The Adventures of Pedestrian Girl

I was almost run down by a car yesterday as I entered a crosswalk. I had just toed into the street when a pink sportscar sped up and plowed through the crosswalk, blaring rap music. I would like to say, first of all, if you're a man, you can't be a badass when you're driving a pink sportscar. Second, blasting rap music it from it doesn't fool anyone; I know you're white, and have a small penis. Third, if you're the kind of tool who drives a pink sports car while blasting rap music and ignores traffic laws, there's nowhere you could possibly need to go that requires you hurry, much less almost run down teenage girls.

Thus, I have decided that if I had to be a superhero of limited use, I would be Pedestrian Girl. I would spot a car about to not yield to pedestrians and dash over. As the car approached, I would throw myself on the hood, roll over the top of the car and slam onto the ground behind. The average person would stop their car with an "Oh shit!" face, because there were witnesses. I, uninjured because my super power would be immunity to being hit by cars, would lie on the ground, my leg at an odd angle. The driver would approach cautiously as someone called 911. Then, when he came close enough, I would open my eyes and yell, "Surprise!" While the driver was vulnerable after receiving a shock, I would stand up and give them a speech that would be something along the lines of "Now, you'll think about stopping at that crosswalk next time, won't you?" Stunned, she would nod, and I would send her on her merry way to thunderous applause from my fellow pedestrians.

I'm not going to lie, though. When I'm in the city, I'm a terrible pedestrian. I jaywalk, and not even running across the street when no cars are coming. I meander through traffic jams in downtown to get where I want to go. I make some drivers nervous by walking straight at their car when it's turning, knowing the car will have gone by the time I get there. I can't help it. I'm impatient. And when I'm driving, I want to mow down slow-moving pedestrians. That doesn't mean I drive like I'm trying to, though.

Remember, just because I want to be immune to being hit by cars doesn't mean that I (or anyone else) am. Stop at crosswalks, even though pedestrians are assholes.

Chivalry

I still appreciate chivalry. It came as a great surprise and delight to me when I came to boarding school that boys held doors open for me. Not just hold the door open so I could catch it, but actually hold it as I passed through. I like the idea of men paying for meals at dates, though I'm not against Dutch dating. I feel like a princess when people pull out chairs for me. All and all, I enjoy being pampered.

I've gotten into some heated discussions with boys about where chivalry fits in in today's modern society. Or rather, whether or not it fits in. The argument is essentially, well you're a feminist and all about equality for men and women, so why are you okay with us getting jipped? My first answer is that to have equal rights doesn't mean that everyone has to be the same. Slightly different standards for polite behavior aren't necessarily a bad thing. It's essentially this: it's the same reason that girl's don't generally tell boys to their faces that penises are really funny looking. Because it doesn't hurt you not to do it, and also that women like power. We like the acknowledgement that we control the precious vaginas.

There was a great moment in an English class where one girl commented that the character in a story got what every woman wants, which is to control men. The boys in the class shifted uncomfortably, suddenly sharply aware of something I think we all subconsciously know. There's an Arthurian legend that tells us that what women want most in the world is their own way. We want to be swept off our feet, but we want to choose the knight, the horse, and the armor.

So stick it through with the chivalrous manners, because it's the second most appealing thing to many women, the first being men serenading us while playing guitar. So either let your hands fall on a guitar or a door handle. And suck it up.

Girl Pants (and puttypants)

There's been a trend where emo boys buy women's jeans. Now, I think I could live with and appreciate this is they purchased the straight leg pants or at least wore them the way they're meant to be worn. You don't get to put on girl jeans and wear them like men's jeans. Now, I can appreciate the desire to have the accentuation of a nice booty that only girl's jeans can provide, but there's a reason they accentuate the booty: they make room for the booty. When worn mid-butt, -hip, -thigh, or -knee, there is a strange sagging effect. I am distracted by it. I can't deal with it, since my attention is already drawn (but not limited) to muffin tops, whale tail, camel toe, VPL, butt cleavage and single strands of hair floating in front of faces.

However, I have named this phenomenon puttypants, for it looks like the pants are made of silly putty, and started oozing down and collecting just below the butt. Here's an example of how to use it:
"Do you see that emo kid, the one with the swept up, black bangs?"
"Yeah?"
"He's got total puttybutt."
"And we're wearing the same American Eagle jeans."
"But he's wearing them like boy jeans. Thus, the puttybutt."
"Word."
"Word to your mom."

I don't even know what the girl jeans are supposed to represent. They don't fit better than men's jeans when you put them under your butt. Then they just look awkward, like you didn't realize that there's a zipper in the front you can unzip to get the pants up to your waist, and just tried to pull the pants up. I know you're not stupid, just emotional, so don't dress like it. But really...I'm so distraught by my girlfriend dumping me that I can't be bothered to walk all the way to the men's department? I'm so rebellious that I wear women's clothing? It's called drag queens, honey, and it's already been done.

Also, as a gender that is still globally oppressed, we deserve some concessions. Our advantages are to have doors held open for us, have dinner paid for, and wearing men's clothing when we please, sometimes not in the way it's meant to be worn (for example, I am currently wearing boxers as pajamas, not under pants). In short, stop copping our advantages. If boys think they have received an invitation to try to pass of women's clothing as men's clothing by wearing it like men's clothing, I would like to formally rescind it. Unless you're going to wear the clothing like it's meant to be worn.

So suck it up, and hand over the pants.

Brokeback Mountain

Here are my unbridled (cowboy pun!) feelings on Brokeback Mountain:

It wasn't a bad movie, but it wasn't awe inspiring, either. I think gay men are hot, which improved it a lot for me, as shallow as that is in comparison to the grand, sweeping, deep issues in the movie. The fundamental problem for me was that I couldn't figure out what the movie's point was supposed to be. On the one hand, it's about the difficulty of being gay in America and not being allowed by society our yourself to admit it or label it in a way that makes it real. On the other hand, it's gay love = just like any other love. The main conflict is something I have to look beyond to see it as just a love story, but the love story is a painful, homosexual one. They're too inextricably linked, and I really don't know how one would move around that.

Originally it raised the question for me: am I just too desensitized? Perhaps I'm too comfortable with homosexuality to be incredibly affected by it, or I'm too desensitized to appreciate it. Have I seen so much violence and suffering and pain that I take it for granted, that I don't feel anything when someone cuts my mental wrist?

I have come to the conclusion that the fault does not lie with me. Perhaps I am sensitivity equivalent of a slab of concrete, but I still think the movie was just okay. But I would also like to add that if we ever mainstream gay romance movies, I will go to them. Not of my duty to promote diversity and embrace everyone, but because I enjoy shirtless men.

Hawaii

Sorry about my absense last week. I was in Hawaii, and had no access to the computer.

Here's my thought of the day, since I'm still jetlagged: No matter how many times you offer me peanuts, persistent stewardess, I will still be allergic to them.

Sephora

I wish the employees at Sephora would stop following me around. I think Sephora hires about three times as many people than any other store, because clerks literally swarm the place. Now, a store with fairly good service will naturally have a couple clerks come up and ask if you need assistance. Sephora offers me six such people. While two is charming, six is a mob. Each clerk will wander from another part of the store, spot me, and use the vulcher method: they swoop down, pick me apart, posing the same question several different ways, and then tell me their names. I estimate that I get in enough uninterrupted time to properly apply exactly one shade of eyeshadow on one eye, and lip gloss.

I, of course, have absolutely no memory for names, especially when everyone is named something like Karen or Julia. After fending off the employees and getting in a good five minutes of uninterrupted shopping time in half an hour, the question posed at the counter is troublesome. Did anyone help you today? Technically speaking, I suppose the women did help. They kept my shopping efficient, and I never felt like getting a question answered would take fifteen minutes of searching (a la Macy's). I feel that at least one of the women who came at me should receive recognition, so I choose one of the four names I have stashed away: Sarah, Lindsay, Karen, or Julia. I have yet to encounter a blank look from the person checking me out (try it sometime, you'll be surprised).

My confession is this, though: sometimes I just go into Sephora with my friends and don't buy (or plan to buy) a single thing. We just like to play with make-up and smear eyeliner on each other's arms when one of us is distracted. I've have, due to these sessions, experienced the joy of chocolate flavored, glittery face powder. Kat caught my arm when I wasn't looking, and instructed me to lick it. I took a surreptitious look around, but Julia^2 was chattering away at another customer, and I licked my arm. My arm tasted like chocolate, and I was delighted. I feel slightly guilty when the saleswomen come by and ask me if I need help, and I'm not actually trying to shop. But not really, because there are five more people helping anyone who truly intends to do serious shopping.

Dentist

Thought of the day: I went to the dentist today, and the office smelled like bacon.

Joyriding

I have recently discovered the fun of joyriding. My friends and I rolled down all the windows and rolled through town playing European techno. The people in the street started fake dancing as we passed, and would laugh to their cohorts. One particularly forward man, while we twere listening to a song called "Touch Me," said that he would touch us any time. I like that opening our windows and blasting music gives people the comfort to yell skeezy things at us. There is a sort of connection with the people around.

I also performed the most awkard K-turn when we found a parking space in Georgetown. There was a woman waiting for literally two minutes as I wedged the car around and almost got trapped perpendicular to the road. I yelled thank you out of the window, but the techno probably obscured it. And I felt bad, but not really, because I was high on tooling around in my car.

I encourage you all to grab your friends, even if they are resistant, find some techno, and ride through the streets, sharing your joy and obnoxiously loud music. Go, be teenagery, even if you're fifty, because sometimes life is just awesome.

Rubik's Cube

The Rubik's Cube may be the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I always associated it with the unhappy folk who spoke good Klingon, but poor English, and failed to embrace deodorant. This idea was further perpetrated by the presence of a Rubik's Cube champion on "Beauty and the Geek 2." I gave my mother a Rubik's Cube to play with while on the telephone, and she told me, after dropping the cube on the table, that the only person she had known to be able to solve a Rubik's Cube had been a jerk, anyway. I agreed that yes, the people I knew who could solve it had perhaps coincidentally been jerks, and very proud of themselves for being able to solve the cube.

Now, however, since I cannot be of the friendless D&D variety of people, I have deigned the Rubik's Cube amazing, and not all that nerdy. I find myself somewhat addicted. I have friends, who happen to be excellent people, who can solve the Rubik's Cube, and have taken it upon myself to become one of these people. I was flabbergasted when I discovered that there is an actual method to solving the cube, rather than just twisting it and chucking it at the wall until it magically comes into place. It turns out that Yale University even offered a legit course during the 80s on solving the Rubik's Cube. If someone decided it was worth a semester long course, then I might as well try it.

Emma devoted significant time one night last month to making me not a complete failure at solving the cube. Her efforts were for something, and I can now, within the space of several minutes, solve one side of the cube! I showcased this new talent for my mother, who was, truth be told, rather unimpressed. It induced excitement about on par with that arising from my finger painting talents. Nevertheless, I have persisted, and find myself constantly fiddling with the Rubik's Cube, feeling triumphant when, by chance, two sides come out correct.

Whether this passion means that the Rubik's Cube isn't just for geeks anymore, or that I'm a geek, I can live with it. Go forth, and cube to your heart's content!

vacation (or How I Would Rewrite the Dictionary)

Main Entry: ¹va·ca·tion
Pronunciation: vA-'kA-sh&n, indolence, wooooo!
Function: noun
Usage: often attributive
Etymology: Middle English vacacioun, from Middle French vacation, from Latin vacation-, vacatio freedom, exemption, from vacare
1 : a time spent sleeping, eating, and then sleeping some more
2 a : a scheduled period during which activity is suspended in favor of driving around town with the windows down, stopping only for ice cream and attractive members of the opposite sex b : a period of exemption from work granted for watching television and eating Cheetos
3 : a period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation, so you can eat your Cheetos on the beach
4 : an act or an instance of surfing the internet for hours, and honestly having nothing better to do

Friendly's

I have come up with a new catchphrase for Friendly's: sometimes friendly, always slow. I took my friend out for a goodbye ice cream trip since she's going away for the spring, and Friendly's was the best place for us to do that. I did not heed another friend's warning about Friendly's, telling myself that my memory had exaggerated the facts, and it really hadn't taken them almost an hour to get us three sundaes the last time I was there.

I was silly to do that to myself, however, because Friendly's did what it does best: keep you waiting. We sat in our booth, hungry and craving something, anything food-like, but to no avail. Our waitress would occasionally pass us by on the way to other tables, which is an improvement, since most of the time the Friendly's servers are AWOL immediately after we order, but she never stopped. Our desperate pleas for sustenance were ignored. The woman was sort of friendly, but I aged about ten years while waiting for this to translate into service.

At last, we had reached the point of hunger where we were no longer hungry. Our sundaes, opportunely, arrived at this moment. We ate them slowly and paid. I walked out feeling as I always do when I exit Friendly's: that was terrible, and I will never eat there again. Then I forget and return a month later.

Sometimes repressed memory works against you.

Axe

I know boys want to inspire sex by the way they smell, but Axe spray is not the answer. While I admit to liking Axe deodorant, the spray is never okay. It's not subtle and nice like the deodorant. It's like being punched in the face, and then bled on. The Axe spray, no matter how long ago it was sprayed on a person, makes them reek strongly. Boys insist on sitting next to me in class wearing the Axe, and it makes it impossible to focus, and not in a good way. I want to kick over his chair, not jump him.

My first experience with the Axe spray was in Japan. The Japanese never really embraced deodorant as a whole, opting for scented spray instead. It mixes acridly with the scent of B.O., and makes crowded train rides in the summer rather interesting. Think about a combined odor of B.O., pineapple, and sandalwood. The end result is somewhat remarkable, actually, and may be the next big biochemical weapon in the making. One of the boys on the trip decided to embrace this, and his spray of choice was Axe.

He quickly became a huge fan of Axe, so much so that he could not restrain himself from spraying it whenever the urge struck. He kept the bottle with him, and would periodically send mists of Axe into the air. There was a turning point only when he Axed himself on a bus, and we sneezed for an entire busride. We exited the bus all smelling like Axe, and took care to never stand near him when he was engaging in the Axeification, which we stopped as much as possible.

Some boys on campus are fond of what is called the "Axe Bomb." You take several bottles of Axe while another guy is away at class, and spray the entire contents of the bottles in the room. The boy returns to his room and is forced to retreat for fear that his face will melt off if exposed to the excruciating power of undiluted Axe for more than thirty seconds.

Axe spray has become the new cheap cologne. Teenage boys seem unable to figure out how much is enough, and opt for too much. If you must use Axe spray, do so sparingly If you can smell yourself (or smell like an Axe Bomb), you've used too much. Stop the madness, and maybe we'll all still be able to smell when we're fifty.

Platypus

The platypus is an amazing animal. There are many bizarre things about them, but there are three that I find particularly excellent. First of all, it's a mammal that lays eggs (it's only compatriot in this is the echidna) . Second, they're poisonous. Third, they're duckbilled.
By all reasoning, the platypus is a freak. They can't even figure out how to pluralize it (it's a debate between platypuses, platypoda, platypi, or simply platypus).

My biology teacher had a stuffed platypus. She kept it on top of one of the shelves. I would stare at its beady, glass eyes, peering down at me from above. Its feet were outstretched, and it looked like it was trying to swim through the air. I find stuffed animals as a whole to be mildly upsetting, but the platypus in particular unsettled me. Imagine my horror, then, when my teacher brought the platypus down during our evolution unit.

She emphasized that it was very difficult to get a real platypus, and to handle it carefully. She seemed so excited by it that I hadn't the heart to tell her that I found the idea entirely unappealing. The platypus was passed around the class, and my horror grew with each pair of hands it moved through. At last, the platypus was handed to me, and I cringed. My teacher encouraged me to feel the soft fur of the platypus, and it was rather like an otters. It is only in staring at a real platypus that one realizes what an incredibly unlikely animal it is. I found it even more creepy (mostly it was the feet) now that I was holding it, but I was fascinated by it, too.

And I took it upon myself, after having my moment of revelation, to study the platypus more closely. Here is my favorite fact: platypus poison is not normally lethal to humans, but it produces excruciating pain and swelling that lasts for several months. The pain is so excruciating that the victim is rendered almost helpless. If I were ever engaged in a battle of mammals, I would choose the platypus.

Don't mess with a platypus, because he will mess you up.

Dessert First

People sometimes tell me to eat my dessert first, because one can't be sure I'll make it to dinner, and should make sure I get in the sweet part first. If find this idea to be like communism: it's better in theory than in practice.

Occasionally I give in and have dessert first. Then I eat dinner. And then I want dessert...again. So I end up eating two desserts. It tips me over the edge of fulfilled, too. When I finish the dinner second to dessert, I feel pleasantly full. After the second dessert, though, I feel uncomfortably full. I am two desserts closer to dying, but I'm still around, hating myself for letting myself fall prey to an indulgent, self-help book adage. I am constantly at war with myself, because I want dessert first, but habit pushes upon me the unstoppable urge to have dessert after dinner. Instead of giving in one or the other, I compromise and do both, and it doesn't work. The body just wasn't meant to have bookend desserts.

But I have recently discovered a happy medium. Save your decision-making skills for important choices. Don't make a choice about when to have dessert, have a full dessert before dinner and half a dessert after dinner.

Commando

I have always been one of those people to whom strangers feel compelled to divulge their life stories. I will be standing, unsuspecting, in a check-out line, when someone will decide that I have a welcoming face, and launch into a protracted tale of woe and heartbreak. Or she will discuss her opinions on the stock market or feelings about toaster strudel. I don't understand why standing in the vacinity of a person makes it seem like I have a deep, invested interest in the proximate stranger's life, but I really don't. Admittedly, I've heard some really entertaining stories, but the frequency with with people tell me personal information is shocking. I know that as a society, we all want to be friends with each other and feel close to people around us, but this doesn't mean that one can expect the same sympathy from a friend as from a stranger. It's not that I wouldn't care if we were friends, it's that what I want most from the moment is to purchase my carton of milk and go home.

Small talk is fine, even a build up in a conversation to more personal information is okay. But starting a first sentence with what a dickface your ex-boyfriend = NO. Usually, at least. But these stories and discussions can be interesting, and sometimes I can offer advice. What I cannot abide by is overshares, where acquaintances tell me things because they think it will shock me.

It distresses me that people always, more than anything else they wish to share, want to tell me that they are going commando. It's like people can't contain themselves. They will contemplate me for a second, to gage how I will react, and then blurt it out. At best, he will lean over in class and mention that he is not wearing underwear. At worst, she will describe how liberated she feels, and now strange denim feels against her butt. I can understand feeling adventurous and risque, but the experience is better served when not mentioned to anyone, especially me.

It's not that I'm grossed out, it's just that I don't want to know.

Camera Phones

You will never get a good picture on a camera phone, so please stop trying. I don't know who thought it would be a good idea to put a camera in a phone, but whoever it was is a jackass. My first true experience with the camera phone was when my father came home with a new cellphone a couple years ago. At that point the resolution seemed to be about 5 x 5 pixels. He said, "Hey, Meredith, check out this new feature!" and took a picture of me without my consent or understanding.
"What?"
"I just took a picture of you!"
"Oh. Well, how does it look?"
He flipped the phone around to give me a good look at the screen, and I recoiled with a shriek, like a woman in a 1950s B-horror film. What assaulted my eyes was the worst picture ever taken (though others later upped the ante with their camera phones). I had just been standing there, but somehow the camera filtered my face so that I came out looking like a bloated, dead alien. I made a grab for the phone.
"How do you delete this?"

My father was kind to me then, and deleted it, but he is a fan of sneaking around the house and taking horrendous photos of my mother and me. He also takes pictures of the dog, who is surprising camera phonogenic (spread the phrase, spread it!). I hoped that the camera phone would die out, like the 8-track, but it has had a surge in popularity. Now everyone I know thinks she is Annie Leibovitz, and can't be convinced otherwise.

Camera phones are slowly taking over the world. Everyone keeps telling me, "Stop, don't leave that pose!" or "Keep your face in that expression!" and whips the camera phone from a pocket or purse to capture the moment. The camera phone does its duty, and magnifies all bad elements of the picture by 2000x. We all know the photos are terrible, but still we save them, and email them to ourselves and friends.

And if I thought the pictures looked terrible on phone screens, they look even worse blown up on the computer screen. My friend Kate has particular skill in making people look like mutant bog monsters. Her tactic is this: you will be innocently eating an oreo or doing homework, when all of a sudden a camera flashes too quickly for you to move a hand in front of your face, and she takes a series of rapidfire shots. Then she posts her winnings on the internet, so that all may bask in the combined talents of her and the camera phone.

I myself have a camera phone, but I try to stick to landscapes and pieces of clothing I need a second opinion on. I can barely take a good picture with a good camera, so I don't usually brave portraits with the camera phone. Also, having the current ability to fill the Louvre with all the terrible camera phone photos of myself, I try to be kind to others. So to all of you with happy trigger fingers: be a friend, put the camera phone away.

Jelly Beans

I have recently discovered a new source of pride: individually wrapped jelly beans. It makes me proud to be an American. It combines the best elements of being an American: waste and an obsession with sterility. Before, if I wanted to give someone a jelly bean, I had to touch it and spread my germs over it thoroughly before handing it to him, sending the highly toxic bacteria that permeates my existence into his bloodstream. Or, an even more horrific prospect, I could allow her to reach in and take a jelly bean. She would inevitably not find the flavor she wanted and contaminate the entire bag while rustling through the jelly beans. Then the next person to want a jelly bean would not only to have to brave my germs, but also those of whoever else reached in. It's a wonder we aren't all dead, at this point.

Thankfully, Jelly Belly is taking good care of me. Now there are individually wrapped jelly beans so that everyone can examine the jelly beans with both eyes and hands, without fear of being poisoned or poisoning the stash.

Also, now I no longer have to be concerned with not being wasteful. Really, the amount of candy to the plastic wrap around an entire bag of jelly beans was shameful. There was only as much plastic in the bag as necessary. But now that I have individually wrapped jelly beans, I have the equivalent of two bags to every bags-worth of jelly beans. I can waste as much as I please, and then toss the tiny plastic wrappers across some pristine forests, hoping that one blows up and chokes a baby bird.

I had thought that some things in my world had plateaued in terms of their excellence, but jelly beans have given that idea a swift kick in the ass. I didn't know that I needed each jelly bean to have its own, tiny plastic home, but it turns out that I did. So thank you, Jelly Belly, for proving me wrong.

Mr. Potato Head

I have long been an acquirer of toys. There are the colorful trolls, the dancing hamsters, the irritating little maze games with metal balls in them. But my favorite acquisition, hands down, has been Mr. Potato Head.

There is something infinitely appealing about sticking random pointy things into a potato, and Mr. Potato Head takes this enjoyment to a new level. I can place his moustache where his eye should be, change his shoes, put his ear where his nose should be. While the commercials have all the fun suggestions for changing up the face, they like to keep it normal. What is truly fun about Mr. Potato Head, though, is to be able to take a potato-shaped bit of plastic and give it not only recognizable human features, but having the features be horribly awry.

For all of you who have forgotten the simple pleasures of Mr. Potato Head: repent! I have a Darth Vader Mr. Potato Head and the regular one, and they both delight me infinitely. Go out and acquire the joy that only the potato can bring. And the best part is, when you want to put body parts away, you can store them in Mr. Potato Head's butt, since there's a handy door there. Sheer genius.