Thursday, August 31, 2006

Stay Away From the Books

Today I went to Target. It sounds harmless enough doesn't it? Well it's not when you're as financially challenged as I am. I NEEDED a few things, you know, for survival purposes. My budget is extremely low so I made a list to ensure I wouldn't spend too much. My list was as follows:
1) Notebook (for Cheryl)
2) Pens
3) Clicky Pencil (this is the scientific term for Mechanical Pencil)
4) Folders
5) Shampoo
6) Loofah (yes that's a necessity)
7) Laundry Detergent
See just a nice simple list. As I drove over, I told myself Stick to the list! Stick to the list! And no matter what, do NOT go down the book aisle. I had a plan, I was going to stick to it.
I walked confidently into Target and picked up a basket (notice just a basket, not a cart...budget tactic number one). I chose a route which would take me directly to the school supply section bypassing clothes and shoes (budget tactic number two). Unfortunately on my way over to the school supplies something shiny caught my eye. And yes I am that pathetic...something a moth to a flame. It was the jewelry section, but more importantly the watch section. I needed a new watch. The ten dollar cheapo watch I had purchased a week before had successfully worn away the skin around my wrist and so naturally I needed to upgrade to something more classy like a $15 dollar watch. It was just a tiny added expenditure. And so the first item to enter my basket was $15 worth of "not on my list." After that I was right back on track. I headed straight to the school supplies. Just stay away from the books I repeated to myself. I found myself standing in an aisle filled with folders and notebooks and overflowing carts manned by women arguing over what to cook for dinner. These women were standing between me and Cheryl's 3 subject notebook. Not wanting to be rude, I slipped back out the way I came and attempted to cut around by way of the next aisle over. But when I turned to go down this particular aisle, again I was met with arguing women and overstuffed carts. I jumped over another aisle...same thing. Without thinking I turned down the next aisle over only to be met with shelves stacked guessed it...books! "How did this happen?" I said aloud, a wide grin spreading across my face. "I'm not supposed to be here," I whispered to the books. I looked suspiciously around. Don't touch them! I tried to walk away, I did. But then the Shopaholic Series was staring me right in the face. I'd heard good things...I wondered if I'd enjoy them...just needed to read the first page...I reached out...I picked up...dammit the book was in my hand. I read the first page and laughed out loud. I wanted it, but there were so many of them. No! Wait till Christmas! I put the book down. Hurrah! Good job me. I continued to walk down the aisle, and then I saw it. My eyes lit up like they do when someone sets a package of oreos and a glass of milk in front of me. There in front of me was none other than The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro. "Mine!" I proclaimed, picking it up without thinking and depositing it in my basket. Then right next to it another Laurie Notaro book, I Love Everybody (and other Atrocious Lies). Again I reached out and grabbed it up, but my reason rose up for one last stand, keeping me from depositing it in my basket. No Bridget...too much money. I flipped the book over, $12.95. I quickly grabbed up the other one from my basket and flipped it over $11.65. $25, no Bridget you can't afford that. You can buy it cheaper on Yes, I could buy it cheaper. The books start to gravitate back toward the shelf and then the crazy half of me rebels, But if you buy it used for $2.95 is that really supporting the author? Laurie needs our support. Buy her book for real! Dammit. Laurie is my hero, she's so damn funny, I have to help her. And into the basket the books go. That's $40 of "not on my list" floating around in my basket if anyone's keeping track (not including tax!). I gathered up the rest of the items on my list (minus the detergent because my basket was too full for that at this point) and I'm almost to the checkout when I realize how hungry I am. I'm suddenly convinced that I will perish before ever reaching my apartment again if I don't eat something in the next 5 minutes. I rush over to the snack aisle and pick up a little 97 cent box of Honeynut Cheerios. Good investment. Unfortunately I exit the aisle on the other end which backs up to the coolers. I just scan over them as I walk toward the checkout, and then I notice the little tiny pizza in there. I don't even like frozen pizzas, but I suddenly felt the NEED to have this one. I picked one up ($5 of "not on my list") and scurried for the checkout. That's $45 dollars of "not on my list." Somehow this hasn't even registered in my head as the innocent cashier tells me my total. My face takes on a psychotic look of dismay as she asks for $72 dollars. I just stare back at her. Oh holy geez. It's not all for me, I try to comfort myself, as if Cheryl's $2 notebook was what had sent me soaring over my $20 budget. "You owe me big Laurie," I mutter out loud as the cashier gives me a strange look. "Real big."

Normal College Student

For those of you who need clarification, when I spoke of a "normal college student" my prototype was indeed Megan Sager. And to those responsible for the onslaught of emails Megan has recently received in regards to graduation, I'd ask that you cease fire. She's not ready for that, and you'll give her a complex. That is all.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Is it too late to drop out of school?

I have returned for my fourth and final year here at NMU. Haven't heard of it? That's because it's in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, which for most is a land over the rainbow, never ever to be trespassed. And I commend you for this decision. I, however, made a different decision. I signed away my life to the tundra for four consecutive years. This place has the most beautiful falls, but unfortunately the fall season lasts all of 3 1/2 days...and then...the snow comes. It comes and comes and never ever stops. When I leave in May there will be piles of snow litering the parking lots, but I'm ok with that. I'm ok with the ten degree temperature drop between Illinois and Marquette. I'm ok with the fact that in three weeks I'll be scraping snow off of my windshield. I'm even ok with 90% of the radio stations being all country all the time (ok I'm not completely ok with that).
What I'm not ok with is the fact that I leave my apartment everyday around 9:45am and I don't walk back through my door until 8 or 9pm. I'm not ok with the fact I haven't been able to read more than 3 pages of my Laurie Notaro book since I got up here. Furthermore, I'm not ok with the idea that while I'm sitting here typing this blog entry I can't stop thinking about all the things I should be doing to prepare for my next day of classes. I literally loathe the fact that I have not yet finished my educational experience. I am not a normal college student. Normal college students look foward to their return to school all summer long. They love being at school. They can't stand the idea of graduating, and refuse to have it mentioned in their presence. I, on the otherhand, dream of dropping out everyday. I dream of a wonderful alternate existence where people are born with all the knowledge they need, and there is no need to drill it into them. In this magical place all one needs to be successful is a desire. If you desire to write books, that's all you need to worry about. There's no concern about whether people will buy your books or not, it's a given, it will happen. You do not need to wonder if you've had the right education to make you credible (in other words, that you've spent the last 3+ years studying in the medical field, and now you're far more interested in writing novels), your livelihood will be guaranteed. This is, by the way, no reflection of my own current situation.
Unfortunately this alternate universe does not exist, or if it does, I have not yet figured out how to cross over to it. In the mean time I have two options in front of me.
1) Find my rich doctor so earning a living is no longer necessary
2) Turn to a life of crime or something similar which allows me to write and have an income at the same time.
Or I guess I could just finish my undergrad, complete my two years of grad school, get certified as a PA and stop my bitching. I do, after all, generally enjoy this field.
And to all my devoted readers (yes all half a dozen of you) if you're thinking, "When did Bridget turn into such a ranting, bitter, super wench? Why doesn't she just go back to ridiculing idiotic people?" Well I'd love to, I really would. But I spend my days now in classes like Organic Chemistry and Exercise Physiology and when put into perspective I'm probably the biggest idiot in the room.
Because you've been so patient though, I will leave you with this alarming piece of information. My sister Aimee and her fiancé Tom have officially decided on "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" as their entrance song into the reception. Now Aimee and Tom, I'm not at all suggesting this makes you idiotic, simply just the delusional "I can't remember, was I born in Nashville?" type I mentioned in my hoedown bashing entry. Love you!

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Multitude of Questions

1) What part of I'm on a TIGHT schedule is difficult to understand?
I'm supposed to leave for school tomorrow morning, which obviously requires some packing. I'm getting down to the wire here, and still have hardly made a dent in my effort to box up everything I own (It's part of my "No CD/Book/Movie left behind!" campaign). In addition to this hassle, I have all other sorts of fun things added in like dinner with Aimee and Tom at Tom's parents' house and a movie later. As I'm headed out the door my mom says to me, "Hey can you pick your littler sister up a trapper keeper on your way back home? She really NEEDS one." First of all, no one NEEDS a trapper keeper. Second of all..."on my way"? There is no place along my route from Tom's house to our house that I can just run into and pick up a trapper keeper. I kindly mention this fact to my mother, who calmly replies, "Well I meant on Randall Road." Oh Randall Road...30 minute roundtrip out of my way Randall Road. Fan-freakin-tastic. Being the obliging daughter I am, I agree to the task despite the major threat it poses to my already limited packing time. On my way over to Tom's my brother calls me. Odd...he never calls me, in fact, I'm shocked to see his name on my caller ID.
"Hey, Mom says you're school shopping."
"No I'm not. I'm wasting my precious time picking up a trapper keeper."
"Can you pick me up two 2" binders, and two packs of 5 dividers."
"Oh, you need stuff? Perfect, you can go out and grab that and Lizzie's trapper keeper, and save me a lot of time."
"Well you're already out, so why don't you do it?"
"Because it's out of my way, I'm on a tight schedule and you need the stuff not me."
"Well aren't you getting Lizzie's trapper keeper anyway?"
Idiot! Did he not just hear what I said?!
"I won't have to if you just go do it," I said through gritted teeth.
"Mom said you'd do it. Bye."
Thank you Mom.
2) Who let the idiots loose in Target?
After dinner I head over to Target because I'm what one might call a SUCKER! When asked to do something, no matter how ridiculous I might believe the task to be (picking up binders for someone who is 17 years old and is currently sitting on his ass doing nothing might fall into this category), I always do it. It's a curse. I can't stand the idea of someone being less than pleased with me. Once inside Target I'm met with an alarming discovery...someone had let a truck load of idiots loose in the store, and they all seemed to congregate around the school supplies. Psychotic mothers grabbing up all the folders they could get their hands on, blocking aisles as though to say, everything in this aisle belongs to me until I say otherwise. Despite the psycho soccer moms, I found the aisle with the binders and slid in unharmed. I noticed a girl about my age with a dopey looking brother who reminded me a lot of my own brother. I mentally sympathized with the girl thinking yeah we drew the short stick today didn't we, but at least you dragged your sorry excuse for a relation along with you. Mine is probably kicked back eating a bowl of ice cream right now. Just as I sensed our bond of tormented older sister growing strong, she took her cart and parked it right in front of all the binders. I couldn't see a damn thing. She just left it there too. My eyes narrowed to dagger slits as I verbally abused her within the confines of my mind, and debated whether a brawl in Target would be frowned upon or not. She wasn't even looking around. She just put it there and stood reading over a list of supplies, because apparently her idiot brother could not read the list himself. I just stood by waiting because I also hold the title of PUSHOVER! and I frequently allow myself to be tortured. After these two decided on highlighters as their next objective and moved out of the aisle I stood there staring at the binders. 1", 1 and 1/2", 1 and 3/4 ", and then nothing. No 2"! Most would have given up at this point, and called it quits. But not I. Not the fearless-no none of the things in my basket are actually for me-shopper. I cut over to the other side of the store to check out the office supply section and sure enough, there were more binders. I scanned quickly and found a 2" binder. "HURRAH!" I exclaimed. I snatched it up and reached for a second one, only to realize that was the only one. GAH! I ransacked the shelves...nothing. Defeated I went to the checkout line. It's necessary for me to now explain that I can NEVER pick the best line to get into. Without fail, I will choose the line which takes longest. It's a fact that I've learned to accept over time. So much so that when I get into line with only one woman ahead of me, I'm not at all surprised that one of her items requires a price check. I wait patiently (because like I said, I'm used to fact, normally I bring a book along just for these occasions) and I watch everyone in all the other lines fly right through, out the door, and on with their lives. I don't even bother to change to the next cashier because I know my fate will be the same there. People come in behind me and box me in, and I'm not even phased. And then it hits me. Oh my God I've found her. The idiot ring leader is standing in front of me in line. Yes it all makes sense. She must have been the one to unleash all of the other idiots unto the store. I start to realize that this really isn't a price check at all we are waiting for. She realized how cheap the pack of colored pencils she was buying were and sent her daughter back to the circus school supplies portion of the store to grab 10 more boxes. And the cashier (also an escaped idiot) just stands by and allows this to go on. When Princess Idiot gets back with a handful of colored pencils Queen Idiot is unsatisfied with the quantity and asks that the back of the store be checked. I turn around and ask no one in particular for a gun.
3) Are we seriously having this conversation?
I returned home defeated, tired, and irritated. I attempted to inform John that I could only pick up one binder for him, and he'd have to go out and get the second himself because I ran out of time. My words, however, fall on deaf ears as he is on the phone with is psuedogirlfriend (girl he denies dating, but calls and talks to every night for a minimum of 2 hrs). I then search out my mother and inform her of the binder situation:
"Hey mom, I was only able to get John one binder, that's all they had."
"What?!" she said angrily to me.
"I could only get one," I said attempting to remain calm.
"Where did you go?"
"Well I told you to go to Office Max," she snapped back.
LIAR! If you'll scroll up twenty pages you'll see she just said Randall Road. This includes about 100 different possible stores. And unfortunately my mind reading skills have been on the fritz lately. My bad.
"No mom," I began the tension clearly in voice, "you didn't specify which store you wanted me to go to. Johnny can go out and pick it up," I continue, "but I have to go now."
This response seems to anger her. Apparently the idea of my 17 year old brother doing something for himself is out of the question. Yes the same brother who she informs me on a regular basis is actually much smarter than me, and has the tests scores to prove it. He just doesn't apply himself and that is why my grades are considerably better...yata yata yata...blah blah blah...I'm glad your favorite child is a slacker.
As I turn to walk away because I'm late for my movie, I say "Oh and you're welcome." To which she says, "You should've gone to Office Max!"
For all of you concerned about Lizzie's trapper keeper, yes I purchased that too, and the best damn one in the store. She said thank you...what a concept.
4) Is there a cure for this?
I got home from the movie just before midnight, and I attempted to get some packing done. That damn missing binder continued to gnaw away at me because like I said, I can't handle disappointing people. Finally I broke down and grabbed my keys and headed out to every 24 hour store I could think of until I finally came up with a 2" binder. It's sitting up stairs with a little yellow bow on it and a tag which says, "For His Highness...The Royal Sir John."

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Self esteem boost anyone?

If you're looking for a fun new way to boost your self esteem listen up. Apparently all you have to do is enter to run a road race in which you are the only female in your age group...
As I stood at the starting line of the 14th Annual Mark McCormick race, I mumbled to myself about what an idiot I was to agree to such self torture. I stared disgustedly at the giant hill rising in front of us which they had the gall to incorporate into the first 200 meters of the race. My 11 year old little sister stood at the starting line next to me and I glared down at her thinking You skinny super wench, you're gonna kick my ass! Who races for 3.1 flippin' miles?! The gun went off, and I consequently took off like a bat out of hell (which in my world equates to something slightly above a slow jog). I attacked the hill thinking just stay with Lizzie. About 3 minutes into the race my mind quickly changed over to just finish the race. About 2 miles in I was more in the mindset of just don't die. Running is 90 percent mental, or so I'm told, so it's probably not a good thing that the entire race thoughts ran through my head like This course is from hell, designed by Lucifer himself! and Holy geez I'm either going to die or puke on the next person who passes me. Somehow I managed to finish the race and was handed a little card with my race time and average mile time on it. As I looked indifferently at my less than mediocre 8:59 average mile time, I noticed that I was ranked as first place in my age group. I laughed and started to make my way toward the table full of giant cookies, when I all of the sudden I was handed a shiny gold metal as I passed the awards table. I stood there jaw ajar staring at the ribbon that it dangled from, which had "1st Place" printed over and over on it. I looked around suspiciously for hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher and then placed the metal around my neck. As if on cue, the Rocky theme music immediately started in my head and I took a victory lap to the cookie table.
When I caught up with my family, my mom looked at me incredulously and asked, "How did you get a metal?" as if I'd stolen it from some faster skinner person unable to defend herself. "I'm a champion," I responded, and her eyes rolled. Lizzie (finishing over a minute and a half ahead of me), now glared up at me because her 3rd place metal didn't look quite so spectacular compared to my shiny gold one. Take that twig! I shot at her through mind waves. Moments later a reporter came up to verify the spelling of my name and I nonchalantly gave her the information as if this kind of thing happened to me all the time.
So in the end I left the course beaming with pride and relatively unscathed, minus the chub rub (to all my skinny friends, disregard this reference, I'll tell you when you're older and you've developed into the woman God meant for you to be).

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Dolphin Time!

I'm headed downtown today to see the Dolphins in the Shedd. Only Aimee truly understands what a huge event this is for me. Aimee and I were in Atlanta earlier this summer where they claim to have the largest aquarium in the world (, however they spew lies. I went there, I walked through the whole flippin thing in like an hour and a half. Excuse me, but no. Most distressing of all, they had absolutely no dolphins...not a one. What kind of aquarium has no dolphins? The lie spewing kind. So now I'm headed to Chicago's own trusty Shedd Aquarium ( where I most certainly will see an entire dolphin show because we don't mess around here in Chicago. Screw you Atlanta. I also get to hang out with Kaitlyn and Ryan all day so I'm sure I'll have some crazy things to report tomorrow.
P.S. If you are perusing the websites and see that Atlanta claims to have thousands of more animals it's because half that number encompasses the tiny little water insects and schools upon schools of little fish I can see when I go to the dentist office.
Not to deter you or anything.
And while I'm ranting...don't get the yogurt parfait in the cafeteria there, even if you haven't had breakfast yet...jigga ick.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Eat your veges

Popcorn counts as a serving of vegetables right? I mean it's corn and all. If so I've filled my quota for the rest of the week. And while we're clarifying things...that cream that you find in the middle of oreo cookies is actually a healthy serving of skim milk right? I'm assuming that's the case, and so I've already filled that quota as well. Damn I'm healthy. Now I just need someone to verify that laughing is so much more beneficial than running 5 miles a day, and I can rest easy at night.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

No me gusta la musica COUNTRY!

My gut instinct has been the guiding force behind all my decisions for many a year, and has to this day served me very well. Sometimes (because I like to punish myself) I ignore these impulses of mine. For example, when my oldest sister says to me, "Want to go to the Cadillac Ranch with me?" My gut instinct screams, "ABSOLUTELY NOT!" This would be the appropriate response as I despise country music and have not the desire nor coordination necessary to line dance. The Cadillac Ranch is a hell hole which embodies all these things. It's basically a hoedown which one must drive 30 minutes to attend because such a gathering has been banned by the rest of the Chicagoland area. It's filled with a bunch of Chicago suburbanites with identity crisises who actually believe they were raised in Nashville. They show up in cowboy hats and boots purchased from who knows where and line dance until their pseudocountry hearts are content.
How do I know all this?
Well because after my gut instinct screamed NO, and I obediently replied NO, my sister did not give up. Text message after text message led me to believe she was in some sort of despair and needed me there with her. After about an hour's worth of text messages, I hushed the persistent "NO!" in my head, and said to myself, "How bad can it be?" Consequently, I hopped in my truck and headed over there. As I walked across the parking lot I could hear my sister laughing from their outdoor deck (she's very loud), and the first twinge of regret hit me as I realized she was obviously not in any kind of despair. We pushed through the first half of this establishment as I looked around horrified at all the people dressed up like cowboys and cowgirls. I poked my head out a window half expecting to spy some livestock, and as I looked down at my polo and sneakers I suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable and out of place. Yes that's correct...I felt abnormal amongst the freakshows...imagine that. I wanted to hop up on the bar and shout, "Do you know where you are? The city isn't even an hour away!" My sister and her friend dragged me excitedly to the backroom, which of course was just a large wooden dance floor packed full of "cowpeople" line dancing. Aimee and Merideth quickly joined in, informing me on their way to the dance floor that I could join in whenever I was ready. I watched mystified as I realized every song had it's own special line dance to it, and all these people just automatically knew what it was without any direction. I found myself unconsciously twitching, and decided I would take advantage of this place's only draw...$2 Margaritas. Let me just take this opportunity to say that there are not enough Margaritas in the world for the hell that would ensue, especially considering I would have to drive myself home. Perhaps the most alarming part of the whole evening was that every now and then they would switch from single's line dancing to couple's dancing and crazy cow driven people would suddenly go searching out partners. Aimee and Merideth immediately informed me this was the portion of the evening to make yourself scarce, unless you wanted to end up dancing with some sixty year old man in tight jeans (which surprisingly enough there was an overabundance of). Luckily it seems my "normal people" clothing was a warning flag for all experienced dancers indicating, "Warning! She's not one of us."
Needless to say I survived the evening, and learned an important lesson: No means no. Trust your initial assessment of every situation, well unless you're Tom Cruise.

In other news...
I spent the entire day today water skiing, tubing, and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Yes, I am an adult.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Life Lessons

It's only 10:30am and already I've learned some valuable life lessons today.
1) Rollerblades and train tracks do NOT mix.
2) I do not have a built in GPS system in my brain, or a compass for that matter.
3) When rollerblading in a town other than the one you grew up in, it is unwise to choose your route by simply turning whenever the inclination strikes you. 30 minutes later when you determine you are indeed lost you will not remember "right, left, left, left, right, left, right, right, left, right, left, left, right, right" and will no longer be able to go back the way you came.
4) When lost in a creepy Pleasantville like subdivision a cyclist bearing saddle bags on his bike is your new bestfriend. Follow him, he will lead you back to normalcy.
5) Rollerblades and train tracks especially don't mix after you've been rollerblading for an hour and have lost all coordination.
6) When you leave the house with the intention of only rollerblading for a half hour, and don't return again until an hour and a half later, your body will like you a little less. Don't take it personally.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Fat Cow Disease

It's happened. I mean I knew it would happen sooner or later. Once Mad Cow Disease started spreading like wildfire I knew it was only a matter of time before Fat Cow Disease followed suit. I think I've contracted it, or at least I have all the symptoms. Perhaps it has been lying dormant in my system for the last couple months, lulling me into a false sense of security. But now it's rearing its ugly fat cow head. This disease is gruesomely forcing me to consume all that is in my presence at all times. I've made enemies with anything remotely resembling a vegetable, and my sickend body only craves that which will turn me into something resembling large cattle. This ailment has created a degree of dementia which causes me to think crazy thoughts like, "I don't need a man dammit! Not when I can eat a pint of ice cream garnished with half a package of double-stuffed oreos!" As it slowly overtakes my body, I have become more and more lethargic and "exercise" has become an evil word that sends waves of repulsion through my body and causes me to lie convulsing on the floor. My future is grim unless a cure is quickly found. I'm not exactly looking for a little pill to whisk away this problem. In fact, I'd be happy with just a nice large oreo shake that tastes like heaven, but which will actually make me thinner. Get to work!

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

News Flash! Bicycles are NOT Motorized Vehicles

Bursting someone's bubble is a sad, horrible thing...and by someone I mean a 9 year old who firmly believes he is Spiderman (AKA my cousin Nick). On the other hand, bursting the bubble of a psychotic cyclist who believes the fancy clips on his pedals have earned him a place on the road is not only my right, but my duty. And so to all you delusional cyclists, contrary to popular belief, calf muscles actually don't constitute as engines, and since I know for damn sure your bike is not equipped with a hemi, GET OFF THE ROAD!
Before everyone gets their biker shorts in a bundle, let me clarify a couple of things. First and foremost, I don't have it out for cyclists the world over. I love a good bike ride myself, minus the aching feeling I get in my ass by the time I'm done. Secondly, I'm not addressing the innocent leisure cyclists who keep to the sidewalks and bike paths, or the little kids riding around on their cul-de-sacs. You know who I'm talking about. The roiding cyclist who believes he can bike as fast as traffic and who is usually found perched in a turn lane waiting for the light to turn green, or riding along in a manner which makes him impossible to pass while the empty bike path 10 feet to his right taunts you as you contemplate running him over.
For all of you who fit this profile I'd like to take this opportunity to say that unless your nifty little bike has a jet pack that has simply escaped my notice you don't belong on the road with me. And no, I honestly don't care that you've spent hundreds of dollars to make yourself and your bike flawlessly aerodynamic. What does concern me, however, is the fact that the police refuse to arrest people on the grounds of, "He's an idiot!" yet they won't hesitate to lock me away for life should I accidently run you over. Yes, yes...I'm sure you can go very fast, but I'm also positive that my V8 engine goes faster. It's the nature of the beast my friend. While you are madly pumping away at your pedals I simply have to rest my foot on mine. If this is a hard concept for you to grasp, swing by and I'll strap on my running shoes and dart around in front of your bike not allowing you to pass. Chances are you can ride your bicycle faster than I can run and you shall become annoyed very quickly. And when that happens, apology accepted.
Although you are quite possibly the next candidate for a Bud Light's Real Men of Genius jingle, Mr. I'm Too Good for the Sidewalk Man, that does not give you any real celebrity status, which may have otherwise prevented me from leaving a nice tire track down your backside. And while I have your attention, answer me this: What's wrong with the bike path? At what point does your ego get so large that it prevents you from riding on the area designated for you? I don't ride my truck down the sidewalk, can't you show me the same level of courtesy by staying the hell off the street? Have a good one!

No Thanks

It's inevitable. The other half of the shed must be painted. What do I speak of? Hmm...where do I begin? While I was away at school my parents decided that the old, rusty, spider infested shed leaning up against our pretty new deck must go. I heartily agreed. Its shabby metal doors had been dented in to an extend which made opening them as difficult as breaking free a CD from it's 80 million layers of plastic wrap and security stickers (I HATE THAT!). By the time I arrived home in May all that was left of Rusty was its rotted foundation, and days later a stack of fresh lumbar was delivered for the new shed to be built out in the back corner of the yard. This is where the trouble began.
My father and I marched out to tackle this project head on with hopes in our hearts and a gleam in each eye. How hard could it be? Just a little bit of saw cutting, pop in a few nails here and there, and then slap on a coat of paint. We foolishly believed the project would only take a few days. In fact I remember from my own ignorant lips the comment, "We can have this done before the sun goes down."
Silly foolish girl.
We began to haul the wood around back. We continued to haul the wood around back. Still hauling....even more...sinking feeling...I began to consider the idea that perhaps we were not building a shed, but a one car garage or perhaps a guest house...still hauling. After we finally got all the wood around back I shakily voiced my concern, "This is no shed is it Dad?"
"It's actually more like the size of a barn," he laughed. Not funny. Seriously, once the frame was up it was determined we could park my sister's car inside and still have room for all of our bikes.
The size alone was daunting, but the real treat was to find out that this "easy-to-do" shed kit was put together by Satin himself. He slid the wrong directions into our box, warped our wood, possessed our circular saw, gave us nails which leaped freely from the wood and across the lawn as we tried to hammer them in, and worst of all...the most horrible offense...he used his demonic powers to make the wood super-absorbant. A month and a half later (yes it took us a month and a half!) we came to the painting step. It was crunch time now, with just days left till the rehearsal dinner. My dad was overwhelmed with other preparations and so I boldy proclaimed, "Don't worry Dad, I'll get the shed painted."
Again (because apparently I don't learn from my mistakes) I marched out to our shed-barn optimistic, and ready to take on this simple task. I popped open the primer, stirred, and dipped my brush in. I held the brush in my hand hovering over the shed wall. A naive smile sprung across my face as I imagined how quickly this large wooden structure would transform into a beautiful red barn. As I made my first stroke the smile began to fade. The paint was sucked up instantly and I barely got through my stroke before the brush decided to no longer administer paint. Confused, I dipped and tried again. Same thing. In case I've failed to mention it...this shed is the size of a barn and suddenly my mom's clever thought to paint it as such no longer seemed amusing to me. 3 strokes in I was fuming. 4 strokes in I glared angrily toward the house cursing the rest of its 6 inhabitants not helping me. 5 strokes in I debated knocking the whole shed down and blaming it on a very region specific earthquake. 6 strokes in I prayed one of the many falling acorns from the tree above would hit me atop the head and knock me unconscious. 7 strokes in I decided it was only necessary to paint the two walls of the shed which could be seen from the deck. 9 hours of brutal work spread over the course of 3 evenings and the two walls had been primed, covered in two coats of paint, and I had even painted white trim for the barn effect. I walked away from the barn feeling a sense of accomplishment and relief. I smiled contently as our guests later that week commented on how wonderful the new shed across the yard looked. After the night of the rehearsal dinner, I never once thought of the barn again.
Until yesterday.
My father had a big grin on his face as I walked into the house. "Guess what I bought for you today!"
I didn't trust that possessed look in his eye and I looked past him out through the back door. There sitting on the deck were three cans. My eyes squinted as I read the words PRIMER, and BARN RED.
H to the NO!
Pictures to follow.

Friday, August 04, 2006

What a great idea!

To whomever it may concern (aka those responsible for the GRE),
What a great idea! You're right, I have been mourning the loss of standardized tests since I graduated from high school. Thank you for bringing that back around to me. I would love to disregard the past four years of hard work and let my grad school acceptance rely partially on a test that I take on a Monday morning at the end of my summer. You guys really had your thinking caps on when you made it so "generalized" that it covers absolutely nothing I learned in college. Whether or not I obtained any information in all those science and health classes really isn't important as I go on into a physician's assistant graduate program. Instead, test me on vocab words like amalgamate and extemporaneous because someday they might come up in a conversation. In addition, thank you for putting my future patients' minds at ease. Now as I examine their knees for possible meniscus tears they can quiet that unfounded fear in the back of their minds, "What if this girl doesn't even know how many palindromes are between 100 and 1000, or can't even find the area of an irregular quadrilateral?" I can, and upon request I will. I also appreciate the fact that you decide not to draw your diagrams to scale on purpose so that any common sense that might be applied during your test is thrown out the window. I am oh so appreciative of all the mathematical formulas I've had to relearn over the past few weeks so I can put them to use one more time before the become totally useless to me (finding the area of the shaded in area outside the triangle, inside of the circle might not be a lifeskill I will need). Last but most certainly not least, I'm glad you are now taking the time to check and see if I can comprehend what I read. That's an important skill that apparently I could have gotten through my undergrad without. Enjoy your time at the top you GRE gurus. I hope torturing the future of this world is as special for you as committing you to a home when you're old and senile will be for me.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Prelude to GRE Rant

I'd love to post tonight, but instead I have to study for my flippin' GRE. Get ready for quite the rant once I find some time. The gloves are coming off!

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Thinner

Here in the wonderful suburbs of Chicago the sun is making its presence known. The heat index has reached a comfortable 115 degrees. In situations like this I do what anyone with an ounce of common sense does. I close the blinds, crank up the AC, crawl down to the basement, and lie on the couch reading a book. When flipping the pages of a book begins to require more energy than I can summon, I flip on the T.V. and lie as still as possible praying for the sun to go down five hours early. A trip to the post office pulled me most unwillingly out of my cave of coolness and out into the blistering sun. As I opened the front door a gust of hot steamy air enveloped me and I gasped for air. I thought about turning right back around, but mustered the courage to close the door behind me, separating me from the AC. I staggered into the direction of my truck, debating the likelihood of it turning out to be just a mirage. Finding myself halfway down the driveway, I decided I had gone too far to turn back now, and forged on. Reaching my truck, I threw out my arm to touch it and confirm its authenticity. Yes, I had reached a real vehicle capable of spraying nice cool air out of its vents, and death by heat stroke had been postponed. As I drove along, I noticed something most shocking. A man in a bright yellow get-up atop of his bicycle peddling along at an alarming pace. He was dressed like Lance Armstrong, and bent over his handle bars as if nearing the end of the Tour de France. I was distressed for his well being but could not bring myself to roll down the window and yell at him, as my cold air would be released, and I had spent the last 10 minutes building it up. So I'd like to take this opportunity to clue him in...

Dear Bicycle Riding Idiot,
I'm glad you have taken the time to put on a reflective outfit so as to protect yourself in broad daylight from being run over by a car. Preserving one's life is certainly a valued characteristic, but perhaps you might want to worry about the effects dehydration, heat exhaustion, and heat stroke can take on your body. Your bright yellow suit will do nothing for you as your body becomes so hot that your blood boils and you are no longer able to produce sweat. When your heart stops and you lie still on the road side, cars will not run you over (again due to your excellent choice of clothing), but the chances of me getting out of my air conditioned vehicle to give mouth to mouth to your sun-chapped lips is slim to never gonna happen. I'm sure when you pulled your instrument of death (bicycle) out of your garage at the hottest point in the day you thought to yourself, "Oh well, what doesn't kill me, will only make me thinner."
I'd have to advise against this line of thinking as you already appear to be a thin and gangly creature. So next time the Weather Channel flashes HEAT ADVISORY in bright red letters on your television grab a book and head to the basement. After all, what good does your fit little body do for you if the chubby girl living next store to you can out live you simply by choosing to eat ice cream and watch movies while you peddle to your death.
Best Wishes
The Chubby Ice Cream Eater

P.S. For those desperate to not lose a day of exercise they have come up with these great inventions known as treadmills and exercise bikes. I believe one may even be able to obtain one and use it in the comfort of their own air conditioned home.