The Cousin of Mystery Meat [11.12.08]

Every night at dinner, the dining hall provides me with countless options, half of which I will never identify. Tonight's meal was no exception, for it consisted of what I like to call a "faker". The menu said burrito, so I took a bite, assuming that the normal inhabitants of a burrito would be in my mouth. Unfortunately, I was very wrong. Instead of chewing on refried beans and vegetables, I was not sure what I was chewing. Eventually, my tongue figured out that the dining hall was serving mashed potato-corn-onion burritos instead of "burritos". I was not disappointed, but I was perplexed. In all honesty, who would have seen that one coming?

Musically Inclined [11.11.08]

Being an elementary education major, I would consider myself at least fractionally ignorant of all other majors. I would never trust myself to dissect a baby shark or explain the government of nineteenth-century Fiji. Given those obvious circumstances, it was a complete surprise when my friend, majoring in music education, asked me to help with her project. Her assignment was to compose an original song incorporating five different meters, four key changes, and several recognizable pieces of music. The finished product also had to be more than two minutes long. Thankfully, my friend was not requesting my help in composing. Unfortunately, she was a few beats shy of the two-minute minimum, and requested my so-called expertise. I listened to her arrangement, and then listened again. She sat on her bed in silence, seemingly willing to take any advice. It was reminiscent of a patient seeking advice for an unknown illness. I thought for a moment, then responded. "Just add a fermata." (For anyone that does not know music, a fermata is simply a symbol that indicates a hold somewhere in the music.) My friend giggled in delight, and left my office a satisfied customer.

Cyber-Prank [11.9.08]

I am always fascinated by the role that technology plays in the lives of children today. For as long as I can remember, I had access to a computer or a cell phone. I was always connected through e-mail or online networks such as Facebook. However, all of that technological convenience comes with a price, especially when one forgets to LOG OUT. Take, for example, the classic prank of changing someone's Facebook status. My friends and I were studying when we realized that one of our friends forgot to log herself out of Facebook. Immediately, we got to work. At 3:22 PM, her status said that she was in the bathroom. At 3:24 PM, her status said that she was in the bathroom, pooping. At 3:25 PM, her status said that she was in the bathroom, pooping...and it burns. Our friend returned to find countless comments from friends; some asked her if she had seen her doctor lately, while others simply wanted to know her daily diet out of curiosity. To say the least, our friend was embarrassed. At 3:42 PM, her status said that she was tired of her friends and their silly pranks. That makes one of us.

Ghetto Gas [11.8.08]

My friends and I decided that we needed a break from our studies, so we decided to venture to The Hearth for a late-night breakfast. On our way home, my friends reminded me that we needed to stop at a gas station because they were out of milk. I obliged and stopped at the first gas station I saw. Thinking that our stop would not last very long, I kept the car running. However, I was always taught that anything could happen, so I locked the doors and headed for the entrance. I jerked the handle to find that it was locked; only after I had yanked on the door did I notice sign that said Doors will be locked between the hours of 12 AM and 4 AM. Please use the box on the side door to buy items. Thank you. I looked back at my friends, who were obviously more perplexed than I was. I told them to wait with my pointer finger, and began my search for the box. Several minutes passed and I could tell that I was getting absolutely nowhere. Out of the blue, the gas station employee knocked on the window and pointed me to the direction of the box - which was NOT located on the side wall, may I add. Anyway, the box worked similarly to that of the older bank boxes. I had to request the item I was interested in purchasing through a microphone. Then, the box shot out like an unexpected jack-in-the-box. Instead of inserting my money into a plastic tube, I had to place it into an old cigar box. The box was sucked back into wall, and all I heard was "We have skim or two percent". I awkwardly requested the skim milk. The box popped out moments later, containing my half-gallon of skim milk and my change. I could not help but stand there and laugh; the entire occurrence was completely outlandish. So there I was, standing there with a half-gallon of skim milk in my hand, laughing harder than I can ever remember - all because of some ghetto hole in the wall.

The Peculiar Pick-Me-Up [11.7.08]

Putting it simply, today was quite a boring day. My friends and I decided to jazz it up by taking an impromptu road trip to the Hershey Outlets during common hour. Upon arrival, a game plan was constructed. Our first stop would be Gap, where my friend would buy the three pairs of pants she needed for student teaching. Our next stop would be the scrapbooking store around the corner, and our last stop would be The Disney Store. The plan was set, but that did not mean it was going to be followed. As my friend entered Gap, I slipped away from the flock and headed over to the scrapbooking store on my own. Minutes later, I giggled when my two other friends found me in the store and told me that they had also ditched her out of boredom. I did initially feel remorseful, but that disappeared after a while. When our friend finally met up with the rest of us, we walked over to The Disney Store for a quick look around. Just for kicks, I pointed to a pile of oversized stuffed animals and said "Hey guys, they're on sale!" I did not think that my antics would phase anyone, but to my surprise, my one friend proceeded to dig through the pile until he found his favorite Disney character, Rex, from Toy Story. On our way home, we were three pairs of pants and one t-rex richer.

The Moldy Cheese Ball [10.5.08]

Today was the big reveal of the new President, and my friends and I were doing what everyone else was doing - watching the results on television. After the results were in, my friends and I could not help but wonder about the fate of the "almost President". Everyone knows the role of the new President, but what about the guy that comes in second? For instance, take the simple idea of the pre-planned celebration. Since both parties plan for success, it is assumed that both also have a shindig prepared in the case of victory. Both sides have already ordered their "Congratulations" banners in respective shades of red and blue, but what happens if the "congrats" never gets unfurled? And what of the celebratory munchies? Does one just put the cheese ball back in the fridge?

A Spoonful of Naive [11.4.08]

Today's occurrence happened during my observation. Because of the Presidential election, the students were especially interested in learning about the voting process. The teacher decided to have an open discussion where the students could ask any question they wanted to about the voting process. Every student had something interesting to say, except for one. I figuratively kicked myself for be so naive. I knew that the students were on a roll, but how could I forget the fact that every classroom has "that kid"; the one who knows too much for his own good and in return seeks no approval from anyone. When it was time for the class to have a mock election, he simply commented on the fact that none of the students' votes truly matter because they do not affect the real election. In a matter of seconds, he single-handedly squashed the focus and motivation of the entire class. What a party pooper.

Leaving the Dungeon [11.3.08]

After the grease fire in the college center, the race of 'muters was officially stumped. Our lifestyle is simple, but pre-programmed. Every day, our lunch is spent seeing what specials are being offered at the good ol' Underground. We underestimated the role the UG spent in our daily lives, and once it was taken away, it was almost impossible to function. I entered the commuter lounge five minutes before the start of common hour, and no one knew what to do. People were not gathered in small heaps to venture down to the UG; instead they were scattered around the room, silently pleading for some purpose in life. I yearned to provide answer for them, so I quietly uttered what I considered a possible solution: "Anybody want to go to Arby's?" Simultaneously, everyone seemed revived. Some shrugged as if there was no other option, while others figured out driving arrangements. A half-hour later, we returned to the lounge with food in hand and ate together at the table like a real family.

The Lone Seeker [11.2.08]

Today's occurrence centered around a celebration, for my friends and I were throwing a surprise party for one of our friends. Everything was set; the decorations, the cake, the gifts, even her fake invite to the "study party" being held in the basement of her dorm. Perhaps the best part of surprise parties is the half-hour before the guest of honor arrives. Everyone surveys the room and picks the least obvious spot to hide behind. Most people are what I would consider "settlers", for they simply settle for the basic hiding spots; under tables, behind sofas - even the corners of the room. However, if one is not a "settler", they are a "seeker", one who is in search of the best possible hiding spot. Personally, I have always been a seeker, so I claimed the dark kitchen upon arrival. I entered the kitchen and closed the door, finding that it was one of those doors divided in half; creating a separate bottom and top door. With a giggle, I closed the bottom half of the door and started singing: "A horse is a horse, of course, of course. And no one can talk to a horse, of course, unless, of course, the talking horse is the famous Mr. Ed." Sadly no one chuckled; more importantly, no one even knew the reference I was making. So I simply and awkwardly shut the top half of the door until the guest of honor arrived.

Sick of It [11.1.08]

Today's occurrence happened in the library. My friends and I were studying in the library and everything was going well until I realized the music that was playing in the background. My head jerked back, forth, up, down, and side to side as I realized that we were studying to "Silent Night". "What? Who is listening to that?" My friend weakly raised her hand and admitted to having Christmas music on her computer. "What are you doing? It is the beginning of November! Whatever happened to Thanksgiving?!" I continued, saying how she was disturbing the natural order of the world by celebrating Christmas before Thanksgiving. Then I got to thinking...what if she was just reacting the way that we are supposed to? In all honesty, the radio stations are playing Christmas music even before Thanksgiving is over. Are we simply pre-programmed to think in Christmas even before Thanksgiving?

We Didn't Start the Fire [10.30.08]

If tonight was a movie, it could definitely qualify as one of the best comedy-thriller-drama films of all time, for tonight was the night of the soon-to-be infamous Mund fire. My friends and I were in Faust Lounge having a Halloween party, while everyone and their mom was in Leedy Theater watching Dracula. Around ten o'clock, one of student workers crashed our party by asking us to help her find the fire alarm. The next few moments were full of a spectrum of reactions. Shouldn't the college center have easily accessible (not to mention viewable) fire alarms? Is this for real? Perhaps my favorite was one of my friends pointing out Leedy Theater: "Are you planning on telling them? I don't know if you've seen, but there is a lot of people in there." In the meantime, all of us were grabbing scattered belongings and heading for the emergency exits. Minutes later, we joined the other hundred freezing people on the social quad. It was all very dramatic, given the fact that it was a simple grease fire.

Best Day Ever [10.29.08]

Since I am an elementary education major, I am required to observe a local classroom a couple hours a week. This semester was one of my favorite, simply because of the amount of quirky students. I forced myself to refrain from picking favorites, but there is this one student that puts all others to shame. One day, he ran up to me on my way out. "Miss Kreider! I just wanted to tell you that I had the best time ever today! Wanna know why? Because YOU were here! So...I made a song." I urged him to sing it, so he did. "This was the best day ever. The best day ever. The best day...ever!" The lyrics alone may not be entertaining, but his singing was. He performed the song in an out of tune whisper, while switching his body weight from one foot to another. As I held back my laughter, I urged him to continue: "That sounds great! What is the next part?" He replied matter-of-factly, "Miss Kreider...that's the song." I blinked a couple times and nodded: "Right, of course. Umm...you can return to your seat now." I walked away, hoping that he did not realize how awkward our moment was.

S*x [10.28.08]

Everyone has those days when they would consider themselves to be in a rare form. For me, that day was today. After realizing that I would have to eventually take an elementary health course in college, I decided to face my demons and cease my awkwardness of the subject. I marched into the commuter lounge and proceeded to lead an open discussion on sex. I asked all the questions, and everyone else gave all the answers. Eventually, we hit a minor fork in the road. Some of those present referred to sex as "business time" while others preferred to call it "quality time". Both terms had counter-examples, but that did not change the fact that a decision needed to be made by the majority. I offered the term "whoopie" from my experience with The Newlywed Game, but it was soon thrown out, considering that no one else was familiar with the show. Eventually, the hung jury became unanimous and "business time" was born.

Brunette McDonald [10.27.08]

My one friend is known for his hair. When I say that, I mean that his hair is unique; it is blond and curly and has a mind of its own. Whenever people are searching for words to describe him, it is always "oh, the guy with the crazy, blond hair? Now I know who you're talking about!" Today he walked into the commuter lounge hoping no one would notice what was different about him - IMPOSSIBLE! "Oh my word...it's gone." I actually remember groaning in misery after I saw his hair cut. I know that may seem dramatic, but this is not just anybody I am talking about. He lost part of who he was when he cut his hair. How could people describe him now? It is not like they could say "well, he's got crazy, blond hair" because it was not crazy, blond hair. It just was not him. He could not understand the severity of the situation, so I tried to connect it to something that would make sense. "What if Ronald McDonald dyed his hair brown?" "I don't know if he would be the same to me." I waited a could second for the example to click; I saw the gears turning and the light bulb go off. He nodded in agreement, and assured me his hair would grow back.

Fiscal Fiasco [10.26.08]

This weekend was epic, for it was the weekend that Michael's craft store was having a blow-out sale. It took no time for my mom to plan a road trip by rounding up a bunch of her girlfriends. Since I'm no party pooper, I decide to jump on the bandwagon. When we arrived, the motion-sensor doors of Michael's was the first thing to greet us. We instantly broke in an amoeba-like fashion, some of us to the scrapbooking section, and others to the seasonal aisles. After an hour or two of shopping, we collectively head toward the registers with our purchases. My mom's friend was first, and the only thing holding her back was an elderly woman with one item. It sounds easy enough, but then the item does not scan, so the employee has to type in it's UPC code. The item comes up regular price, despite the four-inch, "highlighter yellow" sale sticker hanging off the tag. In my head I can picture the old woman ranting and raving about how her artificial pine wreath should be on sale, but then the strangest thing happened. What I was picturing in my head actually happened. The old bat took shook one wrinkly little finger at the computer as her other hand waived the sale sticker for all to see. The whole occurrence was ridiculous, and surprisingly yielded results. The employee was scolded in front of everyone, while the elderly woman paid even less for her wreath than what she would have paid to begin with. I left perplexed; perhaps I underestimated the true power of the elderly.

The Beefy Bridesmaid [10.25.08]

Today was a special occasion, for it was the wedding day for two of my friends, who happen to be LVC alumni. I was singing in the wedding, so I had to arrive early to practice. After rehearsing the song a couple times, I spent the rest of my time admiring the building. As I was walking around, I bumped into some of my other friends that were part of the wedding. We started talking, which soon turned into a conversation centered around the hunger of my friends. "I am so hungry! I didn't eat anything all day! I had to get my hair done, and then I had to go to the nail salon...blah blah blah". Soon enough, her parents turned the corner. No sooner than they had arrived, she put her order in. "I NEED a cheeseburger. I don't care where you get it or what is on it. I just NEED food in me." Twenty minutes later, her mom returned with a Burger King Whopper, and everything was well in the world. I never thought that a piece of meat could make a bridesmaid so happy.

Watch Your Back [10.24.08]

Today's observation occurred outside the campus walls. My one class required me to observe at a local day care, and I was excited to do so. When I arrived, I checked in at the front desk and found my way to the downstairs classroom. When I entered the room, I had a regular set of expectations; the children would be selfish and fight over toys, they would be egocentric and walk away from crying classmates. Apparently, my expectations were very wrong. In the first ten minutes of my arrival, I noticed an epic struggle take place. One of the boys was trying to put a puzzle together, and when his classmate noticed this, she was led to help. To any adult, this interaction would be quite self-explanatory. The second would offer to help the first, the first would oblige, and the puzzle would get done twice as fast. However, in the world of daycare, these social rules did not exist. The girl yanked the puzzle piece out of the boy's hand...
so he bit her in the back.
I was not too alarmed - until I saw blood. Since I had never seen someone draw blood from someone else's back before, I was taken aback. I did not know how to react, at which time I realized I did not have to do anything. In fact, I could not, for I was strictly instructed to simply observe. I could actually hear my professor's voice in my head saying "Now, try your best to be a fly on the wall. The children will behave normally if they do not know you are there." So there I sat while one teacher kept the little girl's back from bleeding, while another rushed to get the proper paperwork to report the incident. I could not help thinking that I was on the set of ER. "I've got a bleeder!" "Two tissues - STAT!" Whatever happened, I departed with a new thankfulness for those who serve our country like no other: the daycare workers.

Ahhh...Memories [10.23.08]

It always surprises me how much I remind myself of my mother. I was sitting in my friend's dorm room, watching a "where are they now" show about one-hit wonders from the nineties. Of course, every commercial break would spark a conversation about the past. I felt just like my mom when she bumps into an old classmate at the grocery store. In no time at all, we were cackling about stirrup pants, scrunchies, and the fact that our middle school teachers wore an immense amount of makeup. Like it always does, an embarrassing story finally found its way into our conversation. My friend recounted the tale of her fated field trip. At one point before hitting the road, all of the children were instructed to use the bathroom before loading up the school bus. Unfortunately, this certain field trip offered an outhouse, but that was not even the best part. Once in the outhouse, my friend completely the task at hand, and then noticed that her overalls were not hanging outside the bowl, but were instead dangling inside it. "What did you do?", I asked her. She hesitated, and then replied with, "The only thing I could do!" Apparently, she just snapped her wet overalls back together, put on her coat, and loaded up the school bus with the rest of her classmates. Immediately after the conclusion of the story, she did what most people do. She realized the unfortunate truth of the permanence of words. Once her story was said, the words were invisibly floating around the room, similar to the bits of Mike Tv's chocolate bar in Willy Wonka. For her to grab them and shove them back into her mouth was completely out of the question.

Practically Paris [10.22.08]

Today was a stressful day, and I could not wait until Down to Earth (DTE). It would finally be my chance to unwind my mind and revitalize my spirit. I walk over to the chapel and enter the lobby, where I met up with my friends. Tonight we were early, so we looked around for an opportunity to waste some time. A second or two later, my friend spotted a large fan in the corner of the room. After he pointed it out, we all looked at each other and nodded. He turned it on high as we each took turns walking in front of it for our own impromptu fashion show. As far as we were concerned, we were the only ones that could see what we were doing, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. If that were true, this entry would be quite humorless. Moments later, there was a tap on the door. Looking up, we could see that there were plenty of people present at DTE, just not in the lobby. So I sheepishly crab-walk over to the fan and turn it off. Thus, the fashion show came to an abrupt halt. In the next few moments I got to thinking: what did it matter? Everyone has participated in at least one stupid act during their lives, so it was simply dumb luck that others saw ours. Then I started to feel grateful for being caught in the act: better for someone to draw conclusions from seeing the real me than to take a stab in the dark. In acting, for example, it is the actor's job to make things clear for the audience. Sure, purposeful assumptions are acceptable, but playing it safe is never good when trying to portray a character. In order for someone to play the role of the "intoxicated party guy", one must take the necessary steps to show the audience that person. One cannot half-stumble or just "sort of" spill a drink. In both the real world and the acting realm, actions and intentions need to be made perfectly clear.

The Subtle Escape [10.21.08]

Today was a gift straight from Heaven, for today was the day of the food test drive. In preparation for the coming school year, several catering companies had wheeled in thousands of bite-size samples for the students' tasting delight. Perhaps the best part of the entire event is the fact that it is completely free. Regardless, my 'muters and I wasted no time pouncing on the opportunity of receiving free food. We marched right up those Mund stairs and headed into the West Dining Hall with our heads held high. Upon arrival, we realized that we beat the crowd, and we could not help slapping ourselves on the back. After a quick survey of the entire hall, we picked a strategy and stuck with it: start slow and taper off. The new twenty minutes were spent working our way around the entire border of the cafeteria, grabbing this, pointing at that, and hoarding whatever we could. One must understand that when it comes to 'muters, free food is always a very serious opportunity. We are never sure when we will receive our next meal, so each new one is treated like the last supper. Since we're 'muters, we don't carry much cash on us, and we only pack enough food to get by. But a food fair is the ultimate opportunity to store up food for the future. This may seem like a squirrel-esque tactic, but it always works for us. The more food we get for free, the less we have to buy. It's such a simple equation that I wonder why no one else has caught on. With that said, our table quickly filled with a pile of pre-packaged food; sliced apples, several bottles of Vitamin Water, and even a salad kit. By now, we were surrounded by residents, who have started to notice our distinct behavior. We collectively decided to hit the road - as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, we also wanted to subtly depart with our stash...which turned out to be impossible. Still sitting, we proceeded to stuff the tiny products into our pockets, while the bigger things needed to be stacked and carried. In the next moment or two, the 'muter unit slowly stood up and escaped the dining hall as an organized, but completely recognizable train.

Crybaby [10.20.08]

Today's observation occurred in my friend's house on campus. I was sitting in his living room, working on my homework while he was playing video games with a friend of ours. Thankfully, I had my headphones (or ear buds) in, so I could not hear the play-by-play. The scores, passwords, or secret passages were entirely kept from me due to the concert going on in my head. I will be the first to admit that I keep my tunes rocking at a low roar for a purpose. Others have always said it was bad for my hearing, and even bad for theirs, considering they could hear it. Of course I disagree; my blaring music provides an escape from the world around me. Ironically enough, it has proven itself over and over to be the source of my focus. That is why I was so surprised to find out that someone could actually scream loud enough for me to hear it. There I sat on my my friend's maroon chair, when out of nowhere I heard someone howl: "OBSTRUCTION!" My head cocked itself toward the source - my friend and his buddy playing video games. I popped out my right ear bud just in time to hear the most entertaining argument. "We are totally playing that round again", player one said. "Oh, please. You are such a baby," player two fired back. "No," argued the player one, "that was completely unfair. You were in my way, and besides - I'm just getting warmed up." Both of them stopped in mid-argument as they slowly raised their heads in the realization that I was listening. I could not do anything but giggle, and shake my head. I wanted so badly to say that both of them were equally as ridiculous, but it seemed that both of them had suffered enough.

Epic Battle [10.19.08]

It is Homecoming weekend; a time of pep rallies, passing on the crowns, and football games. Speaking of, the football game was going quite well in every sense of the word. The Dutchmen were up, the sun was shining, and the band was about to perform its halftime show. Since most of my friends are in the "Pride of the Valley Marching Band", I was more than happy to watch them in action. However, it was sort of difficult to see much less enjoy the show when three-fourths of the crowd decides to visit the concession stands. So there I was, trying my darnedest to put on a happy face. Now that I think about it, it couldn't have mattered - for no one could see my face with the continuous train of people moving in front of me. I cocked my head left for a moment, then tilted it to the right for a better view. Every so often, I would be blessed with a vertically challenged passerby, with which I instantly stretched my neck as far as it would go, hoping to see over them. After a few moments of this, I noticed a specific sore thumb in my peripheral vision. It was the opposing team's coach marching down the stadiums steps. Once on the main level, he turned a quick left and bumped into the elderly man sitting in front of me. Like any polite person, he asked to be excused. The old man looked at his team jacket and fired back: "You're not excused". This was accompanied with the 72-year-old finger waiving weakly in disapproval. The coach walked away stunned, and I could not help but laugh. What was the old man thinking? Did he seriously feel that his feeble finger held some sort of startling fear? Compared to all the other threats out there, I do not consider a pointing elderly man to be one of them.

Stupid Boys [10.18.08]

It is Homecoming weekend, and tonight was the pep rally. So, being the 'muter rep of the Student Government class of 2010, I conveniently found myself helping out with the rally. There we were, the student representatives of the junior class standing on the track, while the team captains made their remarks. Everything was going great - right up until I saw some guy stand up and spewed it out rapid-fire, right onto the track. Of course, it plopped lightly on the rubber, and he giggled in delight alongside his buddies. To them, it was entertaining because it was something stupid they got away with. They figured that since no one saw, it was twice as funny. However, the truth is that whatever you do, someone ALWAYS sees you do it, which was proven today. From my perspective, the entire shenanigan was completely humorless for several reasons. Perhaps the most important was the principal of the thing. Being Homecoming, the entire weekend was a huge ball of stress for a numerous amount of people, and none of our planning was to spark a spitball-esque gum fiasco. I also feel that if someone ever did something to simply do it, then the entire event had already lost its purpose. I truly wanted to pick the ABC gum up and spout some furious maternal line like "Don't think I didn't see that", but what would be the point? Besides, little did they know, the cheerleaders had already made it part of their routine.

Dutch[Man] [10.17.08]

Every day I walk across campus I am thankful, for I hold within me one of the deepest and juiciest secrets of the valley: the identity of the Dutchman. Of course, I'm not about to go posting that on the global web, but I will enlighten the reader on one of the biggest sacrifices of the Dutchman: the Walk of Death. It may sound complicated, but in all actuality, it is quite simple. Geographically, the Walk of Death is the distance it takes to walk from Arnold to the soccer field one way. Sure, it does not sound like much, but I was promised by the Dutchman himself that it is indeed a pilgrimage, given the immense amount of weight that the disguise imposes on its inhabitant. Not to mention the fact that once one walks from the Arnold to the soccer field, one must also walk back. One particular day, the Dutchman had to make an appearance at a soccer game, so he found a discrete location in Arnold, became the Dutchman, and began his trek to the soccer field. When he got there, his normal duties ensued: he clapped, danced, and silently cheered until his break, which sent him right back to Arnold. But soon enough, he was back at the soccer field to cheer on the team. When he arrived, children from the community were playing on the field during halftime. Finally, the Dutchman thought, I can take a breather. However, someone on the event staff had another idea: "What do you think you're doing Dutchman? Go on, get out there and play with those kids!" So he huffed, and he puffed, and he kicked that soccer ball around despite his 40-pound head.

What the H*nd?! [10.16.08]

Being the middle of October, strange things have been happening more often. Some were planned and others just seemed to happen; either way, it was obvious that Halloween was rapidly approaching. Today was no exception. I entered the lounge during common hour, happily greeted by my fellow 'muters. Moments after I started talking to them, my peripheral vision forced me to notice something in the ceiling. The lounge has a tiled ceiling construction and by the looks of it, there was clearly something wrong. Since I was sitting on the couch, I did not take much notice to it, so I just kept talking. "Okay guys, can I just tell you how boring class was today? I know the professor is old, but really, does he have to breathe like that? And what about the way he THERE'S A HAND IN THE CEILING!" My story instantly halted as I realized with utter horror that I was indeed correct. Of course, that was followed by me shrieking at everyone, asking what a hand was doing in the ceiling...and more importantly, who had put it there. No one talked. All of them shrugged. Alas, my soccer-mom aura locked me out of being in on something.

Awkward Turtle [10.15.08]

Today, I went to a club meeting to help organize our Fall Fling for Halloween. During discussion, we brought up the obvious role of costumes, and the possibility of having prizes for those who decide to dress up. After our meeting, we transitioned from planning the party to planning our costumes. One of the boys shared his vision of being Frankenstein, and we all nodded in agreement. Then he pointed out that I should dress up as the Bride of Frankenstein. All discussion was immediately silenced as he awkwardly backtracked. "No...uh - wait...I didn't mean it like that - um..." "No...um - okay...I know. I just...um - er..." Frankly, it was an uncomfortable moment. I wouldn't have been surprised if a turtle would have emerged from my chair and shuffled across the room.

Hot Mess [10.14.08]

Today was a sad day, for fall break was swiftly coming to a close. We packed up our things, cleaned out the beach house, and waved goodbye to Bethany Beach. Our drive home was one of reflection and relaxation. The radio was faint compared to our electrified drive just days before. The windows were down, inviting the refreshing breeze to wash across my face. It was a moment absent of inhibition. I sloppily pulled my hair into a loose bun and rested my arm on the open window. Sticking my hand out the window, my fingers naturally rode the wind. An hour or so later, we stopped at a local Applebee's for supper. We parked and rolled up the windows. After I shut my door, I glanced in the car window and saw the truth. The past hour was fully uninhibited, and thus my hair was completely unkempt. The last thing I wanted to do was enter a public place looking as disheveled as I did. I tried to do something - anything - but my friend insisted it looked fine. "You're a hot mess", she said. "At least that's what they say in band. They call it messy-sexy." I shrugged and decided to leave it be. What do I care?

Heck [10.13.08]

Today's observation happened on the move. I was still on fall break, and my friend and I were taking a lap around the development in her golf cart. To say that we were enjoying ourselves would be a definite understatement, for we were downright rebellious. We refrained from breaking around the turns and drove over the speed bumps at a whopping four miles an hour. On our home stretch, my friend and I were busy pointing out the scenery, when something suddenly caught my eye. A Jeep was slowly but steadily backing out of its sandy driveway. I tapped my friend, who immediately slammed on the breaks. Out of nowhere, a decrepit lady emerged from the house's flower garden. "I'm so sorry girls. That man is such a trouble-maker." Her immediate giggle made it obvious that she knew him. Then her decrepit finger shook as she said "give him HECK!" So I did. I thrust my non-wrinkly finger toward gramps and screamed "HECK!" The feeble woman snickered with a wheeze, and returned to tending her shrubbery. Of course, the entire occurrence jolted a hidden angst against elderly drivers and their lack of, well, everything drive-related. So why don't old people have to get re-examined? Isn't it entirely probable that more than half of them shouldn't be driving? What kind of country are we running when golf carts need to compete with Jeeps?

Vengeance is Mine [10.12.08]

During fall break, my friend and I stayed at the beach house that belongs to her family. When referring to the weather, we couldn't have asked for a nicer vacation. However, it came at the price of having several flies buzzing amidst our presence. I know some believe in complete symbiosis with nature. Buddhists, for example, believe that meditation can help one overcome the suffering of this world, even in the case of an annoying creature. However, I respectfully disagree with this lifestyle and fully believe in the meditative power of the fly-swatter. So there I was, leaping across the living room into the dining room, taking gaping strides every step of the way. I poured every ounce of my power into each SWAT - simply because flies are way more than just flies. They whir around strategically, as if they have a game plan in mind. Their most popular targets are facial orifices, and they won't stop until your day is as ruined as they can make it, which is why they must be obliterated. I walked around the house with a vengeance, and they put up a good fight. "You're mine, ya piece of crap!" Three haggard sighs, two irritated groans, and nine swats later, the house was peaceful.

Greyhound Mania [10.11.08]

Once we arrived at Bethany Beach, one of the first locales we visited was the boardwalk. Since we are all poor college students, none of us had the intention of spending an obscene amount of money. However, during our window-shopping, we happened to pass a greyhound. And then another. And then three more. We kept walking...and kept passing an outrageous amount of greyhounds. Finally, my friend blurted out what we were all thinking. "What is this?" Her sister jokingly replied. "Maybe it's greyhound weekend or something." After a few short giggles, we realized the actual reliability of that last statement and halted. Since I was the most outgoing and there were more than enough resources to work with, I buckled: "Fine. I'll ask someone." I walked up to the next greyhound and asked its owner bluntly: "So what's up with all of these greyhounds? Is it greyhound weekend or something?" He replied, matter-of-factly, "Why, yes it is!" Half of me was not expecting that reply, so I uncomfortably say, "Oh...well, alright then. I was just curious, you know, because my friends and I saw a lot of greyhounds." "Well, it's to raise awareness of the specific health problems that greyhounds face during their lifetimes. They can't speak, so we're speaking for them." Like an oaf, I said, "Well, that makes sense. I was just seeing a lot of dogs." I thanked the old fogey, and he and his dog went on their way.

Arachnaphobia [10.10.08]

This was the start of a beautiful weekend, for my friends and I were going to the beach for fall break. It was only my good friend and her sister, so it was going to be an amazing time for us girls to relax and reboot before classes resumed. I knew that the trip up would be eventful, simply because of its nature, but I had yet to anticipate just how unpredictable the ride down would become. Three minutes after we left my friend's house, her sister asked us to pull over. The windows were down, and thus she was getting chilly. Of course, she had no better solution than to open the trunk and retrieve her sleeping bag, which she then opened up on the side of the road and squirmed into. The next challenge was being able to close the car door, and once she had, another problem made itself known. My friend turned off her four-ways and headed back onto the country road, only to hear her sister scream. "There's a big-ass spider back here!" "Well, just kill it!" "I can't! The wind's blowing it all around! Oh my god! It's crawling up your seat!" Since I was riding shotgun, I was not all that concerned with my personal well-being; the spider was countless inches away from me. However, when the driver started wiggling around to avoid an arachnid attack, I was forced to become involved. "Geez...it's just a spider! Just kill it with your flip-flop or something!" "I'm trying!" "Do I have to come back there? Because I will!" This was how the next few minutes played out. Finally, I heard a loud THWAP - and knew that the deed was done. Needless to say, the rest of the trip was filled with piercing boy-band karaoke and fist-pumps out the window. Who knew that a measly spider would be just the beginning?

Waking Up [10.09.08]

Today's observation happened in the dead of night. Walking to my car, my nose twitched in the breeze. I sniffed something new, and yet familiar. As a strolled along the sidewalk, I realized what the odor was and where it came from. I could not believe that I didn't notice it before - it was there for the longest time. I peered up - it was there in the trees as they changed their color and fell to the ground below them. I glanced down - it was there, wafting up from the earth beneath my feet. I stopped and stood and simply took it in. My eyes closed as the essence glided over my face, and my hair whipped in the bellowing wind. My sense of smell was heightened, and there it was - crisp and clear and wonderful. The smell of fall.

Concert Fake-Out [10.8.08]

In the game of life, some days are easy, while others are just the beginnings of emotional roller coaster rides. Today was the latter. I, along with others, are in the beginning stages of planning a concert in the spring semester. Our first and perhaps most important mission is to book a band. Fortunately, since this concert is going to be supported by a department of the college, we had sufficient enough funds to get a decent band to come. However, we still had to track down agencies and fill out contracts and finally get a band to accept our offer. As of today, we had the first two steps completed and we were simply playing the waiting game with the requested band. To check if there was any progress, my friend and I visited the Chaplin in his office. We entered the chapel and walked by his office just in time to hear him say "yep...we got 'em!" My friend and I looked at each other and screamed: "we got them! They're coming!" The chaplain hung up the phone and joined us out in the lobby. "Who is coming?" We ceased the jumped and collectively said "um - the band?" The Chaplin winced and replied "Oh...no...no...no. I was talking about the riders. They just came through, so I called the agency to let them know we got them." "So we have yet to hear from the band?" He nodded, and we frowned. What a let-down.

Stand Your Ground [10.7.08]

The 'muter life is one of constant metamorphosis; one day could be spent studying in the library, while the next could be spent eating dinner at home with the family. However, to most 'muters, evenings prove to be the only constant. Since my home allows me to be an exception to the rules, I find that my evenings are as flexible as my days. One could be spent watching a Star Wars marathon in the lounge, while another could be spent doing homework in one of the many dorms. Nowadays, I find that one of my favorite spots is Silver Hall, simply because some of my best friends live there. Once I get through all of my classes, I simply call her to let me in. Sometimes I get lucky, and others happen to be going out when I am trying to get in, so they politely hold the door open while I oblige their offer. Today was the latter, and I headed to the staircase. Once in the stairwell, I glided up one flight and prepared myself to do the same thing with the next. However, I was forced to freeze as I simply looked at a couple trying to go down the flight. I understand that this seems like an over-emphasized problem, because many encounters consist of both parties forming single-file lines and heading their separate ways. Tonight was a completely different story, for tonight, the couple silently refused to cease their hand-holding, and boldly started down the stairs as I was walking up. Of course, when we connected eyes, I courteously offered them a smile, as if nothing was wrong. Maybe, just maybe, they were unaware of the rules and regulations of proper stairwell conduct. However, my mind couldn't resist tracing this awkward debacle to that quote from a western. This staircase is not big enough for the three of us, I thought. And I was right - it wasn't. Mid-way through the flight, I had to pause my travels just so both of them could successfully continue on their way. If that's not ridiculous, I don't know what is.

Fifteen Minutes in Heaven [10.6.08]

This semester, I finally branched out and signed up for a night class. I never realized that the class would consist of two hour-long lectures and one fifteen-minute break. Contrary to the regular schedule, tonight consisted of an hour-long exam, followed by the regular fifteen-minute break. After the test, everyone in the class collected in the heart of Lynch to discuss the test. Overall, the class decided it was an epic fail, regardless of the fact that most of us studied. A couple of us disbanded from rest of the group and sat in the lounge chairs to discuss the test in more detail. "What did you put for the question that talked about the child's average age?" "I think that I picked the answer that talked about the average age being twelve years old." I groaned in regret, knowing that I selected the wrong answer. To de-stress, I took my laptop and turned to a familiar form of therapy - Family Feud. After a few seconds, some of my peers overheard the commotion coming from my PC and decided to join me. The next few minutes were classic - my classmates and I were instant relatives. We even mimicked the simultaneous revealing of the answers: "...and number three? Mailman." Sadly, short moments later, after the fast money was won, we disbanded from our make-shift family and returned to reality. After it was all over, I got to thinking. Why did our short escape from night class mean so much? What did the online version of the Family Feud really have to offer? And perhaps the most important question of all - come next week, would we play again?

Fortunately [10.5.08]

We've all come across it at one point or another. You go to any Chinese restaurant and leave with a fortune cookie. It sounds simple enough, but lately, I have come to realize a sad fact. Instead of conveying some future happening, fortunes have become fortune-less. Today was no different. The cafeteria special was stir-fry, and every platter came with a complimentary fortune cookie. Following Chinese tradition to receive good favor, I wait until after my meal to break open my fortune cookie. Once it snaps in two, I set it aside and read the fortune: if the shoe fits, it's probably your size. Is that even a fortune? Another fortune I have received in the past has stated "a thrilling time is in your immediate future." That one might as well have been called a common-sense cookie. I am not surprised that something thrilling would happen in my future - I would stop reading this so-called fortune and continue living my life. The fortune should have just told me to resume breathing and call it a day. Another fortune I have received in the past went something like this: you will make a fortune with your friend. If a fortune speaks of a future fortune, does it even count as a fortune? If someone said "I have an idea for you - you will have an idea with your friend", would that be praised as a good idea? Regardless of its quality, would anyone even look at that as an idea? Since this is my journal, I am going to answer myself with a resounding no. The same goes for fortune cookies - either start filling them with real fortunes, or halt the false advertising.

Crappy Bass [10.04.08]

Today was the day of the multicultural fall picnic, so we were all whisked away to Deb Bishop's house for an autumnal celebration. We carved pumpkins, roasted veggie burgers, and constructed s'mores. We also fished in Deb's stocked pond, conveniently located in her backyard. People, including me, were catching fish left and right, while I was more concerned about observing my one friend. He has a history of being an Eagle Scout, so I was obviously eager to see if he could earn his fishing badge. After I caught my second sunny, my friend had yet to get a nibble. Maybe he just starts slow and tapers off, I thought. The next few minutes consisted of me catching yet another fish, while he managed to snag the muck at the bottom of the pond. The longer we (or should I say "I") fished, the worse he got...and the more I laughed. An hour passed, most of us called it a day, and my friend had yet to catch anything. Finally, I heard him chant "fourth time's the charm" as he waved a meager sunny over the rippling water. We all gathered 'round to take a look, and some smart-mouth asked my friend how his fishing badge was coming along. After I think of it, I would have asked the same question...but probably in a less moronic way.

The S Files [10.3.08]

Today's observation was one of exceptional creepiness, as if it was a past episode on Unsolved Mysteries. Throughout the day, I had noticed a peculiar happening: everywhere I went, there were slugs. Everywhere. Of course, one could blame the weather, but in all honesty - how often do any of us come across a slug? Even if one was to assume that seeing a slug per day was a natural occurrence, more than one slug sighting would still be labeled as uncanny. If the day itself wasn't spooky enough, my walk to Blair was. My peripheral vision was lured to the sidewalk as I saw not one slug...but eleven. (Yes, I stood there and counted them.) It was as if the sheriff of Slugville had called a mandatory town meeting. After taking role, I traipsed over them like an oaf. Apparently, it was the day of the slug, and I just happened to miss the memo.

When 'Muters Ruled the Earth [10.2.08]

Most of us down in the 'muter lounge consider ourselves the same family. Spending time in the windowless dungeon could be a real drag to some, but to us, it is one more opportunity to spend time with each other. Today was of particular interest to me, simply because we found a new way to pass the time. Usually we revert to doodling on the white erase board or playing the top 100 song game on the i-Tunes web site, but today was the first day we had ever considered playing Family Feud - as a family. We gathered ourselves in the back corner of the room and warmed ourselves up by owning new identities such as "Auntie" or "Grampa" followed by our names. To make today's journal even more interesting, a laptop camera was set up for comedic effect. Yet, come to think of it, we wouldn't have acted any more or less normal than we did on camera. Perhaps the on-line version of "the feud" was so thorough that we ceased to remember the fact that we were being recorded. Nevertheless, we found ourselves faced with the possibility of earning triple point values during round four. The question was challenging: name something that one would expect to receive in the first class of an airplane. With a full twenty-five seconds on the clock, I screamed "hot towel!" Being the Aunt, I felt like I had just led my family to victory. Alas, my answer was quickly met with that annoying buzzer - the universal sound of failure. Regardless of my poor judgment, our dysfunctional and completely unrelated family found success in the first of two "fast money" rounds. After winning the hypothetical twenty grand, we let out a simultaneous screech of dominance similar to that of a family of velociraptors - or at least that was what the computer microphone had portrayed. All in all, I learned that fake families are interchangeable with real ones: they are sometimes wacky and maybe even ridiculous, but once they are in, they are yours to keep, and there is nothing you can do about it. Then again, if you could change it, would you?

Crap Metal [10.1.08]

Tonight was the night of the surprise party. The schedule was strategically planned around our mandatory club meeting, and people were specifically instructed to show up a couple minutes before the start of the meeting. The members of the club were also distinctly instructed to show up with a half-hour to spare, in order to decorate and such. In theory everything would go off without a hitch, but in reality, that was definitely not the case. For starters, home base was locked, and the only person that held a key was running late. So there we were, the gang of party animals, standing awkwardly in the hall. The only thing that was preventing us from entering our haven of happiness was a lousy piece of scrap metal. So when the guests started to arrive, all of us had to uncomfortably tell them to join our crammed clump. Finally, the key holder showed up and we all burst into the room with panic. Trying to delegate was like trying to lasso a butterfly: "Streamers! We need to hang up streamers!" "Well, what about the cupcakes? Don't forget the candles!" "Well when are we going to sing? Can anyone play the piano?" "Where are we supposed to hide?" "Should we have the lights on or off?" Streamers were hastily thrown as people army-crawled under the few pieces of furniture they could find. We waited in silence - or almost silence, as one of our friends warmed up his jazzicised birthday theme on the keyboard. It's volume resonated as a low hum, while it was loud enough to block out our chaos-ensued hurried breaths. Finally, the birthday girl opened the door, while everyone popped out and yelled that all-too-popular phrase. We sang as she basked in the limelight, and she kindly appeased our efforts by thanking us. Perhaps the best present of all was not the mini cupcakes or the blobs of streamer hung about the room, but the account of the few minutes prior to her arrival. It was surely not the best surprise party ever, but it was definitely the fastest.

The Price of Cutesy [9.30.08]

It was the day before my friend's twenty-first birthday, so some of us decided to plan a surprise party for her. We went to the nearest store, where we found a plethora of alcoholically themed products. There were cookies and cakes and candles [oh my!], so it was obvious that we weren't going to come to a unanimous decision right away. However, I never thought that our errands would take the next forty-three minutes to execute. There we stood, in the bakery corner of the local Giant, while my friend and I fired back at one another: "I like the martini candles." "Well, I think we should get the margarita glasses - the martini ones are WAY too expensive for our budget." "I don't care if they're cheaper. The martini candles are too cute to pass up!" "I don't care how cute they are! They're only going to be seen for thirteen seconds. Then she's going to blow them out and yank them off whatever kind of cake we get her - if we ever get out of this store!" My friend wasn't about to cave, and I wasn't about to stake out in the bakery section, so I folded and we splurged for the mini martinis. We burned such a hole in our pockets because of them that we had to settle for mini cupcakes as well. As we left Giant, it seemed like our birthday blowout was looking more like a mini merriment. Were the martini candles just the beginning?

Finding the Voice [9.29.08]

Today's observation was found in what I deemed one of the most unexpected places - my snooze-fest of a psychology class. Sitting in the midst of my two-hour lecture class, my tool of choice to combat my exhaustion was Minesweeper. Everything in the real world was non-existent, while my new reality was planting bombs in a gray mine field. All of a sudden, I heard this booming voice come from above...or was it beside? My ears took a double-take...was that God? But wait - could God be asking the professor a question about child psychology? Pausing my game of Minesweeper, I went on the search of finding the booming God voice. It turns out that the person asking questions was not God revealing himself to my night class, but rather the very bassy student sitting behind me. Fortunately, the entire experience was in my head, so all possible embarrassment was eliminated. The one glitch in my sting operation is what I like to call the "mind-filter": it is the one boundary that keeps the embarrassing comments in, while it lets the relevant comments out. I firmly believe in the power of the mind-filter, and I can honestly say that I do not possess one today or any day prior. I turn around and say "Geez...do you know that your voice is BOOMING?!" "I guess", he awkwardly affirms. After what I had done, I realized that I shouldn't have said anything - curse that filter! But really, was it that terrible? After sharing this experience with some friends, it turns out that I was simply stating the obvious, so why the immediate embarrassment? Why does guilt ensue after an unspoken truth is spoken?

Pitch Black [9.28.08]

Today's happening came about because of pure procrastination. Both my friend and I needed to complete big assignments for tomorrow, so we headed over to the computer lab, where we stayed until the wee hours of the night. We sat in silence as the wheels in our brains were turning as loud and as fast as they could. It was one of those moments where we both knew what we needed to get done. We were no longer people - we were machines. Hours later, we returned from machine to human; we took a collective sigh as our souls re-inhabited our bodies. It was the final stretch: I simultaneously pushed the familiar key combination CONTROL and P to send my assignment to the printer. My friend did the same and logically hoped for the same results. However, immediately after she sent her paper to the printer, her computer's screen went black. Panic set in: "No...no...no..no..no-no-no! What just happened?!" I asked if her paper at least printed; she walked toward the printer, peeked inside, and attempted to lure it out: "Her-ro? Hey paper - are you in there?" Of course, there was no answer. While her computer was re-booting, she expressed frustration through every profanity under the sun. This was followed by a hefty complaint about the correlation of our high tuition and the expectation of reliable hardware. I told her to find the silver lining - perhaps her paper was saved before the crash. She dramatically forced me to take over and look for it in her student file. But alas, there was no trace of it. As unreliable as technology was, my friend made up for it by being a reliable wreck. After several throaty giggles, I simply persuaded her to do the only thing that she could do - start over. Of course, the remainder of our stay consisted of my thorough search of Facebook and her mumbled self-talk.

The Fountain Frolick [9.27.08]

Sometimes the funniest happenings are those that you knew would happen. One night, my friends were feeling bold, so they decided to take a pilgrimage to the fountain in front of the New Student Center. When we arrived, I knew what was coming. It was a simple equation: one mischievous boy and one fountain equals pure unadulterated entertainment. He quickly decided that he would go for the gold and jump over the rising and falling monstrosity. I told him to keep in mind that the fountain was a timed contraption, and that chances are, it would rise at exactly the wrong time. Against my advice, he slowly backed up and prepared for take-off. The fountain dropped; it was safe to jump over, but only for the next few moments. He took off and leaped - only to have the fountain rise when he was in mid-air. Landing on the other side, it took a second or two for my friend to realize that his pants were slightly wet - but only in a very inconvenient and questionable place. Before I could say "I told you so", he returned to the fountain and drenched his entire body in it. This brought up an interesting question. Frankly, it is autumn and it is cold outside, so why would anyone consider making their entire body wet versus one small patch of crotchness? Is that really the fixer-upper?

Fairs of Our Lives [9.26.08]

Today was the day above all others, for it was the Activities Fair at good ole LVC. One would think that the pinnacle of observations would be found in the middle of the event. However, the moment of pure lackadaisical enjoyment was unexpectedly discovered during the conclusion of the fair. The middle of the quad consisted of many tables and few people, so I volunteered to stay and help. There I was, tearing down tables in the middle of the quad, when I found myself in the center of a very intimate conversation. It was one of those moments where je ne sais quoi took over...similar to that clip from A Bug's Life regarding the mystical quality of bug zappers. The one mosquito says "Harry, no! Don't look at the light!" "I can't help it. It's so beautiful." My moral compass was pointing me in the opposite direction, and yet I couldn't look away. Of course, I kept my ears open and my hands busy by sprucing up the grass around me. "Look...I just don't see how we can be together anymore. I'm sorry." "Well...um...I - I guess." After her low blow, she started on her way. I honestly thought the soap opera was over and the credits were rolling.
I was wrong.
By now, she was fifty feet away. In a last-stitch effort to show his devotion, he lamented "If you ever change your mind...you know where to find me." Now she was a hundred feet away. His efforts increased to a literal scream: "I love you...I still love you!" So there I was, awkwardly and obviously standing in the midst of this modern-day soap opera. I, of course, exercised the first rule of accidental snoopage: never make eye contact with those involved.

Super-sized Digits [9.25.08]

Tonight's observation came from the most peculiar place...the floor. During small talk with one of my friends, I noticed that his toes were of a supernatural length. My eyes went from his face, and then back to his toes as I did a speedy double-take. I tried my best to portray attentiveness, but alas, I could not. His mouth was moving, and words were coming out, but all I could hear was Charlie Brown's teacher going "blah blah blah". I attempted to refrain from saying anything, but I couldn't help it: "Oh my word! You're toes are super long! I've never seen toes that long before! Geez - they may even pass for fingers!" I even went as far as to point out my find to some of our friends that with us. Collectively, we cocked our heads to the side and took a long, hard look. Moments later, my outburst was appeased when they awkwardly agreed: "Wow...she's right...they are kinda long..." Of course, by the time I realized what I had started, my friend was past the point of mere embarrassment. All of our visual poking and prodding led him to resort to drastic measures. Curling his toes under his feet, he hobbled away with his dignity intact. But was that really the case? Did my naive intentions leave his dignity untouched? When it comes to super-sized digits, can one really keep their dignity post-hobble?

Second Base: A Spectator Sport [9.22.08]

There are two types of people in this world: those that hate surprises, and those that love only the improbable ones. If you knew me, you'd know that I am the latter of the two, and today, my preference was unexpectedly appeased during a game of Wii Tennis. For those of you who don't know, the Wii game system was designed to work hand in hand with human motion. Since the games require movement, the general advisory consists of giving the players enough elbow room to play in. Regardless of the reason, I find that people usually ignore this warning. Tonight, I happened to find myself in my friend's apartment, watching him play Wii Tennis with some other people. Those who were spectators were watching intently from the side, as those who were playing were swinging and smacking the guts out of the invisible ball. After a few moments, the spectators began to feel comfortable in the environment, so they subconsciously came closer and closer until they were standing right next to our own Andre Aggassi. Unknowingly, our friend winded up and swung overhand, just close enough to graze the chest of my friend. She automatically responded by arguing her defense: "Did you see that?! He totally BOOBED me!" Our friend paused the Wii, lowered his voice and fist-pumped "second base!" It was one of those instances where a second could seem infinitely longer. I waited for my friend's rebuttal - certainly his inappropriate comment would be stricken from the record! I laughed, nervously. He laughed, playfully. And she? She just shrugged. We departed minutes later, and I was completely stumped. I know that "the touch" was an accident, but the comment afterward was anything but. When did second base become a thing to be taken lightly? Who died and made surroundings the changing factor in appropriateness?

Heart of Glass [9.24.08]

As clichéd as I know this will sound, I am going to take a risk and say that tonight was unforgettable. I took a walk with a friend, intent on catching up, but unknowingly realizing that would take the bearing of my soul. For the next two hours, we talked about our past mistakes, present struggles, and future plans. Fate eventually brought us to the steps of a small church. We didn't speak, we didn't move, we simply sat and knew that was enough. Then we did this thing that is distinctly ours - we closed our eyes and talked to God instead of each other. I was open and fragile, showing my human vulnerability and lamenting without restraint. My friend reached for my shoulder, but I instinctively flinched: "Please don't touch me right now." My friend respectfully backed off - but I was immediately perplexed at myself. Why did my mouth refuse support when my heart was clearly in need of it?

The Bout of the Boy Band [9.23.08]

Today I entered my friend's room with the intention of getting down to business. I was focused, determined, and ready to cram for the big exam that was fast approaching, no thanks to my chronic procrastination. Unfortunately, what started out as a study group turned into a stroll down memory lane - all because of VH1 and it's "Top 100 Songs of the 90's". Apparently my friend's study regimen consists of studying during commercial breaks, which leaves the majority of time for what I classify as "non-academic goofing off". Of course it took a mere three seconds and N'SYNC's debut at #38 for me to jump on the bandwagon. In an ideal world, I would have studied during the commercials, but that flew out the window once we started discussing stirrup pants, pogs, scrunchies, and boy bands. By the time the top ten songs came around, there were two camps of thought: the BSBers and the N'SYNC fans. An invisible line was drawn in the middle of the room as we debated why N'SYNC's "Tearin' Up My Heart" should pulverize BSB's "I Want It That Way". The controversy escalated and I found myself exiting the room in order to take a hall poll and see what other people thought. As the votes were tallied, I realized the obvious fact: when it comes to N'SYNC versus the Backstreet Boys, there would never be a winner. Followers of both groups are just that - faithful followers, devotees, disciples, if you will. Regardless of the title, no one was about to bend and therefore, no compromise would ever be reached. I will forever stay on the straight and narrow that is N'SYNC, while my friend will eternally preach the BSB way. I obviously didn't agree with her, and it showed through my scoffs and groans. Her nasal rendition of N'SYNC's greatest hit was a blatant violation of agreeing to disagee, and I in turn, refused to take the high road. I took my strongest ammunition to combat: AJ McLean's rehab life. My plan backfired, and our spat turned into a figurative hand of poker; she saw me to my BSB bash, and raised me Lance Bass's coming-out interview. Her raise was too rich for my blood, and I bitterly waved my white flag of defeat. I had been schooled by a BSBer - and all because Lance Bass was gay. How did this happen? When did I run out of BSB bullets? And why did I freeze in the midst of battle?

The Cotton Conniption [9.21.08]

Today has proved that some of the most fascinating observations are sometimes the most blatant ones. Truth be told, the joke is sidesplitting when the chuckle is at someone else's expense. My girls and I went shopping at Old Navy, strictly because of the secret "BFF Sale" of which we found out through advantageous means. Our notion of privilege quickly departed when we found out that the not-so-secret sale was posted on every bus stop, billboard, and commercial known to woman. Our arrival consisted of taking glamor shots at the entrance, followed by our chipper greeting toward the mannequins. In the next ten minutes, a rainbow tornado of cotton and linen seemed to follow us, and carts were shared between the two pairs of "BFFs", respectively. What followed was the presumably stereotypical dressing room ritual in which everyone takes in the same number of items and tries them on at the same time; blurbs of "it's just alright" were followed by the always sought after "ooh...that looks FABulous" and the always avoided "it doesn't do anything for you". Around the third or fourth round, I exited my dressing room with a new pair of jeans and the shirt that I came in. My friend's three-second glance said it all, and she hastily responded with "ooh...that shirt is CA-YUTE...but you could do without the pants". I wasted no time countering her reaction with "well...then I'm glad I already BOUGHT it" while my other friend barked "she was wearing that on our way over, ya dummy!" Of course, epic laughter ensued because we had pilgrimaged to the peak of the dressing-room ritual. Some of our cotton/nylon blends became wastes of time and inevitably returned to the rack, while the buried treasures remained with us as we strutted toward the cash register. Still thinking that the sale was on the down-low, we separate into our appropriate pairs, hover over the counters, and whisper the secret code "BFF" with cupped hands. Apathetically, the clerk murmured "Wow girls...I wasn't sure if you knew about the sale..." making our sojourn about as moody as it could have been. Like any good clothing crusaders, we ignored Miss I-need-a-raise and blissfully walked out with our purchases, and several questions. What caused her to have such an irate reaction to our fortunate finds? What kind of woman stews when surrounding by fashion - and possibly an employee discount? When did customer service become the eleventh plague?

Open Mouth, Insert Foot [9.20.08]

Today was a day of firsts: first bridal shower, and in turn, first awkward bridal shower gift. Due to the current lack of funds for us "college kids", my friend and I agreed to go halfsies. Of course my naiveté got the best of me and I left the gift-getting responsibility entirely up to my friend. Two pairs of underwear and one edible substance later, I came to the regretful realization of cause and effect. It served me right, because I certainly couldn't change the past, but perhaps I could help censor the future. When we arrived at the bridal shower, I mingled like I've never mingled before - possibly because I never had the chance to mingle with a bride-to-be. Regardless, I attempted to make sure that everyone knew I was not responsible for what would occur in the coming moments. Once the betrothed took a plop in her special chair, I began the countdown to our masked mementos. The smaller the present pool became, the harder it was to catch my breath; I began to break out in itchy hives from the mere thought of social embarrassment. Soon enough, the maid of honor handed over our goods; it was the moment of truth, the "D-day" of lingerie. Defense mechanisms kicked in as I shouted "I wanted to get you a wisk!", but it was too late. The bounty had been broadcast over the entire crowd and the gasps were too many to tally. After a nanosecond of reflection, I chose to count my losses and just forget about it; we are all mature adults. The moment I accepted that fact, a certain twelve-year-old attendee caught my eye, and I figuratively hopped into the hole I dug for myself. When did she arrive? Was she always here? Did her mind elicit as harsh a reaction as the rest of the crowd? Or was she just playing along? When does shock become a gray area?

The Last Stand of the Last Toucher [9.19.08]

Today's observation centered around the microcosm that is softball. Accepting my invitation to a community picnic, I found myself in the middle of a field, playing ball with the best of them. My behavior was uninhibited as I cupped my hands and screamed "We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher" toward the pitcher's mound. Apparently, many people view softball as a spectator sport because the players were few and far between. In turn, we had to rotate pitchers, catchers, and basemen in order to keep the game going. One of my friends was up to bat, so I instantly became that annoying pitcher, screechily yelling for everyone to "move on in". From my perspective, it was a harmless prank that swiftly emasculated him just enough to lose his focus and the game, but to him, it was one tease too many - an immediate invitation for him to prove his manhood to the thousands of invisible cheering fans surrounding the stadium. Unaware of his game plan, I fake spit on my hand and wound up for a curve ball. Needless to say, my pantomime merely fed his motivational fire, and I ended up hitting the deck in order to keep my appendages intact. His repressed swing sent the ball into "oblivion", a field, lost for what seemed to be an eternity, or at least for three full minutes. As I sifted through high grass and itchy vegetation, I got to thinking: Should I really be the one doing this? Is it really my fault that the ball soared over God's green earth? When did the rule of last toucher disappear? What happens when the last toucher has something to prove?

Granny's Language Barrier [9.18.08]

Today was spent watching others during the peak of common hour hubbub. I took a familiar rest on the 'muter love seat and began observing. Insistent on the existence of raw material for this journal, I patiently perched and listened intently. I watched my friends return from the UG with today's special, and chuckled under my breath as they complained of the not-so-special Italian wrap. "Don't they serve wraps every day?" huffed my friend, while another clamored over the resounding herbage wafting her way: "Ugh! I'd really appreciate it if you stopped CHEESING on me...thank you!" Meanwhile, another one of my friends proceeded to guess the brand of deodorants everyone was wearing. When an answer was deemed unacceptable, she would use the trusty guess-and-check technique and simply prove herself right. This method was obviously unsupported by those whom she was smelling; upon asked about his comfort level, my one friend replied: "Well, let's see. She is currently schnozing up my armpit - so how would you be doing?" Such occurrences continued, and a central theme was revealed to me. Aside from the fact that every event was clearly laughable, each episode also shared a common link in the form of personalized verbiage. The current language is flexible enough that anyone can ad-lib verbs wherever necessary. Such verbs as "cheesing" and "schnozing" do not technically exist in the English language, but they do indeed become integrated when gutsy adolescents deem it fitting. Simply add "ing" to the object you are referring to, and viola! The verb instantly mutates into an indispensable verb of the ever-growing English language. On the other hand, where do we draw the line? Are puberty-stricken citizens the only ones allowed to practice this freedom? Should ma and pa kettle freshen up their verb closet just to earn the approval of "those ungrateful ankle biters"? Is there an age limit on personalized verbiage? And if so, what is it?

Aiming to Please [9.17.08]

In terms of sports etiquette, there is a galactic volume of difference between men and women. For the most part, men practice the ever-popular "he-man" method: nothing exists but the boy and the ball. If someone, preferably the enemy, needs to bleed or sprain something in order for a man to win, it will happen. For centuries, men have devoted themselves to fighting longer, running faster, and playing harder. On the other hand, most women practice something completely contradictory, and perhaps perplexing, compared to the "he-man" method. When it comes to women, in most cases, there is no method. I would never imagine myself saying this, but Cyndi Lauper was right - girls truly just wanna have fun. Every Wednesday, my girlfriends and I spend some time at the gym, not to see who can bench-press more or break their lifting record, but to play a distinctively non-competitive game of racquetball. Our skills are not comparable to Olympiad status, but instead are graceless and blooper-esque swings popular to any novice. Expecting to follow our weekly fad, we rendezvoused at the bridge and shuffled over to the gym. We approached the desk, and the student worker had us swap our ID cards for three racquetball rackets and one tennis racket. Once I saw the condition of the rackets, I felt like we essentially bartered our souls for leftover morsels in the form of bent sports equipment. Once we entered the court, I knew that we had one hour to have the time of our lives. Halfway through our game, the ball seemed to connect with each of us, one after the other. Our practice finally paid off, and the girls and I shared unmistakable excitement due to our newfound skill. However, the moment got the best of us, and our brick wall of awareness became a wall of aluminum foil. Our attention had been averted, my usually aimless friend swung fast, and the ball smacked me square in the eye. My glasses popped off, my hand instantly shielded my face, and my ducts instinctively brought on the tears. The next few minutes were a literal blur: I flushed my eye out at the germ-packed water fountain while my friends cleared my glasses of skin and smudge. We clumsily laughed through the remaining twenty minutes of our session and eventually returned to the student worker, unharmed rackets in hand. Leaving the gym, I got to thinking about my recent injury: Why wasn't I offended? If I were a man, would I have been? Would I have attempted to get even? Is blood the secret weapon of champions? How far is too far when it comes to battle scars?

Root Beer Virgin [9.16.08]

Today I observed something beautiful in the eyes of commuters everywhere, for today was the day of the root beer float social in Silver Hall, and I was invited. I just so happened to be visiting my friend in her dorm when I discovered a commotion out in the hall. Like a first-grader during story time, I sat criss-cross-applesauce and listened intently as she told me of the so-called "hall socials". Assuring me of their mellow ambiance, she summoned me out of the room and into the root beer line. The first few minutes were moments of reverie; for all-intensive purposes, I was a resident, a "res" if you will. My imagination got the best of me, and I instantly created a secret life in some parallel universe. Preoccupied with my fraudulent back-story, I almost didn't notice the sign-in sheet floating toward me. However, once it reached my commuter-ridden hands, I was brought back into the realm of reality in which guilt immediately followed. I quietly informed my friend of my hyper-conscience and almost peeled out when the Resident Assistant recognized me and insisted on my attendance. Since I still felt out of place, I asked "Are you sure?" to which the RA fired back: "Of course! Everyone is welcome - even commuters!" My friends chirped "See?" in the tone in which they have perfected; one that says "I told you so" and "Hi, I'm an elementary education major" at the same time. The entire occurrence was a moment to behold; resident-commuter relations in the purest of forms. I left the dorm realizing that I could indeed have my root beer and eat it too. No guilt, no shame, no false identity, just one commuter whose root beer-coated dreams just came true. Moseying down the sidewalk, I began to wonder...why did my float taste so good? Was it because it was free? Or was it the cruel intentions in which I planned to receive it? And if I passed as a "res", would the float taste better? Could it taste better? Are scam-scarred floats scrumptious? Or is a sour aftertaste the only trail of a shameful secret treat?

Smuckit Fever [9.15.08]

Today's observation transpired in one of the most central habitats known to man: the commuter lounge. My friends and I congregated around the hind left table, fast food in hand, prepared to eat lunch as a "muter family" and commune about the day's events. Our conversation depends on several factors including but not limited to our moods, our assignments, our grades, and perhaps even the weather. Today, however, was concentrated on a distinct hot-button yet laughable issue: "Potty Mouths: individual or group trait?" I am a well-known censor junkie, one who would stray from the word "lactation" if only I could. Since most of my friends have what I would consider an extensive working "potty mouth" vocabulary, it came as no surprise when they asked me to bend my confines and just cuss already. After four breathing exercises and three hyper-snorts, the group agreed to arrive at an honorable conclusion: I just wasn't the cursing type. Nevertheless, we agreed to disagree...and to invent a bogus curse word just for me. The several close calls became deal-breakers when their repetition became lackluster. We searched far and wide, through "futtbucker", "nispy", and even "pieness" until we came across the masked loot: "Smuckit". At that instant, everything seemed to fall into place. The birds were singing, world hunger was nonexistent, and money trivially grew on trees. I left the lounge a changed woman, having my newfound rap established with my muter posse. Since then, smuckit has rolled off my lips with ease, and both my friends and I appreciate its naive approach. However, I still have several questions left unanswered: What does smuckit mean? Is it a noun? A verb? An interchangeable word of wonder? Could smuckit ever turn into an authentic curse word? Most importantly, what happens if smuckit fever catches on?

Preggy Pop [9.14.08]

Today I had the rare yet unenvied opportunity to behold one of the most thrilling subjects known to man: a gestating woman at the summit of nausea. As commonplace as one may think this behavior is, the role of "pregnancy aide" was instantly and involuntarily launched upon me, despite my squawks against it. So there we were, four menopausal women, a woman with child and morning sickness, and comparatively boring me, awaiting the invitation to the salad bar. Seeing the food was no issue for said woman eating for two, but the wafting aroma of chicken fajitas became the iceberg on the Titanic of prenatal baby-land. The ship was sinking and I was the captain, but I would refuse to halt in the command deck and do nothing - for such was the last living memory of the captain in the clichéd 1997 film. Instead, I took to the poop deck in search of the sacred yet mild ginger ale. Turning left down the hall, I saw my salvation: a vending machine with a cornucopia of options. I inserted my five quarters and pushed the button...but alas! My worst nightmare had come true in the form of little red lights flashing "SOLD OUT". Like any good pregnancy aide, I just regrouped, formulated "Plan B", and went for the Sprite. I was just about to pat myself on the back when the Sprite button also yielded the same result. I pressed the coin return and inserted it once more, selecting Sierra Mist. This time, I cringed with my eyes closed, perhaps giving the vending machine a chance to retreat from its shelter and lend me some soda. I squinted my left eye to let a crevice of light in - and I saw nothing. I did however hear some internal action going on; the clinking and ca-dunking was its own Hallelujah Chorus to me, and I walked away, soda in hand, a changed woman. I proudly returned to the lunch table with my Sierra Mist, yet a resounding groan was heard by the chorus of women. They scolded me as if I were supposed to know better. If I remember correctly, "Soda with caffeine? What were you thinking?!" and "There is no ginger in Sierra Mist!" were the most popular gripes. After the whole ordeal, several questions were mine to ponder: What just happened? Were their expectations too high? Or was my soda selection too low? Since when did good deeds become unthankable?

The Laughing Season [9.13.08]

When it comes to compassion, the majority of society professes to possess it in many if not all situations. However, the leftover fraction of humanity knows better than to place a sympathetic blanket statement over mankind. Do not misunderstand me: I am not a mass of compassion-less bones waiting for someone to go hungry or face persecution, for that would the simplest form of callousness. I do, however, find the utmost enjoyment in others' minor misadventures. This includes minor injuries, socially unacceptable quirks, and infirmities. Of all the petty debacles, menopause is a top contender on the list. I learned this throughout the weekend by observing my mother and her friends. Sure I feel for them, but I also feel like cackling out loud when my mother sticks her head in the freezer, or when she asks if I am uncomfortably hot and I sassily chirp back with a resounding "No." Despite the fact that I will unmistakably face the same curse, I find myself snickering through night sweats and temperamental moods. Of course they do not appreciate my lack of sensitivity, so they often resort to shaming me with the lone blackmail feasible to them - the future: "You go ahead and laugh, little girl, just wait until you're our age. You won't be laughing then!" Obviously they speak the truth, for it is only a matter of time before I am in the same rotten boat as they are. However, I assume the role of devil's advocate, and fire back a cheeky response: Do they remember laughing at someone when they were my age? Were they always as reverent and seasoned as they are now? When someone tripped over nothing, would they laugh? Or would they inquire as to what invisible hole introduced the snag? When it comes to life, what changes, if any, are laughable?

The Fellowship of the Fling [9.12.08]

Of the 20 years I have resided on this earth, I have finally grasped a cause and affect of people-watching: the conduct of someone is a direct reflection of the company. From blue-collar businessmen to company presidents, from apprehensive students to polished professors, the ends must satisfy the means and the punishment must fit the crime. The entire weekend, I found myself encompassed on all sides by allies of the same trade. We saucily identify ourselves as "scrappers"; our events are "crops", and the verb "scrapping" would follow respectively. We roam the world in search of new mementos in the form of toddlers' quotes, invitations from family reunions, and recipe cards from granny's flawless strawberry fluff. Once the archaeological dig begins, the relics are uncovered without harm and preserved without inhibition. Similar to the extensive tool collection of the local dentist, the scrapper will implement the proper usage of liquid adhesive, glitter, chipboard, and the reliable yet underestimated tape runner. An observer that is not familiar with the art form of scrapbooking would presume they had made a wrong turn in the twilight zone and mistakenly entered another world; naught exists but our pictures and our fellow scrappers. The result is a room full of sweaty menopausal women asking for others' opinions on the selection of ribbon trim, cardstock color, and pigment ink. Since the setting is entirely deviant from the daily demands of real life, restraint is nonexistent: one might help themselves to a regular coke instead of a diet, while another could very well break into song, even though they would never shed their true colors at a nearby karaoke bar. Before I knew it, I had also done something inhibited. Taking a strip of red lace, I placed it atop my crown and assured myself of its tasteful style. Turning to my friend, she gave an affirming nod and drawled out "Very boho." I would have replied with the global thank you, but my manners were interrupted by someone else feeling gutsy enough to chime in and add "...or hobo." I can honestly say that weirder (or meaner) things have not happened. Did we not earn the same figurative scrapbooker stripes? What happened to the nature of the "crop"? Where was the safe zone of cordial niceties? The cesspool of overflowing feminine etiquette? And most importantly, was my homemade headband boho...or hobo?

Thank God for Kneecaps [9.11.08]

Observing others is quite the exquisite art; one must prearrange for a befitting crack in time, one that properly reflects whatever "snapshot" of reality the observer is thirsting for. Preparatory platforms must be satisfied accordingly, including but not limited to the ever-popular "pee break". Presuming that I would observe post-potty, I swiftly initiated myself with the third stall and naively anticipated just as prompt of an exeunt. On behalf of the readers' sake, I am obliged to ration several prerequisites, which will each grow in merit in the following moments. Simply stated, three rules apply in "lady land", and are listed according to growing importance. The first and most primordial principle is as follows: relieving oneself is perpetually a team effort. Rather instinctively, women make their pilgrimage in ark-esque pairs of two, despite the rare existence of a need for relief from both parties. Secondly, to satisfy the Utopian society that is "lady land" with style similar to Mr. Rodgers, neighborly toilet-paper handouts are minimum benchmarks, not voluntary advances. (When it comes to bailing out a stall-mate, a mere three or four squares is expected.) Lastly and perhaps most importantly, inspecting a stall's availability by peering through the crevice in the door is NEVER an option. In order to have a successful visit from start to finish, all three of the preceding laws must be followed with precise discipleship.
So there I sat, warming the third stall with my presence and having an enjoyable time at that. Unsuspecting of any glitches in the system, I was taken by surprise when a woman entered and peeked through my stall's fissure. The next six seconds that followed were a mixture of awkward eye contact and the defense mechanism of clenching my kneecaps together. I shakily replied "uhmmm...I'm in here", regardless of the fact that our blushing meet-and-greet was the soul product of her illegal peekage. Do not misunderstand me, because I know that she has an exact replica of what had been exposed...but it was MINE! I wanted to shout "Occupied!" but six seconds of eye contact had brought upon me unforgivable scrutiny. What happened to the cardinal rule? The unspoken code? What kind of woman peeks through the crack? And where did she come from? What kind of show are they running? And where was my stall-mate when I needed her?

The Deflate of the Great Debate [9.10.08]

For the past week, I have been observing others' reactions in numerous settings: from angst-filled picnics to germy dorm rooms, from germy dorm rooms to provolone-packed fridge doors. I have witnessed someone in mid-sneeze, mid-chomp, and mid-curse, but I had yet to witness someone in mid-debate. It has perpetually been a phantasm of mine - sitting back as one's emotions curdle over the rim of self-control. The oppressor would ask for the truth, the oppressed would fire back that they could not handle the truth, and my vision would conclude in genuine Tom Cruise-esque style. Before today, it was unthinkable for me to depict a dispute ceasing any more comically than that. Thankfully, for the sake of this journal, today's occurrence proved that I could not have been more wrong. Sitting in the package room, I soon realized its stereotypical quality: monotony. Given that one should not expect a large deviation from the system, I was surprised to see my friend enter with a rather peculiar request. He asked for a package that was NOT confirmed to be sent to him. When asked how he knew of its arrival, he said that his significant other sent it to him weeks ago, and that the only option at this point in time was for it to be sitting on the shelf. After triple-checking, the student worker interjected his own thoughts: "Nope, it's not here...hey, maybe she lied about sending you a package." I waited ardently for my friend's Shakespearian response: certainly he would not allow someone to trespass and stomp over his heart's love-plot! He would gallop in on his white steed of verbiage and preserve her honor in rightful twenty-first-century chivalry. As I sat, maintaining my monumental expectations, he murmured back: "Maybe you're right...maybe she lied...danget." The conversation that followed was everything but chick flick-worthy. Minutes later, I approached my friend and asked if he was mad, with which he replied in Napolean Dynamite tones: "Mad? Of course I'm mad - I want my frickin' package." He was clearly perturbed, and I was astonished at what sparked his anguish. With that, he departed mumbling to the student worker "Thanks man...and you're probably right, she probably just forgot or something." As far as I was concerned, the great debate just deflated, leaving a floppy half-filled pigskin on the fifty yard line post-Superbowl. Where was the love? Where was the passion? And where on God's green earth was that package?

Politics for Pocket Change [9.9.08]

The first basic truth of observance is as follows: observing is always entertaining, regardless of the subject. My emphasis is on the word "always" because it is true - it matters not what one chooses to observe, but instead the idea that one chose to observe in the first place. However, I must admit that choosing an assertive subject rather than a passive one is far more amusing. Therefore, it came to no surprise that such a person was the central topic of the day. Her name is unimportant and respectfully anonymous, but her candidate is boldly the party's answered prayer. Party specifics set aside, she is known for being politically head over heels, so it would come as a surprise to any and all Dutchmen when she was seen wearing the rival's campaign pin on her knit sweater. One could ask (and many did) why she turned this Benedict Arnoldian leaf, and her defense was blog-worthy. Some time prior to today, she borrowed five dollars from a friend and instead of paying said friend back, she agreed on renting her political soul to him for the next hour. There I sat, watching person after person express open concern for her shockingly recent conversion, while it was indeed nothing but a farce. After the hour expired, she popped the pin off and repented with a sigh of relief. The entire event left me full of giggles - and questions. Who really won in this situation? Was her burden worth five dollars? Did she sell her political soul for pocket change? What if she had borrowed twenty dollars instead of five? And how did it feel to cheat on her party? Would someone less politically passionate laugh at her? Would someone more passionate cry? Who is the sheriff in the town of democracy?

Pain v. the Pixel [9.8.08]

It is now 6:09 PM. The meeting just ended, and my friends and I have night class in twenty-one minutes. My one friend now takes this pivotally terrible moment to share the fact that she has not gotten around to eating dinner yet. Walking toward the UG, our assignment is clear: get in, get food, get out. The assumption is that our friend would take the easy way out and eat on the way to our class. Unfortunately, our friend instantly refuses to eat on the go, and we are left with no option but to find patience within ourselves and wait. However, due to the immense emphasis on our lack of time, the rest of us collectively decided to keep our friend on track. Subconsciously, we gave synchronized signals, forcing the situation to become stressful. We repetitively used phrases such as "chew faster" or "hurry up" or my personal favorite "come on already". Perhaps the most entertaining aspect of the event was anticipating her reaction to the outside pressures, which apparently included inhaling her dinner in six minutes flat. I knew that she would start eating at a quicker pace, but I never predicted how absurd the intake speed would become. Her meal became a systematic performance: dip, chomp, sip, dip, chomp, sip. When she came up for air, she laughingly mentioned her chances of schooling "that Asian hot dog eater" in an eating contest. Being quite the storyteller, she would not embrace a moment of silence, but instead persisted on dominating the conversation. Her usual line, "this one time at camp", was often incoherent due to the extensive amount of food in her mouth, but her persistence and mumbling continued amid our laughter. I found myself taking pictures of her in mid chew, or shall I say mid chomp? Minutes later we were on our way, and our friend was already regretting her swift smorgasbord. She blamed it on the heartburn, but I continued to wonder...was that truly the case? Or was it because I caught an unsightly snapshot of her with my camera phone? And if that was the reason, one should weigh the options and decide which one is indeed worse. The temporary physical pain of too much food, too little time? Or could it be the permanence of the pixel? The world may never know.

Germ-Fest '08 [9.7.08]

Today is a unique opportunity in terms of observance - for one of my friends has come down with a sinus infection. Having the opportunity to watch someone immediately comes along with flat-rate advantages, but being able to observe a sickly subject is even more entertaining. Frankly, I was given more than enough time to observe her today. Most days (including today), I find myself inhabiting my friend's room because of my unfortunate commuting situation. Finding my own way into Silver, I enter her dorm and see her body curled up on her bed. In an attempt to wake her, I whispered, poked, sang, threw things, and she eventually began to rouse from sleep. For the readers' sake, I must say that her usual sleeping state is light. However, due to several induced medications, her sleeping patterns were greatly altered in such forms as drowsiness, congestion, and a deeper sleep. Since our friendship is so close, I consider it to be synonymous to a "comfortable" relationship, and in turn, a forgiving one as well. I often find myself shedding some humor on others' ill-fated situations in the form of jovial comedy. Unfortunately, some may misconstrue my clever banter as cruel or damaging. (At the most, I would say my behavior is mischievous.) In an attempt to combat my wit, my friend simply monopolized the weapons that I could not tap into: the misting sneeze, the cumbersome throat-breathing, and most importantly - the leaning mountain of grubby tissues. I soon realized the weakness of my army - fear. I was not ready to come down with the unexplainable curse of whatever nuisance was plaguing my friend. It was "Germ-fest '08" and I had front row seats. My wit was fully inferior in comparison to her dirty tactics, so I waved my white flag of defeat and literally hit the road. On my way home, I wondered several things. What just happened? Why was there a power struggle, and who had the upper hand? When did disease become a playing card in the deck of politics? Most of all, how long before the secret power of germs goes global?

The Name Game [9.6.08]

Observations are always useful, but can prove especially helpful in decoding someone unfamiliar. Social situations that involve numerous first impressions, such as freshman orientations or community picnics, are few and far between. Given their sporadic appearances, the art form of the "meet and greet" has been and will forever remain one of the most challenging of human interactions. In one sitting, one could meet a variety of personalities, each with different quirks and more importantly different names. That being said, one could not possibly ask for someone to remember favorite colors, birthdays, hometowns, or even names. Sadly, not everyone shares this assumption, and others go so far as to expect rote memorization from those they have met throughout the day. I met someone hours ago who expected just that from me. During a picnic I bumped into one of the many freshmen, and we shared introductions. We went our separate ways, and minutes later I was in the middle of mingling with several other strangers. Frankly, I had forgotten her name by the time I met the next freshman. I blame my oblivion on human error, and more often than not, others support and even share my flaw. Apparently, this freshman was filled with angst, and in turn did not sympathize with my glitch. For the next two hours, she proceeded to call me every name but my own. Every time we had a run-in with one another, I felt just a little worse than I did before. However, self-respect showed up late rather than never, and I detracted my guilt. When did human error become an apology? Why did my forgetfulness merit such a harsh penalty? When would she start calling me by my actual name? And why should I care? Like any great conundrum, all my questions did was create more. Why did I react so severely? Is a name just a name, or is it the beginnings of one's identity? How far is too far when it comes to the name game?