We're like Charlie's Angels, but with less crime fighting and more arguments about food

I have recently been musing upon the complexities of cohabitation. Or in my case, tri-habitation (I am 78% sure that I made that up.) To put it bluntly, living with people who aren’t your family is weird.

Since I have been living with my two best friends for the last two years at school, I have yet to experience the bone-searing awkwardness of living with strangers. Most likely I would only survive that until my small talk ran out. (How are you? Still good? That’s good…)

So in terms of living situations mine is pretty tops. I’m not one of those people who can tell excellent, cringe-worthy roommate anecdotes. But I would like to take a moment to point out the little things that people never talk about but that are completely bizarre.

To point out something obvious: Heather and Courtney (henceforth known as ‘the roomsies’) were not raised by my family. They had their own families who formed their own habits. Teeny, tiny nothing habits that you never think about until holy shit why do they do that differently than you?

For instance: did you know that breakfast pie is apparently NOT a thing? In my household, if there was leftover pie (or certain kinds of cake) it was basically expected that it would be enjoyed in the early morning.

Neither of my roommates has ever enjoyed pie for breakfast. I weep for their misfortune. Also they eat a lot of things with whole wheat and enhanced fiber. And they talk about apples the way normal people talk about brownies. (“Ooh, yeah, I love honeycrisp! Honeycrisp is the best kind!” “Me too, although red delicious sounds good right now!” “MMMM yeah it does!!!” “…have you guys even tasted chocolate?”)

But I digress. Although I could rant about their obnoxiously healthy food habits forever, that wasn’t entirely my point. I don’t think. I tune in and out of my own thoughts a bit. There is only so much ‘me’ I can handle at a time.

Another example: I’ve never owned a wooden spoon. Which is apparently a big deal or something. I don’t think there has ever been a single moment when I felt the need to have a wooden spoon. But the roomsies act as though they are the most important utensil ever to grace the earth. Wooden spoons are second only to apples.

I often call my sister and tell her about these little quirks just to regain some sense of normalcy.

Me: “People eat hotdogs in tortillas, right?”

Sister: “Of course, that’s the best.”

Me: “Ok, just checking.”

That’s something about family: they are the only ones who will completely understand and identify with every little quirk and habit you assumed were universal. Because I’ve found out that just about nothing is universal, and part of what makes family so indispensable is that they do things the way you do because they are the ones who taught you to do it in the first place. (I’m pretty sure that sentence was impossible to follow. Well, my family will understand it. BAM, point made.)

But as much as I love my family, there is something to be said for living with friends. I have managed to find at least two people who, even though they don’t agree with it, allow me to cover the stove burners in tin foil. And then are totally unfazed when I use the excess foil to make tiny animal sculptures. Or decide to dry my fingernails by prancing around the dining room to ABBA. Or yell the word “train” in response to the train whistle (it just sounds so lonely).

Me and the roomsies are extremely different on paper: A blonde, a brunette, and a red head. (We're like a television trio.) A Christian biology major who is possibly dressed by birds and other woodland creatures in the morning, an Athiest computer science major who listens to dubstep and is wonderfully sarcastic, and an Agnostic, childlike business major with a tendency towards crazy. 

But we work. Because we all use words like “roomsies”. We can turn on a strobe light in our dining room and have an impromptu rave just because studying is killing us. Because they are completely into the idea of me recreating the Wuthering Heights music video over Christmas break. (Oh yeah, it’s happening. Prepare yourselves for the overload of awesome.)

So I think there might be two kinds of families: the people who form all of your weirdness, and the people who later have to put up with it.

But I still say breakfast pie isn’t weird. Only amazing. 

It takes a lot of work to look simultaneously disaffected and like you're attending a rave in the 80s

I started writing a full post about my Halloween costume (which I may still flesh out and post if I need a way to avoid responsibilities) but for now I decided to just let it speak for itself:

I also made the costume/did the makeup of my roommate Courtney. And decided on our band name, inspired by this video from The Mighty Boosh. If only we could find some musical talent this could really be something…

We may or may not have taken over forty pictures in different badass poses...

Happy Halloween Everyone!!! 

Stop destroying my childhood, United States Mint people

The other night I was feeling extremely hyper, energetic and incredibly bored. On top of that, my roommates had the audacity to leave me all alone when I was in such desperate need of amusement. Something about needing to study or going to church or freeing giraffes from captivity or something, I was pretty tuned out.

Sweet Freedom!!!!

The important thing is that they left me at home, all alone, knowing full well that I had recently finished watching all of my British comedy shows and had no way to mindlessly amuse myself. Unforgivable.

So I wandered the apartment for awhile, sighing loudly until I remembered there was no one around to hear how dreadfully I was being treated. Then I came across a penny, which made me happy until I realized it was one of those new pennies.

Whoever made the decision to deprive future generations of the joy of discovering the teeeeny Lincoln sitting in the monument on the back of classic pennies should go sit on a cactus. It was honestly one of the defining moments of my childhood.

Bask in the glory of tiny Lincoln! He's in there, I promise. 

Disquieted by my musings on minuscule presidents (or lack-thereof), I decided to be the bigger person. I wouldn't be angry at my friends by leaving me to my own devices; I would use this alone time to show them how much I care.

Thus I wrote nice things on seven-post it’s for each of my roommates and hid them around the apartment. It was a gesture that I felt was appropriately equal parts sweet and serial killer, which is just my style.

This took me about nine minutes. Or it may have been forty. I have a really bad sense of time. The point is that after doing this I was still bored, hyper and alone. After nixing the idea of covering the light fixture in tin foil (I just couldn’t come up with a feasible reason) and writing the word “Mummy” on the bathroom mirror with my finger so it showed up when my roommate showered, I retreated to the only possible course of action.

I am speaking, of course, of this song. Listen. Watch the video. Then go watch the other pretty much identical video (except she had a white dress instead of red and is indoors). And try not to get sucked in. I dare you. It is impossible. It is simply too glorious to be ignored. WATCH KATE BUSH DO WEIRD ARM DANCING. 

My roommate did not find it quite so glorious when she finally got home. Although she may have been distracted by me singing and dancing along. She simply narrowed her eyes at me and said “you know way too many of those lyrics. What even is that?”

It is my life now Heather. It is my life. 

I like my men like I like my knives

I am not ok with these miniature versions of attractive guys that seem to inhabit my campus. You know, the type of guy who is like, “hi, I’m really good looking. By the way, I’m five-four.” This is really annoying for someone like me who is 5’10 (5’11 on a stretchy day.) This would not be a problem if I were a tiny Asian girl. Also, if I were a tiny Asian girl I would look adorable in pigtails rather than like a cocker spaniel.

Pictured: Less adorable than Asian girls

 But I digress. I am not now nor will I ever be a tiny Asian girl, and I must come to terms with that. The point is that I do not like short men, simply for the fact that they make me feel like a freaky giant Amazonian. One might say that I have a “type”. However, apparently my “type” is considered odd by some (very judgmental) people.

Confession time: I like pointy men.

Ok, at first I had no idea what that meant either. It is a term coined by my sister to describe some of my celebrity crushes. It should also be noted that she does not at all share my thoughts on what is considered attractive (she is into the giant-teddy-bear type of guy). Perhaps it would be easier to explain this with an example or three.

I want to take him to the zoo
and buy him ice cream. 

Did somebody call a Doctor? 

They still shouldn't be remaking Spiderman

I could provide many more examples, but I think you can see the trend by now. There is something undeniably…pointed about all these men. What can I say; I like ‘em dark haired and scrawny in a way that might be painful to hug. But in a hot way.

This is not to say I don’t appreciate the more traditional look of male attractiveness. Everyone loves a good set of abs, and given the chance I would literally live inside Robert Downey Jr.’s eyes. I just think that the awkward, angular gents among us have a certain charm that is undeniable.

So, I guess that explains the ‘pointy’ part of my blog title. Well, that and my knife collection. Maybe the knife thing would have been the more interesting choice to expand upon…

Also I have a Samurai sword. 

These are not my pants. Or they are. I just don't know anymore!

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.  

I won't let you damage my self esteem mac&cheese. Not again.

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. 

If a genie ever grants you three wishes, don't base them on a Beach Boys song

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? 

I am appalled by that mouse's lack of integrity

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 

I actually love my name, I just hate other people

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:

Simon, Jessica

Taylor, Anna

Thomas, Bailey

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.  

   

Apparently it is rude to call them "rental children"

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.”

Hopefully the police don't read this, because I think I'm technically that blanket's employer

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.

Write like nobody is watching

When I went to bed last night, I had four followers. When I woke up this morning I had thirty. And yes, I did a little jumpy/flappy arm dance (it was a masterpiece). Everything was instantly made of kittens and sunshine and creamy custardy flan. My day was made perfect, and it was all thanks to Jenny Lawson, known to all as The Bloggess.

Yesterday after writing the epic tale of OWSR, I decided to indulge a random whim and send an email to Blog Jesus (not to be confused with Keanu Reeves Jesus or Jesus Lion). The email was as follows, with the subject line of I promise, if I wanted you to sell toilet paper for me I'd pay you:

Hi Jenny,

....or  The Bloggess, or My Ladyship the Princess of Germany (has that ever been settled officially?). Anyway, obviously I'm just another one of those peons who is probably just going to clog up your inbox and never be read. I apologize for not being Nathan Fillion. And yes I have just realized the whole first part of this email comes of as like, "ooh look at me I read your blog I bet NO ONE else ever does that and then quotes it back to you in an email." So yeah...sorry about that. 

Anywho I guess I am writing to you because you are awesome, and I kinda sorta maybe wanted you to possibly read my blog if you had a chance. Obviously I don't want you to promote it or anything because 1) who do I think I am? and 2) I've only posted four things so far, which is not much to promote. I just want to see if you think I'm funny at all I suppose. Plus it'd just be really super cool. I know you have to get these kinds of emails literally all the time, in fact mine is probably sandwiched between two shockingly identical ones. However, I figured what do I have to lose? 

But as an anxiety-ridden nineteen year old currently on jury duty while all her friends are at the beach, more disappointment would kind of suck. Ooh, guilt trip! That was uncalled for. So here's the link. Do with it what you will, oh mighty deity of blogging. 

So yeah, it was long, desperate and obviously trying too hard, but I actually managed to send it. And she read it. And clicked the link. And then read that too. And THEN tweeted my blog.

So now here you are. And about twenty seconds after I felt that first sense of elation, I realized that people will actually be reading things I write. AND THAT IS TERRIFYING.

But as it turns out, this was one of the rare times when The Crazy actually got overruled. Sure, I could freak out. I could panic about what I was going to write next, how quickly I would manage to lose all these new followers, or how I would probably become so powerfully uninteresting from now on that the Bloggess would issue a tweet-traction and then find out where I live and mail me a picture of herself looking disapproving. Like this pumpkin.

Disapproving pumpkin, why must you hurt me so? 

However, sane Bailey must be working out, because even though she is one-nineteenth the size of The Crazy she managed to muscle her way through to the forefront. And so, I’m not going to freak out. I’m just going to keep writing and hope you still find it interesting.

And at some point I’m going to figure out how to reply to comments, because I totally have some now (repeats flailing dance).

Sorry to interrupt with this non-humorous post, but I couldn’t just continue on without acknowledging my new readers or the reason for them. So if you still think I’m worth the shot, tune in tomorrow to find out when I found out a terrible truth about myself: that I am racist against blankets. 

In which I scare an old woman while she admires her groceries

I haven’t posted anything in awhile (which doesn’t matter much since the only person who reads this is my mom, but still) so there are a lot of things I could talk about right now.

I initially thought I would talk about my horrible day and how I get to spend the next five days on jury duty. But then I realized just how much I talk about my horrible days lately; how much time I spend complaining and moaning and proclaiming that I am going to burn the world down (an impractical but at times satisfying thought).

So instead of all that negativity, I am going to talk about something amazing. Something that managed to shake me out of my misery and make me smile.

I am speaking, of course, of Old Woman Spaghetti Reader (OWSR for short). Some context is needed I suppose. As I was riding home on the MAX today, lovingly cradling the whip-creamy remnants of my magical headache curing beverage, an old woman got on the train, wheeling in front of her a small cart filled with reusable grocery bags.

I glanced over as she took the seat next to me, and watched covertly as she pulled out a box of Whole Wheat Thin Spaghetti. And began to read.

Not glance; this was not a glance, not a casual once-over of her newly purchased pasta. She was engrossed in it as if it were her favorite novel. It was completely beautiful.

Now as anyone who has ever ridden public transportation knows, they tend to house a lot of strange people/things. So maybe a pasta-reading old woman doesn’t strike you as very interesting. But to me, at that moment, it was so mundanely absurd I couldn’t get enough. Of course, this all probably played out differently to OWSR.

My Thoughts: Oh my God, why is that lady reading that spaghetti? ALL OF THE FUNNY!

OWSR: Yes, lovely, I shall sit and leisurely examine my wonderful new pasta. Now that Mr. Jingles has passed on I can afford food for myself instead of sharing his Meow Mix.

Me: Ok, ok, she put it away. Calm down. Continue listening to music. *Commence lip synching, rock out* CHEESUS CRACKERS SHE JUST PULLED IT OUT AGAIN! What didn’t you see the first time old lady? What further secrets could you be decoding from that box?

OWSR: Oh gracious, the young lady beside me looks a bit manic, why does she keep furtively glancing at me and mouthing silent words? Is she having some kind of fit? Best to keep still so as not to provoke her…

Me: YOU HAVE OTHER GROCERIES! WHY AREN’T THEY GOOD ENOUGH TO READ TOO?

OWSR: …My my, oh goodness, she is definitely still looking at me. Stay calm, Estelle, you’re a strong independent lady. Just casually exit the train at the next stop.

 Me: Aw, she’s getting off at this stop. Wait, what just…HA! The wheel of her little cart-y thing just got stuck in the wheel of that stroller! No way old lady, that mother is not going to help you at all, yessss, struggle to awkwardly remove yourself before the doors close!

OWSR: Mr. Jingles watch over me, I’m trapped! Must escape lunatic girl who seems to have a strange attachment to that near-empty coffee cup!

Me: Caffeine-y goodness, you are a magical headache curing elixir! *Cuddles with cup* Bye weirdo old lady!!!

OWSR: *Runs away and never buys pasta or takes public transport again*

Hmm. I think my point got away from me a little in that reimagining, but I think what I was getting at is that no matter how bad you feel, how depressed or annoyed or angry you are feeling, there will always be tiny, wonderful things to pick you right up again as long as you are willing to see them.

I love you, Old Woman Spaghetti Reader. 

Hopscotch

Today I had an overwhelming urge that has become quite familiar to me since the beginning of my college career: I wanted to hopscotch. I wanted to hopscotch really badly. Right there, walking through campus, my legs felt the itch for the hop-jump one-two-legged dance of my childhood. I tried it. But it’s really not the same without the chalk outline and with a bunch of people milling around thinking you are a lunatic.

           

Maybe it was the cobblestones. They kind of look like hopscotch squares. Or maybe it’s the fact that my entire being is unwilling to let go of my childhood. I don’t see why things have to stop being fun just because we get older. Sure, we grow out of things, tastes change, but every once and a while if you get the urge to hopscotch or hula hoop or pretend the floor is lava, why shouldn’t you?

            

There are many things about me that haven’t changed since I was a child that probably should. I still play with my food. After I eat at a restaurant I still feel the urge to lay down in the booth (maybe I do sometimes…don’t stare! As if you never get sleepy after eating a lot!) If my roommates drag me to the grocery store when I don’t want to go I will stomp and whine and drag my feet while exclaiming “you aren’t my real mom!”

           

Is any of this acceptable behavior? Probably not. In fact if I remember right it wasn’t acceptable when I was younger either. Like hiding in clothing racks, pulling off price tags or stealing those stiff little plastic things they put in the collar of men’s shirts while at the store. But still I did them, with the unparalleled excuse that I was young and expected to learn better behavior.

            

I don’t really think that we would all be better off acting like children all the time. It would be ridiculous. And even I know that sometimes I possibly push the boundaries of appropriateness for someone my age. But does it really hurt anyone if while I’m walking down the street, just for a second, I jump a little? It’s not the same without those chalk lines. Trying to act childish won’t bring back my childhood.

           

So what’s the big discovery? What’s the life-changing epiphany? I don’t quite know. But I know I’m going to hop if I feel like it.