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.
Cons:
1) You will never sleep again...no 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.
Pros:
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:

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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? Ugh...men 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 fine...you 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.

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!
Hmm...my 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."

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.

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."
BEWARE OF THE TALL AND SKINNY!

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 shiny...like 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 with...you 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 Amazon.com. 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. Mmm...pizza. 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.

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!

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."
SOB!
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 this...in 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?"
"Target."
"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."

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).

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 (http://www.georgiaaquarium.org/), 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 (http://www.sheddaquarium.org/index.html) 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.

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.

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.

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.