My twentieth birthday is in a little more than a month. I am unreasonably excited, because, let's face it, twenty is one of those less-exciting birthdays between eighteen and twenty-one. Plus, all of my co-workers and friends this summer are in their mid-twenties (at least) so twenty doesn't seem like such an accomplishment anymore.
One of the side effects of being so young is that I get all sorts of advice about life-experiences I've never had. It's enlightening. Also, it seems like my every decision can be attributed to my status as a youngster. Observe:
"Wait, you didn't go home with him?"
"No."
"Oh, that's right! You're only 19!"
or,
"You're up early. How late were you out last night?"
"Til about four."
"Oh, that's right! Your body can handle that because you're only 19!"
or even,
"Frites for lunch?"
"Yeah man."
"Yeah, your metabolism can take that because you're only 19!"
I'm officially the baby of all the interns at my job, but usually everyone forgets I'm so little. Usually I forget I'm so little. I'm in Europe and I have a big-girl job and I wear pencil-skirts and nude heels. I must be a grown-up.
I might have to readjust to being a kid when I get back to America in a month, to wearing jeans and flip-flops day-to-day, to being able to enter a building without undergoing an intense security regimen, to getting grades and not just an email from my boss saying I did a great job on my latest legal brief. I also might have to adjust to not kissing everyone on the cheeks when I see them. Don't be concerned if I do this to you stateside, friends. I'm not being frisky. I'm just Euro. I have French friends and it just caught on. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Three times. Except for my friend Christian, who always says "Non, non, une quatrième!" when I stop after just three.
I use the expression "I'm Euro" because a friend of mine told me, "When you get back to America, if people make fun of your clothes or hair, just be like, what? I'm Euro now." I plan on using that excuse when I just throw on whatever was on the floor and don't brush my hair. So most days.
In other news, I broke my bed the other day. In my own defense, it's a crappy IKEA bed, and I wasn't doing anything but sitting on it (too much cheese, clearly). I just sat down on the center, and there was an ungodly noise as four slats fell down to the floor and my mattress folded up like a taco around me. I managed to jam the slats back in, but it's been a pretty nerve-wracking couple of days ever since. Every time I go to lie down I hold my breath, and about half of the time it breaks all over again. Plus, of course, everyone gives you funny looks when you say you broke your bed.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Real men ride mopeds
Hallo! Or should I say ciao?
I spent a three day weekend in Sicily two weeks ago, eating copious amounts of gelato and pizza, and I’m still fighting off the urge to say grazie and prego. Italian is so animated and over the top, and so much fun.
However, even in Sicily, I couldn’t escape my affinity for all things Dutch. I stayed at a hostel with a communal kitchen, and that is where I met Ronald.
Ronald is Dutch, and he is so typically Dutch that I could never mistake him for any other nationality. We bonded over breakfast in the kitchen (he always lit little candles, saying he likes candlelight at breakfast) every morning, talking about the NBA (he used to watch in the 1990’s, when I was neither living in America nor interested in basketball, so it was pretty tough going holding a conversation about that). He made me tea and opened my little pear juice bottles every morning for me.
He popped his head into my room at 1 a.m. to ask me and my roommate is we wanted to go out for a drink. I was already in my pajamas. Seriously, the guy was in his mid-thirties. I hope that when I’m in my mid-thirties I’m still cool enough to go out at one in the morning.
Anyways, total gent. Sharing an apartment with a stranger is a little weird, but he was a very, very nice guy. And funny, though maybe not intentionally.
When I asked him what he was doing in Sicily, he told me – not kidding – that he was “going out into the wild”. I laughed nervously and told him we were sitting smack dab in the middle of city center in Trapani. That’s when he announced his plan to buy some gear, hop a boat to Sardinia and disappear into the wilderness to eat berries and kill wild boar for a week.
This plan was, apparently, a long time coming. As a teenager, he bought a gun and planned to come to America, to Yosemite, to hunt animals and live off the land. I tried to explain to him that Yosemite is basically overrun with tourists, but he didn’t believe me.
Ronald (or Ronaldo, as I called him) was supposed to be gone off into the wild for two weeks, and time is up. I haven’t heard any news reports of Dutch hikers being killed by wild animals or starving to death, so I’m assuming all went well.
Also, Italians really dig blondes. Especially on Sicily, where most are quite dark, blonde travelers get treated like princesses. I thought it was just a figment of my imagination that everyone was being incredibly nice to me, but a friend who studied in Bologna tells me that it’s a common phenomenon. There was a lot of “si bella!” as I walked by. I don’t speak Italian, but I know what that means.
For example, on the Egadi Islands (google image that, it’s beautiful), I was sitting on some rocks in the water, and this precious little Italian Casanova explained to me that he is learning English in school, and that his English “was no so good, but in fourth level will be better”. He also said that he was sorry to bother me; but that I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen (being the only blonde for miles around really strokes your ego.) He might have been ten or eleven, and he was nervous out of his mind to talk to me.
So, in conclusion, I thought everyone was great on Sicily, although it’s apparently run by the Sicilian Mafia. They run around on mopeds in packs which really makes them seem a little ludicrous to someone who associates the mob with, well, The Godfather. Guys will drive on their mopeds past girls and speed up and pop wheelies and making cute little roaring engine sounds (as a girl who's been in many a pick-up truck, I am not impressed). But hey. They're mafia. I guess that badassery balances out the sissyness I associate with riding a moped.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Loud and proud
I miss singing. A lot. I have this crazy Dutch lady living in the apartment beneath me and she calls our landlord to complain about the noise we’re making… at three in the afternoon when we’re all at work. We had to put carpet all throughout our apartment because our high heels in the morning before we go to work bother her.
I’ve never gone so long without singing. I sing every day. I have since I was a little girl. Even when I’ve been in hours of rehearsal and I think my vocal chords hate me and they’re going to shrivel up and die just to spite me, I catch myself singing along the radio in the car or humming Vaughn Williams as I do my homework.
I can’t sing in my apartment, so I tried to find an alternate location. I tried the beach. But it’s so windy and cold that it hurts my throat and I can barely hear myself over the surf.
Then, I looked to the Dutch. They sing in the most peculiarly public places. Shopping? Random Dutch lady browsing the racks and singing along the EuroPop on the radio. Grocers? There too. On their bicycles as they bike to work/school/a bar/everywhere? Oh, yes. All the time. It’s like they make their own little car radio on their bikes. They even sing duets with random other cyclists in the bike lane. My neighbor is in her garden, outside my back window, singing, or shouting, incredibly loud, to a song that was popular in the 90’s. Little kids on the street. The ex-military security squad at my job. The waitresses at cafes. I don’t know why I never noticed this growing up, but I know it’s not just a figment of my imagination. The Dutch are constantly singing.
The great thing about this is that they have no shame. They don’t do that whole thing I do wherein when someone catches me singing I trail off and slink away as quickly as possible, avoiding eye contact and pretending it never happened. They look you in the eye as they belt it out, loud and proud and off tune (I’m not exaggerating when I say that in the past three weeks I haven’t heard a Dutch person sing in tune). None of them have been good singers. None of them really know the words. They were all really, really loud. But they are totally open about singing, wherever they are. And if you look at them like they’re crazy, they stare right back as if to say you, my friend, are the crazy one.
I really wish I was more like the Dutch and less my shrinking self, some days.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Things I have learned in the past two weeks
Some of this is awkward. Some is not.
1. How to ride a bicycle in the pouring rain, during rush hour, in a pencil skirt and heels. (How, you ask? Carefully.)
2. Similarly, you have to be careful biking downtown any time between 6:00 pm and midnight. Because drunk bicyclists, even if you are said drunk bicyclist, are very, very dangerous.
3. Serbians sometimes order straight vodka with their dinner. None of that pansy wine-with-dinner stuff you see Western Europeans doing.
4. There is a bird outside my window that makes a peculiar noise at 4:45 a.m. every day, as the sun is rising. I want to end its life.
5. Dutch boys of all ages want to, uh practice their English with me. And when I say all ages, I mean anywhere from 12 to 50. If you're looking at it glass-half-full ...wider playing field.
6. Apparently when I talk I sound "like George W"... I didn't even realize that I drawl.
7. The Dutch search and rescue team coast guard team is apparently composed of male models who wear their wetsuits peeled down so far that if they were in America, there would be a lawsuit.
8. Baking late at night without measuring cups never turns out well. Especially when your landlord comes by the next morning to show a prospective tenant one of the bedrooms.
9. There's a deadly strain of e.coli on vegetables in Europe. Good thing I have consumed nothing but bread and cheese since I've been here.
10. Wandering alone a lot is good for the soul. So is going to the train station, picking a platform, and going on an adventure.
11. Security guards are human beings too. And apparently if you make friends with them, they won't say anything when there's two bottles of liquor in your briefcase as you put it through the scanner.
12. The Dutch special police forces are like American SWAT, only taller and brawnier, and they were in my office today. Not really complaining.
13. People who deal with death all day develop very twisted senses of humor. I understand them perfectly.
14. I am capable of, with the help of a tiny tiny Chinese girl and a French man, consuming a platter of meat literally the size of a boogie board.
15. I am almost short here. It's magnificent.
16. In Amsterdam, there are big brothels where men literally stand outside of booths in line and go in one by one as if they're on an assembly lines. There are different sections, like aisles in a grocery store, for different kinds of girls. Or, if you prefer, not girls. It's like a sexcapodge. (No, this is not something I know from entering into any such establishment.)
17. Thai Massage doesn't really mean a massage.
18. It's possible to miss the ones you love so much that your stomach hurts.
19. Nevertheless, human beings can belong to a place. I kind of belong to this place.
20. You really don't need to own a cell phone. Going two days straight without having a real conversation can be magical.
21. How to send emails in cyrillic Serbian.
22. There is nothing more marvelous than waking up to rain blowing in your open window. That wasn't sarcasm :)
23. When you take a lot of pictures but there's no one in them, people start to worry for your sanity/emotional health/social skills.
1. How to ride a bicycle in the pouring rain, during rush hour, in a pencil skirt and heels. (How, you ask? Carefully.)
2. Similarly, you have to be careful biking downtown any time between 6:00 pm and midnight. Because drunk bicyclists, even if you are said drunk bicyclist, are very, very dangerous.
3. Serbians sometimes order straight vodka with their dinner. None of that pansy wine-with-dinner stuff you see Western Europeans doing.
4. There is a bird outside my window that makes a peculiar noise at 4:45 a.m. every day, as the sun is rising. I want to end its life.
5. Dutch boys of all ages want to, uh practice their English with me. And when I say all ages, I mean anywhere from 12 to 50. If you're looking at it glass-half-full ...wider playing field.
6. Apparently when I talk I sound "like George W"... I didn't even realize that I drawl.
7. The Dutch search and rescue team coast guard team is apparently composed of male models who wear their wetsuits peeled down so far that if they were in America, there would be a lawsuit.
8. Baking late at night without measuring cups never turns out well. Especially when your landlord comes by the next morning to show a prospective tenant one of the bedrooms.
9. There's a deadly strain of e.coli on vegetables in Europe. Good thing I have consumed nothing but bread and cheese since I've been here.
10. Wandering alone a lot is good for the soul. So is going to the train station, picking a platform, and going on an adventure.
11. Security guards are human beings too. And apparently if you make friends with them, they won't say anything when there's two bottles of liquor in your briefcase as you put it through the scanner.
12. The Dutch special police forces are like American SWAT, only taller and brawnier, and they were in my office today. Not really complaining.
13. People who deal with death all day develop very twisted senses of humor. I understand them perfectly.
14. I am capable of, with the help of a tiny tiny Chinese girl and a French man, consuming a platter of meat literally the size of a boogie board.
15. I am almost short here. It's magnificent.
16. In Amsterdam, there are big brothels where men literally stand outside of booths in line and go in one by one as if they're on an assembly lines. There are different sections, like aisles in a grocery store, for different kinds of girls. Or, if you prefer, not girls. It's like a sexcapodge. (No, this is not something I know from entering into any such establishment.)
17. Thai Massage doesn't really mean a massage.
18. It's possible to miss the ones you love so much that your stomach hurts.
19. Nevertheless, human beings can belong to a place. I kind of belong to this place.
20. You really don't need to own a cell phone. Going two days straight without having a real conversation can be magical.
21. How to send emails in cyrillic Serbian.
22. There is nothing more marvelous than waking up to rain blowing in your open window. That wasn't sarcasm :)
23. When you take a lot of pictures but there's no one in them, people start to worry for your sanity/emotional health/social skills.
Monday, May 30, 2011
My neighbor, the horny Turkish Man
This weekend was freezing in the Netherlands. But today (of course, Monday, the day I go back to work) was just beautiful - 75 degrees and sunny with a light breeze. I got home from work and sat out on my balcony with a stack of books I've been meaning to get to (that book about the disintegration of Yugoslavia I'm supposed to be reading for work... yeah, not in the stack) a bag of speculoos cookies (basically the the best thing ever) and a cold drink, enjoying the view of the sun setting on the church down my street.
I live on a street in a very nice part of town, so I always feel pretty safe here. My street is about half native Dutch and half foreigners, mostly Turkish. The Turkish population is pretty cool. They hang pretty cloths over their windows and play music at dusk and their children all run around the street with their toys. A Turkish family also run the restaurant down the street, and even though it smells really good, I have never seen a white person go in there. Two or three older Turkish men always linger outside the door, literally blocking the door, so I feel like I would be invading their club if I went there.
Anyways, I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building, and I have a balcony that faces the street, and, because Dutch streets are very narrow, my neighbors apartments and balconies. Two youngish Turkish guys were standing on the balcony across from me holding their little terrier dog over the rail (no idea why you would do this... that would be awful to pick up if you dropped it). They weren't speaking Dutch, so I had literally no clue what they were saying, but they seemed to be looking over at my balcony a lot.
Finally, they stopped putting the sweet puppy's life in danger, and the one holding it went inside. I kept reading, but now my neighbors attention was focused soley on me. I finally looked up and made eye contact.
He smiled at first and I felt encouraged, excited to be making friends with my neighbors. I smiled back.
Then, he put his hand down by his belt and made the universal symbol for "jerking off".
I have such friendly neighbors.
I live on a street in a very nice part of town, so I always feel pretty safe here. My street is about half native Dutch and half foreigners, mostly Turkish. The Turkish population is pretty cool. They hang pretty cloths over their windows and play music at dusk and their children all run around the street with their toys. A Turkish family also run the restaurant down the street, and even though it smells really good, I have never seen a white person go in there. Two or three older Turkish men always linger outside the door, literally blocking the door, so I feel like I would be invading their club if I went there.
Anyways, I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building, and I have a balcony that faces the street, and, because Dutch streets are very narrow, my neighbors apartments and balconies. Two youngish Turkish guys were standing on the balcony across from me holding their little terrier dog over the rail (no idea why you would do this... that would be awful to pick up if you dropped it). They weren't speaking Dutch, so I had literally no clue what they were saying, but they seemed to be looking over at my balcony a lot.
Finally, they stopped putting the sweet puppy's life in danger, and the one holding it went inside. I kept reading, but now my neighbors attention was focused soley on me. I finally looked up and made eye contact.
He smiled at first and I felt encouraged, excited to be making friends with my neighbors. I smiled back.
Then, he put his hand down by his belt and made the universal symbol for "jerking off".
I have such friendly neighbors.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Awkwardness in het Nederland
Greetings from Den Haag, lieftjes!
The Hague is a very, very international city, because NATO, the UN Justice System, all of the embassies and about ten international organizations, like EUROPOL and INTERPOL, are based here. It's home to a lot of diplomats, expats and immigrants. In fact, often the Dutch will speak English to a stranger first, assuming there's a good chance they're foreign. I've seen it a lot this week: at the grocer, two people were in front of me. The first was a woman in a hijab, and the teller spoke English to her, and then switched to Dutch when she responded in Dutch. The second was a young woman, and they carried on the entire conversation in English.
When it got to me, she started off it Dutch, which is what, I've found, most people will do to me because of how I look. I look pretty Dutch, for being Polish-Norwegian-Anglo. They tend to be tall and blonde, and that's me. It's fine because I can kind of nod and smile and say basic things like "this one please" or "good morning" or "no recipt please" or "thank you".
But sometimes, the conversation gets more in depth, and then things get really awkward, because they're chattering along to me in a language I don't speak, and I have to interrupt and say, "Oh... Ik spreek geen Nederlands," which is my catchphrase now. And then they glare at me, as if I had been fooling them all along. And then they just look really disappointed because, let's face it, it must be a drag to constantly speak other languages in your home country. I'm sorry, lovely Dutch neighbors. I wish I was Dutch. This country is my favorite place.
Speaking of Dutch and awkward, the Dutch airline KLM gave me this on my way over. I love awkwardly translated slogans. This one is awesome.
Another treasure? I was on the beach in Scheveningen after work today and a herd of about five Dutch boys, about ten, passed by. They were making fun of Justin Bieber (it sound's really funny in a Dutch accent, like, juhSTIN BEEBeur) and singing "Baby". Hilarious, until they got to the end of the chorus (you know, "Baby, baby, baby...") and on the offbeat inserted a grunt/moan/howl that sounded unmistakably sexual. I knew my suspiciouns were correct they all laughed and repeated it, and one boy started pelvic thrusting his way along the Strand, to the cheers of his peers, one of whom was shouting, "Ja baby, ja baby!"
Ah, the years when no one is homophobic.
Also, I know the Dutch apparently become sexually active earlier than any other people on earth, but come on.
The Hague is a very, very international city, because NATO, the UN Justice System, all of the embassies and about ten international organizations, like EUROPOL and INTERPOL, are based here. It's home to a lot of diplomats, expats and immigrants. In fact, often the Dutch will speak English to a stranger first, assuming there's a good chance they're foreign. I've seen it a lot this week: at the grocer, two people were in front of me. The first was a woman in a hijab, and the teller spoke English to her, and then switched to Dutch when she responded in Dutch. The second was a young woman, and they carried on the entire conversation in English.
When it got to me, she started off it Dutch, which is what, I've found, most people will do to me because of how I look. I look pretty Dutch, for being Polish-Norwegian-Anglo. They tend to be tall and blonde, and that's me. It's fine because I can kind of nod and smile and say basic things like "this one please" or "good morning" or "no recipt please" or "thank you".
But sometimes, the conversation gets more in depth, and then things get really awkward, because they're chattering along to me in a language I don't speak, and I have to interrupt and say, "Oh... Ik spreek geen Nederlands," which is my catchphrase now. And then they glare at me, as if I had been fooling them all along. And then they just look really disappointed because, let's face it, it must be a drag to constantly speak other languages in your home country. I'm sorry, lovely Dutch neighbors. I wish I was Dutch. This country is my favorite place.
Speaking of Dutch and awkward, the Dutch airline KLM gave me this on my way over. I love awkwardly translated slogans. This one is awesome.
Another treasure? I was on the beach in Scheveningen after work today and a herd of about five Dutch boys, about ten, passed by. They were making fun of Justin Bieber (it sound's really funny in a Dutch accent, like, juhSTIN BEEBeur) and singing "Baby". Hilarious, until they got to the end of the chorus (you know, "Baby, baby, baby...") and on the offbeat inserted a grunt/moan/howl that sounded unmistakably sexual. I knew my suspiciouns were correct they all laughed and repeated it, and one boy started pelvic thrusting his way along the Strand, to the cheers of his peers, one of whom was shouting, "Ja baby, ja baby!"
Ah, the years when no one is homophobic.
Also, I know the Dutch apparently become sexually active earlier than any other people on earth, but come on.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Ik ben in Nederland
Things that are great about an 8-hour plane trip with KLM:
1. It ends with me being in the Netherlands
2. The stewardesses on KLM are Dutch, so they have these soothing accents and they tend to be quite tall, so you kind of size them up and think yeah, she could take a terrorist down.
3. The food is not half bad.
4. You can catch up on your reading
Now, things that are not so great:
1. I was in literally the last row of the plane
2. I was in economy and the seats were so small I basically had to give the person next to me a lap dance just to use the bathroom.
3. My seatmate.
Let me explain about this guy. He was a huge Nigerian man who just sort of spilled over into my seat. And for 8 hours, we were basically best buddies. He slept leaning on my shoulder. He snored. His breath smelled in the morning. He drank five beers before he had to use the restroom (bladder of steel, he had). He itched his junk in his sleep. He did strange exercises to keep his circulation flowing, knocking me with his elbows in the process.
Miserable.
Also, when we were sitting in the terminal waiting for the flight, I was - I'll admit - looking for Most Likely To Blow Up A Plane Person. I had identified the only person who didn't look incredible happy and decided it was definitely him. He was frowning and clenching his fists and rocking back and forth a little, wearing black and a scary scowl. But then, he stood up and went to the bathroom. And he was wearing tight, sparkly gold wash jeans. Terrorists do not, I assure you, bedazzle their jeans.
But otherwise, the flight went smoothly, although I didn't sleep a wink and it's now 7:00 pm Dutch time. I haven't slept in upwards of thirty hours. I got settled into my apartment at around 10:30 and hit the streets looking for a coffee shop and exploring, but most importantly, desperately seeking coffee.
When I lived in the Netherlands, I was too young to know what a "brown cafe" was, or to drink coffee. Let's just say I went into three coffee shops, all of which were on main streets and looked very upscale and classy (seriously, they didn't even having leaves painted on their doors, and all of the names included the word "coffee" and not the words "weed" or "herb"), before I gave up looking for caffeine, discouraged by the heady wafts of marijuana smoke in each establishment.
I went instead to a grocer and bought tea and am trying to stay ah- ah- awa....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
1. It ends with me being in the Netherlands
2. The stewardesses on KLM are Dutch, so they have these soothing accents and they tend to be quite tall, so you kind of size them up and think yeah, she could take a terrorist down.
3. The food is not half bad.
4. You can catch up on your reading
Now, things that are not so great:
1. I was in literally the last row of the plane
2. I was in economy and the seats were so small I basically had to give the person next to me a lap dance just to use the bathroom.
3. My seatmate.
Let me explain about this guy. He was a huge Nigerian man who just sort of spilled over into my seat. And for 8 hours, we were basically best buddies. He slept leaning on my shoulder. He snored. His breath smelled in the morning. He drank five beers before he had to use the restroom (bladder of steel, he had). He itched his junk in his sleep. He did strange exercises to keep his circulation flowing, knocking me with his elbows in the process.
Miserable.
Also, when we were sitting in the terminal waiting for the flight, I was - I'll admit - looking for Most Likely To Blow Up A Plane Person. I had identified the only person who didn't look incredible happy and decided it was definitely him. He was frowning and clenching his fists and rocking back and forth a little, wearing black and a scary scowl. But then, he stood up and went to the bathroom. And he was wearing tight, sparkly gold wash jeans. Terrorists do not, I assure you, bedazzle their jeans.
But otherwise, the flight went smoothly, although I didn't sleep a wink and it's now 7:00 pm Dutch time. I haven't slept in upwards of thirty hours. I got settled into my apartment at around 10:30 and hit the streets looking for a coffee shop and exploring, but most importantly, desperately seeking coffee.
When I lived in the Netherlands, I was too young to know what a "brown cafe" was, or to drink coffee. Let's just say I went into three coffee shops, all of which were on main streets and looked very upscale and classy (seriously, they didn't even having leaves painted on their doors, and all of the names included the word "coffee" and not the words "weed" or "herb"), before I gave up looking for caffeine, discouraged by the heady wafts of marijuana smoke in each establishment.
I went instead to a grocer and bought tea and am trying to stay ah- ah- awa....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Why my government professor is awesome.
I’m sorry it’s been so long. It’s been difficult for me to be funny lately, for several reasons. Between a dear friends cancer diagnosis, five finals , two music juries, one composition project, four research papers, and sickness… it’s been a tough couple of weeks. The worst part is my habit of trying to keep a happy face on and trying to keep up my energy. I know everyone is stressed this time of year, and doesn’t need to hear about my problems, and I know my friend needs my strength and optimism right now, not to be burdened with my anxiety and sadness. Plus, my phone was stolen, so I don’t have the option of calling a friend or my parents just to vent when I feel like I’m going to lose it. I’ve been keeping it together pretty well, but yesterday, everything came to a head.
I had to go to a professor’s house to turn in my final research paper for her class. She had invited us all over (there are only about fifteen students) to have dinner and turn in our assignments. My ride and I missed each other at our meeting spot, so, panicking when it hit 4:05, five minutes after the assignment was due, I jumped in a cab. My phone was stolen, so I had no way of communicating with anyone. I knew the professors street, so I asked the cabby to drive me in the right direction.
When we got there, I confessed that I didn’t know her house number or what the house looked like, and he advised me to get out of the cab so that he could go back to campus and ferry people to and from the airport. I did, and suddenly, I found myself stranded on a street about five miles from campus, with no phone, and no idea which house I had to get in. I ran up and down the entire street in the heat for about twenty minutes, getting increasingly more panicked, the stress from the last few weeks compounding with my fear of not getting my paper turned in on time and missing work that night – and not being able to call my boss to explain, worse.
I finally chose a house that had a lot of cars out front and knocked. Nothing. Disheartened, I slowly walked away from the house, officially giving up.
The door swung open behind me, and I heard my professor’s voice. I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of an angel. I turned around, and, seeing a familiar face wearing a sympathetic expression, I burst into tears. I must have looked like a refugee or victim of some heinous crime, hot, sweaty, crying, clutching my essay and standing in the middle of the road, because my professor shut her front door, walked out onto the porch, and sat down on her front porch, patting the step beside her.
That’s how I ended up sitting on my professor’s front steps pouring my heart out to her – a fearsome federal judge, by the way, who normally scares the pants off me. The most intimidating woman I know rubbed my back and listened to me, hiccupping, explaining how I got to her house and why my paper was late. When I finished my story, she said, calmly, “Well, I certainly won’t penalize you. Just take a deep breath.”
I tried, and ended up coughing up a lung.
“Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
“What?” I sniffed, wiping my cheeks.
“You’re a very capable and level-headed young lady; there must be something else you’re upset about to be in this awful state.”
To her credit, she sat and listened to me tell her about everything – and there’s a lot – which has gone wrong in the last two weeks, making sympathetic clucking noises and patting my hand occasionally. When I was done, she said, firmly, “Well, you’ve had a very rough time. I can see that. I think I know what you need. You need to come inside and have some dinner, and have a drink, take the afternoon off, and pretend you don’t have any responsibilities or worries.”
With that, she ushered me into her house and proceeded to serve me free food and pour me a glass of wine. When I protested, saying I had to go to work and that I was underage (she’s a federal judge, mind you), she said, in her most intimidating judge voice, “Sweetheart. I insist. You really, really need it."
You may be wondering where the awkwardness begins. Well, I did go to work after this. I had worn myself out with a combination of stress, tears and no sleep. I don’t think I’ve really slept more than five hours in two weeks, and never soundly. Result? I promptly fell asleep on the couch of the academic center where I work, and woke up to find my students and coworkers standing around me laughing because I was drooling all over the burnt orange throw pillows. Apparently I’d been sleeping hard for fifty minutes, mouth open, still as a corpse, during my walk-in tutoring hours. A supervisor told me on my way out of the office that he’d walked by, seen me, and hadn’t known whether to “laugh out loud or pity you, because you looked like a worn-out little lost puppy.”
Moral of the story. Don’t let yourself get so stressed out and tired that you have a breakdown in front of your professors. Also, don’t hate on your professors. They can be some of the coolest people in the world. And finally, close your mouth before you fall asleep in public.
On a bright ending note, classes are over. And compared to the hell this past week was in terms of due dates, finals are going to be a breeze. Plus, I am taking my professors advice again and taking today and tomorrow. Absolutely no studying. None.
Oh wait... I really should catch up on that music history. Never mind. Time to hit the books again!
I had to go to a professor’s house to turn in my final research paper for her class. She had invited us all over (there are only about fifteen students) to have dinner and turn in our assignments. My ride and I missed each other at our meeting spot, so, panicking when it hit 4:05, five minutes after the assignment was due, I jumped in a cab. My phone was stolen, so I had no way of communicating with anyone. I knew the professors street, so I asked the cabby to drive me in the right direction.
When we got there, I confessed that I didn’t know her house number or what the house looked like, and he advised me to get out of the cab so that he could go back to campus and ferry people to and from the airport. I did, and suddenly, I found myself stranded on a street about five miles from campus, with no phone, and no idea which house I had to get in. I ran up and down the entire street in the heat for about twenty minutes, getting increasingly more panicked, the stress from the last few weeks compounding with my fear of not getting my paper turned in on time and missing work that night – and not being able to call my boss to explain, worse.
I finally chose a house that had a lot of cars out front and knocked. Nothing. Disheartened, I slowly walked away from the house, officially giving up.
The door swung open behind me, and I heard my professor’s voice. I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of an angel. I turned around, and, seeing a familiar face wearing a sympathetic expression, I burst into tears. I must have looked like a refugee or victim of some heinous crime, hot, sweaty, crying, clutching my essay and standing in the middle of the road, because my professor shut her front door, walked out onto the porch, and sat down on her front porch, patting the step beside her.
That’s how I ended up sitting on my professor’s front steps pouring my heart out to her – a fearsome federal judge, by the way, who normally scares the pants off me. The most intimidating woman I know rubbed my back and listened to me, hiccupping, explaining how I got to her house and why my paper was late. When I finished my story, she said, calmly, “Well, I certainly won’t penalize you. Just take a deep breath.”
I tried, and ended up coughing up a lung.
“Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
“What?” I sniffed, wiping my cheeks.
“You’re a very capable and level-headed young lady; there must be something else you’re upset about to be in this awful state.”
To her credit, she sat and listened to me tell her about everything – and there’s a lot – which has gone wrong in the last two weeks, making sympathetic clucking noises and patting my hand occasionally. When I was done, she said, firmly, “Well, you’ve had a very rough time. I can see that. I think I know what you need. You need to come inside and have some dinner, and have a drink, take the afternoon off, and pretend you don’t have any responsibilities or worries.”
With that, she ushered me into her house and proceeded to serve me free food and pour me a glass of wine. When I protested, saying I had to go to work and that I was underage (she’s a federal judge, mind you), she said, in her most intimidating judge voice, “Sweetheart. I insist. You really, really need it."
You may be wondering where the awkwardness begins. Well, I did go to work after this. I had worn myself out with a combination of stress, tears and no sleep. I don’t think I’ve really slept more than five hours in two weeks, and never soundly. Result? I promptly fell asleep on the couch of the academic center where I work, and woke up to find my students and coworkers standing around me laughing because I was drooling all over the burnt orange throw pillows. Apparently I’d been sleeping hard for fifty minutes, mouth open, still as a corpse, during my walk-in tutoring hours. A supervisor told me on my way out of the office that he’d walked by, seen me, and hadn’t known whether to “laugh out loud or pity you, because you looked like a worn-out little lost puppy.”
Moral of the story. Don’t let yourself get so stressed out and tired that you have a breakdown in front of your professors. Also, don’t hate on your professors. They can be some of the coolest people in the world. And finally, close your mouth before you fall asleep in public.
On a bright ending note, classes are over. And compared to the hell this past week was in terms of due dates, finals are going to be a breeze. Plus, I am taking my professors advice again and taking today and tomorrow. Absolutely no studying. None.
Oh wait... I really should catch up on that music history. Never mind. Time to hit the books again!
Friday, April 22, 2011
In honor of Holy Week
Happy Good Friday! I know that seems like an oxymoron, considering that Christians use this day to remember Christ's death on the cross. But I am happy because it has been a wonderful day (and, on a serious note, I am happy because it's a day to remember how grateful I am to Him) . So, since this weekend is going to be all Jesus, all the time, I thought I'd kick it off with a blog post about one of the most awkward religious experiences of my life.
I was eating at the dining hall on this fall (I realize that there are multiple posts on the blog about the dining hall... it's true, the place just reeks of awkward) when I realized a guy sitting a little further along the table looking at me. I don't mean that whole "quick eye contact and then look away pretending it never happened" thing. I don't mean I caught him glancing over. I mean he was staring. When I made direct eye contact for the first time, he didn't even blush.
I assumed he was just zoning out in my direction, so I just resumed eating. When I looked over again, about two minutes later, he was still doing it. This time I lifted my eyebrows at him and tried to communicate through a somewhat ambiguous facial expression that he didn't need to be staring at me over his greasy pizza and french fries.
When it happened for the third time, I started to feel a little creeped out. It had been almost ten minutes, and I could see him out of the corner of my eye, just watching me eat. Wanting to get a good look in case I had to describe my attacker to the police later (kidding) I surruptiously tried to glance over him.
That was when I realized he was wearing a cross, a T-shirt from a Christian summer camp, and had a Bible sitting by his plate. I relaxed a little. Sure, he was big creepin', but was he likely to assault me? Probably not.
I went to go get ice cream, and when I got back, he sidled along the table so he was closer to me. Did he start with a "Hi" or a "My name is..." or even, "Sorry for staring, but you have something on your face?"
No.
"God wants me to know you."
I blinked for a second, wondering how to answer that. He saw my suprise and asked, "Are you a believer?"
"Yes..."
"Okay, then you understand!"
Not exactly. If God wants you to talk to me, talk to me. But don't precursor it with creeping. This is one of those examples of someone with very good intentions... and very poor execution. I believe there was something in the Ten Commandments about "Thou Shalt Not Rudely Stare At People Thou Dost Not Know".
Wait, there wasn't? Well, there should be.
Happy (early) Easter!
Oh! Easter reminds me of bunnies, too! Have you ever heard of The Book of Bunny Suicides by Andy Riley? It's wonderful in the most sadistic way possible.
I was eating at the dining hall on this fall (I realize that there are multiple posts on the blog about the dining hall... it's true, the place just reeks of awkward) when I realized a guy sitting a little further along the table looking at me. I don't mean that whole "quick eye contact and then look away pretending it never happened" thing. I don't mean I caught him glancing over. I mean he was staring. When I made direct eye contact for the first time, he didn't even blush.
I assumed he was just zoning out in my direction, so I just resumed eating. When I looked over again, about two minutes later, he was still doing it. This time I lifted my eyebrows at him and tried to communicate through a somewhat ambiguous facial expression that he didn't need to be staring at me over his greasy pizza and french fries.
When it happened for the third time, I started to feel a little creeped out. It had been almost ten minutes, and I could see him out of the corner of my eye, just watching me eat. Wanting to get a good look in case I had to describe my attacker to the police later (kidding) I surruptiously tried to glance over him.
That was when I realized he was wearing a cross, a T-shirt from a Christian summer camp, and had a Bible sitting by his plate. I relaxed a little. Sure, he was big creepin', but was he likely to assault me? Probably not.
I went to go get ice cream, and when I got back, he sidled along the table so he was closer to me. Did he start with a "Hi" or a "My name is..." or even, "Sorry for staring, but you have something on your face?"
No.
"God wants me to know you."
I blinked for a second, wondering how to answer that. He saw my suprise and asked, "Are you a believer?"
"Yes..."
"Okay, then you understand!"
Not exactly. If God wants you to talk to me, talk to me. But don't precursor it with creeping. This is one of those examples of someone with very good intentions... and very poor execution. I believe there was something in the Ten Commandments about "Thou Shalt Not Rudely Stare At People Thou Dost Not Know".
Wait, there wasn't? Well, there should be.
Happy (early) Easter!
Oh! Easter reminds me of bunnies, too! Have you ever heard of The Book of Bunny Suicides by Andy Riley? It's wonderful in the most sadistic way possible.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
My mother's good opinion of me is shot.
My mom and sister came to town this weekend, which meant I completely neglected my schoolwork and ate a lot... good thing I also walked a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot.
On Saturday, we had a couple hours before dinnertime, so I suggested that we go for a walk and a dip in Barton Creek. This is what I had in mind:
Naturally, this didn't go according to plan. First of all, we parked at a different trail head (easier to find) and I figured, hey, I got this. I can navigate a trail, suckers. I've been hiking since I was a munchkin. And, believe it or not, I actually have a decent sense of direction.
Our hike began with a descent 300 feet straight down into the creekbed, complete with the sun beating down. I love a good incline and I love to hike, so I wasn't worried. My mother and sister are in good shape, so it wasn't the physical stress of the hike that pissed them off.... it was the fact that I casually said it would be about a half mile to the creek and that... well it wasn't a half mile.
Once we got to the creek bed, I started moving upstream, remembering that we had hiked upstream for about ten minutes once we got to the bottom last the time I had come here. Problem was, this trail head was farther upstream than the swimming hole I had in mind. Long story short, we hiked for about an hour and a half down a roughly marked trail, clambering over rocks and stumps, my mother growling at me every ten minutes that "it had better be soon" and me frantically insisting that it had to be just around the corner and I didn't remember it taking so long.
At about five o'clock we admitted defeat and trekked back downstream. When we ran across a swimming hole - not the lovely, clean, clear, secluded one I know - I suggested a swim, to cool off.
So this hole was frequented by a bunch of frat and sorority kids drinking copious amounts of beer and smoking lots and lots of pot. My mother, to her credit, gracefully perched on a rock and didn't lecture me, but my little sisters eyes were like saucers. I squirmed as I floated around in the water - which even smelled like beer, gross - feeling like I had dragged my family to a frat party and my good reputation with them through the mud.
We made a quick escape, and there was an awkward silence as we headed back towards the ascent. I'm sure my mother was calculating the cost of sending me to college to - apparently - learn how to drink, throw a football while standing knee deep in water and smoke grass. I could see her running through the names she's heard me bring up and decide who sounded like a pothead. I imagined how she was going to end every phone call from now on: "Be careful, don't smoke too much pot. And don't drink so much beer that you get a beer belly. Oh and don't drink and drive. And limit yourself to wearing one fluorescent color at a time, for the love of all that is holy."
It was like she had seen me in a quintessential party school habitat. Which, to be honest, is so not my crowd. My idea of a super-exciting Friday night is to sleep more than five hours.
Weakly, I tried to say, "That's really not a typical crowd at this creek..."
"No, Bethie, I feel like that's a very typical crowd."
We surveyed the steep incline and I said, with false - and at this point, lackluster - bravado, "It's not too bad, maybe a twenty minute climb."
My mother turned to my sister and said, scathingly, "Don't listen to her, Sarah. She lies."
PS: My Mama really loves me. And she doesn't actually think I'm a crazy party animal... I think.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Sandwhich Man Strikes Again
Okay, so remember Sandwhich Man? At subway? You can read about him here.
Well. I ran into him again yesterday. It was only the second time I've gone to Subway, and it's been two months, so I assumed he'd found someone new to stalk. Nope. What was the first thing he said when I walked up?
"Oh! You cut your hair."
Weird. Weird, weird weird.
In other news, I got stranded at a bus stop this weekend in Houston. It's a long story involving the wrong address being posted on a website, iPhones, and the poor navigation skills of the person who was supposed to be picking me up. (Just kidding. I ruv roo! Thank you for coming to get me... eventually : ] )
So, I was sitting in a park and ride about forty five minutes from home for about thirty minutes. It started to get dark and there was this super-creepy old man in a white van parked near me and no one else around, so I left and walked down the road to a gas station, where I started to make friends with the two Albanian dudes who ran the register. I'm glad I did, because my phone started to die and I would have needed to use theirs to call some kind of help if my ride hadn't shown up. But anyways. They were really, really nice. They told me about their kids. They asked about my major. They even let me illegally loiter for about an hour in front of their store.
Who was not so nice? The people filtering through filling up their cars and going into the station. I guess it did look a little weird - I was the only Caucasian person there, I was wearing a pretty expensive hiking backpack, and holding a smart phone... and yet I was the one who was stranded at a gas station at 9:00 pm on a Friday night.Karma's a you-know-what.
Final awkward thought of the night. Somehow, after this weekend, I have 34 one dollar bills in my wallet. Excuse me, what? No, I didn't do anything morally reprehensible to earn the twenty three one dollar bills I just used to buy groceries. Stop giving me that dirty look.
Well. I ran into him again yesterday. It was only the second time I've gone to Subway, and it's been two months, so I assumed he'd found someone new to stalk. Nope. What was the first thing he said when I walked up?
"Oh! You cut your hair."
Weird. Weird, weird weird.
In other news, I got stranded at a bus stop this weekend in Houston. It's a long story involving the wrong address being posted on a website, iPhones, and the poor navigation skills of the person who was supposed to be picking me up. (Just kidding. I ruv roo! Thank you for coming to get me... eventually : ] )
So, I was sitting in a park and ride about forty five minutes from home for about thirty minutes. It started to get dark and there was this super-creepy old man in a white van parked near me and no one else around, so I left and walked down the road to a gas station, where I started to make friends with the two Albanian dudes who ran the register. I'm glad I did, because my phone started to die and I would have needed to use theirs to call some kind of help if my ride hadn't shown up. But anyways. They were really, really nice. They told me about their kids. They asked about my major. They even let me illegally loiter for about an hour in front of their store.
Who was not so nice? The people filtering through filling up their cars and going into the station. I guess it did look a little weird - I was the only Caucasian person there, I was wearing a pretty expensive hiking backpack, and holding a smart phone... and yet I was the one who was stranded at a gas station at 9:00 pm on a Friday night.Karma's a you-know-what.
Final awkward thought of the night. Somehow, after this weekend, I have 34 one dollar bills in my wallet. Excuse me, what? No, I didn't do anything morally reprehensible to earn the twenty three one dollar bills I just used to buy groceries. Stop giving me that dirty look.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The only serious blog post I'll ever write
I am a super awkward hugger. Here’s a list of awkward hugs:
1) When you do the awkward back pat. I feel like I’m your coach or something…like, “way to go, kid, I’m proud of you, but I don’t exactly want to rub your back… that’s too intimate. I’ll pat instead.”
2) When I bang my chin on your collarbone. This mostly happens if you’re taller than I am and I instinctively turn my torso away from yours and lock my elbows to avoid full-body contact. And it actually hurts.
3) The face collision. No, I wasn’t trying to kiss your lips, mouth, chin, cheek or ear.
4) Once, I tried to deflect a hug when he was already holding out his arms. I put out one hand and turned it into a weird high-five thing, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process.
5) When you’re with a friend, and you run into their friend. They hug the friend and then feel like they can’t leave you out… but you don’t know them.
6) The Sneak Attack Hug. Didn’t see that one coming…
7) When we both reach up and try to put our arms around each other’s necks. Somebody’s got to go with the waist, amigo. However, if we’re not really close, your hands shouldn’t be anywhere beneath my waist. And don’t try to tell me that you don’t know what I mean by “waist”… it’s not at the hem of my jeans.
8) When a handshake becomes a hug. I’m not a dude.
9) You’re not letting go. This hug just keeps going on and on. When my arms are no longer around you… maybe that’s a cue that you should think about stopping the love-fest.
10) The “What is in your pocket…oh…” hug. I don’t think I need to explain this one. It’s just awkward on so many levels.
But this is NOT a public service announcement asking people to stop hugging me. In fact, it’s the opposite. To everyone who does it even though it’s awkward and I probably make them feel as rejected as a mealy watermelon, thank you. I’m grateful not because you give me fodder for my awkward blog, but because I know it’s important to step out of my comfort zone and do things that scare me.
So that’s the embarrassing revelation of the day, friends. I am kind of afraid to hug people. I’m not a leper or anything. No weird phobias or psychological problems (some people would tell you this is debatable). In fact, I was a really cuddly child. I was the one who just wanted to curl up on someone’s lap and snuggle. In fact, I still love snuggling. I love holding hands and dancing close and taking naps with someone you like a lot. I would go on, but my entire extended family reads this blog. You get the picture.
Almost two years ago, this fear of hugging thing started. It’s difficult to explain without sounding like a complete nutcase, so I won’t even try. I don’t even understand it, because I know it’s irrational. People are basically good and have good intentions, but I have trouble trusting in that.
Every time someone forces me to be uncomfortable, to be awkward, to be nervous, to be ungainly… I am grateful. I need the practice (and sometimes, I get on a roll and hug, like, ten people in one night. I did that at an event this fall and I’m pretty sure everyone thought I was drunk).
I was proofreading a psychology paper at my job the other day, and the student explained that in order to break a fear of, say, golden retrievers, the therapist would lock the phobic patient in a room with golden retrievers. I’m not suggesting that you hug me and never let me go. Just keep hugging me. I promise, it’ll be awkward. It’ll be a little scary for me, especially if you’re someone who, in the past, I’ve managed to avoid like the plague. But every time, it gets easier =)
Sorry this was so serious. Does this picture make it better?
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Snakes on a Van... no, really.
You know that movie Snakes on a Plane? Basically, that’s my family’s life.This morning while I was skyping with my parents, they told me this story. Yesterday, they were pulling into the driveway of our house in the family mini-van, that American classic, and as they pressed the garage door opener, they realized there was a four foot black snack curled up in front of the door.
My mother first tried to close the door again, but before she could, the snake slithered into the garage. They got out of the car and started to panic. Our house, you see, is being painted because it’s on the market. The door from the garage to the house was open to let the fumes air out. And the snake was headed for the house we’re showing on a daily basis. Can you imagine a realtor walking buyers through the house and trying to downplay the possibility of a huge snake lurking under the furniture, waiting to pop out at any moment? “You know, it’s really a great space… ignore that hissing sound…”
So my father tried his hand at snake herding instead of just killing the thing. I don’t know why he didn’t just grab a hoe or a saw or a shovel or something, since we have plenty of dangerous stuff lying around our garage. The funny this about this strategy, and my father’s normal approach to animals, is that my dad is a fairly intimidating looking man who stands six and a half feet tall, has a deep voice, and scares the living daylights out of most guys who have been to my house. Unbeknownst to my poor friends, he’s also the type to have basically made a pet out of the demonic and oversized squirrel that eats our porch. He named it Herman (it’s a female squirrel, I think, by the way). He protects it from our pellet-gun shooting neighbor and talks to it through the window panes. Total softie.
My mother first tried to close the door again, but before she could, the snake slithered into the garage. They got out of the car and started to panic. Our house, you see, is being painted because it’s on the market. The door from the garage to the house was open to let the fumes air out. And the snake was headed for the house we’re showing on a daily basis. Can you imagine a realtor walking buyers through the house and trying to downplay the possibility of a huge snake lurking under the furniture, waiting to pop out at any moment? “You know, it’s really a great space… ignore that hissing sound…”
So my father tried his hand at snake herding instead of just killing the thing. I don’t know why he didn’t just grab a hoe or a saw or a shovel or something, since we have plenty of dangerous stuff lying around our garage. The funny this about this strategy, and my father’s normal approach to animals, is that my dad is a fairly intimidating looking man who stands six and a half feet tall, has a deep voice, and scares the living daylights out of most guys who have been to my house. Unbeknownst to my poor friends, he’s also the type to have basically made a pet out of the demonic and oversized squirrel that eats our porch. He named it Herman (it’s a female squirrel, I think, by the way). He protects it from our pellet-gun shooting neighbor and talks to it through the window panes. Total softie.
Samuel L. Jackson (hero of Snakes on a Plane)
My dad (hero of Snakes on a Van, with his lovely sidekick, my mother)
Predictably, the herding idea didn’t go over so well. The snake did indeed turn away from our house. Where did it go instead? Up the tire of the van and into the underbelly of the vehicle. There is now a snake inside my parent’s car. They drove around for about an hour and speed over speed-bumps trying to dislodge it, but no such luck.
Now, I wasn’t there, but I can pretty much imagine how this scene went. There was a lot of:
My mother: “VERN! VERN IT’S GOING INTO THE HOUSE! MY CLEAN, PAINTED HOUSE!”
My father: “Oh no, little snakey-wakey, don’t go that way!”
My father: “Oh no, little snakey-wakey, don’t go that way!”
My mother: “IT’S GOING INTO THE CAR!”
Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit, but I think it was along those lines. There was a lot of shrieking and squealing (that is, if my little sister was also there). There was a lot of panicking. But most importantly, there was a lot of laughing. If there’s one thing my family is truly talented at, it’s laughing in the face of inconvenience, discomfort, embarrassment, awkwardness, invasions by potentially venomous critters, and at ourselves. I think my ability to laugh at my own ridiculousness must run in the family. We collectively have a somewhat twisted sense of humor, but there’s never a dull moment. I admire my parents for many reasons, but most of all for their humor, no matter what situation they find themselves in.
Now the question that remains is if this renegade viper can get from the undercarriage of the car to my feet next time I drive it. Oh, and if it is in fact venomous. Yikes.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
I love making lists.
Here is a list of awkward reactions to my newly-shorn hair. I posted it on Facebook and on this blog so I would stop getting so many shocked faces pointed my way, but that hasn't stopped some of these truly classic comments, none of which I truly took offense to. Following each comment is what I would've responded with if I hadn't just awkwardly laughed. If you're reading this and one of these comments looks familiar, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
1) "What are you going to do about the dyke comments? I hadn't gotten any such comments... until now. DOES THIS MEAN I LOOK LIKE ELLEN??? Because even though she's definitely my favorite lesbian, I don't know if I would consider her my style icon.
2) "Did you go to a hair stylist or do it yourself?"Wow. Okay. It looks that bad?
3) "Did you just ask her to make you look like you came from the sixties?" If you are agreeing with the six people who have told me that I look like Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music (aka, the most perfect human being ever to walk the face of the earth) then of course I did!
4) "Oh, you look like my mom!" ... I'm nineteen. How old was she when she had you???
5) "You're lucky you're pretty." Thank you, by the way :)
6) "It's a cute haircut, but it doesn't suit you." We're not friends anymore.
7) "It looks very... classic." Translation: you look like you've been living in a cave and watching Turner classic movies for years.
8) "Why would you do that?" You have a buzz cut... why did you do that? Your skull is not exactly as flawless as a baby's bottom.
9) "It's a very smart haircut. You look smart." I feel like you just compared me to Hilary Clinton. And did long hair make me look, I don't know, vapid?
10) "I'll warn you, some guys aren't into that." If a guy cares that much about my hair, maybe he shouldn't be dating me. Or girls in general.
11) "Oh, you got in a fight with a lawnmower!" How about I hold your head under a lawnmower and you tell me how it feels.
12) "Girl you FIERCE!" Yes, I'm black.
Now, guess how many of those comments were from guys? All but two (1 and 10 were girls). Yep, even 12.
Not that I'm bitter. The response has been overwhelmingly positive, and I have zero regrets. I advocate that every girl chop her hair off! And I advocate that every guy grow his out long so he can see what a pain in the butt it is and how much of a relief it is to just hack it off.
Speaking of guys, the demographic of guys who check me out is totally different now. Less frat star, more argyle-wearing, Dostoevsky-reading, Fleet Foxes-listening grad student. Winning.
1) "What are you going to do about the dyke comments? I hadn't gotten any such comments... until now. DOES THIS MEAN I LOOK LIKE ELLEN??? Because even though she's definitely my favorite lesbian, I don't know if I would consider her my style icon.
2) "Did you go to a hair stylist or do it yourself?"Wow. Okay. It looks that bad?
3) "Did you just ask her to make you look like you came from the sixties?" If you are agreeing with the six people who have told me that I look like Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music (aka, the most perfect human being ever to walk the face of the earth) then of course I did!
4) "Oh, you look like my mom!" ... I'm nineteen. How old was she when she had you???
5) "You're lucky you're pretty." Thank you, by the way :)
6) "It's a cute haircut, but it doesn't suit you." We're not friends anymore.
7) "It looks very... classic." Translation: you look like you've been living in a cave and watching Turner classic movies for years.
8) "Why would you do that?" You have a buzz cut... why did you do that? Your skull is not exactly as flawless as a baby's bottom.
9) "It's a very smart haircut. You look smart." I feel like you just compared me to Hilary Clinton. And did long hair make me look, I don't know, vapid?
10) "I'll warn you, some guys aren't into that." If a guy cares that much about my hair, maybe he shouldn't be dating me. Or girls in general.
11) "Oh, you got in a fight with a lawnmower!" How about I hold your head under a lawnmower and you tell me how it feels.
12) "Girl you FIERCE!" Yes, I'm black.
Now, guess how many of those comments were from guys? All but two (1 and 10 were girls). Yep, even 12.
Not that I'm bitter. The response has been overwhelmingly positive, and I have zero regrets. I advocate that every girl chop her hair off! And I advocate that every guy grow his out long so he can see what a pain in the butt it is and how much of a relief it is to just hack it off.
Speaking of guys, the demographic of guys who check me out is totally different now. Less frat star, more argyle-wearing, Dostoevsky-reading, Fleet Foxes-listening grad student. Winning.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
It's not summer until you've had an awkward bikini incident
So, I chopped off all of my hair on Wednesday. I don't just mean I trimmed it, I took off a solid foot of hair. It went from this:
To this:
Let's just say that the skype date during which this second picture was taken was HUGE shock-fest.
Anyways, onto the awkwardness! I hit the pool today (I was a swimmer for years and my body just isn't happy unless it's chlorinated every once in a while) for some chemicals, sun and anthropology reading. I have a new bikini that I was wearing which was just precious. I love anything floral. Can you tell from the picture above? Maybe that's a good thing, because it overcompensates for my super-short hair.
This super-short thing means that it dries really, really fast. It took about ten minutes in the sun to dry. My new bikini obviously didn't dry quite as fast. I put on shorts and t-shirt over my suit to walk home.
When you have wet hair, a wet patch on your butt is totally acceptable, because it's obvious you were swimming. Wet patches on your shirt also contribute to this. For some (mystifying) reason, my bikini top was really dry, my hair was dry, and the bikini bottom under my khaki shorts, well, not so much. Walking across campus looking like you just peed yourself? Not fun.
Second unfortunate pool incident? I have lost a little weight since buying my bikini top, which is strapless (don't you hate it when you lose weight exactly where you'd rather not get any smaller? I mean, diet and running, take away my thighs, sure, but I'd like to keep my boobs, thanks) and suddenly it is a little too big. I ducked under the water and... you guessed it. I had pushed off the wall and was streamlining underwater across the pool when I realized my top was down on my butt. Thank goodness that hasn't gotten any smaller or I would've lost it entirely.
Let's just say that the skype date during which this second picture was taken was HUGE shock-fest.
Anyways, onto the awkwardness! I hit the pool today (I was a swimmer for years and my body just isn't happy unless it's chlorinated every once in a while) for some chemicals, sun and anthropology reading. I have a new bikini that I was wearing which was just precious. I love anything floral. Can you tell from the picture above? Maybe that's a good thing, because it overcompensates for my super-short hair.
This super-short thing means that it dries really, really fast. It took about ten minutes in the sun to dry. My new bikini obviously didn't dry quite as fast. I put on shorts and t-shirt over my suit to walk home.
When you have wet hair, a wet patch on your butt is totally acceptable, because it's obvious you were swimming. Wet patches on your shirt also contribute to this. For some (mystifying) reason, my bikini top was really dry, my hair was dry, and the bikini bottom under my khaki shorts, well, not so much. Walking across campus looking like you just peed yourself? Not fun.
Second unfortunate pool incident? I have lost a little weight since buying my bikini top, which is strapless (don't you hate it when you lose weight exactly where you'd rather not get any smaller? I mean, diet and running, take away my thighs, sure, but I'd like to keep my boobs, thanks) and suddenly it is a little too big. I ducked under the water and... you guessed it. I had pushed off the wall and was streamlining underwater across the pool when I realized my top was down on my butt. Thank goodness that hasn't gotten any smaller or I would've lost it entirely.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
No, you heard me right.
I have a tendency to a) say completely inappropriate things by accident b) type completely inappropriate things by accident (blame the overzealous auto-correct on my new phone) and c) mishear things and misconstrue them as completely inappropriate.
Example a). I was at a Christmas party this year. To make this story even better, I'll tell you that it was at a big house off-campus that a bunch of super cool Christian students live at. It's called Hampton House. I was chatting with a couple friends over apple cider about the movie A Bug's Life (yes, I'm in college...) We were discussing that romantic scene between the two main characters (by the way, bugs in love? Or animals in love? What? Awkward. I squirm through every scene like that in animated movie history) and I tried to say: "Their tentacles got tangled up!"
What did I say instead? "Their testicles got tangled up."
Example b). I got a new phone over Thanksgiving. It is way over the top auto-correct happy. And furthermore, it takes completely kosher, white bread words and makes them really, really awkward words. Okay, so this is maybe partly to do with my carelessness. Here are some texts I've sent over the past few month, with my intended message in italics:
We're going over to his place to cock. We're going over to his place to cook.
Friend: Merry Christmas Elisabeth! And wish Merry Christmas to your parents for me too!
Me: You tool. You too.
Let's make out in your kitchen! Let's make it in your kitchen.
It's a sexy of Judaism. It's a sect of Judaism.
This one wasn't on my phone, but instead of typing "simulate climate" on my environmental science review during finals, I typed "stimulate climax". Blame that on exhaustion and an intense desire just to be done with the semester already. Or on Freud, I guess.
Example c). I was playing a heated game of Uno with a couple friends at a game night a couple of weeks ago when I stopped to look down at my phone. I was kind of half-listening to the conversation (never a good idea because you'll always hear something really strange and out of context.) My phone is, by the way, pretty huge. It's long and wide (cue the "that's what she said" jokes, I have heard and made them all when it comes to my phone) and basically looks like a mini iPad.
I had a female friend to the left and a male friend to the right, and they - I thought - had been talking to each other over my head when all of the sudden I heard: "Oh my God, your boner is huge!"
"What did you say?" Maybe a more appropriate question would have been, what on earth is going on and why is it going on it front of me?
"I said, your phone is huge?"
Example a). I was at a Christmas party this year. To make this story even better, I'll tell you that it was at a big house off-campus that a bunch of super cool Christian students live at. It's called Hampton House. I was chatting with a couple friends over apple cider about the movie A Bug's Life (yes, I'm in college...) We were discussing that romantic scene between the two main characters (by the way, bugs in love? Or animals in love? What? Awkward. I squirm through every scene like that in animated movie history) and I tried to say: "Their tentacles got tangled up!"
What did I say instead? "Their testicles got tangled up."
Example b). I got a new phone over Thanksgiving. It is way over the top auto-correct happy. And furthermore, it takes completely kosher, white bread words and makes them really, really awkward words. Okay, so this is maybe partly to do with my carelessness. Here are some texts I've sent over the past few month, with my intended message in italics:
We're going over to his place to cock. We're going over to his place to cook.
Friend: Merry Christmas Elisabeth! And wish Merry Christmas to your parents for me too!
Me: You tool. You too.
Let's make out in your kitchen! Let's make it in your kitchen.
It's a sexy of Judaism. It's a sect of Judaism.
This one wasn't on my phone, but instead of typing "simulate climate" on my environmental science review during finals, I typed "stimulate climax". Blame that on exhaustion and an intense desire just to be done with the semester already. Or on Freud, I guess.
Example c). I was playing a heated game of Uno with a couple friends at a game night a couple of weeks ago when I stopped to look down at my phone. I was kind of half-listening to the conversation (never a good idea because you'll always hear something really strange and out of context.) My phone is, by the way, pretty huge. It's long and wide (cue the "that's what she said" jokes, I have heard and made them all when it comes to my phone) and basically looks like a mini iPad.
I had a female friend to the left and a male friend to the right, and they - I thought - had been talking to each other over my head when all of the sudden I heard: "Oh my God, your boner is huge!"
"What did you say?" Maybe a more appropriate question would have been, what on earth is going on and why is it going on it front of me?
"I said, your phone is huge?"
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