Monday, September 25, 2006

Say No to Orgo

Oh Organic Chemistry, how I loathe you. You are no friend of mine.

Listen up kids this is important. If you ever get the notion that taking organic chemistry might be fun or, at the very least, beneficial, just say no. Say no to the little over achieving voice in your head. It is a BAD idea. Let's look at some pros and cons to prove my point here.
1) You will never sleep time for that.
2) You will spend hours upon hours doing the same kinds of problems over and over again, and never gain any real understanding.
3) Friends you used to have will stare vacantly at you thinking to themselves, "My he/she looks familiar...," as you pass them on your way to the library.
4) You will become depressed and eat a lot of ice cream and cookies and in turn gain some weight, making you more depressed...and the vicious cycle continues.
5) You will begin to develop back problems because just one text book isn't enough to hold all the "valuable" orgo information.
6) Your Netflix will come in the mail and all you can do is stare longingly at them everytime you pass through the living room (don't stare too long, or you will fall WAY far behind with your chem. problems).
7) Everyone will suddenly become your enemy, to the extent that if someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you, you glare at them and secretly curse them for having free time to do that.
8) You will become ten leaps closer to ending up in a straight jacket.
1) If you do pass, you will have survived something truly amazing and I'll buy you a nice big cookie and a gallon of ice cream (see Con #4)
2) The right amount of counseling can cure anything, so one day you will be able to put it all behind you.

I am currently at the extreme ice cream stage of the organic chem disease and will do anything for a big scoop of ice cream, including, but not limited to...
Laying in the sand on the beach on a 50 degree day so that ice cream can be dropped into my mouth from the top of a ladder:

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Advice from Austen

There are few people I hold a higher regard for than Jane Austen, and since I have no time to write a real post I decided to share with you some Austen advice I've taken up recently.

"Beware of fainting fits...Though at the time they may be refreshing and agreeable, yet believe me, they will, in the end, if too often repeated and at improper seasons, prove destructive to your constitution...Run mad as often as you choose; but do not faint." ~Jane Austen, Love and Friendship.

Friday, September 22, 2006

The Office

The Office had its season premiere tonight, and my life is once again complete. I don't know if you watch this show or not, but dammit you should. I'm telling you this for your own good. I myself had been suffering from severe withdrawal all summer long, and might have soon perished had it not returned this week. I'm not a big TV person, simply because I don't have the time, but I make the time for this shit. This season's first episode was amazing. I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself (but I didn't, that's Megan's thing). That's all I'm going to say about it. You've been warned. If you're missing out, it's your own fault now.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

I Missed You

I realized something incredibly important tonight. To say that I have been overwhelmed and insanely stressed out so far this semester (yes it's only the fourth week) is the understatement of the century. Try as I may, I couldn't figure out why I was struggling so much. I have been overwhelmed before, in fact, it is somewhat of a constant state for me. Suddenly for some reason what used to be second nature to me no longer seemed possible.

I've felt so lost and hopeless. I spent the last few weeks obsessing on the idea that to accomplish everything I'm supposed to accomplish is not humanly possible, and I was right. It's not something I can do alone, as much as I have tried to. I got myself in over my head because I denied the help of the one person who is solely responsible for my success up to this point in my life. I thought I could do it all without Him, and I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I thought I was strong enough to shut the door on you and do this alone. Thank you for slamming the door back open. Welcome back God, I missed you.

P.S. Thanks Rob for the labyrinth, for the first time all semester I feel like I'm going to make it.
P.P.S. Thanks everybody for your kind words after my last rant. Once I light a burning bag of poo on the front steps of the GRE testing center I'll be completely over it.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

GRE Results

Standardized Testing Association
1001 Asshat Ave.
Sucktown, USA 66666

Dear Bridget,

Thank you for taking the GRE. We appreciate all the time you wasted this summer studying for it. We regret to inform you that based on your scores you are officially an idiot. Several investigations have been launched since scoring your test in an attempt to figure out how you've made it so far in life. We are completely baffled you were able to graduate 8th out of 456 students in high school, when our flawless test clearly indicates you shouldn't have made it out of elementary school. We find your collegiate performance absolutely inexplicable. How is one to obtain a GPA such as yours when you obviously have no verbal or quantitative abilities? We assumed you had been bribing your professors thus far, but a thorough investigation into the contents of your refrigerator revealed that you are completely broke (you should buy less books and more food).

Here at the Standardized Testing ASSociation we strive on letting students know exactly how they will perform throughout their educational experiences based on a test they take in 3 hours. Life holds for us few distinctions Bridget, but one thing is certain, you are an idiot and you will go no where. We thought we had made this clear with your ACT score. Apparently you didn't get the message because you still went to college, and here we find you again. Hopefully this GRE score will deter you from pursuing any kind of future, as it is only fair to those who might have to encounter your incompetentence if you, heaven forbid, continue on in the medical field. We bet you are regretting putting your prospective graduate program codes into our computer because we totally sent them your scores! Yet another example of your idiocy. We hope that you hold no grudge and come back to us should you ever again need your confidence shattered and your self-esteem slapped across the face.

Ever Most Sincerely,

Mr. Ima Asshat
Standard Testing Association, President

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Downfall of the Housewife

I'm officially 3 weeks into my senior year of undergrad and already I'm sleep deprived, malnourished, over worked, and extremely bitter. Which causes me to ask the all important question:

Who's responsible for the downfall of the housewife?

I'd like to meet that person, shake her hand, tell her thanks for women's rights, and then smack her across the face and yell, "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!"

Yes I understand the pressures placed upon the housewife in the past were unbearable with all the cooking, cleaning, sewing, children raising, and husband pampering. If only you could have held out a little longer. I'm sure you had no idea that microwaveable dinners were so near on the horizon, or that they would invent a pretty little box filled with colorful images known as the television that could simultaneously babysit and raise your child. I know you did what you thought you had to do, and I appreciate your efforts, but COME ON! You've ruined the rest of us. You do realize that don't you?

What did we gain from all of this? The right to vote? A lot of good that did us. The country is still run by megalomaniacal male chauvinists. Not that you boys aren't doing a fantastic job (of running us right into the ground), but I'm just not seeing where we fit into the picture. If women's rights were an attempt for ladies to escape the kitchen and child rearing duties, I can only say that it has failed. We are still expected to do all these things, but now on top of it all we are expected to have college degrees and be successful out in the world. As if menstruation and pregnancy were not large enough burdens to bear. Your psychotic pursuit of equality has changed to role of housewife to just a job women have on the side. It is no longer a worthy profession that little girls grow up dreaming about. Except this little girl! That was my dream job, and you ruined it. Now if a woman wants to stay home, raise children, and watch soap opera's she is labeled a mooch. She has to be actively employed and blog writing doesn't count (yet...I'm working on that). There goes my afternoons of locking the kids out of the house all afternoon while I curl up with a book. Thanks for nothing!

Instead I'm here having one pisser of a senior year in which I sleep an average of 4 hours a night and go for 18 hours straight in a day. I have bags under my eyes, I eat granola bars for meals because I don't have time to make a real meal, and I no longer even have time to punish myself by running. Excuse me, but I should have that right. If I were in 18th century England my chief concern would be tricking someone into marrying me, and as appalling as that might sound to the feminsts of the world, I'd be more than satisfied with that profession. If you avid readers have been long awaiting a return of an amazing writer like Jane Austen...forget about it. She's probably out there but she will never realize her talent because she's busy with her temp job and worrying about what trouble her children will get into for that half hour they have between their school getting out and her returning home from her job.

Wow this was a psycho bitter entry tonight...3 hours of sleep will do that to a girl.

Friday, September 08, 2006

The Napoleonization of Men

I have been fed a lie since I was 11 years old. When my 6th grade Health teacher told me that one day boys would actually cease to be 5 foot midgets and grow to be taller than me, I believed her. It is now 10 years later, and I'm still waiting. Seriously, what is going on? I am not even that tall, I'm only 5'7", and yet I find that there is an alarming shortage of male prospects taller than me. Basically, my generally single state is not my fault. I can't go dating someone who weighs less than me, my self-esteem cannot take that one on. And because I'm not anorexic, if you are shorter than me, you weigh less than me.
So my question is, what is stunting male growth in my generation? Was it all those artificial ingredients they piled into the Superman and Cotton Candy ice cream flavors? Was it a lack of physical activity due to hours and hours devoted to Nintendo 64 (this would make sense as it came out when I was in 6th grade, so maybe my teacher couldn't have predicted what was to come, in which case she is forgiven)? Were you boys hiding in the tunnel slides during recess inhaling illegal substances while us girls played Polly Pockets? Did you not eat your vegetables? Or perhaps was it your innate desire to be like the FisherPrice Little People you grew up with, and you just willed yourselves not to grow?
Regardless of motive or cause, the fact remains that the Napoleon style is back, and quite possibly here to stay. Needless to say it's an unsettling notion. I was depending on finding a taller, slightly chubbier significant other to make me feel better about myself. Now what am I going to do? are so insensitive.
I am aware that not all men are hobbit sized, but I'm also aware that the short skinny skanks of the world are monopolizing these men. Ladies, ladies, ladies...not cool. For you finding someone who soars above you in height and weight is easy, so why do you insist on sticking it to the rest of us? I mean come on!
I do realize that being short is something that many men are not proud of, and it's something they themselves can't change now (well there are procedures like breaking your legs and inserting rods...ok maybe that's asking too much), but the least they can do is bulk up a bit. Short guys...ok can't help it, but short skinny guys...what the heck?! You're only hurting yourselves.
Before the hate mail starts coming from the vertically challenged men in the world, let me just say, I have nothing personal against being short. My father is no giant, and my brother is the shortest kid on his cross country team and he's a junior. I'm just trying to raise an awareness that somewhere growing up, you probably did something wrong, and one day when you marry your short skinny girlfriends and have tiny little babies make sure you raise them to avoid these errors so that the average heighted women of the next generation will stand a fighting chance.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

CIA and Facebook Join Forces!

Apparently the CIA has some notion that the most threatening terrorists can be found among the American college student population. Why else would they have joined forces with Facebook? I know that many of my readers have no idea what I'm talking about, but for my fellow college students, be afriad, be very afriad. They are on to us. They are watching our every move. I logged into Facebook today, and before I could even view my own profile I was met with a list of every move my Facebook friends had made over the last several days. It was unsettling. I now know unnecessary things like, "Laura added Fight Club to her favorite movies. 8:54pm," and, "Matt is now single. 10:11pm," and my personal favorite, "Kerri, Ellen, Jillian, and Bob joined the group Steve Irwin may you rest in peace. 10:08am." This list seemed to say to me, "You think the information we've gathered on your friends is creepy, you should see what we have on you!" Which in turn causes me to log off very quickly, close my curtains, lock my door, and never leave my apartment again. Seriously, I feel like logging onto Facebook is like making a call on an unsecured line when running from the authorities. I make sure I'm only on for about 30 seconds and then I sign off in hopes that I haven't just given them enough time to trace my location.
Not only is this a powerful tool for tracking down potential enemies of the government, but it is a stalker's wet dream. I can feel a nightmare coming on already. It will include a 5'2" pimply faced, 90 lb, toothless wonder with slicked back bleached hair wandering around Marquette with a handheld internet accessing device, which will lead him right to my apartment. On the way things will pop onto the screen like:
Bridget consumes an oreo, 11:35pm
Bridget turns on her radio, 11:40pm
Bridget consumes an oreo, 11:41pm
Bridget turns off her radio when confronted with the overplayed Daniel Powter, 11:42pm
Bridget consumes an oreo, 11:43pm
Why would this toothless wonder be stalking me? He's hungry. He knows there's a girl in his proximity who eats more than her fair share, and he's coming for my oreos.
Pinch me.

I've contemplated quitting Facebook altogether, but I feel like they've already gained all the information about me that they need. It's logged into a master database somewhere and stalkers and CIA agents the world over are analyzing it for some hidden message. They scour my list of favorite movies and books drawing conclusions like, "She likes Audrey Hepburn movies and she reads a lot of Jane Austen, clearly she's planning to conquer the world."
I bet right now they sense that I'm onto their operation and a team has been dispatched to come terminate my existence. If this is the last blog post you ever see from me then they've gotten to me, and it's up to you to fight the good fight in my place.
This is Bridget signing off, good night and good luck.

And ye shall bow down to me

Lords and Ladies,
I don't know if you are aware, but I have been elevated to a new title. Sir Ryan, of the far off land of Greene Baye (that's my attempt at making Green Bay look classy), has dubbed me B Queen. I always knew I was destined for greatness, I just had no idea it would come so soon. I'm not quite sure what population comprises my minions, but I suppose that can be worked out later. I'd like to take this opportunity to say thanks to those who got me to this point in my life.
So yeah...thanks.
Oh what?
You thought I'd sit here like a chump and actually list all of you off?
Are you crazy?
My blog posts are long enough already. And then there's that off chance where I actually forget to name one of you, and you're all, "Damn that girl, I'm the funniest friend she has, she wouldn't be where she is without me!"
No. I won't subject myself to this. Just accept my gratitude and know that if you're reading this blog, you're on that list.
Back to being Queen! first order of business as Queen (I keep capitalizing it because it makes me feel even more special) is to banish all country music from Aimee's wedding! Hurrah! I knew I'd find a way. If anyone is under my rule, it has to be Aimee and Tom. Long live the Queen!
Now all I have to do is figure out how to make my new title as credible as a college degree, and I'll be as happy as a pizza forgotten about in the back of a refrigerator, which finally gets to live a full happy life until dying at a moldy age.
And for those anxiously awaiting my next blog post (Becky Stefan) get excited for "The Napoleonization of Men."

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Bridget Jones...I mean Deutsch

I promised myself I wouldn't blog today. Seriously, I have a lot of homework to do, a presentation to finish for youth group, mass to attend, and a social afterward. I DO NOT HAVE TIME TO BLOG. So you're wondering what I'm doing aren't you? "Why are you blogging Bridget? Go do your homework!" I'll tell you why, I was innocently catching up on some reading (blog reading) while I consumed my breakfast and I suddenly came face to face with my cousin Kate's new blog entry. And now I have no choice. I have to do this.

It is absolutely insane how much my cousin Kate and I have in common. For those of you who are thinking, "Oh really, what do you guys have in common?" you obviously didn't click on the Kate link. Come on people work with me here! Go do that now. At least read the last two entries. I'll wait...
We good now? Ok.
I don't really know if it's just because we're both from Deutsch stock, or if it's a 21 and brunette thing, but darn it do we think alike. As I read Kate's entry this morning about the British inner monologue, my own inner monologue proclaimed Bloody Hell! Me too!
I'm sure you've all caught on by now just by seeing all the italicized type throughout my entries that I have an inner monologue that never stops. I mean literally, if you're talking to me chances are my inner monoluge is still going, no matter how much I try to quiet her. Although we're all aware that she's there, I've never really come out and talked directly about her. I most certainly have never mentioned that most of the time she has a British accent.

Time out...Is it weird I talk about my inner monologue like it's a seperate person in my head? I tried typing this entry with "it" in place of "her" but I wasn't feelin that, so "her" it is...time in.

Kate has a good excuse for her inner monologue going Euro on her seeing as she has traveled the world and she has fun British friends. I, on the other hand, have not really left the country (sorry Canada doesn't count) and the only accent I have been heavily exposed to is that of the Yooper, and goodness knows I don't want that.
Despite the odds, my inner monologue has some how gone British, and she has actually been that way for quite sometime. The sad truth about it all is that she's a byproduct of an innate desire to be Bridget Jones and a whole lot of Jane Austen reading, which has led to an unhealthy obsession with the 5 hour BBC Pride and Prejudice and any other film released dealing with any of Ms. Austen's novels.
Back to Bridget Jones for a moment.
Why on Earth would I want to be Bridget Jones? Well, I'm already more than half way there.
1) She can't ski...check
2) She can't ride...check
3) She can't speak Latin...check
4) She'll always be just a little bit fat...check
4) She's a horrid public speaker...check
5) She was often considered a spinster in the making...check (we prefer the term singleton)
6) She lacks style and grace...double check
7) She's an avid writer...check
8) She has a British accent...damn
9) She married Mark Darcy (Colin Firth)...YES PLEASE!
So you see really the only thing keeping me from marrying my own Mark Darcy is the lack of a British accent. And I believe this is the main reason as to why my own inner monologue has turned British on me. She's just trying to help me acheive my ultimate goal in life.
And then there's that whole Pride and Prejudice BBC issue. Um...have we seen this? It's amazing. And wouldn't you know Colin Firth is in that too, but this time as Mr. Darcy. Just a coincidence I'm sure. My obsession with Pride and Prejudice allowed me to branch out to many other BBC creations introducing me to television shows like The Office, and just about every mini series ever made. Fuel for the fire my friends. Fuel for the fire. I'm obsessed with any British film I can get my hands on. Love Actually, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Emma, Sense and Sensiblity, Notting Hill, hell even Nanny McPhee. You see this is a sickness. I want that accent, I need the accent. It's definitely in my head, but when put into practice out loud, it's absolute rubbish. I'm utterly ashamed of it. The Bridget Jones in my head does it perfectly, but I fear that when it passes through my actual lips, my stupid American tongue mangles it. So if you're ever wondering why I don't say much out loud, it's generally because I'm afraid one day Ms. Jones won't be content staying in my head, and I'll actually attempt a choppy, sorely off the mark, British accent aloud.
Clearly I'm unstable, and someone needs to fund a trip for me to go over to England so I can perfect my accent, and finally, like Kate, have a legitimate excuse for my British inner monologue.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Beware of the tall and skinny.

There I was, plopped on the couch dipping Tostitos into salsa and stuffing them one after another in mouth as I watched some quality VH1. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an instant message pop up on my lab top. I leaned over and picked it up to see the message. It was from my friend Dan.
"Hey want to go for a quick run later?" he asked.
"Hmmm," I thought to myself in mid-chew, "I did just eat a whole lot of chips." I looked down at the roll created where the chips had chosen to congregate and sit in my stomach, and thought hard about the fact I had to be fitted for a bridesmaid dress in 3 weeks. I swallowed my last chip and replied, "Ok, yeah sure."
Now let me explain something here. Dan and I were not on the same page when I agreed to this. When he said, "later," I assumed he meant 5 hours (sufficient time for chip digestion), when in reality he meant 2. That, however, paled in comparison to my misjudgement of how far he thought we would run. When I got over to his apartment he said, "How far were you thinking we should go?" I shrugged and before I could answer, "I dunno, like 2 miles," he said, "I was thinking around 4." My jaw dropped and the chips in my stomach did a back flip in rebellion. I was about to make a compromise of 3 miles when he said in his smug little way, "I dunno, I'm feeling pretty good today, but if you don't think you can go that far, we can do a shorter run."
Now he had done it. My stamina had been called into question and my pride was on the line.
"Oh I'll give it a shot," I said while my inner voice screamed You freakin idiot!
We head off at what I think is a pretty quick pace when he turns to me and says, "Would you like to pick it up yet or slow it down?" Which basically means, "This pace is pretty slow, can we go faster now?" But the chips in my stomach are saying, "Go any faster and you'll be face to face with us in 3 seconds." So I tell Dan our pace is just fine.
As we run along my inner monologue is no longer attempting to be a good sport about things. I start yelling at Dan in my head. Oh my God are you trying to kill me?! Stupid Mr. 6 ft whatever-I only weigh a hundred pounds-Dan! We approach a busy road and I get excited. Yes we'll be forced to stop for a moment, I can finally catch my breath and let the chips settle! As we reach the intersection I come to a dead halt but Dan just continues to jog in place, heaven forbid he lose a step today. Flippin' Rocky! I'm stopped for all of 2 seconds when he shouts, "We're good!" and goes darting across the street. The light hadn't even changed yet. Damn you!
We continue along and I keep glancing nervously at my watch. I know we're going faster than 10 minute miles although I'm trying my best to slowly decrease our speed without him noticing, and yet we are quickly approaching 20 minutes and still heading away from his apartment. For those of you mathematically challenged, when we reach 20 minutes it will mean that we've gone at least 2 miles, and we're still headed away from the apartment. Jerkstore! 4 miles my ass! My eyes begin looking for a good place to suggest a turn around, but I see that he's hell bent on making it to Presque Isle Park. We continue along the bike path and I keep debating suggesting pulling off to the side and stopping to stretch, but my pride gets the better of me. I begin to wonder if I might die out there. 20 minutes has come and gone and we are still headed away from the apartment and I start to will away my belongings. Cheryl and Liz can divide my Cubs stuff between themselves, Meghan can have my CD's, Ryne can have my truck (since his current car is a POS), Aimee and Tom can have...
"We're good!" Dan yells as he darts across another street without skipping a step. Jackass!
We approach the entrance sign to Presque Isle Park and I anticipate the turn around. We run right past it. I debate between bursting into tears or faking a heart attack.
"How you holding up?" he asks me without a hint of exhaustion in his voice.
I hate you! If I live through this I'm going to come after you with a baseball bat!
"I'm good," I say as I gasp for air.
We pass through the archway into the park and he doesn't even slow down, but I had, had enough so I slowly put on the breaks. He notices and says, "Oh should we turn around?"
F yeah we should turn around you skinny little...(I went on for quite some time here)...Prefontaine wannabe. "Yes let's turn around."
"Because we can keep going if you want."
I glance down at my watch which is now saying 25 minutes, so yeah we're talking at least 2.5 miles here, meaning a total round trip of at least 5 miles. "No let's turn around." I say, my voice ringing with desperation.
He laughs.
Asshole. I'll cut you!
We pass a drinking fountain on our way back and Dan asks, "Want a drink?" Good man!
We both stop and take a sip, but the entire time he is still somehow jogging. As in he's drinking from the drinking fountain and still jogging. Who is this guy? I stagger away from the drinking fountain and am in the process of trying to convince my legs that they need to start running again when I notice Dan jumping up and down and wheeling his legs around in a bicycle motion. Evil bad man!
Not once after the drinking fountain did we ever stop again, not once at each busy road did we ever skip a step because somehow "we" were "good" at every single street. I distinctly remember as we crossed over the last busy street seeing a white lumina coming down the street just as I reached the other side. "You're 10 seconds too late you jerk! You could have hit me and put me out of my misery!"
I start to sense that we are within five minutes of the end of this hellish ride, and I begin to thank God because my legs are screaming and my asthma is reaching its peak. Dan chooses this moment to turn to me and say, "I usually end my runs with some sprints and then a cool down."
Oh holy hell! With one eyebrow raised, an ounce and a half of oxygen left in my lungs, I wheeze and say, "Go right ahead, I'll meet you at your apartment." With that he takes off sprinting. Seriously, who is this guy? I come off the bike path and look at my watch which now reads "51 minutes." Over 5 miles! I didn't sign on for this shit. I look ahead and see that Dan is now walking. Thank you God! I stop and I walk. Dan waits for me to catch up and when we are about 200 meters away from my truck he asks, "Do you want to do lunges to your truck?"
In the words of Raineesha Williams, 'Does hell go with no?!'
"I can't do lunges that far."
"Ok we'll just do it for a little bit."
My pride somehow still exists and I begin to do lunges. I stop after about 20 feet of that mess, and Dan of course continues. I walk along side of him for a while feeling stupid, and so I try to start up again. I go down once and feel my hamstring tear in rebellion. I can't move. That's it! I officially hate you! We are no longer friends! You will carry me the rest of the way.
I must have yelped out in pain when my hamstring pulled because Dan was very concerned and kept asking me if I was ok. He obviously can't read thoughts though because he did not once attempt to carry me.
We stand outside his apartment building and Dan wipes away the single bead of sweat that has formed on his forehead, while I ring out my shirt, and he asks, "Do you want to go run again tomorrow morning?"
I hope you choke on your ego Twigman! "We'll see."