Notes from the Margins: Part 2

I should be writing my African American Lit final paper right now. So obviously I just sat on my floor and took some new pictures of the random shit I draw in my notebooks during class instead.

The semester is basically over. In honor of that, I'm making Notes from the Margins a serial post, a la, TPYMIGS. Or at least a post that I have more than one of. I make no guarantees about keeping it up in future semesters. Anyway, here is installment #2.



My Shakespeare class provided for a lot of good imagery in the second half of the semester. This is Macbeth's bloody dagger.






Shakespeare Prof started talking about how Venice was like Disneyland. I think it's clear where my mind wandered: to this awful rendering of Mickey Mouse.





One of my profs caused QUITE the stir the day he decided to share his opinions of people he thought were definitely gay. Frodo? Maybe. But Leo? HAIILLL no.






Can we please start using the word "splendidious" in daily conversation? Kthx. Chaucer would love it.






Heather thought this was supposed to be Dracula. I think it is very blatantly Obama and his crazy Will Smith-style ears.






Speaking of Obama, apparently his relationship with crack was called into question one day in class: Obama smokes crack?






"Regicide--Bad idea." The writing next to it that got cut off reads "This was about to look like a PHALLUS instead of a dagger."






Medusa. Nuff said.




"Massacreing wives and children= NOT GOOD." Is "massacreing" a word? Either way, the spelling is probs wrong. Whatevs.






This may or may not be one of my professor's last names in the middle of a heart.





Beware of KILLER SPERM!!!




And finally...


"Now it is time to drink." Well said, Horace.


And while I wish that now it really was time to drink, now is actually the time to go do schoolwork. Sigh.


MUST.GO.WRITE.PAPER.NOW.



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My Knight in Shining Armor

I set my alarm for 7:45 this morning so as not to be late for our meeting.

I brushed the bedhead out of my hair, put on some clothes, and went downstairs for my morning Diet Coke.

I looked around the townhouse and straightened a few things up so I wouldn't look like a slob.

At 8:06 am, there came a knock at the door. My heart skipped a little beat as I walked from the kitchen to answer it. Sure, he was 6 minutes late, but I decided to let that slide....I was too excited.

I looked through the peephole to scope him out before I opened the door. He was young-ish and had brown hair, dressed in beige.

Finally I had to open the door, and he spoke the most beautiful words I'd ever heard.


"Hi, I'm Josh from Terminix. I understand you're having a bit of a pest problem."



You bet your beige-clad ass I am, Josh. I invited him to come in immediately. Obviously this was a match made in heaven.

I don't think I have ever been more peppy and cheerful to a person I met at 8 o'clock in the morning. Josh seemed a little nervous and taken aback by my enthusiasm for roach destruction, but he was such. a. trooper.

He patiently followed me around my townhouse as I strategically led him to every area I've ever seen a roach in. I also dragged him around to spots I believed were "problem" spots....a.k.a places my highly "professional" opinion deemed suspicious for roach activity.

I even made him follow me upstairs to show him the extremely disturbing, gaping hole in the wall of my closet.
No matter how you look at it, this hole cannot be a good thing. Anyone want to come over and plaster it up for me?

Back to the strapping young Terminix man...

Regarding my post about creepy men from yesterday, I must say I stand corrected. Josh was just about the most adorable worker-type man I've ever seen.

He was super understanding about my phobia/paranoia, and explained to me in detail all the ways in which he would murder roaches. He obviously knew the way directly to my heart.

I couldn't have him start exterminating right away, because I needed to check with my landlord. He said he would personally come back and do the job himself though (cha-ching).

I hope Josh never, ever reads this, because I'm sure he would not want to return to the crazy chick's house who was borderline OCD about roaches and wrote a blog about him the second he left.

Then I would be left to deal with the Smoky Brown Cockroaches......(Josh informed me these were the particular species I have).....all by my lonesome. And if my previous posts are any indication, those encounters never end well.


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The Mayor of Creeptown and my Furry Fan

Nothing is going on in my life right now besides school work and term papers. And I refuse to drill holes of boredom in your brains with that nonsense. That's why it has taken a week for me to come up with a new post topic.

But I got one!

My precious little townhouse has had some monumental issues in the last couple of weeks. One is an A/C unit that has a mind of its own or a poltergeist or the Borrowers living in it or something.

It turns on and off at will, the upstairs vents completely shut down on the regular, the thermostat steadily inches its way up to 80 when it's set on 68....precious little things like that.

So, as I write this, I'm sitting here awkwardly at my kitchen table as Sketchy McSketcherson (aka the A/C repairman) toils away on our unit.

This particular repairman's name is John. He shuffled in here wearing plastic booties when I opened the door so as not to soil our carpet, and we proceeded to play 20 questions because John immediately noticed that I happened to be wearing a Texas Rangers shirt.

Where are you from in Texas? What's the weather like there? How are the Rangers doing? Are you a big baseball fan? I'm sure you love the Cowboys right? Did you watch them implode Texas Stadium last week? Have you ever been to Houston?

Holy bombardment of ridiculous questions, John. Just because I am wearing a T-shirt that could have been purchased at any Steve and Barry's or Foot Locker does not make me a walking encyclopedia of the Lone Star state.




Furthermore, you are creeping the hell out of me. I would appreciate it if you would just continue your tinkering. Do not attempt to weasel any more personal information out of me that you can employ at a later date to plan my abduction and subsequent murder, you serial killer.

Is there some unwritten rule that every single repairman that comes to my residence when I'm home alone has to be the mayor of Creepville?


He could wear this hat as he presides over his domain.

The entire time he was here, I unsuccessfully tried to avoid catching McCreeperson's sex offender-esque eye contact, and thought of every possible worst case scenario that could happen.

If he was blocking my route to the front door?

No problem. I would hurl myself through the front windows or flee into the little alley behind our building and take refuge amongst the squirrels and roaches.

If he suddenly came lunging at me with a murderous look in his gaze?

No problem. I have already mapped out the most direct routes to every potential weapon in my kitchen. The knife drawer, empty wine bottles, the pot from the stove, the can of Raid on the counter I would use as makeshift Mace. I have it covered.

And if all else failed, I would have at least written this blog so that you lovely people could give the authorities a real nice place to start their investigation.

Yes, it's morbid and irrational. But one day when this neurotic vein of thought saves my life or at least helps the police find my decomposing remains, I think it will pay off.

In the meantime, my air conditioner is fixed!


And on an unrelated sidenote.....the following pictures should serve as a warning for you to possibly invest in cleaning your fan. I hadn't cleaned mine since July before last night. I know I'm disgusting, but the good news is that it's no longer snowing dust mites in my bedroom.


Meet my furry fan blade.



Look Mom, DUST SNOWFLAKES!



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Brutal "Honesty"?

I recently got a paper returned to me in one of the classes I'm taking at the undergraduate level.

Now, I realize this is college, and professors (especially the ones with tenure) are pretty much allowed to do whatever they want in the classroom in the way of lecturing, grading, etc.

However, I thought the comments written on my paper by this particular professor, who I won't name, were a tiny bit more brutal than necessary to get his point across. I'd lump them in the category of "unconstructive criticism." They are as follows:

"You really have a great deal of work to do on your writing STYLE. Order the book, "Elements of Style," by a guy called Strunk. Read the book and take the advice. You are a fine writer but your style is absolutely atrocious. This needs work."


In other words....



I'm not even defending the paper I wrote. I despise the class, literally could not care less about the subject matter I wrote on, and probably spent a grand total of 2 hours on it.

I just think there has got to be a better, more diplomatic way of letting your student know that you thought their paper was the worst thing you've ever read. Shouldn't respect go both ways in a classroom?

Like I said, maybe the paper really was shit, but never in my entire academic career have I been told so bluntly that the way I write is "atrocious."

Even more curious to me is that, given the comments I received, surely this paper should have been awarded a big, red "F," right?

He gave me an 84. That's a B.

Thank god the end of the semester is only 3 weeks away.

The Greatest Place on Earth

I'm obsessed with dogs. Obsessed.

My friend Heather is obsessed with cats. Arguably even more so than I am with dogs. She's nuts.

So today after class we decided to trek on out to West Columbia (gross) and spend some time at the greatest place on earth, a.k.a.....Pets, Inc.

Pets, Inc. is your typical little dog and cat adoption establishment. Heather wanted to bee-line it to the cat room when we got there, but I made her investigate the puppy/dog situation outside first before we went in.

And that's when I met Wilma.

The I.D. paper attached to her enclosure said "Wilma: 9 years old. Terrier." (Pause here to rhetorically ask what kind of heartless bastard abandons a dog they have had for 9 years?)

Wilma had a lot of things working against her. Obviously she had been owned by some kind of craptastic family to land her in adoption-land, she was making one of the most horrible noises I've ever heard come out of a creature of the canine variety, she was 9 years old (not exactly a top-of-the-lister for potential adopters), OH--and she was UGLY. AS. SIN.

She kinda looked like a black, furry Salacious Crumb.



She kinda looked one of those weird ass beasts from The Dark Crystal.


She kinda looked like Splinter from TMNT.


You get the point.

But I thought Wilma looked spunky; like she had character. I went over to her cage and she was practically clawing her way up the chain link to get to me. Wilma was flippin' excited.

I picked her up and she settled right in like I had been her owner for all of her 9 years. I turned into a big ball of mush for this horrible-looking, sweet as molasses little creature. She was so pathetic I almost couldn't stand it.

I would've gone home with Wilma today if Heather hadn't finally pried me away from her cage. I mean, the dog is 9 years old, it's not like it would be a long term commitment. In all morbid honesty, she's got, what, maybe 2 or 3 good years left in her?

And she has a sweet ass name already. And she looked like she was bursting with the potential to hunt and eat roaches. And I could enter her into "World's Ugliest Dog" competitions and win 1st prize.

I'm really hoping Suz reads this and tells me she thinks it's a good idea for me to skedaddle back over to Pets, Inc. and scoop Wilma up. I have no doubts that she would still be there if I went back tomorrow. Nobody wants to adopt the sorry little excuse for a dog that I'm about to introduce to you in the pictures I took of her while I was there.

Except me. What can I say? I have a soft spot for freaks.

Ruminations on 22

As I sit down to write this, the seconds tick away on my kitchen clock, and I realize I have approximately 4 hours left at age 22.

In honor of my 23rd birthday coming 'round the bend, I decided to make a list of 22 ruminations on my 22nd year of life. It was a good year, and I can only hope for a 23 that is just as good, or, if I'm lucky, even better. Enjoy :)

1. I got a new niece: On July 18th, my sister-in-law popped out baby #2, and little Annemarie came hurtling into the world to fall in line behind big brother Reeve. Word on the street is she's starting to look like me. Lucky little chick.


2. I graduated with honors and a BA in Journalism from USC.

3. I got into and started grad school.

4. I adopted a dog from the SPCA: I believe most of you are familiar with the many stories of Stella.

5. I got another sister-in-law: Congrats Dave and Meredith-- can't wait to meet another little fetus Townes in June.

6. My parents made a "final relocation" back to Greenville, SC: We have heard the words "final relocation" before. But we are keeping our fingers crossed.

7. I went overseas for the first time: London, Spring Break.

8. Little Seester got into her college of choice, went off to school, and we all became pseudo-Sooner fans.

9. Said Seester convinced me to highlight my hair for the first time in all my 22 years: 95 dollars, and 3 subsequent CVS-bought hair dye boxes later, I hope this can be chalked up as a "lesson learned."

10. I redeem another hair mistake I made at 21 by growing it back out again at 22: This is what it looked like. I much prefer longer locks.

11. Many of my best friends from college moved away to new places for jobs, grad schools, etc: This seems like a bad thing, but it means I've gotten to visit them in sweet cities such as ATL and Indy. Alice, I've got my eye on Nashville next.

12. I met some interesting new friends in grad school: Such as Heather and Lydia!

13. I went to a Hallmark convention in Kansas City with Seester and Suz with an open mind, and ended up thoroughly enjoying myself: I for REALZ need to post a blog about that little adventure.

14. I discovered that 3-d movies are not my scene: I went to the bathroom for 20 minutes halfway through Avatar and puked my brains out. Seriously.

15. My siblings, nephew, and I discovered the joys of playing Super Mario on the giant theater screen in our parent's new house.
16. I was enlightened to many new and effective ways to smite roaches: Yes, this makes the list of important things that happened this year.

17. I started my BLOG: This is obvious, but I was a reluctant blogger, and I must say I am very much enjoying it.

18. Almost my entire extended family jumped on the Facebook bandwagon: Some people won't even accept their mom's friend request. I've got Mom, Nana, Great Aunt Merk, all of my cousins, you name it. And I lurve it.

19. I moved for the 8th time in my college career: To a lovely townhouse with an even lovelier roommate, and we have both signed on for another year. It marks the first end-of-the-academic-year that I will not be having to uproot myself and move across town somewhere.

20. I quite possibly consumed more Diet Coke than in all my undergrad years combined: Mmmm, Diet Coke. I blame grad school, obviously.

21. My beloved truck hit 75,000 on the odometer: The good news is she's still puttering around town like a champ. I freaking love my Tacoma.

22. I began scheduling routine appointments at the Columbia Red Cross for blood and platelet donations: And you should too. Those Red Cross workers are the jolliest of jolly, you get free food and free Diet Coke, and you save some lives. No big deal.


That's all I got. My year in review, if you will. Now I've gotta go spruce up to ring in the ol' 2-3. Cheers!

Fitting Room Epiphanies

Today, I went bathing suit shopping with Suz.

Today, I realized you can stumble upon a few discoveries when bathing suit shopping for the first time since, ohhh say, a year ago?



1. The dressing room attendants in the bathing suit sections of both Belk's and Dillard's are FRISKY.

Do I need anything else besides the 5000 bathing suits I came into my room with 4 minutes ago? No.

Do I want to come out of the safety and comfort of my dressing room to show you, a stranger, how the suit I have on makes me look like a german sausage? No.

If I do venture out of my room to brave the horrendous 3-panel mirror in the general dressing room lobby area, do I want your superficial opinion of how the suit looks so that I will buy it under your false pretenses and you will get commission of the sale? NO.

I think the sales representative who was "helping" me at Dillard's would have hopped right into the dressing room with me and my nude self if I had let her. When did these practices become normal or acceptable?

I'm not even an uber conservative gal, but my gosh, Ashley-in-the-Dillard's-bathing-suit-department, PUMP. THE. BRAKES. I don't need your over-anxious little fingers getting anywhere near my twins to know whether a bathing suit fits or not.



2. The fluorescent lights in fitting rooms were sent to the department stores of the world straight from the Devil himself.

I think department stores should have caught on by now. If you want me to feel more inclined to buy whatever I am trying on, do not outfit your fitting rooms with lights that make me look like a corpse and highlight every little jelly roll I may or may not have.

It's a wonder I didn't get in my car and drive straight off a cliff after subjecting myself to half a dozen dressing rooms and their fluorescent lights from the gates of Hell.



3. I. am. FAT.

I don't mention this so that I get an influx of comments or messages saying "no you're not!" In fact, I would rather get messages of confirmation rather than opposition to this statement. Maybe that would motivate me to get off my (fat)ass and go run a mile or five.

Maybe it was the fluorescent lights, but....Holy Moly---I'm staging my own intervention. I have a beach vacation at the end of July. I have to be in my brother's wedding in early September. I am turning 23 in two days. Every day that goes by, my metabolism and ability to drop Lbs only gets worse.

So, I set a goal. I need to shed at least 10-15 pounds by the time my brother gets married. Which is in September. Five months. Plenty of time! Like, something is wrong with me if I can't manage to do this. And I'm posting it on here because I feel like the more people that know about it, the more people I will have to face if I fail miserably. Hooray for motivation!

Upon leaving the mall, Suz and I went to Play it Again Sports. I bought ankle weights, 10-pound dumbbells, and a jump rope. And so it begins, and we shall see how it goes.

All I have to say is, residents of Columbia, if you see a wide load with ankle weights strapped to her feet, hyperventilating and about to keel over dead while attempting to "jog" in the Shandon area, please don't make fun of me. Or I'll send my new BFF Ashley from Dillard's to politely badger you to death.

Hey Stella, let's cut the crap (pun absolutely intended)

Conversation that just transpired between me, Stella, and my mom:


(Stella comes trotting very happily into the kitchen. She has been missing from the room for all of five minutes. Stella obviously has a trinket of some sort in her mouth.)

Me: Hi Stellz. What do you have in your mouth?

Suz: What does she have?

Me: Stella, spit it out..... Drop it Stella!

(Stella lowers her head in an attempt to guard/hide whatever is in her mouth. I reach down to extract said object with my hand because Stella is guarding it with her life and won't give it up. I feel the object. It's not that large, but it is very hard. I assume it's part of a dog bone or a lingering rogue baby toy from when Niece was here for Easter. [Boy was I wrong].)

Suz: What is it?

Me: OH MY WOW. IT'S HER POOP.

Suz (very calmly, not stirring from her chair): Are you joking?

Me: Why would I joke about something like that? It's her POOP!!!

Suz (gets up from her chair and starts meandering around the rooms of our downstairs): I wonder where she got it? And where the rest of it is?


It seems that Stella has continued to eat her own shit after all.

And this poop-log was HARD. Like Stella is hoarding little steaming piles all over the house until said time that the piles have hardened and turned into perfectly tote-able collections of poop-logs.

Looks like Suz and I got a little feces-themed scavenger hunt of our own as a day-after-Easter surprise from good ol' Stellz. As of post-time, we still have not found the missing excrement.

I think that calls for another beer in the name of the guano-loving furry ball of crazy that is Stella.