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?

What's in a Name? [9.5.08]

Many people choose to live their lives opposite what is expected of them. The nerds want to be all-state champions, the quarterbacks want to pass calculus, brunettes want to be blond, and blonds want to be gingers. One can imagine how surprised I was when I observed a group of students who were more than happy to oblige the world's opinion of them. To the outside world, they are known only as "gamers". Their time is spent doing what typical gamers do: break high scores, find another secret passage, and use cheat codes to explore uncharted worlds. However, gamers also do good in their alternate universe: they defend the oppressed, conquer barren lands, build lasting kingdoms, and almost always save the damsel in distress. Despite the initial comedy of the "gamer" lifestyle, the outside world eventually recognizes the detrimental side of this perpetual fantasy. Real life doesn't consist of energy swords, invisibility, or growth hormones in the form of red spotted mushrooms. Instead of spending hours defending the fictionally oppressed, gamers could protect those who actually suffer from affliction. Rather than deciphering the next cheat code, why not unravel the mysteries of this world? Why build fraudulent kingdoms when you can build your own coffee table? As I get off the couch and walk away from their world, the gamers don't wish me farewell. They haven't noticed my departure. I wonder, will I notice theirs?

Mysophobia [9.4.08]

If one is fortunate enough, the observance of others deciphers certain human phenomena, such as the ever-popular mysophobia or more commonly "germaphobia". Those who claim to be "germaphobes" do just that - allege to be afraid of dirt, dust, spills, etc. In turn, the majority of society questions the actual existence of such a disease, and most come to a negative conclusion; said "germaphobe" does not have an actual lack of immunities, but rather heightened egotism. Consequently, observing one whose "fear" is both impractical and unavoidable leaves the observer with nothing less than entertainment equal to cinematic quality. One of the most fascinating parts of the germaphobic lifestyle is the behavior seen at large social gatherings. Spotting the dripping punch keg, I responded with what I assumed to be a suitable solution - a napkin on the floor. However, my germaphobic friend took the alternative route and placed a trash can under the dripping spout. The twist? When replacing the napkin with the trash can, most people would also pick up the napkin and have the trash can actually replace it. Because the napkin was soaked to the floor, my friend refused to relocate it, and instead placed the trash can directly over it. Twenty minutes later, I stepped on a pretzel while on my way to a punch refill. I instinctively turned to my germaphobic friend and apologized for spreading crumbs because I knew the slightest of messes was one of his greatest irritations. Realizing how second nature and almost trance-like my apology was, I sheepishly returned to my seat. Minutes later, a twentieth-century peace offering came in the form of hand sanitizer. After I used it, my friend played it safe and smelled my hands in order to observe the aftermath of the sanitizer. With one whiff, he closed his eyes in disgust and returned to the sink, where he washed his hands for the third time. Frankly, I was stumped: does he realize germs are chronic? How long are his showers? Does he catch a cold as often as I do? And most importantly, when is the last time I washed my hands?

Ham She Wrote [9.3.08]

More often than not, specific human behavior is difficult to recognize. The nationally acclaimed act of "people-watching" is deemed unfit for so-called normal humanity, but what of watching oneself? I assumed my recurring role as "Alyssa" was one that had been figured down to the last detail. However, I have found that when under certain pressures, to one's own surprise, the self can tend to become the most interesting of subjects. Today's pressure just so happens to be the fear of getting caught. Although, it should be mentioned that legality is relative. For example, stealing money is wrong, but what about being an accessory - to the devouring of several ham shavings and a single twelve-grain slice of bread? Today was busy to say the least, and in turn, my friend and I found ourselves in his house, coincidentally in the midst of peak hunger. Murphy and his law made sure I had just enough time to waste, but not enough to eat a decent meal. So, with my friend's seal of approval, I entered the fridge empty and exited full of possibilities. I thought to myself, ham and provolone and chip dip, oh my! I knew that what I grabbed did not belong to my friend, but to his roommate...and neither of us seemed to care. However, amidst the third and fourth bite, we heard the creak of the front door. I halted the chewing. My stomach dropped. Immediately, almost as instinctively as the "soccer-mom-arm-save", I shoved the remaining evidence in the silverware drawer and slammed it shut. In what seemed like a lifetime, but realistically occurred in the following four or five seconds, my friend and I took the stage as those kids that did not do anything: sandwich? Er - uh - who said anything about a sandwich? (Nervous laughter and flailing shrugs included.) Then a sigh of relief erupted from both parties after the quick and almost sheepish realization of mistaken identities. The roommate that we "borrowed" from was student teaching, and the whodunit would go unanswered.
Reflecting on the rather silly situation and our reaction, some questions could be raised. Does hunger constitute theft? Are there fishy fingerprints lurking on the counters of Maple East? Would I ever repay my friend? And if so, what would I repay him with? Ham? An eighth of a twelve-grain loaf? A half-eaten can of chip dip? And perhaps the most important question of all: did I learn my lesson? Twelve minutes later, my friend went upstairs to take a shower, and coincidentally left his book bag downstairs. I looked around, turned off ESPN, walked over to the backpack, and started snooping. I sneakily discovered the treasure of the century - and covered up my onion-dip breath with a stick of his Stride gum.

Kodak Gone Wrong [9.2.08]

One of the most interesting parts of observing human emotion is the aftermath of something not going right, either going wrong or just not going the way one intended. To watch one is sometimes comical, especially when the thing that went wrong is indeed a small detail in the midst of truly important aspects of the day. When my friend dropped her camera, the "nose" or "eye" was ruined, and to make matters far worse, she was forced to spend an ungodly twenty minutes on the phone. When asked for her address, she spouted off "Division highway..." but was interrupted by the Kodak representative who was clearly of Eastern descent. All I heard was "No! D as in dog!" There were recognizable sighs of impatience and looks of disdain. After what seemed like a lifetime of silence with "uh-um" and "um-um" sporadically thrown in, she hung up. One of the most entertaining attributes of the human is the impersonation of another - while angry. "No! Not C as in Charlie - D!", of course mimicked with an Indian accent. Like any decent human being, she soon apologized and asked how my day was going, with which I just nodded and replied. Her IM message read I HATE Kodak, with which she quickly commented about the stupidity of Kodak not allowing camera shops to repair their products. Amidst the coincidences of menstrual "crampiness" and things dropping, she saucily vocalized the quote known throughout mankind: "Apparently...it's not...my...day." Before lunch, we went to the post office and mailed the camera. Throughout the morning, there was a combined total of seven sighs, four grimaces, and two grumbles to which I responded with a giggle. I couldn't bring myself to sympathize with her, simply because the situation wasn't much of a situation at all. None of the events were precursors of necessary mourning or lament, but verbally that is what took place. My hyper observance and heightened sense of humanness made me sit back and chuckle. It also made me wonder - what does society deem as sob-worthy? Do all of us simply complain because there is nothing better on the boob tube? Is today's misfortune tomorrow's gossip column?