Happy Hump Day

How does one find herself going from a nice, cool bed under a soft sheet to a smelly bus stop with a deranged pregnant woman singing along with her iPod and digging at her crotch? Answer: slowly. Painfully, dreadfully, slowly.

This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.

I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.

Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.

These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…

Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.

This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.

The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.

The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.

Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.

Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.

I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.

Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.

Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.

I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.

For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.

Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.

Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.

Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.

Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.

I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.

Happy Hump Day, readers.

Nostalgia Fail

I recently had ACL surgery on my right knee, so for the last several weeks I’ve been regularly going to physical therapy a few miles from my house. Since I couldn’t drive myself, my mom or boyfriend Steve had been taking me. Just caddy-corner from the PT office is a Ponderosa.

For those of you unfamiliar with this franchise, it’s a steakhouse/all-you-can-eat buffet. I have the fondest childhood memories of this restaurant: when I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me there for any occasion he could think up. Birthday? Let’s go to Ponderosa! A long day of fishing? Ponderosa! I loved it there. It was a very family-friendly place – no alcoholic beverages, lots of different kinds of food that all kids enjoyed (like tacos, chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese…you get the idea); they even had a “Kids Korner” where children could sit and play after eating, complete with a chalkboard, coloring books, and Etch-a-Sketches. Heck, you even got a free Mr. Swirly cup if you were 12 or younger PLUS pick from the Swirly hat to win fun stuff like stick-on tattoos or crazy straws. Let me reiterate: I LOVED that place. And yes, the food was probably cheap, the potatoes were probably instant, but even as a 12 year-old I still thought it tasted pretty darn good. The best part? The ice cream machines. Picture what you see behind a Dairy Queen counter, only it’s right before your child’s eager, pudgy little fingers. They had chocolate, vanilla, or twist, and you could top it with a variety of toppings like syrup, sprinkles, or nuts. Ponderosa was the bomb.

So a couple weeks ago, my mom and I are pulling out of my physical therapy’s parking lot discussing what we’re going to fix for dinner. And – as we so often do – we both suggest at the same time, “We should totally go to Ponderosa.” Then a warning I heard not too long ago broke through to the front of my mind, and I answered us with, “…actually, I heard they kinda suck now.” So there we sat at the stop sign that separated us from the legendary restaurant of our past. Finally, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go – I mean, how bad could it really be?

We pull into the parking lot – Rule #1, kids: if the parking lot looks like they poured some cement over a mountain top then painted some lines on it, then they obviously care little about what you think of their restaurant externally; and if they don’t give a crap about what you think before you go in for a meal, they really don’t care about what you think once you're inside about to eat their food – finding a legit place to park was almost as hard as the ridiculous leg lifts I had to do in PT.

As we’re entering through the first set of double doors, there’s an old man in suspenders sitting on a bench just outside the building who eerily resembles Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, and he’s glaring at us. We walk through the second door and up to the counter. The girl at the register rings us up for two buffet meals, a water, and a tea. It’s just over $20. I look at my mom and mouth “What the???” Buffets used to be like, five bucks for crying out loud. At this point we’re feeling pretty bummed, but at least we get as much food as we want – we can make it worth nearly ten dollars a pop, right? Wrong. We round the corner and walk into the large seating area which also includes the buffet. My stomach drops as a waitress walking by wafts a wretched smell towards my nose – whether it was her lack of hygiene or the grease-logged food, I can’t be sure. We sit down and are brought our drinks. As I pray for the meal, I close it with, “…and Lord, please don’t let this be as much of a letdown as it has been thus far.” We walk to the buffet, grab a plate, and begin inspecting. Peeking into the covered soup caldron to check out the chicken soup, I pulled the spoon out and let it run over…it was like pouring yellow mud – consider it dodged. Instead, I started with a simple tossed salad with ranch dressing – the salad was limp and borderline SOGGY and the ranch tasted sour. So after two bites of that, I decided it would be best to move on. So I grabbed a new plate and walked back up. Now remember what I said about all that great food Ponderosa had when I was a wee one? None of it was there. And I’m not saying they were out: I’m saying they had all of about 10 dishes on their “buffet.” So I ended up standing at the buffet for a good three minutes waiting for these two cowboy hat-donning old farts to pick out a slice of this Mexican-looking casserole, followed by a scoop of corn. One bite of the casserole disaster and I was done with that dish. The corn, while still hard, was at least edible. Although I so desperately wanted to, I decided I wouldn’t give up just yet – I had noticed that they had soft taco shells up there. So I limped back up to the smorgasbord of epic failure and grabbed myself a soft taco. I cautiously added something that looked a little like ground beef to it and some cheese, but that was it – there was no lettuce or salsa or sour cream to be found. I dragged myself back to the table and tried it. I choked back a gag. I was so beside myself. Ponderosa was a complete and absolute letdown. My mom looked like someone had just shot Max. I suggested we call it quits on the buffet and just get some dessert. So we walked up to the dessert bar and poked around a bit, hoping to have at least one success story we could bring home. My mom took a bite of one of the cookies up there and immediately began looking for somewhere to spit it out. I continued my search until I found the familiar ice cream machine around a corner. I felt the smile creep across my face. Surely they couldn’t mess up ice cream. I got a bowl, pulled down the chocolate lever, and made it swirl at the top as it circled the bowl the third time. I hobbled back to the table, grinning. And just as quickly as that smile had come, it disappeared. Fact: ice cream CAN get freezer burn. We sat silently in utter disbelief for several minutes, Mom sipping her water and I my watered down, incorrectly-refilled as lemonade “tea.” I watched with horror as a family with young children hollered at their rude little boys and how no one in the restaurant seemed to think this was out of the ordinary for the place. The two old John Wayne wannabees were as covered in sloppy food as the floor was. As a pregnant woman walked to the buffet, I leaned across the table to my mother and asked her if I should warn the lady that eating this crap may harm the development of her unborn child.

We finished our drinks and were heading for the door – the door that no one held for us, the door that no one stood at just to tell us “thank you for coming” – and I noticed a “Comments and Suggestions Welcome” box. My eyes lit up. I quickly yanked a scrap of paper from my purse and dug for a pen. Quickly I scrolled my “comments” and “suggestion” – “If you have even a shred of integrity left, you’ll step up this menu and the condition of your restaurant. The food was awful. YOUR STEAKS CAN’T REDEEM YOU.” With glee, I popped that thing into the box, making a point to make eye contact with the young female employee leaning against the wall nearby who looked bored out of her mind. That was the best part of the whole experience. We walked out together, a tad queasy, vowing never to tell the rest of the family of this encounter but to warn anyone who we can ever catch darkening the doorstep of this hell hole.

The good news? If you have a worst enemy, suggest they eat there. Or, better – go get some of their food to go: I’m betting it would work well for pest control since it nearly turned an adult’s stomach inside-out.

Whoever Invented Tug-of-War Must Have Been the Fat Kid in School Who Always Got out First in Dodgeball

This Sunday through Wednesday will be our church’s 14th annual Missions Conference. This event is one of the biggest and best of Harvest; but, of course, it could never be made possible without the behind the scenes work done by the wonderful members of our church and its staff. We have families who, out of the goodness of their hearts, open their homes to allow the missionaries and their families to stay with them, eat home-cooked meals, and fellowship; ladies who spend all day in the kitchen cooking and baking for the conferences’ luncheon; a special music team that picks and practices the most amazing and inspiring music to minister; a group of decorators who every year come and hang the flags and trim the auditorium with the most tasteful and lovely accents; and staff and faculty who spend hours upon hours assembling programs, guides, bulletins, and schedules to ensure that all goes smoothly.

It is to be expected, I suppose, that with an undertaking of this magnitude, there will be chaos within the two days prior to the “kick off,” so to speak. So this year and last, I’ve taken the Friday before the Conference off so that I could come into the office with my mom. She is our pastor’s/ church’s secretary and is responsible for MUCH of the organization for these events. Sure, she doesn’t stand behind the pulpit or speak for the groups, but she composes, prints, and assembles the booklets/bulletins/announcements/etc. for those that do. Often she’ll stay until midnight the two nights before the event just to get everything finished. I come in to help with what I can – running places, folding things – whatever I can do to make her life easier.

This morning, I was able to sleep two hours longer than usual, which was a blessing. I got up, grabbed my towel and fresh clothing, and went to take a shower. I closed the door and locked it, then went on with my routine. When I finished, I unlocked the door and tried to exit. This is where the significance of my title comes into play. The lock, which got bent slightly when one of my family members, in a fit of anger, slammed the door while the bolt was sticking out. So when I “unlocked” the door this morning, the bolt didn’t come out of the wall the entire way. Our bathroom door opens inward too, so I couldn’t even through my body against it. So I tugged a couple more times with just my hand, then had to plant my feet and (with two hands) hold the knob and pull as hard as I could. This is how it must feel to play tug-of-war. In my opinion, there can’t be much skill involved: it seems to me that the team with the most weight behind them wins. The Biggest Losers would be the guaranteed winners. It took me four hard pulls before I was able to free myself from the bathroom. Hopefully this is no indication of how the rest of my day will go…

More Than a Feeling

Okay, enough with the Boston jokes, because this is kind of serious to me...

There's a time when a thought becomes more than just a thought. A thought is defined as "a single act or product of thinking; idea or notion." Sure, you can use your imagination when thinking and have images play out in motion, but you don't feel thinking. Your body doesn't get warm, or get cold, and your eyes don't get goo in them. And as far as I know, real life events don't speed through your mind's eyes as if they're really happening, and then several hours later, truly happen.

Same with dreaming, right? Dreams may seem real to you when you're dreaming them; sometimes you even have lucid dreams (dreaming but knowing you are during the process). But I don't think it's normal to feel pain or texture when dreaming, or to dream things and have them happen later that day or month.

Or is it?

Yesterday morning, I woke up and hopped in the shower to get ready for church. I brought my Venus razor in with me to shave my legs. Afterwards, I decided it was high-time to change the razor head. I pushed the cute little eject button and the head popped off and into our open-ended waste bin. I clarify this because we have two waste bins in the bathroom: one for general things, like empty shampoo bottles or tooth paste tubes, nail clippings, etc. Then there is a second bin for things like Q-tips, tissues, personal items that need to be tossed - basically anything that our beloved dog Max could (and would love to) chew. That bin has a lid on it so that he can't stick his little hose nose in and pull anything out. We realized all too fast that he enjoys chewing things like that and would stick his head into the trash at night and pull things out, leaving a trail of trash for us to pick up in the morning. So, back to the razor: when I popped it off into the open trash bin, I seriously had what I'm guessing to be some kind of day-mare: Max sticking sniffing around for food, smelling something tasty, grabbing it with his mouth, but catching the razor up with it...chewing it, cutting himself, bleeding everywhere on our black and white tiled floor...

I blinked and it was over, but I was sweating. I grabbed the razor out of the bin and threw it in the other one.

Fast-forward to 6:30 that night. I had gone upstairs to get a flosser out of the upstairs bathroom's medicine cabinet - my dad had treated me to dinner for helping him on a job a couple weeks ago, and I'd had chicken (which ALWAYS gets stuck in my back teeth). When I got the the doorway, I saw a combination of paper and (what the heck?) a Subway paper wrap (you know - how they wrap the sub in that waxy paper with their logo on it?). Max had been sniffing around in the waste bin again. It was actually half-way tipped over, leaning precariously against the side of the sink, and the wrapper was torn to shreds. The sandwich must have been my brother's since there were remnants of sauce stained into our bathmat that the dog must have trampled into the threads. And then it hit me - that day-mare - Max eating out of the trash. He totally would have grabbed the razor.

Fast-forward to last night/this morning.

A woman gets into her car after loading the trunk with groceries. She pulls away slowly, she and her three children - a boy and two girls. Within seconds, there's a man - lanky, African-American, short braids sticking up like thick strands of hair - grabbing at the passenger door, trying to open it. She screams, setting off an echoing wave of terror in the back seat of her small compact vehicle. The man succeeds in opening the door, but the woman picks up speed, swerving through the parking lot in an attempt to throw him from her car door. He does, and she slams on the brakes, lurching to a stop. "HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP!" she screams, and two men - one tall African-American and one shorter Caucasian man - come jogging over to see what is the matter. The assaulter is limp on the ground. The shaken woman leans toward her still-opened passenger door to see if her attacker is injured or dead while the men get out their cell phones to call 911. She pulls her door shut, hits the "all lock" button on her door, and starts to cry. While trying to calm down her kids, the man is suddenly back at her door and trying to open it. She throws the car into drive to make her second effort to escape the man as he begins to run around the front of the car, probably trying to get to her door or window. She rams him, he falls to the ground, and the police cars arrive. She buries her face in her hands, rests her head against the wheel, and sobs uncontrollably while her kids do the same in the back seat.

Then I wake up, sweating, breathing fast, sitting bolt upright. I don't know what made me dream that...but I did. And it's not like every dream I have comes true, but I've been keeping a journal of the weird ones like this; and it turns out that a heck of a lot of them do. So now, something's making me want to watch the news late tonight...

These Sleepless Nights

Last night and early this morning, I couldn't sleep. What little sleep I did get involved dreams such as hunting down a Grigori and saving a small child from a marsh-dwelling crocodile. Red flags should have been shooting into the sky when I (a.) couldn't sleep and (b.) kept dreaming about topics involving water since around 3:30 a.m. the whole family was sounded for by my dad into the upstairs hallway. I jumped off the bed and ran to the door. As soon as I opened it, it sounded like someone was taking a shower with the bathroom door open...no, like someone was taking a shower in the hallway. When I ran to the bathroom, I saw the problem: the cold water hose under the sink had burst and water was literally shooting straight out, hitting the back wall and toilet tank. My dad tried to tighten the valve to shut off the water running through the hose, but the knob had rusted itself open. So we all took shifts I stood there in the waterlogged bathroom keeping watch over a bucket I had rigged beneath the sink, careful to empty it when it got too full, while Dad worked his way through each room in the basement searching for the big-mama shut-off for the cold water. About 30 minutes later, the water slowed to a stop. He'd found the lever that shut off not just the cold water, but all the water. I emptied the bucket and made quick use of the mop that was propped in the hallway. After mopping up the bathroom, and went downstairs to investigate.

Now, that part about us all rushing to Dad's aid when he hollered for us? Yeah, let me back up and clarify that a bit: when I got downstairs, I looked over the railing into the livingroom to find my brother, Rob, snoozing away. He'd been sawing logs through this entire ordeal. I saw a bucket in the middle of the floor and (knowing the answer already) yelled, "ROB! IS THIS BUCKET BEING USED?!" His whole body shot up straight and his eyes flew open. He looked around, looking slightly frightened. His eyes lazily met mine and he answered with a: "Uuggghhh, uh." And with that, he keeled right back over onto the couch. Incredible.

So while Rob slept away, I continued to assess the damage. Here, the water had flooded the upstairs bathroom, forcing it to flow through the upstairs hallway, down the stairs, and into the entryway, causing the now river of water to fork off towards both the livingroom and the kitchen, and from the kitchen down the hidden stairs and into the basement. It was a royal mess. Mom swept the water near the front door out onto the porch while all the mayhem of Dad in the basement and me upstairs with the bucket was going on. Finally, around 4:30, we all fell back into bed.

And yet I still couldn't sleep.

And the Saga Continues...

Last Monday I received an email via my Pitt webmail from a mysterious sender "Duane Dangerous." Tuesday's class was canceled and we were to come Thursday "as scheduled," even though on the syllabus we were scheduled not to come. Confused as I was, I came anyway. Instead of my professor showing up though, a woman came to our class telling us that "[my professor] is gravely ill" and that she would be finishing out the term with us as our sub. We discussed possibilities for the final since it had not yet been assigned, and we all agreed on a take-home final that would be emailed to us the next week.

Fast-forward to Thursday the 16th. I get a Facebook message from a friend in that class saying our professor WAS BACK and ended up holding class for a party. I checked my Pitt webmail (which I never check) and sure enough, there in my inbox was the invitation to the class party along with 5 paragraphs-worth of essay topics for our new final that would be due the next week on Wednesday by midnight. I got this email Monday the 20th. Luckily I was able to write it and turn it in on time, but boy am I relieved to be done with that class.

In other news, my mom pawned off a bunch of assorted teas that she had acquired on me the other day - one of which was this white vanilla grapefruit tea by Harney & Sons. Conclusion: BEST TEA EVER. It was so smooth...like silk...the vanilla perfectly accented the hint of citrus from the grapefruit. Both existed harmoniously in this perfect sweet and fruity blend....sort of deal....or whatever. I can't even put it into words how good this tea was. All I can say is that you need to try some for yourself!

Mommy, guess what I learned in class today!

So today went as any other Thursday does: work for two hours in the mornings, then head to a long day of classes. My third class of the day is Advanced Shakespeare, and for the most part, it's pretty interesting. The professor is definitely young at heart - he has us addressing him on a first name basis, jokes around the entire class time, swears incessantly, and loves to show random films as long as they make even the smallest reference to Shakespeare. We all know he's a goof-off, but something was just not right today.

He made his grand entrance five minutes late, pushing his way through the desks rather than walking around them. He then proceeded to wrench the contents from the torn jeans he was wearing and throw them across the room, completely missing the table onto which he was (I'm assuming) trying to toss them. After fumbling with his manbag, he ripped a DVD from it and threw open the entertainment cabinet. The door kept falling shut, and this must have ticked him off because he kept slamming it back against the wall with his hand (and then eventually with his foot). Although the air conditioner was blasting, he decided to open all the windows to let in the forty degree air. The hair at the nape of his neck was wet with sweat, as was the back of the stained white tshirt he chose to wear to class. And even though his eyes were darting about wildly, he would suddenly begin nodding off (sometimes right in the middle of speaking).

He turned on the film (which was, by the way, Vincent Price's "Theatre of Blood"), stayed long enough to mutter a few incoherent phrases having to do with amphetamines and morphine, then left the room for the rest of the hour and fifteen minutes of class.

And this is the education I'm getting for thousands of dollars a semester.

Happy Birthday to Me...

Well, today marked the beginning of my 20th year of life...and it started out drippy.

I had my alarm set for 8:00 this morning to get up for church, but, as always, I hit the snooze a good two or three times. The third time, I noticed I could hear the rain...but I had been hearing the rain earlier -- just outside. This time it sounded like it was coming from inside. My mom and I had fallen asleep downstairs, so I (from the loveseat) called over to her on the couch: "Mom. Mom, wake up. Do you hear that?"

"Yeah, it's raining."

"No, I know. But something isn't right...it sounds like it's raining in here."

"Someone probably just left the window open; it's probably hitting the windowsill."

"No, Mom, you don't hear that? I'm saying it sounds like it's raining in the living room!"

*stops and listens* "Oh. Wow. Yeah..." *looks up* "OH MY GOSH, IT IS RAINING IN THE LIVING ROOM!"

And that's how the day started. I came downstairs to see my dad had stationed two buckets and a small pot under the three major drippy areas. He went outside later that morning and determined the leak to be a result of a bent-up shingle. ALL THAT FOR ONE FREAKING SHINGLE. So hopefully we'll get that fixed before the infamous "April showers" we're likely to be getting within the next couple days. [yikes]

Otherwise though, great birthday. Not one of those milestone ones like 16, 18, or (in the future) 21, but hey, I can't complain. After church I was able to take a nice nap, then headed out to get my free coffee that Caribou owed me. Turned out that I could make it ANY drink of ANY size. So naturally I got the biggest thing they offered, a large, of my favorite specialty drink - the white chocolate mocha. Ordinarily, I get it skim, but today I got it soy since it was free (HA! Cuz there's no way I'm spending an extra 35¢ on a drink just to make it soy). After that, we (my mom and I visited the Old Navy that was nearby. I, being the moron that I am at times, forgot to bring along the gift card that I got in the mail from my cousin, so all I could do was look around. Still, we had a good time. On the way back, we stopped at a local DQ to pick up my ice cream cake (my favorite). I told my mom that I wanted to pick what was written on the cake, and she agreed; but when I asked if I could get "Happy Birthday, you sexy thang," she said no. She also turned down "Happy One Year Away from Being Legal" and "Happy Birthday to the Awesome Daughter." Not sure why... :-)

So we had pizza for dinner, ice cream cake and coffee for dessert. I got (apart from some $) a green PINK tote, a pair of layered butterfly earrings, a v-neck Tink tshirt, and [GASP!] the first season DVD of my all-time favorite TV show. I also got this really cool homemade crown that said "Princess Sammi" on the front and "--> I'M AWESOME <--" on the back, but I gave myself that gift, so I guess that doesn't count. After gift opening, we played a few rounds of Catch Phrase, which is hilarious with my family. I've got two nearly deaf grandfathers and a grandma who can't help but spell the word out under her breath if you don't catch on fast enough - it's always so much fun. We walk away with so many inside jokes after every time we play it.

So now that I've walked Max, it's time to look for that episode of "Lie to Me" that I missed last-last Wednesday...thank God for Hulu.

Dream a Little Dream of Me...

Mama Cass sang it best...

Since Friday, I've been having moderate to freaking-awful pain in my right ear (and some in my left ear). Consequently, I had been taking copious amounts of Ibuprofen and lots of naps (to take my mind off the ache). The combination of the two resulted in, I'm not gonna lie, some majorly trippy dreams, one of which involved me (as some kind of operative for a secret in-the-know organization) being assigned the job of disabling a giant machine designed by the Priceline Negotiator (aka, William Shatner). He was, apparently, planning on overthrowing the U.S. government with his negotiating skilz with his next step being to destroy other nations with this machine he had built (which was coincidentally being stored behind a stage on which he was giving a big pep rally for his cause). So I was given orders to scale the gigantic hunk of metal and you know, clip all the right wires and whatnot, but for whatever reason, in my dream, I accidentally knocked one of the pieces off? And it fell into what very much resembled the Reflecting Pool by the Lincoln Memorial in DC? And nobody there seemed to notice or hear it? Yeah, strange....either way though, I got the job done and looked really cool doing it.

There were other strange dreams, but it would take a long time to post them all. So instead, I wish you all a Happy St. Patrick's Day and enjoy this hilarious YouTube video done by one of my favorite "kid" stars, "Fred."

Sick.

So last night I passed out way earlier than usual (around 11:00). I figured that maybe I was just really worn out from the long session I had with a research study in which I had enrolled, which another thing entirely.

Monday afternoon, I had my first appointment with a researcher who was doing a one-time study with the students from my Intro. to Psych. class for credits. I'm not real big into the idea of studies, but it's a requirement for the course (yeah, required to volunteer...hm). So I spent an hour and a half playing "Cyberball," looking at ink blots, and deciphering recipes (where I have to guess what the meal would look like after made), all done on the computer. Turned out that it wasn't a "visualization" study at all but instead was a "ostracization" study. What the bloody heck did you need to have us look at shapes and recipes for an extra hour then??? Very annoying, and quite a waste of my time, in my opinion.

So today I woke up with a headache, just like yesterday. I took 400 mg Ibuprofen and went to work, then went to class at 9:00. I was still SO tired though. I actually fell asleep in class. Between my first class (West. Civ.) and my next class (American Lit. Traditions), I tried to take a nap. I did, but it didn't do the job. By the time I got to class, I was sweating bullets, and twenty minutes into class, I had to run out for fear of wretching all over the Israeli nationality room's floor. So I bussed it home and crawled right into bed. I ended up sleeping from 1:30 to 6:30, got up and watched American Idol with the family, and am now so wide awake that I don't know what to do with myself. So I'm about to watch the season premiere of Burn Notice that I'd missed. Hopefully that will tire me out since I've got to get up again at 5:30. *sigh*

Of Spicy Subs and Juicy Jumpers

As I said in my previous post, I've set up my class schedule so that I can work eight-hour days on Monday and Friday, have off Wednesday, and have all my classes on Tuesday and Thursday. While it's nice to be able to work without interruption and have that extra day-off like a mini-weekend, the whole classes-from-nine-to-five is pretty intense. I'm so glad they're all fun classes, because if this were my schedule last semester, I think I would have blown my brains out by now.

Because of these long Tuesdays and Thursdays, I no longer have the luxury of riding home with my dad those evenings. Usually we commute back and forth since he works at Magee Hospital (and I work only a block over from him). It's always worked out well because I've made a point to schedule everything to end by 4:00 so that I could leave with him. So how do I get home now? The public transit system, of course.

I'm no germaphobe, but I'm not gonna lie: those buses are sick. There's gum, graffiti, and God-knows-what everywhere. It's populated by crabby old codgers and creepers. Did I mention creepers? (...so then what does that make me? *shudders*) The bus stops aren't much better: it seems like 75% of those waiting at my bus stop are freaking chain smokers. And, as Fate would have it, no matter which direction I choose to angle myself away from that corrupt fog, the wind blows it right into my face.

[I despair, I really do.]

In the past, when I'd get fed up with it, I'd just step inside the Subway (restaurant) that's on that block to save my lungs. Unfortunately, the little Indian manager caught on to me and actually stepped out from behind the counter to tell me so. About five bus stop waits later, I figured it out: to get in and be allowed to stay in, you've got to buy something. Ah, I now see how his foul little mind works...

So since then, when I have to take the bus and I know it's going to be awhile, I just pop in, buy myself a flavored Aquafina, and chill by the window sipping my water like a good girl until my bus comes. Occasionally, I'll even by dinner (turkey bacon sub with lettuce, green peppers, cucumbers, and lots of jalapenos) there since I don't get home until 7:00 now. Although, I'm not even sure if I'd have to do even that anymore. There's a new manager, at least for the new time I get down to the bus stop. It's always the same two guys working now: two Hispanic guys, about my age, who look almost identical (and who do they look like? ADAM RODRIGUEZ from CSI: Miami!). And they both speak crystal-clear English, but only when waiting on customers. Otherwise, they're chatting fluently in Spanish to one another. The first time this happened, I have to admit: I felt uneasy. Hey, wait a minute? What are they saying that they don't want me to understand? Is there something on my face? *checks*

This Tuesday when I came back, same thing. Only this time the other guy took my "order." While making change though, he kept shooting me these sheepish grins (that and -- again -- speaking casually yet intensely to his co-worker in Spanish). Finally, after having taken his blessed time making change for $1.50 out of $2.00, he held out the two quarters, palm facing up (presumably so I had to pick them out of his hand) instead of just dropping the money into my hand. He then looked up at me, blushing, and said (and I quote): "I -- I love your sweater...it's....very....JUICY!" Taken aback, my head jerked downward almost involuntarily to remind myself of what I was wearing: a fitted hooded hunter green knit sweater with other colors stitched in around the cuffs and neckline, which plunged deeper than I guess I'd noticed before. Could he have meant "juicy" as in "sweet"? Like the way we use it now as "cool"? Or is he referencing...? Nahhhhh...OH GOSH.

"Um...thanks!" I mustered awkwardly. Flustered and blushing, I shot an absent glance towards the store front as if there were a teleprompter over there waiting for me. "Gotta go...uh...thanks...er, for the water...I mean..." At that point I figured you've dug the hole already, you idiot -- now don't throw yourself into it! and just darted out the door.

"Juicy."

Yeah...

Everything I Touch Gets Ruined (So Why Should My Blog Be Any Different?)

Sorry that the formatting on the previous post is so whack. I copied and pasted it from a document then couldn't seem to get it to look right in both Internet Explorer and Firefox. After toying with it for a good 10 minutes, it looks crappy in both. My work here is done, I guess.

Slight Update:

So I'm taking the bus home this afternoon. We'll see how that goes. Knowing my luck, the bus driver will probably be hung over and will hit a fire hydrant or something, leaving me stuck at the scene for three hours or so...

I hate Fridays.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round...

...until they hit someone. Then they stop. For a very long time.

Fridays now are always my least favorite days of the week. "Why?" you may ask - "it's the last day of the work and school week! You should be happy!" Well, maybe I could be if it weren't for my statistics recitation. Any joy and happiness that could possibly come from knowing that it's the last day of work and school for the next two whole days literally gets sucked from my soul by my Dementor-like recitation TA. Don't be fooled by her seemingly meek exterior: this chick is cruel. When I first came to her to get help with catching up (from previous posts, you'll remember that I missed a class and recitation and, as a result, fell majorly behind with homework), she wanted me to turn in three (3) weeks worth of homework plus the homework due the coming recitation all in one day! I'm thinking, "Lady, there are ~20 problems per homework assignment. You do NOT expect me to get these all done in 18 hours." But she did. And when I didn't turn them in because I was so busy with the homework actually due for that week, I asked if they could be turned in late and she wasn't even going to accept them(!!!) until I pleaded with her! She has the grumpiest attitude and makes you feel stupid if you even dare raise your hand to attempt to answer a question but get it wrong. The Hungarian accent only further exacerbates the problem since half the time I can't understand her and am having to ask, "Come again?" or "Can you repeat that?" She gets angry at me because I can't understand her broken English.

Well Expecto Patronum to you, TA. Expecto Patronum to you.

Okay, now that I'm way off topic...

So last-last Friday (two Fridays ago) I had to take the bus home. I literally chased the bus as it was pulling out, but those [expletive] Port Authority drivers wouldn't stop for a little old lady if she were waving them down. So I had to wait an extra half hour for a bus I could have taken immediately if she would have stopped for me.

To make matters so much worse, I board the second bus, it rounds the bend, and he "hits" a lady getting onto the bus. Seriously, we didn't even make the turn fully and this happens. I didn't see the entire thing because I'm so freaking short, but by the talk of the riders who did see, some woman (who they recognized from her daily riding that bus as well) was getting onto the bus, but she claims it was still moving and knocked her down as she was stepping up. One of the passengers thought aloud that she was probably doing it for some good lawsuit money.

Seriously. Of all the buses in downtown Pittsburgh to do this to, it had to be mine.

So the bus driver is trying to figure out if she's okay - "Ma'am? Are you hurt? Can you stand up?" - and, naturally, this lady is milking it for all it's worth and is groaning and mumbling that "[her] back and neck hurt." Well everyone knows that when someone says their back/neck hurts, then you shouldn't move them. Nice move, homie. Twenty-five minutes later, the Port Authority police and the Pittsburgh police arrive at the scene and are asking the lady, the driver, and the other passengers what happened. People are getting frustrated by this point (I already was 20 seconds after her act), and they're checking their schedules to see when the next bus comes. I hear the girl next to me say that one should be coming in about 10 minutes. Ten minutes, huh? Well I gather up my stuff, walk to the front of the bus, leap gracefully over the faking pile of flesh - aka, the homeless-looking woman - and walk all 15 steps back to my bus stop. Within five minutes, I hear the sirens of the ambulance. (It's about time - good thing the woman wasn't REALLY hurt.) Traffic is all backed up now since the bus is straddling two intersections and the ambulance and police cars are hogging up the rest of the road. I see them carry her off on a stretcher and figure the bus is going to get moving after all. But I'm sure you've already guessed it: I walked over, as did two other riders, and waved what the driver must have taken as "bon voyage" to the bus.

Long story short, I boarded the third bus which made it all of 10 stops before declaring that we were going to take some of the second bus's passengers since it's schedule was backed up; and that anyone going straight to Tarentum could go get on the other bus since it was going to go straight there, no stops. Yeah, well that wasn't the most even exchange. We gave two, we got thirty-two. So I rode home next to a man reeking of whiskey. How did I know it was whiskey? Because the guy, with one eye half shut and breath smelling of booze, looked over at me and slurred out, "What a day. When I get home, I'm drinkin' a whole bottle of whiskey."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Fast-forward to this past Saturday.

As you'll see in a soon-to-come post, I took my sister Ali with me to Pitt's annual Fall Fest since I was going to be covering an event there for a journalism project. We had to take the bus. If it wasn't bad enough that our local creepy cross-dresser was on the bus (talking to himself and playing with his hair, as usual) on the way out and back, the bus heading home was driven by the Abominable Snow Monster. We could see our breath on the bus, it was that cold. And he completely ignored the hollers from the back of the bus as two girls called out to him to turn on the heat. But the best part had to be the adventure of Clumsy, the little-known eighth dwarf in Snow White's posse (the guy had the height, the roly-poly belly, the long white beard, and even the funny little hat). The poor guy pulled the "Stop Requested" line and started walking to the front of the bus, but the driver slammed on the brakes and poor little Clumsy was projected forward. Luckily, he was able to grab on to one of the poles and hold on for dear life. But just as he steadied himself and started walking forward, AGAIN, the bus driver slams on the brakes; this time however, Clumsy wasn't so lucky. He went sailing towards the front of the bus, BACKWARDS. He tried to catch himself on anything, but failed and instead landed on his butt then slipped effortlessly into a backwards tumble, knocking his head on something next to the driver. If it weren't so sad, I'd have laughed, and if he weren't so old, I'd have given him a 9 (he didn't stick the landing well enough for a 10). He stood up, and it was at that point with him holding his wrist and rubbing his head that I thought we were going to go through this all over again. I called my mom and made her aware of the situation and that we may be awhile. Ali was mortified. Thankfully, the man didn't ask to be checked out and got off the bus at his stop.

Twitter says it best:

Killing me softly...

...with homework.

Here's how my life has been this week:

Sunday: working until 2 a.m. on an article discussing a book reading for my journalism class.

Monday: class all day, then coming home and working on a critical reading essay and anthropology essay until 1:30 a.m. then studying statistics until 2 a.m.

Keep in mind I leave for work every morning at 6 a.m.

Tuesday: class all day, then working on an article discussing a family selling their farm for my journalism class, then working some more on that anthropology essay until 1:30 a.m. then studying statistics until 2:30 a.m.

Wednesday: class all day, church, finishing that anthropology essay, then being too whooped to even look at my statistics book.

Today: work until 10 a.m. then studying statistics for the EXAM I have today. Yeah. Then anthropology lecture at 11, anthropology recitation at 12, stats exam at 1 (!!!), and critical reading at 2. Then I've got to make a trip to the campus bookstore to pick up the newest book for my critical reading class. Then I have to catch a bloody city bus into downtown Pittsburgh THEN catch ANOTHER one into my town since my dad has a gig tonight (I usually ride home with him). Then I have to work on some homework for stats before going out to the gym to play volleyball until God knows how late to work out all my frustrations. Of course I'll probably just bring my homework to the gym and work in the lobby. It will be more peaceful there than at home anyway.

Lord, help me harness my emotions long enough today to keep from killing someone.

...like a chicken with its head cut off.

Life went from busy to nearly-out-of-control-losing-my-mind busy (wow, that WORD was busy).

Since the last time I updated (read "really updated"), school has started back up for me here at Pitt. I really love it here: there's such an atmosphere about it. Everything from the buildings like the Cathedral of Learning to the faculty and staff - all is wonderful. Well, actually, I can't say that. But we'll come back to that in a bit.


Anyway, school has also started up for my siblings. In fact, we all started the same day (the 25th). To be honest, this fact alone has made my life a living hell - even trumping my college homework - over the past two weeks. Between my brother needing help with geometry and the twins needing help figuring out how to work the PA Cyber school online program PLUS all of their homework, I barely have enough time to do my own. It's actually resulting in a lot of last-minute (what I like to call) "puke-up" homework where I pretty much BS my way through the assignment to get enough length on it even though I probably didn't do the reading needed to write the essay/paper/short answer well. Alas. But I am apparently good at it though, because I haven't had any poor gradings on them yet.

On the other hand...

I don't think one needs to be a Hindu to believe in the idea of Karma, which is (as one definition reads) "the effects of all deeds actively create past, present, and future experiences, thus making one responsible for one's own life, and the pain and joy it brings to him/her and others." I usually see this mostly in the teams I end up on when playing volleyball on Thursday nights: I get on the elite team at the beginning of the night and we dominate every other team, laughing in their faces and making them kiss our big toes (okay, I embellish); then Karma kicks in and I get stuck with the clumsy, uncoordinated people of the group, and we lose every game.

Anyway, back to how this relates to school.

I'm taking a Statistics course and my teacher is positively off the wall. On top of being down-right scary looking, she's flighty, absent-minded, and clueless to the fact that all the students know it and are making fun of her. I missed my very first recitation for this class due to circumstances outside of my control. I told her this and asked if there were a way to make it up. She told me to just wait a week and go to the next one. I did this (already a week behind in homework, mind you) and lo and behold! No one was there! Apparently, they moved recitation and didn't tell me. So that's two weeks of homework in the hole. Finally, I am able to make it to the third week. The TA is Hungarian and very soft spoken, so I had a difficult time making out what she was saying over the two air conditioners in the room. The period seemed short: she spent the first 15 minutes milling about jotting things on the board and the remainder of the class was spent showing us how to take a survey on the Stats website and assigning a quiz to us (which I ended up taking and definitely bombing). I met with her afterwards to schedule a meeting to get me caught up. The guy next to me was nice enough to give me the website with the homework syllabus on it. I was ready to pull all of my hair out.

So one bogus class out of five isn't bad, right?

...right? :-(

Today's Rant: the USPS's Approach to Returning Mail

I work for a research study. One of my jobs is to send out a professional mailing to different area doctors to promote the various studies for which we are currently recruiting in the hopes that some of the DRs/RAs/MAs/nurses will refer some of their suite's patients to us. Technically, it's a "monthly mailing" but in reality - because a life and a million other tasks that are much more important - it's between a bi-annual and a tri-annual mailing. As of the last time I did the mailing, I was still working part time as a full time student and the addresses (of which there were well over 300) were having to be hand-written. You can imagine how long this took me since I was only working four-hour days PLUS juggling the other tasks they would throw my way AND what I was already doing (recruiting, data inputting, scheduling, etc). Now, we have over 500 names on our mailing list, but at least we've come up with mailing labels to save me time. No matter what though, it's always a pain to assemble these. It's perfunctory and very time-consuming stuff.

What really gets my goat - glazes my donuts - harshes my mellow - however you wish to put it - is when the USPS returns our packets to us looking as though they had to tether-sticker it down from breaking free and fleeing. They do this to not only the packets, but also to any boxy item I try to send. If I've been given a faulty address or the person is no longer at that practice, the mail gets sent back to be COVERED in "RETURN TO SENDER," "INVALID ADDRESS," and my favorite "UNDELIVERABLE AS ADDRESSED" stickers. As you can see, it must be like art class when someone gets the chance to return our stuff. They get really creative in where they can put the stickers and stamps and sometimes even draw all over the front of it, crossing out the address, drawing a line through the auto-presorted stamp, whatever they can think up. Anything goes. And this picture isn't even the worst I've seen, really. It just happened to come in today. Usually they've written all over it with a "HE'S NO LONGER HERE" or some such thing in big red letters; the top is often half-ripped as well as if they wanted to take a quick look inside! Which really makes me mad, because I'm all about not wasting; and when they give me one of those giant mailing envelopes back in this condition, it makes me want to slap somebody because there is no way I'm going to be able to salvage it for a second attempt.

*FUMES* But I digress.

In other news, I squashed a cockroach this morning that was the size of a small child. Okay, more like a cell phone (no kidding on this one). I was standing in front of my building's lobby's elevators waiting for one to come down (which is absurd since there's no one in the freaking building that early, but today there must have been because...) when a girl standing next to me nudged my shoulder and muttered, "You know you godda giant bug on yo shoe, miss." Reflex caused me to kick my right foot out violently at this new-found knowledge and I jumped back into almost a crouch. I looked down to see the thing crawling towards me again (Lord, those things are fast!). I've never liked squashing bugs. I don't like the sound, and I REALLY don't like the guts that go everywhere when you do it. But this thing was going to eat me if I didn't act fast, so I took the front cover of my Pitt newspaper, threw it over top of the little nasty, and stomped down as hard as I could (the thing looked practically armour-plated, so I gave it some "oomph"). I pulled the newspaper back to find a splatter of green slime the size of a coffee mug on the marble floor. Where did it GO??? I flashed over to the underside of the paper where I found the little monster. Dead soldier.

Now I'm walking around our suite with extra caution, quickly scanning the room and its corners for critters then slowly proceeding, eyes ever roaming. I'm sitting on my desk chair Indian-style to keep my feet up off the ground. All was going well until about 30 minutes ago when I reached for my jacket and realized it was not on the back of my chair, but on the floor. I grabbed it and immediately started shaking it like a red-headed step child. Then, not wanting to have my hand bitten off, I peeked inside the pockets to see if any little monsters had hidden inside. Fortunately I was safe. Still though, I can't relax. Bugs are so disgusting. Any and all bugs. I hate them all. And I will judge you, by the way, if you've got them. If lice was good enough to be one of the seven plagues in the Bible, then roaches should've been in there, too. And I will avoid you like the plague if you've got either (and especially both). Lice and roaches = filthiness. I'm sorry, it's just the way I am.

Okay, now that that's out of my system, I think I'll go take these data sheets to the back...and I'll be watching the ground the whoooole time...

Party-Hardy

How was your Saturday evening? Good? Great.

How was mine? Glad you asked.

My Saturday evening was spent down at the church practicing an a cappella piece with four friends. Why, you might ask, would people be down at a church on a Saturday night doing nothing but practicing music? Well, to answer your question, we're not organized. That's really all it comes down to. Also, in our defense, the song was picked three weeks in advance to Saturday, which is a real achievement for our bunch. Anyway, we're down there practicing and it's just not happening. We couldn't keep it together for some reason. So we were at the proverbial crossroads: keep practicing our current song and hope it shapes up, pick a different song but one that's familiar to everyone, or...

One of my friends is home from the West Coast. She's in her college's tour group. "There's this awesome song - ah man, you guys would love it - and it's in five parts and it's a cappella too and wow, is it amazing; we should totally sing it!" We all stared and blinked.

"Okay...well, what's the name of it?"

"'Forgiven.' We did it on tour."

Tour groups are big on 1.) picking familiar songs and jazzing them up, 2.) picking really unique songs that you probably haven't heard in a while, and 3.) picking songs that no one in the world knows but the tour group themselves. This "Forgiven" song was obviously falling into the category 3 because none of us had ever heard of this song before, despite her attempt to hum a few bars in case it would jog a memory or two. No such luck. She looked very pointedly at me. "The harmony just flows. You could probably pick it up without ever looking at the music, Sam." At that moment, I saw - not with my eyes, but with my senses - that this was do-able, that this could work. It was just a matter of getting the other two on board (our bass didn't care, he just wanted us to fix it). I drove her up to her house, she ran in and got the music, and we were back down at the church in five minutes.

The song did come together, as I'm sure you figured out by now. If I'm lucky enough, I might be able to swipe a copy and slap it on here. Beautiful song...very intricate harmony, very mellow, but very easy to learn. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

To be safe, we decided we should meet a little early. You know, just to go over the song once or twice before the real thing in case someone needed a little warming up or just all together forgot the melody (which HAPPENED, by the way). Since early would have required waking up earlier, my mom wasn't interested. So to leave them a vehicle, I called to hop a ride with Vick. She said she'd be at my house to pick me up at 8:30. I didn't understand this at first since I live mere blocks from the church and we didn't have to be there until 9:00. But I didn't mind, so I told her I'd see her then.

Fast forward to 8:42. I keep checking my phone to see the time and she's still not here. I finally call as she's pulling up. I walk over to open the passenger door but stop short to instead lean in to see the many balloons floating and bobbing about in her backseat. She glanced back too then turned back to me and grinned. I got in without asking and she explained that it was her Sunday school class's head teacher's birthday today (she's a co-teacher to the class) and she wanted to throw a little surprise party. Vick doesn't do anything "little." So we get to the church with five minutes until practice time. The balloons were being quarantined in a very large clear bag with only the strings exposed (to minimize the chance of them escaping when the doors opened. Unfortunately, she has a small two-door car, so the balloons needed to come through her side with her seat smashed down as low as it would go. I helped by pushing from behind as she tugged from the front. Finally, our worries subsided when the bag exited the vehicle with no popped balloons. She loaded my arms up with goodies for her class then gathered up all she could carry as well. It looked as though she had packed enough food for two classes. So we were able to move all of the goods inside, park the car, practice, perform, and then go to our respective classes. In the second service, we were ready to do it again. We were all sitting on the front row when Vick leans around the back of our tenor and mouths: "OOPS," pointing at my borrowed dress and shrug she was wearing. There against the white was a huge streak of yellow. "The little girls kept hugging me and they still had icing on their mouths!" she whispered intensely. Never a dull moment. Luckily, she had - ba dada da tada - Tide to Go! Thank you, Tide to Go, you saved our lives.

More catch up...

First, let's start off with the pictures: I've uploaded a bunch to my Flickr, which you can view here (and there are still more to upload?!).

Okay, now for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of the trip - the final three days.


FRIDAY:

A pretty laid-back day, Friday. It was fairly overcast and, therefore much cooler. Rob and I went down to the beach and did a little boogie boarding then came back in time to get showers since we were going to be eating out that night with the whole group. It was going to be at the Down Under again, which we didn't mind. We liked the atmosphere there, the Australian theme and decorations.

When we got there, everyone ordered his food. Sitting next to me, my uncle and I heard my grandma order "sautéed shrimp" which wasn't actually on the menu by that name; rather, it was "shrimp - sautéed or deep fried." So when the food arrived and my grandma started arguing with the waiter about her shrimp being sautéed instead of deep fried, my uncle and I were just as gobsmacked as the poor, blushing waiter. My uncle finally spoke up to reassure the waiter that yes, she did in fact order the sautéed shrimp, and that it wasn't his fault that our grandma is going senile. He walked back to the kitchen, and we reminded Grandma of exactly what she said when she ordered. She denied it and pouted instead. My uncle offered to order her another plate(!) but she refused. Instead, she allowed my brother to eat all of her shrimp.


That night, Rob and I watched a few movies then finished packing our bags so that we would be ready for the next day.



SATURDAY:


Since the realty peeps needed us out of the house by 11:00 so that they could begin cleaning it up for the next group, we decided we'd plan to leave at 10:00 when, in reality, we knew it'd be more like 10:30 or later. Which did end up being the case.

Since the Californian members of the group had to leave about 5:30 that morning to drive up to Norfolk (to catch a plane), it was up to us Pennsylvanians (not to be confused with "Transylvanians") to do the kitchen clean up. There was so much leftover food; it was shameful. Luckily, there's a food bank that takes all unopened food not used by tenants, so we were able to take advantage of that for some items. Others though, like bread, were fed to the seagulls...which was SO MUCH FUN. I stood out on the balcony and tossed some out to the two or three that were on the ground below. Within seconds though, there was a FLOCK of about twenty circling the sky above me, looping 'round and 'round to snatch some out of my hands or catch it as I flung it up in the air.

Then it was time to load our things into the vehicles. Rob was having trouble with his mp3 player, so I was trying to help him figure it out. My grandparents - who drove with us this trip - had been a little...out of sorts this week. My grandpa had been in discomfort the whole trip due to his hip, but he was for the most part content with just getting out and rarely complained. My grandma, on the other hand, was suffering from symptoms of gout and was therefore in a very grouchy state for most of the week. She waddled around, badgering us to get our stuff out to the minivan and not to forget anything.

"Saaaaammiiiii, don't forget your suitcase" - my only piece of luggage - "that's still in the bathroom here," she'd moan out to me as I tried some futile repairs on Rob's music player. I finally got frustrated after awhile and probably, to her, got a little out of character when I hollered back after the third or fourth whine, "I know, Grandma, it's just that I'm busy doing something for someone else right now!" (This hit home for her because she's one of those grandparents who are like the kid with a new toy that needs assembled: you need to do it now - they think - or it's never going to get done.) So finally I had to give up hope on Rob's silent mp3 player and hauled both our luggage out while he spruced up our sleeping area. I finished loading up the van and walked around to the front of it to see my grandma sitting on a lawn chair pouting. Ugh. That made me feel bad and angry, both at the same time.

Everyone finally piled into his respective vehicle and pulled out around ten 'til eleven. As we neared the end of our street and turned onto the main road, Highway 12, I realized that I was glad to be on my way home. Unfortunately, going home was just going to have to wait for awhile...

[CUT: remember that post a few entries back? The one about that phrase "Someone had better be dying"? That statement was used in the context of what is about to follow.]

It suddenly seemed as though there was tons of traffic. Not uncommon - it was a Saturday, it was the afternoon, and it was a typical day for checkout for a lot of realties. But then we sat...and sat...and sat some more. Soon we realized it wasn't ordinary traffic. Something was wrong. As I was poking my head out the window to get a glance at the traffic up ahead of our van, a man came over to the driver's window to report that there had been an accident about 30 miles ahead and that they'd be closing down the road for about three hours from the time of the incident just to manage the problem. The accident was at 9:00. It was only just 11:00.


"So we're going to be stuck here for another hour?" Rob asked. I involuntarily reached back and thwapped him on the side of the face for whining, even though I was subconciously asking the same thing. Luckily, the traffic inched along slowly until we made it to an intersection that had a souvenior shop we liked. So instead of sitting in traffic, we popped into the shop. I was able to pick up a beautiful cedar box for my friend and a nice "beachy" picture frame for my mom (to put a picture of Rob and I from the trip in it). Rob got a really sharp brown hoodie and had a decal slapped on it of "OBX" in rusty orange and sage colors (okay, so I picked it out, but where else would he be getting such good taste? *wink*).


We finally were on our way home in more like 40 minutes, which was a relief. We and the other group met up in Nagshead around 1:00 at the Slammin' Sammy's sports bar (where my uncle had bought me a cool t-shirt since 1: it was purple and 2: it had my name on it). Nagshead is famous for its horses that it has scattered across the island, posing in front of businesses, brightly decorated. There was one at the Slammin' Sammy's with a racer theme painted read and bearing a "motor" on its back and the number "3" which I'm guessing was significant (I don't know a thing about racing).


Seven hours later, we were in Philadelphia. I'm sure my sigh of relief was more than audible when we pulled into the driveway. The trip back to eastern PA had been so difficult - Rob's mp3 player had broken, so he was bored - I'd given him mine, so I was then bored. Soon though, Rob figured out a way to pass the time: he pulled his sleeping bag from its case in the back, laid it out on the long back-back seat of the van, and curled up in it across the seats. He remained in the same spot for the rest of the 5 hour trip...boy, that kid can sleep.


SUNDAY:

That day was one of the worst days of my existence. My grandfather asked me to drive the rest of the way back home from Philly (since his hip was hurting and my grandma's feet were hurting). So he sat in the front while my grandma and Rob sat in the back. OH MYYY GOSH. My grandmother probably has a kink in her neck from straining the ENTIRE trip to be able to keep an eye on the spedometer. And when she wasn't chastising me for going over the speed limit, it was something else. Something dumb that I already knew. I was really getting ticked with her. After the first two hours of driving, I honestly felt like pulling over on the side of the three-lane highway and getting out of the front, ordering her, "FINE! YOU DRIVE!" but I held myself back. We were almost to Breezewood when my grandfather woke up and realized we needed to make a pit stop and he couldn't wait until "the midpoint" (Breezewood). So we stopped at a service station that was right off the road because Grandma saw a Roy Rogers (curse you, Roy Rogers, I hate your filthy cowboy guts). Poor Rob, who had been feeling ill since the evening before, very sweetly said, "Grandma, do you think we could maybe stop at Wendy's for lunch? It'd be cheaper..." But she cut him off with "Roy Rogers is a FINE restaurant, and we'll eat there. You can't just stop at a different place for each person, Robbie." My blood started boiling. My poor little brother wanted Wendy's - I found out later that he'd wanted to get something light like a salad because he was still sick - and she was making him eat at a bloody Roy Rogers! I've always hated that place, mainly because anytime I travel anywhere with them, my grandma loves to stop there. I really don't see the draw. I mean, really: their food is over-priced, looks so disgustingly greasy (and small, as far as portions), and from what Rob said, it still tastes bad too. He got a Philly steak sub and threw most of it out. It was only about six inches, but he paid about $7 for it. Ridiculous.

So after Rob and I called my mom and vented to her for a few stolen minutes while the grandparents ordered their food, we all piled back into the little car and finished the last 2.5 hours of the trip. After taking a few more annoying jabs from grandma, my brother tried standing up for me. First, he took the defensive stance by attempting to assure her that I was an excellent driver and that I knew what I was doing.

[CUT: from this post, I'm sure you're probably all thinking I'm a horrible driver when - in reality - I'm not. My grandma would call me a "better driver" if I went 45 mph on the turnpike, but I'm sure you can all imagine what that would be like, so instead I get called a "risky driver" because I go 70 in a 65 zone to stay with the pack. *sigh* I can't win with her.]

Next, he tried distracting her by asking her questions (to which I knew he didn't care about the answer) or pointing to different things on the side of the road. Finally, he gave up and started making fun of her. Rob's way of poking fun is different though: he did it so subtly that she didn't even realize he was doing it. He'd mimic things she said as if he felt the same way; i.e., bursted into a state of panic and exclaimed, "SAM! You NEED to SLOW DOWN! You're going 67 in a 65 zone!" Finally, after casting a couple mean glares at him (which he didn't process as "the evil eye" meaning "stifle yourself"), I glanced back at him and said something to the effect of "Rob. Shut your piehole."

We finally made it home around 6:00, but not without having to sit through Grandma discussing everything from politics to racism to gay rights. And strangely, none of it was brought up by us. We try to steer those kind of conversations away from Gram. Anyway, it just made it all that more "good to be home."

Oh, and PS: we realized once we got in the house that we'd somehow swapped bags with my grandma: her dirty laundry *ahem* and our souvenirs(?!?!?!). I didn't like the thought another visit so soon after this, so I drove down and made the swap while they were moving their luggage into their house.

Playing Catch Up on the Updating

Okay, folks, this is going to have to be done practically bullet style to fit it all in before I leave, but I’ll try my best to put it into sentence form before then. Here it goes:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday was definitely a lazy day. Almost everyone else had day trips planned for other islands (some went as far as Nagshead, others went to Kitty Hawk to see the Wright Brothers’ museum). With nothing to do but play pool, gin, and black jack all day, Rob decided we should go in the pool (as I mentioned in a previous post, we had an in-ground pool just outside our room). As it turned out, the pool was a good diversion – someone had left some pool-friendly sports equipment outside by the water’s edge, which we grabbed and used for lacrosse (didn’t stay with that very long) and also badminton. Well, the lacrosse game wasn’t working well with only two people, but when we switched to badminton, we couldn’t smack the little ball far enough across the pool. Therefore, we decided to combine the games: use the badminton’s sponge rackets but the lacrosse’s wiffel ball. This seemed to work for us, and we got some really good volleys going. We decided to call it quits after awhile, but not before I took a wiffel ball to the head – I had just reached around to pick up the first wiffel ball that had been floating in the water behind me when I turned around just in time to take Rob’s spare wiffel ball serve right between the eyes. I had happy little wiffel ball holes imprinted on my forehead for the next several minutes.

Rob thought it would be fun to switch it up a bit and rent some bikes to cycle over to Avon and see The Dark Knight at the Avon theatre. Good idea, except that when I Googled the directions, it would be an 18 mile bike. Up hill. Eh…

Luckily, my grandfather and uncle were heading that way to go watch the ships come in (as mentioned in the previous post) so we hopped a ride with them. That night, we went and watched it AGAIN with our cousin Dan. It was just as awesome.

Wednesday, we finally got the bikes. The rental place was about two blocks distance from our – it feels like I should be saying “penthouse” for some reason? – beach house (yeah, beach house), so Rob and I walked over. We were figuring on getting gear bikes this time since they’re a little lower to the ground for me and have handlebar brakes for Rob. Win win, right?

Wrong.

We got there and all of the midget gear bikes were taken. BLAST! So we spent ten minutes looking for a bike I could manage to get up on. Finally I decided to suck it up and take a cruiser bike, which ended up being just as difficult, but I didn’t want to put the poor woman through any more trouble to find a different one. It ended up that for the rest of the day, I had to get a running start with the bike and then hop on while the peddles were turning (yes, it’s as hard as it sounds). About a mile later, Rob hollers up to me to stop and that his bike is “gay.” I reassured him that no, it was just in unisex color and that no one would question is orientation for riding a light blue bike. He didn’t think that was funny. Here, his gears on his bike were stuck. On the toughest gear to ride. Dang it. So what else would we do – we rode all the way back down and swapped his bike out for a cruiser. (I couldn’t believe how many times that morning I felt like screaming expletives at the top of my lungs, and all over these stupid bikes). So we started back out, and what do you know, it’s black as night up (x) miles ahead. I had seen on the forecast that it was going to rain, but it had said that the day before and didn’t so I hadn’t really taken it seriously. We made the decision to just turn around and head for the Salvo-Waves area instead of going towards Avon. Surprisingly, we must have just missed the rain that was following us, because as we road back through our town and into the next, the roads were nothing but puddles. Deep puddles. Puddles that, as we road through them, splashed up onto our clothes and faces. Gross. And to top it off, Rob was hungry (no surprise there). We stopped at the famous (to our family) Down Under restaurant, looking a mess. I grabbed an old stretchy book cover from my backpack and used it to wipe off our faces, which were covered in sand and mud. Rob ended up getting this burger called “the Great Australian Bite,” which was a giant ½ pound burger with everything on it and topped with a sunny-side-up egg. We stopped at some other shops up the road from that, searching for souvenirs, and ended up popping in to the Seaside Treasures shop again to torment the boy at the register get some ice cream. We ate the ice cream outside; when we were finished, I ran down to unlock the bikes while Rob made one last attempt to screw with the poor shop boy’s head, asking him, “You look just like Jesse McCartney! Has anyone ever told you that???” to which he replied, “I hope not?!”

After that, we crossed the street to another shop, "Reef," and got Rob a sweet henna tattoo across his shoulder blades. We then pix-messaged a picture of it to our mom who then called us back, freaking out that I had been his consent to get a real tat. Rob proceeded to lead her on for another few minutes until I finally put her out of her misery and reassured her that it was only temporary. That was so much fun. :-)

When we got back to the house, Rob went down to the beach to do some boogie boarding while I chilled in the hot tub. Rob came back to report that he had successfully swum out to the anchor and had touched it; and also that he had ridden a monster wave that broke his boogie board in half. Go Rob!

We played a hilarious game of Taboo that night - I say hilarious because anytime my grandma plays with us, we're going to have some hilarious clues given. Some of my favorites from that night were:

• "It rhymes with...'balloon'!" (answer: babboon. and technically, you're not allowed to say "sounds like" or "rhymes with" but grandma heeds no laws)
• "Well, first of all, he's black." ("black" said as though it were "he's a serial killer." I don't even remember what the answer was for this clue because I laughed during the entire duration of the clue)

Some other funny answers thrown out by the group were:

• jockette n. a girl version of a jock (according to my aunt and uncle who yelled that out simultaneously...the answer was actually "cheerleader")
• fulcrum n. a point of rest, on which a lever turns (but guessed by Rob when all my grandma could say was "it kinda does this thing wherrrrre...")

That was a great night; I laughed so hard that evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The higher-ups decided that Thursday would be a good day to take a trip over to Ocracoke (or as Rob first thought it was pronounced, "Oprah-copes") and spend a day shopping and playing on the beach. To get over to Ocracoke, one must take the ferry which is conveniently stationed next to tons of great shops where one can blow all his money. My uncles found some really cool stunt kites that they picked up, assembled, and flew while waiting for the ferry. Since it was "kite festival" day there, they had little stations set up for little kids to "build their own kite" by coloring a piece of paper than tying it to some other sheets of paper and a ribboned tail. It was actually a pretty good kite - Katrina, my little buddy of 6 years - made one and really had it soaring. We got over to Ocracoke and stopped in at Captain Ben's restaurant where Rob finished his meal in less than five minutes and helped everyone else eat their meals too (they would pass down anything left over and dump it on his plate, which he loved).

From there, we went to the beach. Everyone flew their kites while I read my book and my aunts built sand castles. Rob even got chased down and pecked to death by a killer stunt kite (seriously, he get hijacked from behind). On our way back, it was just my grandma, my uncle, and I. We were making light conversation when my grandma asked, "Jim, do they have any deer out here?" (The way she asked made it sound as though she was asking whether or not they were in stock...) Just as she got the last word out of her mouth, my uncle slammed on the brakes and swerved.

"What was THAT?" she asked.

"That," he replied coolly, "was a fawn. Any more questions?" I stifled a guffaw.

We stopped at a Food Lion so my uncle could run in for some groceries. My grandma and I waited in the van and saw a nice couple walking to their car. "What a shame. She's such a pretty girl, too," my grandma mumbled. I wasn't sure what she was referencing, so I just sat there. Moments later, she asked out loud, "Why can't they just find boys in their own color?!" I realized what she was talking about.

"Grandma, there's nothing wrong with a white girl being with a black guy." Her head turned to me as far as it could as she whispered, "Yeah, well it just ain't natural!" Again, I held back the giggles.