Friday, September 30, 2011
I had an absolutely wonderful day today. I had two classes that I enjoy and was done for the day by lunchtime (hooray for leftover hamburger helper! I won’t tell you the flavor. I'm mysterious like that.)
However, throughout my whole day I couldn’t shake an ominous, uncomfortable feeling. The feeling that I was wearing someone else’s pants.
It is important to note that these were, in fact, my pants. Allegedly. Let me explain. I own one pair of black jeans, which I haven’t worn in a while because 1) it was hot and 2) pants are for chumps. But last night I had painted my nails metallic silver (partially to feel like female wolverine), so I decided to wear my long-neglected black jeans to go with it.
As soon as I put them on I became extremely confused. They didn’t feel the same way as I remembered them. Don’t get me wrong, they fit me perfectly and were extremely comfortable. But they didn’t feel the way I had expected.
A normal person probably would have said to themselves, “you just haven’t worn them in a while. Obviously they are your pants. You’ve already spent more time than is acceptable thinking about this.”
But that’s not what I thought. What I thought was, “the stitching is totally different. No, wait, maybe not. Oh god, who’s pants could these possibly be? Did anyone come to my house and leave their pants behind? Do I even have any friends with the exact same pant size? These are definitely slightly shorter.”
And so, the Case of the Foreign Pants put a cloud of confusion over my otherwise sublime day. Yet, I got the distinct feeling that the others around me did not find this issue quite so puzzling.
Me: So, I don’t think these are my pants. I mean, I have pants like them, but these don’t seem like those ones.
Roommate: Yeah…those are probably your pants though.
Me: But…they don’t FEEL right. I mean they feel fine. Better than the other pants actually. Maybe there is some sort of pants-improvement-gnome that goes around very slightly altering your pants just to drive you crazy.
Roommate: Maybe. But probably not.
And then she left the apartment. I don't know if she's coming back.
My mom’s response to my very long pants-related diatribe when I called her was to tell me to put it on my blog. I think just so SHE didn’t have to be the one to listen to me about it anymore.
…But seriously, those pants are definitely different. Maybe.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Last night for dinner I had Pop Tarts and Cup Noodles (look at the package; it doesn’t say Cup of Noodles. Just found that out and it blew my mind). So tonight I thought I should have something that at least resembled a proper meal, lest I become a collegiate stereotype.
My idea of a proper meal is a plentiful bounty of hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. Because I’m a champion.
As my faithful sous-chef/roomsie Courtney was preparing the dish of noodley goodness, she wisely sought my advice. She was unsure whether to use the ‘suggested’ preparation instructions or the ‘classic’ prep.
I was a bit shocked when I looked at the box and saw that there were, in fact, two different preparation options. I think this is ludicrous, as the classic is always the better option (just ask New Coke).
But then it all became clear. The ‘suggested’ preparation had 75% less fat and 30% less calories (and thus 100% less deliciousness). I couldn’t believe it. I was being judged by a macaroni box.
“Hey listen, I’m saying this just as a suggestion, maybe use less butter? Or you know what, just put me back in the cupboard and have a salad. And then go to the gym, because you disgust me.”
Well screw you, Kraft macaroni and cheese preparation instructions. I am secure with myself. And now I’m going to add extra butter just out of spite.
Or just eat more Pop Tarts instead. Because they love me for who I am.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Today I moved the majority of my belonging to my new apartment in Corvallis with the help of my wonderful parents and one of my roommates. As everyone knows, moving is very difficult and very tiring. But as I lounge in my bed, relaxing and watching the Shining, I’m not thinking about moving.
I’m thinking, of course, about the Beach Boys. Specifically, the fact that you should never take practical advice from a Beach Boys song.
This thought first struck me on the way home while listening to “Wouldn’t it be nice”. Now I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this, like most Beach Boy songs, is one of the most ludicrously happy sounding tunes you are likely to stumble upon. Just the opening bars are enough to make me want to bounce back and forth and do jazz hands (which of course, I do).
My first problem with this song becomes clear in the opening lyrics: wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?
No. As simple as that. It is not nice to be older. In fact, even as I prepare to head off for my next year of college I am spending most of my time trying to create a device to allow me to return to the age of seven. Because My Little Ponies are nice. And Barbies and dress-up and red rover and Sky Dancers (even if Sky Dancers are now illegal due to the fact they are too awesome for kids to handle. Also they smack you in the face with the force of an MMA fighter.)
Getting older? Not so nice.
But Peter Pan Syndrome aside, I still have one major problem with this song, and that is the following lyric: I wish that every kiss was never ending.
First of all, if it is never ending then there is no ‘every’ kiss. It is one kiss. The SAME kiss, going on and on forever.
Wouldn’t it be nice? NO. It would be a NIGHTMARE.
A never ending kiss would be fine for maybe the first twenty minutes. But after the first day? Week? Year?! If you last that long without dying of starvation of course. I guess you would just have to sort of wedge the food in between your lips. Or maybe you could get hooked up to an IV.
"It's been three years. Just please kill me."
And how would you sleep? Is it physically possible to continue a single kiss while sleeping? I think not. I think you would have to stay awake, hour after hour, locked in a hellish prison of lips with someone who by that point you probably despise. And when the last star blinks out at the edge of eternity, there you’ll be, still kissing.
And wouldn't it be nice?
Monday, September 12, 2011
This weekend I went camping with my family (and awesome friend Gennie) on the Deschutes River. This post is courtesy of my dad, who is extremely terrified of snakes. People usually think I get my…uniqueness from my mom because we share the same outlandish personality, but every once and a while my dad does something that reminds me that he’s as much of a weirdo as the rest of us.
“I hear a rattlesnake.”
“No dad, that is definitely a bird.”
“No, that’s a rattlesnake. He is riding a surfboard.”
“…so he’s on the other side of the river?”
“Well he came from that island but now he is coming across on his surfboard.” He laughs to himself. “I bet he has a little mouse riding in the front wearing a lifejacket.”
“Wouldn’t he eat the mouse? Why is he friends with it?”
“It is a traitor mouse. He tells the snake where all the other mice are so he can eat them.”
“Wow, that mouse is a dick.”
“And now the snake heard us all talking about where we are sleeping tonight. He’s going to crawl into your tent in the middle of the night.”
“Wait, aren’t rattlesnakes, like, the least sneaky of all snakes? It always announces itself.”
“The mouse will open the zipper for him.”
Of course it will. But I can’t help wondering how they paddled that surfboard.
Happy 51st birthday, daddy
Friday, September 9, 2011
I had an entirely different post half-written, but after going to the dentist yesterday I feel the need to write about something that happens to me a lot and always induces a wave of eye-twitching fury.
First of all, I had a new hygienist clean my teeth. This was bad in and of itself because it combined two things I despise: change and meeting new people. And then she got off to the absolute worst start possible.
“Thomas? Is Thomas here?”
At which point the receptionist helpfully supplied that her patient was in fact named Bailey and Thomas was the last name. She could have apologized, or acted at least a little embarrassed. But no.
“Oh, I just glanced at the name. I was expecting a guy. I bet that happens to you all the time.”
And yes, it does happen all the time. But that does not, in fact, make it any less irritating.
Now let me clarify for a second: the fact of the mistake is not what bothers me so much. I am quite aware that I was bestowed with two last names (or two first names depending upon your viewpoint), and that this can get a little confusing for people.
My problem is that usually when I get called by my last name instead of my first it happens when someone is reading it in last/first form, like on a role sheet at school. And that is the crux of my annoyance. Because it means they actually had to make an effort to get my name wrong.
Not following what I mean? Think about it. They are reading down a list of names such as:
So they say aloud “Jessica Simon, Anna Taylor, Thomas Bailey.” Do you see the problem? They had no trouble following the last/first pattern, but when they got to my name some demonic part of their brain decided to complete disregard that pattern just to piss me off.
Ok, maybe I’m being a little harsh. Being called Thomas is at least not as bad as the second most common reaction to my name.
“Bailey? I knew a dog named Bailey!”
Thank you for sharing. And now I shall destroy you.
Does this dog have a people name or do I have a dog name?
Unfortunately I think I know the answer.
Monday, September 5, 2011
I am either a business genius or a horrible person, according to a running argument I have with my friend Heather. It began one day when I had the completely normal urge to be covered in kittens.
Me: “I require a box of kittens.”
Heather: “For the last time, I’m not going to get you kittens. We live in a dorm room.”
Me: “Well obviously I don’t want to KEEP them. I just want to lie on the floor and cuddle with them for awhile. It will make me feel better.”
Heather: “I don’t think there is any place where you can temporarily get an entire box of kittens.”
Me: “Just rent them.”
Heather: “Kitten rental is not a thing.”
Me: “It’s totally a thing! I’m making it a thing right now. You can be my business partner. We’ll make millions.”
Heather: “I am not going to be your business partner. That is a horrible idea. You can’t just pass kittens from one home to another, that’s cruel. They’d get attached to you.”
Me: “Well, it could be rent with the option to buy, like with couches.”
Heather: “I just don’t think it’s very nice.”
Me: “I doubt cats are anymore sensitive then children.”
Heather: “…do I even want you to clarify that?”
Me: “It would basically be like foster children, but with cats. If you can rent kids you should be able to rent kittens.”
Heather: “You can’t call foster kids ‘rental children’!”
Me: “…It’s totally the same thing. Except that rental kittens would be way better because instead of a stupid kid you can get like, an entire box of tiny baby cats.”
Heather: “That is completely horrible.”
Me: “So you’re saying you won’t go rent me some kittens?”
Heather: “No, I will not go get you a box of kittens from the fictional business you just made up. Especially since it is a horrible idea.”
Me: “You are so unsupportive.”
Heather: “PETA is going to attack you.”
Me: “PETA will love me. You’re jealous and mean and now I’m a storm cloud because you won’t invest in my business.”
Heather: “Get out from under the blanket, Bailey.”
Me: “NO! It’s my cave! Grrrrr! Did that sound like a panther?”
Heather: “I thought that was your Velociraptor noise.”
Me: “That was clearly a panther. Velociraptor are accompanied by the short arms.”
Heather: “You’re under a blanket, I can’t see your arms. And all your growls sound the same.”
Me: “Now you are just trying to hurt me.”
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Note: This was originally posted as a facebook note a few months ago when I was still living in the dorms at Oregon State University.
So after spending three hours in my bed tonight watching a marathon of American Pickers (it still counts as a marathon if it is just me repeatedly playing them on Netflix, right?) I realized that I had reduced my bed to what could roughly be viewed as a singular mass of swirled up blankets roughly perched on a mattress that was desperately trying to cling to its fitted sheet (and failing). After wondering if it should worry me that I apparently writhe violently while watching TV, I realized I would need to make my bed if I wanted to sleep in it tonight.
But first I moved my computer out of the depths of the blanket-whirlpool on my bed to my desk and read blogs for a while. A long while. Finally, I realized that three things needed to happen: I needed to shower, I needed to make my bed, and I REALLY needed to pee. The last one pretty much overruled the other two, and being a genius I realized that showering also takes place in the bathroom (my deduction powers are amazing.) Now, I know myself pretty well. And I knew that the last thing I would want to do after showering was anything that felt like chores. Making the bed=chores. However, it is also absurd, unthinkable even, for me to make TWO separate trips to the bathroom. Because lazy always beats intelligent.
After showering I was determined to prove my earlier self wrong. I would make the hell out of that bed and not simply resort to tunneling under the heap of blankets and curling up like some desperate animal (because it is much harder for them to make beds properly, lacking thumbs and all that.) However, after pulling all the covers off my bed and onto the floor, I spent longer than was acceptable debating whether or not I could just sleep on the bare mattress or the (very cozy looking) blanket-floor-nest.
But I am nothing if not tenacious! So I began to make my bed. When I got to the blanket my parents had brought back from Mexico, it had somehow built up enough static electricity to shock me THREE TIMES. Oh, I get it Mr. Blanket, you are judging me for not doing this earlier when I would not have been disturbing my roommates who are waiting (oh so patiently) for me to finish my extremely long process of bed-making so they can sleep and escape my craziness for a moment by slipping into blissful unconsciousness.
WELL YOU CAN'T JUDGE ME, MEXICAN BLANKET, YOU ARE AN ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT! WHERE IS YOUR GREENCARD, HUH?
And that is how I discovered that I am racist against linens while making my bed. Thank you and goodnight.