We live in a sick world.

As a part of my Monday marathon of ABC programming, I tuned into The Bachelor tonight for the first time in years. YEARS. I noticed that it's the exact same set up as it was the first season, except for one thing. The previews.

There is footage of a girl in a white dress, weeping her soul out. Just one of those all-out, snotty nose, puffy eye, red-faced cries that you never want anyone to see. Yet, this poor girl has her meltdown being broadcast across the country. To add insult to injury, the announcer says at the end of the commercial, "Tune in for one of the most dramatic exits in Bachelor history...You don't want to miss this!!"

I'm hoping for the world's sake that there's going to end up being some twist, like that her cat died or something. Or maybe it turns out that she's a big whore who should be kicked off anyway to preserve the show's "integrity." I don't know...I guess that's too hopeful. I just think it's sick that their marketing strategy is to exploit this girl's heartbreak.

The even sicker thing: I'm actually watching it to see what happens. [Insert shameful head shake here.]

Confessions of a 40-year-old lame ass

What has become of my life? Here I sit, finishing up a night filled with ABC network programming, a boatload of graded papers, and a homemade panini. I know I just turned 24, but I feel like I just crossed over the hill...and I'm speeding recklessly towards the bottom.

Tonight, I tuned into the quality show of Dancing with the Stars. I didn't think I would ever get into that show. But whether it was watching it habitually with my favorite aunt and uncle or simply a lack of better options, I have been watching this show weekly to see whose Paso Doble will kick the pants off of whose Viennese Waltz. I'm not sure who I should cheer for on this show yet. Scary Spice (Mel B.) is a crowd favorite, but that Jane Seymour is so damn graceful. God, that's so pathetic I just cried a little while typing that.
Immediately following Dancing with the Stars came a brand new show called Samantha Who? It's about this woman who gets hit by a car, thrown into a coma, and wakes up with a serious case of retrograde amnesia. This sends her into a world she knows nothing about surrounded by people she can't recall. Slowly, her previous "life" is revealed to her through a series of encounters with random characters. I must admit, some parts were (surprisingly) funny. (i.e. Samantha pulls a very small mini dress out of her closet and says, "OH GOD! I have a daughter??" Boyfriends just shakes his head. )

This made me start thinking...what has become of my life? Just a year and a half ago, I was living it up with the best of friends almost every night. Screw school! Screw studying! Screw being financially responsible! It was all about having the best time, all the time. And now what? I am confined to living a bland life of monotony. Same routine every day. Though, I must admit, the students keep it interesting every now and then. Or is it only interesting because my life has become that mundane? Sigh...with that, I'm going to go to bed...at 9:55.

100% Match.com

I've logged onto Match.com (insert Gasp!). Admittedly, I've perused the site on occasion. Okay, so by on occasion I mean during the wee hours of Saturday night when the thought of competing with 25-year-old Dallasites, who claim to be a size 0 but really are a size 4, for Cash McMogulson's undivided attention literally brings the taste of vomit to my mouth.

Back to my Saturday night "perusing." Username created, password verified, popcorn popped, and there I am sitting on my couch listening to a nineties mix c-d "browsing" Match.com. All I need is a bottle of red, a box of chocolates, a pint of Ben & Jerry's and I've transformed into the requisite spinster. ( I wonder if the cops will find my body surrounded by candy wrappers and an empty tray of Oreo cookies mmm...that sounds good. No more chocolate day dreams, back to my Saturday night.) So I'm half-heartedly half-inquisitively browsing the site, when an hour goes by, and I realize my knuckles are white from gripping the keyboard with interest. Drats, I've reached the bottom of the pint again. I should probably change my physical build on the site to "curvy" rather than "athletic". I must have been delusional/drunk when I answered that question on my profile. Note to self, I'll have to starve myself again this week or just revert to my oatmeal diet again ( I swear it works). So there, that's my first encounter with online dating. Anyone else want to admit to curiously checking the site or am I the only loser :) (Someone say they have, someone say they have. Just lie to me!)

Don't even think about asking what my username is. Who is Match.com to decide what constitutes a 100% match for you anyway. Isn't that what our mothers are for.

Love,
Funny-Girl-23
(not my username)

Cut Your Losses.

You would think a "break-up" would be easy. A very simple "I'm no longer interested" or "I've fallen out of love with you" would suffice, but I suppose it's in our human nature to coat those words with some euphemistic sugar. Why, after establishing a clear disinterest and most likely bashing them to friends and family, do we feel it necessary to all of a sudden be nice or considerate of their feelings?

I pondered this little conundrum after having to let my latest big, dumb animal go after meeting a much more suitable boy. Things were not going well anyway. We went to a Cardinals game and hardly spoke five sentences to one another, so he really should have seen this coming. It always gets awkward, though. I mean, God forbid that I actually just straight up tell the poor galoot that I met someone else. Instead, I felt much more comfortable just ignoring the text messages that kept invading my inbox. Then, in lieu of the cold shoulder, I thought I might try the "I'm so busy; school is so rough" excuse. Alas, his efforts were not thwarted. He continued to bombard me with texts reading "you're doing a great job of ignoring me," "has school gotten any better?" and "what have I done to piss you off?" I guess I should have felt bad, but being the heartless wench I become when I'm finished with a relationship, the texts just pissed me off more. Honestly, was he just not getting it?? So then, five ignored calls and three angry texts later, I decided to be blunt.

The last text I had received said, "why are you pissed off at me?" I responded that I wasn't pissed, I just didn't get the impression that the relationship going anywhere. He sent back another text asking what gave me that impression. So I let loose on him. The text went something like this, "I never met any of your friends, you were never up for going out, and despite me telling you my opinion on booty calls, you really only called when you wanted me to come over after 10 p.m. " Done.
As soon as I thought I was free, I get back a very business-like "Please know that all of your concerns could have been addressed had you talked to me about them."

That was the last straw. I went shitangy.

And then I erased that text and wrote this, "I had addressed all of those concerns on multiple occassions, and then I waited to see if you would change anything. You didn't."

Here's the kicker. After all this impersonal, back-and-forth bologna, he wrote back the cheesiest thing ever. "I must have missed those conversations. It was a pleasure getting to know you. Godspeed, Ms. Slater."

Blech!! Give me a break! Godspeed?? Who is this tool? Good riddance!

And then the realization set in that I had left a few things over at his place...a serving dish, roasting pan, and a DVD. Hmm...so that's what it means to cut your losses and move on.

Meh...I didn't like that movie anyway.

Mean Girls--not only in the box office

There's something that separates the boys from the girls. Anatomically; yes, of course, but there's something else that happens to girls that just does not happen to boys. It's that first time you get stabbed in the back, or hear a nasty rumor spread about you, or find out that your best friend is actually your worst enemy. It's almost like a rite of passage into Girl World.

Being back in a classroom environment, I witness girls getting their first bitter taste of just how nasty girls can be to one another. Their bloodshot, weeping eyes above their tear-stained cheeks rips my heart out every time because I know exactly how they're feeling. I've been there too many times before. For example...

Location: Kuehnle Elementary - Best Friend Ann and I met New Friend Pam who lived up the street from us. New Friend Pam and I became fast and furious friends, leaving Best Friend Ann glaring from her living room window. A week later, New Friend Pam received a note from me in her mailbox letting her know that she was not a welcome addition to our group and that she needed to move away again. It was written on Best Friend Ann's stationery.

Location: Klein High School - The summer before my freshman year in high school ushered in the realization that my best friends in middle school (the equivalent of "The Plastics") would cease being my friends and instead opt to hang out with older boys. No problem. I had just joined a 90-girl dance team...I could find friends...right? Wrong. The friends I had made at first stopped calling about two months in, leading to several Friday nights with my parents. This, on top of braces and a not-grown-into nose, made for lots of "character building." Luckily, Molly, Meagan, and Nicole came to the rescue about a month later.

Location: Southern Methodist University - Where do I even begin? If people think high school girls are nasty, then they have obviously never gone through "recruitment" at a private college. We are trained to politely (and sometimes hypocritically) tear girls' reputations apart. I can remember being out and meeting some unsuspecting first year that had come up during "pic show," and thinking, 'Ohhh...that's the girl that did (insert whore-ific act) ; she does not display the ideals of a Tri Delt lady...' Meanwhile, the girl who had given that 'con' is busy hooking up with an entire frat house.
I could go on for days about evil girls in college, but I digress.

Location: Ethel Hedgeman Lyle Academy - my classroom - I had reprimanded one of my students who was not doing her given assignment, even after I nicely told her to do it. This is the same girl who I had given 3 after-school detentions for being a bitch to other people. She rolled her eyes and started passing a notebook back and forth with this other girl. I had seen this before...it was a Burn Book...I could smell it a mile away. The stench of venomous words and vitriolic emotions is unmistakable. I confiscated it, out of pure curiousity. What I read took me back 10 years. It read:

How Ms. Slater gonna look at me like I'm crazy cuz I was talkin.
I know...Big fish woman ass anerexic bitch
I know she's just testing me, but I'm not gonna get in trouble this week. Otherwise, I
woulda beat her ass before I step in her class
I'm wit u on dat
She get on my nerves. I wanna strangle her, cut her up, feed her guts to my aunt's
cats, then throw the rest in the Pacific Ocean and feed it to a humpback whale with
her dog-lookin ass...I hate her.

Sweet, right? I was appalled and shocked and I felt like I was back in middle school. My heart sank into my stomach; but instead of crying to my mother, I decided to conference with them and get to the bottom of it. One of them cried and apologized profusely. The other, showing no remorse, had her parents called for making threats against a teacher. I suspended her, her mom looked at her with deathrays shooting from her eyes, and then she cried and apologized profusely.

I obviously have learned how to handle these situations. But what do you tell a girl who has just gotten her emotions stomped upon by another girl who's just as fragile? It's not like how it was when you were growing up. As much as you want to take out your weeper for TCBY and bad mouth that other girl over a large cup of 96% fat free frozen yogurt, the perpetrator at the helm of the issue is also a child...and you're the adult now.

I just don't know what to tell them, except that it will never change. Girls will probably always be horrible to one another; what changes is how we handle it. I suppose we've reached that time in our lives where we should unselfishly forgive that heartless bitch, but we do not, should not, forget. Be nice, ladies.

Elevator Small Talk

You have seven floors to say "hi." After that, the doors close and the probability of ever seeing your stranger again, is next to nothing. Listen carefully, because next time you find yourself in this square box breathing in the same air as your neighbor, you’ll think twice before staring down at his shoes searching desperately for something interesting on his shoelaces to concentrate on. Instead, you’ll step into the air-tight deathtrap (pardon my pessimism, but if you really think about it, you’re riding in a flying box suspended in the air held only by a 2-guage cable) stare that person directly in the face, and say "hi."

Isn’t it funny how fascinating your nail-beds become when you’re riding in the elevator. In an effort not to make contact with your neighboring passengers, your hangnails suddenly become the most interesting thing about you, and you force yourself to fix a serious gaze onto them, well aware that the Suit next to you is probably wondering what’s so great about your nails.

Then there's the nonchalant glance at your phone, as if you could care less whether or not you have a missed called. (Although you've been compulsively checking it like clockwork waiting for the bell to go off alerting you that yes, someone else in this world does know you exist other than your Mother. By the way, parents and siblings should count against your call log. It's their job to call you, doesn't count in my book.)

Then there’s scenario B. You step over the ledge separating the stationary world from the moveable world when Mr. Litheeeyum holds your stare, wishes you a good afternoon, and picks up a conversation with you as if you’re an old friend. After you realize there isn’t anyone else in this small room and yes, he’s talking to you, it’s too late, he’s already staring at you wondering if you’re a mute because you won’t answer his question. You hastily spit out “yes” and nod your head politely, secretly praying he didn’t ask if you worked Sunset Boulevard at 4am and that’s why you looked familiar. Next stop, reality. The doors open.

Who knows, maybe your deathtrap is really the window to the start of something. Note to self: the stairwell should always be your second option. Moveable rooms are much more interesting.

Since writing this post, "Huh" has become much more confident about riding in elevators with boys.

Speech! Speech!---If you speak it, they will fake it.

A few weeks ago I was asked, as the President of the Rotaract Club of St. Augustine, if I would give the keynote address at the Youth Leadership St. Johns graduation. While you may be thinking, "what an honor", really the circumstances are not that flatering. I do work at the Chamber which is the organization that houses the YLSJ program, and the Director of the program is also the VP of Rotaract...so it was really more of a convenience thing, I guess. Regardless, I thought my days of speaking to an audience of slightly-annoyed, cooler-than-thou teenagers were over--but I guess not.

Oh, and like the really mature 23 year-old I've grown to become, I stayed out until 3 a.m. the night before and decided to get the most drunk I've been since homecoming 2006. I really thought my days of waking up at 7 a.m. with the signature dry mouth and headache from hell that only too many glasses of wine can leave behind were over--but I guess not.

Yeah, I lead by example.

I was so nervous when I began that I stumbled through the first two lines of my speech, but eventually I caught my breath and made it through sentence after sentence of anecdotal crap. About four minutes into it I realized I was gripping the podium. I eased up on my death-hold and was relieved when I got through the (insert light laughter here) parts, and the audience did as they were supposed to. And I was even more relieved when they clapped at the (please god, insert appluase here) part at the end. Its not like they shook the room, but it lasted long enough for me to skip back to my seat. All in all, the speech went well, but I look forward to the day that I can truly be a great public speaker--the kind that doesn't get super-nervous or rely heavily on a script.

Funny enough my boss turns to me after the whole deal was over and asks me why I didn't do public speaking as a profession...I think it is her way of telling me I suck at my job and she wishes I would just quit and travel the world speaking at youth leadership graduations. ha. I'll take whatever compliment I can get from her---she's french, they are hard to come by.

I did get some pretty flowers out of the deal...and then they asked me to take photos at the event. So when I wasn't speaking I was crawling around on the floor trying to get a good angle, power suit and all.

Another day I can walk away saying I love my job/organization (er, whatever I represent these days) even more.

Fwd: RE: RE: Fwd: Send this to 2,589 of your friends or have bad luck for the rest of your life

There is something I've realized. Something that has recently struck me. It's really quite phenomenal (ha, I hope you are laughing kylie--mahnahmahnah).

People actually believe that when they receive e-mails with stupid poems or poorly written stories about love, death, religion, etc., that if they do not forward it to 10 of their not-so-close co-workers that they will have bad luck, lose an eye, or be cursed with a sudden bought of ugliness. Seriously. I mean they have to believe in them--otherwise, why the hell would they do it?!? Some may say its just to forward a fun message or a good laugh, but when I receive forwards that are sent to exactly 10 people, I begin to get suspicious.

I've received similar emails from several different people in the last few weeks including--but not limited to--my aunt, a member of an organization I belong to, and a local town council member. These people have little in common (with the exception of gender...c'mon ladies...really?!?) and are of different ages, backgrounds, races, and education levels. From a mass communications perspective this is really brilliant. Its practically universal and extroadinarily simple--hell, even before the ease of the internet, people actually hand wrote and mailed such letters. Think about the author of these works, their messages have a larger audience than any press release/news story I will ever write. It kind of makes me want to write one myself...a claim to fame, of sorts.

Hey, have you read my latest forward I authored?? I've forwarded one million copies already...

I know what you are thinking--it's just a fun thing people do and nobody actually believes something bad is going to happen to them. But I disagree 89% because I look around my own office and see how difficult it is to get people to communicate with other people when the only threat corresponding to the failure to do so, is the loss of their job, and its still hard to get them to do something in a timely manner. Perhaps if my boss' next demanding email had a disclaimer at the bottom that if I do not call at least five different printers to receive quotes in the next hour that I will never have good sex again I'd be a little more eager to chat-it-up about glossy v. matte and whether I want the 20 lbs. bright white or something a little thicker.

Could you imagine if the "chain letter" philosophy was valid to all things in life--OOPS! You've just been infected with AIDS, please pass the disease on to ten people or you will be infected for life...

you can find me in st. louis

"I sleep fourteen floors over one of the lamest cities in America."

This thought has crossed my mind more than once since moving to St. Louis. Several times really. Granted, I love the snow days; but over the course of my six months here, I've realized how lackluster this town is. Sure, we have Nelly and Chingy and the Worlds Series Champions. What could cancel out such pop culture awesomeness? The harsh reality of living in the Midwest.

Allow me to highlight some experiences I've had on Missouri roadways to paint a better picture:
#1. The speed limit on most major highways averages 55 mph. Anyone from the South (and Texas, for you geographic sticklers) knows this is just unacceptable.
#2. Drivers brake for no apparent reason. At first, I thought it was because they saw a police car...but no, they just slow down.
#3. Within three weeks of moving here, I got a speeding ticket for going 73 in a 55. Fair enough. But then, I had to wait 2 hours in the rain to pay it off.
#4. While driving through Forest Park, a cop pulled up next to me and rolled down his window. He informed me that the speed limit in the park is 25 mph. I was going 30. Then, he added an extraneous "Take it easy out there."

And's that just the driving. The food is a whole 'nother issue.

While we do have some pretty good restaurants, I've been missing some classic eateries found in Dallas that were necessary staples for my ever-changing palate. First of all, when I'm feeling healthy, there is no Cafe Express, Central Market, or Corner Bakery to get my light sandwich and salad fix. There's only Panera, which they have dubbed St. Louis Bread Co. Whatever, tomayto/tomahto, it still costs me $10 to feel skinny.
Second, for my hangover fix, there is no Whataburger. I do not know how I have survived this long without a #6 combo meal with extra gravy. There's also no Burger House, which means no special seasoning that will make your car smell like an armpit but will also stop the vodka from oozing out of your pores. And the kicker? No Sonic or Chik-fil-a within 5 miles of me. W-T-F??
Third, there is no Tex-Mex. I think they're going for MO-Mex here...which must be Spanish for "sucks" because the queso is all wrong and the margaritas have next to no tequila in them. To top it off, we have such pizza establishments as Imo's Pizza. Now, my MO cousins and all of my students swear Imo's is the best stuff ever. Yet, with a product like Provel cheese... I'm still kinda iffy. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Provel_cheese

But maybe I'm bitching too much. After all this complaining, my mind got to thinking that maybe St. Louis wasn't so bad after all. Maybe the problem lies in the fact that I know nothing about the history of the "Gateway to the West." So I have decided to do a little research to find some "Show Me State" fun facts.

Fun Fact #1: At the 1904 World's Fair, Dr Pepper (my favorite soda ever!) was introduced. Also, Richard Blechyden served tea with ice and invented iced tea. At the same World's Fair, the ice cream cone was invented! An ice cream vendor ran out of paper cups and asked a waffle vendor to help by rolling up waffles to hold ice cream.

Fun Fact #2: Missouri ties with Tennessee for the most neighborly state in the union, bordered by 8 states. That just means we're even more land-locked than I thought.

Fun Fact #3: The state animal is the mule. I wasn't shocked. Most of my kids are jackasses. (ha!)

Fun Fact #4: In 1865, Missouri became the first slave state to free its slaves. Interesting, considering the discrimination/segregation still going on in the education system...

Fun Fact #5: The Anheuser-Busch Brewery is the largest beer-producing plant in the nation. Hot.

Okay, okay...so I guess at the end of the day, St. Louis isn't really that bad. Maybe what makes a city is the people you find around you. While I'm surrounded by motivated, selfless people in TFA, they can also be severely lame sometimes. I miss a solid Thursday night throwdown, followed by an even better Friday morning recap. My roommate here doesn't listen to Avril to let me know she's upset. Instead, she yells expletives into her cellphone and then falls silent for the rest of the night. I have yet to meet a girl who likes to bust a move in the middle of a bar as much as we do. I keep laughing when I think about the stage...or the Slip In. It's just a different breed in Missouri.

That must be it then. Dallas is a great city, but it was the people that made it the hands-down, most hedonisitically wonderful city this side of the Mississippi. (ok...maybe second to Vegas.)

Here's my challenge to all you bishes: Come to the Lou and corrupt this city, you debaucherous vixens. (or else I'm gonna die.)

Is he into me? Am I into him? Should I shave my head?--A girl has a right to be confused.

I have a crush. Like a big one. Which isn't shocking, because about 96% of the time I have one--and they are usually pretty outrageous and exaggerated. There was the writer/political scientist/sax player, the "machine gun" lover, the future-pilot, the guy that did the pointing-at-you-with-gun-hands thing, the beatles-wannabe-drummer (oh yeah).

For those of you who have had the underwhelming pleasure of meeting these of-the-moment heart throbs, you know that about 96% of the time, they are less-than-worthy. The life span of an it-guy can be season-long or last the duration of a night at homebar (and of course, late night). But one thing's for sure girl's will pour a lot into these crushes--blood, sweat and tears.

BLOOD (measured in teaspoons)

There will be no anecdotal writing in this section. If you know, you know. If not, it's way worse than you can imagine.

SWEAT (measured in buckets)

Every bish has their it-boy routine. If they are long-termers, chances are you've gotten into some kind of weightloss regime, consisting of a poor attempt at south beach phase one and a daily visit to the treadmill and/or elipitical machines. Signs boasting the phrase "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" are again posted around the room, and some might even reinstate their "chew-and-spit" technique on all foods over 100 calories. Even the skinny bishes might cut down on their Burger House-runs and late night Whata.

TEARS (measured in # of new jeans/purses/earrings/hairstyles girl buys)

It's all fun and games until you are driving around with the bishes (those who can stomach it); Avril's "Slipped Away" screaming from your speakers and your hot tears melting your white chocolate mouse as they pour into your half-empty cup o' TCBY (pronounced Tick-bee). This can last an afternoon, or an entire month (depending on the tolerance of fellow bishes and the intensity of the it-guy's true suckage).

Truly sane girls should want to minimize the excretion (that word is terribly inappropriate) of blood/sweat/tears wasted on guys with little potential. In effort to figure out the male species, many gals (and especially those that find themselves thousands of miles away from their bishes) will turn to the self-help section at their local b&n. So with a steamy grande sugar-free vanilla soy latte in hand, I hit the shelves looking for answers. Is this new it-guy worth it?


STOP #1: HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU


If I could figure out whether or not he likes me that could help determine whether he is worth the blood/sweat/tears part. If he's into me--work thrice as hard on sweat part. If not--go straight to track 12 on Avril, do not pass go.

After a solid month of light flirting and casual interaction I get as far as Chapter One before I decide this book is entirely stupid and not worth my time, or my 10% discount---besides, I have a worn copy at home somewhere, I had flipped through during the last few seriously-serious crushes.

"Chapter One: he's just not that into you if he's not asking you out
Because if he likes you, trust me, he will ask you out

Many women have said to me, "Greg, men run the world." Wow. That makes us sound pretty capable. So tell me, why would you think we could be incapable of something as simple as picking up the phone and asking you out? You seem to think at times that we're "too shy" or we "just got out of something." Let me remind you: Men find it very satisfying to get what they want. (Particularly after a difficult day of running the world.) If we want you, we will find you. If you don't think you gave him enough time to notice you, take the time it took you to notice him and divide it by half."

STOP #2: BE HONEST--YOU'RE NOT THAT IN TO HIM EITHER


Ready to eat some man---because seriously what do they know about my crush, maybe he is just effing shy---I turn to another guy who asks the right question:

"Are You Really into Him?"

Well, I am kind of skeptical of this text because I'm pretty sure I am 96% into this guy, but I decided to read a little:

"Men are jerks. We don't call when we say we will. We lie. We cheat on our wives and our girlfriends. We leave the toilet seat up, and we engage in a host of clichéd behaviors that modern dating guides lay out in obvious terms so you can move on with your lives. Yes, some men are jerks. But you know that because you've dated us. And you're smart enough to know that when a guy doesn't call you, it means he's not that into you."

Er, can't a guy just be shy?!?!...

"But despite your intelligence, you've begun to operate on his terms. And who can blame you? Go on enough bad dates and your hopes of finding love are sure to diminish. You start to make adjustments, taking a realistic and pragmatic approach. You begin to settle. You know that frogs don't turn into princes, so you lower your standards enough until it gets difficult to tell the two apart. Whether out of good old-fashioned horniness, social pressure [combined with the perception that there are no good men left], or simply the dismal dating disappointments you continually face, you've lowered your standards — perhaps without even realizing it. But in doing so, you've forgotten that while he may be showing you that he's not that into you, the truth is you were never really that into him in the first place. Be honest. You were with him while you were waiting for something better to come along. He wasn't that great to begin with but he was better than nothing. Or was he?"

Unfortunately, I kind of place this guy on the "this is what I've been waiting for" shelf.

STOP #3-418

After glancing through several other books teaching me the proper way to stroke his arm or how to have sex like a man, I realized I didn't really give a damn. I like this guy. I like the pace things are going. The next time someone tells me I have to call him and ask him out I would really like to spit on them. I would like to be free from analyzing whether he romantically rubbed my back or if it was more like friendly touching. I want to care less that the Queen Bee of St. Auggie (please, not a title I'd be proud of) hates my guts and wants to jump him. I don't even want to care that I text messaged him this weekend and he didn't respond. But I can't.

I'm into him. Like really into him. And if he's not into me I'm afraid the tears phase might be lengthy---like pull-a-Britney-Shears-lengthy.

Ghost Babies

Three USC film students traveled to Africa and uncovered a story they could not ignore. What they found both disgusted and inspired them.

Imagine living in fear of being abducted by the rebel army.
Imagine praying that today you will not be forced to become a Soldier.
Now imagine that you are seven years old.

Nearly 50,000 Ugandan children suffer like this every day. There are currently over 250,000 child soldiers across the world.

Invisible Children began as a small documentary. Today, it has sparked a movement to include over 2 million people.

See the documentary that has been shown in the halls of Congress and the United Nations, moved 80,000 young people to rally last year alone and inspired a culture of activism and philanthropy among a generation known for neither.

Discover the unseen. www.Invisiblechildren.com

.

Literally, Peace Out.

Snow Day

Isn't it amazing how a simple snow storm can reverse your maturity by 15 years? Earlier today, I found myself galavanting through what looked like an arctic blast. I was jumping into snow banks, throwing snow balls, and yelling and laughing my head off. And when I came back to being 23, I realized I was in the parking lot of my school with my co-workers.

What is it about inclement weather that makes us naturally act like a little kid? Walking in a summer shower. Puddle jumping. Snowball fights. I mean, what's the draw? I know that after the fun is over, I'll just end up looking like wet dog (and maybe smelling like them). Yet, I can't keep myself from wanting to run outside anytime I see rain or snow.

Inclement weather also seems to make me braver/less safe. I just got in from "night sledding." After speeding down a hill over and over, we decided to build a ramp out of snow to see if we could fly over the frozen hay bales protecting us from sliding across the frozen pond in front of us. We succeeded, and almost fell into the pond, but it was awesome.

Even now, I'm anxiously awaiting school to be cancelled tomorrow so I can go sledding again. It probably won't happen, but it's still fun to think about it. Cross your fingers.

Born-again virgin seeks different type of stimulation

Really, it's sad. A year ago I would have laughed at you if you told me I would find myself giddy over one night of conversation with people my age--no keg stands in sight.

I have officially embraced my status as a young professional. I now do galas. Discuss interior design. Exchange cards. Mix and mingle. Join service organizations. And shake hands like a pro.

Now, I just have to figure out a way to move out of my house.

Let me start off by saying that I think my "blog name" is completely inadequate for this outlet, and if someone knows how to change it to something with a little more pizzazz, let me know.

Alright, so I know the whole complaining about airports is probably very passe in the blog world, but this is the first mention of it on "non-sense," so I'm feeling pioneering. On Monday, I ventured to Lambert Airport to head out to Dallas to go do some recruiting. My flight left at 8:55. I left the apartment at 8:00. You know I was never good with punctuality. I had checked in online, so all I needed to do was check my bag and get through security. But after I had gotten rid of my bag, I swiveled around only to see a line that zig-zagged through all of the roped-off lanes and past the ticket counters...it was the most ridiculous line I have ever seen at an airport.

I was close enough to shout out my time concern to woman behind the counter. She told me the line was moving quickly, but, for some reason, I thought she was just trying to appease me. The line was moving, not quickly, but it was moving. By the time I got past the ticket signer and into a security lane, it was about 8:40. I took a breath and tried positively talking to myself (all in my head, of course) about how much can happen in 15 minutes. A quarter of Grey's Anatomy happens in 15 minutes. My students can finish an assignment in 15 minutes. We know what else can happen in 15 minutes (maybe less), but let's be prudent.

I move up to put my stuff in a bin and wouldn't you know...NO BINS. In a frustrated huff, I just started tearing off my two coats, suit jacket, and heels; and I even unpacked my laptop. No sooner had I done this than a security guard yells over that I need to put all of my belongings in a bin. I turned to look at him and gave him a nice combination of a 'no shit'/teacher stare before telling him that "there are NO bins for me to put my belongings IN." The man yelled to one of his cronies that they needed more bins in lane 1. A little man walked over, as if he had something better to do than replenish the bins in lane 1, and hands me a single bin. ONE BIN. Now, anyone who has travelled in the last 5 years would know that one bin is just not gonna cut it. I mean, the dipshit in front of me took THREE bins. THREE! That's the minimum if you're carrying a carry-on, jacket, and laptop. I scoffed at the pure absurdity of this single bin, and glanced down at my watch. 8:48. Damn it. No time. So I just piled everything on top of my laptop and moved it down the lane.

"Ma'am, you cannot have all of your belongin'gs in one bin."
"I know this, but you only gave me ONE BIN."
"Listen lady, I'm just trying to do my job" [hands me another bin]
"I'm just trying to do my job too, and I can't do that job if I miss this flight that leaves in 5 minutes!" [stuffs belongings into second bin]

I hurriedly walked through the metal detector, beep free, and anxiously awaited my bins. Wouldn't you know it...that wench behind the scanner yelled for a bag check. You have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. I looked at my watch. 8:52. Sweet Jesus.

The rubber-gloved woman before me was delicately moving aside the personal effects of my purse, only to pull out a very small bottle of Germ-X. The same Germ-X, ironically, that Southwest was giving out at Christmas. Even after she found this stowaway liquid, she continued to search my bag. Never in my life have I ever spoken to a stranger this way, but this was too much. I yelled at her to take the "fucking Germ-X and let me get to my flight!!" Shocked, she handed me my purse. I snatched it out of her grubby paw, and took off down the corridor in my 3 inch heels.

I did make it (so I guess the ticket counter lady wasn't totally wrong), but I made it at 8:54. Seriously. Thank God for Southwest being so lax with its boarding policy. Ok, moral of this story, get to the airport on time. If that's not an option, for goodness sake, get yourself three bins.

it was monday today.

okay so i guess i will write on this thing. btw, i am very new to the blog thing, so don't make fun of me.

okay, so today was monday and after the incredibly wonderful weekend i had in dallas with the usual suspects enormo, espi, party n, and butler, it was hard to come back to the wonderfulness that is law school. i know everyone says how wonderful austin is, but frankly it has not charmed me yet. forgive me if i don't like white boys (or girls for that matter) who have dread locks. call me old fashioned.

so i was not having the best of days (had already cried by noon - big surprise) until i got to my torts class. my torts professor is pretty much awesome. he's a teeny 70 year old man who basically knows everything and has written everything there is to know about tort law (i.e. negligence, intentional infliction of emotional distress, battery etc.) he's sharp, witty, funny and is one of those people you know will live to be 120. so today we walk in, and he's got a guitar out. he then proceeds to sing and play for us 2 songs he's written about torts. one was to a jerry jeff walker tune and one was to hank williams. and there were definitely repeated references to lone star beer.

so basically, professor robertson made my day! i hope ya'll thought it was as cute as i did! miss you girls and can't wait to hear the craziness that i know goes on in ya'lls lives!