Diva

In my heart I am a diva. When I am in my room I strut around listening to my Destiny's Child CD pretending I'm wearing hot pants. I put on the "I'm beautiful and badass and I can sing, but I can fuck you up" face that all divas must be able to pull of. What is the word Tyra Banks uses on my secret favorite show? Oh yes, FIERCE. Sometimes when a song by a female hip hop or R&B artist comes on I am literally expelled from my chair by the need to be a diva. I throw my head around, shake my hips and imagine stamping on a man with my heels while I prance around the room.

I belt out the lyrics and really feel them. They were written just for me, baby! I am bootylicious, a survivor, dumping that man with the highest note I can sing, getting ready for the nightlife (I like to boogie) and telling him to call me when he gets there all at the same time. I am empowered, black and proud and I sound a damned lot like Aretha Franklin in these moments.

Every day under the real clothing I'm wearing, I'm wearing a slinky, sequined red dress that is bling enough that people need sunglasses to look at me. And I've got the microphone in my hand and the man offstage who only likes me for my money but I keep around because I like having power in a relationship.

So why am I smiling when there's nothing funny? Because honey, how can you not smile when you've got so much divatude inside?

Disney

I hope I never get old enough to think I'm too old for Disney animated movies. None of that 3D crap they're peddling now, I mean the good stuff. The movies from the now defunct 2D studio, like Aladdin and Robin Hood and The Little Mermaid. I watched Aladdin last night, and it brought me the same, unadulterated pleasure that it did when I was a little kid. There are constantly new things being revealed, new jokes that I didn't understand when I was little and didn't catch the last 20 times I watched it. And then there's the scandalous screenshots, like the one where the priest in the wedding scene in the end of The Little Mermaid has a prominent hard-on. It's like the movies grow with me, and it reassures me that even if I'm killed by a polar-ice-cap-melting-induced tidal wave, nuclear warfare, a poisoned water supply or a militant group of twelve-year-old boys, I will have experienced the good that the world has to offer.

It is because of this that I must ask: Disney, what the fuck are you doing? I know the argument for shutting down the 2D studios was that kids weren't interested in watching that kind of thing anymore, and so they didn't make any money. Ah yes, thank you, that explains why kids HATE anime (yes, I know there's anime aimed at people older than 8, too). Allow me to enlighten you. The reason they didn't like the never 2D movies was because they are, quite simply, shit in a plastic box. You have to have good music, good animation and an interesting story to make kids watch movies; THEY'RE BORED EASILY. 3D animation can only entertain them so much before they realize that they're watching a stupid movie about cows who kind of do something because something might need saving but not really; oh, and that the music was written by a 14-year-old girl with a drummachine. You didn't fix the problem, you 3D duct-taped it. And even though you can make a legitimate wallet out of duct tape, you can't make legitimate money out of it.

As a side note, just because the first movie made money doesn't mean that a sequel is a good idea. I'm not saying Disney's the only culprit; I did see The Matrix: Reloaded, after all. But as the company that created so much joy for so many children, you should be especially horrified at Pocahontas II, Sleeping Beauty II, Mulan II, and especially The Lion King 1 1/2. For shame! Is nothing sacred? Every time you release one of those monstrosities or advertise the DVD on television, you stomp on my heart with golf shoes.

Pardon My Anglo-Saxon

"Anglo-Saxon," which we also know as Old English, was spoken in England from 5th century A.D. to before invasions in the 11th century. Many of the monosyllabic, harsh sounding words that we use in English are in fact Anglo-Saxon in origin. Case in point: fuck and shit. In Anglo-Saxon, fuck was just their word for sex, nothing vulgar about it, and shit was just a fact of life. The words only became vulgar when, as it happens, the French-speaking Normans invaded and the language of the invaded became a lesser language. It is a sort of psychological destruction, to make the basic words in one's language into curse words, to make them words that would not be spoken in polite company. So when you say, "Pardon my French," and then unleash a string of motherfuckers, etc., what you mean is, "Pardon my Anglo-Saxon."

And when I found all of that out, it got me thinking about words in general. Like use of the words "hot" and "cool" to describe excellent things. And how really anything could be a curse or expression of pleasure if you want it to be. You just need a way to spread it. My Latin teacher, for instance, told a story about how she casually introduced the word "casserole" into the slang at her college. At a party, she mentioned something was "casserole," using it as we would now use "sweet" or "cool." And within a week she heard people she'd never met before using it on campus. Brilliant.

Unfortunately, my argument that I was merely speaking Anglo-Saxon was not convincing to my mother. So until you can work fuck as a non-curse as my teacher worked casserole as cool, don't try this stuff at home.

The Meaning of Life

I'm contemplating the meaning of life upon request, and it's been a rather strenuous time. I wondered, was it to truly understand that you are sometimes happiest when procrastinating and abandon work, to find your "true calling," to learn how to perform a headspin? And I realized that there was no real, sweeping generalization for all these things, but for one. Essentially, the meaning of life is to become your own personal definition of a badass.

Sure, life sucks, and then you die, but it's a lot better when you have the reassurance that you're awesome. For me, being a badass is the following things:
1. Not being stressed out.
2. Knowing, or at least being able to fudge well the latest crazy handshake.
3. Writing a fun blog.
4. Feeling that when you do the same stuff as everyone else, it's just a little bit better because it was you who did it.
5. Mutating fruits so that they are more like bananas.
6. Finding something you love doing everyday, and then getting someone to pay you for it.
7. Being able to pull of purple pants.
8. Finding a group of people who will put up with your use of the five second rule, spontaneous ranting, eccentricity, and inability to not sing along with the radio, and being a good friend to them.
9. Realizing that sometimes you can't be perfect, still feeling like excellent, and then eating cheesecake.
10. Learning how to play well the guitar, harmonica, kazoo or nose flute.

This should by no means dictate how you become a badass. I do, however, recommend making a list like the one I wrote to see how you could become your definition of a badass. The key is to have things that won't hurt anybody else. So I suppose I should revise my statement and say that the meaning of life is to be a peaceful badass. Perhaps if we were all happy with our badassness, we could stop killing each other, stop stealing from the communal fridge and stop cutting me off in traffic.

Cafeteria Lines

It starts out innocently enough. After thinking for four hours straight, the students storm the dining hall. We beat each other, slam doors in each others faces, toss backpacks on the ground in a competitor's path in the hopes that they will get caught on a strap and fall, all in an effort to get to the line. This, of course, is all a gross exaggeration. There is only minor jostling as we jockey for a position in the line. I, as a senior, am a seasoned veteran, and usually emerge on top. We stand in line, grabbing the trays as we approach the hot line.

The soup pot begins the line, next to it a list of today's fine dining. The food is hot, tantalizingly steaming up the glass sneezeguard above it. I shift from foot to foot, anxious to plop as much as possible onto my plate. And suddenly, the line stops. I wait. Five seconds pass, then six, then twenty. Everyone cranes their necks to look down the line. And there is the culprit, looking conflictedly between rice pilaf and roasted beets. Under the strain, he is breaking into a sweat, looking between the items with ever increasing frequency. Now, if life worked as it should, a pack of ravening wolverines trained only for this purpose would run over, eat him, and clear away his tray. The line would then continue as normal.

As the world we live in is an unjust one, however, we are forced to wait for the kid to not only decide between to options, but also figure out how to use a spoon and then use it to scoop food onto his plate. It is a daily problem, perhaps due to short term memory loss, and one I must endure every time I try to eat. Few people seem to understand the incredible urgency required in obtaining food in the dining hall. Twenty seconds can make a lot of difference when there are thirty people in line. I make it a point to know what I want when I get there and move efficiently.

The second most common wrench in the finely tuned machine of food-getting is when someone decides he really needs half of the french fries available on the line, and fills his tray with them; his compatriot takes care of the second half. Actually, french fries are at the end of the line. The true problem is when people pick something in the middle of the line, like fried chicken, and then everyone is forced to wait for the next batch to come up. Communication is minimal in dining hall, occluded by our desperate desire to eat, so even if you don't want to eat fried chicken and are really interested in something farther down the line, you still end up waiting for the fried chicken to come before you can get what you want. And by the time you get there, that's run out, too. Meanwhile, the line is growing shorter because students in the back have resorted to cannibalism, or the salad bar.

There's no quick lane in dining hall like there is in the supermarket, so move faster. I'm not saying that you have to, but I am saying that I've got some cages in my back yard that are just about the right size for wolverines...

Five Second Rule

The five second rule has been a staple in my life since elementary school. I first discovered it when I dropped half of my hot dog on the ground in the first grade. I look in distress at my hot dog, wishing, not for the last time, that I could rewind life and make the moment never happen. Then, a lifechanging event.

A boy in my class said, "What are you waiting for? Five second rule!"
I stared at him blankly.
"If you pick up the hot dog now, it'll still be okay to eat."
It seemed somewhat shady, eating food off the ground, but I really wanted the hot dog. I dropped into a squatting position and snatched the hot dog off the ground. I wiped the bun on my pants and ate it. Surprisingly, my hot dog tasted just as good, and perhaps even a little bit better for the adventure it had gone through.

Everyone has a different version of the five second rule. I usually stick with five seconds because I like to keep childhood habits classic. My dog has the one century rule, which leads her to run at chicken bones leftover from barbecues that probably took place in the previous year. One of my friends has the "until I pick it up" rule. He doesn't feel the need to rush to pick up things he drops on the ground. After all, if it's okay after five seconds, why not thirteen? But somehow I feel safer sticking with the classic, perhaps arbitrary five second parameter.

I have evolved in my use of the five second rule, however. If I drop something on the ground outside, I will not put it in my mouth afterward. I am confident that I am correct in making this decision. Nevertheless, I still pick up hamburgers, hotdogs, forks, brush them off, and eat/use them. But only after I look to make sure there's no one who's germ conscious around, looking to admonish me. I know I'm not supposed to eat food that's fallen on the floor, but I just can't get that upset about bacteria and poisoning myself after learning that there are more bacteria in the human mouth than on a toilet seat.

You're never too old for the five second rule, so everyone chill and stop telling me about how dangerous and disgusting it is. We both know you protest because you wish you still had the balls to do it too. I got to eat the rest of my hot dog. Will you?

Carrier Pigeons

So, I was thinking about mail on Monday, and that got me to thinking about carrier pigeons. I went to the International Spy Museum, and there was a wall about using carrier pigeons during one of the world wars. At the time, I remember thinking what a badass idea that was. Maybe it's because I'm still waiting for my Hogwarts letter or because I don't have to train or care for dirty pigeons, but I think we should reintroduce carrier pigeons.

Since receiving email is exciting, and snail mail even more so in some ways, imagine how exciting having a bird deliver your mail would be. Now, there are arguments to be made for hand-delivered letters and telegrams, but I can see people everyday. But trained pigeons, now that is something I want to see. I don't know that you could send anything of any true substance using a bird, but it could have its uses. For example, note passing. We all have thoughts during class that can't be said aloud, but need to be conveyed to a friend. Carrier pigeons could take this to an entirely new level, to, dare I say it, class-to-class note passing. It could work like this:

Carrier pigeon lands on desk and student unravels the paper around its leg. The student opens the paper and the pigeon flies away.
Teacher: Is there something you'd like to share with the class?
Student: No, I'm good. It's just something to think about for later.
Teacher: What was so important that it merited interrupting class?
Student: Nothing, really.
Teacher: I insist on seeing the paper.
Teacher looks at the paper, and all that is written on the paper is:

Also, it would be kind of nice if you were going somewhere where there was no cell phone reception. The place where you're staying could have a carrier pigeon station, and you could send people information by pigeon. Especially those obnoxious postcards, "Wish you were here" with a beach on the front. It could be, "Wish you were here, and did I mention that we have carrier pigeons?" And he'd think, JERK, because he would have received the note by carrier pigeon, and think about how much more fun you're having with mail than he is.

In short, I haven't fully thought out the logistics of introducing mainstream carrier pigeons, but I think someone should. It's not about being economically viable or making sense, it's about being awesome.

Spring Fashion

Now that spring has come around again, questionable fashion choices have begun sprouting. Admittedly, I don't have the gumption to get myself exceptionally put together and flirty every day, but on the off days, I try to keep it more conservative or minimalist and avoid "creative" fashion decisions. I have put down below my commands about said fashion choices, which are to be obeyed at all costs.

Meredith's Spring Fashion Commandments:

1. Thou shalt not wear a thong with a short skirt. I don't need to see that when I'm walking up the stairs behind you. Also dealing with thongs, thou shalt not wear a colored thong under a light skirt. It's distracting, and not in a flattering way.
3. Thou shalt not wear jeans under a cute skirt, even if it's cold. NOOOOOOOOOO!
3. Thou shalt not expose thy pasty white midriff. I don't like having to wear sunglasses.
4. Thou shalt never wear Uggs again, especially with a miniskirt. Are you stupid, or just blind? It's sixty-five degrees out, and everyone's awake enough again to recognize that you're wearing damn ugly shoes.
5. Thou shalt cross thy legs when wearing a miniskirt and facing me. This is especially true if one is going commando or wearing a thong. Your mother would smack you.
6. Thou shalt not expose more than two inches of cleavage on the butt or chest. It's not sexy, it's an invitation for me to try to land spare change in the crevice.
7. Thou shalt stop wearing a colored bra under a white shirt while it is raining. Unless it's a hot pink bra.
8. Thou shalt stop using eyeliner to imitate a raccoon. I know things are fuzzy in the morning, but it's not nearly blurry enough for eyeliner to go that awry.
9. Thou shalt not use sunless tanner. n.b. Putting sunless tanner on the stomach still does not make the midriff attractive.
10. Thou shalt stop wearing dark sunglasses that cover half your face. It upsets me when I can't see where you're looking while I'm talking to you, and I assure you you're not ugly enough to justify covering most of your face.

Obeying my commandments will ultimately increase the quality of your life. I know that we're all sinners, but I'm willing to forgive, so long as you repent.

Cocoa Puffs

If there is one thing that can complete my breakfast, it is Cocoa Puffs. Cocoa Puffs, a banana, and a glass of pineapple juice is the way to go. My friend, who is taking a course in nutrition, informed me recently that Cocoa Puffs are 33.3% sugar, which explains a great deal. Mostly, it explains why they are so delicious. I can ignore their sugar content more easily than Lucky Charms, which has hunks of hard sugar masquerading as marshmellows in it.

I was a jack-of-all-trades when I as a kid, bouncing from ballet to lacrosse to soccer to piano to baseball to tennis, and becoming truly a master of none of them. Nothing could hold my attention. I've always been a sampler, and this carried through into my choice of cereal. My parents resisted the introduction of junk food and soda into the house until I was in junior high, but there was a concession for cereal.

My father and I would go out on a massive grocery trip every other Saturday. He pick his healthy cereal with less than 33.3% dry weight in sugar and add it to the cart. If I was satisfied with my cereal choice for the previous two weeks, I would pick it up again, and if not, I would choose another by how compelling the box was. More colorful boxes usually won my favor, and generally the more colorful cereals. Although there was a brief period when I ate Kix, because a girl I idolized at the time ate them, it was a brief stint. I went through Trix, Fruit Loops, Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, and even Cheerios.

Throughout all that time, my father had resisted my purchasing a chocolately cereal, such as Cocoa Puffs or Cookie Crisp (which is a crime against flavor). At last, after years of wearing him down, I returned from the grocery store triumphant. When asked how they knew their spouse was the one, people have told me that they just knew he/she was the one. And when I took my first bite of Cocoa Puffs, I knew it was the one. It was the cereal I had been waiting for, the one that could finally squelch my sampler tendencies. We were meant to be together.

And Cocoa Puffs and I have been together ever since. I eat them almost every morning, basking in the glory of their sugary, blatantly nonchocolate taste, and marvelling at how they turn my milk into delicious, purple-brown chocolate milk.

Mail

When it comes to mail, I'm still eight years old. I love receiving letters and packages in the mail. It validates my existence. When my mother instructs me to clean my room, I grumble, when she tells me to do laundry, I groan, and when she tells me to walk the dog, I will my dog to be cranky and undesirous of a walk. But when she tells me to check the mail, I dash to the mailbox and sift through the boring junk (anything without my name on it), desperately hoping there's something in there for me.

My parents assured me when I was younger that I would get tired of receiving mail later in life. I'm sure that they are referring to the increase in the volume of mail and tendency of said mail to be bills, but no matter. Until that time comes, no one will make me feel guilty for loving mail. No matter how much mail I receive, it still excites me every time. I'm that jerk in the campus post office who declares she has mail every time she discovers something in her mailbox. I am especially terrible when I receive one of my mother's surprise care packages. Then I proudly flourish my package slip as I carry it up to the counter to retrieve my package.

While there is something especially delightful about receiving snail mail, I will by no means leave out email. Email is a far more dangerous kind of addiction than snail mail. You can receive email at any time, and there's almost always a computer within my reach. This leads to obsessive checking of the mail whenever I don't want to write my English paper, contemplate my existence, or do basically anything that requires real brain power. And just as my mother fuels my love of snail mail, so does everyone else fuel my love of email by continuously sending me stupid attachments, love notes, homework, notices, and announcements of sales at stores. I read it all.

So here's my question. Spammers and junk mailers: why must you pollute something so beautiful? I have few simple pleasures on this earth, and there's no need for you to destroy one of them. I want you to truly think about the effectiveness of junk mailing and spamming to do anything but irritate me, and contemplate why you've created such an evil industry. I want you to think of your children, who I'm sure probably love mail almost as much as I do. When you send me junk mail or spam, a little piece of their souls die, and you have no one to blame but yourself.

Standing Around

There is a strange phenomenon that compels people to be in my way as much as possible. Accompanying this phenomenon is a strange absense of brain power, as normally intelligent people begin milling about and become unable to process information. Take, for example, Door Crowding. For some reason, people seem to think that the doorway is an appropriate place to have a conversation with twelve people, making sure that they pack in tightly so that no one can utilize the door. Let me assure right now that door conversations are in fact a terrible idea. There is an entire, wide hallway for you to utilize, so why do you insist on enraging me?

The second unexplainable phenomenon I've witnessed is the Sudden Stop. Somebody will be walking in front of me in the supermarket or hallway or path, and suddenly stop. Now, I live in a hustle and bustle world, so I like to get where I'm going as efficiently as possible. My efficiency is greatly decreased by his insistence on stopping in the path and standing there like livestock, forcing the flow of people to go around him. If for some reason you need to stop, maneuver your way to the side of the path/aisle/hallway. You wouldn't stop your car in the middle lane of the freeway, would you? No, because it makes no sense.

Also, standing in front of a stall in a public bathroom leads me to believe that you are waiting to use the restroom. Don't look at me strangely when I don't make a mad dash for the first available stall. And don't smile at me like I'm a simpleton. I'm not the one standing in a public restroom, staring intently at the stalls, but with absolutely no intention of using the facilities. I know your friend is in the stall, but she's somehow managed to live without your support in these matters for quite some time, and she won't be irrevocably damaged by your standing near the sink.

All of these inconveniences would be eliminated if people would just stop standing around in the middle of the action. Get moving, get trucking, or at least get out of my way.

Drive!

To all the elderly drivers who give old people a bad name, and especially the little old lady who almost mowed me down with her old Mercedes today: learn how to drive. Now, I have nothing against the elderly. I'll probably live long enough to be elderly. But just because you're old doesn't mean I don't expect you to know how to drive. And an aircraft carrier disguised as a car, such as an Oldsmobile or Cadillac, is not an appropriate substitute for driving skill.

The elderly, driving-impaired citizens of America have characterized almost all of my interactions with senior citizens. I would visit my grandparents in Florida (commonly mistaken to be the Sunshine State, while it is in fact the Old Guy in a Caddy State) every spring break. Every once in a while as my dad and I were in the car, he would slam on the brakes and throw his arm in front of my chest. Innocent, at age seven, I had only the most vague understanding of why my father looked at the Cadillacs in fear.

There are some basic rules of driving that seem to have slipped the memory. For instance, if you're trying to enter the road from your driveway, you can't just wheel half of your steel tank out into the road just as I'm about to go past you, and then stop. Either you're coming or you're going, and the slow inching is a disaster in the making. Your car may be built to survive those still pending attacks from the Commies, but mine is not, and if our cars were to battle, mine would stand about as much chance of staying intact as carton of Ben & Jerry's in a communal fridge.

And the speed limit on the highway is not thirty-five mph, despite what you seem to believe. If you insist on doing 35 in the right lane, you have a right to it. You do not, however, have a right to the far lane and the middle lane. This is especially true when I am driving alongside you. Much as you cannot pull half your car out into traffic, forcing people to stop, and then leave it there for an interminable amount of time, so can you not take two lanes of traffic. Pick a lane and stick to it. I know, however, that this is difficult for you, which is why I encourage you to get off the road.

All of us do things poorly that we want to pretend we're excellent at. I can't do The Worm properly, but I can't stop myself from trying. You can't drive, but you can't stop yourself from getting on the road. I think it's time we owned up to our failings, loved each other anyway, and stopped trying to drive/breakdance, for everyone's good.

-She-Who-Has-Enough-Trouble-Driving-As-It-Is

P.S. And to everyone who has a one-hundred-year-old grandma who still insists on driving, club her or steal her keys or something, because even though I laugh when you tell me about her, I live in fear after hearing those stories.

Food Thief

Living in a dorm has its definite pluses, proximity to friends, a massive collection of clothing to draw upon, and full seasons of excellent TV shows among them. Dorm living is not, unfortunately, restricted to these things.

The greatest problem with dorm living (aside from shared bathrooms) is most definitely food thieves. There is a communal fridge. Now, some in the dorm seem to be under the impression that our communal fridge is much like the "magic fridge" in the Budweiser commercial, but filling mysteriously with free food, instead of beer. I would like to assure everyone who is or will be living with a communal fridge: this is a lie. People perform a difficult trick in which they go to the supermarket and purchase food to fill the fridge. Thus, when you eat half my Ben & Jerry's and leave an open carton of it in the freezer, with a spoon still wedged in it, you are stealing my food, and a little bit of my dignity. Because leaving the spoon in my ice cream is just adding insult to injury.

To solve this problem, I have devised what I like to call "Back Away from My Food," also known as the BAMF. Everyone would have IDs planted on them so that the computer would recognize and be able to match with the name written on food containers. It would be mounted on the top of the fridge. When a food thief came in to eat someone else's raw cookie dough, the BAMF would give them a shock, much like being briefly tasered. It would then make a record of who had attempted to steal the food.

This technology is still in the works, however, so for the time being the main solution is to put things in the fridge that you like, but are utterly unappealing to everyone else (see natto). It is perhaps the most effective way to keep your food, for now, aside from a minifridge in your room. However, if one does decide to put the disgusting, unappealing food in the fridge, it is necessary to remember that it's in there. Three weeks in the fridge is too long for most things, and they start to, well, SMELL LIKE THE BOG OF ETERNAL STENCH. We've had this problem at the end of year, two times running. Someone will leave some rank Chinese food in the fridge to go even worse, and two weeks later the smell has permeated the entire refrigerator so that when someone opens the door, the entire common room is given a wash of nauseating odor. By this time it is nearly impossible to identify which box is the culprit, because everything smells like it and food is packed too tightly into the fridge to find it, anyway.

In short, I will eventually figure out how to snipe you, food thieves, so you better quit while you're still ahead. And, death by stinky Chinese is not an appropriate way to kill food thieves, so toss out that General Tso's chicken.

Springtime

Love (and pollen) is in the air! The flowers are growing, the hemlines are shrinking, and the newest batch of admitted students is overrunning the campus. Everywhere, there are signs of spring. For me, the weather and my work ethic are closely related. I have drawn a helpful graph.

You will note that my work ethic takes something of a nosedive at about 60 degrees. There are just too many compelling reasons to go outside and bask in the glory the outdoors. It’s clear that many feel as I do, given that the percent of people outside, doing something other than walking to class goes from 3% to 94% in a matter of days.

Top Ten Ways To Tell It’s Spring On Campus:

1. You have to avoid stray Frisbees while traversing the paths.
2. Girls are sunbathing in bikinis on the lawn, even though it’s only 70 degrees out.
3. Boys are huddling in small circles in the exact center of the path, playing hackey sack with varying levels of success.
4. The radiators are turned off, and the windows are opened.
5. The boot mountains (high enough that there’s no oxygen at the top) outside doors have been traded for piles of flip-flops.
6. Mud bodysledding. Also, Slip ‘n’ Slides (real or made of garbage bags).
7. Ugly, surprise haircuts from spring break. My friends and want to start a committee that approves haircuts for boys on campus, because the state of hair after breaks is not conducive to our viewing pleasure.
8. Every third person is red-eyed and sneezing.
9. And then there was light! Daylight Savings Time returns, giving us all another hour to smile about.
10. Speakers are pressed up against window screens, blaring Bob Marley’s “Could You Be Loved” through the quads.

Yes, I could be loved, and you could be loved, too. So let’s all love, play ultimate frisbee, and put work on the backburner.

Ingredient Overload

I recently went to chill in Sarah's room. I was sitting on her couch, "engrossed" in my math homework (singing along with the radio, skipping problems that required brainpower, and chatting about the latest campus gossip), when I discovered a box under her sofa. I pulled it out, and it turned out to be one of those inconveniently long "fridge pack"s that never fit in my fridge. I gazed at the box in wonder. It declared that the contents of the box was a dozen cans of "Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper." My initial reaction was shock, and then I contemplated all the taste's I'd had in the world, trying to desperately to imagine what cherry, vanilla and Dr. Pepper could possibly taste like together. Second, I felt old, for I could remember when plain, old Vanilla Coke revolutionized soda. But now we've upped the anti.

One flavor simply won't do in today's increasingly competitive market. People can't drink that calorific swill that is regular soda, so we must have diet options. Second, everyone's already got one flavor in their drink, so the only answer is to keep adding more flavors. Yes, that will make it more extreme, more delicious than the competition. Brilliant!

It was with great skepticism that I tasted what I assumed would be a monstrosity. I took a sip, expecting it to evoke the same reaction as Diet Coke with Splenda (a mouthful involuntarily ended up watering a lawn). I was shocked when I found the superloaded Dr. Pepper to be delicious. It was the first time I'd found a truly convincing argument for overloading everything with more "Xtreme" elements. In this case, less is not more. While companies keep loading down food with too many flavors, electronics with erroneous features, and cars that you can start from 20 feet, I have to ask: has any of this made my life any better?

While occasionally I appreciate one of the monstrosities of excess, such as the Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, usually I feel better about sticking with the classics. I know we've gotten lazy, and the idea of actually inventing new technology or kinds of soda is appalling, but it might be necessary. It's kind of like those shoes you love desperately but are now mostly made of duct tape. At a certain point one must admit that they're no longer the same, good shoes, and it's time for something new and different. A twist on a classic only goes so far before you twist it beyond recognition.

For an example of a good, new twist on a classic, check this video out.

Puppy ADD

Let me set the stage: I am walking through the bucolic school campus, on my way to dining hall. It is the end of the day, and students are pouring out of the doors of the buildings. I smile, take in the atmosphere, and chat with someone walking next to me. I begin, "So, why did people care so much about having white bread in dining..." Suddenly, the conversation stops dead. "Meredith, Meredith?" she asks, but it's too late. My attention is gone. For I have spotted a puppy.

The faculty member freezes, suddenly aware that I have his dog in my sights. But it is too late to escape. "Aw, what a cute dog!" I declare, and rush over to shower affection on the dog. "What a pretty puppy you are, just look at you, you precious little schnoogums. You like petting, don't you? Yeeeeeees." The dog immediately flops over onto the ground to give me better access to the stomach for scratching, and all other things I had planned to do in the next five minutes are shot.

It is a given that, no matter how interesting or important something I'm doing it, I can't focus on it if I spot a dog. Against my will, my body compells me to dash over and TALK BABYTALK, of all mortifying things, to the dog. There is nothing else on earth that has the same effect on me, not even babies. I will always pet a dog. But it's even worse with puppies. Embarrassingly enough, a squeal bubbles up in my throat, and I am unable to stop it from escaping at even just a picture of a puppy. My dog used to "give" me puppy calendars for Christmas, when I was a kid, and I would spend a good ten minutes "Aaaaaw"ing. It significantly slowed down the present opening process, so my parents always made sure that my dog's gift came last.

Though I resisted initially, I have come to realize that Puppy ADD is like any other affliction, and that I must learn to work around it. I just have to think of cats, the thought of which kill all of my joy. I can still live my life semi-normally. And this knowledge gives me great strength.

Love Ballads

What happened to good old fashioned love songs? You know the ones, the songs you cry to while engaging in a menage a trois with two men named Ben and Jerry after a particularly messy breakup (Let's Stay Together, Al Green)? And you think, "Where did it go wrong? Somewhere out there, people are serenading each other and life is beautiful. Oh, GOD," and you shovel another spoonful of ice cream in. And two days later, you can listen to the same song, sing along with it, and think, "Man, love is awesome." While there's a place for music with a thumping beat and lyrics that compare women to candy, songs poppy and sweet enough to rot your teeth out, and belt-it-out-the-window-of-your-car songs (Freefallin', Tom Petty), there is a glut in terms of good love songs.

They are cleverly hidden on CDs, track 7, you know the one. But they never get any radio play, and I have to search for them. The sad truth is that nothing on the radio makes me want to be in love. Especially not that terrible song, "Beautiful," by James Blunt. It makes me want to deafen myself with a pencil; it would be less painful than listening to that song. I'm going to need a little more than feeling to convince me the song should be added my "Lovers of Loving Love" playlist. Love or the need to sell and idea of love often inspires some pretty shoddy songs, and I'm going to need a little more than that.

I would also like to blame it on how emotional and whiny we are. Case in point: the rise of emo. All the songs about how awesome love can be have been replaced by, "Love sucks, and then you die. I hope YOU die, you selfish whore. WHYYYYYYYYY?! I love you still, though loving you is like getting staple gunned in the eye!" Lord almighty, moderation is key. Ben and Jerry are here for you, so get over it and write me a damn love song. I don't care it you write it about ice cream, because ice cream is deserving of love, too. And make it good.

I know there are still people out there who like being in love and are a little more rational about the magnitude of broken relationships. And I know every fourth person plays guitar; there must be somebody good out there who can get themselves on the radio. So where's my hero, who doesn't seem in need of Prozac, can write lyrics, and wields a guitar? There is a market for you, so SING, boys and girls, SING.

No Carbs

Dear Fast Food Restaurants:

You may continue to serve no carb meals on the menu, but please note that continuing to do so may lead to the untimely death of your CEO. It's not that I'm against people dieting, it's just that seeing these items on the menu induces a rage in me that could be sustained long enough to hunt down the person in charge. No carbs is over, or it should be, and the idea that you are trying to create a long term niche market for this distresses me. Eventually we will have to fend for ourselves, eating normal (read tasty) food again, food called bread. While I would hunt and gather if I could (this is a lie), it's rather unreasonable for me to do so, so please humor me. My shame at not being able to kill a deer from fifty feet is punishment enough.

Also, I am not eating fast food with the expectation that I will leave the restaurant with unclogged arteries. Therefore, please spare me the nutrition information on the side of the box containing my hamburger. You know who you are (McDONALDS!). While I am entirely aware that people sue you because they are surprised that eating lots of fat makes you fat, not all of us need to suffer for our awareness. I encourage you to train employees to assess which customers will be at all interested in knowing what they're eating, and assign them boxes accordingly. If this occurs, I will do my part and order while wearing a t-shirt proclaiming "I don't care, just feed me."

If you will consider my requests, I will no longer site passages from Fast Food Nation, turning people off not just your food, but all food forever. We both know there's not much of a market for your product when people don't eat anymore. This brings me to my next point. There are poor, starving children in third world countries and anorexics who can't eat. The rest of us need to eat for their sakes, and I would do my part in eating a lot more happily if you would let me kill myself with hamburgers in peace.

Here is my proposal: have a campaign where you rehabilitate anorexics with fast food. It would serve two purposes. First, after witnessing the anorexics' rapid weight gain, it would provide people who blame your food for making them fat with less of an argument about not knowing the effects of fast food. Second, there would be some plumper, sort of healthier people in the world, via the rehabilitation, who would no longer awaken in me a desireto play on their ribs like a xylophone. Actually, there is a third benefit: I would be happy. And a happy customer means money, and therefore a happy company.

Sincerely,
She-Who-Is-Creeped-Out-By-The-Burger-King-Commercial-But-Is-Still-Made-Hungry-By-It, Mistress of Unhealthy Eating

Advice

I said yesterday that my opinion on giving advice was for another day, and I have deigned today to be that day. I myself am a frequent solicitor of advice for important decisions. I am almost entirely incapable of making major decisions for myself. For some reason, however, I rarely have doubts about what other people should do, when they ask. When I ask for advice, I'm actually trying to get some helpful input, usually. Others do not seem to share this view.
For example:

"What do you think? Red top, black top?" She flashes the two shirts in front of her chest.
"Red, definitely."
Contemplation of the red shirt in the mirror. "I just don't know."
"I do. Red."
"I mean, I kind of want to go for the flashy red, get some attention, but my mother always said people who wear red shirts to night clubs look like whores."
"Do you want to look like a whore? Would you feel like you look like a whore if you wore the red?"
"No. Probably."
"Then wear the black."
"Maybe."

And then she chooses the formerly unmentioned option C, the green, sparkly shirt. At this point I resist the urge to kick her off her high heels. If you're going to solicit advice, take it or leave it, but don't dangle me. I'm not offended by someone ignoring my advice, because I realize that hearing what you should do from another person sometimes illuminates how stupid that option is. However, the reason you came to another person was that you hoped they would not waffle as you do. If that's not what you're doing, then you are not, in fact, asking for advice, and should warn me in advance of your intentions.

Additionally, if you are truly conflicted about what to do, and receiving advice doesn't help the matter, you must also consider the possibility that the world will not explode if you make what turns out later to be the wrong decision. None of us are Superman, for whom making the wrong decision could result in New York City being melted by a giant death ray. And even Superman has limited level of acceptable indecisiveness because how ridiculous would this be:

Superman: Lois, should I try to destroy the gigantic death ray or try to stop Lex Luthor from poisoning the water supply?
Lois: Does the poisonous water hurt when it kills you?
Superman: Your organs slowly dissolve and bubble in an excruciating manner.
Lois: Water supply, definitely. Stop Lex Luthor.
Superman: I just don't know. I mean, there's so much glory in stopping a death ray. And how do you even go about stopping Lex Luthor?
Lois: Getting killed by a death ray isn't painful. STOP LEX LUTHOR.
Superman: I mean, it's just to hard to figure out what to do. Maybe I should just get a cup of coffee...

Lois punches Superman in the face.

If you address the question directly to another person, they might just assume you actually want to act on their input. If you make it open ended, it leaves it to be musing out loud, with minimal intent to actually do anything with the input. For example, "I can't decide between this red shirt and this black shirt. Hmm." And if Lois says stop Lex Luthor, say, "Okay, thanks," and then ignore her or take her advice. Let that be the end of it.

No, really

I don't know if people are more polite, skeptical, or afraid of offending than they used to be, but it's interfering with my life. See the following conversation:

"Is it okay if I eat the last mozzarella stick?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"I mean, I don't want to inconvenience you."
"Eat the mozzarella stick."
"Because I know you really like mozzarella sticks and I thought you might want it, and I didn't know if you were saying it was okay when it really wasn't and you'd be secretly mad at me for like a week."
"NO, REALLY. Eat the mozzarella stick."
"...okay." Furrowed eyebrow.

I don't know what it is, but I've encountered an increasing number of conversations like this. I know it's polite to ask if someone wants the last of something, secretly hoping they won't because you really want it, but only do it once. People can change their minds, and I just might do it sometime to spite you. I know you want it, and you know you want it, and no one's fooled or impressed by the line of questioning, so stop it. It's no longer considered good manners if it annoys the person you're imposing them on. Then it's just asking for a can of whoopass to be opened on you.

I think that if these inane conversations are due to skepticism, it may be tied into the fact that I'm female. I have these conversations with both males and females, who seem to have this belief that all women are incapable of saying what they really want. Men: sometimes we like to toy with you, but not when it's very important, like NOT having a conversation longer than five seconds about a mozzarella stick. Women: I know we know we're all just a little evil, but have a little faith. Sometimes when I say I'm okay with something, I'm really giving it to you straight. I am of the belief that if you don't express your opinion in some matter that you actually care about, it's your own damn fault if it goes awry.

And yes, girls often hold grudges, because a throwdown to release feelings of aggression is usually not an acceptable release of negative energy, but not every perceived jilting leads to plans to have the perpetrator pushed down the social escalator or attacked in a dark alley. Even if I did resent you for eating the mozzarella stick, I would only resent you for a good thirty seconds, and you must be strong enough to weather the brunt of someone's displeasure for at least that long.

I'm not offended by your expressing needs. I have needs, too. You need the last Twizzler, and I need you to be okay with showing me that (but ONLY once). On a similar note, if you ask me for advice, pretend like you're going to take it or at least consider it, not ask it a different way to see if my opinion changes. But that's a discussion for another day.

When I say I'm not offended by your thinking black people have nice booties, or that I don't want the last dumpling, I'm serious, so accept that you may be racist anyway, and eat the dumpling.