty clear I am avoiding writing a paper. Technically, I am avoiding researching for a research paper. Which is dumb because that may be the easiest part. This is my third research paper in three weeks, and I have a rhythm down. I just don't feel like being in the rhythm right now. So I am listening to Alexi Murdoch and Brother and Freelance Whales and allowing myself to get distracted.

Now a little story.

I came back from my extra long meeting (planning next year for CSA) and sat down to my computer, resigning myself to actually do work. If I get down the research on paper, take a few pages of notes, and do the bibliography, all I have to do is write 7-9 pages tomorrow! Cake. 

I checked my email and this was the only new message:
(that's not sad, it means I am on top of things. For now.)

(Important: This is not exaggerated, but copied straight from my inbox.)

Sender: Lauren R*****

Subject: REMINDER: Meeting today

Hey Guys!

This is just a reminder about our meeting today at 5pm at Stern Center Gardens. Look forward to seeing you there!   -Lauren

Um. What.

• I have no idea who this girl is. Luckily, she has a really distinctive name like Lauren, so I can narrow it down to 500 girls at this school. And 5 or 6 dudes.
• I have NO IDEA what club or organization this is for, and she doesn't bother to say.
• I had Mass at 5, so I couldn't go anyway.

Then I started to think what if this wasn't my fault? What if this is a brilliant ploy to create an "accidental" flash mob?

Picture it: This email goes out to everyone on campus. It's bland enough to apply to anyone, any group, any meeting. In the rush of exams, group projects and final papers, everyone is forgetting things and shirking responsibilities. A student receives this email and thinks "oh no! I forgot. I can't tell what this is for, but I should head over to see what it's about just in case."
When hundreds of people think the same way, you have droves of semi-curious anxious students wandering around Stern Center with a look that asks "did I leave my keys over here?" and BAM. You've got yourself a flash mob of unintentional flash-mobbers.

Or is it flash-mobsters?



EDIT: It was not a flash mob, it was for some honor society thing. If I had bothered to search my inbox for her name I would have found that out. But congrats to my friend Aaron on being president!

I scream, you scream!

Yesterday was FREE CONE DAY at Ben and Jerry's.  Also know as "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," "The Happiest Day All Year," "Best Day Ever" or "Ice Cream Gorge-fest 2011."  I may have gone a bit overboard in my excitement this year.

I have partaken in Free Cone Day quite a few times in the past five years, but not until college did I realize that I had the ability, nay, the talent required to finagle more than one.

Freshman year I went after lunch and then returned (gasp!) after dinner. Two in one day. I felt guilty. I worried that the scooper would recognize me from earlier, but luckily she didn't say anything.

Last year, I was a bit more ambitious. I went early with a friend, ate my free cone outside the shop and immediately reentered the line, this time putting my hair up and pulling on my sweater.
They were fooled. I felt unstoppable. Like many other times in my life, I thought to myself: wow, I could totally be a spy. 
I walked back to campus, fresh from my double-ice-cream-invincibility high. As i passed a friend, I told them of the good news:

Me: It's Free Cone Day at Ben and Jerry's!

Friend: No way! Let's go!
Me:  Alright!
 This happened two more times, and I ended the day having consumed FIVE free ice cream cones.

When this year's FCD rolled around, I had one goal:

beat last year's total.

However, these are not the carefree days of freshman year or the relatively unburdened days of sophomore year. I have worse classes, more obligations and more work. This year, I knew I had to eat six cones, and I knew that I had to do it in two hours. My classes ended at 1:30, and I had to get to work at 4:30, which (with walking times accounted for) gave me between 2 and 4 to wait in line for and consume six free cones. 

And I DID IT.

I would like to thank Ben and Jerry's for creating this wonderful event, Michael and Shane for partaking in the first cone of the day, and Jake for sticking with me for two hours, helping me keep pace and giving me someone with whom to share the horrible experience of Jimmy Fallon's new ice cream flavor. 

Here were the flavors in the order I ate them (I did repeat once):

1. Phish Food- chocolate ice cream with fudge fish swimming in marshmallow and caramel swirls
2. Mango Mango sorbet- deliciousness, and a nice alternative to cleanse the palate
3. Chocolate chip Cookie Dough- classic
4. Late Night Snack- Jimmy Fallon's flavor- vanilla ice cream with a salty caramel swirl and chocolate covered potato chip clusters. Like biting into a chocolate covered salt-lick.
5. Mango mango (again)- I needed to recover from the salt-lick.
6. Americone Dream- ending the day with a favorite. Stephen Colbert's flavor- vanilla ice cream with a caramel swirl and chocolate covered waffle cone pieces.

we have popcorn at home

My online movie services are harrassing me. So I did something about it. That's right! I stood up to the bullies.

A few weeks ago, my friends and I meandered over to the Blockbuster on East Bay and reveled in the glory of three dollar DVDs and close-out candy.  Like almost every other Blockbuster, this store is being liquidated. Is that the right word? I don't care. It's closing and EVERYTHING MUST GO. Including the gumball machine. True story.

So we perused the stacks of discs for what seemed like hours, found a few keepers and proceeded to check out. I got distracted by the discount candy and popcorn (did you know Orville Redenbacher makes "Spicy Nacho" popcorn? I wish I didn't.) and became fixated by the popcorn that comes in its own bucket (just like at the movies!).  The kind I always begged my mom for and never got because "we have popcorn at home." Exactly. Boring popcorn. Popcorn that comes in a bag. How blasé. 

So I bought it. And it was the perfect size to store my new movies in! When I approached the check-out counter, the man working there informed me that if I signed up for a Blockbuster online that I would get some fantastic percentage off my final purchase. And of course I agreed. It was free and would get me extra movies for a month! And that's how I signed up for Blockbuster in addition to my well-used Netflix account and bought three movies and a bucket of popcorn for $6.

End of story? Not quite.

Apparently signing up for this Blockbuster thing was not enough. It wants attention. It wants love. But sadly for Buster, I already have a movie love, and that is Netflix. So Buster got jealous. It seethed as I spent hours enjoying movies and TV online and cursed as I basked in the new excitement of connecting the x-box to this wonderful online service. Eventually Buster grew tired of expecting me to notice how mad it was and started trying to remind me it was there.

Email from: BLOCKBUSTER online: Your queue is low- add new titles. Now. 

Buster was angry. And hurt. I ignored it again.
A movie came in the mail. I forgot about it. Eventually I watched it and sent it back. Another came. I forgot again.

So what did I do? I deleted it for good today, and turned my attention fully to Netflix once again. I feel guilty for treating Blockbuster the way I did, but the truth is it deserved better. And I just don't have the devotion or attention to give.

And Netflix welcomed me back with open arms. It knows what I like:
"British Comedies with Strong Female Leads" or "Emotional Father-Son Comedies" or "Witty Workplace Sitcoms" or "Cerebral British Period Pieces."
It gets me.

And I am happy.

Hipster on the Roof: Tradition- you've probably never heard of it.

I overheard an interesting conversation in my Happiness class today, which is pretty unsurprising because there are some pretty interesting people in that class. Like not-really-my-freshman-roommate-girl, Dizzy Teddy and Brah-ms, the girl with the loudest snacks ever, and MetalSlayer guy, to name a few.

Add to this list Red-headed Hipster Guy and Hipster Girl with Immaculate Make-up. These two always sit together, but from my amazing abilities of eavesdropping I have deduced that they do not know each other from outside of class and are not friends. I assume they just gravitated towards the only other person in the room besides themselves dressed head-to-toe in Urban Outfitters.

This hat is $34

She looks like her make-up is professionally done everyday. At first, it was off-putting. (She wears lipstick! Who wears lipstick anymore? She might as well be wearing pantyhose). But now, I am transfixed by the effort she puts into her appearance. Her boots are perfectly scuffed, her clothes look like she just threw them on- which usually means they took serious thought and money- and  her hair is perfect. Immaculate.

He is equally purposefully-unkempt, with longish red hair sticking out of an ironic "vintage" flat-brimmed baseball cap. He too has scuffed boots and effortless style.

For how outwardly interesting these two are, you would think their conversations are equally stimulating. Alas, it is not so. This is what I heard today:

Girl: So, how was your weekend?
Guy: It was...pretty good, you know. Something actually happened to me that has never happened to me before.
(my interest is piqued)
Girl: Oh, really. Cool.
(she shows a natural curiosity.)
Guy: Yeah. The other night, I was on a rooftop. And...I saw another person on a rooftop...
... Which is weird, because not that many people do that. You know? It wasn't like, some air conditioning repairman. It was another dude sitting on a rooftop, like I was. It was weird.
Girl. Huh. Yeah.

Yup. Welcome to your future, America.

As I was leaving, I walked past him and his group talking about their research project: Marijuana and Happiness. Hm.

Dizzy Teddy and Brah-ms

I think it's safe to say that the worst word pair you can hear in a classroom is "group project."

...followed closely by "gas leak" or "cumulative final."

My Happiness class (which is slowly becoming an ironic title) has a group project component. We have to make up our own research question about happiness and design a research study and...

I already don't want to do this. I hope this isn't a reflection on my interest level in the subject! It's probably just a representation of my horrible work ethic. For example, I have a research paper due next Wednesday and I was all gung-ho to start writing/accumulating research and instead I sat down to my computer and started blogging. Blerg.

Anyway, group projects. Every group project is the same.  No matter how many members, it could be two, it could be ten, there will be ONE person whose schedule is days ahead of everyone else. This person makes the others feel lazy, but to appease this member, the others pump out whatever they were supposed to contribute according to the Proactive Person's schedule. How is that fair? It's not. But life isn't fair, as I was reminded constantly as a child.

There is also always AT LEAST one  incompetent slacker who has decided to ride on the coattails of the other group members, who are all really just towed behind the Proactive Person. Incompetent Slacker will finish his/her assignment at the last possible second and rarely be on time/show up to group meetings in the library.

During my last group project, I discovered that I was the slacker for the first time in the history of my education. I felt terrible to be bringing down my group, but then I discovered how liberating it was not having to carry the rest of the group as Ms. Proactive. And now I am spoiled and I don't want to be that person ever again. It's a vicious cycle. Actually, it's more like when you realize that the backpack you have been lugging around all day is 470 pounds and if you carry your books to class one at a time instead of being prepared for everything all the time, you are much more comfortable.
I mean I guess. I haven't taken my books to class since freshman year.

So in Happiness class, we are charged to make groups of four. I look at the three people in my immediate area.

1. Thom (see RLS: MetalSlayer) 
2. Thom's metal friend, who looks like a teddy bear that has been through the dryer one-too-many times. His hair sticks up, fluffy, and there is a slight dizzy look to him as he talks about the freaktacular MetalSlayer album out next month.
3. Brah-guy, named for his propensity to refer to people as "brah," which is slightly acceptable given our proximity to the beach. He has short red hair and clothes that look like he's been wearing them for years, not in a dirty way but in a loose and comfortable way. He's the kind of person who insists on wearing flip flops year-round.

 I really need to stop judging people.

Upon seeing my prospects for my group, I decided to talk to my professor after class and request a random assignment. But then, I thought, what if she assigns me to these dudes anyway? Decisions, decisions. I thought, for sure I will be Proactive Patty for this group. Damn.

As I sat lost in my own worry and ignoring the last few minutes of class, I write my contact info on the sheet of paper Brah-guy has handed me, and I hear Dazed Teddy addressing me from his seat directly behind me.

"Cookies. You want cookies? Cookies?"
Oh, man. This guy is high.
"I mean," he clarifies, "would you like some cookies? I work at a bakery and I took a bunch home today."

It turns out he works at Baked, one of my favorite bakeries in Charleston and just as I am about to say "sure! do you have any Monster cookies? They're my favorite," he says
"Do you want a Monster cookie? And I have chocolate chip. Take a few!"



Maybe this group thing will work out after all.

RLS: MetalSlayer

To the girl in my psych classes:
Why do you insist on taking your shoes off for every class? Are your shoes really that restrictive? Also, do you buy new socks every week? Because yours look immaculate considering the amount of time they spend unshielded from the annually-cleaned floors of the Education Center.

Also, here is another story about my powers of magnetism.

In my happiness class, our professor likes to take time from her lecture to ask us to "check with our neighbor" about things we just learned or were supposed to read.
Example: "So the Stoics were definitely eudaimonists. What in the reading from yesterday confirms this statement? Can you check with your neighbor?"..and then you have to awkwardly turn to the person closest to you and shrug and say "I have no idea. Did you read? Yeah, me neither."

One day, when class ended after checking with my neighbor about Kant or Schopenhauer, I exited my aisle and one of the guys that sits behind me (one of my neighbors) blocked my walking path and stuck out his hand. "I'm Tom by the way."  Actually I think it may be spelled with an "h" like some people do. Let me paint you a picture of this guy: he's what the boy's clothes department would call "husky," with dark greasy hair that comes to his shoulders, a curtain covering one eye like the lady-villain from Captain Planet. He is usually wearing the same shirt supporting some demonic-sounding death metal band.  Most days I hear him talking about the latest metal show he went to to a fellow metalhead behind us. ("Did you see MetalSlayer on Thursday??" "Yeah, they were freaktacular, man.")

"I'm Thom by the way."
"Oh, hi. My name's Claire."
"Claire," he confirms.
We shake hands.

 The next week, our professor walks down the aisles and passes out a handout (probably something undecipherable about Nietzsche with lots of examples about pastrami sandwiches). With only three of us in the row, I have to stand up and walk to the girl at the end to get the papers, and then I pass one to Thom, who sits in my row now, if he can manage it. And he says...
"Thanks babe."

I possibly misheard him. Maybe he said "thanks mate" or "thanks gave" or "you should shave." I hope it was one of these options.

Ever since this, I have been weary. But for a week or so, he wasn't in class to avoid giving our big presentation.  I thought he had withdrawn from the class to avoid writing the three page paper and talking for 60 seconds. So imagine my surprise when I see he is still in class after all!
 Today we tackled the questions "What IS happiness?" and "What does happiness REQUIRE?" Check with your neighbor. I did a half turn and saw he was the closest person to me, so I turned to face him and said

"Isn't this what the whole class is supposed to be about?"
He laughs.
"So, what IS happiness?" I ask, "Puppies? Peace of mind?"
"How was your break?"
"Uh." I recover quickly. "Good! Really good. My break was happiness. Great idea."



I just realized that there is no reason to be so freaked out about this. People call other people "babe," right? I just expected it from some slick jerk instead of one of my own (the geeks, nerds and dorks crowd.) I should give Thom a break. Because now everything I hear him say ends that way. "How was your break, babe?" "Maybe happiness can't be defined operationally, babe." It makes me uncomfortable. But that's not exactly fair to him. He probably just said "thanks a nave."

Anyway, here are (the imaginary metal band for the purposes of this study) MetalSlayer's greatest hits, courtesy of Jake:

(not a member of MetalSlayer)

MetalSlayer's Greatest Hits Collection:

1. Death-Face

2. Murder for Breakfast

3. Bloodsoaked Shoelace

4. A Knife Wound a Day (Kept My Parents Away)

5. Human Roadkill

6. Bitch Coffin

7. Recipe for Necrosis

8. A One-Horse Open Slay

9. Bureau Full of Corpses

10. Love is a Self-Amputation

(I would advise people not to google image these song titles. you're welcome.)

OK. so about Valentine's day...

For some reason people were worried about me being lonely on Valentine's Day. Because I am currently unattached, this must mean that V-day means Single's Awareness Day (SAD) and upon the stroke of midnight incurs uncontrollable sobbing and self-deprecation.  Not so.

This Valentine's Day (or as Harrison put it "Clearance Chocolates Eve") was amazing! I enjoyed many of the same things couples do on this loveliest of love days:

1. Valentines- dinosaurs and chocolates and a hand-drawn one on my door that said "let's stick together" with a little happy-faced glue bottle
2. Expressions of love from loved ones- my parents sent me a package full of my fiddle music!
3. Serenades- I had a song written about me by the lovely Katelyn Carter and got to hear some new Brother stuff from Shane (:fan girl squee:)
4. Pink things!- clothes and shoes and cupcakes!
5. Treating myself for no reason other than it being the 14th of February- I enjoyed a very delicious and free coffee from Starbucks and a Chocolate Strawberry cupcake from Cupcake. 
6. Dinner with loved ones- even if it was at Liberty cafeteria...

The day was near perfect. However, I did get a rather annoying text message. This is how I read it (witnesses will assure you it was not much different):

Hey Claire! It's that guy you are friendly acquaintances with from church who hasn't talked to you since I started dating that girl that you don't talk to anymore! So anyway, I invited a real good friend of mine (read: lonely fellow-Navy-man) to my intimate Valentine's dinner with me and that girl who hasn't talked to you since freshman year. I was hoping you could drop whatever you're doing this evening to come out with us and make him feel like he isn't a third wheel (which he totally is). Let's face it, you are probably just watching sappy chick flicks and shopping for cats on the internet, because that's what single girls do, right? So come out with us tonight (it's 6:35, so that gives you enough time to put on deodorant at least) instead of sobbing into your ice cream! I'm totally paying for everything. See how nice I am? ;) K bye.  

Several problems with this:

1. no, I don't want to double date with a friendly acquaintance, a stranger, and a girl with a grudge against me.
2. it's 6:35. I already had dinner.
3. I could have romantic dinner plans of my own!
4. Just because I'm single doesn't mean I will take every desperate stranger you throw at me! Show me a picture first. And does he like Muse?
5. why did you invite that guy to your V-day dinner? To get him a date. And your girlfriend is in a sorority full of single girls, so I am pretty sure I was far down on a list of possibilities. It was 6:35. Now I am many-times insulted.

Luckily, I got this about an hour after he sent it, so I had a more legitimate excuse than "ummm...no." But seriously. Like I had nothing better to do!

RLS: the fruit of the sea

"Anyway, like I was sayin’, shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sautee it. Dey’s uh, shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich. That- that’s about it."   -Bubba

Some friends came to visit me this weekend! Because they love me. And well, because they love Charleston.

On the to-do list for Saturday:

1. Farmer's market in Marion Square (to get delicious tiny powdered-sugar donuts and to enjoy the state-fair atmosphere of jump houses and many babies and dogs) 
2. Aimlessly stroll around the city, inputting historical tidbits that I learned by walking next to the slow-moving carriage tours
3. Japanese horror movies! Hosted by the C of C Japanese Club. Which is different from the Anime Club. Different. They were very adamant.
4. Dinner at Hominy Grill

So. Hominy Grill. You may have heard of it. You've definitely heard of it if you live in Charleston. Or if you are a die hard foodie. Or if you watch or read Anthony Bourdain (if you don't you should).

From reading Anthony Bourdain, watching No Reservations, and living in Charleston, I have ascertained that Hominy Grill is delicious in many respects, but famous- maybe world renowned- for its shrimp and grits. The name "hominy" means grits. Heck, grits are on the sign! For years I have been meaning to eat at this restaurant, but never made the time to. A few weeks before they came, Stephen texted me with one request for the Charleston trip: Hominy Grill.

Saturday night- of course we go. It's a great place for brunch, but we were really hungry and ready for some famous food. Also, there was the slight possibility that it would be easier to get into around dinner time.

6:32 PM- I call ahead to ask the waitress about the wait time. The restaurant is several blocks away and in a direction I normally don't like to walk after dark. She says there are tables, but we should probably make a reservation. "OK, can we have a table for 7 o'clock? For four," I ask- CaraBeth is coming with us. "Our next opening is at 8," she says. Eight. I look around at Kala and Stephen and CaraBeth and mouth "eight?" But no one gives me a firm yes or no, so I freak out and say thanks and hang up the phone.

We decide to walk over and hope they can fit us in. We arrive around 7, which would have been perfect if they had had a table waiting. No such luck. We find the hostess and put our names down for eight.

In the intervening time, CaraBeth needs a drink because she hasn't been feeling well (since she ate a package of cookie dough the night before). We wander around, finding coffee houses that close the minute we walk to the door, a mysterious "Tent Association" building that is crumbling to pieces, and end up eating an appetizer at O'Malley's.

FINALLY, we get back to Hominy. It's starting to get cold at night, and we are tired of walking and shivering. The hostess leads us in the cozy, warm, homey kitchen-like restaurant...and then out the door onto the patio. Of course, it's an adorable patio with lanterns and twinkle lights, but still.

All I can think about is how good the shrimp and grits are going to feel: warm, hearty, delicious. I will have shared a meal, across the time/space continuum, with Anthony Bourdain.  

Our waiter comes out, gives us water, asks if we'd like anything else to drink. Stephen gets a decaf coffee. The rest of us mumble something like "water's good..." "mm fine..."

"Great!" he says, "I just wanna let you know about our specials tonight, they're on the wall behind you" (he points) "and I do have some bad news- we're out of shrimp tonight!"

My jaw. hits. the table.

No shrimp? No shrimp and grits? No SHRIMP? What would Bubba have to say about this? I have been building this meal up in my mind for weeks. And no shrimp. Thanks for taking our drink orders first.
"You're totally welcome to leave and come back tomorrow," he continues. "Honestly, I've worked here four years and this has never happened before." I'll bet. I'll bet you're lying.

I already don't like this guy.

I order some rice casserole that usually has some shrimp in it, and we negotiate the changes: instead of shrimp, how about chicken? Fantastic. I am still disappointed.

When he brings out our food, he hands everyone their dishes and as he makes his way to me says "Guess what, it's your lucky night, we found FOUR shrimp for your meal! You got the last ones!"  Oh, it's only every girl's dream to eat the last four shrimp! Especially with the knowledge that they were probably fished out of someone else's unfinished entree or scraped out from under the fridge. Goodie.*

All in all, the food was pretty good, Kala and Stephen's visit went great, and the Japanese movie we watched was expectedly and understandably grotesque and confusing. So, a good weekend for sure.


*This is not meant as a negative review of Hominy Grill, and I fully intend to go back and try again someday. But maybe next time I'll try for brunch.

things that go bump

update: still effing hot.

here's a scene from last night, around 12:14-

It is 93 degrees in this house. Probably hotter upstairs, here in my room. I read for a bit and turn out the light. The fan is whirring loudly at the window, but is largely ineffectual. I twist, and one leg is under the sheet while the rest of my body waits, uncovered, for cool relief.

I force my eyes to adjust to the new world of my pitch dark bedroom. Then, the thought:

With the fan so loud, I won't be able to hear them.

Only I could scare myself so thoroughly and for no apparent reason. Who's "them?" Aliens? Robbers? The family of Cat People who moved into my closet while we were gone? Who knows.

I hesitantly pull my exposed leg under the sheet, for safety.

This is gonna be a hot one.

RLS: "Friend of Hookface"

Disclaimer: I want to make sure you know that I do, in fact, want a boyfriend. It may seem from this story and the hipster trilogy that I enjoy having boys chase me and then ruthlessly denying their attempts to date me. It just happens that the funniest stories I have to tell involve boys I have no interest in, for some reason or another. You could take from this that I am too picky. Or you could just sit back, read, and enjoy.

Before I can tell you what happened today, I have to take a trip back to a few months ago.

Setting: Mid-April, 2010. My roommate and I find ourselves alone; our friends have gone to the CofC baseball game and left us behind (no hard feelings- this story never would have happened). We decide to go for a walk and end up sitting on the pier at Waterfront Park.


As Marca and I are talking, I notice next to us two guys with BMX bikes. They look about our age, with tattoos and helmets and a general air about them that suggests they hurt themselves a lot doing stupid things (most 13-year-olds are like this- also, Jackass). Eventually, one of them leaves to get some water or to flip his bike into a public fountain. Marca and I sit silent for a bit during a lull in our conversation. The remaining BMX guy takes this as his cue to lean over and ask "So, do you go to school around here?" which means one of two things when you live in Charleston:

1. He's a tourist.
2. He's in the Navy.

It turns out it's the latter- he's in the nuclear power school in Goose Creek. He talks to us for a while and Marca and I are flattered at being "chatted up" even though it is soon obvious he is not extremely smart and he uses the F word way too much. I have no problem with swearing at all. Shit no. Except if the person in question doesn't know how. This guy used the F word like a 10-year-old who got it for Christmas.

After a while his friend comes back, and after a few minutes of talking we learn that they aren't actually friends, per se. They just found each other in town and some exchange like this happened:

Guy 1: Hey, I see you have a BMX bike! So do I!
Guy 2: We should totally ride together!
Guy 1: I'm in the Navy!
Guy 2: F***in' no way, me too. That's f***in crazy! F*** yeah we should ride together. F***IN' A!
-Three minutes later, they sat next to us on the pier.

So they start talking to each other about Navy stuff, every so often talking at us to say something about bad food or curfews. It's around this time I start thinking How am I gonna get us out of this? I'm starving! But if I say that, they'll invite themselves to dinner. Marca must be uncomfortable (I'm just projecting). I check my phone, but I can tell by the color of the sky that it's getting into later eating hours. When I look up, I see something miraculous flying through the sky to save us.

A woman at the end of the pier has been fishing with her two sons, in the background of this story. She caught a stingray early into our conversation with the first guy and we watched her husband nudge it off the pier with his boot.

Just as I'm thinking How are we going to get out of this? she casts her line parallel to the water instead of out into it and her bait and tackle comes flying through the air towards the second guy's HEAD. The triangle weight lands on top of his head and the hook grabs his left temple a bit above the hair line. A second or two of silence elapses. I don't know this man. I have no idea if he has anger issues or a rare, extra-squirty-blood disease. Finally, he says (quite gifted, this guy) "There is a hook. In my head." That seemed about the only thing he could say, and he said it several times.

Meanwhile, the woman responsible came running over, terrified, to survey the damage (it's barely in there- only a flesh wound). However, the guy (henceforth known as Hookface) insists we not take it out and instead "clip it and take the whole thing to the hospital." The woman's husband comes over to him. This man has already had to kick a stingray off a dock today, and who knows what else. He says "let me take a look" and midway through his last word, he plucks the offending hook out of Hookface's face, and all that is left is a tiny cut about the length of a pencil eraser.

Hookface still insists on the hospital, mumbling something about "paperwork." I gave him directions to the ER and helped them find Hookface's car because they had no clue where they were. On the way to finding his vehicle, the two boys unrelentingly invite us to the hospital with them. Um, no thanks. Not even if you were cute. OK, maybe if you were cute. And smarter. And stopped cursing like an old lady that's just remembered she knows how.

I saw that the only way we could leave without accompanying them to the hospital would be to jump on the phone grenade. I said "Here's my number- so you can let us know that everything's OK." And I wish I hadn't. I knew they were OK. I knew the ER doctors would give him a band-aid and some Midol and tell him to man up and get back to the Navy.

I knew he would text me that night, and maybe the next day (when I planned to have "dropped my phone in soup" so I couldn't read texts, darn). Just know that the story doesn't end here.

RLS: I am being courted by a hipster, part 2

OK, I have decided to add to the story. Because there are so many things to tell. And also because I have more to add that happened mere minutes before I posted this.

So he came to see me at work.

It was around the end of my shift, so I was already tired, sweaty, shiny-faced, and also bright green. Did I mention our uniform shirts are green? They are an obscene yellowy highlighter green; a green so unnatural it can only be found in Springtime Oreos.

No. They're greener than that. More like antifreeze. Which I have seen a lot of lately.

Anyway, I was wearing one of the antifreeze shirts that is too big for me which made me hotter and therefore more frumpy and grumpy.

He asked me out, I said yes, yadda yadda yadda. So I asked him when/where etc. He said he had a free movie pass to the new dine-in theater. He said we could meet there at 8 and "see whatever's playing."

Hold up.

Never in my life have I gone to a theater without a specific movie in mind. Never. Sometimes I may change plans and be forced to think on my feet if a show is canceled, but seriously.

This made me nervous. Truthfully, the whole concept made me nervous. But I convinced myself it was a test of my spontaneity and said something lame like "sure" or "cool."

So of course I spent the next three days freaking out, wondering how awkward waiting for him at the theater would be if I got there first, how awkward picking a movie would be, how awkward standing in line waiting to be seated would be (it's a weird theater), etc. And of course none of the scenarios I imagined actually came to pass and there were a lot fewer awkward moments than I'd feared.

I showed up at 8 and he was already there. That's one crisis averted.

Then we looked at what was playing. Since everyone and their mother has free passes to this new theater, most shows were already sold out. Except, thank goodness, A-Team. The movie that the action-blowup-violence-explosion-kick ass soundtrack side of me really wanted to see. Also the movie that the Bradley-Cooper-loving side of me wanted me to see. And it started at 8. Perfect. I looked up, saw this, and coyly said "Oh, A-Team is showing." I attempted to hide the excitement from my voice as I said this, hoping he would be unaware of my intention to see Bradley Cooper shirtless. And to watch stuff blow up for no reason.

He looked over and said "Oh. You really wanna see that?" And what answer could I give but something noncommittal like "nah. notreally, lookskindadumb. eh."

Then he saw that Toy Story 3 was showing! In an hour and 35 minutes. Great. He turned to me and said "How about Toy Story 3??? I really want to see it!" And I said "It's at 9:35. And I already saw it..." and he shrunk into himself and said "Oh, I mean, if you don't want to see it again..." and all I could do was feel guilty that I had crushed the tiny child inside him, so I said "...but I wouldn't mind seeing it again. It was great!" Which it was. But really folks. I saw it two days before. And it's a long movie to watch in 3D.

So we watched it. And as an avid movie-talker, I was extremely weirded out that he did not talk AT ALL in movies. On principle probably. Because he is a hipster.

And then I left and he mumbled something about seeing another movie, and I mumbled something about just coming by the park. Which I now regret. Because not only did he leave me 3 mix tapes and disappear, but I JUST got a text message from him asking if I got them. He didn't put them in a mailbox! He left them right under my nose! I'm going to take this as an insult to my intelligence and not respond for a few days. Unless he comes by again, and who knows what weirdness that will bring.