today on the internet...

I just came back from practice for my graduation from the College.  Cray-zay.   And now that I have the time (which I should be using to do laundry, pack my stuff, and...I don't know...learn French) I am going to regale you with commentary on ridiculous things I found on the internet today.  

I checked the weather this morning (hoping it would rain again so I didn't have to sit on the stage in the blazing sun) and noticed that Weather.com has made some updates.  Again!  I feel like they do a redesign every other week.  Those people are on the ball.   Anyway. Today I noticed a new feature:

That's right. It says "Alert me when it rains."  A useful feature for...cave dwellers? People without windows? Maybe, but chances are that if you aren't already outside or can't see outside, you won't be going outside soon. And if you did, you would probably be able to tell when you got there. I'd hope.

 It doesn't say "alert me when there is a hurricane" or "alert me when there is a deadly waterspout hell-bent on making it inland and headed straight for my house" or "alert me when ash falls out of the sky after a Super Volcano-type situation cuz then I will probably need more than a poncho." It says "alert me when it rains." I am curious to know how many people use this application and why.  But that's for another day.  

OH! Weather.com also lets you know about weather-related "trending" topics from Twitter users in the area.   And surprise! Today's trending topics are "rain," "raining," and "sunny."  Fascinating.  Potentially useful/interesting if the topics are "blood rain" "locusts" or "aliens??"  But for now... it's a bit redundant.

Another thing that caught my attention (potentially more stimulating than weather.com updates) was this article about the new cover for Time Magazine. It's about the mother breastfeeding her almost-four-year-old son. Here's the picture:

Oh my! Controversy! That child is wearing army pants!

 

OK, setting aside anything implied by the actual Time article or the headline ("Are you mom enough?" really? Time Magazine, why you always gotta be startin' sumthin?), the article about the article was pretty inflammatory and stupid.  The url for the Gawker article is "http://gawker.com/5909256/mom-puts-boob-in-giant-preschool-sons-mouth-on-cover-of-time?tag=moms." GIANT preschool son's mouth? I don't know all of his parentage, but I doubt he is even half-Giant. Does he look like a child of Hagrid? No.

The final questions are designed to get commenters into a frenzy.  The first two are valid:

• How does this cover make you feel? 
• Will it haunt [the child's] future? 

but of course, even these questions elicit the most heinous internet responses:

"Wish I was that Kid so I can have my mouth on those sweet jugs : )"    classy.

"Not being breast feed had NOT ONE negative effect on me and I'm closer to my parents than some of my peers. My first cousin breastfeeds her children until they're almost two years old and they're allergic to almost everything under sun!"  to which someone responded: "maybe if you had been breast fed you would understand the concept of sample sizes"    hahaha touche.

 And then people just started getting sarcastic..."Breastfed toddlers are also Giant Pussy Crybaby Whiners. See Science publication Vol456. The correct feeding method is Mountain Dew in a bottle with Kool ashes flicked on the head."

And this gem:

 "First of all he is four and his brother is five, and they both breastfeed. That is way beyond the point of normalcy, whether you agree with that or not ("normal" is relative, but that is a fair point, this is not average behavior). And I only took 4 classes in psych in college (please, please don't brag about this. By starting your sentence this way I have already stopped listening to you) but I am quite sure (you are the expert opinion here) that the kid will develop a different bond with people than most. It is likely that he will be much more needy for companionship (not true - several studies show similar levels of attachment to peers as well as fewer problems weaning off of transition objects like teddy bears and security blankets) since for 4 more years he had to attach himself to his mother for nutrition (what? pretty sure he ate other food - otherwise he would not be the "Giant" you claim he is) while all other kids were learning to eat by themselves. I'm not saying it's a certainty, but it is a likelihood that could prove a major problem later on in life."

I am not going to take a side on this.  I am not going to use anecdotal evidence and say "I know people who breastfed past the age of four and they turned out pretty OK fine" because that is the kind of reasoning these commenters use and it is completely ineffective.  What I will say is this: people on the internet are stupid. I do realize the irony of writing all this on the internet, yes.  But just remember that opinions are opinions and facts are facts. And please don't pretend to be an expert and then admit to not being one in the same sentence.

 

Also, just FYI, I have never before seen the word "tits" used this many times in a comment section about a Time Magazine article. ever.

I have been pretty stressed out lately, and noticing a few indicators of anxiety neuroses.

anxiety:  "an unpleasant emotional state for which the cause is either not readily identified or perceived to be uncontrollable or unavoidable"   

yay.

I started to ask questions: When did these start? Why am I so sensitive? Why do I feel like I am stressed or anxious all. the. time? 
How come some people can calm down and not me? (apparently, only 18% of Americans. SO 82% of Americans are anxiety free most of the time! no fair!)
and
Why do I only ever use the left-hand "Shift" key?

That last one has been bugging me for a while now, actually.

Anyway, I started looking back on my life and noticing flare-ups of stress, but a general anxiety blanket over most of my thoughts starting around high school.  So naturally I thought it must have started around there. Something about the universally traumatic experience of post-pubertal development within a public high school plus braces plus orchestra minus cool equals inevitable generalized anxiety problems. 

BUT, as I pointed out earlier, not everyone has these chronic problems. Clearly.

And then, remembered for a completely different reason, a fully formed memory floated into my head:..... (bubbly dream sequence harp playing)...

I was walking behind my church, leaving after some post-Mass event or other, and I was worriedly asking my mother what I would have to know to make my First Communion.  I remember that it was warm and sunny outside, with fluffed pine straw in the landscaping to the right of me and the carpool lane on my left. I remember seeing everything from my much smaller 7-year-old height and the hum of the generator behind the old gymnasium. 
And I remember someone telling me "...you're going to be quizzed on all the priest's homilies. I hope you were paying attention..." 
and all of this, the carpool lane, the generator, the pine straw swirling around me as anxiety scooped me into it's dizzying arms.
 ...I haven't been paying attention, I worried, I'm not going to get it. I'll never get it. I'll be old and wrinkly and no one will give me the Eucharist...

Something in his voice (and the laughter that followed the statement) told me he was kidding, but I couldn't undo the worry. And I didn't - not until I finally did make my First Communion a few agonizing months later (during which I spent every Sunday willing my attention to the priest at his pulpit and begging my brain to remember it). 

And so the pattern goes.

1. Evil thoughts.
2. Needless worry
3. Needless worry
4. must calm down.  CALM DOWN.
5. Oh no!! [insert worry here] is about to happen...
6. Oh, what? [insert worry here] already happened? And everything's fine? Oh. Phew.
7. repeat. ad nauseum.

 Moral of the story: Claire has been like this for a while.

I don't know if you can tell, but I'm about to graduate from college. 
 

procrastiknitting, meet procrastiblogging.

Things that I am thinking about right now:

1. I don't want to be writing this paper.  

Prompt: If you'd been put in charge of raising you, what would you do the same and what would you do differently? What "risk factors" do you think you could have avoided? 

Seriously. "Tell me how your parents messed you up. Be explicit. Also, be explicit enough to fill 2-3 pages single spaced."
I told my mom about having to write this and all she said to me was "Don't let me read it. I don't want to read it."  Relax, Mom. I'm trying to figure out a way to write this paper but not write this paper.



      2.  ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT IS COMING BACK!!  

I feel like shouting it from the rooftops! Which I could probably do because we have access to the fire escape.
 
      3.  I would rather be using this time to finish knitting my sweater.

I only have the sleeves left to do. Well, and 8" of the right side...but if I play my cards right, I could be finishing that to.night. If I ever write this damn paper.

This is what it's going to look like. (pictures to prove my skill later)

OK, no more procrastiknitting or procrastiblogging.  Time to settle into this awful paper.

Good night.

married to the Eiffel Tower

So I've just finished watching a documentary called Married to the Eiffel Tower.  It's about three women who are objectum sexuals.
"Objectum sexuality" or object sexuality is defined by Wikipedia as

"a pronounced emotional and often romantic desire towards developing significant relationships with particular inanimate objects. Those individuals with this expressed preference may feel strong feelings of attraction, love, and commitment to certain items or structures of their fixation."

One woman married the Eiffel Tower a few years before the production of this documentary.  She is also a world champion archer, and developed a particularly strong relationship with her bow, Lance.  She also has significant relationships with the Golden Gate Bridge, a samurai sword, various wooden gates and the Berlin Wall. Throughout the movie, we get to see several moments of this woman and her fellows caressing buildings, sharing a bed with miniature models, and visiting their significant others (some of which are in different continents).

Mrs. Eiffel Tower visited Berlin to see her lover:
To the Berlin Wall: "I tried to hate you. I tried. ...I curse myself for being human. I wish I were an object like you!"

This movie is just as interesting as I had hoped it would be and is filled with leagues of psycho-data to analyze and think about.  The only part that made me marginally upset was that these women (all objectum sexuals are women, according to the documentary) claimed to love these objects soooo deeply.  With more passion and depth than most human relationships.  But they also loved so many at the same time.
Does Mrs. Eiffel Tower have no respect for the sanctity of marriage? She spends a great deal of her married life fawning over the  Berlin Wall (who is married to another woman in Sweden, the scoundrel) and falling in love with every red fence she sees with just the right angles. 

The documentarian fails to reveal that objectum sexuals believe in polygamy until the last ten minutes of the film. 

Anyway, I learned something today! Someone else watch this so we can have a chat!

soup to nuts

Riding the train to an internship where I earn good money while being held responsible for projects that actually matter to the progress of the company may trick me into thinking I am an adult, but this is not so.

I was in a meeting the other day (doesn't that sound so grown up?) hearing a pitch from an interactive media company.  They presented their services and generally talked themselves up for any future business we might be able to give them. They promised to follow through with a project, and assured us they were more than capable to join a project at any point in its development. They would be able to work with us "from soup to nuts."

From soup. To nuts.

I wrote the phrase down on my paper, and because there wasn't much else to take notes on in this meeting, it stood out a bit on the page, attracting the attention of my fellow intern, who chuckled appreciatively.  He then started to doodle a soup bowl and a handful of peanuts with an arrow between them. I puzzled over where this phrase could have come from.  I know it meant from begininng to end or running the gamut or whatever, and behold, according to Wikipedia...

It is derived from the description of a full course dinner, in which courses progress from soup to a dessert of nuts.

 AHA! So now you know.

He then promised that they will monitor and investigate all steps of the project, saying "we do due diligence."

...unsurprisingly "doo doo diligence" inspired many suppressed giggles and acted as a gentle reminder that although I might dress for work and be able to vote and eat hummus and could potentially serve my country in the armed forces, I am not, in fact, an adult. 

FYI- "Soup to Nuts" is also the name of a 1928 comedy in the vane of Amelia Bedelia and the title of an episode of the acclaimed television series That's So Raven.

bad music

I was driving around town yesterday and listening to music on the radio when I realized that music on the radio is crap.

I know, duh. But not just the Top 40 stuff. I reached some sort of perfect storm yesterday when everything playing on the radio was just...bad. And that is when I stumbled across a certain song.

 Before I reveal this song, let me first define the term "guilty pleasure." According to wikipedia, the end-all-be-all knowledge source of the web, "A guilty pleasure is something one enjoys and considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. The "guilt" involved is sometimes simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes."

Nowadays, in the age of hipster, liking something of "lowbrow taste" can be seen as ironic, and thus not embarrassing at all but rather a nugget of hipster street cred. However, a hipster could like something mainstream and feel guilty about it, like secretly enjoying Budweiser more than PBR.
In fact owning up to enjoying a certain song or movie despite it's lowbrow qualities may render it no longer a guilty pleasure. I'm not sure, I only just began exploring the intricacies of this term.

The song that came on the radio made me instantly stop surfing channels and start turning up the volume and singing at the top of my lungs. And that song, embarrassingly enough, was Evanescence's Bring Me to Life. I remembered all the words and couldn't stop my self from singing out loud.  I checked the windows to make sure they were securely closed, and tried not to be obvious about my singing enthusiasm when I stopped at a traffic light. It reminded me of middle school. It reminded me how everyone has a dark period in their life. We all experience our own musical dark ages.  Mine, like many of my compadres, involved Evanescence and Good Charlotte.

I also began singing along to other songs on the radio. I had opened a flood gate. It was a little like this:




So here I am, sharing my guilty pleasure. What's yours?

my, what big plastic tubes you have grandma

The world is a scary place.

San Diego KGTV reports:

A 91-year-old East County grandmother is getting national attention for making suicide kits. The woman started making the kits after watching her husband die a slow, painful death from colon cancer.

Death Bag and tubes

“I’m doing what I can to improve the world,” she told 10News. “There’s a lot of heartache and difficulty here.” Charlotte makes the kits — which cost buyers $60 — by taking large plastic bags and sewing soft elastic bands around the opening. There is a slot in the bag for a plastic tube carrying helium gas to be inserted. Helium — when inhaled in its pure form — is deadly. Kit users are responsible for securing their own helium gas.

“If heaven is so wonderful, you know you’d naturally want to go there, wouldn’t you?” said Charlotte. Charlotte said her sales were nearly $100,000 last year. That’s more than 1,600 suicide kits.

 This scares me for several reasons.

1. My StumbleUpon apparently thinks this is the kind of story I would be interested in. And it was right. Damn.
2. This woman is 91 years old and not retired. Stop working.
3. Her name is Charlotte, so she reminds me of a spider luring people into her suicide web.
4. This is a really scary way to go! Putting a bag over your head? Filling it with helium? Taking your last breaths as you look at the world through the distortion of the hand sewn plastic death bag? Geez.
5.  Also, THE WORLD IS RUNNING OUT OF HELIUM. AND it's non-renewable! So even if you don't disagree with her on ethical grounds, know that she is ruining birthday parties for the rest of us FOREVER.
6. She is not supplying the helium, so people are forced to interrupt their planned suicide night with a trip to Party City. Also, what's to stop people from getting the helium and making their own Death Bags? besides crippling depression.
7. How does she advertise this? We know it's not word of mouth. It's probably through news reports like this: people see the story on the news and call the station asking for her phone number, claiming to be enraged but secretly wondering if they can get same-day delivery. But why would the news station give out her number? This doesn't add up.         

I just can not understand how this woman is so successful. I did hear recently that there have been more suicides than homicides in the United States in recent years, so I suppose there is a demand, but I never thought there would be such high demand for suicide kits. Or that a kindly 91-year-old would decide to fill that need. Although now I am picturing her more like the "old lady" with the demon head from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

All the better to eat you see you with

Also, I don't believe that killing yourself will be rewarded by admittance past the pearly gates. So she's selling a crock.

The world is a scary place.

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.

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.

"Did you know that there are four hundred and fifty-two official government cheeses in this country?"

I am sitting at my desk waiting to leave for Middle School Youth Group, watching an older episode of Parks and Rec, drinking an IBC cream soda, and eating brie and french bread. What a nice Saturday afternoon.

I don't have much to report on besides my recent infatuation with French cheeses.  Last Friday the girls went out to eat at a little place called Fast and French on Broad St. Since it was Friday, I couldn't eat meat so I ate vegetarian escargot instead. Yup. It was just mushrooms in garlic butter with lemon. And a plate of a creamy cow's cheese with a sliced baguette. Mmmmmm....

 Now I am a full-on junkie. The World Cultures Fair was on Wednesday, featuring tables from all the different cultural organizations: the Germans had pretzels, the Indian club was giving henna tattoos, etc. OH and there were five different cheeses at the French club table. Brie. Bleu. Camembert. My tastes are getting too expensive.
Today I sampled a cheese at the grocery store. I ate it before I read what it was. White American. Ew.

What is becoming of me? Am I going to be one of those people who "becomes accustomed to a certain standard of living" and only buy groceries from Fresh Market or Whole Foods?? Will I stop liking Pita Pit and refuse to eat at Taco Bell? I don't want to be that person.

Please. Don't let me get out of control.

EDIT: fueling the obsession: A Cup of Jo: Guide to creating a good cheese plate.

meta: birds are loud

I don't usually reference the title of my blog, because, well, for a while I forgot why I named it as such. Then I remembered that when I started this thing, it was mid-summer and I was annoyed at the birds outside my window waking me up. My first idea for a post was to complain about these stupid birds, and then I thought, well that's dumb, everyone knows birds are loud. But then that's how most of my writing here is anyway. Less-than keen observations.
So there you go.

ANYWAY, I was googling around and I found this story:

Quentin Tarantino sues neighbors over loud macaw birds

"Quentin Tarantino sued his neighbors whose outdoor aviary contains loud macaws that emit blood curdling screams at intermittent intervals for 7 to 8 hours a day."

"Courthouse News says the birds' squawks are a loud, grating call, and are particularly noisy at dawn and sunset. Bird publications claim that a macaw's call can, and does, reach the decibel level of a rock concert or a jumbo jet engine."

"Tarantino's complaint states that Macdissi and Ball are aware that their birds make "blood-curdling, prehistoric sounding screams, they do not maintain the macaws in their residence, but place them in an outdoor aviary.
Tarantino also stated in his complaint that "one would assume, that as a fellow writer,  Mr. Ball would understand and respect a writer's need for peace and quiet." Tarantino said that assumption would be wrong."

 So now you know. Birds are loud.

And whodathought Quentin and I would have similar problems. Go figure.

you really got me

Charleston now has a Forever 21 on King St. This bugs me a lot. They put it where there used to be a Saks, and I think the trade significantly influenced the overall feel of downtown shopping. I felt the same way when they put in a Rack Room Shoes where the Banana Republic used to be. It's just... tacky. King St is not cheap tacky, it's rich tacky. Like Tommy Bahama and Lilly Pulitzer.

Now, I don't shop at these places. That's not why it bugs me. I barely shop at all. The most I ever do is gaze into the windows at perfectly dressed mannequins and wish I had more money to throw around. Sometimes I walk in and check the clearance racks while trying to avoid the attention of the people working in the store. And still more frequently, I simply walk past each store and think about which character from Arrested Development the clothes would most suit. GOB. Lindsey. Lucille. George Michael.

When Forever 21 opened they had a free gift card promotion, so it was impossible to get into the first week. But when I finally let myself wander in there (cheap clothes! even if they do tend to fall apart and have a horrible return policy) I was astounded. It is at least THREE times bigger than the one at the mall near my house. There is a section for about five or six different "looks" including what appears to be "Americana," hobo-chic, "nautical," and neon spray paint. They have a men's section and a kids section. They have enough shoes to shoe an army of overlarge centipedes. It is, in a word, overwhelming.

The first time I went was simply a reconnaissance mission. I wandered around for a bit and left. The check out line was at least 50 people long. I wish I were exaggerating.

On Friday my mitten-quotes professor had too many technical difficulties trying to get the projector to work, so he let us out of class early. About 40 minutes early.

I decided to take a walk on this beautiful Friday morning, and found myself down at Forever 21. I puttered around for a bit, looking and touching and trying and pricing. I remembered hearing someone tell me that all these clothes are cheap because they are made by poor little children in cramped sweat shops, and I looked at the items in my hands and thought I can't buy these, that would be awful. Then I remembered what Kala told me after I talked to her about the sweat shop kids (awesome band name? or too evil?): "Maybe if you buy more of the clothes, they can pay the kids more money!"

So on that faulty logic, I left having purchased a new shirt and some cute slip-on shoes.


Later that day, while wearing my new cuteness, I got whistled at by some douchey-looking guys at Andolini's. I didn't know whether to be flattered, creeped out or indignant. It's just something that happens when you put a pizza place next to the school gym/weight room: the guys get hungry after a workout and surge with "I-can-conquer-the-world" endorphins/adrenaline and "Oh-look-at-that-chick" testosterone. It was really funny to hear them try to whistle as I walked past. It came out more like whewpppthhpoooppthh.

Question to the male species: Why do you do this? Do you expect me to hear the whistle, turn around, and say "Oh, that was for me? Thank you. You look cute as well. Let's date. May I sit on your lap while you hang out with your equally repugnant male friends? You sure do know how to get a lady."

I see you, CofC

I see you, girl in front of me at Einstein's.
Someone explain to me the sorority girl paradox that makes every girl in the Greek system look either perfectly put together (like right before the Mallard Ball!) or like a pile of laundry that has become self aware and put on make-up.

Einstein's girl has clearly just finished a run. She is wearing a t-shirt from the mixer last year and bright athletic shorts. This attire alone would not lead me to the conclusion that she had just exercised, because if you pair the shirt and shorts with Uggs, a Lilly Pulitzer tote and a Tervis tumbler full of something brown (usually Diet Coke or iced tea...or bourbon??), you get the cookie cutter sorority girl as she appears in class 5 days a week. What convinced me was the splash of dirt on the back of her calves that meant she probably ran by some puddles or through wet grass. Sometimes I like to be Sherlock Holmes.

So she had obviously been for a run, but she also had a full face of make-up on. And not the slightly smudged well-I-just-didn't-wash-it-off-from-last-night make-up. This was fresh stuff. So she had either a) put on make-up to go for a run (why??) or b) gone for a run, then put on make-up to come to Einstein's, but didn't take the time to shower. She also took off her running shoes and had sandals on instead. (This is more than can be said for her friends. Two of them had on Uggs and one girl did not have any shoes on at all. This ain't the beach, this is an eating establishment!)

After I noticed the make-up, I also noticed that she had at least three HUGE hickeys on her neck. This has nothing to do with the rest of the story. I tried to fit this into my story for her, but I just can't.

So, girl in front of me at Einstein's, you confound me. You embody all the contradictions and stereotypes of the modern sorority sister. Slouchy but not comfortable. Sloppy yet put together. Like there was intention behind your outfit, but it seemed to be "why put on real clothes just to go to class? I save those for the weekends and going out drinking on weekday nights."
I save comfy clothes for weekends and staying in on weekday nights. Maybe this is where my confusion comes from. We're too different. And yet, we both exist here, we both got into this college. We must serve as parts of a continuum. I just don't know exactly where I fit on that line. It must be somewhere between pearls and PBR.

In love with the problem problem:

Why I <3 my classes.

As a freshman I took a class called Intro to Academic Writing, because I was naive and listened to my previously-unknown-to-me Honors adviser, who said that since I had already completed my English requirement with AP classes I should take this intro class to help me write papers in college. I unwittingly signed up, and did not realize until the first or second week of classes what "Introduction to Academic Writing" actually meant. It meant reading journal articles, analyzing "academic" writing styles and teaching me a trick called the "quote sandwich," which I still use in all my papers to this day. However, the most important thing I took from this class was "the problem problem."

In an article by Gerald Graff, he describes the "problem problem" in the academic community as the "tendency to make seemingly obvious assumptions explicit" and a "general obsession with searching for problems where often there do not seem to be any." I was relieved in reading this article that someone else had noticed how "academics" tend to create issues where there don't seem to be issues simply to have something to write about, and thus securing their employment through "searching for problems where there don't seem to be any." While in this class, I discovered a resentment towards academics, or perhaps my professor, for writing things I had to read about which did not need to be read about at all. Perhaps this is more the case in liberal arts disciplines, perhaps not. I just knew I was fed up with reading articles and writing papers about “Revision Strategies of Student Writers and Experienced Adults." Do we really need to analyze how people revise their writing? It happens, it's over, move on.

More recently, however, as I began seeing the problem problem as the underlying architecture for every college course I have ever taken (and therefore higher education in general, I believe), I realized that I do not hate the problem problem as strongly as I thought. In fact, I LOVE it.

Case in point: Happiness.

This semester, I am taking a class called Happiness. That's it. That's the whole name of the class. It is a Psychology class AND a Philosophy class, so we have two professors, 70 students (which is about as big as it gets at CofC) and a whole curriculum of the problem problem.

I noticed in my Family and Childhood Issues class that Psychology is about a lot of unknowns. Most things can not be measured in this discipline, and most of the things that can be measured can not be measured reliably, like happiness. We spent most of the class supplying questions as answers, discussing what influences a child's development: "What about his SES?" "Maybe there is a history of illness?" "Parental discord or harmony?"
My Happiness class is slightly more concrete, but only because Philosophy is a different discipline. Instead of inventing questions to define the situation, each person invents answers. That is why each Philosopher has his own "ism" or theory he is associated with.  There are dualists, idealists, hedonists, and anarchists. So when you get a group full of Question majors in a room with a group full of Answer majors, interesting things happen.

I love this class. I love all my classes because of the problem problem. When there is nothing left to write about, make something to write about.
And read that book, because so far it is excellent.

I wish...

I wish it would stop being cold.
I know it's not that cold. I still don't like it.

I wish people from my high school/university would quit getting married. It's freaking me out.

I wish my scholarship would apply for itself. ...wait.

I wish I hadn't eaten popcorn for dinner. Or seen How Do You Know. How do you know it's gonna be an awful movie? Answer: you don't. Not for a while. You get drawn in by Paul Rudd and Reese Witherspoon, who (separately) have not steered you wrong in the past, and you spend the whole two hours wondering how this movie is going to pull itself together and then it doesn't.

I wish Facebook would stop showing me pictures of people I don't want to see. I am sure there is a way to block this, but I am too lazy to do anything but complain.

I wish Hogwarts was real. Wait, no. Then that would mean...nevermind.

I wish that the groundhog sees his damn shadow. Or whatever means no more winter.

I wish Brother would put more songs up.

I wish I could go back to Charleston without having to go back to class.

Happy Epiphany everyone!

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.

I can't believe they have pepper imps

I've posted 100 posts! YAY!

OK, bigger news. I went to Harry Potter Land. Or the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Islands of Adventure. Also known as the Harry Potter theme park. Or "Rowling Mecca." 


Look, proof:

me being a dork outside a quill shop. OK, so I was a dork everywhere.

It was amazing. All three days of it. All three butterbeers, all five times I rode the Hogwarts Castle ride, all the stores I went in, all the lines I waited in (which, by the way, are wayyy shorter at the end of the day. duh. Took us all weekend to come to that realization), all the hours of driving and walking it took to get there. All amazing.

Here is a list of the things I couldn't stop myself from buying: 

• a quaffle. Seriously. A "regulation" Quidditch ball from the Quidditch Supply Store, Dervish and Banges.
• a Durmstrang t-shirt. it's really comfy and a little badass
• two packs of peppermint toads. they are delicious. and they were b.o.g.o. free
• chocolate frogs. almost a pound of chocolate- the frog is about as big as the palm of my hand. And by some fluke, I got two trading cards!
• acid pops. they promise to burn a hole through your tongue in the book. I am afraid to attempt. 
• sugar quills! candies "you can suck in class and just look like you're thinking what to write next"
• pumpkin juice. It's delicious. I would drink it everyday if I could, like they do in the books. It tastes a bit like spiced apple cider, but of course more pumpkin-y. Rest assured it is not 100% squeezed-from-a-pumpkin-straight-from-the-patch juice.  Which I would also enjoy immensely. I only drank half of it so that I could attempt to replicate it's wonderfulness. Because I am turning into my mother: "I could make that!"
• butterbeer. it's frothy, it's amber colored, it is so many synonyms for delicious. Like cream soda with a hint more sarsaparilla and a shot of something sweet and creamy like frosting. And the mug is awesome. 

                                         

I highly recommend taking a pilgrimage to visiting this theme park.

The Hogwarts ride is pretty scary though, so if you have really little kids, they might want to stay away from it. Unless they like spiders in their face and almost getting their soul sucked out. And getting spit at by something in the forbidden forest. And getting tossed upside down by the Whomping Willow. And intense Quidditch sequences. Actually, who doesn't enjoy a good Quidditch sequence?

so now you know

So I was on Facebook the other day (big surprise), absentmindedly flipping through profiles, browsing friends of friends etc. I found a girl's profile (let's call her Mandy) that had been protected, like many are, from peering eyes like mine, I guess. Or from creepier ones.

A lot of my friends do this- maybe to their shield less-than-proper behavior from employers or graduate school admissions or judgy family members. Personally, I subscribe to the school of thought that if you put it on the internet, it can be seen by anyone who tries hard enough, so if it's embarrassing or not fit to be viewed by your grandmother, DON'T POST IT. Not that hard. Of course I have blocked my two youngest brothers from some things, because Ryan once posted CLAIRE HAS A BOYFRIEND several times all over my wall. Y'know, mature stuff like that.

Back to the story. Mandy has blocked non-friends from seeing her wild spring break pictures, her interests, and her wall (so you can't see the comments like "Woahhh, you were totes puking all over your shoes last night! Did you ever find out that guy's name??? Luvs XXX"). Smart.

However, it does have her basic information: name, school, relationship status ("it's compicated"), political views and religious beliefs. And listed on her oh so limited profile, which is otherwise closely guarded and relatively impenetrable to judging eyes, it says

Religious beliefs: Cantheism.

For those of you who don't know what that means (and I was one of you until I wikied it), Wikipedia has this to say:

"Cantheism, also Kantheism, is a modern term for religions based on the inherent goodness of the cannabis plant"

It goes on to say:

"Observance of Cantheist rites are beneficial but not mandatory. These include the regular consumption of cannabis, offering thanksgiving and blessing for cannabis when you partake, and sharing the holy smoke among the faithful."

So now you know.

It also provides a link to an incredibly legitimate website, that in no way looks like it was created 9 years ago by someone who was undoubtedly high and lazy.

and now you know

In an effort to reach out to my brother Sean the other day, I ventured to Wikipedia for some facts about giraffes.

Lemme 'splain.
My oldest bro (younger than me by about 3 years) is a giraffe. He's tall, a bit awkward, and I'm almost positive he has four stomachs.
He also owns about three shirts, as seen here. He wears one every day. He even found a silly band on vacation: a yellow giraffe. How perfect.

So I decided I would drop some facts on him, hoping to find something phrased like a National Geographic special about the life of a Sean. I found this:

"While research from the 1970s concluded that giraffes did not
socialize, later research found that giraffes did form attachments to
other giraffes, with giraffes spending 15% of their time grazing with
the giraffes they are close to and only 5% of their time grazing with
giraffes who are strangers."

Ha ha. Because he eats a lot and doesn't socialize. So I posted this on his Facebook. But upon further examination of the text (read: Wiki article), I also learned something quite interesting. About mating habits. That I am in no way implying relate to my brother. But I still think it's a fun fact worth knowing, so here you go:

"Another function of necking is sexual, in which two males caress and court each other, leading up to mounting and climax. Such interactions between males are more frequent than heterosexual coupling. In one study, up to 94% of observed mounting incidents took place between two males. The proportion of same sex activities varied between 30 and 75%, and at any given time one in twenty males were engaged in non-combative necking behavior with another male."

Gay giraffes. Bisexual giraffes. Bros with benefits. Besties with testes. Whodathunk?

Of course I checked other sources, to make sure some dude with a giraffe fetish wasn't editing Wikipedia (again), and it all checked out. You learn something new everyday.



Note: this post is not aimed at anyone. Especially my brother. Who totally likes giraffes for other reasons. Like their knobby head things.