this just in...

Our sources at Comedy Central have released the following:

Hillary Clinton -- the first viable presidential candidate with a working uterus
-- will be a guest on the Daily Show this upcoming Monday night -- the eve of
the March 4th primaries in Texas, Ohio and several other less sexy states -- to
presumably talk about politics, patriotism and pant suits.

Oh, how I miss the old maroon couch!!

dirty pop

I prefer the quiet sections of the library, but not because my productivity relies on dead silence. On the contrary, I actually need noise to get anything done. What I cannot stand is the conversations that take place in the sections where talking is not frowned upon. When I am trying to write a 50-page paper -- you know what, even when I am not trying to write a 50-page paper, I could care less about which events you remember partaking in and which ones for which you were blacked out. I really don't need to know what you and Matt did or did not do, and what method of birth control you did or did not use. And if your best friend's sister's boyfriend's cousin's on-and-off girlfriend called you a whore, she probably had a reason for it.

So, finding myself in the conundrum of where to set up camp in the library, I strike a happy medium by sitting in the quiet section with my headphones. Ingenious, I know. Even though I happily type to the rhythms of my "Write Your Thesis!" playlist, I can't help but feel paranoid. My worst library fear (besides spilling liquid all over my and others' books, which I already got over when it happened last semester) is mistakenly plugging my headphones into the wrong jack of my laptop but not realizing it because I would think the sound is coming from my headphones still, and consequently broadcasting my playlist to the entire room.

Most people are probably thinking, Big deal. So people around you hear some music and then someone gives you the rude library Shhhh!, then you turn it off. Touche, except for the fact that for some inexplicable reason, I write best to really, really, really bad 90's pop music. I'm talking 'NSync, Backstreet Boys, and 98 Degrees kind of bad. I do not know why it works, but it works. I won't question it. I will, however, continue to double-, triple-, and quadruple-check where I plug in my headphones. And when you hear blasts of "Tearin' Up My Heart" emitting from the Jeffer's Room (because that day will surely happen), please know that I am both truly sorry and sufficiently humiliated.

things i would rather do than write my thesis

Sit on the 405 at 5:00pm.

Watch those SPCA commercials with the slow motion shots of the horribly sad looking puppies and kitties that make me bawl my eyes out.

Cut pounds upon pounds of onions.

Run on the treadmill next to the man at my gym notorious for showering everything within a eight-foot radius with his sweat.

Listen to Oprah talk about how awesome she is for an entire hour.

Go to a frat party.

See my jackass of an ex-boyfriend at that frat party, because, let's be honest, where else would he be?

Blog.

say it ain't so

Jesse L. Martin, aka Detective Ed Green, has announced his plans to end his 9-year stint on NBC's Law & Order. I am heartbroken, on so many levels.



Firstly, even if you're not a fan, you have to admit that Law & Order is undeniably hardcore. What other show gets entire 36-hour marathons devoted to it, multiple times a year (and, no, America's Next Top Model marathons on MTV don't count- don't you even try to tell me people choose and/or are physically able to listen to Tyra Banks for 36 hours straight)? What other show makes it so easy to just jump in at any point in its 18 seasons? What other show even has 18 seasons? And the "chung-chung" noise? But now it's hardcoreness is beginning to get soft, and this makes me sad. I've suffered some big hits in the past, like when Jerry Orbach/Detective Lennie Briscoe left in Season 14, and earlier this season when Sam Waterson/Executive ADA got promoted to District Attorney, resulting in a major air time cut. But this... this one stings.

Which brings me to my second point: I am really attracted to Jesse L. Martin. Wait, strike that. I am really attracted to Jesse L. Martin as Detective Ed Green. Allow me to illustrate. My mom always tells me to make sure I look semi-decent when I leave the house in case I get in a car accident and the paramedic/doctor is good looking. I always tell myself to make sure I look semi-decent when I leave the house in case I get murdered (and transported to New York, I guess) and Detective Ed Green gets assigned my case. True, I would be dead, therefore eliminating the possibility of our relationship going any further. Also true, he is fictional, which really makes things complicated.

But I digress. It should be noted that Martin himself has chosen to leave the show to pursue his Broadway career; he is not getting kicked off. Regardless, I hope the producers select his character's write-off carefully. If he gets shot (again!) and this time fatally wounded, I don't think I'll know what to do with myself.

ch-ch-ch-changes

Every single morning, I reluctantly pull myself out of my beloved bed, wince at how freezing the world is out from under my covers, and then make my nice, warm oatmeal. Much to my dismay, this morning I finished off the last of my supply. Knowing tomorrow morning just could not happen without it, I went to Trader Joe's to stock up on oatmeal.

I arrived, I parked, I walked inside. Suddenly, a feeling of terror and confusion came over me. Everything looked different. I walked to the residing shelf of the oatmeal, and there was none to be found. There wasn't even anything that remotely resembled something of the breakfast cereal persuasion. I panicked. Running (ok, probably more like briskly walking with a concerned look on my face) through the aisles, I finally found my oatmeal. This is to spare those from the same anxiety through which I suffered.

The oatmeal and cereal are where the pasta and sauces were. The pasta and sauces are where the wine was. The wine is where the bread and bagels were. The bread and bagels are where the chips and crackers were. The chips and crackers are where all the trail mix and nuts were. And that is all I can remember.

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?

get up, stand up... please....

I have been sitting in the cooler preparing myself to get up and walk to the library for about an hour now. I have to go. Before 1:30pm. I need books. But I can't get up. I keep telling my legs to start standing up. There, I just said it out loud even. It's still not working. I'm not sure how me blogging about it is contributing to anything, but I am also not so concerned with the logic at this point.

I think my muscles know deep down that if I walk to the library, then I will be successful in acquiring my books. And if I am successful in acquiring my books, I will have no excuse not to work on my thesis. Do muscles even know the transitive property?

GET UP GET UP GET UP!! Ughhhhhh!

FINE.

troop scoop

The only upside of being deathly ill on my most anticipated three-day weekend was the pure glory that is Dreyer's Girl Scouts® Ice Cream.

In the varieties of Somoas®, Thin Mint®, and Tagalongs®, this ice cream has literally saved me. Had my loving grandmother, a fervent believer in the healing power of anything with sugar, not run to the store to stock up with multiple cartons of each variety and then serve me bowls of the Girl Scouty goodness at such a rate as to keep the tattered walls of my throat frozen, I don't know if I would have been able to write this today. My guess is they taste even better when one can access the full potential of his or her olfactory cells.

And so dear Girl Scouts of the USA, I sincerely salute you for creating this sweet sweetness. I can only count down the days until the actual cookies that inspired the ice creams are delivered to my house.

P.S. Why have the Brownies not made an ice cream yet? I mean, it's only logical...

valentine schmalentine

As I opened my organizer, the portal to my life, to find out exactly which hundreds of pages for which I would be held responsible tomorrow, I became flustered. I could have sworn I had opened the page to the full display of the month of February, but when I scanned the little numbered squares covered both in my handwriting and the pre-marked manufactured holiday labels, there was no sign of Valentine's Day. In my confusion, I thought I could have possibly flipped to a wrong month, and that would explain the absence of text on February the 14th. I found President's Day labeled on February 18th, and the paper I had just turned in last week.

Then I looked closer. Apparently, at a time that escapes my recollection, I had taken a bottle of Wite-Out to the two words in the bottom of the box. After I became relieved that I wasn't going crazy, and then became aware that this probably makes me even more crazy, I became quite proud of myself for trying to protect myself from having to read that vile phrase all month long.

I don't like Valentine's day (obviously). In elementary school, I was forced to send out Valentine's to kids I didn't even like so that everything was "fair." In middle school, Student Government cashed in on the holiday by selling Crush (the orange soda) cans to the student body the entire week, to be delivered to the person of the buyer's choice in the middle of 5th period. This meant that for five 5th periods straight, someone would walk in carrying a box of Crush cans and hand them out to the recipients in front of the class. The sorority girls- and frat boys- in-training, of course, would accumulate five or six cans a day, while the rest of our desks remained empty. It only got worse in high school, where hormones and public displays of affection were both out of control. Gross.

As far as I'm concerned, tomorrow will remain covered in liquid white goop, just as it should.
<3 xoxo!!

happy birthday judy lee

Today is my best friend's 22nd birthday.

Her mom thought she was turning 21. She woke up with pink eye. It is -11 degrees outside her window. She was up until 3:45am writing a paper. And, worst of all, she is 3,000 miles away from me being able to give her a hug and/or cake.

So, in honor of her birth and in sympathy of her less than ideal birthday, this blog is dedicated to Judy Lee.

Happy Birthday!!

instant karma

Daniel Snay is a lucky guy... sort of. He just won $10 million in the Massachusetts State Lottery, and he might be going to jail. You see, Mr. Snay happens to be a Level 3 sex offender.

"Snay’s record of sexual assaults dates back to 1974. He has been convicted six times of indecent assault and battery in Massachusetts. Level 3 offenders are considered the most dangerous and the most likely to commit another crime."

As it turns out, Mr. Snay had moved from the state of Connecticut to Uxbridge, Massachusetts (where he won the lottery), but did not tell the Connecticut authorities. With his winnings brought publicity, with his publicity came information to the Connecticut police, and with the police came the possibility of facing charges for leaving the state without giving proper notification. Oops!

Karma police, arrest this man...


The Boston Channel WCVB: http://www.thebostonchannel.com/news/15264847/detail.html

is a push-up really necessary for push-ups?

I am equally confused and convulsed by the females at my gym who insist on wearing a regular (clearly padded) bra underneath their sports bras while exercising. Granted, most of the women I see committing this fitness faux pas are either prancing around the free weights area with a dumbbell in one hand that most likely weighs less than their pink Sidekick glued to the other hand, or taking a leisurely stroll on the treadmill for a grand total of five minutes- activities I would hardly categorize as physical exertion.

But for the sake of argument, let's assume that these women are going to break a sweat. Bras aren't even comfortable on their own, so how would putting a super tight spandex top over a bra make things any better? When perspiration is thrown into the equation, I can only speculate that things can only go downhill in the comfort department. So, not only do these women have straps and hooks digging into their skin, but their good bras are now soaked in sweat.

What is the point of this? When I am working out, I'm pretty sure I look like hell. (I say "pretty sure" because I avoid the thousands of mirrors in that place like it was my job.) My main concern is usually whether or not I am going to be able to make it down the stairs and back to my car without my legs giving out, not the status of my cleavage.

only if you ask me nicely

Upon returning to my car this evening, I was greeted by this note on my windshield:

...Go to elementary school to learn basic spelling and grammar rules *dramatic underline*


Call it even?

an open letter to my clumsiness

Dear Clumsiness,

You’d think after 21 years, we would have figured out a way to peacefully exist together. But no. Day after day, I continue to have various parts of my body and/or ego bruised on your account.

I try to give you the benefit of the doubt. I try to be patient. I suppose you could have accidentally mistaken a treadmill for an object worth running into, instead of running on. It’s also entirely possible that when you prompted me to ungracefully lob my full cup of tea across the library table, you were just making sure I wouldn’t burn my hand by holding it too long. But how can I explain that time when you kicked my legs out from under me while I was just leisurely walking down my driveway last summer, resulting in the fracture of both my tibia and fibula and the breaking of my ankle, for no apparent reason? Do you know how uncomfortable, not to mention malodorous, a casted limb gets in 110 degree weather? And don’t even get me started on the whole “tripping in front of hot guys” prank. Not cool.

I was hoping we could have this worked out by tonight… I have to wear heels.

Sincerely,
Allison

business hours

Every student has their distractions of choice when studying in the library. Instant messaging, texting, Facebooking, illegally downloading music, whatever works. I personally opt for drinking an insane amount of coffee and water, which, of course, necessitates me to get up constantly in order to restock my supply. The added bonus of this is that it also requires me to get up to use the restroom quite frequently, providing for even more breaks and ultimately less reading.

As I was implementing my routine of intentional interruptions this morning, I stumbled upon this laminated notice taped to the door of the third floor restroom in the Old Wing:


*Update* 1/24/08

The hours for this restroom have been changed as follows:

Open: Monday – Friday
8:00am – 4:00pm

*Closed & Not Available:
-Monday – Friday
4:00pm – 8:00am
-Saturday & Sunday

Thank you.


My second thought (after my first of Eff, my bladder is going to explode now) was …Seriously? Can a restroom really have independent hours of (taking care of) business? Do people in this wing not have to use the restroom after 4:00pm and on weekends? If so, can someone tell me how to make that happen? Maybe I would then be forced to get some work done.