sparkles and subtlety

I'm sick. bleh. It's just a cough and I'm on a z-pack and all will be well, but for the time being I'm just a little less than thrilled. It's ok though I've been able to lounge today and miss class and even though I have a fair bit of work to do it will be done at a leisurely pace from the comfort of my covers and all will be well.

I spent this weekend visiting a friend who attends Bucknell University. I didn't get to see too much of the school, or Maroon 5 for that matter (but that's another story) but it was great to see my friend and have a change of pass from the chaotic Vassar humdrum. I know that seems like a gross oxymoron, but I think it's true. Vassar is alive with activity. There are the proactive students and the chronic stress baskets scurrying about as if the apocalypse were at their heels. (speaking of which I saw 2012 this weekend. it was entertaining, but dumb) Anyway, it seems like there's constant rotation of events and work and parties and activity that eventually start to mush together into the same old thing every week, and thus you get humdrum out of chaos. Sounds like a creation myth, doesn't it?

My, oh my! Look how we've deviated. Back to the story, which I must confess isn't as much of a story as it is a vehicle for the possibly the greatest one-liner I've ever heard in my life. So, I'm in Lewisberg Pennsylvania. It's cute. It's no Poughkeepsie, but it'll do. We park in town and mosey into what can only be described as a pack rat's wet dream. It was a sprawling dingy metropolis of various antiques and crafts that would make anyone's grandmother weak in the knees.

Now, antiques aren't my thing (although artifacts are. Go puzzle that one out.), but I did come out of the ordeal with a fantastic purchase. Nestled in the corner of christmas knick-knacks station was a shrine dedicated to the women of the Red Hat Society. Among the broad red rims and purple flowers and feathered accessories was one lone simple baseball cap. Of course, in order to catch my eye there had to be something special about this cap, and indeed there was. The brim was a rich purple, the rest, a saucy red, and the whole damn thing was covered in sequins. Delicious.

I placed it on my head, stomped over the register and with a grin on my face contemplated my great fortune to come upon such a treasure. As I fidgeted in line, I played with the cap and invented a full host of ingenious ways it could be styled for any occasion. You could flip the brim for some hipster appeal, or wear it backwards for street-cred, or even off to the side to signify that you're just that cool. I even concluded that it could be worn inside-out for a more subtle effect.

Of course, each of these discoveries was vocalized and demonstrated for the sake of the entire market, and upon vocalizing the most demure way to don my gay apparel, the woman behind me in line leaned in, parted her sagely lips, and noted, "When you like sparkles, there's no such thing as subtle." And I'll let that speak for itself.

the Trouble With Light-up Shoes

Oh goodness! I can't believe that I didn't blog once in October! I've actually been in something of a production rut. Between Fairy Tales, and Composition, and even a bit in the Misc. I just haven't been putting out work like I was in September. I blame it on October break.

Break always throws me off. I think the combination of midterms coming up against blogging and finding some me time just really throws the world off balance. I'd been so good about all of my classes and my extra curriculars and then Break has to pop up and mess everything up. So, that is my excuse and I'm standing by it. In the mean time. Enjoy what you're getting, because I haven't been feeling like a very committed blogger lately. I'm sure it's just a phase.

Alright here's a small anecdote that's been festering in my brain for a while. It was an average Friday or Saturday night. It was during that awkward phase where the weather was warm enough for TH parties to be conducted outdoors. So there was just this throng of people congregating around a picnic table lazily watching beer pong, but mostly complaining about how bad the parties have been these year. I can't disagree with that sentiment, but that is neither here nor there. I was doing the rounds looking for familiar faces, when to my delight I made eye contact with a friend, don't ask me who, and made my way over to him/her.

So far, so good. There was a party, a slight buzz, and I'd found a friend. Things were looking up. Now the crowd was pretty thick and I began the stilted journey from my position, through the masses, and towards my mark. This was not terribly offensive. Standard weekend fair really, so I began to wade through crowd employing the gentle tactic of placing a hand either on a shoulder or a lower back as I mumbled an apology and sidled on through. This common strategy for moving forward through the masses was going smoothly, and I was almost out of the mob when suddenly I feel a shove.

I could hardly believe my senses. My first reaction was to look for a hidden friend who had pushed me in jest. But there were no such friends to be seen. Then I figured some asshole was giving me shit and I began to foam at the mouth thinking of how I could turn this into a battle for the forces of tolerance and equality, but that wasn't the case either. It was just some stupid bitch who couldn't wrap her mind around that fact that people may need to get by you when you're standing comatose in a crowd on a weekend night at a party. Of course all of these thoughts came at a rapid fire pace, so as I turned I reached out to grab her by the ponytail, reign her in, and give her a little lesson in party etiquette, but my hand came back empty. She was gone.

In hindsight this story isn't very exciting, but in the moment it seemed entirely blog worthy. I have no idea who this girl is, and I think this is just one of those memories that has real staying power. She'll always be the one who got away.

Now onto the section that harkens to the title of this post.

I'm sorry to take things in a bathroom related direction again, but some of my best thinking and funniest moments occur in those hallowed tiled halls. I've always loved to sing in the shower or drape my towels in creative ways indulging my inner fashion designer, and I think these are relatively common practices, but I may be traveling off the beaten path when it comes to toilet seat philosophizing.

The image of the armchair philosopher is pretty firmly engrained in the mind of the modern academic. It is an idealization of the thought process fully equipped with mahogany paneling, towering bookshelves, and a crackling fire. Unfortunately I've only ever been able to nap in such an environment. Instead the sterile (wishful thinking, I know!), slick, surfaces of the bathroom are the perfect stimulants for mental activity. There’s something about the tranquil communication with nature that makes for a stimulating environment. The second my tush hits the seat, my mind races off, traveling and branching and exploring the infinite amount of things that there are to think about. It’s as if the secrets of the cosmos are at my fingertips, but it’s usually over before I discover anything quite so momentous.

My latest bout of such epistemologically enriching puzzlings led me to the conclusion that being "the kid with the light-up shoes" is not always easy. I hardly doubt that you’ve already come to this conclusion yourself. Being a celebrity is something that can only be understood by a lucky few. I have to maintain an image, remain intangible, but still be relatable. Get it? Now, I don't mind being recognized. Some people were simply built to be public figures, but the previous statement may need some refining. I don't mind being recognized in public, on the streets, at the deec, in an airport, anywhere really... except the bathroom. As I contemplated this very thought while perched upon a throne of porcelain, I couldn't help but noticing that both of my shoes were glowing at full brightness. It’s not easy glowing green when you’re in the middle of a private moment. This meant that anyone who entered the bathroom, nosing around for a vacant toilet, would know exactly who the funny noises in the last stall from the left were coming from. I'm sure you can imagine why this is troubling.

As much as I love attention, there has to be a limit. I cannot abide feeling as if I’m under scrutiny every time I go to the bathroom in glowing sneakers. Things get particularly embarrassing when I forget to turn the light on. It’s like a washroom disco. Now, I know that I could simply turn them off, or wear different shoes to the bathroom, or no shoes at all, but despite any potential embarrassment, I am first and foremost true to myself. I love my shoes. I love the way the their glowing green light dances on the tiled floor, and I can’t be bothered to care if you know how regular I am. I am the kid with the light-up shoes, and If that means that means losing a bit of privacy, then so be it! Flush!

Dilemmas

I must confess I'm at a bit of an impasse. Life has been less than eventful lately, and any ideas I've had have gone straight into my column in the misc. The printed word is more impressive than the digital, right? Actually, that's probably wrong. I can definitely reach more people with this blog than I can in my school newspaper but there's a sense of accomplishment seeing my words lined up all nice in a column in a physical newspaper. Regardless, I'm still stuck in something of a rut, but I'm trying not to let my blogging fall entirely by the wayside or else I'll get to the point where I don't even write about the exciting stuff anymore.

All this deep contemplation brings us to today's assignment: Excite me! Whether you're a crazy waitress, a disgrunteled civil servant, or just a plain old bitch, go out of your way to interact with me. Give me a story to tell, I guess I could always make something up or just blather on or find something to have an opinion on, but it's always so much easier when I have an actual event to work with.

I already feel like I'm out of steam, but the blog must go on!

Ooh! This is interesting! Today, I found out that an individual in one of my classes is a mother! Can you believe that? It really sends me for a loop. I'm used to everyone my age having relatively similar life experiences. Regardless of race, gender, wealth etc... we've all pretty much been through the drooling and the schooling and find ourselves at something of a common ground. I understand that we're currently in the launching pad years and our experiences will see some serious variety, but to think that some one made it to the age of 18-22 and HAS a child while I've made it to age 18-22 and still AM a child. Trippy stuff! I'm also so curious to see her living situation. If Vassar is setting her up in some luxurious family style apartment, than it's time for me to seriously consider fatherhood.

I actually really want to be a dad...someday, but I don't have an image of how kids fit into the plan yet. I'll be twenty this year, that gives me 8 or 9 years before I'm out of eggs. If I want kids I have to hurry! But seriously, I don't want to be an old Dad. I know some kids have older parents and it seems to work out very nicely. There's financial stability and a certain sophistication that comes from having parents the age of my grandparents, but i really like my young parents, but maybe that's just because that's what I'm used to.

And here I am, thinking way too hard about starting a family when I don't even have a boyfriend! That's probably step one. Step two might involve circumventing the limits of biology, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. The moral of the story is that I need to be mondo rich by the time I'm 28 and then I can have a baby. And if I'm not mondo rich by the time I'm 35 it looks like the Gilburne name ends with me because I sure as hell am not having kids after I'm 35. These are my golden years we're talking about, and I'm not willing to give them up for the sake of some brat. (yeah, I know I have a younger brother so the Gilburne name dies with him if it dies at all, but that really sucks the drama out of the situation).

So, now I'm 28, happily married or partnered or whatever the government is letting us do these days. I'm really rich. I take my flying car to office each day, scratch that I'm chauffeured in a flying car to the space station that I own and attend to whatever business is responsible for my riches (this is not something I'm picky about, but I fancy myself a successful and ambitious black market arms dealer). Hopefully we've found aliens by now, and I either smuggle advanced alien technology or I'm an Ambassador from the galactic union of Earth and our fledgling colonies on Jupiter (it was really a very difficult project to colonize Jupiter, considering it's a gas giant and all) Sorry, I've probably lost you by now. Let's recap. I'm rich, married, and I'm gonna have a baby!

It seems like everything is in place, but really it's only beginning. I'm going to want to raise the baby Jewish and honor my heritage and have it Bar/Bat Mitzvah-ed, but who knows what my husband will want. Will he even be human? I figure if I'm going to be working so closely with aliens I should show them that my intentions are pure by marrying one of their own, right? SO it looks like I'm shacking up with E.T. But will my galactic lover feel the same way I do? What if aliens are anti-semitic? What if my baby is an atheist? Oh shit! I'M an atheist, but my mom would KILL me if my kid isn't Bar/Bat mitzvah-ed.

Now, if you think this Bar/Bat business is getting tedious, you're not alone. But this is the issue that I've really been dreading. Do I want a boy or a girl? I know you're not supposed to have a preference, but I think I might, but then again I fluctuate. I think I want a boy, and I know he'll be raised in the future, but what if it's not easy for him to have two daddies and all of the other space-kids make fun of him? I don't want that. But I think it would be so fun to raise a kind smart sensitive young boy who plays sports and likes girls and all of those other boy things but has that special twist that can only come from having me as a parent. As cute as that scenario is... playing dress up will be an issue. Of course, with a girl her life would be glitz and sparkles and unicorns (my luck I'll pop out some tom boy type with no fashion sense) But a girl would be easy, and isn't parenthood supposed to be a fulfilling yet frustrating challenge?

Shit! What if my alien baby doesn't have gender at all?

Uh-oh I think I've just enforced and legitimade (intentional typo) gender binaries. All this talk of boys, girls, and neuter alien babies makes me realize what a strong hold gender has on our conception of almost everything. It also makes me hungry.

Ok, Now I've confused myself. Time for another recap. I'm rich, married, Jewish, and I have a baby. I've decided he's a boy. I can't help it, I want one and it happens to be the natural biological result of the fertilization ritual I have engaged in with my alien lover (this is the future ANYTHING is possible!). Now what? Of course he'll be getting a private education, but where? Will he board on earth, or go to one of those snobby academies on the rings of Saturn? Will he live at home. Will we move to a suburban space colony because the schools are better there?, but wouldn't that effect MY life, and I need to be close to a metropolitan space station for my job. We may be rich, but I'm young and I have my whole career ahead of me, and it's just not something I'm willing to give up.

As you can see family planning has its unique but stimulating challenges, and after really thinking it over seriously, despite it all, I think I'm ready to be Dad today! Bring it on universe!

Note from the Author: This was kind of a new tone for the blog wasn't it? I think I like it. how about you?

Necessity

Hey! I owe you a post!

I'm sorry. I could say this week has been too busy, which it sort of has, but not so much that I couldn't have fit a post or two in. Really this week has just been all sorts of uneventful. Sure, there have been laughs and good times abounding, but nothing of the noteworthy exciting caliber that makes be perk up and think "blogthro" So, with this is mind I think I'll write a summary of my day yesterday, and something fun is bound to come out of it.

The Day:

I woke up and decided to meet Maddie and Carrie at the Deec for a pre-Arlington Street Fair brunch. Carrie flaked, but we picked up Andrew so a certain equilibrium was maintained. We bumped into Danzer and Choe which was nice, and then we headed to the Street fair.

The fair was fun! It was definitely impressive coming from lil' ol' Arlington. The People came out in droves to sample mediocre food and browse through some less than exciting wares. But really, the effort was appreciated. The big disappointment of the day was that the carnival rides section boasted rides that could only accommodate little children and were far too expensive to justify a cramped and less than thrilling ride. I love carnivals and I love rides so this was a bummer. Of course, everything has a silver lining so I was glad to spot a game that gave me the opportunity to win a fish.

Now, you might remember that I won a fish last founder's day. His name was Frank Sprinkles and he was a real mensch. Andrew named him, which made it all the more special, and he was resilient little bugger. I'm serious, he survived the seismic vibrations the emanated from the speakers we danced next to and he even went on a few rides with me. I think that this is a necessary step in the development of any gold fish. Those things are far too fragile and need to be toughened up before they are left to a life of leisure floating around in a fish bowl. So, Frank grew strong and wise and kept me company over the summer, but then the unthinkable happened.

One day, I was washing his bowl. The method I use involves me pouring water out whilst simultaneously letting new water flow in so that I don't need to transfer him out of his bowl in order to do a cleaning. This had worked well enough in the past, but this day was fated to end in disaster. Frank Sprinkles toppled out of his bowl, into the sink, and down the drain. The painful part is that this wasn't a quick and painless process. Unfortunately his poor fishy face got stuck in the drain and it was only my attempted rescue mission that loosened the drain enough for him to slip through after bidding me a tearful farewell. You can imagine my depression, I'm sure.

By now it must be obvious that I couldn't let the opportunity to win a replacement pass me by. So, I won a fish. And now I have Frank Sprinkles the second. I held him aloft triumphantly as if to share my good fortune with the gods, and there must have been something particularly inspiring about my noble posturing, because both friends and strangers alike began snapping my photo. I hope they got the shot.

Speaking of photography, I guess you could call photography something of a theme for the day. In this age of myface and spacebook digital photography has come to dominate one's expression of character, or something like that. Basically, you are who your tagged pictures say you are, and that's final. Some highlights in photography for the day include Danzer and Maddie posing with the popo, and me awkwardly arranging myself in with a group of fat, ugly, and unpleasant belly dancers. P.S., they're ok with the fact that they're fat and ugly, so it's ok that I said it. Besides, Marilyn Monroe was a size 14, or was that Manson? I can never keep those two straight.

The Belly dancers followed the super amazing band, Facts and Figures. And, not to brag or anything, but I'm totally in with the band. They are really very good, and they also performed last night at a VC Punx show and were my personal favorites. End Shout Out.

But yeah, the Belly Dancers were laughably horrible. And I only say this because they were mean to me and because they actually were terrible. There's not much more to say about them, and frankly they don't deserve the attention.

Of course, a day in Arlington could not be complete without bumping into Lux! We embraced for a while and I met her boyfriend and we just sort of chatted and reminisced about the good times. The good times being one previously blogged about incident and the following dinner during which she slipped me a love note and informed us that she'll be coming to Grizzly Bear. We invited her to play with us beforehand, but she doesn't drink. She just drugs (her verb not mine) and I, unfortunately, am not in the habit of drugging. Oh well.

The Night:

The night was fun. Probably the best night in recent history from a perspective of having actual fun instead of moping around the TH's hoping for some music. Also, I was in a confrontational mood. Gotta love an angry drunk. It all started innocently enough, we were going to a Kansas themed party in Sophie's room and I decided that I should go as the wicked witch of the East. Now, I know you're thinking that I meant to have said wicked witch of the West, but that's just not true. I wanted to wear my heels, both because they're fabulous and because they lengthen me, but I also needed to legitimately fit the theme, and I wasn't in the mood to be dorothy. So I threw on my best, and recently purchased, witches hat and my cloak and was open for business. Get it? I was the witch of the east before the house fell on her while she was still in possession of the ruby slippers. It was a very cerebral costume.

As usually I was the most decked out gal at the ball. The party was fun, but it didn't live up to the bitching and moaning I did trying to get there on time. You see, I'd never made it to one of Sophie's parties while it was still going on before and I really wanted to experience one of these elusive events, so I spent the better part of the beginning of the night aggressively shepherding my friends to davidson. So we left, and headed over to a little soccer get together which was really alot of fun, especially because I beat all the straight boys in Mario Kart. Then we headed over to hang out with some members of the aforementioned band, Facts and Figures. When we were done groupie-ing it up, we trekked in the rain (the cloak totally came in handy) to the TH's where the power was out and nothing was going on. Bummer. On the way there I met some bitch who said something rude/nasty about something or other and I just wasn't having it, so I bitched back at her and then we awkwardly met up at a bon fire, and it was totally going to be a girl fight, but then Maddie intervened or something so there wasn't any blood shed. I guess that was the part of the night when things got a little hazy.

Like any good night, this night ended with a visit to Baccio. OF course getting there was a little exciting as a leapt and bound and trampled through the mud in heels. Carrie has pictures. They make her laugh, but I think her humor is base.

Stories

Alright, the shit is hitting the fan yet again here at Blogthropology. But then again, do you have a point of view if you're not ruffling at least a few feathers? Basically, my posts concerning how upset, embarrassed, and mortified I was when I was accused of making a black joke (when I assure you I was doing no such thing) are coming under fire yet again.

Anonymous, threatening comments do not help. I took down the posts in question, despite my disinclination towards self censorship, because I can't help someone I can't identify, and despite popular opinion, I'm really not out to upset anyone. Blogging has given me a few insights into how far one can push an envelope and I'm learning what does and doesn't fly in cyberspace. I think everything objectionable would make more sense If I had the opportunity to explain myself to a relatable human being, but the beauty and curse of the internet is that that is not always the case, and I'm learning to post with that in mind.

Ok, I was committed to not offending anyone with this post, but I think I might have to break that rule (or maybe this miraculously won't offend anyone). Alright, I'm just wondering if I'm offending the same people that were offended by the back page, or if supporters of the back page are offended by me but not it. There's alot of material in that thought.

Anyway, I have to short stories to share. Nothing momentous has happened in the past few days, and my life has become a stress ball after I realized that I needed to pick up Latin two weeks into the semester in order to be able to complete my Classics major and have the option of going abroad. So basically I'm learning a chapter of Latin a night so that I may be all caught up by Monday and then things will return to a slightly more regular pace.

Moving on... I love what I've been doing for the Misc., but it doesn't seem like anyone else is too thrilled. Or at least the ones who are thrilled are silently thrilled, which is ok, but not preferred. Anyway, since this post is already dealing with sensitive issues and hypersensitive people, I'm going to try to address the "haters". All I have to say is that I am not trying to replace or reinvent or anything that had to do with the back page AT ALL! I've been working on getting a column since last year and thought of it as entirely independent from the back page. Personally, I wasn't a fan of the back page BUT It was an awesome vehicle for actually getting papers into peoples hands and it should be obvious that I fully support free speech in any form. So, yeah, I WANT THE BACK PAGE BACK IN THE MISC. I think it was a poor decision to get rid of it. That doesn't change the fact that I enjoy telling my stories and I think enough people enjoy reading them to justify my thoughts occupying a small portion of the misc. My column is fluff and fun, and at least they're not printing it on the back page. Now THAT would be offensive.

Wow Gotta love the upbeat tone of this post!

We're actually getting there. To the upbeat part that is.

Oh look! We're here

So I went to Baldwin on Tuesday. Throughout Monday I started to develop feverish symptoms and began to fear the worst. That's right Avian Flu! I actually just thought I had a cold or a sinus infection or something and needed to get to sleep early and take a day off hopefully getting some meds from the kind nurses at Baldwin in the process.

So I enter the building, already feeling better than the night before, and try to converse pleasantly with a curt nurse who informs me that because I was a walk-in I'd have somewhere near a 25 minute wait. She then asks me if I was feeling feverish. I nod, and attempt to explain that I had taken my temperature the night before and that I was perfectly cool, but before I can get a word out she is barking at me to put put a face mask on IMMEDIATELY before I spread the dreaded swine.

I thought this was silly. I understand the precaution, I was just amused by the urgency. I still don't get why swine flu is a big deal but I definitely do understand that no one wants to get sick. That, of course, is why I decided to wear my mask to the Deec that night for dinner, but that comes just a few sentences later in the story. Annoyed, I sat down and pulled out a book to occupy me during my 25 minute wait, when lo and behold, a nurse appears within a matter of moments to take me back and begin the examination. Her touch was delicate, her voice, soothing, her diagnosis...lacking a bit. I'm sure this has something to do with the economy or whatever, but Baldwin definitely has a case of School Nurse Syndrome. The Vassar equivalent of a cold compress seems to be a reminder to wash your hands, brush your teeth, and get plenty of sleep, and a dose of Zyrtec if you're lucky. Zyrtec in hand, I limped my way back to my room making swine noises at the passersby. People who knew me probably knew I was just fucking around, but I'm sure a few freshman learned just how serious the swine flu epidemic was on that day.

The Deec part was also a fair bit of fun. At first I was hesitant to wear my mask into the Deec because I didn't want it to interfere with my goal to eat as much food as quickly as possible with as little hassle as possible. Eating at the Deec is a game of tact and timing. I bet I can get a hamburger faster than you can any day of the week. It's all about massaging the system (Right Reslife? Why can't I let anything die?) Anyway, after I had appeased my stomach, it was time for the social experiment to begin. I snapped on my mask and went about making a dessert plate for myself.I was hoping that an alarm would sound, and the Deec would go into read alert and I'd be tackled by the lady who works the pizza station or something, but I just got a few looks. Wouldn't that be fun though? Couldn't you imagine the Deec employing a secret squad of food ninjas (So that's where the endowment went!) In the end, I suspect that the best reactions were internal. Too bad I can't read minds.

The last story is a quickie. It's mostly just me being proud of myself for a little quip that I pulled off nearly flawlessly. Remember the 7 deadly sins event in Jewett? Well I do! If you do remember, than you probably remember a charming creature in the elevator screaming "FIRST FLOOR OOONLY!" Every single time the doors opened. I thought it was quite fun! Seven deadly sins may have been a bit ambitious but I think it's a fabulous idea and the girl in the elevator just sort of tied the whole experience together. She was a unifying thread and she wasn't afraid to infuse her potentially dull position as elevator attendant with some whimsy. I'm not sure how much of this night she remembers, but I will always look fondly upon her performance.

Anyway, I see her the library yesterday, and we've established something of an acquaintanceship rooted in our mutual love for the first floor of any building, so I say hi. She smiles. I wave. She waves. We both wave. We giggle a little. Then she proceeds to start walking up the stairs. Something just didn't feel right. So I froze. My shoulders tense, my face twisted into a look of panicked concern. She stops. Her shoulders tense. Her face is...confused. Then I smile real wide and shout "FIRST FLOOR ONLY!" The End! (p.s. we Laughed!)

Days That Drag

Hello sunshine nuggets! I've decided to Maintain a Monday/Wednesday update schedule for the bog this semester. And I'm primarily posting today in order to maintain this proposed rhythm. Somehow I find myself sick. I'm entirely mystified as to how this happened. I woke up feeling fine, which transitioned into a runny nose that I blamed on seasonal allergies and the like, which continued to develop into a headache / delusional fever. Just ask Anyone who was in the retreat at 8PM tonight. I was a mess. In light of my ailment I am going to strive for the usual standard of excellence that this blog upholds and I hope I succeed.

Just a bit more business, and then on to the fun stuff. I promise. Another motivating factor for this post is that I have a tentative (but really it's going to happen) column that will hopefully appear in the next issue of the Misc. I love the misc, and I think everyone should try to hate on them a little less about the back page. I was never offended by the back page, but I didn't think it was anything too special either (Bring on the Howlers). Besides, my column will fill any void left by the absence of the back page and then some. Anyway, I am forcing myself to write, because I owe Ruby some words and I'll be pulling a section or amalgamation from this post as my first offering. I hope that's ok. I promise it's not laziness it's just that anything that goes in the misc. under my name is expected to be blog worthy as well.

One final bit of house keeping. I mentioned a third story that was meant to be included in last Wednesday's post. I don't think I'm going to get around to that. If you must know what it was just ask me about the bat shit crazy girl from Metaphysics. Basically, the story is so heinous that I blew my story tellers wad far to early and told too many people already to make it worth my while to type it out. Essentially, It's old news. Thyme to move on.

Alright, on to the meat and potatoes!

Saturday: Everything has a green sequinned lining

I met Saturday with a bright face, eager eyes, and a few butterflies in my stomach. It was a momentous day in the life of Mitchell. After being unable to audition for a single comedy or a cappella group last year due to my cousins bar-mitzvah, I was ready to bust down doors and claim my spot among the musical and comedic elite. Unfortunately Things did not go exactly according to plan. Despite my heart wrenching, tear jerking rendition of Alicia Keys' "If I Ain't Got You" and my side splitting comedic performances (not sooo much on that front, but I tried and they should have seen my raw and unbridled potential) I received zero call back. I can't say it made me want to do cartwheels, but I got over it. Besides, as a strong, independent woman, I don't let anything get me down. I'm also confident in my ability, and have always considered myself more of a solo act.

Of course my entire day wasn't mired in loss and rejection. Thanks to a certain in-your-face, larger-than-life, alter ego of mine, I was able to pull through the day. That's right fellas, Medea was out to play! Meeee-Yow! Not unlike myself, Medea is also an aspiring vocal artist, and she knew an opportunity when she saw one. She is no fool. She put on her Saturday best (A knee length couture green sequined gown with an explosion of tinker bell tulle pouring from the hem, and her most demure necklace, which she likes to call the amulet of power.) She hadn't shaved in a few weeks, but she felt good and isn't that all that counts ladies? Can I get an Amen!

Medea didn't want to be in just any a cappella group. Only the best and most historically rooted gaggle of ladies would do. (Despite popular belief, Medea is highly invested in the history of this campus. She's just that kind of lady) If you haven't guessed already, Medea tried out for the Night Owls. after sizing up the competition, she confidently cut the line and strutted straight into the audition room under the premise that she had a gynecologist appointment in the near future and would really need to be on her way soon.

To make a long story short, the bitch was FIERCE! She wowed the judges with her range, vibrato, bravado, and her rack. She was the full package. She sang "Queen of the Night" from Mozart's "The Magic Flute" and was proud and confident that her formal training in Vienna had paid off and then some. Knowing in her heart that she was a Night Owl no matter the outcome of the audition, she sashayed out of Davidson Parlor, looked the competition up and down, and wished them good luck. She's such a good sport like that.

Saturday Part Deux: Adventures in Po-Town or Something of that Nature

After my auditions I expelled Medea from my being, and put her back in her box on top of my wardrobe. The poor dear. We tried to get a double, but Res. Life doesn't seem to recognize my drag alter ego as an enrolled student (Their mistake!). Yeah, Don't get me started on them again.

Anyway, Maddie, Carrie, and I piled into my car (I know you're thinking three people really shouldn't have to PILE into a four door sedan, but then you clearly don't know my group of friends). We made the journey down Raymond Avenue to Baby Cakes, and after a masterful job of parallel parking, we daintily emerged from the car and headed to the cafe that really should appreciate Vassar students a little more than they do, and yet we always go back for more.

Once inside, we immediately proceeded to order. A previous night of debauchery necessitated that Carrie and I would be paying for Maddie's meal. We explained this situation to the waitress who seemed flustered/high/otherworldly and had just the perfect amount of attitude. For whatever reason she was unable to split the bill to our liking, and instead we ended up only paying for Carrie and My meals and calling it even. Score! Of course, our gluttony is only matched by our ability to attract super hot guys, so we decided it was of dire necessity for us to order a large side of fries to go with our delicate salads and veggie burger. The waitress who had previously given us a free meal took this addition to our order with a smile on her face. When I went to pay (With Carrie's V-Card of Course) she emphatically huffed out an "Uh-oh" as she swiped the card. Luckily for us, this Uh-oh worked in our favor. Instead of pressing 5-0-0 and thus charging us 5 dollars for the side of fries, Our Waitress, Lux as her name turned out to be, simply pressed 5 and then enter, effectively charging us $.05. Double Score! If Baby Cakes is one thing, it sure as hell is affordable... if you know how to massage the system.

Our lunch continued in peace until our gorgeous red headed waitress passed by and grabbed a fry from our plate saying "Meow!" as she snatched the golden nugget of fried potato. Feeling indebted to her clerical error, we emphatically encouraged her to eat as many as she wanted. We liked Lux. She politely declined. Of course, this declination was not born of any form of social tact. Instead, she explained, that the Baby Cakes employees were playing their own little version of The Biggest Loser, and the fries weren't doing her any favors. We wholeheartedly understood and supported her in this endeavor and proceeded to devour the entire plate of fries before she could be tempted to eat another.

The meal concluded with the realization that Carrie and Maddie had not received the Iced Chai Lattes that they had ordered at the onset of our dining experience. And believe you me, you don't want to see either of those girls when they don't get their daily dose of Chai. It's messy and horrifying. Lux casually remembers that they are out of Chai, and offers to bring us anything else our hearts could ever even begin to desire. Of course, all three of our minds sped to an image of Lux naked, covered in sushi with puppies kissing her toes, but we figured that was asking too much, and she'd done So much for us already. Instead, we ordered three Diet cokes and called it a successful lunch. Thanks Lux! We love you!

In any other mortal existence, the narrative found above would be sufficient excitement for the day, but when it comes to The Kid with the Light-up Shoes, nothing is ever quite so simple. Next on the agenda was a trip to Starbucks. I wasn't kidding when I said the girls get grumpy without their Chai. Starbucks went smoothly enough, however the fireworks started to fly once we entered the local CVS. CVS at this time of year is a veritable playground. Halloween Candy, Costumes, and Decorations litter the aisles and the usually sterile pharmacy like setting is transformed into an enchanted Halloween Town. Ok, not so much on the magical transformation, but It's still fun to browse. So, while the girls shopped for laaady products, I tried on a few witches hat in an attempt to see which would best bring out my eyes. I decided on an orange and black lace show piece that will be sure to please as Halloween draws nearer.

So, We go to pay, and everything goes smoothly. No cards were declined and Carrie didn't fight too hard against buying me pumpkin shaped lollipops. The Cashier, a lovely woman named Connie whose eyes seemed to dance with the spirit of Halloween and whose smile was as sweet as candy corn (Metaphorically, of course, candy corn teeth would be gross. super gross) would be taking care of us. She and I engaged in some banter as she complimented my purchase and we shared our love for the most fun loving holiday of them all. All was going well, but then IT happened.

Sweet, angelic Connie made a fatal move. A tactic so gross and tactless that the very heavens momentarily wept as the following words flew from her mouth (I still maintain that she was possessed). Connie appraised Maddie, her smile twisted upwards with glee but there was a hint of malice as well. "I see you have picked out your Halloween costume too." Her words were sticky sweet. The seemed to ooze from her mouth, encompassing Maddie in a paralyzing haze. Shock was the only palpable emotion in the entire CVS. Had this seemingly sweet older woman seriously suggested that Maddie's outfit was a Halloween costume? She had.

And may this be a lesson to us all. There is something fucked up about Vassar Fashion.

The Blog is Back! / Just Try to Tell me this isn't blog worthy / This is why I waited for school to start before going back to blogging.

Wow! I can't believe it's actually been FOUR months since I've last blogged. I feel like you all deserve more, and I expect more from myself. Actually, The summer was a nice break and although it had plenty of blog worthy moments there was too much non-Vassar context, and I was daunted by all the backstory I would have to fill in. Also, Alot of my stories revolved around my horrible shitty job and considering how things went last time I wrote about my peers, I decided to let the stories roll off towards the horizon.

ooh, I feel rusty!

Alright, let's just jump right into things and hope for the best.

This tale is based on the part of the title of this post where I challenge anyone to tell me that it isn't a blog worthy narrative, and it goes a little something like this...

I was on a plane. Minding my own business. Reading the issue where they call Vassar the 22nd douchiest college or something, and their evidence for this is that we have a ton of lesbians. Now, I have no problems with poking fun at our sizable (but probably more accurately highly visible) gay population, but at least have it make sense. We would have been number one on that fucking list if they'd done a featurette on Kappa Kappa Trollop. Just sayin'. Besides, I think I've seen 5 lesbians maximum since school began, but maybe that's because we don't always run in the same circles. Actually I have a rant in me somewhere about how disconnected I feel from my homosexual sisters, but that's another day and another post.

Anyway, I'm crammed into my seat. I forgot to mention that when I entered the plane some walrus shaped mother fucker was firmly planted in My seat. Last time I had checked I wasn't flying Southwest and this sure wasn't seat yourself style. I meekly informed him that he was indeed in my spot and watched as he struggled to free himself from the embrace of his arm rests and shuffle over the necessary eleven inches to his own seat...next to me. I guess I wasn' surprised that he was hoping to not have to cram his fat ass in the middle seat between to queens, but this just wasn't his lucky day. When I was finally situated in my own seat (after a bit of trouble finding space for my carry on....ANNOYING! packing lighter is no longer just a convenience as more and more people are trying to elude the charge for checking bags by bringing the biggest fucking carry ons they can get their greedy little hands on...myself included) So, When I was finally in my own seat I noticed that i was being mushed up against by Mr. Walrus coo coo ca chew indeed. In order to remedy this I began the arduous task of pulling down the arm rest in an attempt to create a dam that would hold back the deluge of fat and skin that was pouring into my lap. It...kinda worked. It was an imperfect solution. There was leakage. I was looking pleadingly at the stewardesses, but to no avail. They were too occupied with figuring out where to put all of the damn carry-ons. There's also a rant about the degradation of the American Stewardess somewhere inside of me. Why is it that airlines are so fundamentally important to the maintenance of our lives of convenience and yet we love nothing more than to complain about them. Same with parents, but I digress.

So, I'm situated, a bit uncomfortable, and constantly struggling to maintain what little space I have while jaba snores away. Having finished my magazine, I dip into my bag of goodies, bypass the gameboy, and go straight for the gold. My silver 13" macbook felt cool and smooth in my grasp. Its gentle sloping edges felt nearly as wonderful as the manboob that I was currently using as a pillow. I struggled a bit with the clumsy latch mechanism keeping my tray table upright, and had further difficulty getting my computer to fit the nicely on the tray. I cursed the airline for having smaller than average tray tables because I had never had a problem having my petite computer fit on any previous tray table. petite is a theme in my life. I open the computer and am really puzzled by how cumbersome it is. My muscles had no memories of this silver behemoth. Before I could think too hard about my misgivings, the screen burst into life and I was greeted by a smiling blond woman on a webpage with alot of green that looked very businessy. At first, my heart leapt with joy. This airline had go go sky air net or whatever it's called! That wonderful service where you're able to get internet for the duration of the flight for a small and unquestionably worthwhile fee. But my jubilation quickly evaporated. This was no happy ending, it was only the beginning.

To be continued...

Just kidding!

I quickly realized that this was not the home page for some magical airplane internet, but instead it was the most recently viewed page on a computer that most assuredly wasn't mine. Yes, that it correct. I had somehow boarded a plane with the wrong computer, and now I was in the air, cut off from all communication, freaking the FUCK out. I was bugging. I don't bug. but i did, so I guess i do. After the intial shock and horror that follows the discovery that your computer is god knows where with god knows who, I stumbled upon yet another thrilling find. There as not a word of English to be found on the entire machine. After a quick language lesson and a bit off snooping I discovered that I was now in possession of the computer of a Belgian Millionaire. Yup that's right. Only in my life. I browsed his countless photos learning about the family trips to Portugal, Kenya, Venice, China, Prague, Florida, Scotland, some tropical islands, and I think Mars. This computer was like a window to the world. The icing on the photographic cake was, of course, none other than angel baby. Who is this mysterious angel baby? you might be saying to yourself. Luckily, Bob Treffers has the answer. Angel Baby is a creature of unparalleled divinity and grace. Angel Baby is the suspected grandchild of the owner of the computer, and Angel Baby is FAT! Oh, and Angel Baby is photographed in a muted Sepia wearing fake Angel wings while a dismembered hand cups its ass. But it's totally not child porn. IT REALLY ISN'T SO DON'T ARREST ME OR BOB TREFFERS! but especially not me. I feel like it would be gross breach of trust and privacy if I were to share these glorious pictures with the world, and although I am sorely tempted, I just can't bring myself to do it. Instead, just close your eyes imagine a sumo wrestler. Good. Now shrink it down to baby size and make it dutch. You're getting there. Now glue on a pair of hideously tacky fake angel wings. Done! I present to you...Angel Baby. Really you have to see it I might have access to these pictures and all it takes is a personal visit and I'll give you a private screening.

Although I can't speak fluent Dutch, my familiarity with computers allowed for a thorough, precise, and unabashed investigation of personal files, e-mails, internet history, and of course photographs. And you know what? It's lucky I'm such a lurk, because I was able to find this man's name, e-mail address, the facebook account of his son, and many more potential avenues of communication, and all in just one stressful ass plane ride.

I got in touch with Daddy Warbucks with high hopes of a long lasting relationship resulting in a fabulous Belgian internship this summer. While that didn't happen I did get him to send my computer back home, which arrived just yesterday! And once my mom confirmed that my computer had arrived in one piece I feel perfectly comfortable sending his back in a week or so.

The End

I love that story, don't get me wrong, but I found it difficult to tell in an entertaining manner. I hope I succeeded. Maybe it's because I've spoken the tale so many times that it kind of lost its magic. Well, I have nineteen minutes before class so instead of diving into my next great adventure, I'll disclose a small but exciting new detail in my life. I am a sports writer for the misc.!!! Can you believe it? Who would have thought that chubby ol' me would have ended up doing anything that even began to push against the furthest boundaries of the world of athletics. And guess what? I love it.

Basically I decided I wanted to write for the Misc. Mostly because Carrie does it and I wanted to be editor in chief so that I could be her boss. This plan quickly presented itself as slightly impossible (for a plain yellow pumpkin to become a golden carriage) so, instead I approached the current editor in chief and told her that I would be writing for the misc. I jokingly added that I'd be a sports writer. Well, this made her eyes light up brighter than a thousand sequined ball gowns in the sun, and I just couldn't say no. I can't wait for word of this to get back to my highschool, where I went out throwing punches against an poorly conceived, alienating, and just plain mean athletic requirement policy. Look what happens when you're not being Forced to do something. It's amazing. Suck it David Mahler! You grimy old fascist! (I hope he googles his name and finds this!)

Another short story to fill the time that is quickly escaping is a fun little assignment for my Fairy Tales class. The Assignment is to craft a pair of magical shoes. We are to make a shoe that inspires us and then after our artistic muses are mollified we are to take somewhere between 5 baby and two giant steps back and come up with a short fairy tale to accompany the shoes. Luckily, I have already crafted a fabulous pair of magical shoes in the form of the glittering, mirrored heels that I created for the drag show. This isn't exactly ground breaking blogging, but I'm excited to wear them to class and to share the premise of my story with all of you. The idea is that the shoes belong to a grumpy king with a secret. The secret, of course, being that he's a horny little homo but risks losing the kingdom and the doting affection of his infinitely ignorant wife. So, he slips o the magical shoes in order to transform into a a gal who looks loose and easy and he fucks all the hot boys in the kingdom. The End. I think I'll get an A.