MJ, Aragorn and Paris.

I think I must have been wearing a post-it note on my forehead Wednesday that said, "I like older men." I don't know how it got there, but I can't think of any other explanation.

In my 8:00 a.m. theatre lecture (yes, I do spell theatre in that pretentious English way. Likewise, it's an aunt, not an ant, the word is pronounced vit-a-min not vite-a-min and pro-gress, not praw-gress. But I digress.) a guy I'd never seen before sat next to me. Considering that I'm in a stupor that early in the morning and that it's a 400 person lecture hall, that wasn't anything special.

We started talking as the lecture hall slowly filled up and students filtered in. He seemed nice. A little too hipster for me (not that I find that unattractive; it's just that I feel I'm a little too lame to be with someone like that. I would find myself trying to be more unique and artsy and, well, that would end disastrously. It's better for me to stick to white-bread and vanilla guys. No racial comment intended.)

After about ten minutes, the teacher put a Michael Jackson music video up on the projector:

He asked me if I was an MJ fan and I said I liked him, but he wasn't my favorite. He told me that he loves Michael because, as he explained,

"I have a sentimental attachment. His music represents my early adolescence. Kind of a coming of age thing."

Me: "Oh, my parents listened to a lot of older music around the house too, so I kind of grew up liking older bands too."

Boy: "Oh, not like that - I mean, I remember how much I loved this music video when it came out."

Me: ".... when was that?"

Boy: "I think 1991. I was around ten I think."

Me: "I was born in 1991."

Boy: "No way? You're like... nineteen?"

Me: "Shocking, I know. You're like..."

Boy: "Twenty-nine... damn, nineteen? That's really young."


Let's just say the conversation became really stilted and awkward after that.

Then, that night, as I was leaving church choir rehearsal, I heard someone yell after me, "Stop!"

He sounded really urgent, so I stopped and turned around to see a man from my choir following me down the street. "What's wrong?"

"Just stop!" Again with the panicked, urgent tone of voice.

"Did I forget something in rehearsal?"

 "No, no... I just really want to walk with you and be talking to you."

Before I go further, let me explain the situation with this dude. I've actually known him since October when I joined that choir. We've never really talked. Why? Because he's French and speaks broken English with a very, very heavy accent. He also is about thirty and looks like Aragorn from Lord of The Rings.

I'm not even exaggerating. This is exactly how he looks. Except a lot cleaner.

So I was supposed to be meeting a friend about a block away. We carried on a very stilted conversation while we walked two blocks together. I speak French proficiently but didn't exactly want to embarrass myself by speaking French in front of a man from Paris. So the conversation centered on him asking me the kind of questions you learn on the first day of English class (or any foreign language class): What is your name? How old are you? Do you go to school? What is your favorite color?

I got to the corner and explained I needed to stop there to meet someone. He made some more flustered and awkward attempts at English ( I am comforted knowing he really doesn't have such a strong grasp of the nuances of my language, so he could have just been being friendly and not flirting with me) and then left. His last words? "Wait a little after choir next time. I would like to be walking with you again one day."

Romantic? Maybe if it was coming from a starving artist in Paris who was cooking crepes for me in his garret and musing about religion and romance. But from Aragorn with a very nasal accent, after church choir on a busy street corner in Austin? Not so much.

I'm mature.

It's was one of those weeks when nothing goes your way. Actually, it's been one of those months. Or semesters... anyways, enough whining. This brightened my week considerably.

I was in a vocal coaching session on Sunday when I heard the best - and I mean the best - "that's what she said" joke ever. I know, I should have outgrown this in 2009. But it was truly epic.

I'm a soprano, and a piece I'm working on has me dipping down from above the staff to some fairly low notes (low for me is probably kind of high for you if that gives you some context. My voice sounds like a squeaky little chipmunk sometimes.) The coach was gesticulating wildly as I maneuvered the leaps, and she finally cut me off, exasperated.

"Elisabeth! More force when you're below a B!"

"I don't want to push it out and use my chest just to be loud, though."

"That's the thing! You are so, so talented up top. But when you go down, you just have to work a lot harder to make it good."

Wait for it. 

That's. What. She. Said. 

Anyways, you probably didn't find this as funny as I did, because there's a 99.99% chance your sense of humor is nowhere near as inappropriate as mine. Oh, and you're also probably a lot cooler than I am. I was leaning against the Steinway in hysterics.

Sorry, I'll be funnier next time I post... later in the week means less sleep for me, which usually guarantees that more hilarity will ensure.

Speaking of singing, this is something that should make you smile. It's also, coincidentally, why basses are just better.

I come from a great gene pool

1) This is me and my older sister. As you can tell, there's really no way for me to pretend we're not related.

2) This is a guest post by my sister.

3) Why on earth does she know so much about mens' bathrooms? I have no idea. It's awkward in and of itself.

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Considering the amount of awkwardness that takes place in my life every day (and it’s a lot…I’m related to your lovely resident blogger…and therefore share her awkward gene…damn chromosomes) I consider my greatest personal achievement being born without a penis. As if my life isn’t awkward enough in the little moments where I actually have to interact with normal people and the rest of society, those with penises have it so much worse. Even such a simple thing as using the bathroom becomes a treacherous descent into the fundamentals of avoiding awkwardness, and getting out alive, unscathed, and untraumatized, is a victory unto itself. Allow me to explain…..

Awkward moments are a product of social standards, morays, and unspoken agreements.....which is a fancy way of saying that the only reason anything is awkward is because we as a people decided that if you do that specific thing, then you’re strange, different, and weird. These rules however are changing all the time….which sucks for those who build their academic careers around the study of sociology. To quote my incredibly crude and infinitely awesome Prof: “Sociology is so much more fucking difficult that something like physics. Sociology is literally changing every day….physics isn’t gonna change. You drop a rock? It’s gonna fucking fall! Every fucking time!”

So true. That’s really all I retained from multiple collegiate levels of physics anyways. But I digress….

For example…you get onto a bus with 20 seats on it. It’s empty except for 2 people. Which means you have about 14 options of where to sit. You obviously cannot sit ON the people in those two seats (hello, sexual harassment) but the unspoken rule is you can’t sit next to them either. Those two seats on either side of each person, as empty as they might look, are really taken. Taken by the spirit of the adjacent occupant. Plus, there’s the idea that if you do sit there, it will be assumed you’re one step from sexually harassing that person. Should you be awkward by nature (and some people are!)…it will be a looooong 15 minutes, full of awkward side glances, uncomfortable shifting, and possibly the unfortunate stench of body odor.

Another unspoken moray is the elevator. Try this: next time you get on an elevator, don’t do the obligatory spin around to face the front. Face the back of the elevator. You’ll be given strange looks, and possibly be asked what the hell you’re doing. But the real comic gold comes when somebody decides that you might either be on to something (or on something), and turn around with you. Then, somebody else might join suit. Pretty soon, you and your collection of deviant minions are occupying the most awkward and socially unacceptable elevator in the building. Success.
So back to my greatest life achievement: being born female. (If you are female…rejoice, and be prepared to learn about a dark and unspoken truth of maleness. If you are not female…(male or otherwise), nod wisely as you read the following paragraphs.

There are several rules to the men’s bathroom:

1) You do NOT speak while in the bathroom. Otherwise, the world will literally end.

For women, this may comes as a shock, because we’ve been trained since fetushood that restrooms are a social experience. You go with ALL your friends, and you chit chat from stall to stall, apply makeup together at the mirror, and gossip around the wind machine that dispenses bacon. But men: they don’t speak. Nothing. Not one word is uttered while the pants are down. If you do happen to bump into somebody, you simply grunt, or make some other manly noise.

2) You do NOT make eye contact with any other man in the restroom.

This is also standard for hallways, classrooms, restaurants etc. But bathrooms are most important. If you look up at the wrong moment, then there you are, locking eyes with some guy who’s swinging in the wind. The awkwardness of that situation is too much for any man to handle, and must be avoided at all costs. Which brings us to our next rule:

3) You look straight ahead while at the urinal.

This goes without question. Women, we have a wonderful advantage. We get our own little hideaway from the world to do all our business in one swift go…without worrying about prying eyes. Men have it a little less lucky, and must therefore respect the privacy of the urinal and never let your eyes wander.

4) Always skip as many urinals as possible. Always be equidistant from two adjacent urinals on either side.

The only reason men learn geometry or any math at all, is so they can figure this part of their day out. It’s imperative you do it right. If there are 5 urinals, and one person is on either end, you MUST choose the urinary exactly in the middle, with one urinal on either side. If there are six urinals and there’s one of each end taken, then you must make a decision, because the men already there will be over-analyzing your decision into who you picked to be one urinal closer to. Choose wisely. It is probably best to not urinate at all. Just leave.

That being said…if there are three urinals and the middle is the only one available, you do NOT use the urinal. You wait patiently, or use a stall. There are absolutely no exceptions to this rule.

5) You spend exactly the right amount of time washing your hands.

Seriously?!?!? What the hell is the “right” amount of time? For men- if you don’t wash your hands at all, then you’re a sick disgusting idiot, and your girlfriend is probably going to contract a terrible disease. IF you wash your hands too long, then you look silly and stupid, and will attract many a weird look from other bathroom users and you stand there and scrub your hand with the April flowers bath soap, and the hot water streaming. And for god’s sake: if you must wash your hands like a surgeon in the bathroom, then dry quickly and go. Standing for 20 minutes under the wind machine from hell isn’t going to do anything for your rep.

6) If anything you will be doing will make an awkward noise: WAIT until the restroom is totally deserted. For however long it takes.

Girls actually have this problem too……some (my sister included) do not like having anybody hearing them pee. (Which makes absolutely no sense at all…it’s not like people are going to be confused or over-thinking the sound…(”What the fuck IS THAT?!?!”) And the old saying…”we all do it anyways”, needs to be remembered in that moment. But men, (when they’ve decided that the stalls are the desired avenue of the day) take this far more seriously. Men don’t want to hear the “Machine gun”, the “Fog Horn”, the “Plop” or the “Nerve Gas release” from their coworkers or peers. So the general rule is…..wait it out. And if you can’t help it, or something comes out unexpectedly, you wait until no one is in the bathroom to emerge from the stall. Then, you avoid using that restroom for the rest of your life.

So, for the 5 minutes that men spend in the bathroom….there’s about 50 things they have to take into account in order to avoid awkwardness. Some of us (your lovely blogger, Bethie, included) have to do everything possible during our days to minimize the number and long lasting effects of awkwardness. This task would be so much harder if we had penises.

So next time you use the bathroom…..think about your lot in life. If you are female (or happen to use the women’s restroom), then thank your lucky stars as you walk in with your friends, and enjoy your stay. If you are male (or use that restroom for whatever reason)…..good luck, avoid awkwardness, and may the force be with you. You’ll need it.

I need to sleep more often.

It's Friday night and I am staying in blogging. I just need to let sink in for a second. Frankly, this semester, I do a lot of staying-in on Fridays. Between my job and school and those pesky extracurricular activities that you thought you didn't still need for a resume after high school (guess what, you do) I just haven't been sleeping much during the week. I usually pass out around 11:00 pm on Fridays nights, so even staying up this late is an accomplishment for me. Although, it will probably make my friends cringe with pity when they read this post... tomorrow when they wake up after an awesome and event-filled night they may or may not remember.

Yesterday night I was finishing up my last shift at work, from 6:30 to 9:00, when one of my students told me that I had circles under my eyes and I had been slurring my words a little (really, where are kids' manners these days?)

With heavy sigh, I told him, "Yeah, I'm sorry I seem so distracted. I've been doing four hours a night for the last four nights." (I told you, I was slurring my words from sleepiness, which explains the following confusion).

His eyes widened, there was a long, awkward pause.

"Okay, what?" I asked, exasperated.

"You've been... doing it for four hours a night, four nights in a  row?"

"Huh?"

"You know... doing it? You know," he winked exaggeratedly, "...IT." (So much for professionalism in the office, right? And also, four hours??? Seriously, that would be truly impressive. I'm almost flattered that my students think I'm such a sexual dynamo.)

"I said doing, not doing it."

"So if you're not doing it, doing what?"

"NOT HAVING SEX." I exploded, scattering highlighted and proofread papers across the tabletop. "Sleeping. I've been doing four hours of sleeping a night. Not that whatever I do or don't do is any of your business. This conversation is inappropriate."

And then my dear, sweet student, whose grammar I correct ad nauseum, looked down at his paper for an second and said, grudgingly, "You don't do sleeping. You're sleeping four hours every night. Not doing sleeping four hours."

I glared, and he repeated back the words I use with him every time we meet: "What? You don't need all those extra words. They just don't make sense."

Bad romance

Yesterday was Valentine's Day (I realize you probably don't live under a rock and you knew that, but I just had to set up the story.) Anyways, I have a job in an office that's built into the side of the football stadium at my university. I usually am in the office for about three hours at a time between classes and meetings or at night, which means several trips to and from every day.

To access the elevators, I have to walk through a big food court area. There's a Subway near the entrance to the office which I pass several times a day, every day and finally bought a sandwich at yesterday. Or at least, I intended to buy a sandwich.

I got all the way through the sandwich-designing process without incident, and then the guy making my lunch read me my bill. Four dollars and thirty-six cents.

Feeling super excited to use my one-dollar bills and coins, I whipped out my wallet (I'm always reluctant to use my debit card on something like a sandwich) and smoothed out my four one dollar bills (the only bills in my wallet) and then rooted around for a coin. I had a quarter. Sixteen cents short.

The sandwich purveyor noted my riffling through my wallet with increasing annoyance and said,

"Hey, it's Valentine's Day. Is some lucky guy taking you out to dinner?"

"Oh, I'm working til nine tonight, so I'm not really celebrating."

"You know what, it's on me then. For Valentine's Day."

Thinking this was just the Greatest Act of Random Kindness Ever, I started to thank him profusely. And then it got awkward.

Sandwich Man: "You know, I see you walking through here all the time."
Me: "Oh, uh, yeah. I work upstairs."
Sandwhich: "I always notice you walking past lookin' real fine."

Cue awkward silence.

So here's the awkward situation.
1) He just bought my sandwhich so I can't be rude
2) I really don't like being rude anyways
3) I'm not going to quit my job just so I don't have to walk past him every day.

On the other hand... seriously. Creeper. So, happy belated Valentine's Big Creepin' Day everybody. I hope you took the opportunity to finally confess your love creepiness to the object of your affection stalking.

I promise I'm a good Catholic

I'm a good church-going Catholic  girl. You'd think there would be some sort of Heavenly reward for going to church every week - like, maybe, no abject embarrassment during that hour and half. Just once a week. An hour and half. That's all I'm asking.

But, no, of course.

Last year, I was in Mass during the winter. I always try to wear a dress to church (Again, no reward for dressing nicely at church? No. In fact, the opposite). There was a visiting priest and his homily was predictably long. I have this theory that when a priest who won't be there next week facing the wrath of grumpy parishioners is giving the homily, he really goes to town. I mean, we're talking about an eighteen-minute homily.

I really had to use the restroom about eleven minutes into the homily and he was showing no sign of stopping. Luckily, I was sitting on the very end of a pew, so I slipped out and down the side aisle to the bathroom at the foyer. Feeling very sneaky and rebellious - as I always do when I leave during the homily, because my parents never allowed it growing up - I headed back, making the long trip back to my pew, which was - unfortunately - at the very front of the church. This means I passed about 150 or 200 people before I sat down. 150 or 200 people who were, at thirteen minutes in, extremely bored of the homily and looking for distraction.

I sat down and fidgeted for a moment, wondering why the church had suddenly gotten so much colder - specifically, why my pew seemed so chilly.The horror slowly dawned on me, and I reached down under my thighs, hoping to smooth my skirt, starting to panic when I felt my own skin instead of a skirt.

For future reference, girls, when you use the bathroom and you're wearing a dress, always, always, always check the mirror before you leave to make sure your skirt isn't tucked into the waistband of your underwear. Especially if your underwear isn't church appropriate (and really, what underwear is?) and you're in church.

I sat there, having fixed my dress, face as bright red as my now-hidden panties, wanting to be called up to meet the Heavenly Father right then and there, or hoping for some kind of divine revelation to appear in the church so everyone behind me would forget what they'd seen. Jesus can do memory erasure, I'm sure. But He didn't, and when the time for the Sign of Peace came along, I couldn't even turn around.

The Sign of Peace, for all you non-Catholics, is the point in the Mass when we turn to the people all around and shake hands saying "Peace be with you!" It turns into a mad scrambling competition to see who can spread the most germs. I managed to shake hands with the people in front of me but I couldn't bear to turn around. 

Since this episode, I have joined the choir at St. Austins and started going to a different Mass time (I'm serious). The all enveloping maroon choir robe (neck to ankle, long sleeves, opaque and scratchy fabric, nun-style) leaves no chance of indecent exposure during church, not to mention, it's really difficult to tell if I'm actually female, or for that matter, human, when I wear it. I look like a maroon blob with yellow fuzz on the top. Oh, and I also get to stand in the choir loft at the back of the building, away from the rest of the congregation, so no one can really see me in the first place.

After flashing half of the parish, I don't think it's unreasonable to want to conceal my identity.

Let me introduce you...

...To one of my funny friends! I saw this a couple days ago and started laughing because it describes one of the most awkward social interactions that occurs on a day-to-day basis. She regularly writes totally awesome things on our facebook message thread, but, I promise, this is published with her permission!

So, enjoy!

Rant of the Day by Alissa Wu

If I am on the phone, why would you ask "Hey, what's up?" as you are passing by when you are obviously not interested in a conversation? First of all, we don't have time to talk about what's up. The only real response I have time for in this 3 seconds of passing is "nothing" or "the sky," one of which is a lie, and the other is a cliche I will not take part in. I'm failing calculus. My dog has heart-worm. I totaled my car. Do you really want to know? I didn't think so. And if I do happen to elaborate, we will be doing that awkward looking backwards while walking thing and eventually have to end the conversation due to neck strain and the distance between us. Secondly, I am on the phone. I have chosen to talk to someone who unfortunately isn't you. I already gave you the head nod. I acknowledged your existence. You really shouldn't want much more from this social interaction.

Therefore, I have no time to talk to you or answer your meaningless questions.

Dark and Hot

Made you look, right?

So this entry is by special request after I posted this Facebook status: One of the bathrooms on my floor has no hot water and one has no working lights. So, cold shower or dark shower?

I got comments telling me to go for the dark shower. I got one friend telling me to go for the cold shower and turn the lights off so it would be both dark and cold. Well, friends, my shower last night was dark and hot (insert some kind of joke about how I like coffee and men the same) .

So, I’m afraid of the dark. Not in the traditional sense. I love to walk around at night and I love being away from the city lights. But a dark room at night just creeps me out. Also, the shower room in my dorm has a row of dark gray stall doors that extend from ceiling to floor which look kind of like new age burial chambers.

So I took my shower in the dark. There was quite a bit of humming involved, even though I'm not normally a shower singer. I happened to choose the stall furthest from the door. This wasn’t out of some false sense of bravado. It was merely because the lights turn on by sensor normally and I wanted to make as much movement as possible, in the vain hope the lights would magically reawaken.

My shower went without incident – until I heard the scraping of fingernails on the wooden door, punching in the code to open the lock. Normally this is a good sound, but then the door opened, I heard some heavy breathing, and then it swung closed. I couldn’t tell if the person had come into take a shower or left. So it turned into one of those things where you imagine you hear things for about five minutes. Also, there’s a gap between the stall sides and the floor between the stalls and I kept imagining someone’s hand reaching from in the others stalls – probably scaly and green and undead – to grab my ankles. This led to me standing in the center of the shower, my shampoo bottles around my ankles in a protective circle.

Of course, with my lack of coordination, this was a recipe for disaster. I fell down twice, once when I was trying to leave my protective bubble and once when I was trying to dry off without the undead lurking in the shower grabbing my ankles. I decided to get dressed back in the safety and light my room.

Now things get really fun. I steeled myself and left my stall, holding my shampoo caddy and clothes in one hand, the other holding the top of my towel, which was wrapped around me.  Of course the second I was in the aisle I imagined something from The Shining coming for me, so I shrieked a little and made for the door like my life depended on it – and who knows, maybe it did.

Anyways, bathroom floors tend to be wet and slippery. I’m sure you can imagine my epic wipeout and subsequent panic when I realized I had dropped everything. There are a couple problems at this point. 

1)  I dropped my razor. It could be blade up. I could step on it and slice open my foot. 

2) This would inevitably lead to some sort of heinous infection.

3)  I dropped my dirty and clean clothes on the wet floor.

4)  I couldn’t find certain articles of clothing.

5)  Oh right, I dropped my towel too.

So I had a choice.

A)   open up the door to see more clearly in the light from the hallway so I can find my things.

B)   run naked back to my room to get dressed and then come back with a flashlight (not my brightest idea).

C)   sit down and cry

D)   laugh hysterically

Happily, I went for d).

Happy Monday Morning

I enjoyed this video along with my coffee and grits this morning. I thought you might too.

The Creeper in the Kitchen

Wednesday night, I was in the basement kitchen of my dorm, baking for my government class. I didn't know teachers could assign you to cook for everyone in the class, but apparently they can. So I was doing the lazy thing and using this recipe for cookies which is basically from Baking for Dummies Males.

There's a study room down the hallway - down the hallway and through three doors, mind you - from the kitchen. You know those Pillsbury commercials where you pop dough in the oven and the kids come running from all corners of the earth after smelling the heavenly wafted scents? By the way, I'm super proud of myself for this pop-culture reference considering I've never owned a TV.

Anyways, it turns out that those commercials aren't so misleading after all. Midway through baking, the door to the kitchen opens and a stranger steps inside. His eyes were glistening. His mouth was hanging open. I may have spotted drool. Needless to say, I was terrifed.

Cookie Worshiper: That smells fantastic.
Me: Oh. Thanks.
Cookie Worshipper: I came from all the way down the hallway when I smelled it.
Me: Oh...
Cookie Worshiper Major Creeper: I guess I just followed my nose to you.

This last statement was made with a widening of eyes and slow incremental steps towards me. I gripped my laptop, ready to use it as a bludgeon if necessary. Seriously, from in that basement I don't think anyone would hear me scream. He sat down at the kitchen table across from me and I relaxed slightly, deciding he probably wasn't going to tear out my jugular with his teeth, but that I was almost definitely going to have to make uncomfortable conversation.

I don't know if he expected me to offer him a cookie, but I didn't. He told me his name and I recovered my politeness enough to say "nice to meet you" or something to that effect, but I don't even remember how I finally got rid of him.

So boys, if you want to talk to a girl, please don't act like you're a worst-case-raving-mad or best-case-socially-inept recovering (cookie) addict and they're holding out a plate of chocolate chips. And girls, remember that the old expression "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach" is just not true. It's apparently through his nose.

We're all pansies in Texas

It is cold in Texas. I feel like that's worthy of some sort of announcement. Being of cold-loving, ice-queen Northern European stock, I don't really find it all that miserable. But I'm speaking for the general population here: it's cheeeelly. In the high teens, low twenties, to be exact, with a wind chill that makes it feel more like ten degrees. This has led to some great awkward moments today.

I have this red coat that I wear in the winter. I love it. I do not love the fact that its pockets are small and high on my waist and don't allow me to carry an iPod and keep my hands warm at the same time. Normally in Texas, this isn't an issue, but today, it was. So I was instead tucking my hands into my coat above the buttoned-up waist, almost like a sarcophagus with its arms crossed. It took me at least seven uncomfortable glances from strangers to realize I looked like I was grabbing my own boobs. To be honest I probably was but considering that I was wearing a fleece and long sleeved t-shirt underneath the coat, I didn't feel myself, well, feeling myself up.

Furthermore, while my upper-half was warm and toasty in my wool coat, stoplights were the worst. I had to stand there and let my blood cool in my veins, unable to keep myself warm by vigorously powerwalking - and I mean, I powerwalk with purpose. Sometimes I march right by people I know without seeing them. So during stoplight breaks I do my Cold Dance.

This involves hopping from one foot to the other with my knees apart, alternating with jumps up and down with my feet together. The whole time, there's a fair amount of knee-knocking and wiggling my butt as I try to keep circulation going. Generally speaking, the University of Texas is so big I never really worry about running into people I know. But of course I was in the middle of my Cold Dance when I heard a little snicker, and then: "...Elisabeth? Um, hey...?"

I normally am not a public dancer (I'm sure by now you can guess why: my level of Dork is somewhere between Trekkie and goes-to-Star-Trek-conventions). So I understand everyone's surprise when they see me shaking it on the streetcorner.

Another great moment today was, ironically, because I was really hot. The music school is uncomfortably warm in the winter and freezing all summer. Whoever works the thermostat, please mellow down a bit. Please.

Anyways, I came in from outside and immediately started sweating in all my layers. First, I took the coat off. Still too hot. I reached for my waist and pulled my fleece up and over my head. In case you've never taken high school physics, static on fleece makes shirts stick to it.

So, to the people in the always very crowded foyer of the Butler School of Music today at approximately 1:52 pm... depending on how you felt about it, I'm either very sorry I accidentally flashed you, or, you're welcome for the show.