Breakfast cereal of my heart!

Dear Cereal Flakes,

Why do you hate me when I show you nothing but love? You are my favorite cereal shape! Even more than hearts and stars and alpha-bits, or whatever.

I even went back to eating you after that disastrous summer when Shadow had that awful skin condition where her skin was flaking off in sheets, and someone (it may have been Matt) commented on how much her skin-flakes looked like Frosted Flakes. I moved on from that!

How come, then, when all I want to do is drown you in milk to better enjoy your crunchy flakiness, you insist on throwing that milk back at me? It gets all over the counter, and on the bottom of the bowl! It gets on my bathrobe, which I just washed and which is kind of getting ratty from all the washings. Why can't you just accept the milk? It's a part of your heritage!

In conclusion, please accept the milk with dignity and grace, or I will have to begin eating various O's.

Your BFF,

Raych

Panic!

Does anyone ever sit there, frantically typing and re-typing your password, all 'No! No! The email address and password I have entered do match!'

Effing caps lock key.

Bebes

Ok, I know, right? I had five days off school. I had SO much time to sit on here and blather about what I was doing. But I haven't been doing anything. I mean, I've been reading (check out ye olde book blog for proof), and I've been writing papers, but literally two whole days went by when I didn't stir my ass from my big red chair, except to go to the kitchen and to go to sleep.

P.S. - How awful is it trying to go to sleep when you've only burned, like 60 calories all damn day? And then you get into bed and try to turn off your brain, but your body is lying there all 'How is this different from what I've been FOR THE LAST 12 HOURS?'

H'anyvays, yesterday I did stuff. I went to look after my friends' kid, Jared, who totally thinks I'm the best non-relative adult-person he's ever had (which means that he likes everyone he's related to, everyone baby, and everyone non-person, i.e. our landlords' dog, Keisha, better than me. But I'm next). And I'm thinking that this'll cure my baby-craving, but Jared is awesome. He's sitting there laughing his little baby ass off because I'm making noises, and then he reaches up and pats my cheek softly the way that just-about-toddlers do, because they've just realized that you're a separate person from them. And then we chatter over his butternut squash, and it doesn't matter that I speak only English while he speaks only Martian, because we think we're so funny, and I'm thinking to myself, I've got to get me one of these.

And then I come home, and I'm reading We Need to Talk About Kevin (editorial aside: just about the worst book ever) and this woman has this child and it's this little monster, and it squalls and mewls and pukes and shrieks, and refuses to be comforted, and then when her husband comes home the baby's all snuggly and lets itself be soothed, but over his shoulder it's looking at her all, 'That's right, bitch. Who's he going to believe? Crabby, milk-leaking, unshowered you? Or helpless, soft, bitty me.' And it's horrifying. It's actually the reason I might keep reading this awful, pretentious book, because I'm so terrified and outraged by the way this infant is intentionally coming between this woman and her husband. It's chilling. And I feel like I've read a book like this before, where the innocent little child would be all hell-spawny except when other people were around, and everyone thought this lady was crazy. Anyone? Help me out?

So, I guess I don't need to be smooching fat little almost-toddler babies to get my fix. I just need to re-read this last chapter, over and over. Because shit, what if that happens to me?

Eeks.

Catching up on my correspondence

Dear Spring,
I know, technically, you don't get here until Friday, but I just wanted to say thanks so much for sticking your head in a bit early, just to say 'hello.' I plan on wearing a skirt to school today, and flip flops, unless that awful bitch Winter comes back.

Dear UCFV Weight Room Maintenance Guy
Please stop waiting until another cardio machine breaks before you fix the one that is currently broken. As I'm sure you're aware, spring is in the offing, and short pants are returning, and bikini season is only a blink away. By which I mean, everyone with back-fat is in the gym, all the time, and we need two functioning treadmills.

Dear Earthworm,
I know that spring is nearly here, and that you are, in many ways, a symbol of spring (largely in that the returning robin red-breasts eat you) but please get out of my living room. You do not belong here. You do not pay rent.

Dear Spider in the Bathroom,
Ditto Earthworm, but with more screaming.

Dear Papers,
Please write yourselves. I need to go sit in the sun for a while.

Things to pass your day

Try the Great Lyrics Quiz. I sucked at it.

Come-uppance

If I've talked to you on the phone or seen you in person in the last week, I've already told you this story, but I'm throwing it out here because it needs to be told. And heard. And choked on a little bit.

So, a friend of mine's brother's friend's parents were on vacation in...Whistler, I think. Irrelevant. They were gone for a few weeks, so they hired a girl to look after their house and their really, really old dog.

The dog dies.

The girl phones the couple up, and she's feeling terrible, but the couple's all, It's alright, we figured that might happen, she was old, and all that. But we don't really want her hanging around and rotting, so would you mind taking her to the vet and having her...disposed of? I'm not really sure what vets do with dead dogs. Maybe they stuff them and take them home for their kids. Who knows.

H'anyvays, the girl feels so bad that she agrees, no problem, except that there is a problem. She doesn't have a car. And you can't exactly take a dead dog on public transit.

So she packs the dog into a suitcase, brilliant fix, and heads off to ye olde vet. She's sitting on the bus with the suitcase next to her, but it's creeping her out, so at the next stop she stands up to put the suitcase in the overhead compartment.

But there's a dead dog in it, so it's heavy and awkward. This guy sees that she's having trouble, so he gets up and offers to help. He also notices that the suitcase is heavy and awkward, and says something along the lines of, This is pretty heavy and awkward. What's in it?

She doesn't know what to say, so she says, Um...a set of computer speakers.

So the guy grabs the suitcase and runs off the bus.

!!!!!!!!!

Hilariousment.

The ass-less cleaning elf

Giving the house a full, deep-down clean is so cathartic, and you find so many great pairs of earrings that you'd forgotten you had, that I wonder why I don't do it more often, and then I remember that, oh yes, it's work. And I'm lazy.

But every once in a while, a girl gets a jonesin' to clean things. I dusted today, people. I got on my HANDS AND KNEES and scrubbed the kitchen floor! Ok, for reals though, our kitchen floor is about four feet by four feet. So we're talking thirty seconds work, here. But on my HANDS AND KNEES! I vacuumed! The last time Joel vacuumed, a piece fell out of the vacuum and we didn't know where to put it back. Today I found out that, fortunately, that was the piece that had kept the head from pivoting up and down, which in turn was what had kept me from vacuuming more often because how irritating is that. Unfortunately, that was also the piece that kept the top plastic bit ON the head, so it kept popping off and then the brush would jump out and I would scream a little.

In related news, I think I'm losing my ass. I used to do lunges around my section at Red Robin on slow nights, and Sabrina would tell me that I was really just melting off what little ass I had, but I'm sure it worked because all my pants stayed up in those days. I have this great pair of dark jeans that I love, but whenever I sat down they would creep their way south and my little bum crack would peek out. So I bought a belt. The other day, I was rushing to the bathroom and, realizing that I didn't have time to undo my belt AND pants, just slipped the whole deal down over my no-hips. I didn't used to be able to do this. There was a point when I had sufficient ass to hold up my pants. Today, as I bustled around cleaning, my LuLu Lemon pants (which are TOtally supposed to be a brassiere for your behind) were hanging on for dear life.

I asked Joel when he got home if he thought my ass was disappearing. He pulled his head out of the fridge long enough to reply, 'You didn't know?' and then to ask if we had chips. This is the kind of man I married, the kind who wouldn't tell me if a vital part of my body had vanished. I could lose an eye next, and he wouldn't speak up.

Mind you, this is the same man who called me his little elf the other day, and then when I stared at him blankly, said it was because of my ears, and when I stared at him some more, said it was because if he put little points on my ears, I'd look like an elf.

???

Of course.

I made a baby

...out of cake.

Riddle me this

I have a..uh...whaddayacallit...a conundrum for you guys.

I'm heading to the bathroom at school the other day, and I always always always take the handicapped stall if it's free, because I like to set my backpack down as far away as possible from where I'm about to pee, and where others have peed before me, and where they might have spritzered a little on the floor. I figure that if one of the three people at UCFV who are actually in wheelchairs comes in while I'm peeing, that they can jolly well wait. It'll be character-building.

So I drop my bag on the floor and hang my purse on the little hook and lift the lid, and LO! There is a giant log floating languidly in the bowl. With no accompanying toilet paper.

?????

This is not just a poop-it-and-forget-it. This is not the case of someone taking a giant dump and then not all of it making it down the chute and some of it backwashing into the bowl, because those always return a shadow of their former selves and THIS, my friends, was no shadow. Joel says that maybe it was a clean break, but I say nay. No one assumes a clean break. You always check, and you check with toilet paper, which you then toss in with your...uh...leavings.

HOW does this happen? I am beyond puzzled.

My big mouth

I used to say, loudly and to anyone who would listen, that Krispy Kremes were so delicious that I could eat a dozen of them. A DOZEN! Because they're all sugar and air, right?

WRONG!

Krispy Kremes are made entirely of trans fats and coated in a layer of arsonic.

One day a few years ago, Ben and Caleb took me up on my ridiculous boast, and because Alan's up for anything, the four of us hopped in a car and drove to Surrey, where we each bought a dozen donuts.

By the fourth donut, they had stopped tasting good. After six donuts, I surveyed my stomach and realized that, while it was rebelling, I was only half done, and that I would have to repeat myself. After nine donuts you have to just shut your brain off and keep putting things in your mouth. Your mouth will know what to do.

Ben plowed through his first nine in six minutes flat, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but I'd caught up to him by donut twelve. Watching him eat those last three was like watching someone eat a baby.

In the end, three of us succceeded (note our Hats of Victory),

And one of us failed horribly (he wanted to wear the Hat of Shame, but it looked suspiciously like our Hats of Victory so we made him take it off).

And that was the day I got diabetes. Not the real kind. The kind where you lie on the floor and moan 'Ohhhhh, my diabetes.' I think they call that Type III.

To balance out my karma

Alright, kids. It's been a five-day break from the haterade, and I hope you're all ready for a tsunami of luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuv.

Things that I love:

- the note Joel left for me the other day informing me that if he was not home when I arrived, that he was somewhere else.

- the two Canadian geese that have taken over the UCFV campus, and the knowledge that spring and an onslaught of bunnies can't be far behind.

- all this fake-spring that's been going on, lulling me into the hope that it might segue into real-spring without backlashing into crappy winter

- Advil

- my book blog (you know it and I know it, regular-blog. You haven't been my favorite for months now. Let's just get it all out in the open like adults)

- that my brother found someone to marry him

- that my sister found someone to get old-person ailments with her (Darren has shingles, and boo has had, at various times, kidney stones and the gout)

- my aunt, who knows that I secretly love fantasy novels and I can't resist anything with lords and ladies and clashes of family honor, and that if she buys me the first book in a series, I'll have no choice but to tear through the entire thing. She is my gateway drug.

- string cheese

- my ratty old bathrobe

- my tiny four-cup coffee maker which makes just enough for me and a friend, or for me and for me.

- this girl in my bio class who keeps asking me how long ago things were for me (i.e. 'How long ago was Biology 12 for you?') and then cackling, because get it? I'm old.

- my care group

- my potluck group

- my writer's group

- my Alpha group

- that there are only three more biology labs left in the semester, and then I never have to touch fruit flies or try to figure out their sex under the microscope ever again (I have to explain this part, because it's creepy and hilarious. So, for reasons I don't yet understand, we have to sort our experimental fruit flies into males and females, but we have to knock them out first, which I'd love to tell you that we do with tiny clubs, but we use ether. H'anyvays, getting them from the jar where they live to the jar with the ether involves a certain amount of pinache that none of us seem to have, and the room is always swarming with escaped specimens. You finally get maybe half your flies into the ether and then you leave them in there until they pass out, but not until they die, because you need them to breed later, so you're hesitant to leave them in too long. Once they're under, you dump them onto a sheet of paper and look at them under the microscope, which, creepy, and then you have to sort them into males and females, except that you haven't left them in the ether long enough and so while you're poking them with your sorting stick and looking at them under 400x magnification, they wake up and start crawling!!!! Ack!! Hrack!! Euck!!! I can feel them on my skin).

- the fact that they installed a Tim Hortons on campus just in time for Roll Up The Rim

Hate/Like

Ok, there are tons more things that I hate, among them:

going grocery shopping late at night so that all that's left is the reject-produce,
people who walk slowly (particularly in tight areas such as hallways or anywhere if they're fat),
parents who give their children 'interesting' names,
people with interesting names who get upset when you mispronounce them,
poor tippers,
non-tippers,
dine-and-dashers,
everyone in my Phil 100 class except for the girl who sits on my left,
trans-fats,
light purple,
old coffee,
coming out of a Subway smelling like Subway,
A Million Little Pieces,
high-pitched voices that get even higher when they're upset/excited/talking,
and the Philadelphia Flyers.

I have to catch the greyhound now (which is filed under 'Things that stress me out a little' and gets moved over to 'Things I hate' pretty often), so I don't have time to reel you out of that hate-spiral myself. Instead, go check out this list of stuff that, because I'm white, I like. If you, too, are white, then you, too, will like them. I'm not even joking.

Keepin the streak alive

Alright, Jane, here's another thing I hate.

I have this one prof who has, on a previous occasion, given assignment instructions on the day the assignment is due. By which I mean, as we were going to hand it it, she says, 'Now look yours over and make sure that you did such and such.' And if we didn't? 'Well, then just go ahead and add it in.'

...

This, apparently, is more a teaching style than a one-time mistake. We had a midterm today, part take-home and part in-class (quick aside: worst possible scenario. Not only do I have to put in out-of-class time pulling something together, but I ALSO have to study, and THEN I have to engage my brain during class time as well). She decides she's going to lecture first, and then have us write our in-class part last so that people who finish early can leave early, which is fine. Except that everything she's lecturing on has major ramifications for the take-home part that we all have typed and printed and ready to go on our desks. One girl finally says, 'Are you going to cut us some slack on our take-homes since you didn't lecture on this until today?' to which the prof replies, 'Well, as long as you did such and such and such, you'll be fine.' Another guy (probably speaking for the whole class) pipes up with, 'And if we didn't?'

'Oh, go ahead and add it in now.'

!&#^%$?!?!?!?!

This is a fairly heavily-researched, extensively thought-through and carefully organized report. You aren't just asking me to replace all the 'the's with 'racecar,' or to turn all my semi-colons into smiley faces. I can't restructure my whole argument with a few pen strokes.

And no, I didn't raise a stink because I am, how you say, l'exhausted, but if ANYthing comes back all 'You have made an incorrect assumption here' or whatever, I'm sticking it to the (wo)man. Trust.

Fake gymmers

Ok, I was going to put an end to this 'things I hate' stretch because who needs that kind of negativity when it's raining like it is? But then I went to the gym today, and there was this girl in thick eyeliner, a tight, LOW-cut tank top and these spandy-pants that were a whisper away from showing off her ladybits, and that reminded me of another thing that I hate.

Because, see, I'm a serious gymmer. I go to the gym to work out, and I would happily work out in a t-shirt and sweats but then I overheat and my nose bleeds. So I wear a tank top and shorts, but my goal is comfort and ease of movement and MAN do I look it. I am not trying to catch myself a beefcake. All I want to do is shrink my muffin tops and go home.

And it's fine by me if you come to the gym straight from class or work or whatever in full make-up (which is, incidentally, why you're breaking out so much, because sweating causes your pores to open up and then make-up falls into them), and if you're more comfortable in your spandy shorts or your lululemon pants, that's cool too. I'm not one to judge, and I don't mind that you look good.

But I doubt that those giant hoop earrings are helping your performance, and I doubt that skate shoes are comfortable to run in, and I doubt that your girls feel secure, spilling out of your top like they do. I mean, you look hot. You really do. And that's fine. I just want you to get off my damn treadmill, because I am here for reals.

Sticks and stones

Ok, while we're talking about things that I hate, let me just bring this up. One of my profs last week called us all 'dummies,' and not in a funny, jokey kind of way, but in an aggressive, 'What do the rest of you dummies think' kind of way.

SO not appropriate.

And the reason he called us all 'dummies' was because no one was participating in the discussion, which was totally true, but also totally his fault. Some classes are chatty on their own and all you have to do is throw out a topic and they'll jump on it like hounds on steak. But some classes need to be encouraged to chat, and this guy actively discourages class participation.

I have this other totally amazing prof who kind of looks like a less-rough-living Janitor from Scrubs (sorry, Tim, but you totally do), who will toss out questions and ideas and then say things like 'I'm very interested to hear your thoughts on this,' and then when you offer up your thoughts, he'll say things like 'Yes, yes I'm very moved by that' or 'Yes, I think that statement is very helpful,' both of which mean 'You haven't spoken my thoughts verbatim, but thanks for your input and keep trying.' EVERYONE talks in this class. Talking is positively reinforced.

My 'dummies' prof will also toss out questions, but with that tone - you know when you're trying to lead someone down a very obvious path of reasoning, like 'Ok, how many hands do you have? And how many bowling balls can you carry in each hand? So how many bowling balls can you carry?' - that's the tone, all the time, like the answer is right in front of us, only his questions will be so vague and so abstract that there's NO way you could know what he wants to hear. And there's no point in trying, because if your answer isn't his thoughts verbatim he'll shut you down flat. You'll be like, 'Is it...A?' And he'll turn to the class so they and he can share in your idiocy, and say 'Well, it's B, isn't it?' Like, come on guys, how did you not get this? Only this is ENGLISH, not science. There are right-ish answers and wrong-ish answers, but most answers fall somewhere in the middle.

Ok, so in a class full of people who like to hear their own voices anyways, this might not make much of a dent, but my class is full of shy, rabbity people, and for most of them, they don't even need to be shut down personally. They can see someone else being put in their place (usually me, because I just can't take the silence and the gaping stare of disbelief that no one is offering their opinion so that it can be pummelled, and also because I like to hear my own voice), and solemnly vow never to open their own mouths.

Because you're damned if you do, and dummies if you don't.

Because I need to get this off my chest

Dear Malaspina University-College,

Firstly, I didn’t know that there were any other university-colleges. I thought it was something the University College of the Fraser Valley had made up so that they wouldn’t feel quite so bad about not being a real university. And I would feel some sort of solidarity with you over this if I didn’t hate you so much.

Because, see, here’s the thing , I totally do.

I had to hang out with you all weekend, and you know what they say familiarity breeds (hint, because you don’t, because you’re an idiot: it's contempt). There are so many things about you that are terrible. You have the tiniest, darkest cesspool of a gym in all of BC. Granted, it used to be an aircraft hangar, which is historically awesome and kind of aesthetically interesting, but as a gymnasium it’s an impractical mess. And I know you know this. You know that you’re on the lower socio-economic scale of gymnasiums, because you’ve played in other gyms, and you know that they have things like lights, and seats. You can only seat, like, a dozen people, which is fine, really, because that's about the number of people that want to be there.

You know that no one wants to come to your gym anyways, let alone pay you eight dollars (four if they lie by omission and let you believe they’re still in high school) to sit on your hard, splintery bleachers just so they can watch their husband play the last damn volleyball games of his career. Where do you get off, then, cordoning half of your seats and labeling them ‘Mal-U Students Only’? This is like me inviting you to my house (under duress) and then dropping ‘Kruegers only' signs on all my couches, and then making you walk around until you find a seat that isn’t reserved. You think that’s good hosting? Making the first thing I see a giant ‘You Can’t Sit Here’ sign? Since you obviously do have to block off your students due to their douche-baggery (this is, honest, the reason we were given for the designated section), why not put them in the second set of bleachers? You can see from there just fine, and that way the first thing I’ll see when I walk in is a place to sit, and the second thing I’ll see is a sign indicating that I’ll be spared sitting with your reprehensible student body.

Your students are total ass-hats. Again, I know you know this. When we threw down the gauntlet and insisted on sitting in the Mal-U section, because to hell with your signs, we were politely but firmly informed that we should move, because every Mal student worth his or her salt was currently at the pub (it was 2:30 in the afternoon) and would be arriving at 3:00 for the Mal – Douglas game, and that that section would become rather R-rated. And I know that college students have a right, almost an obligation, to get falling-down drunk in the middle of the afternoon and then come out and support their fellow students. Fine. Most schools have a few who go above and beyond the usual call of enthusiasm (read: boozery), but your school has more than their fare share. By which I mean, all of them. And it’s one thing to support your own team, but to relentlessly abuse your opponents and the officials? Do you not have enough faith in your team to win on their own, you have to go pounding your drums every time we hit the ball? You have to yell things I can’t even repeat on my blog, they’re too rude? You should! Your men's and women's teams are both really, really good. Let them win on their own, without making total fools of yourselves. Although, I can’t begin to express the deep psychological pleasure I got from having a guy ask me which school I was from so I could say UCFV so he could say where? So I could say oh, we’re the team that beat you guys out last weekend and took your number-one spot in the league. Yes? Remember us now? Eat it.

And another thing I hate about your gym – it’s too damn hot! Open a wall or something! Every other gym keeps their temperature at a healthy -30° so that the players are comfortable and the fans can all sit huddling in their winter jacket. That’s how we like it. All I brought was sweaters! Who are you to change the heating rules?

And another thing, why is one of your ball-boys nine years old? I’m not even joking, he could not have broken double digits. This is the provincial championships, not some mickey mouse operation. If your event staff can’t drink, they should at least be old enough to drive.

Oh yeah, and your gym is too damn far from the parking lot. What the hell? Why should I have to walk for ten minutes in the pouring rain (alright, it was a beautiful sunny day and I rather enjoyed the walk, but last year when you hosted Nationals [again, what the hell?] it poured rain and I got soaked and had to sit in your hot, dark, stinking hole of a gym with damp jeans).

Oh, and your concession stand sucks. Why would you pop your popcorn and then just let it sit there, getting cold and greasy? Why not leave it in the popper until someone wants some, and then fill a bag and butter it? And also, I’m not paying $4 for a bowl of your crap chili.

Oh, and in the half-dozen games that I watched, play had to be stopped eight times because your score-keepers couldn't get their shit together. And if your announcer can't pronounce a simple name like 'Togeretz' then he should be fired.

In short, everything about you sucks. You are the bottom-feeder of university-colleges. I hope your mom at least thinks you’re cool.

PS: I have spent the entire weekend drenched in college sports. My language will clean itself up directly.

My baby's first trip

Joel has spent approximately half of the weekends between here and last October (excluding Christmas) on volleyball road trips, which is fine. Since we're never home at the same time anyways, I'm used to puttering around by myself, and the only real trouble comes when it's time to go to bed, because I don't know when that is. That's one of those things I can only now decide in a collective.

For the most part, I usually go out with friends when Joel's gone, or go hang out upstairs with my landlords, and then I come home and spend some time with my laptop (whom I love) before picking up a book and a bag of chips and heading to bed, because I can eat in bed, because I'm the only one in it.

This weekend, though, Joel asked if he could borrow my laptop and bring it with him to Provincials, since they'll be gone from the afternoon today until the morning Sunday and he has more than a few things coming up due. I said no.

- You need it to take notes in class?

- ...Actually, no. I don't use it for my afternoon class today nor my evening class tomorrow, and the class I have tomorrow morning where I would usually use it has been cancelled.

- So I can bring it?

- Well, crap. Yes.

But it makes me so nervous, see. I have no problem lending my laptop out to people, and this fact has probably contributed to the overwhelming number of viruses I've contracted over the years, but for it to take the ferry and go all the way over to the Island by itself, without me to look out for it? What if it gets stolen? Or someone spills a Slushee on Joel's duffel bag? Because obviously that sort of thing wouldn't happen if I was there to keep an eye out.

Joel came to kiss be goodbye before he left to meet up with the rest of the team, and after I told him to drive safe and play hard and earn my love, I bent down and whispered 'Godspeed, little laptop. Godspeed.'

B-I-N-G-O

Have you ever been BINGO-ing?

You need to go.

I tell you, there is no better way to spend five dollars and two-and-a-half hours (they just flew by) than with a roomful of old people and their bingo-dabbers. I went last night with a dozen or so friends, and you could tell the regulars were just seething, especially when Dan won the first round. He was the only one of us to win anything, but that detracts nothing from the awesome, soothing/stressful joy of seeking out letter-number combinations and dabbing them.

For me, it was all the fun of competition without any of the bother of trying. For some other people, that's what drove them nuts. You have that same sense of need-to-win but there's nothing you can DO to win. If your card sucks, it sucks, and that's that.

One of the ladies circling the tables was quite adept at dealing with newbies. She'd come over between games and tell us what was going to happen next, what we were expected to do, whether it was a 'special' round (those cards cost an extra 50 cents, but the pots were higher) and how to play. Bingo is hard, people. You're not just getting a line, and then going to see who can get blackout. It'll be, like, any three lines but not counting your free squares, or any blocks of six but they can't overlap, and that's the most stressful part, the taking a second to look around your 9-card square to see if you're even getting close, because you're not sure you'd recognize a 'half-card' when you saw it.

The other most stressful part was the other lady toddling around the tables. She was quite a bit older, and clearly had no experience dealing with non-bingo-savvy guests. She'd come up to my elbow in the middle of the game while I'm frantically searching out all my B-9's and be like 'Do you want a blue card?'

Me: *dab, dab* What's it for?

Her: It's to win a prize.

Me: *dab, dab dab* How do I play?

Her: You have to get it stamped.

Me: *dab* What was that last number? 0-68? Um...how do I get it stamped? *dab dab*

Her: By one of the employees.

Me:...Serious? I have no B-4's on any of my cards? Um...I don't follow. The employees stamp it, and then I win a prize? Do I have to get...I-18 or 19? 19? Do I have to get all the employees to stamp it? Is it like a scavenger hunt?

Her: *shocked* No! You get one stamp every time you come.

Me: *dab DAB dab* Oh, it's like a frequent bingo-er card. No thanks, *dab* I don't bingo that often.

Her: Ok. *moves on to Dan beside me* Do you want a blue card?

Dan: What's it for?

Her: It's to win a prize.

So Dan won $30 and the rest of us spent around $7, which is not a bad deal for an evening's entertainment. I can see how the bingo hall draws in so many people, night after night. It's pretty addictive. Luckily, there are pamphlets for the Time Out Voluntary Self-Exclusion Program strategically placed at all the tables. So you can kick yourself out.

Meal replacements

I've been trying to eat more salads lately, because they're good for you, and because if I eat a salad, I feel more justified in eating a box of Valentine's chocolates later. But I don't like them. They're full of vegetables, and vegetables are gross, and I'm always starving twenty minutes later. But I realized that if you add chick peas to them, they taste better and you're fuller longer. And then I realized that if you add black beans to them, they taste better still, and you're fuller even longer. Eventually, when I go to eat a 'salad' I'll really just be indulging in a sort of cold chili. With dressing.

Return of the Camera, Pt. I

Alright, liebchens, I am back. I have written two midterms, one essay, and several short assignments, AND I fixed my camera. Now I can share with you all those lovely pictures I took of my brother's wedding.

In a recent email, my aunt called Bekah and I 'trouble making shit disturbing 'back of the church' rehearsal rebels,' which is not all true. We started the wedding rehersal (as the pictures will clearly show) at the front of the church, and then were sent to the back because of all the trouble-making and shit-disturbing we were doing. But we couldn't help it, because look how hilarious we are.



I know, hilarious, right? And really, we tried to keep it together and amuse ourselves quietly, but then this happened.




Look at this picture. No, really look at it. Look at Bekah's eyes. They point in opposite directions! Not like this:





Anyone can do that. They point in the other opposite directions! Look closer!!!!!!!!


I know! It was totally worth her coming with me. For both of us.