oMgZzZ lyke WhAtS iN mY BaG?!?!?

Some preppier blogs out there that I read from time to time like to blog about what's in their school bags. Because my life is a joke, I have decided to mercilessly make fun of them. While all you gals have your perfect VV totes with your coordinated Lilly pencil cases, Vera highlighters and sticky notes with endless organized lists, I can't even find my school ID card, let alone meticulously write everything down and have a proper place for things like pens. I usually have one bag and stick with it. For years.


This is my backpack. See it? All pink and jaunty sitting there in the sun? This picture is from my first summer on the Vineyard, the summer that my backpack was my best friend. I rolled everywhere with that thing, the bag I'd had since high school. Because I didn't have a car, I biked to work. 7 miles. I would pack my bag with workclothes and going out clothes for after work, then I would wear my backpack to parties and bars. The thing was famous (second only to my bike...which I caught a lot of flak for). The older it gets, the more places its seen, the more I love it. Every stain, every spot of dirt.

So what's in it? Hahahahaha.

You don't even want to know.

Confession: My siblings are cooler than me.

Its true. I hate to admit it. My siblings, two younger brothers and a younger sister, are all infinitely cooler than I am. I am a nerd. I have a blog. In every family, there is someone who is pretty, someone who is cool, someone who is smart. Sometimes, if you're really lucky, you'll get a family where everyone is at least two of those attributes, and sometimes (once in a blue moon) everyone will be pretty, smart, and really cool. This is not so in my family. It was apparent from childhood: I was really, really uncool.

My (amazing, wonderful) parents had four kids in seven years, the middle two being only fourteen months apart. I was more responsible at eight than my youngest brother will be in his entire life, but that's just the way eldest children are programmed. But being the oldest by two years was difficult: I was awkward while the three babies were still cute, and even when the middle two started to seem awkward (by some twist of fate...they never seemed to go through that phase in the entirety that I did), I was still awkward.


Us: 1996

It didn't help that I was freakishly tall. There is a family picture of us from when I was in the 8th grade (that makes Jamey in 6th, Brittany in 5th and Harrison in...1st I think), there was a family reunion in which everyone took an individual family picture. Now, let me confide in you that when I was fourteen, I had nearly realized my full size: I was 5' 7" and 150 pounds (a figure that I eventually grew into, don't you worry). My nearest aged siblings, at twelve and eleven, had yet to hit five feet. It looked like the two parents, their three AAAdorable children and me...their...babysitter? I wish I had the picture on my computer to show you. Truly a sad, sad sight.

It stems back even farther than that. When I was about five, I wanted nothing more than to be a ghost for Halloween. My mother, being the kind of mother she is (the one that always allowed freedom of expression), happily obliged me, and fashioned me a ghost costume out of a sheet (yes...a sheet. With eye and mouth holes). Also, being the busy momma she was, she went out and bought costumes for Jamey and Britt, then 3 and 2, respectively. J was a bumble bee. B was a bunny. That Halloween night, when Dad took us trick-or-treating, I could NOT FATHOM why, at every single house we went to, the ladies answering the door SQUEALED: "OoOoOhhh look at the bumble bee! And the BUNNY! AWWWWW!!!" And then, they would hand us candy, and not say a darn thing about me! The ghost!

It took me years to realize it was because a bumble and a bunny are cute. I had a sheet wrapped around my head and tied at my neck with eye holes cut out. NOT CUTE.

Did I mention the term of endearment for me was Stephy-poo, while my sister's was Pretty Britty? That one still hurts.

I was the one with acne. I had bushy eyebrows. I had braces first, I got in trouble for everything first, I was the gargantuan amazon until after my first year of college when my brother FINALLY grew taller than me. I was shy, painfully painfully shy (hard to believe it now, right?), when my sibs were gregarious and sunny, giggling and smiley.

In high school (this is where I get to the cool part) I was a nerd. I had weird friends (who..actually, I'm still friends with...and I love their weirdness! and mine!), I was in the drama club, and I only pretended to like the field hockey team I was on...but I guess its hard to like something if you're completely talentless (I mean...you should have seen me with a field hockey stick. Sad, sad, sad). J and B were not "popular" per say, but they were right on the fringes...many people I went to school with didn't even know my name. Now, J and B are both involved with Greek life on their respective campuses...and we all know how cool THAT is.

But, in the end, I don't care about not being cool. In fact, I bask in it. I accept my nerdyness, and funny thing is, other people do too. And every kid goes through just what I went through, it just took me awhile to realize it. But...some of those things are pretty hilarious.


Us: 2009

Procrastination...

...is the name of the game, and, if this were an Olympic sport, I would be the gold medalist. This semester, for some reason, I feel like I have a free pass on, well, everything. I will put off everything and anything until the very last second. It's like I don't actually have anything pressing going on when, in all actuality, I do. You name it, I've put it off. Homework, studying, laundry, running, even blogging. "Good God, woman," I say to myself every time I'm awake at all hours writing a paper (when I clearly could have been doing it earlier, but instead watched too many episodes of Sex and the City), "what are you doing with your LIFE???"

Just last week, I had a 5 page paper due on Friday morning. FML, my favorite night of the week is Thursday. In any event, I resolved to stay in, until some friends asked me to go to the movies. HOW could I turn down a perfectly good chick flick and popcorn? Read: usually I would. But nOoOoOo. I had a paper to write, and therefore I needed to distract myself. So I went to the movies, and didn't start my paper until around 10. Not so bad, 5 pages would take any normal person about three hours, plus half an hour to 45 minutes to revise in the morning.

BUT. I am me. And I distracted myself between paragraphs with facebook, blogs (damn you, blog world), email, youtube and craigslist (check out the personals and missed connections in your city, funny funny shit), which took me right to the witching hour, 3 AM. When I couldn't possibly keep my eyes open any longer, I slept for about four hours, upon which time I had to arise in order to finish my paper. I mean, I got the thing done, and it was pretty damn good, but still...couldn't I have achieved the very same thing earlier and gotten a decent night's sleep?

Do I just not care anymore? Right now, I've had all day to study for a test I have tomorrow. But instead I did laundry, watched the Olympics, spent an hour trying to write about my crazy landlord from summer '08 (still to come...will be my greatest masterpiece...mwahaha), ate some mac and cheese. I didn't do anything productive all day. Couldn't even drag my chunky keister to the treadmill. Why. Why. Why. Why.

I just hope some people out there are as unproductive as I am. Is it a generational thing? Are we all just craving that adrenaline rush? That moment of panic when you look at the clock and it's an hour before class starts, you're in your ratty Hanes t-shirt (no bra), haven't showered in a couple days (for no reason other than that YOU'RE LAZY), and think, "Eff eff eff, am I EVEN going to pull this off?" I think we have just invented too many things that distract us. Like facebook. And youtube. And blogs.

And now that I've wasted another 20 minutes of my life...my textbook is calling me.

side note: CANNOT stop listening to "Karma Police" by Radiohead. This week has breathed new life into that song for me. Listen. Be swept away.

Gloom and Doom

The print industry is dying. And its partly my fault...and blogger's faults around the world. I started this blog as a way to get my writing out there, but now I see that I was a little misguided. This doesn't mean that I'll stop blogging, but it does mean that in my generation, there will be, sadly, less of a market for good writers, because anyone and everyone can blog if they want to, and anyone in the world can read them....for free.

English majors and blossoming writers all over the world, you best love your craft enough to keep at it, because there's slim to no chance that we'll ever be getting paid. The saddest thing is that I don't know how its fixable, other than people having to pay for access to websites. Of course, this must start at the top (and hopefully trickle down) with huge publications like the New York Times. I've already seen my favorite newspaper, The Boston Globe, flounder and nearly tank. How are writers and journalists supposed to make any money? They spend countless hours, their LIVES to research and write thoughtful and informative articles and stories, only to be distributed for free on the internet, while the math and science brains cash in doing more lucrative jobs (not because they love them, but because they will make money). Can I not do something I love and get paid for it? To quote The Devil Wears Prada, "is that so much to ask? and i reaching for the stars?"

Sweet Sea and I have been on the job hunt for a little while now, and something that is hard is people suggesting to work for online publications. No! I want my name in glossy print! I won't settle for internet because a.) internet does not (and probably should not) get taken seriously and b.) THERE IS NO MONEY. I want to love my job, and I want to write. Seemingly, I cannot have both. And its partially my fault, because I'm here, publishing my work for free.

Valentine's Day

Obviously. I probably don't even have to say the words. You already know.

So I won't.

But I would like to profess my love for something. Something very near and dear to my heart. This is something that brings people closer together. Makes everyone feel special. Brightens your day. Makes people friendly, puts smiles on their faces. That something, my friends, is beer.

Yes, yes. I love beer. Much like Brick from Anchorman loves lamp, my heart swells at the thought of that bubbling yellow libation spouting from a draft or dribbled out of a can.

I have friends that are more into liquor (one of my roommates affectionately calls her drink of choice "Jimmy"--as in Jim Beam--and frequently refers to their relationship: "I have a feeling Jimmy and I are going to get pretty close tonight"), and I will confess that tequila is a close second to my precious beer. I mean who can turn down a margarita on the rocks no salt? Even shots of tequila are fun.

But beer is reliable. You always know what you're getting, how much it will take you to get drunk. Beer is safe, you can arm yourself with beer at a party and not worry about blacking out too quickly (jungle juice...my mortal enemy). Wine is great too, but, if beer is your boyfriend, wine is like your boyfriend's gorgeous, sophisticated cousin who you can't stop looking at during your boyfriend's family Christmas party, but you're also pretty sure he's gay. Beer is cheap. Beer is easy. Beer always comes home with you at the end of the night. If you play your cards right, beer doesn't leave nearly as nasty a hangover that wine or tequila might (sorry, guys. I'll always have some space in my heart for you, my first love). If beer were a person, he would be perfect.

I'll drink to that.

Going to the Gym

I hate going to the gym. Because we live in a society that is obsessed with body image, girls and guys alike my age flock to the gym five, six and (some people) seven times a week. The worst part is people updating their facebook statuses "class gym shower dinner" etc etc. So pathetic.



Where I live on campus I must first scale a mountain to even get to where the gym is, and then there's a line for a treadmill because God forbid any of us run outside in the cold New England temperatures. Girls usually occupy the treadmills for thirty or forty minutes at a time, doing their best to look like obsessed anorexics. However, if you're like me, you sweat it out for (on a good day) twenty minutes going 5 and a half miles an hour while everyone around you sprints for four miles. Talk about feeling like a failure.

The guys, on the other hand, are big fans of the bike and the free weights. A guy friend of mine thinks it is useless to go to the gym unless you bike for at least an hour. When he gets on the bike he'll ride maybe 50 miles. Huh? And the guys with the free weights is hysterical. The moan and grunt and flex at themselves in the mirror, its completely showing off. Guys are obsessed with bulking up, they drink protein and take supplements, and for what? To impress the wannabe anorexics? What a great culture we have.

And with that, I must be going to the gym. My beer gut is getting a little out of control.

HTB

There's a phenomenon happening in the blog world (and really, I hate to use the term "blog world" but, since I guess I have this blog, I am a part of it), and its the letters to a girl's "husband-to-be" or, HTB. Um. What? These are not letters to a specific someone, but rather a guy she's never met. In public. Where people can read them. To reiterate: the girls who write HTB letters fawn over a man they have never met. They coo and say "oh how I wish we already knew each other" or "I know God has a plan that will someday bring us together" or "I can't wait for the day where I get to have dinner ready and waiting for you on the table when you arrive home from work." I mean, what are these girls even in college for? To earn their MRS. degrees? It's just a little desperate. It's a lot desperate. Many of us are perpetually single! I'm having fun with it...HTB girls should probably stop looking for a husband and live a little bit. Blogging about a husband-to-be is projecting so far into the future that when you actually meet a guy, he's going to think you're a complete psycho. But, since I think they probably won't, I'm going to shamelessly make fun of them and their HTBs.

Dear DHTB (divorced husband to be)
Oh, how I f**king hate you. You're a shameless bastard and a coward. I hope Vicky, the long legged preteen, is giving you all you ever wanted in the bedroom. I'm sorry that I was so disappointing, you'll have to forgive me for being tired from taking care of your three children all day, cooking your dinner and washing your filthy underwear (I mean, come on dear, there were always skid marks in your tighty-whities). And let's not forget the fourth of July incident of 2002. You know what I'm talking about.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy paying alimony. I hope you knock Vicky up so you can have another 18 years of marital hell.
Die,
Your future ex-wife

The Job Hunt

As a second semester senior, I am experiencing a high level of anxiety over a recent phenomenon that has seemingly struck campus: the elusive job hunt. Yes, ladies and gents, the time is upon us to find [drumroll] what we want to do with our lives. Easy, right? I majored in English, concentrated in Creative Writing, have made the dean's list 3 or 4 semesters, and also managed to participate in several extracurriculars and hold down a campus job. I should be golden! Not so. While all of my brilliant and hardworking classmates plan for their futures at law school, medical school and other various graduate programs, I am stuck in limbo for one simple reason: I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve never held an internship (unless working in my dad’s law office counts, and it doesn’t because it only showed my how much I don’t want to be a lawyer), I didn’t go abroad or to D.C., and my only summer job was the (albeit lucrative) job of waiting tables. I guess part of my problem is that I can't even picture myself in an office right now. An office seems like misery, an office seems like a death sentence. An office means summer under fluorescent lights instead of beaching it by day and taking orders from desperate housewives and co. by night. What’s a girl to do?

So within all of this angst, my monthly issue of Boston Magazine came in the mail, and lo and behold, this issue is all about MONEY. And JOBS. Great. It doesn’t help that my mother bought me a suit for Christmas (hint-hint), now even my magazine is pushing me to corporate America! Or so I thought. As it turns out, there are several jobs out there that require me to be pretty much uneducated and still make a pretty penny. I’m beginning to wonder why I wasted all this money on a fancy Holy Cross diploma.

(^ This is not the current issue, by the way)

• I could keep waiting tables and make about 60K
• I could drive a taxi and bank between 25 and 30 grand a year
• I could walk dogs for $24,000
• I could work at Starbucks at the high wage of 8.25/hr
• I could dye hair for the pretty penny of 65-86 grand a year
• I could DJ at a club for 16/hr
• I could be a lunch lady for 41K
• I could be a librarian for 80K (Which is nice...teachers make much less)
• I could be a high school baseball umpire for a cool 75 smackers a game
• I could be a ticket seller for 55 grand!
• And, best of all, I could be a toll collector for the Mass Pike for $64,000 a year! (keep in mind, the Massachusetts speaker of the house makes a mere 61K...chump change!)

Don’t worry everyone, in spite of the blighted job market, there is hope for you too!