In honor of this morning's overseas affair (which was truly lovely, was it not?) I offered to cook my family some good southern chili and cornbread for dinners. I also wore my best plaids and blue jeans. If this doesn't add up for you, you are most likely a normal human being. I, quite frankly, am confused at the relation between all this myself.
It turns out that cornbread without cornmeal or any ingredient containing the word "corn" is just bland yellow cake disguised as a side-dish. And boys younger than age 16 don't like chili ("I would like it if it didn't have beans it it. Or corn. Or tomatoes. Or peppers. Or onions."), so I was pretty much the only one who ate it anyway. Mothers are such strong specimens.
(Thanks to roommate Dottie for the fabulous, award-winning chili recipe.)
It turns out that cornbread without cornmeal or any ingredient containing the word "corn" is just bland yellow cake disguised as a side-dish. And boys younger than age 16 don't like chili ("I would like it if it didn't have beans it it. Or corn. Or tomatoes. Or peppers. Or onions."), so I was pretty much the only one who ate it anyway. Mothers are such strong specimens.
I immediately became self-conscious after it had been five minutes and nobody had commented on my Facebook status. Facebook statuses are a big deal. They are chosen with great care. So great care, in fact, that I've only had one all year (which may be due to my bipolar/love-hate relationship with Facebook that dictates that 50% of the time, my account does not even exist). Today's status was as follows:
Laura is enjoying a treat.
This means nothing to about 90% of all y'all. This means nothing to about 99% of the world, except perhaps that I'm one of those TMI Facebookers (you all know what I'm talking about), which is not only a falsehood, it is a bad joke. Hence, said status was deleted after said 5-minute interval. Feel free to educate yourselves. These guys are amazing. Do not feel free to judge. Unless it is righteously:
In other news, I purchased this shirt two years ago:
Whenever I wear it, I get weird looks all day. I'm not bitter, just confused at how sorrily ignorant America can be. I refuse to get rid of this shirt. I also refuse to wear it in public while walking alone. I should probably just own up to it. Maybe I have self-esteem issues or something? Whatever. Feel free to educate yourselves once more. This guy astounds me:
(If you get sick of watching partway through, just skip to 2:20)
I hope you have learned something today. I, for one, have not.
Post Update (haha -- redundant much?)
.
Because of the confidence in me many of you shared over the hated social networking site, I did indeed repost the status. Number two of the year. Thank you friends; you influence my life for the better.
Laura is enjoying a treat.
This means nothing to about 90% of all y'all. This means nothing to about 99% of the world, except perhaps that I'm one of those TMI Facebookers (you all know what I'm talking about), which is not only a falsehood, it is a bad joke. Hence, said status was deleted after said 5-minute interval. Feel free to educate yourselves. These guys are amazing. Do not feel free to judge. Unless it is righteously:
Ya, I don't get it either, but it's still funny.
In other news, I purchased this shirt two years ago:
(If you get sick of watching partway through, just skip to 2:20)
I hope you have learned something today. I, for one, have not.
Post Update (haha -- redundant much?)
.
Because of the confidence in me many of you shared over the hated social networking site, I did indeed repost the status. Number two of the year. Thank you friends; you influence my life for the better.
Don't make up words and say them all the time unless you're completely sure they don't exist. They might end up being code words for...other interesting activities. Then the people you think you are sending good vibes to will wind up hurt and confused about their entire life. We don't want that. Goodski? Goodski.
Conversation from my point of view:
Me: This conversation is pleasing to me. Also, you are cool.
Conversation from his point of view:
Me: This conversation is feeling pretty good. Also, you are stoned, high, and under the influence of marijuana.
Conversation from my point of view:
Me: This conversation is pleasing to me. Also, you are cool.
Conversation from his point of view:
Me: This conversation is feeling pretty good. Also, you are stoned, high, and under the influence of marijuana.
My diet yesterday consisted of:
eggs
apples
ham
jellybeans
The title warrants no further explanation, and my sympathies go out to the rest of America as well.
Sometimes, when you are done with finals, you creep on people. From your room. It's for fun.
Facts about creeping:
- It is okay to hack your brother's Facebook account and check out all the guys wearing black name-tags. It is cool to find out where the girls are today who are pictured in their albums, and to look up where these men have lived and will live upon return. I might have mentioned this hobby before. That is okay. We'll make it through this together.
- Sometimes, you may notice eyes peering through your window from a nearby tree or neighboring window. Feel free to be on the giving end of this scenario occasionally. Don't worry, this is conducive to normal behavior.
- When Frederick (holla!) tells you that you live 8.7 miles from where you are sitting at the moment and he only knows that for running purposes, that is a cover-up. He's a creep. Just consider his name.
- When Frederick (double holla!) comments on your post even though you never gave him your blog address, that is also because he's a creep. (I know you're out there, buddy. You can't hide from me.)
- When internet stalking without the convenience of Facebook, look for links: newspaper articles to high schools, sports and music accomplishments to hometowns to graduation programs to pictures, etc.
- In order to stay savvy with law-enforcement officials and the people you stalk, it is usually wise to keep within the confines of the world wide web. But not always.
- The preferred method of contact when leaving your computer desk to take the next step in this give-and-take relationship (I give you anonymous and extreme attention, you give me Facebook pleasures and worried glances)? Pop out like unto kettle corn.
1. Wake up early. For breakfast, partake of the potato cake you swore you'd never think about again. If it'll make you feel better about yourself, eat it with canned peaches mixed in. Preferably the ones you stole from your house last weekend. Mmmmm. This is, after all, your last week living away from home with all this nasty food in abundance.
2. Look at your homework, sigh, and then turn to your closet and instead spend 20 minutes putting together an unreasonably cool outfit that no one will see you in.
Caption: This is Sarah. And also my legs.
3. Lounge on your bed against your four fluffed pillows, fully clothed, with your study materials. Read two pages, and then set your alarm in anticipation of the falling asleepage you know is bound to happen within the next five minutes.
4. Wake up two hours later, look at your textbook, scoff, and go over to the guys' building to say goodbye to some crazy goons you will "definitely see again in two years"(we all lie to ourselves). Take all their leftover food they don't want to pack, especially the protein powder so you can be all muscley like them, and put their frozen cinnamon rolls in the oven because you don't want to leave. Annoy them with the announcement that it is time to take two-dozen pictures together.
5. When said boys finally go back into their room to finish packing, stand outside staring at their bedroom door. When they come out five minutes later and see that you are still there, they may feign confusion or annoyance, but they are secretly pleased. Make them give you one last goodbye. Go back where you came from and don't succumb to pansydom.
I hope to look like this stud in two years, after I have consumed all his protein powder.
6. Sit down at the kitchen table to study. Scroll through your iTunes playlist. Stare at the screen for a while. Receive a call from some guy reminding you of your date in an hour. Oops.
7. Fast forward. Invitation to go on a trail run with Bishop? Heck ya! Fresh air will help you clear your brain for maximum study-retention capacity when you return. Since that's going to happen.
8. Run one mile. Feel the eggs Benedict, which you partook of not half an hour ago at your lunch date, fester in your stomach. Think of the gooey yolk. Imagine the yellow, gloopy sauce melted over the top and soaked into the bread. Try to smell the over-fried ham wafting a bacon-like stench towards you. Allow the guys to go ahead while you chill with the females in the back, per usual. Enjoy the next 6 miles. The uppity-downity course of the trail will prove difficult, but the view of the valley below and mountains above will be lovely.
9. Look incredulously at your apartment-mate when, upon your return, she describes you using scandy terms she has made up. Act shocked and appalled, and then go play some spider solitaire.
10. Go take some final pictures with your dysfunctional FHE family. Don't think it weird when your RM older brother displays Oedipus Complex -esque actions toward your emo mother or when all the males in the family fondle their outfit-matching otter-pops relentlessly in 90% of the shots.
11. Hear the whimpering exuding from your math textbook in the corner of your room. Ignore it. Turn your back with finality and stroll on down to your Creamery/local grocery store, where you will look longingly at the chocolate soy milk and buy bacon, animal crackers, and pineapple sherbet, for no other reason than that you can. On the way back, notice that your date from earlier today is on another date with another girl. (This may require looking into windows. This is ok.) Laugh, because this would only happen at your university.
12. Animal crackers and frozen raspberries for dinner? Check. Now go have a YouTube projector party with those 3rd-floor boys you love so much. Cast all thoughts of finals from your mind. It is the relationships that matter.
13. Blog. Marvel at all you accomplished today, and at the fact that post-run, you wore the exact same stinky outfit you wore yesterday and nobody called you out. College really isn't so bad.
Oh, and this also happened today:
(Disclaimer: This guy's been trying to win this girl over all year with his chest dance. Hence, this is a momentous occasion.)
It is finals week. We do potlucks for dinner every night because we like to party. The idea is that you can stop by to eat and laugh with friends, plus you don't have to make anything and you can get rid of the food in your fridge before the semester ends. There's no stress of cooking so you can have more time to study. In theory. That worked out pretty well last semester, but now we all know each other and are too comfortable together, so this is how it went down tonight instead:
5:00 - Text from Sarah, the Master. "Potluck party tonight is going to be a POTATO FEST! We'll mash em, bake em, put em in salads and whatnot! Bring any complimentary veggies and sides!" (There were gangloads of leftovers from the ward potato bar. Free food? We're takers.)
6:00 - Whip potatoes. Bake potatoes. Mash potatoes. Fry potatoes. Put potatoes in a cake. Refrain from making potato salad, potato donuts, and funeralizing even more potatoes. Heaven knows it would have been appropriate, as we all would have died. It was bad enough as it was.
7:00 - Serve potatoes. Talk potatoes. Inhale potatoes. Detest potatoes.
8:00 - Tell pant-wetting stories until our abdomens explode.
9:00 - Tell birthing stories and "I didn't know I
was pregnant" stories until our abdomens implode, explode again (scientists, please overlook improper use of terms), and all the boys decide it must be time to leave.
10:00 - What happens in the room of logic stays in the room of logic.
So obviously this was a good execution of our "use study time wisely" plan.
This morning I just so happened to be home. After collecting a box of half-eaten cold cereal, assorted canned fruits, and cleaning supplies to sneak back to the dorm laters, I made a trip to the local WalMart. Though they did not have what I went for, I trekked around the entire perimeter and wound up with a carton of strawberries and a cucumber (this could be pertinent information, but most likely is not). Normally I would take the self-checkout lane where I would have to neither see nor speak to another living, breathing human being-- I may or may not have a secret lady-crush on the soothing voice that says "Please scan your first item" (that most definitely is not pertinent information). However, I obviously need a professional to punch in the fancy code for my cucumber, so I sally on over to the real line where the tobacco-users and mothers with 800 dollars worth of food for their families of 18 like to chill. We're all homeboys.
So I'm waiting in line with half the store's customers in front of me and the other half behind, minus the few losers over in the fast-lane. Just remember that there are droves of people looking at the back of my head...and stuff. After wishing the cashier a pleasant afternoon and whistling my way back to my car, I feel in my pockets for my keys. It is then that I realize something is wrong with my backside; specifically there is a hole the size of Las Vegas, Nevada where the pocket should be. That's probably what was up with the mysterious ripping noise as I got in the car when I left my house.
I could have been mortified. However, I just laughed at myself all the way home. Today, I am grateful that everyone I know is off at college or doing something cooler than hanging out at Wally World. Today, droves of the super-center's patrons are grateful that I wore my stripy skivvies.
(Too Much Image)
You know that moment when you walk into a room, see a roommate doing homework, then leave and you don't know whether to bid them a "have fun," "good night," "good job" or "good luck"? Oftentimes, I am sorely tempted to say, "good toast," and leave it at that. Unfortunately, the reasoning stems from the awkwardness of not knowing which words to say, and this seems like it may be a counterproductive solution.
5 girls use more hand soap and toilet paper in two weeks than 1 girl and 4 guys use in 2 months. Take the one girl out of this scenario and that time-frame quadruples. I hope I have all boys. This desire stems from my cheapskatia...ness.
I will in fact sell my molasses-slow blood for a free t-shirt and delicious FREE snacks that I can shove into my pockets for a free lunch and dinner. We could feign selflessness and call it donating, but let's be real. That's a lie. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Or a free dinner. But maybe a free t-shirt. I don't really know where I'm going with this.
Lunch and dinner consisted of a juice box,chocolate fudge Granny-B cookies, and that cheese spread stuff with crackers you haven't had since the 5th grade. My veins feel empty today. What an odd correlation...
Sometimes, Bobby Darrin is necessary in order to motivate myself to clean my room. It's like every Saturday at home ever.
Sometimes, it's okay to have a sugar intake level that would give my dentist a hernia because:
A) I have a good track record. No cavities (knock on wood).
B) It was my first sleepover and it was necessary.
Sometimes, it's good to be a girl. Especially on those days when you are exceedingly unkind to your running buddy. This includes countering everything he says with "your mom," throwing your room keys at him, calling him the devil, questioning his running authority, and/or expressing your wish that it really was your voodoo magic that brought his inexplicable leg soreness. Everything is instantly made better when you go home and discover that your womanly built-in-excuse-system is in full swing. Okay, lies, everything is instantly made worse except the fact that I now have something to blame for the inner beast. Now I can maintain that I still like stick to my mantra: Kindness Begins With Me.
The following is a picture of what the next week will look like:
Person: My roommate.
Place: The library.
Thing: That facial expression. It's incredible.
I secretly yearn for blogging on a daily basis, but I hold myself back because I'm afraid of the power. That and I'm secretly 80-years-old and afraid of all technological communication, including Facebook, texting, emailing, and blogs. But alas, my restraint for all things is waning as warm weather approaches. I'm unleashing a different kind of inner beast now-- not the one that offends you, your hobbies, your injuries, and your mother. This is the end of the post.
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