Wednesday, December 02, 2009

My thoughts on umbrellas

Living in Florida, rain can happen at any time.  A perfectly sunny afternoon can turn into a wet, muddy, hell within minutes.  Sneaky thunderstorms explode over Tallahassee with little to no warning and innocent class goers are constantly being caught off guard.  One thing they always tell incoming freshman is "ALWAYS CARRY AN UMBRELLA!"  And its true.  I always have one.  I have one of those little ones that folds up into a convenient little sausage to keep in my back pack just in case.  But when I leave the house in the morning knowing I'm in for a torrential downpour, I bring my BIG ASS pink umbrella.  Its one of those umbrellas that could keep a small African tribe dry in a monsoon.  Not the most convenient thing, but its much more useful than my little umbrella for one good reason: it actually keeps me dry.

So today we had a LOT of rain.  An entire street was shut down by police on campus because of flooding and the front yard of my sorority house was nearly completely drowned.   See picture.

Alright, but anyway...I am thinking about writing a letter to the umbrella makers, whoever they are, to complain about the unpracticalness of these micro umbrellas people are carrying around.  Yes I understand their convenience but REALLY, unless the rain is being dropped from a baby cherub's eyes, there is no chance of one of those keeping you dry.  I don't think they take into account how smart rain is.  It comes at varying speeds and frequencies and is even in cahoots with the wind, developing a way to come in and attack its prey SIDEWAYS.

I always see petite sorority girls battling with their umbrellas.  Everyone has had an umbrella turn inside out at some point and if that's not the most frustrating thing on the planet I don't know what is.  Whenever it happens, first you get embarrassed.  You're like..."oh shit I hope nobody saw that."  But then you're like, "oh well it happens to everyone." and move on from embarrassment to anger because now you are soaking wet with a broken umbrella and a mile left to walk.

So my suggestion is that the umbrella makers start using REINFORCED steel in umbrellas to avoid the frequent flipping of these contraptions.  I also suggest that they come up with a way to make them just as small and easy to store, but somehow when they are opened have the wingspan of a pterodactyl. 


Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Prose Poem for poetry class!

When You Forget How to Remember

Gram tells stories that trail off, fading faster than echoes yelled from the edge of a cliff.  “I knew a girl named Norma, she never wore pearls and the kitchen.”  Gram is backlit by a pool of early afternoon sunlight seeping in through the half closed blinds.  “When I met Roger he still had hair,” she says from the wide floral armchair under the window.  The narrow room makes her seem small, her delicate shoulders and slender neck silhouetted against the light.  The warm scent of butterscotch and chamomile tea hangs thick in the air, floating from the kitchen down the hall.  One of Gram’s nurses is preparing a snack.  A stranger in white opens the door to the drawing room and Gram’s mind leaves again.  She doesn’t remember reading me fairytales about trolls or billy goats or princesses.  She doesn’t remember sending me postcards from Rome or Paris or California.  She doesn’t remember where she bought the antique pie chest I will inherit one day.  One last hug and I am told to leave.  Her lucidity is fleeting even on her good days. I will eventually forget too.  I will forget how she used to bake cornbread on cool November nights.  I will forget her white seersucker shirt splattered with red sauce, the smell of her perfume mixed with garlic and how I used to see my reflection in the locket she gave my mother.  I am a stranger to her the same as everyone.

Sunday, November 15, 2009


Picnic tables on campus are full of advice.

  • PEACE...lives
  • Dichotomous = Dangerous
  • You can't have hate when you're in love, for real love has not hate, only peace.
  • Fake your courage, pretend your apathy, caring is for wimps.
  • I believe in Harvey Dent.
  • Why is bacon?
  • Everything you do may seem insignificant.
  • 420 --> Hitler, Columbine & POT.
  • I loved Matt while he loved another.
  • In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong to heal the wounds from lovers past until a new one comes along. - Katy Polk '09.
  • King Kong died for your sins.
  • Be kinder than neccessary.  Everyone you meet is fighting a battle.
  • When you doubt yourself you are no longer living the life that was promised you.  You are slowly giving your life away.
  • I want to be Donatello.  Not the artist, the ninja turtle. - SC.
  • FUCK what people think, it does not matter.
  • (someone scribbled under it: Yes is does, that's what social interactions are based on).
  • My friends think smoking weed is horrible just 'cause they don't understand how I feel when I'm high.
  • I don't really believe in religion.  I'm Roman Catholic.
  • Science attempts to explain in a way that everyone will understand something that no one knew before.  Poetry is the opposite.  - Dirac
  • Feminism frees women and men.
  • I love him.  He loves me.  We are one.
  • Every second a flower blooms.
  • There's always a siren singing you to shipwreck.  Don't reach out.
  • Jesus was plagiarised.
  • The things you own will eventually own you.  -Chuck.
  • I pray you let me see what is right in this world.
  • For every border there exists a bridge.
  • Hamlet, RIP.  My gangster, my dog.
  • Horatio Rules.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Things I Do Not Understand

1. People with 24524523 stuffed animals in the back window of their car.  Seriously.  WHY?  Like at any moment while driving you will suddenly have the urge to cuddle with a sun-faded tweety bird?  And I promise, that sideways scooby doo is NOT going to scare off any car-jackers.  Is there some sort of magnet in certain peoples' cars that just attracts 25 cent vending machine stuffed animals and forces them to congregate in the back window?  Whenever I get behind one of these treasures of the open road, I can't help but stare and try to imagine where each stuffed animal came from.  There should be a special A&E spin off of the show "Hoarders".  It would be called, "Hoarders: Ford Taurus edition".  Or even MTV could do a documentary, "True Life: My rear view mirror is useless because I have too many worthless plush toys in my window".

2. Why everything in the world is touchscreen now.  Yeah, I get that touchscreen was the best thing since sliced bread when it first came out, but now its kind of annoying.  EVERYTHING is becoming touch screen.  Phones.  Automated ticketing things.  Those Blockbuster movie rental kiosks in Publix.  The credit card swipey signature things.  Everything! Like seriously America, are we too good to push buttons now?

3. One way streets. Honestly? Because driving on campus isn't stressful enough with all the pedestrian dogdging...

4. Genetics. Why is that girl naturally skinny and I'm not?

and a myriad of other things but my head hurts now.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

There is a reason

 not everyone is a novelist.

That is really all I have to say.  I have been struggling to churn out my latest short story.  And I have come to the realization that good writing is hard to create and that there is definitely a reason why not everyone is a successful novelist.  I mean, excluding celebrities who are allowed to publish books based solely on the fact that they are famous and not that they have any literary merit (e.g. Lauren Conrad).

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Sewing a Pattern

I recently bought a sewing machine so that I could make myself a halloween costume.  It inspired me to make something else, so I went to Joann Fabrics and picked out a pattern.  I bought the fabric I wanted and everything and went home ready to whip this thing up. HA!

Patterns are not easy, especially if you are easily frustrated.

I meticulously cut out all of the peices (TWICE, because my garment is reversible).  Then I flipped over the page to the step by step instructions.  That's when my head exploded.  I called it a night.  So yesterday I went back to it with motivation to finish.  The package misleadingly says "sewing time: 2 hours."  WHAT A BUNCH OF HULLABALLOO! Took me all freaking day to make this.  And then I had to rip the seam of one of my sleeves because I stiched it inside out. My needle broke once and a couple of times I forgot to put the guide foot down so things went a little haywire.  I was ready to take a hammer to the damn machine.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Is it Christmas yet??

Christmas; a modified Villanelle

Christmas means red and green,
the scuffling of tiny feet on hardwood floors
and shiny ornaments that reflect the light
from the blinking bulbs on the Christmas tree,

and sugar sprinkles melting on cookies
next to the glass of milk that waits for Santa,
and listening for the sounds of reindeer hooves all night.
Christmas means red and green,

 and sitting on the couch warm and toasty
in front of the fire that burns hot
on frost nipped fingers and wiggling toes
while the light bulbs twinkle on the Christmas tree,

and hidden presents and popcorn strings
and dreaming about everything Santa might bring
While Sinatra sings, “…merry and bright…”
Christmas means red and green,

snow on the windowpanes melting
and steaming hot chocolate with marshmallows as white
as Santa’s beard and wide smile,
and the blinking bulbs on the Christmas tree,

and waking up to the smell of turkey
on the type of morning when the cold feels right.
Because Christmas means red and green
and light bulbs blinking on the Christmas tree.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Is it hot in here?

No, I didn't forget about you...because I know you were all worried that you'd read your last post!

I bring you...Some Things I Love About Tally (a very condensed list)
  • I love that Tally doesn’t acknowledge the seasons.  When the rest of the country is enjoying the deep reds and fiery oranges of the changing leaves, here in Tallahassee we are going to the pool and hosting slip’n’slides in our yards.  I love those first few days of “winter”, when it drops below 60 in the mornings and by noon all of the chill has left the air.
  • I love that FSU is the ONLY team. Sorry, FAMU.  You don't count.  Even though you are doing WAY better than we are this season.  I mean, except for the few ignorant Miami fans that migrated north to escape the illegal immigrants, and minus the scattered Gator fans that are so stupid that they got lost, set up shop in Tally, and didn’t realize they weren’t in the Swamp until it was too late, Florida State is the only team that matters.  Of course there are the people that claim that they don’t care about football.  They are liars and so called "non conformists" so they don't really matter either.
  • I love the slow, southern speech and the fact that most of my professors would rather be reading Faulkner and sipping mint juleps than teaching me about literature.
  • I love that by driving a mere 15 minutes I can go from the crazy campus ragefest to my quiet suburban bliss (when my neighbors aren’t making my life hell, that is).  And you know what? I love that my 80 year old neighbor thinks that she has mail so important that she berates us about not blocking the mailbox.  And I love that my other neighbors are socially awkward and rude.  And I also love that my newest neighbors in the house behind me enjoy honking their horns in the middle of the night and rolling up with Lil Wayne or 50 Cent blasting through the speakers in their trunk.  I think they might have speakers in their 75 inch rims, too.  Whooaaaaa did the mood of this post suddenly change?

Monday, September 28, 2009

I'm an 80 year old misanthrope too

Almost everyone has to deal with their neighbors eventually.  Usually it happens much later in life.  I, however, moved into a neighborhood where I not only have to deal with my neighbors, but a homeowner's association, too.  The icing on the cake is that not only is one of my neighbors certifiably INSANE, but she is also on the board of directors for the HOA.  AWESOME.

Anyway, for some time now we have been battling with my neighbor about PARKING.  I live in a 3 bedroom house with two roommates and occasionally my boyfriend when he's in town.  So, that's 3 people, 3 cars, except when Chris is in town, 4 cars.  I park in the garage and Chris usually parks in the back of the house on MY yard.  Gabbi and the other roommate whose name is also Chris, park in front of the house on the road.  Sometimes, due to overcrowding in the neighborhood (my other neighbors also have a full house and sometimes encroach on our parking area) Gabbi and Chris have to park in front of our mailbox.

ANYWAY, numerous times we've come outside to find notes left on the windshields asking us to not block the mailbox (our mailbox is right next to the insane board of directors HOA old lady neighbor's mailbox.)  Her reason?  She says the mailman won't deliver the mail if the mailbox is blocked.

So my first qualm with this is the fact that her argument is COMPLETELY NOT TRUE.  We spoke to the mailman personally, and he said that even if there was an angry alligator blocking the mailbox, he would still deliver the mail.  Not in those exact words, but the point is he can't just not deliver the mail because there's a car there.  HE HAS TO DELIVER THE DAMN MAIL. 

We told crazy neighbor lady this but she wouldn't have any of it and said she plans to still leave notes about us blocking the mailbox.  Anyway, this has been quite a saga, and qualm number 2 = even if someone else's car who has nothing to do with anyone in my house is blocking her effing mailbox, she'll find a way to complain to us about it.  Because she is 80 years old and apparently has REALLY IMPORTANT mail EVERY SINGLE DAY.

I wrote a sonnet about it and I am going to share it with you now.

Do Not Block the Mailbox
A sonnet for the crazy lady next door who has nothing better to do than whine about where we park

Another note on yellow paper lay
with two words, “Do Not,” underlined in black
stuck on my windshield yesterday
from a neighbor acting without much tact.
All “i's” were dotted with ink harsh and crass,
the “s’s”, slimy and offending, snaked
right off the page into my garden’s grass.
As if she does nothing else all day,
She leaves these letters for the “mailman’s sake”
but I have other things to think about
than her petty neighborhood power play.
I won’t wage this battle day in and out.

She can’t claim to own this whole stretch of road,
yet she started a war with just one note.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Do you smell that?

I'm feeling anti-creative today so I am going to compile two lists of smells for you. =)

Smells I HATE:
1. Wet peanut buttter
2. The elevator in Diffenbaugh
3. The boy who sits next to me in Southern Literature
4. Batteries
5. The water in the drinking fountains on campus
6. Stuffing at Thanksgiving/Christmas
7. Burned Popcorn

Smells I OUGHT to hate but don't:
1. Gasoline
2. Exhaust
3. Wet paint
4. Burning leaves
5. Plastic

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

You know who you are

Dear Pen Borrowers AKA My least favorite type of THEIF,

I like you just about as much as I like people who can’t function without coffee in the morning.  (That's a WHOLE nother blog.) (Is "nother" a word?) (Should it be that's a whole other blog?) ANYWAY

Just curious, but is there a sign hovering above me that says, “Yes, I have an extra pen and SURE you can steal it.”? There must be.  At least once a week a stranger asks me if I have an extra writing utensil.  Immediately I try to visualize the contents of my bag, struggling to remember if I have a pen that I wouldn’t mind losing forever.  Sometimes I happen to have a hotel pen that I acquired at some point and wouldn’t mind never seeing again.  Sometimes I say, “yes” out of the kindness of my heart and watch helplessly as you pack up your things at the end of class and walk away with my property.  Other times, especially when I’m in a bad mood, I say “no.”  Then I spend the rest of the class worrying if my backpack unzipped itself and exposed the 25 pens I lied about not having. 

What I am getting at here is something I think a lot of people have fallen victim to at your hands.  You pen borrowers show up late to class, sweaty and frazzled. 

“Man it’s humid out there!”  Yea, we know.

You disrupt the universe in a frenzy of disorganization.  “Gosh, it’s just really one of those days!”  Funny, EVERYDAY for me is one of those days and I still managed to show up on time and with something to write with.

Even if you’re on time, I always notice you before you even ask me.  You dig through your purse or backpack, pretending like you think you have something in there when you know damn well you DON’T.  You stop to see if anyone noticed and is going to offer you a pen.  You sigh and continue rummaging.  Finally you look for someone with a backpack, a backpack that looks full.  You think, “okay…no she never talks in class so she probably doesn’t have extras…he’s like 35 and creepy so I won’t ask him…that kid is drooling on his Metallica hoodie so he most likely won’t share anything with me…HER! Yea! She talks an average amount! She has a backpack AND a planner out on her desk.  She must have extras!” Then you start to turn in your desk and lean towards me across the aisle.  I hate when you lean. 

“Do you by any chance have an extra pen or pencil?” DAMNIT. YES I DO BUT I DON’T WANT YOU TO USE IT.

Sometimes I say yes without any planning or bag visualizing.  Then I rummage through my bag only to find that the only spare is my limited edition # 2 out 10, white gold pen with pure silver ink.  Well, I said I had an extra so I can’t change my mind now.  Of course, I don’t feel like writing with it today so instead of just switching my amazing pen for the one I already started using, I let you use the nice one.  THEN I REALIZE WHAT I’VE JUST DONE and it’s too late.

So I have decided that unless you are pregnant, dying, mentally disabled, Brad Pitt, God, or all of the above, then NO you cannot use my pen.

Now go drink your coffee before your head explodes.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Life with Bella...

Today I am putting off my homework. Bella and I are cozied up together in my bed. My overhead light is off, but the early afternoon sun is coming in through my curtains so the atmosphere in here is pretty nice. Since Bella is sitting right next to me I figured that today I would reminisce about the different things she has eaten in her 1.5 short years with me.

I think one of the first things she destroyed was the carpet in my room. The first day I had her I shut her in my bedroom when I left the house to go buy her crate + dog bed + food bowls and all the other fun things a puppy needs. 30 minutes later, I come home to hear the most pathetic whining sound I’ve ever heard and I can’t get my bedroom door open. Little miss angel face, all 25 lbs of her, peeled up all the carpet in front of my door. And not just a little. She had pulled it up so much that I couldn’t even open the door.

She has also managed to completely destroy her kennel. I knew she was going to get big so I got one of the largest kennels they sell. A German Shepherd can comfortably stand up in it. Anyway, baby girl must have some sort of hulk-esque strength because not only did she eat the thick plastic bottom that slides in to cover the wires, but the front on the kennel where it latches is completely deformed from where her puppy paws pulled at it trying to get out. You wouldn’t believe that a 4 month old puppy could do that sort of damage.
What kind of puppy does THAT?

I’ve had Bella for a year and a half now and she has pretty much stopped destroying things, but here is a condensed list of her history of demolition:

1. 2 remote controls – to the cable box and the DVD player
2. Her FSU jersey that a friend of mine bought for her.
3. 2 pairs of my shoes. Expensive shoes, of course.
4. A hat of Gabbi’s.
5. Countless pairs of my underwear. If I leave them anywhere she can reach them, she’s going to chew them to bits.
6. A few bras, too.
7. A new bathing suit from Victoria’s Secret.
8. Her toy basket.
9. More dog beds than I can count.
10. The area rug we had in the living room.
11. Throw blankets.
12. Gabbi’s photo bags.
13. One of Gabbi’s headbands.
14. An entire bottle of Ibuprofen.
15. 3 different leashes, 1 harness, and 2 collars.

Now, Bella is the love of my life and she makes me laugh every day, but DAMN is she a pain in the butt sometimes. Everyone seems to agree, however, that Bella is the coolest dog in the world. She knows shake and high five along with high ten. I taught her how to speak which I immediately regretted but it’s pretty cool most of the time. My personal favorite is “Bang!”. I shape my hand like a gun and yell bang and Bella drops to the floor and rolls over like she’s dead. And if it weren’t for her frantically wagging tail and the fact that she can’t sit still for more than a millisecond, it would actually be believable.

Bella ready for the FSU game yesterday, which we won!
FSU 54 BYU 28. 

Friday, September 18, 2009

You know I'm here, right?

I do not care about your oozing blister or how early your period is.  I don’t care if your boyfriend has a potassium deficiency or if your mother is on cocaine.  I don’t know you.  The only thing I know about you is that you are in my 9:30 AM class and, on the few days I actually arrive early, you are early too. You are ALWAYS on the phone and apparently have NO concept of volume control. 

I think it is a widely accepted notion that when there are only two or three people in a room and one person is having an VERY LOUD conversation on the phone, whoever is in earshot has nothing better to do than eavesdrop.  At least that is always the case with me.  If you are going to have a loud, PRIVATE conversation, I am going to listen.  And I am going to bitch about it later.  And don’t be all like, “Well, I’m not forcing you to listen to what I am talking about. You can just tune it out.”  No.  I’m sorry.  That is not how it works. 

The minute I hear your phone vibrate, all of my muscles tense up and I begin a little battle in my head.  “Is she going to answer it?  If she answers, is she going to stay in here and talk? No. She wouldn’t be that rude.  Of course she’ll go outside into the hallway?  Oh no. She’s digging in her bag.  Maybe it’s just an alarm she has to turn off.  Shit. She answered. Don’t make me pull a double Van Gogh!”  And then it begins.

I do not care how wasted you were last night or how many creepy guys were staring at you.  First of all, I am sure your vagina was hanging out and begging to be oogled so stop complaining and just accept the fact that if you dress like a slut, people are going to look at you like you are one.
I do not care about the Gyno appoitment you missed and then rescheduled and then went to hung-over.  I REALLY don’t care about the wart he found and I REALLY REALLY don’t care to hear you recount the 15 possibile men you could have gotten it from.

Seriously, people.  There are some conversations that other people are not meant to overhear.  I’m not sure if college just makes people not give a damn about who is privy to their sensitive information, but it seems like everywhere I go people (especially girls) are talking about this kind of stuff at an ear piercing volume. 

Keep it down, folks! I promise, your life is NOT that interesting.

Thursday, September 17, 2009


I hate classrooms. 
  • I hate the whole awkward, non-verbal assigned seating agreement that everyone seems to stick to by the second week.  What if I decide I don’t like sitting right by the door?  What if I decide that the girl who doesn’t shave her legs makes me uncomfortable and I want to move?  Well, moving is not allowed because as soon as you relocate to somebody else’s desk, the whole equilibrium of the class gets thrown off.  The teacher ALWAYS gets confused.
“Anna? Is Anna here?”
- “Yes I’m over here.”
“Oh, you moved.  Why’d you move? I was looking for you over there and now you’re over here and even though I’m a college professor for some reason I can’t comprehend why you would ever switch desks at a time like this!”

  • But at the same time I hate when someone else takes my assigned seat, especially if I’m running late.  I ‘m always thinking, “oh well at least I know where I’m going to sit.”  And then I walk in the door only to find Sally Spandex-wearing-skinny-bitch sitting in my seat.  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I’ve been sitting there every Tuesday and Thursday for the past month! 
  • I hate chalkboards and I think they should be illegal.
  • I hate that guy that always gets way too excited about certain assignments.  The guy that always raises his hand to read a poem aloud.  The guy that knows the answer to every question.  The guy who has a miniature party in his head and sometimes can’t help but clap when we have a quiz and he knows he got all the answers right.  The guy who wears button down shirts with white tennis shoes and ALWAYS brings his laptop. 
  • I hate when the teacher decides it’s a good idea to rearrange the desks.  IT’S NEVER A GOOD IDEA.  It takes five minutes to pack up all of the crap we already took out of our bags.  It takes another 5 minutes for 25 college students to figure out how to make a circle, and it takes another five minutes for 25 college students to figure out how to make a circle that everyone can fit in.  I hate when, once the desks have been arranged and we are all making awkward eye contact and hoping to God the teacher doesn’t notice that we didn’t bring the book, we have to sit there like a happy group of hippies meditating about the metaphors and similes in a poem.  There are rows for a reason.
  • I hate when teachers don’t know how to use the equipment like the overhead or the projector screen.  The students can do nothing but sit there and watch as some TA struggles to find the right switches for the lights. 

“Does anyone know how to work this stuff?”

I wonder if I’m the type of person people write hate blogs about?

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Our Kitchen

Our kitchen is magical. Let that sink in. Have you ever heard someone refer to a room of their house as magical? You don’t count if you or someone you know practices witchcraft. It’s like a magician died (Houdini, perhaps?) and then was accidently reincarnated as our cabinets, cutlery, and cookware. I’m serious. I used to say that our kitchen “eats” things, but now I have come to the unsettling realization that our kitchen possesses powers or is inhabited by something that does.

Why, you ask, would I come to such an insane conclusion? Simply because our kitchen, a seemingly innocent part of the house, where sweet muffins are made and cheese is kept fresh, can make things disappear without a trace. I mean if something, say a book or cookie sheet, even makes a stopover on the kitchen counter, there is a 40% (estimation) chance that it will never be seen again. Now I am not trying to imply that our kitchen is messy or cluttered and in fact, everything has its place. Save for a few dishes in the sink, the kitchen is generally tidy.

The first time I noticed that there was something odd at work was this last spring. I KNOW that when I moved in I had a cupcake tin. It held 6 cupcakes of average size and it always stayed in the cabinet to the left of the stove with the pizza stone and cooling rack. Now, I never really was a cupcake maker and I much prefer brownies, but one afternoon this past spring I had a hankerin’. You can imagine how upset I was to not find the cupcake tin in its designated home. I then proceeded to ransack the kitchen, uprooting pots and pans and displacing measuring cups and bowls. The tin was nowhere to be found.

I figured my roommate would know where it was, so when she got home I asked her. You know what she said?

“We have a cupcake tin?”

This made me even MORE mad. How long had it been gone and I didn’t even realize it?  She had moved in the previous fall and never seen the cupcake tin?

This was not an isolated occurrence. Since then, chip bag clips have gone missing. Tons of our Tupperware have mysteriously disappeared. My casserole dish vanished. Of course we never discovered any of this until the time came when we needed it and didn’t have it. I'm not sure whether the kitchen is evil or whether our kitchenware is conspiring against us.  I can see them now, the cupcake tin, caserole dish, and chip clips without bags frolicking down the aisles at Bed Bath and Beyond, teasing the boxed up wine glasses and shelves upon shelves of appliances.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

My legs are jell-o

I am terrified of the gym.  It's not so much the working out aspect - although I do find running in place for 30 minutes a scary notion. It's the idea of going to such a BIG place full of strange people and strange equipment and sweaty men.  How sheltered does that make me sound?  Wait for this one then...I'm soooo terrified that when I go to the gym and do squats with a measly ten pounds on my shoulders everyone in the whole place will automatically crane their necks to watch the stupid newby struggle to do some lunges.  Yes, I am well aware of how pathetic this all sounds.

Let me just tell you, after a very small amount of physical activity over the past two years, I have gotten disgustingly out of shape.  My usual volleyball regime that I followed in high school fell by the wayside while binge drinking and Guthries replaced it as soon as I got to college.  The result?  25 lbs and a not so cute belly pooch that I have had no idea what to do with up until now.  The point is, last week I signed up for a Gold's gym membership and TODAY was my first meeting with my trainer.  I feel obligated to tell you she is trying to kill me.  By the end of the second set of lunges my thighs were trembling and I thought that at any given moment I might collapse onto the floor into a pool of liquefied muscle.

My difficulties were only magnified by the 235257345 mirrors on the wall that can be seen from any corner of the two story establishment.  36 repetitions and 3 sets later when, in my opinion it was time for a nap, little miss trainer lady took me over to a machine that at first glance looked like some sort of torture device.  After a thousand butt clenches and a gallon of sweat, we went into a smaller side room with even MORE MIRRORS.  What is it with gyms and mirrors?  Are gym goers really the vainest people on Earth?  Anyway, we did crunches and some awkward medicine ball routine and then it was over.

"Well, we're done for today. I have another client at 5:30"

"Oh, okay! Well thanks for meeting with me.  I'm going to waddle out of here while me knees give out from underneath me every other step! See ya next week!"
She said something else about protein shakes and drinking my weight’s worth in water every day but I was too busy thinking about the extra strength Tylenol waiting for me at home to really hear what she was saying.  Before I left, though, she did give me a list of foods I am supposed to eat.  Anyone who knows me will understand how distraught I am when I tell you that CHEESE is not one of those foods.

Daily Pic!
From my trip to Prague with my Dad last summer.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

About Anna

I'm Anna.  I'm a 28-year-old day dreamer, weekend adventurer, and compulsive snacker. I live my life by this simple philosophy: life is too short to be anything but fat and happy.  I'm sarcastic, optimistic, and awkward in unfamiliar social situations.  I hate the word "hence."  I am a staunch advocate of the Oxford comma. I dabble in photography and creative writing, enjoy spending my time on the fringes of reality, laughing at inappropriate junctures, Mexican food, and run-on sentences.  I'm a graduate of Florida State University with an English/Creative Writing degree.  We live in Virginia now, but I remain a die-hard 'Noles fan and live for football season.  I am currently a graduate student at Syracuse University.
"Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives." - C.S. Lewis
I am married to Mike, a hunky Sheriff's Deputy turned Fire Inspector who happens to be eight years my senior.  To read more about him, click here. To read more about our wedding, click here.  We have five babies (all of the fur variety) Bella the mutt, Boomer the Lab, Buffalo the cat (RIP), Moose the cat and Biscuit the cat.  
Our lives, with all their miracles and wonders, are merely a discontinuous string of incidents - until we create the narrative that gives them meaning. 
When tasked with naming my one true passion, I will always choose writing.  Oddly enough, outside of these blog posts, I do not write nearly as much as I'd like.  Second to writing comes photography, a lot of which is featured on this site.

This is my blog about life, love, photography, and frivolity from somewhere in between adolescence and senility. 


On doing my laundry

It's Sunday and the piles of laundry on my floor have led me to believe that my carpet has gone on vacation. It has up and left, taking refuge in either the Bahamas or perhaps a hardwood floor store. These piles start at the door to my bedroom and form mountains between the foot of my bed and bathroom door. There is even a small one forming in my "walk-in" closet, although it's really more of a "step-in, turn around, step-out" closet.

I'm not sure when my hatred of laundry formed, but it probably just stems from my general laziness and apathy towards household chores. I do love vacuuming, though. I would vacuum the carpet everyday if there was any proof that I actually have a carpet.

But today I have decided to do my laundry. I am sick of having to leap over piles of clothes to get to the bathroom or the computer desk. These hills of whites and darks and colors have turned walking around my room into a sport. One hop to the left, leap to the right, forward jump over the pile of tie-dyed shirts, catapult myself using the footboard, and all the while attempting to not knock over any of the ambiguously arranged mounds.

So this morning I started. Actually, I started this afternoon around 2:00, but considering that I didn't wake up until about noon, 2:00 still felt like morning. First I washed my sheets. Bella, the dog/in house toy destroyer, has become fond of cuddling up at the place on the bed where the pillows meet the sheets and a thin layer of black hair has collected in the spot where she lays. They are now in the dryer and I am anxiously awaiting that obnoxious buzzer so that I can make my bed and take my first load of darks out of the washer.

Let me just tell you, laundry day has always been a long process for me. When I lived in the dorms on campus, I didn't do laundry until well into the first semester, maybe sometime around Halloween. The first thing that is frightening about this is the fact that I have enough clothes to last me that long without washing anything. The second thing that is frightening about this is that when the time came to wash my stuff, I can honestly say that I occupied nearly an entire row of washers and dryers in the building's laundromat. Sorry about that, guys. It's safe to estimate that I used an entire box of dryer sheets that day. And so the cycle began. (no pun intended?)

Freshman year I did laundry maybe four times. At Christmas I took some dirty clothes home for my mom to tackle. Spring break, too. Sophomore year was better because I moved into my house and had easy access to a private washer and dryer. Did I do more laundry? No. But it was less of a hassle when I actually got around to it. However, this also enabled my room to transform into a certifiable disaster area. In the dorm, I couldn't spread my crap out all over the universe because I had to respect my roommate's area. Here at the house, I can put my stuff wherever I feel like so that means my room turns into a dirty clothes graveyard until I muster up the motivation to do something about it.

It is going to be a lifelong saga of room cleaning and sheet washing. As soon as all of my clothes are washed and put away, it comes time to get dressed in the morning for classes. I stand in my closet, hands on my hips, surveying the hangers among hangers of perfectly acceptable garb, not wanting to wear any of it. Try on a shirt. Take it off. Throw it on the floor. I'm running late, after all. Pair of shorts after pair of shorts after pair of shorts. Finally find an outfit. Look disastisfyingly into the full length mirror, spritz of Marc Jacobs perfume, flip flops on, out the door. Meanwhile, Bella is still sleeping, but now she comfortably snoozes atop a pile of perfectly clean clothes in the place between my closet and my bed. Tomorrow, it will all start again.

My mom always argues that if you clean up as you go, it only takes about 5 minutes. I can see her logic, but it has never worked for me, mainly because I refuse to do it. So I will remain a laundry hater. It will always take me hours and hours to do a few months worth of dirty clothes. People will ooh and aah over the amount of clothes that I have and how messy my room can become in a matter of seconds and a flurry of outfit changes.

Gotta go -
buzzer is calling for me!

Below: my room! $10 to the first person who finds the carpet! haha. There is even laundry in my hammock swing!

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