Thursday, September 30, 2010

Don't Honk if You're Horny

So, I know that I’ve talked about this issue at least once before, but it continues to be such a problem, in (my) daily life, that I felt the need to discuss the issue once again – only this time I’m going further in depth.

As a female pedestrian, I am at the risk of experiencing unwanted honks from random drivers, or – worse! – the disgusting lean-out-the-window-and-holler/blow-a-kiss. Now, I know that you might be thinking that there are more important issues (like the Ground Zero community center, the state of the U.S. economy, our immigration policy, the drug cartels, net neutrality, or any number of potential political candidates, whose signs are plastered all over my beautiful city like a plague, and why they are the messiah and/or the anti-christ) about which we could be talking, but, I assure you, this is a pressing matter.

As I am forced to experience this frenzied, testosterone influenced, honking phenomenon nearly every day that I walk to the train, I have repeatedly asked the question: “Why are these random people honking at me, and what is their motive?” I guess I’m also asking this one: “What is their major malfunction?!”

Oh, and before I get further into this, I have to say “No worries (Mom)!” because I never feel endangered in any way by these honking not-so-secret admirers; it’s merely an issue of annoyance and, frankly, confusion.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, I have created an outline (with pictures) which shows the most likely reason for and process of the “honk”. Enjoy. 

 There he is: the perpetrator. He is minding his own business, trying to get from point A to point B, whilst drowning his daily sorrows in the best of the 80’s, 90’s, and today, though it appears he would more likely enjoy classic rock… but he knows this song… You know he knows this song, and he knows he knows this song! 
There she is: the victim. Skipping joyously to her destination… or slowly dragging her feet because, even though it’s nearly October, it’s hot and, like my Daddy would say, she’s sweatin’ like a whore in church. 

The perp spots his victim. Drool forms at the corners of his mouth as he goes into a rabid state, his need to address the victim’s beauty outwardly rising from his toes to the back of his throat like wildfire.
I am not exactly sure if the wildfire thing works in this situation, but stay with me here; I needed a comparison and that was the first thing to pop into my head, since my head has been swimming with thoughts of Panem and Katniss Everdeen for the past three days (and NO commenting about the end of the third book! Give me time to finish!)…
Back to my rant.

I think this one is self explanatory.


At this point, the driver is satisfied, knowing that his compliment has been well received.

 At the same time, the girl feels outright degraded – singled out by the disgusting display of chauvinistic misogyny. 

This is the kind of small-scale terrorism that leads to bra burnings and inter-office law suits; Breezy says I just need to learn how to take a compliment.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Freshman vs. Senior

Well, it has taken long enough, but I am finally a senior in college! I have actually been a senior for a few weeks now, but it’s kind of hard to believe because it still feels the same as it did when I was a freshman, except for now I am getting so anxious to graduate that I think every assignment I have to do is “dumb” and “a complete and utter waste of time” and I have already learned enough to be handed my degree and sent off to the real world (and I know that I won't learn anything new between now and May).

            So, while dragging my feet to class the other day, I got to thinking: how much has changed since my freshman year of college? And then I decided to compose this list. Don’t you feel like it was important to know my thought process? I guess I did because I told you. I could have just plastered a title on this bad boy and given you a bulleted list, but where’s the fun in that? Also, I added pictures, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of you.

            Since my freshman year of college, I have become older and wiser. I guess the “older” part could have been omitted because it is implied that it has been at least 4 years (closer to 6), but whatevs.

            I am now old enough to get into bars and drink legally, but I drank WAY more when I wasn’t. In fact, if my freshman self met my senior self at a house party (which would never happen because freshmen bother me - they look like they're 15!), it would probably challenge me to a chug-off, or at least a few rounds of beer pong (as I have NEVER been good at chugging), and severely kick my light-weight ass.

            I now have the power (and experience from so many times of puking in public and on random objects – one being the sink in a friend’s bathroom, where pinkish remnants (I was drinking cranberry juice and Burnett’s vodka out of a pitcher because there were no glasses - which explains the color and the reason why I was throwing up in the first place) were still there when I returned weeks later) to choose between getting smash-hammered-blackout-drunk and having a few cocktails/beers but still having a good time.**

**I sincerely apologize if that double parenthetical sentence (I think I made that term up just now) was too much for you, but there was no other way to explain. Now that I'm looking at it, I'm thinking it's verging on Inception with all of its levels. Sorry, back to what I was saying:

 PS: I don’t usually puke confetti; I was just trying to make this a more pleasant experience for you.

            So that is how I have changed outside of the classroom, now I’ll tell you how things have changed within the classroom (and I’m avoiding my homework right now, so I’ll include a chart for your viewing pleasure – you’re welcome).
*FYI: in case you didn’t know, you can click on the pics to enlarge them :)

Here are the main differences:

When I was a freshman, I was free to skip class whenever I wanted to do so for the following reasons:

1.      My classes were all lectures with hundreds of students, so the professors wouldn’t know anyway.
2.      All the professors ever did was show PowerPoints with the words from the book posted verbatim, so I could have (but never did) learned the material on my own.
3.      The only thing that mattered for my grade was my performance on exams and midterms, so basically I just had to skim (not “peruse”, that means something entirely different) through the book the morning of the test and get an A or at least a high B.

As a senior, I am not allowed to skip class whenever I want to do so (even though I am paying a ton of money and I am an adult, so I should be able to choose when I show up and when I don’t – AND, the professors still do the PowerPoint-based-on-the-book thing) because:

1.      There are less than 30 people in my classes, so the professor will totally know (unless she’s really old and doesn’t know anyone’s name anyway – even if they have had a class with her before).
2.      My professors say that each class is important for my future and the job that I will have (even though I have now been taking practically the same class, covering the same material, for three semesters and – I’m not trying to brag or anything, but – I probably know more about the topic than the part-time professor who is teaching it – AND the professor will literally yell at the class if we aren’t taking notes on said topic, as if we are in middle school).
3.      Attendance points are close to, if not the same as, the amount of points I can receive on exams and midterms (which is stupid, because if I can pass the exam that the professor has created without being in class that is not my fault, but the professor’s for creating such a simple test).

There are probably more things, but I now have 30 minutes to finish an essay, so I should probably do that...

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Technology? Psssh.

A lot of people believe that kids today are super lucky and spoiled with all of the technology that surrounds them, and they would be sort of correct because 5 year olds now have cell phones and iPods and laptops and whatever other techy devices they can get their Cheeto-infested hands on (in fact, Shannanigans was just telling me about a two year old she knows who can fully work her iPod to play Dora episodes on her own), but let me tell you all something: the technology today? Psssh. I’ve seen better. Growing up when I did was AWESOME because of all of the technology to which my generation was exposed.

Think Oregon Trail. The entire class fighting over the one Macintosh or Packard Bell in the entire school, which was rolled in on a cart for computer time, and we all lined up single file waiting for one thing: a wagon headed west. 

Ok, so this picture may need some explanation. Here it is:

From left to right are the kids I remember from this class:

Michael, who thought he was my boyfriend because he would follow me around the playground at recess and sit by me at lunch (which I thought was cool because he would share his fruit roll ups with me).

Jerome, who was most likely my boyfriend because he had light-up sneakers and a bad ass haircut with the Nike “Swoosh” symbol shaved into the back.

Kayla, who peed her pants in front of the entire class one day.

Aaaaand then there’s me, who could be found wearing one red shoe and one blue shoe because I wanted to be just like Punky Brewster, and also because I had absolutely no fashion sense. In fact, if you asked me what the word “fashion” meant, I probably would have told you that it was what you did when you didn’t have the right tool for a job… you’d “fashion” a new one. I guess that’s what you get when you like to play in the garage with your Daddy.

Plus, I had bigger things to worry about than keeping up with the early 90’s trends anyway, like chasing the cute boys around the playground and teaching the girls that “C-r-a-y-o-l-a” is not how you spell the word “crayon” (which, my dearest friends, was supposed to be my “initiation question” into the most kick ass girl gang around in the third grade, but I, even at this young and innocent age, have always been a stickler for grammar and promptly informed the leader of said “gang” that she was dumb and should have been held back because she didn’t know the difference between a noun and a proper noun. Guess who became the new leader? Moi. That’s right. And my new recruits had to complete an obstacle course involving multiple cartwheels. Yay for physical fitness, am I right? Or maybe I just liked how doing a bunch of cartwheels in a row made me feel so dizzy…)

Back to the original topic…

Technically speaking, Oregon Trail was my shit. There was something magical about virtually packing an Amish wagon full of supplies and strapping it to some oxen, and then watching it slowly move from the right side of the computer screen to the left, which made each of our hearts pound with green and black pixilated excitement.  

Good luck surviving that.
“Ohhhh… but if I bring the banker I get more money to spend” (said aloud in my whiny child voice, which I do so well).

Then there was Nintendo. My mom bought me a used SuperNintendo with a shitload of games that is still one of my favorite toys of my childhood. Why I ever sold that baby for a PS2, I'll never understand. I mean, really. Super Mario Bros and Duck Hunt, simple car racing without having to be a part of some underground and completely illegal business involving murder and grand theft auto, baseball where all the players look the same, and the best part: four easy to remember buttons. Plus, that thing never broke! If ever there was a problem, all I had to do was blow on it and everything was fixed! With these newfangled gaming systems they tell me I have to spend as much money to fix it as I do to buy a new one.

Then there were the crazy fads that we all loved so dearly for about two minutes:

TalkGirl Recorders, which I looooooved to leave turned on in my desk and see if I could catch boys talking about me when I wasn’t listening. I don’t think I ever really heard anything when I played it back.
GigaPets, which were fun for all of Christmas break, until we had to go back to school and weren’t allowed to play with them during class so my GigaPets repeatedly died. A small child can only take so much virtual pet-death before they become frustrated with starting over and promptly leave the stupid thing somewhere and forget about it (until 10-15 years later when they decide to write a blog about it… I miss you, Poopsie).
And, of course, there was Zack Morris and his sexy cell phone. That has “amazing technology” written all over it.

Hmm… what else was there?

Not Furbys. Those things are creepy!

Oh, and I almost forgot one more thing about my childhood: playing outside was cool.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Too Much Nature

For those of you who have never been to the Great Lakes State (especially for you desert-dwellers who only know what grass is because you used to play outside on a small patch of it, which you called "The Green"), here is what Michigan looks like:

 Except, of course, during the 14 months of winter; then it looks more like this:

Anyway, what I’m getting at is the fact that the Michigan countryside is definitely lacking in the blacktop and concrete department. I’m seriously right now, you guys. And I know that’s not the right conjugation of the word “serious”… I was making a South Park reference. Sheesh. Here’s another: I’m super serial. There is so much nature out there… it’s, it’s not natural (said aloud in my creepy Blair Witch Project voice).

So, Breezy and I were out at his parents’ house, which is a cute log-cabin-style house in the middle of BFE, and we were preparing for a party (which was AMAZING! There was a pig roast, tons of yummy food, karaoke, and a million other things that are so cool that you wish you could have been there), and Breezy’s dad suggests that we “help out” by trimming the weeds along the driveway. This sounded all right at first (it was the least we could do, right?), but what you don’t know is that this place has a driveway that’s a quarter of a mile long and is surrounded by a dense forest, (which is probably filled with animals, demons, and savages – according to authors like Nathaniel Hawthorne), so you can’t even see the house from the road. To unsuspecting travelers, it is as if the place doesn’t even exist. You could scream at the top of your lungs out there and I doubt anyone would be able to hear you…

(Cue scary movie sound effects that make you want to piss your pants, but you can’t leave the theater to find the bathroom because you want to see if the hot guy comes in to save the day.)

So there we were, each of us armed with a pair of clippers, trimming away the weeds one giant thorn-covered branch at a time. It wasn’t so bad at first, but as the sun went down (as it tends to do every now and then), the bugs came out. And not just the “oh, dear, there’s a bug on you” kind of bugs. Swarms of “someone get me an effing flame thrower so I can torch these effing bugs!” kind of bugs. It wasn’t pretty. The more we clipped the sweatier we got and the bugs started to stick to us.

The muggy heat mixed with the West Nile that was seeping into our veins, causing delirium, and before we knew it we had made it halfway down the driveway. That sounds like an accomplishment, I know, but don’t be fooled! That means there was still the OTHER HALF! 

Fortunately, we were unable to finish and here’s why:

Close up of my sweat-covered face and torso, showing that I am the character with the largest boobs, so I will be the first to die in this horror movie.

Zoom-in on the thorn-covered, bug-infested, 6-feet tall weeds.

 A twig snaps in our general area.

Breezy and I look at one another, fear in our eyes.

There is a loud animalistic grunt, which causes both of us to look back at the weeds.

This is what I think is in there:

There is a lot of high-pitched-little-girl-like screams and the sound of our feet hitting the gravel as we both high-tail it back to the safety of the porch.

We look at one another again, shame in our eyes, for we know not which of us was doing the screaming. 

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Things We Shouldn't Have to Deal with in 2010

So, I know that I said I’d share some stories from my trip back home –I have some good ones! – but I’m feeling rather ranty lately, so I am going to complain about some things right now and share some funny stories a little later. Plus, I wrote this while I was home, so it kind of counts.

If you haven’t noticed yet, it’s the year 2010. Humans have made it through the first decade of the 21st century, which is supposedly the century in which the TV show The Jetsons took place. Now, I’m not complaining that we don’t have flying cars and robots named Rosie to clean up after us, but a little evolution would be nice. I have comprised a short list of things that I believe we should be past by now. Enjoy.

Condensation: Everyone has been there before, casually attempting to take an innocent drink, when from the bottom of the cup falls several water droplets, which demonically find their way to your crotch and stay there. It’s humiliating because it gives the impression that you have pissed yourself at worse and makes it look like you have what Breezy would call “The Dot” at best. 

One would think that with a society so advanced that vice presidents are getting robotic organs that the common people would at least get a condensation-free cup of some sort.

A most necessary divergence from the main topic of this doodle:
For all of the females out there who don’t know what I’m talking about by “The Dot”, it seems that men’s bathroom rules and occurrences often times involve a small amount of urine on your person. You see, since there is no toilet paper next to any given urinal (a luxury which, apparently, us women take for granted), they are often stuck having to think of creative ways to dry their peckers. My Daddy used to sing a song that goes something like, “to prove you’re a man, you must wipe with your hand,” but I don’t think that option goes over too well with the ladies, and I think he may have been singing about wiping something else... Anyway, another choice would be to “shake it”, but I have been told by multiple sources that shaking it three times or more is basically giving yourself a handy, and most people don’t condone public masturbation. So, when two shakes just don’t cut it, men are sometimes left with straggling drops bleeding their way through unsuspecting trousers. This is most noticeable when wearing khakis, as pictured below.

Satellite TV: I don’t even have cable, let alone satellite TV, because I watch all of my TV online, but while I was home I had the displeasure of experiencing this lame form of entertainment. Not only are you given a shit-ton of channels with nothing of interest on to watch, when there actually is something besides infomercials, progressive commercials, or Married with Children reruns, the signal goes out. Though satellites know no boundaries when it comes to traumatizing their users and will go out during any kind of weather, the issues are most problematic on rainy, cloudy, disgusting days – the perfect days for watching TV.

Squeezy Bottle Fart Noises: In addition to being a leading cause of embarrassment and trauma for people on first dates and twelve year old girls, squeezy bottle fart noises are a major annoyance to literally everyone. This is especially true when I’m trying to tell Breezy about this awesome idea that I have for a doodle that’s about things we shouldn’t have to deal with in 2010 and he is more concerned with smothering his pork in Sweet Baby Ray’s, even though the bottle is empty, and the nearly deafening fart noises coming from the bottle are covering up all of the good parts of my idea.

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