A toe tapper and knee slapper.

I have a feeling that Forth would like to blog about something because he is pressuring me to publicize an encounter that I had with one of my students today, so……here ‘goes.

I retrieved my 2nd grader for a tutoring session this morning and while she had messy hair and was drowning in an oversized sweater, I noticed she was being particularly antsy as well. Though when she was struggling to turn the pages of “Poggy the Frog Eats Flies,” by licking her fingertips and pinching the page corners in vain, I was particularly surprised when she threw the book down on the table and exclaimed,

“Who makes these things anyway??”

That sentence was like a burst of heat to the ice of my customer-service hardened heart and in addition made me yearn for  a simpler time when maybe you didn’t graduate college and suddenly have no idea what you want to do or be or where you want to live and what you’re supposed to think about life. But at the end of the day my adorable, hilarious, little 2nd grader forgets her frustration and gets on the number 308 bus home and I know at least I’ve married the perfect man and might make some kids’ lives a little bit better, at least from 8:00-2:30 p.m. so, win…….and win.

**Back.

Thermo-state.

For 13 years of my life, the first day of school entailed waking up early, taking a first day of school picture with my sister, and getting on the #10 school bus with shiny new school gear like backpacks, tennis shoes, and lunchboxes. I stayed in one building and lunch was handed to me. I encountered 40 people during the entire day.

Today I woke up, made a pot of absurdly strong coffee, and pedaled up to a $7,000 per semester institution where I sat in a room of 65 people and was lectured by a French-Haitian pentalingualed feminist drunkard with three first names. Later on I bought over $100 worth of textbooks at three different independent bookshops, and had a meeting regarding a potential internship at a prominent city publication.

All the while, flashes of different lunchboxes of years past blew past my mind’s eye as I strolled through the day in a life that gets more adult by the minute. I remember a sparkly blue hard plastic Aladdin number. If I recall, there was a picture of Aladdin holding his magic golden lamp as the Genie swept out in a massive blue wisp on the front. There was a matching Thermos inside, in which my mom poured juice or milk for lunch. Next I saw a pliable plastic Barbie lunchbag, bright orange and pink with Barbie and two of her friends strutting their stuff on the front. The zipper was big and neon and Mom wrote my name on the inside in black Sharpie, though I found it incredibly embarrassing. As I got older the characters disappeared and I turned to the soft formed cube lunchboxes with netted pockets on the front, but my name still inked on the lid.

Sometimes, I want my pb&j vinyl backpack life back. Vive la 90’s.

Today my lunch consisted of a turkey sandwich and tomato-feta salad thrown quickly together between class and a meeting, for which I put on $110 worth of Banana Republic attire and drove a mile just so I wouldn’t sweat into the 5% cashmere blend. With any luck, today will be my very last first day of school. Actually it had better be—or I’m going to freak the frick out.

It’s one more year of going through the motions: FAFSA, homework, bumping into sorostitutes with iPods on the sidewalks of campus, and working a shitty college kid job. I want to be rid of the institution and the coffee shop. My passions now lie within the letters S-A-L-A-R-Y.

Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah, senioritis begins………….now.

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Reasons Why I Had Fun at Home This Weekend

1.) My best friend is a bartender.

2.) So is my other best friend.

3.) Bars serve peanuts. Peanuts are salty.

4.) Long islands.

5.) Dancing a little.

6.) Embarrassing myself in front of lots of old high school classmates.

7.) I actually stayed awake past bar time.

8.) We sat on a patio and sobered up with free fried food. Free fried food free fried food free fried food free fried food.

9.) The hangover was cake compared to Hangover on a Plane.

Moment Maker v.2.0

Driving home from work the other night I had the windows down and was listening to 102.1, which happened to be playing a song by Safety Suit called “Someone Like You.” Aside from a ridiculously overused title, the song isn’t that bad, so I turned it up to echo through the otherwise car-less intersection. Stopped a red light, there were two teenagers standing on an island of concrete to my left. They looked like a couple of sorts, and a fairly new one at that. As they stood and lingered with one another I thought about how what if they were on their first date or something taking in the summer night air but then they can hear this song and suddenly something is right. The mixture of sound waves and the lake breeze and absence of other pedestrians creates a minute or two that is elevated among the rest and because of the feeling, they remember that moment among the rest. Something is made and whether they ever hear the song again or not, they remember that piece of night because somebody was happy to be off-work-windows-down. Then of course a second later the clock struck 10 and the lights converted to blinking red which made me say “Cool” and speed away.

The rest of the way home I thought it might be sweet if I saw a night-jogger who forgot her iPod and then she catches a riff of “Eye of the Tiger” or some crap like that from a passing car and suddenly has the energy to make it home two minutes better than her usual time. Burning lungs, starry skies and the Rocky theme making yet another slightly elite moment.

Most Moments I’ve experienced in life were a grand culmination of sound and feel, feel being divided into dimensions of both what I was doing and what my brain thought of it. For example, during the May ‘05 Green Day concert in Madison my friends and I body-surfed in a sea of confetti to their rendition of “We Are the Champions” and the song will never be the same. High school graduation sucked except for when the band played “Bittersweet Symphony” as we were filing out and through all the people I thought “Well at least there’s that. Taking high school cruises around town with friends listening to Incubus with the windows down…..things like that.

Concerts are good for these certain life moments. For example, Forth and I accompanied the crew to a Jack Johnson concert. Mason Jennings opened and I’ve since gotten sucked in to his music, though he’s a douche from Minneapolis and tries to be Bob Dylan. I could listen to him say “gurrrrl” all day long. Anyways. Jack Johnson has been a longtime favorite, though I never really thought about going to a concert of his–he always seemed like he’d put on a better show sitting around a beach bonfire with some friends. Nonetheless, when you’re buzzed and smiling at everyone around you and singing, “Bubble Toes” seems like a better song than it previously had.

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Aqueous Transmissions

Alright first I gotta say that my credit/class situation is improving. Next, I have to tell you that lots of people have been searching for Kristen Davis naked–but I guess I have no one to blame but myself.

In other news, finals are over. Am I relieved? No. Summer classes start in two weeks, so eff that. But with the onset of summer, I find myself thinking about summers of my youth, and a little holiday my three best friends and I used to celebrate every July 15th–EMoSaMeg Day. The summer commenced by us choosing a theme song for the summer. The years elude me but I believe the choices for the three summer holidays we did celebrate were as follows: “Rock Your Body” by Justin Timberlake, “Fever for the Flava” by Hot Action Cop, and “Aqueous Transmission” by Incubus. We would then draw names for gifts like at Christmas, though 9 times out of 10 we’d end up getting each other a bag of Dove chocolates and little else.

Regardless of whether we remembered to celebrate EMoSaMeg Day specifically, we’d have a picnic in our hometown’s Veteran’s Park and spend the evening gossiping on a blanket with glass bottles of Sprite, simply because things are more fun in glass bottles. Now we all prefer a good brew or malted beverage in a bottle, but nonetheless. Later on we’d generally end with a sleepover either in someone’s room lighting incense and candles in the dark then laying on the floor and staring at them, or in a tent in my country-fried backyard. Now at 21, when we old friends barely see each other a handful of times a year, save for the one that drifted far away to a life of Army-wifery and premature motherhood, I’d love nothing more than to celebrate one more summer in such a fashion.

Of course, occasional get-togethers and the combined re-discovery of our hometown via the college district bars which we are now allowed into should serve as good enough. ‘Cause we’re all growns up and we’re all growns up.

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RANT FEST 2008

When I move, I generally start packing about two months in advance, just like I pack my suitcase two days before I go on a trip. It is kinda stupid, but I get anxious. I consider it less to do when things get down to the wire, plus in the case of Forth and I, we are moving sooner than anticipated anyway, so it sort of made sense this time. Unfortunately, we still have 3 or so weeks to go, which means 3 more weeks of irritating roommates, and dealing with the persistent dirt and dust of a 70-year old rental property.

It doesn’t matter if I have the coolest, nicest, cleanest, roommates in the world, ol’ Back here was just not meant to live with ANYBODY (but Forth….I guess). I am a loner–the lone sheep that purposely strays from the flock in search of the most secluded cave where there is the least chance of anyone happening by. In the case of THIS apartment, our roommate in question (we’ll call him Scuba) and his girlfriend (we’ll call her Dramz) are college freshmen trapped in the bodies of nearly 30-somethings. I like lists, so I shall give you one containing the reasons I am stoked to move out, in no particular order:

1.) No more of Scuba and Dramz’s Qdoba bags, dirty dishes, Diet Mt. Dew cans, and salt and pepper packets (who uses these anyway??) to pick up in the living room.

2.) Forth and I will get to reclaim use of the living room and TV once again, since it is apparently ursa roomateaus‘ natural and preferred habitat.

3.) No more wood floors. I’m not talking Pergo here people. These floors are real wood and real old and somehow, two seconds after I get done vacuuming, more dust bunnies and filth have already emerged from the wooded slots. EVERY TIME! As of now, I am probably sweeping up somebody’s donut crumbs from 1952.

4.) We will have a vent in the kitchen. When dealing with the girl who has recently taken up homemade cream cheese wontons (who also previously thought wax paper was okay in the oven) and has no idea when oil is hot enough, an exhaust vent is key. Till then, open windows and fans will have to do the trick.

5.) No more DVR clogged with “The Hills,” “The Real World: Hollywood,” “Access Hollywood,” “Dateline NBC: The Rise and Fall of Britney Spears,” “Entertainment Tonight,” “E! News,” and “Dane Cook: Live and Douchy in Las Vegas.” It’s no wonder Dramz can’t handle a conversation using words with like, more than like, two syllables.

6.) No more DDR-playing, quick-footed Asian child running about upstairs—alright so we’re not sure about that. But we’ve SEEN the girls who live above us and they’re not fat. So HOW in the WORLD do they make it sound like the running of the bulls at Pamplona up there all the time?

7.) Usable space. Sure this apartment is big and pretty, but the amount of floorspace that can be used by two boys and a girl with the desire but no means to decorate is minimal. And like I mentioned before, it is caked with ages worth of old, permanent dirt.

8.) No more larvae in the shower. Forth has tried everything to get these tiny worms to go away, but about four or five show up every morning and while they can deftly be swept down the drain, I have a hunch that some turn into tiny gnats that live in the shower curtain. We do not know what they are or why they’re there, but it is gross.

9.) No more being subjected to the loud, obnoxious sex being had by the building manager and her husband who live in the basement, every other time I do laundry. Alright so it’s only happened twice, but that was enough. Not only is it disgusting but boy, do they think they’re superstars….

10.) No more sharing the bathroom with three other people on a Tuesday night when we all decide to go to bed at the same time and have to get up for work in the morning, and then having to fight Dramz for sink time when she already has a perfectly empty house she could be getting ready in.

11.) Forth gets his own office. Now I do not have to shove ear buds up against my ear drums in order to watch “Desperate Housewives” on my computer while he plays Starcraft and banters loudly with his other nerd buddies on Vent. Speaking of…no more Forth watching “The West Wing” at midnight when I have to get up for work at 5:45 the next morning and he can’t go out in the living room because Scuba and Dramz are partaking in the latest episode of “Rock of Love 2″ on VH1.

12.) We will be free of Scuba’s blatant disregard for the beauty and innovation that IS Tupperware, as he has a penchant for keeping his leftovers right in the receptacle where they were cooked, which is more oft than not, our best and only saucepan.

Alright I’ll stop at 12, ’cause I think I’m starting to annoy myself. Forth and I have Good Night and Good Luck and Lars and the Real Girl waiting patiently near the TV, but since I am closing for the fourth night in a row at the coffee shop, we haven’t really had the time to sit down for a movie. I’m not sure what Forth was talking about when he said one of us will get drunk next week. Hell, he was drunk last night and I’ve got a few cosmos on deck for this evening…

**Back