If it seems like a bad idea..

There are good ideas and bad ideas. There are ideas that seem good at the outset which turn out to be bad ideas. There are ideas that are good in theory and poor in practice. And then there are bad ideas that are just bad all around.

Here are some examples of good ideas:
1. Communism - good in theory, poor in practice
2. smoking poison ivy - poor idea all around
3. having a dance party instead of doing homework - good idea until the test the next morning
4. wearing a coat out when it's cold - good idea all around

Now, since number is so clearly the idea that's poor all around, and it is generally clear which ideas are like it, why do people continue to make these decisions. Case in point...

Two boys emerged from my suitemate's room last week. They looked around sheepishly at the common room full of girls. We stared at them. The only way they could have gotten into the room was through the front door, and we would have seen them coming through the common room. One of them sputtered, "I, uh, I. I think we're in the wrong room."

They said they hadn't wanted to disturb the girl they were going to visit, and they hadn't wanted to call her and have her walk down four flights of stairs to let them in. Instead, they'd climbed up four floors of fire escape, popped the screen out of the window, and climbed into what they thought was the correct room. We went to the window, concerned that thieves would have the same idea with more nefarious purposes, and couldn't see any sort of fire escape. Well, it turns out that when they said "fire escape" they really meant an open, rickety, rusty ladder on the side of the building.
"You climbed up that?"
"Yes."
"As a surprise?"
"Yes."
"But..."

But the story doesn't stop there. We asked our suitemate, "Why didn't you say anything to them?"
"I thought they were thieves."
"So you let them sit on your bed?"
"Yes."

It turns out that they'd missed the right room by a floor. However, the ladder stopped on the fourth floor. Given the choice of going back down the ladder and climbing in the window, they made the logical choice. For having a good idea at the very end, I applaud them. When the girl they were in search of finally appeared, they made a quick exit. But I will now forever associate them with the incident.

The moral of the story is: when strange men climb into your window and sit on your bed, you should ask them questions. Also, if you really think about it, you'll realize that a plan you've formulate is a poor one. For instance, climbing up four floors of ladder and climbing in a window. Stop. Look. Listen to your brain.

Planning...next time

Next time, we're planning. Somehow my suite ended up with four refrigerators and no television. There was a grandoise plan to stock the fridges with food and have a veritable produce section in our suite. There are two fridges plugged in and a microwave that boils water in 30 seconds. It's not quite the same.

The common room is a crazy acid trip of a room. There's a plaid chair, a red chair, a lime green chair, a forest green futon and a rainbow carpet. Everyone brought their different colored furniture without really consulting with each other. Instead of being funky and rainbow, it's a blinding cacophany to the sight. Boys walk into the room and strike an expression I'm now very familiar with it. It's the look of, "This is the best that girls could do?" Yes, it really is. I know that boys are supposed to be the colorblind ones, and I guarantee you that if they weren't when they entered, they are when they leave.

I brought my hodgepodge of posters that somehow came out as artistic in my old room. I made a multi-level collage type thing on an open wall. When lined up next to each other, though, they look like they were collected by someone with some sort of disorder. Every once in a while someone makes a valiant after to shift the posters around and make them look a little less crazy. It's a futile effort.

There's also a giant painting. It won't stick to the wall. It rests on the top of the futon, instead. Occasionally it falls. On people. The girl sitting on the opposite side of the room will yell, "Painting!" and the futon victim puts up a shielding arm. And then the screen will spontaneously pop out of the window. Overall, the room a frenetic hodgepodge that's attacking us at every opportunity.

In short, sometimes girls simply fail putting a room together.

Flyers

Dear Flyer-Man-People-Collective,

I do not want your flyers. If I were really interested in your cafe, I would go there with or without the knowledge that there is a 20% discount for students. And I don't really for the political flyers, either. I know that there are starving children in Africa. My father reminded me of that whenever I couldn't finish my pork chop. It's not like I took the food the starving child's mouth and then didn't finish it. But that's a discussion for another day. If I were interested in the political activist group, I would have looked into it at the activities bazaar.

The fact that the flyer is hot pink does not get me excited for it. Neither does its being green. Pictures do not make it more intriguing. Any flyer I receive gets stuffed in the bottom of my bag. Multi-colored paper just means a more colorful selection of crushed confetti flyers mangled by textbooks when I finally empty the bag at the end of the year. The rainbow confetti of mashed flyers floats to the ground, all of them skimmed or unread.

I don't know who decided it would be an effective form of communication. There's something horrifying and offputting when someone rushes at your from the end of the sidewalk. I don't care if it's a stack of papers or a gun, I don't want you running at me with it. I resent that you make me feel obligated to pick up your flyer and not dispose of it in a place where you can see it. After all, you did go to the effort of badgering me without being too obvious about it, and sometimes you actually believe in what you're handing to me. But that's how I end up witht the flyer confetti, not being able to recycle it like I want to. I mean, it does kind of suck that you have to stand there for a significant chunk of the day handing out paper to the unresponsive masses. So why do people continue to do it?

Perhaps it was a good form of communication before there were paper-waving hoards of flyer-distributors. I'm skeptical. But my annoyance factor is increased even more when there's a long line of people shoving paper into my hand. People oppressed, eat our delicious new calzone, come see the up-and-coming band at our club, etc. NO. You can't make me. And if you're all going to do it, at least spread yourself to different blocks. I respect it when you stand there and let me come to the flyer if I want it (as I very occasionally do). If you follow me with the flyer with an expectant look, and then the gaggle of 20 other people follows, I feel harrassed. I may not even toss out the flyers where you can't see it.

Love,
The-Girl-With-Flyer-Confetti-and-Rage

Eating It

Alright, so I've had my fair share of embarrassing moments. And by fair share I mean lion's share. It's gotten to the point, in fact, where I almost no longer register embarrassment. I have, however, become increasingly aware of the behavior of other people in response to my moments.

Last week, I dropped my tray. Actually, it's the only thing I didn't drop. My milk glass tipped over and poured all over the tray. As I attempted to put the milky tray in the tray rack and get another, I spilled milk all over the floor. And as I balanced the tray with one hand, my soda propelled itself off the tray, flipped through the air, and bounced on the floor, spraying Sprite all over the ground. I stared at the growing lake of Sprite and milk with a sigh.

And then someone started clapping. Which brings me to my first point: clappers are douchebags. I took a bow, but I was annoyed. Okay, someone just ate it, made a huge mess the staff has to clean up, and is horribly embarrassed about seeming clumsy. What would possess a person to do the one thing that could make it worse: show that you were both watching and amused?
I remember that a moment like that brought out the middle shool girl worst in me. I dropped a tray and I girl whom I hated sidled up to me and sneered, "What's it feel like to drop your tray? I've never done it."
"Probably what it feels like to be you every day," I responded. And I walked off.
I was horrified at myself, but I am unapologetic now. I say this simply because she was the talking equivalent of a clapper, and we've already established that clappers are douchebags.

And today, I kissed the pavement. I was on the path to the dining hall when I went down. I didn't step high enough with my flip flop and I went for a full-frontal body slam. I stood up with as much grace as I could muster and kept walking. When you trip you can at least pretend that you were about to start jogging, and no one's going to come up to you and say, "I know what just happened, and I'm not fooled." Eating it like that leaves no ambiguity. The group of guys passing me had the good manners to at least wait until I was past before they laughed.

So here is the message of the day: don't be a douchebag (I'm sorry, it's my new favorite word). Or, to go for the more kindergarten version: don't go out of your way to make other feel bad. I know it's just because you have a small penis. If I had the time to put up the graph, you would see that there is a linear relationship between penis size and likelihood of clapping.

Chair Destroyer! A Tale of DIY Furniture

I am never purchasing furniture which requires assembly EVER again. I purchased a chair two years ago. When it was shipped up to college, it was disassembled, and it was up to me to put it back together again. It seemed a simple enough task, one I had not failed in two years ago. Lesson of today: previous success does not necessarily future success.

On the second day of school, I tried to screw the chair together. Instead, I somehow managed to embed the metal screw into the metal frame of the chair using my bare hands. When we finally called for help, a guy from downstairs managed to wrench it apart. The screws were sheared in half and impossible to dislodge from the frame. Somehow I had defied the possible.

The chair sat in its broken state for two weeks before a new frame came into the store. When I explained to the cashier that NO, I did not want a new frame, I wanted an already assembled new frame, she stared at me blankly. The discussion went something like this:
"I heard you have new dish chair frames in."
"Yes, I'll bring one to you."
"No, wait. You see, the reason I'm purchasing a new frame is because I broke the old one trying to assemble the chair."
"So..."
"So I'm going to need to take one out of here already assembled, like the one in the display window."
"Oh."

The manager was called, and the staff had a discussion. A member of the staff assembled the chair for me in exactly the manner I had intended. Somehow it worked for him where I had failed. I didn't ask questions. I just went with it.

A salesguy walked the chair out the door, but not before hitting the theft detectors and setting them off. He handed the chair to me outside, and wished me luck carrying it to my room. I stood in the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to best carry it away. The staff laughed from inside, watching me. I finally decided that the most convenient way would be to carry it on my back, like a turtle. This also happened to be the most hilarious looking way to carry it. My head was inside and my arms barely protruded, so it was generally the most bizarre looking thing I've ever engaged in.

People are generally good at ignoring each other and pretending that others are not of interest in the city. There were no pretenses, though, as I carted the chair through campus. My favorite moment, though, was then I saw a girl I knew talked to me as though there were nothing out of the ordinary, as though I did not look like an overgrown, misshapen silver tortoise. I was, dare I say it, the incarnation of THE AWKWARD TURTLE. Two legs, no head...so awkard! Thankfully, my suitemates passed me on the street and got a picture.

Finally, I had to open both of the doors of my dorm to get the chair in and cart it up four flights, waving it in the air in front of me. After crushing another suitemate against a wall as I got it into the suite, I set it down, triumphant. If I had a choice between assembling another chair and walking for a quarter of a mile hunched over with a chair on my back, I choose hunchback every time. Fuck you, assembly-required furniture. You are NOT a good idea and are NOT convenient, no matter what anyone says.

Future Profession #1834 Eliminated

Well, it turns out that another profession has been added to my list of things I will never become: thief. I couldn't even steal a shopping cart today.

The grocery store is a good mile from campus. One of my roommates and I were purchasing heavy things, including a case of soda. As we stood in the check-out line and saw the food piling up, we made a surreptitious plan to make off with a shopping cart. We would take it back to campus, bring the groceries to our room, and then feel bad for not wanting to take the shopping cart back to the store.

Unfortunately, the shopping cart was more clever than us. Just before we cleared the parking lot, thinking we were home free because no one stopped us, the cart jerked to a stop. We moved it back and forth, but one of the wheels was locked. When we brought the cart back to the designated rolling area, it began working again.

It turns out there was a sign which we had ignored entirely when carrying out our plan. Apparently shopping carts now come with an automatically locking wheel which activates when you try to take it beyond a certain area. The sign warned us that it would work, even if we thought it wouldn't. Apparently there had been too many like-minded folks and hobos making off with the shopping carts. We stared at the locking wheel in wonder. The fact that people jack shopping carts has always just been a fact of life.

I was very impressed, but also very annoyed.

Modern Art

Modern art is a lie. I admit that I've never been someone who could walk into an art museum and appreciate art the way I'm supposed to. I like portraits, pretty pieces complicated pieces, and unconventional pieces.The definition of art is rather like Potter Stewart's approach to hard-core porn: "I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced . . . [b]ut I know it when I see it . . . " Nevertheless, I expect some sort of effort to go into it, something brought to it that another artist couldn't bring. I may not be able to analyze Picasso's "Guernica" the way my mother wishes I could, I still know when something is bullshit. And modern art is bullshit.

There was a woman who came to my school and presented some slides of modern art. They were interesting, but they weren't what I would consider art. For example, one was entitled "Love," and it was just two wall clocks set next to each other, perfectly in time with each other. It's a nice idea, but not something that I couldn't replicate exactly in my house or would want to purchase. I'm equally baffled by the paintings that simply involve canvas painted all one color. I'm of the belief that a painting should be able to function independent of its clever title.

We all laugh and joke that some trash strewn on the sidewalk is modern art. Only it's not so funny because somewhere out there, someone's probably done something like it and had someone purchase it or treat is seriously for critical review. With all the creativity in the world, there must be somewhere better to go.

I also resent the junk that is filed under "modern" art. The implication is that this is the representation of our current society. If the best we can do it set clocks next to each other, then we're in trouble. Where's the craftsmanship in that? Crap is still crap, even if it's expensive and is labeled with the misleading word "modern."

I'm not fooled, modern art. I'm on to your game.

Guilty Pleasures

Here is a nowhere near definitive list of things I guiltily enjoy at the moment:

1. The OC (although I am skeptical about the new season). The question is not, am I too smart for The OC? The question is, is The OC too smart for me?
2. Shopping at Salvation Army, even though I can afford expensive clothing. It's all fun and games until I have a reality check and realize that people are actually purchasing pants for $5 because it's what they can afford.
3. Puddle jumping. You look like a damn fool if you're older than nine and still puddle jumping, but I just can't seem to shake myself of the habit. Any time it's warm enough and raining, I go for it.
4. Romance novels. For some reason there's a stigma against supposedly intelligent people reading romance novels rather than, say, Crime and Punishment, for fun. I did read it, and it was interesting, but it lacked an important element: six packs and a whimsical path to finding Mr. Right.
5. Eating an entire bag of cookies. If you leave me alone with a bag of Milanos, you will not find them alive when you come back. I cannot be trusted with cookies. One can also read "entire bag of cookies" as "entire pint of ice cream."
6. Partaking in the implications of the phrase "Thursday is the new Friday." I may have a class on Friday, but Thursday calls to me, and who I am not to respond?
7. Staring at pictures of plastic surgery gone wrong. I thought it was really disgusting and perverse at first, and then I realized that it really was perverse to be looking at them. But it's a definite case of Pringles Syndrome. Once I popped, I couldn't stop. In case you're interested: Awful Plastic Surgery.
8. Jaywalking. Lights are more of a suggestion than a rule. But I still feel bad because most drivers don't seem to have realized that yet. That's perhaps for the best, actually.
9. Checking my email at every opportunity. I know it's sort of dorky and compulsive to check my email whenever I can, which, when I'm in my room, usually means about every ten minutes, but I just can't stop myself. I take a secret pleasure in receive more than one email at a time, and no one can make me feel truly guilty for my joy.
10. Stealing fruit from the dining hall. I steal anywhere between two and four pieces of fruit from the dining hall in a given meal. We're hoarding them for late night snack attacks, another thing I enjoy even though I know it's against what 10 out of 10 doctors recommend.

My discovery upon writing up this list is that I usually don't feel too guilty about anything I do. Another realization that goes along with it is that I have a poor sense of when I should be embarrassed. Somehow that filtered got jogged loose, and it's been lost somewhere where it will probably never be found again. Oh well!

Cancer

I've recently begun to wonder what doesn't cause cancer. It crops up more and more, and along with it articles telling us how breathing causes cancer. Every day there seems to be a new piece in the newspaper about my imminent demise by performing my average daily tasks. Cancer is a serious problem, but the amount of information about it meant to strike fear into the hearts of millions is a little ridiculous.

The following list has things that do and do not cause cancer. Let's see if you can tell which.
1. certain chemicals in nail polish
2. puppies that lose their way
3. consuming oil that's in a plastic container that's been partially melted by a previous incident in which hot oil as poured back into the container
4. going to the beach
5. eating take-out
6. living in America
7. living anywhere besides America

Tricky, no?

Given that even lying in your house curled like a fetus apparently won't save me, I plan to continue as I always have. I know that melanoma is bad, therefore I will put on sun-tan lotion. I know emphysema is bad, therefore I will not smoke and will strike down smokers with ninja-like accuracy because they could be poisoning me with second hand smoke. And because being cancerous and green is bad, I will stay away from radioactive things.

The ultimate conclusion from all the studies about things that cause cancer is that if you're going to get it, you're going to get it. I can live (and die) with that. My point is this: there are so many ways you could die, cancer included, you could spend your entire life thinking about them. Live reasonably, continue to paint your nails, and realize that a life devoid of fun for the sake of living longer isn't a life. And that's my bit of philosophy for the day.

Conversations with College Students

"He's...hygienically provocative."

"So when I came to my senses, I was urinating on the statue. And I was like, 'What the fuck?' but you know how hard it is to stop peeing. So I just kept going."

"And then I just realized, 'Wow, I really am the shit."

"I can check facebook on my phone!"

"See, here's the thing: I don' t have a sense of good and dumb. Those things that seem like really good ideas when you're drunk? Those things still seem like good ideas when I'm sober."
"When are you sober?"

"We're engaged."
"How long have you been dating?"
"Eight years."
"Really?!"
"Oh, you mean dating him? Three years."

At the bookstore...
"Can I use a discount card?"
"Yes."
pays...
"This total doesn't look right if I got a 10% discount."
"We don't discount textbooks."
"What the hell? Why did you say 'yes,' then?"
"Your mom told me to."
"What the he-"
"I can help the next customer!"

At a freshmen sex talk...

"And you pull the condom off."
Demonstrator pulls condom off the wooden penis, at which point it smacks the girl explaining.
"Yes, exactly like that. Except normally it wouldn't smack me in the arm."

"Is this condom strawberry flavored?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because strawberries are nature's spermicide."
"What?"

Hobos

I don't know why so many people are frightened of hobos. Especially the ones who sing or play garbage cans. So maybe they occasionally smell bad and curse you if you give/don't give them money or sandwiches, but who doesn't? Most people have persons they're cursing in their heads, times when they just want to yell, "Motherfucker!" Hobos just have more of a reason and less to lose.

People see them from a block away and cross the street in order to avoid them, only to cross again a block later. My wish is that hobos would be set up more like Starbucks. For those not familiar with Starbucks in the city, there are often two in a one block area, across the street from each other, for the following reasons:
1. if you're too lazy tor cross-eyed from lack of sleep to make it across the street, there's coffee on your side
2. if one store is too crowded, you can cross the street and go into the other
3. because Starbucks just can

I would set up hobos on either side of the street, rather than just in a line one exactly one reason: to make people uncomfortable. All joking aside, they're actual people, not strange creatures that grow from the cracks between buildings and the sidewalk. If they make you uncomfortable, that's a good thing; they should. People shrink away and give them a wide berth. Homelessness isn't contagious. Ignorance is.

If you have the courage, go chill with a trashcan player. I did it. If he doesn't eat you, it could be really cool. And come on, who doesn't wish she could play the trashcans?

Shirts

Dear Ultimate Frisbee Boys:

Yes, I called you boys. You are not men; I have made this judgement based on seeing you shirtless. Another contributing factor is that you provided me with the opportunity to make this assertion by running through public en masse without shirts. This act alone is a severe strike against you. I know you're in college and very sweaty and still have some questions about men's nipples that you wish someone would address, but while you are playing ultimate frisbee is not a time when someone would talk about this burning issue.

So, I'm familiar with some basic ideas. One is that when you're too lazy or unorganized to wear different colored shirts for different teams, you play with shirts and skins. What I fail to understand, however, is what is accomplished by everyone taking of their shirts. Wasn't the idea that you'd be able to tell the teams apart? What, do you split it into six packs and four packs? I know it's sort of hot outside and you've been running around, but somehow girls manage to survive despite this inconvenience. And it's NEVER been hot enough to inspire a pack of us to simultaneously remove our shirts. If it were hot enough for that, we'd be inside with air conditioning, not playing ultimate frisbee. I'm on to your games.

Girls like toned physiques. They periodically enjoy taking in the sight of strapping young men playing sports. But it loses its appeal when it's going on all day, every day, and quickly. To my understanding, the abandonment of common sense and shirts is partly in pursuit of college women. It's a silent sort of mating call: look, I have chest hair and I can catch a small, plastic disc as my body hurtles through the air; now we will make babies, yes? AWWWOOOEEEERRRRNNNGGG.

Nice try. Put it away. Unless you have a physique akin to that of Brad Pitt, I'm not terrible interested in seeing your unsolicitedly naked torso. We'll talk then.

XOXO,
The-girl-who-was-blinded

Technorati Tags: frisbee, shirtless, college

Frat Parties

I had hoped that Animal House was not in fact based entirely in truth. It is. I went to my first frat party on Saturday, and it officially smelled like ass. I entered a mild state of shock. Paint was peeling from the walls, it looked unclean even though it was only the beginning of the year, and people were already drunk and stumbling when I arrived. I looked around at the girl barfing into the sink and the frat boys surfing the room in Hawaiian shirts, leis and no pants, and it all seemed remarkably familiar. Ties were hanging from all the doors by midnight, including the bathroom.

True to form, the frat was in a slightly seedy part of town. Definitely not a neighborhood from which one would wish to wander drunk into at three in the morning. The living room table was slick with beer. People had been spilling beer on the table from a poorly executed game of beer pong. For those not familliar with beer pong, the idea is that you throw a ping pong ball into one of your opponent's beer cups, forcing them to drink it. The problem with drinking games, though, is apparently that it's difficult to remember rules when you're drunk. So basically any development in the game is deemed worth drinking over by the end. The streams of people who moved in and out of the game were slowly sprinkled into the rest of the house, and hilarity ensued.

There were awkward gaps between songs, too. Everyone who was grinding would therefore stop awkardly at the end of a song and look dazed before the next song started. People were packed in like sardines, squished up against the walls and other people. Movement was impeded, and hazardous, to boot. Names were given and immediately forgotten. I think the dancing is actually a pretty good metaphor for the frat party, really. Frat parties are awkward and dodgy, but no one notices because they're all buzzed.

Technorati Tags: frats, beer, pong