the government is mocking me

You know, my mom was saying to me the other day that my blog sounds very negative.  And looking back on some of my posts, it's true that I'm a little heavy on the bitching.  So, I've resolved to be a little more upbeat.  Right after this post.  Because let me tell you about a couple of things that have happened to me over the weekend:

1.  I finally filled out the Census form that had been sitting on my dining room table for about a week.  People kept talking about how it's only 10 questions, but did you see the packet they sent?  It was pages and pages long.  Well guess what?  It's only pages and pages long if you have a lot of people living with you.  I filled out the front page of the packet, and I was done.  You're thinking, "Hey that's great!  You're so lucky, you must have been done in less than 5 minutes."  Sure, but trust me, it doesn't warrant the celebration that you would think.  It actually only serves to further prove my pathetically lonely life.  I only had to fill out the first page because I don't go past Person 1.  Sadly, I don't think my cat can count as Person 2.  As the Beatles wisely sang, "One is the loneliest number."  So true.

2.  I also finally got around to doing my taxes.  (If I do them earlier, it will help me when I apply for Financial Aid for Columbia.)  Now, last year, when I entered my W-2 into TurboTax, a little box on the left-hand side of the screen told me in happy green numbers how much money I would be getting back.  I'm telling you, that was one of my best days last year.  It was awesome.  Well, this year when I put in my W-2s, the little box on the left-hand side told me in angry red numbers how much money I still had to pay.  Not so awesome.  I mean, really?  They know how much (rather, how little) I make, and yet they're still taking money from me.  Come on!  The US Government is like a perverse version of Robin Hood: "We steal from the poor and give to the rich!"  Ugh.

So that's my last rant for awhile.  And not just because I've decided to turn over a new leaf and be "happy," whatever that is.  I won't be posting for awhile because I'm going to Africa to see my boyfriend!!!!!  In Census terms, I'm going to see my Person 2.  And let me tell you, it is long overdue.

Peace out bitches.

I'm freeeeeeee

I am officially on Spring Break!  Of course, I started off my (all-too brief) bout of freedom with a various assortment of alcoholic drinks.  And as the liquor flowed, it thankfully cleaned out my system of all the stress, bitterness, and melancholy that has been building up inside me for the last few months.  I swear to God, I feel like a new woman.  Unfortunately, a side effect to this rebirth is a pesky (and hopefully temporary) desire to eat healthy and get some exercise and actually, you know, take care of my body.  So today?  I went running.

I don't know about you, but I HATE running.  I can feel my mother shake her head in disappointment--she runs marathons practically every other weekend.  Not me.  I consider running from my car to my apartment enough exercise for one day.  I actually used to run cross-country in high school, but that's only because I was marginally good at it, thanks to the cross-training I got from copious amounts of swim practice.  But I've never enjoyed it.  First of all, it hurts.  I almost always get a cramp in my side within the first five minutes, running up hills is a killer on my legs, and I end up scrunching up my shoulders the whole time, so that by the end I'm just a tight ball of muscles.  And that's just the day of--apparently I'm not punished enough during the actual event of running, so my body continues to experience various aches and pains for days afterwards.  And you know, people talk about this mysterious "runner's high."  Guess what?  There aren't any drugs involved at all.  I know, bummer right?  No, they're talking about a chemical process that happens in your brain when you run: your body produces endorphins, which basically trick your brain into thinking that you're happy doing something so obviously masochistic.  I don't get it.  Anyway, I have to say that the worst part of running is how ridiculous I look while doing it.  I am so conscious of the fact that my thighs feel like they should be featured in those Bill Cosby Jell-O ads.  I always have a pained look on my face, due to the lack of these mysterious endorphins that my body seemingly refuses to produce.  And because I'm so short, my stubby little legs just sort of shuffle along, instead of gliding in elegant strides like every other runner.  Basically, I wish I looked like this:

    When in reality, I really look like this:

Sigh....

cough, cough, sniff, sniff

I think I'm getting sick.  This is not good.  I am getting on a plane in 5 days to go see my boyfriend in Africa, and there is NOTHING worse than being sick on a flight that is over 18 hours long.  I will inevitably get stuck in the middle seat, with a loud snorer to my left, and a talker on my right.  God, don't you hate it when people try to have like, a deep and meaningful conversation with you, and all you want to do is tell them to shut up?  and you even stick in your headphones, but they still don't get the hint?  so then you have to pretend to go to sleep, and then you're stuck sitting there, wide awake but eyes closed, thinking hateful thoughts towards that asshole sitting next to you.  Anyway, it's a million times worse when you're sick, because the pressure in your head makes you feel like your eyes are going to explode, and your nose is so stuffed up you feel certain that it's suddenly full of cement, and you can't get any peace and quiet because the idiot sitting next to you wants to know all about your life.

Look, I'll admit, I've never been a good sick person.  I tend to get low-grade colds, which aren't enough to warrant a day in bed, but are enough to make me feel miserable.  So I'll go through my work day feeling sorry for myself, sniffling, coughing, delicately putting a hand to my head and closing my eyes dramatically when the throbbing pain worsens.  Of course, because I don't stay in bed for a day, my colds drag out for weeks.  If I actually took care of myself and took a sick day, I would probably be better in a few days.  Oh yeah, I forgot--my job sucks, and therefore I'm not allowed anymore sick days this year.  If I stay home sick, I have to fork over $80 for a substitute teacher to take my place.  Stupid part-time job.

When I do get sick enough to stay home for a couple of days (and it doesn't happen very often), I always find that it nicely coincides with some much-needed mental R&R as well.  For instance, I was off work for a week in January because I was dealing with a leg infection.  Don't get me wrong, I honestly did need those days off so that my leg could get better.  But I'm not gonna lie, I (with plenty of guilt weighing on me) enjoyed the time off of work because I just didn't want to be there.  I had just come back from visiting my boyfriend and I wasn't ready to go back to my life just yet.

...So I'm finishing this post hours after I started it.  I took my best friend (and her boyfriend) out tonight for a birthday dinner, and I drank copious amounts of alcohol over the course of the evening.  (What?  I only have one more day before Spring Break.  Cut me some slack.)  Suddenly, I don't feel sick anymore.  Man, how cool would it be if doctors could prescribe drinking?  That would make such a great doctor's note: "In order to make a full recovery, Andrea must drink one glass of wine every hour, on the hour."  I wish.  

I'm just a little black rain cloud...

Ugh, today was not a fun day.  I think my self-diagnosis yesterday was wrong, cause it was sunny all day, and yet my desire to stay in bed all day did not go away.  It was like I had my own personal rain cloud drifting over my head, like in that movie The Truman Show when Jim Carrey tried to convince everyone that he could do something besides Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.  Oh my god, what if I'm on my own version of the Truman show?  Nah, if I was on The Andrea Show, things at work wouldn't be so fucked up, and my boyfriend wouldn't be halfway across the globe.  Unless....The Truman Show was pretty boring.  Maybe when the Hollywood bigwigs thought up The Andrea Show, they decided to go for more of a soap-opera feel.  But if that's the case, then why haven't I met my evil twin, or gone into a coma, only to wake up and have amnesia?

What was I talking about?  Oh, yeah, my shitty mood today.  A big reason for the high level of suckage today was that I had zero patience for dealing with the trials and tribulations of 6-year-olds.  I don't know, maybe it's been too long since I've actually been a 6 year old, but come on, it hasn't been that long.  I just don't remember caring about things like racing to get the the front of the line, or whether or not I got to play with the red car instead of the blue car, or who I got to sit next to at lunch.  I mean, seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  These are the important things in life?

Look, I was not without my neuroses.  I was insanely perfectionistic.  Everything I did had to be absolutely right, or I would collapse into a puddle of tears.  Here's what I'm talking about:

There I am, coloring a picture, and I have a world-class pout on my face, most likely due to my inability to produce something worthy of the Met.  I mean, look at that lower lip!  As my mom is fond of saying, "that lip is sticking so far out, you could sit on it."  What can I say?  What I lacked in artistic talent, I more than made up for with melodramatic kindergarten angst.



So while I feel for the kid in my class who doesn't want to sound out words because he knows he might misspell them and that would be the end of the world, I don't understand the kid who pushes and shoves and walks all over the other students so that he gets to be first in line.  Dude, what's the point?  You will get to our destination literally 3 seconds before the rest of the class.  What are you going to gain from that?

And of course, you know that 10 years down the line, that's going to be the guy who cuts you off on the highway.  Jackass.

The wonders of self-diagnosis over the internet

When I woke up today, I was feeling a bit off.  So of course, I immediately hopped onto WebMD, so that I could do that thing where you click on the part of the body that hurts, and it tells you all the rare and deadly diseases you have because your knee itches.  Anyway, here are the symptoms that I checked off:

• Pale skin.  This actually has been a life-long condition, unfortunately.
• Difficulty standing.  It's true--I just wanted to lie in my bed all day instead of stand up and go to work.
• Fatigue.  See above comment.
• Muscle weakness.  Again, this is a chronic condition.  My legs get shaky from walking up the two flights of stairs to my apartment.  And I am never strong enough to get the lids of jars by myself.
• Reduced productivity at work.  Seriously, I was useless today.  Which is exactly what you want to hear from someone who's job is to be responsible for the safety and well-being of fifteen 6-year-olds.
• Short stature.  Sadly, this is genetic, and I'm afraid it's incurable.

Guess what?  There are 20 different things that could be wrong with me.  Of course, the first one on the list is "lack of exercise."  Geez, WebMD, you don't even know me--how dare you judge me!  For all you know, I could be going to the gym every day!  Yeah, I know I don't, but that's not the point.

I could also have something called hypopituitarism.  Scary, right?  Apparently, it's when your pituitary gland (which is in the brain) doesn't produce enough hormones.  Well, I can tell you with 100% certainty that this is NOT my problem.  I have years of acne and PMS to back me up when I say that I have hormones aplenty.  Ok, so that's off the list, but here are some of the other possibilities:

• hypocalcemia--not enough milk in your diet.  Yep, that's me.  (Sorry, mom, I know I know, I'm begging for osteoporosis later in life.)
• Chronic fatigue syndrome
• Acute stress reaction--HAHAHAHA have you been to where I work?  Everyone has this disease right now.
• Depression
• Sleep deprivation
• Anemia
• Underweight--I wish.
• Vitamin D deficiency--that's the vitamin you get by being out in the sun, right?  AHA!  Ding ding ding, we have a winner!

See, we here in Delaware have had four straight days of rain.  I think I've actually forgotten what the sun looks like.  Maybe this is a sign: I'm supposed to go live in sunny places like Australia, or Tahiti (oops, I first wrote Tahitit.  I don't think I have the qualifying assets to get to live there).  Oh dear, I'm supposed to go to NYC for grad school next year, a city that has decidedly too many rainy and cloudy days.  Maybe WebMD can write me a doctor's note explaining that I can only go to class on sunny days.  What do you say, internet docs, can you get on that?  Thanks.  

Naa Naa na-na naaa alright alright!

Oh. My. God.  I totally forgot about this gem of 1990s television:

Oh Clarissa, you were so witty and cool.  

PS no one ever gets named Ferguson these days. 

PPS I want a cute boy to climb through my window...

Can you hear me now?

I hate the telephone.  I hate it when I call someone, and it rings enough that I think the person isn't going to pick up, so I mentally prepare myself to leave a voicemail, but then the person picks up at the last minute, and I suddenly have to recommit to having a conversation instead of just leaving a message.  And when I do end up having those conversations, I hate that I can't see what the person looks like while they're talking.  So much gets lost in translation when you can't read a person's face to understand the full message behind their words.  But oh man, when Caller ID first came out, I was in awe.  The phone rings, and a name and number pops up on the screen, letting you decide if you have the emotional energy to deal with whoever is calling you.  If I didn't appreciate it so much, I would worry about the omniscience that this little machine seems to possess.  Big Brother is watching...

Of course, seeing as I am so phone phobic, it is only natural that circumstances in my life now require me to have my phone attached to my ear at least 45 minutes every day.  Most of you know this, but my boyfriend has been living in Namibia, working for the Peace Corps, for over a year now.  Since the internet is not easily accessible for him, and I have never gotten the hang of snail mail correspondence, our most reliable means of communication is the phone.

Sadly, this isn't new to us.  Before our relationship went global, we spent four years of college living on opposite sides of the country.  And when I tell people that, I always get one of two responses.  Some people (all of whom have never actually tried a long-distance relationship) get a look of pity on their face as they shudder and say, "Oh how awful!  You must be so miserable.  How can you deal with the pain of separation?  You poor thing.  You must feel so...alone."  As my former middle-school self would say, GAG ME.  I don't want or need your patronizing pity, so shut it.  Of course, the other popular response is one of condescending disbelief.  Those people typically give a harsh laugh as they say, "Why in the world would you go through that?  Long distance never works.  You're such a chump.  You're only going to grow apart.  And you realize that he's probably hooking up with girls.  When you actually add up time spent together, it's only been a few months of dating, not years.  What a waste."  Well, to all you haters out there, I just have this to say: I agree, it's not an ideal situation.  But the difference between you and me is you have obviously never known a person worth waiting for.  How sad for you.

Oh man, by the way, the worst critics have been from the Peace Corps, those cynical bitches.  When they found out he was in a relationship, they made him fill out half a dozen forms, swear on the Bible, and sign a contract in blood promising that some silly little girl wouldn't distract him from his job.  I spent several months seething with self-righteous anger at the injustice of it all, choosing to ignore the fact that significant others are the primary reason for volunteers to leave the Peace Corps early, so they're just trying to protect their investments, as it were.  No, I wanted to march over there and shout at them, "CAN'T YOU SEE HOW PERFECT WE ARE FOR EACH OTHER!  HOW DARE YOU DOUBT OUR RELATIONSHIP.  YOU ARE COLD AND HEARTLESS, AND YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND OUR LOVE!"  Needless to say, such an intense confrontation would never happen, due to my overwhelming inability to stand up to authority.  Which my boyfriend is well aware of, so he just let me rant in the privacy of our apartment, with minimal eye-rolling and patronizing smirks coming from his direction.

Anyway, for the time being, I am holding my head up high, armed with my (apparently, after rereading that last couple of paragraphs) preachy I'm-better-than-you attitude, so that I can soldier through the never ending days of my telephone relationship.  Hey, it could be worse.  He could be living in a remote village somewhere with no service.  I would be forced to write letters, which even I don't think would keep our relationship alive.  There would be weeks of time stretched out between each letter, so that our correspondence would always be a few steps behind what was actually going on in our lives.  It would be like some sick and twisted game of phone-tag.  So, while I bitch and moan, I know that I really am lucky to have such a constant and reliable way to stay in touch.  I guess the phone stays.

Trust me, though, when my boyfriend comes home next spring, my phone and I are getting a divorce.  

junk food and crazy night

When I was growing up, my dad traveled a lot, so it was usually just me, my mom, and my younger brother fending for ourselves for dinner.  I mean, we weren't totally hopeless; my mom always made sure we had well-rounded meals, with veggies and everything (to our dismay).  But on Fridays, all bets were off.  On Fridays, we had "junk food and crazy night."  I think this arose mostly from my mom being exhausted after a week of work, and not wanting to cook, but since I was totally self-absorbed and unaware of my mom's motives, all I knew was that it was the best night of the week.  We would put on music, play silly games, tell each other about our day.  We would eat pizza for dinner, have ice cream for dessert,  and there wouldn't be nary a carrot or pea in sight.  It was AWESOME.

Hmmm, reading over what I just wrote, it doesn't actually sound like junk food and crazy nights really warrant an AWESOME.  They actually sound kind of lame.  Mom, Adam, can you give a girl some help here?  Am I leaving out the parts that would qualify those Friday nights for an all-caps "awesome"?  Man, sometimes it is so sad to look back on what you thought was AWESOME, only to find it was just a lower case lettered "fine."

Anyway, moving past the destruction of my fondest childhood memories, the point of this walk down memory lane was that last night I had the grown-up version of junk food and crazy night.  A friend of mine from work came over and we celebrated the end of a looooooong week by endulging in take-out sushi and booze.  Plus, it was one of those cold, rainy nights, when all you want to do is curl up on the couch in sweats.  So, we did.  And we proceeded to have an AWESOME (note the all caps) night, which included, among other things:

1.  Engaging in our favorite sport of boss-bashing.  Of course, this particular sport requires all participants to ingest several shots of Jeremiah Weed, a rule which we strictly adhered to.

2.  Having a minor celebrity sighting.  My friend's brother is a real estate agent in New Jersey, and he was featured on that HGTV tv show where a couple has to pick 1 of 3 houses that they're shown.  I've never known a famous person before!

3.  Me getting into Columbia Teacher's College!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Suck it, Hopkins.

So, all in all, it was, as I said before, a truly AWESOME night.  Ladies and gentlemen, I officially declare the return of junk food and crazy night!

"Well I'm running down the road, tryin' to loosen my load..."

Everyone has different ways of coping.  Some people drink.  Some people smoke.  (Some people, you know, smoke.)  Some people talk with friends, or family, or therapists.  Some people take up hobbies.  Me?  I drive.  

I know, it's weird, right?  But hear me out.  When I get in my car, I feel like I'm in my own sanctuary.  It's just me.  No one to answer to, no responsibilities, nothing.  Just me and whatever music I feel like listening to.  I can somewhat let myself fall into autopilot, which gives me the chance to let my mind wander in a way that I can't normally.  And it's in that pure, stream-of-consciousness, would never make sense out-loud kind of thinking.  In the span of an hour, I jump between half a dozen different trains of thought.  And it's WONDERFUL.

A couple days ago, I mentioned that I quit swimming in high school.  What I didn't mention was how I went about the quitting process.  I conveniently left out that story because, frankly, it doesn't make sense to a lot of people.  But I'm going to take this opportunity to try to explain myself.  By the time my senior year of high school had started, I had been swimming on a summer team for the last 11 years, and on more competitive year-long team for 8 years.  My life was swimming.  All anyone knew of me was that I was a swimmer.  And I loved it.  

The problem was that I wasn't very good.  I would dutifully put in my two hours of swim practice every day, I would give 110%, I would work on my stroke technique, but none of it made me swim any faster.  Do you know how frustrating it is to work hard at something, only to see yourself fail?  Trust me when I tell you that it sucks.  So, I decided that I wanted out.  Except here's the thing: people in my family don't quit.  It's unacceptable.  You make a committment to something, you stick to it.  That's just how it goes.  (Honestly, though, I think that even if my family wasn't like that, I would still hold myself to that standard.)  So, instead of doing the mature thing and talking to my parents and coaches about what I was going through, I took the avoidance route: I started skipping practice.  GASP!

Now, if this were an E! True Hollywood Story, or Rehab with Dr. Drew, this is the part where you find out that the kid started doing drugs and drinking with shady characters who ride motorcycles and have tattoos.  But you forgot that we were talking about me, Miss Goody Goody.  I would never even consider doing something illegal like experiment with drugs or alcohol.  No, instead, I would head out the door with my swim bag, get into my car, and drive around all the back roads out in the county.  I would wind around the curves and climb up and down the hills and listen to music and just be.  It was the most free feeling I have ever experienced.  

Of course, it only took about two weeks for my mom to clue into the fact that I was skipping swim practice.  (A side effect of being a goody-goody is that I am a terrible liar.)  I was immediately grounded--a completely foreign concept for me to grasp, sadly enough.  And I remember being asked what I was doing while I was supposed to be at practice.  At first, I lied (again!  Man, once you get me started, I can't stop.  I guess I had officially turned to the dark side) and said that I would go hang out with friends.  Because even I knew that it was weird to just want to drive around by myself.  Indeed, when I finally copped to my late-night drives, my mom looked at me like I was crazy.  I have tried to explain it to my mom, my dad, my boyfriend, a friend or two, but no one ever gets it.  To them, driving is a chore.  But to me, driving is my release.

viva la revolution!

You know what almost every teacher I ever had wrote on almost every report card I ever got?  "Andrea is a joy to have in this class."  In other words, I was a teacher's pet.  I always turned my homework in on time.  I always followed directions.  I never went against the rules.  I never got bad grades.  I managed to get through both middle and high school without ever having to serve detention.  And I'm fairly sure that for a long time, my brother hated me because of my goody-goody tendencies.   Any tiny little mistake on his part was instantly magnified 100x because my parents had nothing to compare it to.  I don't blame him for any resentment he harbored towards me.  God, I even hate myself for me people pleasing behavior.  It really comes down to my need to obey and please authority figures.  It's so bad that in college, when I had to meet with a Psych professor about a bad test grade, I started crying in her office.  I wasn't even in trouble!  I just hated the fact that I had done something "wrong".  How pathetic is that?  Seriously, I can feel you actually rolling your eyes as you read this, and I am right there with you.  

So, now that I'm a "grown-up" with a job and everything, the source of authority has shifted from parents and teachers to bosses.  Well, one boss in particular.  You know those cheesy motivational posters that have a picture of people in a canoe with the words TEAM WORK written underneath?  My boss' picture would work perfectly for a DEmotivational poster.  At the bottom would be the word AUTHORITY.  And in small letters underneath it would say It is not your job to think for yourself; that's what I'm here to do.  Deal with it.  And the sad thing is I believe in that crap.  If my boss tells me something that I know is complete bullshit (and trust me, this happens every other day), do I stand up for myself and give my boss a piece of my mind?  No.  Of course not.  What I will do is proceed to have an imaginary confrontation, in which I say so many scathing comments and biting retorts that her head spins.  In my own mind, I am a verbal genius.  I am Norma Rae standing in front of a crowd shouting, "Union!  Union!"  

In reality, I am a passive, meek goody goody who doesn't want to step on anybody's toes.  Sigh.  

Someone's behind in their personal fitness program...

You may not know this about me, but I was very athletic when I was a kid.  Actually, calling myself "athletic" implies that I could successfully participate in more than one sport.  That would be a lie.  I unfortunately seemed to have inherited horrible hand-eye coordination from my parents.  This meant that soccer, baseball/softball, field hockey, basketball, volleyball, and lacrosse were never options for me.  (Later in life, my clumsiness also meant that my attempts at beer pong were pathetically uncoordinated.)  So, with 90% of the athletic community out of my reach (no pun intended) I turned to one of the few sports that required zero hand-eye abilities: swimming.  I mean, seriously, what can be easier?  All you have to do is move from one side of the pool to the other.  There were no sticks or balls involved of any kind.  (Get your mind out of the gutter--I'm talking about sports equipment!)

So, from ages 9-17, I spent my afternoons and weekends in the pool.  As a result, I developed the worst eating habits.  I could eat anything I wanted and not gain any weight cause I would just swim it off.  I would eat candy and chips and ice cream and bagels all day long.  God, it was awesome.  Until, in a fit of rebellion, I quit.  Well, I quit going to swim practice--I did not, by any means, quit eating junk food.

And so began my love-hate relationship with food.  I love to sit down with a book and a bag of chips.  I love curling up on the couch with a big bowl of ice cream to watch Glee.  I love getting to celebrate stuff with fatty, sugary foods.  And oh GOD, how I love brunch!  It is the king of all meals--breakfast AND lunch foods at the same time?  I hate, however, how quickly a few extra pounds start to smoosh onto my stupidly short body.  (It is SO not fair.  If I was 5'7" instead of 5'nothing, no one would notice the added poundage.)  So, I force myself to go the gym.  I figure I'm never going to have the will power to stop eating junk and start eating right, so instead I'll lessen the guilt with a few trips to the nearby YMCA.  Actually, I sort of took a break from the working-out to make more time for holiday eating.  Whoops.  As my Uncle Don would say, I'm "behind in my personal fitness program."  Translation:  I've been very fat and lazy lately.  But after my brief hiatus, I went back today for my first workout in over 2 months.  I am proud to say that not only did I stay on the treadmill for more than 10 minutes, but I even managed to squeak out a few sit-ups.

I think I'll celebrate with some ice cream....

You like me, you really like me!

For the past few weeks, I've been teaching a unit on shapes in my kindergarten class.  It's actually been really interesting--no, I'm serious!  If you don't believe me, then you seriously underestimate the mind of a 5 or 6 year old.  Which, incidentally, is why everyone writes off kindergarten as a joke, when in reality it's one of the most important and fascinating time in a child's education.  Anyway, my point is that last night, due to my expertise in procrastination (a talent which I've been perfecting since the 6th grade), I was suddenly faced with writing up a whole Unit of lessons in one night.  I have to say, I was a little worried that I wouldn't be able to pull it off.  Luckily, my trusty last-minute writing skills from college kicked in, and I banged out all 8 lessons in 2 hours AND I got to watch the first half of the Oscars*.  Not too shabby.

Now, it just so happens that my dormant ability to work well under pressure reemerges at the perfect time, cause guess what?  I got accepted to Boston College's Lynch School!  Yay me!  For those of you who don't know, the Lynch School is a well established Education graduate school, and I was particularly interested because they offer a program in Early Childhood Education.  I think it would be a great experience, but what I really care about is that it's the only place that has accepted me so far.  I have been in limbo, waiting to hear from the schools I applied to, so just to get into one is such a relief.  

So that pretty much made my day.  Of course, as I was gushing on and on about how happy I was to my dad, he immediately replied, "Well appreciate the good feeling now, cause eventually it's gonna go downhill again."  Gee, thanks dad for those uplifting words of advice.  Actually, I totally agree with him.  I just keep waiting for my apartment to flood, or my car to get a flat, or something.  I'm not used to all this happiness.  It's creeping me out.

*I have to say, I was totally underwhelmed by the Oscars this year.  The jokes were particularly corny (Damn/Dame Judy Dench?).  And why was George Clooney so angry at the beginning? And Avatar didn't win Best Picture.  But hey, The Cove won Best Documentary!  Go to Sandshack's blog to read more about this amazing movie.  

Mr. Clean, eat your heart out!

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I am a notoriously messy person.  It doesn't matter the size of my living space--I am guaranteed to fill it with crap.  I think it's a sickness.  Lately, it's gotten out of hand.  There are clothes all over my apartment, in laundry hampers, on the couch, on my bed, hanging off the backs of chairs.  I also have a cat, and for all you non-pet owners, animals shed.  a lot.  So when you walk through my living room, the clouds of stuff that you kick up?  That would be cat hair.  Oh, and come into my dining room, why don't you?  Oh, you didn't realize it was a dining room?  That's probably because you couldn't see the dining room table under the mounds of magazines and mail.  Like I said, I think it's a sickness.


...until this weekend.  I finally broke down and called my mom, who can clean anything.  (Her mother, my grandmother is the same way.  I'm hoping there's a "clean" gene in our family, and that it kicks in soon.)  The great thing about my mom is that when she saw the state of my apartment, she didn't utter one word of horror or disgust.  Instead, she just squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and dove right in.  Of course, I did my best to keep up with her, but I was soon left behind.  Like an amateur trying to play with the pros.  It took us (and by us, I largely mean my mother) all weekend, but by lunch time today, it was like a brand new apartment.  And I gotta tell you, I feel better.  I don't feel as if I'm about to have a panic attack.  I'm not coughing up hair balls.  And I actually rediscovered about half of my wardrobe that I thought was missing.


So the lesson learned today, folks, is that a clean apartment is a happy apartment.  (For now.)

are you there god? it's me, andrea...

Lately, I've been feeling full of teen angst. When I looked into the mirror today, a former version of myself--a pimply, chubby girl with glasses and brightly-colored braces--stared back at me. And with the adolescent exterior comes the self-conscious, awkward, sad inner feelings of a middle-school dork. Trust me when I say that middle school was not kind to me. I still carried a lot of my baby fat, and I had yet to discover the magic of contacts, so I was cursed with coke-bottle glasses. And because someone upstairs has a horribly mean sense of humor, I was forced to sport a painful set of braces for most of 7th and 8th grade. But hey, I could choose to color my smile highlighter yellow or Pepto Bismol pink! Lucky me! To top it all off, I had no idea how to deal with my hair. I am endowed with thick, curly hair. If styled correctly, it can result in beautiful ringlets that gently spill down my shoulders. I have never styled my hair correctly. Sure, over the years I have managed a sort of truce with my hair: I agree to use copious amounts of spray and moose and gel and cream, and my hair agrees to look a little less like I'm a character in "Where the Wild Things Are." Needless to say, this was not the case in middle school. I was hopeless to gain control of my unruly curls, and so I sported a frizzy mess every day.

Perhaps due to these many handicaps, I was painfully shy. I would slink down the hallways, trying to be invisible as I enviously stared through my magnifying glasses at the girls who had (at the ripe age of 13) already sprouted boobs. I would self-consciously cross my arms over my mosquito bites and fantasize that the next day I would wake up and suddenly need to trade my training bra in for something from Victoria's Secret. It never happened. And I would wishfully look at the fashionable and expensive clothes that the cool girls wore, while I trod along in my Sketchers shoes and hoped that no one noticed I bought my clothes from Hechts.

You know, I just remembered why I love the movie Sixteen Candles so much. I am Samantha Baker. Boob insecurities, cool-girl jealousy, and unruly hair included! Of course, my uncomfortable and awkward teen experience didn't end up with me sitting on a table kissing the ultimate cool boy while the candles on my birthday cake burn underneath us. Man, I wish my life was a John Hughes movie. Anyway, even though my middle school years (and to be honest, most of my high school years as well) didn't turn out happily ever after, I did finish 12th grade on a pretty high note. It had taken a long time, but I finally snagged my Jake. I started dating a guy from the cool group (a JOCK even!) in the second semester of my senior year. While everyone else had relegated me to a wall accessory, one boy decided to take notice. One day in US History class, I looked at him across the room and he smiled at me. And I got lost in that smile. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a beautiful mouth. (Oh my god, I think I might have an oral fixation....)

Just to let you know, I am still dating that same boy. We've been together for over 6 years. (And a big SCREW YOU to those who doubted we'd last more than 6 months.) About a year into dating, I asked him why he became interested in me, the quiet bookworm who never went to any of the high school parties, never put a toe out of line, never had an illicit swig of beer. Basically, why did he pick a freak like me? And do you know what he said? He and I had an 11th grade chemistry class together (a whole year before we started dating!!!) and he sat in the seat behind me every day. (I'm ashamed to admit that I don't even remember him being in that class.) He said that every day he would spend chemistry class looking at the back of my head, because he liked MY HAIR. The same frizzy mess that caused me so much angst in middle school turned out to be the catalyst to the greatest relationship of my life. How's that for a twist? So God, if you're out there, I guess I gotta say thanks. You didn't make it easy, but in the end, it all worked out for the best.

You know you're a kid of the 90s if...

I am seriously nostalgic right now. I was babysitting two little girls today, and out of nowhere I made a fist on of the girls' heads, bumped it with my other fist and said, "crack an egg on your head and let the yolk run down." Now come on, who doesn't remember that game you used to play with your friends on a hot summer day, sitting on the side of the local community pool?

So today, when I started the rhyme, I tried to keep going, but I couldn't remember the rest of it (god, I sound like such an old, Alzheimer-ridden grandma) so I decided to google it. Well, of course it turns out that there are like a hundred different variations of this game, which incidentally is called "Concentration." And by the way, you know what I totally forgot? That a part of the game is you chanting "people are dying, children are crying." What kind of sick game were we all playing?! I think I was the ripe old age of 8 when I played this game and there I was, happily yelling about death and despair for all to hear.

Anyway, the point is that in my efforts to find the words to "Concentration" led me to this website that glances over some of the popular fads of the 90s. And I swear to God, it's like they pulled this list directly from my childhood. I mean, what little girl didn't have an Easy Bake Oven?! Oh my god, and do you remember when Gelly shoes were popular? Although why we thought they were the best thing to put on your feet, I'll never know, because whenever you put them on your feet went from clean and dry to sweaty and smelly in less to 4.6 seconds. There are so many relics of my youth that, as I look back in my wizened age, I shake my head in confusion. Why was it so important to keep a giga pet alive? I think I pulled out most of my hair in a stress-induced haze during my giga pet months. (Incidentally, I was obviously not ready to care for another living creature--I think I killed 60 giga pets in the span of 2 months.) And who decided that the macarena was a cool dance to do in public? And remember those bracelets that started out straight, and you had to slap them onto your wrist to make them curl around your arm? All of the girls in my third grade class went around with giant welts on their wrists for weeks---but look at the jazzy bracelets!

It was all so long ago, and while I now scoff at some of the crazier fads from the 90s, I can't help but feel a tiny glimmer of warm, fuzzy feelings as I look back on my early years. Things were so much easier when it was all about the Spice Girls and Saved by the Bell and Sega. Why can't we go back to those simpler times?

Maybe I should give Craigslist a try...

I have a problem with my roommate....she's a bitch. Yeah, I said it, but let me explain why, and you'll see that I am completely justified in my harsh words.

1. We constantly get into cat-fights. I mean claws out, slaps to the face, the whole nine yards. She stares at me with her hateful glare, and then next thing I know, I'm getting attacked.

2. She spends most of the day sleeping and eating, and yet when I come home from a long day at work, she's right there at the door whining at me. Do I wish I could have her life, lying in the sun all day? Yes, but do you hear me complaining about it? NO. So LAY OFF.

3. She wakes me up every morning for breakfast, since apparently she's a princess, and if she's awake and wants breakfast that means that I also have to be awake. Oh, and she's not at all subtle about it. Usually, she'll knock all my stuff off my bedside table, knowing that the loud crashes will manage to disturb my peaceful slumber. But she really went overboard the other day when she SAT ON MY FACE. I mean, the indignity of it! Ridiculous....

Oh, didn't I mention that she's a cat? Yeesh, people, get a grip. Who do you know that goes around sitting on people's faces? You know what, don't answer that... My point is that I'm stuck with this cat, and she's driving me insane. But I can't get rid of her, because if I did I would be totally alone in my apartment. What would I do with myself? At least she provides some sort of interaction with another living thing. Otherwise I'd probably end up with some weird psychological disorder, like those people you see on tv who hoard everything they've ever owned and they can't even live in their house because it's overrun with junk. I won't do it! So, I guess I must resign myself to dealing with this bitchy, whiny, spoiled cat. Sigh.