're

Ok. I have a problem. You know how English has grammar? Yeah. It does exist.
Here's a grammar issue that bothers me to no end.
Your vs. You're.
I may have mentioned it before. It's just something that gets me.
"OMG! your so cool!"
(it gave me the heeby jeebies to write it that way. just so you know)
My cool...what?
People. "Your" connotes possession.
If you want to say "you are," it's "you're."
This is really not that hard. Please, please learn it.
I'm begging you.

Riddle me this.

Why do nurses always feel the need to insert their opinion into your medical problems?

I've been spending a lot of time in the student health center lately (the desk attendant and I are getting to be great friends).

Last week I went in and asked the doctor about a bunch of stuff, including these weird little bumps I've had on my legs since high school. I don't look disfigured or anything, but I didn't know what they were, I figured I was just special. The doctor told me what they were and that I could get them removed easily by another doctor in the clinic. So that's what I did.
Yesterday, I went in to the clinic to get these fancy little bumps taken off. The nurse took me into the little examination room and started to check me in.
"Alright," she said, "where is this bump?"
"I have several," I said, "they're on my shins and knees."
She didn't get it, for some reason.
"Where is it?"
"I have a few. On my shins and knees."
Maybe I was speaking parsletongue without my knowledge.
She was still confused. "Let me see them."
So, I lifted my skirt a little above my knees so she could see the bumps.
"OH MY GOSH!" she exclaimed, "You have so many!"
Thanks. My self esteem is dropping swiftly with every word you say.
"I mean, I thought you had two or three, but that is so many!"
I didn't know what they were, jerk face, how about you keep talking about it.
"You should really have those taken care of!"
Hmmm. That's interesting. I thought that was THE PURPOSE OF THIS APPOINTMENT!
Then she proceeded to bring in the supplies to get rid of the bumps. I didn't know what it all was, I'm no doctor, and at this point I didn't really feel like talking to her anymore. She didn't realize this.
"This little tool right here will be perfect for you, since it will be flexible for all different sizes." She said with a sheepish little grin. Like she was trying really hard to hold in her laughter.
Then she left me humiliated and ready to crawl in a whole and die.

Is the worst thing she's ever seen at a health center some bumps on a poor girl's leg? Sheesh.

fun fact number 18

I don't like elevators. They serve a wonderful purpose, that I'll admit.
I just don't like the jolt when they start and stop. It makes me feel like I'm going to get stuck in them.

I also don't like stairs. They're just harder hills.

My preferred mode of traveling between stories is escalators. You can walk up them if you'd like to, but you can also stand. They give you options. Also, one time I recreated the Elf escalator scene and when Alison turned around to watch me, she hit her head on the wall. She was fine, but it was really funny.

photo courtesy of

judge a book by its cover

I feel like I've mentioned before that I have a great love of books. And that this site feeds that love.

Well, so does amazon. I have an ongoing wishlist there of books I wish I had. These are just a few of the items on the list.

all photos courtesy of

go to work

I’m currently taking a course discussing management, and it’s made me think a lot about the jobs that I’ve held. My current job is awesome. It’s a really great environment, good pay, and I get to talk to some really awesome people on a daily basis. It’s a pretty sweet gig. However, I have had some doosies in the past.

(for protection, names of ridiculous persons have been changed)

My first job was at a well known national fast food chain. It was awful. I was on my feet all day long, I didn’t get breaks (no one did, unless they smoked), and I came home smelling like French fries.

Possibly the worst part about it, however, was the people employed there. Because it was such a horrible job, they had a hard time keeping people there. Especially the night cook staff. This was mostly comprised of high school aged males, and at one point, they were all stoners.

One young man in particular stands out. Let’s call him Stoney McStonerson. Well, in true cooks fashion, Stoney came to work one day very much…under the influence. This led good little Stoney to place his hand in the fryer. So he got fired. But Stoney had to come back. He had left his clothing in the back. He came back high as a kite. And insisted that they were going to give him his job back. How wrong Mr. McStonerson was.

Stoney had a girlfriend. We’ll call her Lou Ellen (mostly because I actually can’t remember her name, but I’m darn sure it wasn’t Lou Ellen). Lou Ellen had a tendency to overshare. She would tell you anything. Anything, even if you had absolutely no interest in knowing. She also said it in a high squeaky voice. And she was a close talker. She got right up in your face.

Then there was Doloris. Doloris wasn’t just fired. She was arrested. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you. Doloris thought that it would be a good idea to steal money from her fellow workers (like me), the company, and the customer. The first two don’t take a ton of thought, you just take the money while they’re not looking. The last one, though, that took some strategizing. Doloris memorized a customer’s credit card number, then every time she would be paid in cash, she’d come charge that order to said credit card. Apparently Doloris didn’t think that the woman was smart enough to realize that she hadn’t spent thousands of dollars at a fast food restaurant when her bank statement came. Smart.

After I left my fry cook on Venus stint, I worked for a company that made big machines. For the most part this was a great job. I worked with great people that I love, and the kid who worked in the cubicle next to mine was extremely chivalrous and smelled amazing. But, there were some crazies there as well.

We’ll call the first one Brett Bretterson. That’s what we called him, even if it wasn’t his name. Brett Bretterson had a dislike of my sister and I. He didn’t like that we made noise during our break. But that’s alright. We didn’t like that we could overhear his phone conversations about “what to do with the dead body in the back of the truck,” or that he felt the need to give us constant math lessons on how “32+8=40.” And I’m sorry, Brett, but “you fool, it can’t be done” is not a question.

Then there was Rancher. A sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. From all of the stories that I’ve heard from other people about Rancher, I’m wondering why he lasted as long as he did. The man was probably at least 55 years old, had 6 teeth, and a chronic smell of cigarette smoke (poor guy, he should really get that checked out), and thought he was God’s gift to women. If you were female and you moved, he assumed you were incurably attracted to him. And he acted like you were. He was a charmer.

Lastly, there was Jeremiah. Jeremiah, despite the fact that he was twenty years older, had a LARGE crush on Kathleen (because she’s not ridiculous, her name is the same). He professed this love daily by leaving her a bag of peanut mm’s. Had Kathleen loved peanut mm’s, this would have been a beautiful gesture. But she didn’t. Now everyone we worked with there hates them with a fiery passion from overexposure. Bleh.

So, there you have it. Ridiculous jobs that I have worked. There are more, and I will share them with you at another time. But if this post gets much longer, I fear you won’t read it all.

the problem with shopping online.

I love online shopping. There are good deals, you don't have to get out of your pajamas, and you don't have to leave your couch.

However, there is a problem. You have to wait to get your purchases.
This week I'm sad because I have to wait for what's coming. Which is hard, when these are the items that are coming:

Shade $11.99
Urban Original $12.90

I just want them to come now, so that I can wear them. It will be FANTASTIC!

please put a penny in the old man's hat.

It's almost October, but you guys probably already know that.

But, do you know what that means?
The holiday season is starting.
The way I see it, the "holidays" are the days of candy.
And, since candy starts coming for reals in October and Easter candy is sold until mid April, I figure the holidays are from October 1st to April 30.
Today, I started the kick off of the holiday celebration.
How?
By watching Elf.
photo courtesy of
But, to be perfectly honest, I don't actually stop watching Elf when it's not holiday times.
That movie is too great to only watch for 7 of the 12 months.
Seriously, it's amazing.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4UggyEAjSBY

October 16 is a fun. day

Why?

Because it's the day I get to see this fun. little group.photo courtesy of.

photo courtesy of.

I've seen them before in concert.
They are fabulous.
I think I've even told you to listen to them before.
But, if you weren't listening, here's a video of their glory.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIoaiTwLk6I

Mike TV

Remember this kid?

photo courtesy of

(I refuse to put a link to the original Willy Wonka. That movie is petrifying.)

Well, sometimes I feel like I am Mike Teavee.

Not the rudeness and insanity, but the fact that he watches a lot of TV.

I don't mean to say that I stay glued in front of the TV day and night without moving, and contrary to Mike, I love chocolate.

But I do watch a ridiculous amount of TV shows.

I'm not going to give you a number, because that would just make me sound more lame, and you would probably stop liking me.

Buuuut, this week is premier week for most tv shows. And I am really excited.

frustrating.

As implied by the fact that I got new glasses yesterday, I've been to the eye doctor recently.

While at the eye doctor, we had a nice little chat about Macular Degeneration. Magular Degeneration is an eye disease which is the number one cause of blindness in America. My grandmother has it. My uncle has it. My father has it. So, I am susceptible to it.

Ergo, our chat.

During this chat, my eye doctor gave me information on how to slow, stop, and reverse Macular Degeneration.

So, I thought I'd send this information to my parents. This shouldn't be too hard, I thought, I'll just scan the information in and e-mail it to my parents. And, while I'm at it, I'll put it up on my family's website as well, so everyone can benefit from the wealth. I was feeling very generous.

Today, I trucked my little self over to the library to scan this little bit of paper into the compy.

Then I hit a snag. The 7 kajillion scanners that used to populate the main area of the library have been moved. No matter, I thought, I'll just use the copier to email it. Well, that would've worked, had I been able to get at a copier at that time. One was frozen, the other was being used by somebody who didn't know what he was doing. Great.

So, I went up to the girl at the desk and asked where the scanners went. She said that the software was on the fritz, but there were more downstairs in periodicals. So I went there. And tried 3 scanners. None worked. The only explanation I have for this is that when BYU installed the new Windows (7?) they didn't get the right hook up for scanners. I don't know how it works. I'm not a computer person.

So, I went back up to see if the copiers were free. One was still frozen, and another dolt was using the other (this one couldn't figure out where the paper came out. he copied the same thing 3 times till he finally asked where it came out. what a concept). I waited my turn, only to find out that there is no longer an option of emailing from the copier. Yes, that was available last year, but this year? No. So, I made a copy to send to my dad. Maybe some day the god of scanners will stop his endless vendetta against me and allow me to scan one single freaking article.

first you roast the mallow.

I like marshmallows on other things.
On a stick in the fire.
On sweet potatoes.
On s'mores.
On rice crispy treats (by the way: did you know that you can make rice crispy treats with fruity pebbles? this makes them about 7 jillion times better)
In Lucky Charms.
I don't like them plain. Never have, probably never will.
I just don't understand why all marshmallows don't taste like the ones in Lucky Charms. They're so much better that way.

The glasses are back.

Remember how I stepped on my glasses about 5 months ago? Well it took me those whole 5 months to get new ones, but they arrived today, and are lovely. See?Much better than what I've been living with for those 5 months(ps. I have contacts. I didn't wear the broken ones out of my bedroom. Or with the lights on.)

Labels.

You know how there's the "labels for this post" area, where you put in different things that this post talks about that might link it to other posts? (some of my commonly used ones are Harry Potter, Christian Bale, and Gilmore Girls. Because, I'm awesome. Obviously).

Well, I have a lot. In fact, while I was looking at the list of my posts today, I realized, I have 277 labels. For my 220 posts. 1.25 labels per post (I used a calculator. I can't do that kind of advanced math in my head. jeez). Most have only been used once. That's weird. Why do I feel the need to have so many? I should just have 1 BIG one. Called "label." But Then how would I get you to go back and read my other posts. Maybe with candy.

A picture overload

So, The first time I saw this movie, I was struck by how beautiful it was. It is just about the prettiest cinematography I have ever seen. Plus, as mentioned before, I have a great love of Zooey Deschenel (and her pretty clothes in the movie).
For one thing, there's this scene, involving one of my favorite songs, and it's just perfect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2seAJsrtIbQ
Also, it has this in it.photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is a chalkboard wall. And when I leave college and have my own dwelling that allows me to paint and choose my own wall color, I will have a chalkboard wall. It will be beautiful.

And on the topic of beauty, the following are other things that I found that I love. Beautiful things. Things I would love to own. Or have in my house.

Starting with this. I would like my house to look like the room in this video. Plus it's a great song.
Fidelity-Regina Spektor
(sorry, it wouldn't let me embed)

And then there's these:
photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of
photo courtesy of

If I was here by myself I'd just lie here all day and eat bacon.

I. Love. Bacon.
All kinds of bacon.
I even know how to say "I love bacon" in sign language (thank you Alison and Jamisa).
I whole heartedly agree with everything good 'ol Jimmy says in this video


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CaK9bjLy3v4

However, there is one thing about bacon that is, well, less desirable.
The smell. Before eating the bacon, the smell is fantastic. It is just enticing you, tickling your nose and getting you even more excited (if possible) for the delicious strip of happiness that you're about to eat.
But after the bacon has been consumed? That's when the problem sets in. It lingers. But the bacon is gone then. It's just a memory of joy. A Tim Burton type morbidity that is beautiful but less cheerful than it was earlier.
The smell, however, does not take from my love. It just makes me wish I had more.
Oh, bacon.

shorry, guysh.

I know that it has been quite a long time since I've written. For the last week my ramblings have been much less incessant and more non-existent. I just have a lot of stuff going on.

#1. I have a group project every week for my 360 class. It's not hard, but it's time consuming.
#2. I have a HUGE project starting for my 432 class. It's going to be a lot of work, but it is going to be AWESOME!
#3. Yesterday, I went to the kick off meeting for L'oreal Brandstorm. Have you ever heard of it? Because it is SO EXCITING!
Here's the skinny: L'oreal gives us a brand that they own and an assignment to come up with a product and marketing plan. You do this, competing against other groups in the school. If you win the school, you go to New York and compete against other schools in the nation. If you win New York, you go to (wait for iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit) PARIS.
Katie, Lauren and I are going to go to Paris. That's the plan.

I hope that I will be able to get back to my blogging rhythm. I just have to find the time.

effbook.

So, I have a facebook, it's true. But, over the years I've become a bit disenchanted. It's not a big deal, facebook's cool, but there are some things that I really can't stand. And have made me use it a lot less. And I found a video that adequately portrays all of those awful things that make facebook less...great.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVA047JAQsk

fun fact number 17

When I pluck my eyebrows, my left thigh twitches.
I just thought you should know.

The three levels of country

I grew up in Oklahoma. I don't recollect if I've mentioned that.
In Oklahoma, we love our country music.
Good 'ol OK has produced greats, such as
Reba McEntire, Garth Brooks, and Toby Keith
(also, Brad Pitt and Hanson. I know they're not country, but they're cool)
So, being from Oklahoma, it is obvious that I have a good grasp on country.
In high school, Kathleen and I listened to it a lot.
We found that, like all genres of music, it is not all good.
There are three levels of country.

You should probably be listening to country while you read this. For ambiance.

Good Country:
This type spans across time and space. It doesn't matter when it was produced, from Bob Wills to Patsy Cline to Willy Nelson to Dolly Parton to Blake Shelton to Lady Antebellum, if it's good, it fits in this most high level. And you enjoy it.

Old Country:
This is the older country that is not quite good enough to make it into the "good country" category, but not bad enough to make it into the next one. It's just old.

Suck Country:
Suck Country, like Good Country, isn't prejudice against time period. Like Hufflepuff, Suck Country takes in the stragglers. There's not anything great or stand out-ish about Suck Country. These are the "mah truck broke doyawn, Ah lost mah gun, and mah girl leyaft, but my trusty dowg's still bah mah side" songs.

I hope you've enjoyed this bit of education. I usually feel the need to share my fountain of wisdom with others.

the library effect

photo courtesy of

Maybe you haven't heard of it, but it's for real.
There is something about libraries that (how do I say this and remain a lady?) causes me to need a trip to the little girls room.
It's strange, don't worry, I know. I don't know if it's a common issue in society, but it is something that my family struggles with.
Usually, the BYU library does not act as a catalyst for the library effect. Probably because it's more than just a library, but a study room as well. However, today, it did.
So, I ran off to find the restroom, but was thwarted in my efforts. During the summer, the women's restroom on the main floor was closed for renovation. However, school has started now, thousands more people are on campus, which means thousands more girls needing to use that particular room. I figured it would be in full use by now. Ho ho, not so. It is closed still. Ridiculous.
I finally found an open loo, and was once again struck with a recurring question. Let me preface: at BYU, there are many married women, meaning that there are also many women with young'uns. Ergo, in most of the restrooms there are nice little couches, chairs, and yes, even beds to feed said children.
Here's my question, though. Why in the world would you want to take a nap in the bathroom, of all places. There are plenty of couches, chairs, patches of grass, and flooring around the rest of campus. I just think that a lavatory would be the most awkward room to take a nap.

animal lover

I'm not a huge fan of animals.

I think they're cute when I'm looking at them, and I love holding them, but once they come home with me, and they grow to adult animals, we stop being friends.
I don't like the smell of animals, I don't love animal hair, and I just don't feel the need to own them.
Them=common everyday domestic animals.

Then, I see animals that very few people own, and I become obsessed.
Take, for instance, the teacup pigphoto courtesy of
Look at its sweet little self. I love it so much.

Another example, the baby pygmy hippo. It is probably the sweetest thing I've ever seen.


photo courtesy of
Look at it take a bath! And eat lettuce! And sit there looking all cute!

Lastly, the slow loris is my new obsession. I want one really, really bad. Just keep watching until it makes its incredibly pathetic face. It is going to make you laugh and cry at the same time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLdQ3UhLoD4

moo

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I have my family finance class.
It is in a BIG classroom in a building that is often used, therefore, when I'm going in, people are coming out, and when I'm coming out, people are going in (actual random question: what purpose does the "o" serve in the word "people?" Wouldn't "peeple" make more sense?).
The hallway and staircase leading to this room are small, not adequately equipped for 400 people to be milling around in.
Whenever I'm entering or exiting this class, the students around me remind me of herds of cattle.
Slow moving, but complaining that the person in front of them isn't moving.
I can just imagine how real it would seem if we moo'd instead of talking.photo courtesy of

random question

I hate it when people misuse commonly used phrases.

Like, I could care less. The correct phrase is "I couldn't care less." If you could care less, well, then you care.

I had a teacher in high school who loved the phrase "needless to say."
"Yesterday I was walking and I saw a girl trip and fall. Needless to say, she was a student of mine."
What? If it was needless to say, we should have known it before you said it. We didn't know it, so it wasn't needless to say.

This is my new favorite: In my family finance class, there's a girl who likes to ask "random questions."
Like: "Random question, how do I budget when I'm living off loans?"
That's not a random question. We're in a finance class. Learning about budgeting. It is a completely relevant question. She asked at least 3 "random questions" in one class period.

we're just glad Carrie comes.

I've been having foot pain for the past few days.
I've been trying to figure out what to write about.
I could write about how I would like crutches so people could call me Crutchy and I could talk about what I did to Mr. Snyder's sauerkraut.

I was thinking of how to describe my pain. I can really only compare it to shin splints. In my foot.
Foot splints.

And that lead me to write about track.
I ran track and cross country all throughout high school.
I didn't do it because I was amazing, but because I wanted to. Kathleen and I did it together, and we had a lot of fun.(I'm the super white one with no eyes. Kathleen is the one in yellow who looks like she's in pain. Please remember that, while I am freakishly tall, I was a freshman. That's why my hair looks like that)

However, it wasn't all fun and games. We did have to run. We also had to deal with the coaches. Let's call them Male Coach and Female Coach, to protect their identities.

Like I said, I wasn't amazing at track or cross country. In fact, you might say that I was the worst on the team. This caused much distress to Male Coach. He didn't like imperfection. Because I was the definition of imperfection in running, he didn't like me too much. One of the things about me that caused Male Coach to be the most distressed was the fact that I walked occasionally.

Before you judge me and think that I was one of those slacker kids who only ran during meets when their coaches were nearby, I'd like to squelch that thought right there. One of the things I'm most proud of is that I never walked during a meet.

However, when you run in Oklahoma at 3:00 in the afternoon in August, (it's approximately 105 degrees with 90% humidity at that time) it get's difficult to run 5 miles and not take a break.

My walking angered Male Coach. He couldn't kick me off the team because it was public school, and I had really good grades, meaning I helped with the team's collective GPA. But, I didn't follow his requests to the letter, causing him anger.

Let me illustrate a picture of Angry Male Coach with my words.
It starts with the chin. Anger causes Male Coach's head to recede back to his neck until he has virtually no chin. It's basically just neck and face. Then his right eye begins to twitch, causing his head to tilt towards the right. While he's yelling at you, his neck/chin combination jiggles, making what used to be a completely normal looking person look like an angry jiggling purple turtle. The problem is that laughing at Male Coach only caused him to be more angry. It was an ongoing vicious cycle of laughing and jiggling.

Female Coach was more passive aggressive with her disappointment with me. Female Coach would hint at how frustrated she was that I'd been on the team for four years and they had yet to see a HUGE improvement. She would say things like "we're just glad Carrie comes" and "Carrie is talented in other ways." Like they'd given up on me, not expecting improvement, just felt obligated to acknowledge the fact that I tried. She would tell me that it was okay if I didn't do well at practice, because I wasn't built to be a runner. I was built to be a shot putter, but just didn't have the upper body strength. That might not sound bad to you guys, but it basically means she thought I wasn't thin enough to be a runner, and I was weak.

I did try though. That's the thing. there were several times that I tried very hard and did well. There were other times that I tried very hard and failed. I look back on it now and am astonished at my ability to wipe off embarrassment. Like in this occassion:

When I was a freshmen, I was running the 400 meter dash in meets (because they had nothing else for me to do), but didn't qualify for regionals. This was not shocking. As I said, i was slow.
However, I also had really good grades. At that point, my GPA was a 4.0. In order for the team to win the "smart kids" award (I'm not sure if that's what it's really called, but that's what we're going to call it) they needed me to compete.

They couldn't have me run the 400, I was too slow. They couldn't have me run anything.
I couldn't throw a shot put ball to save my life, and hurdles and high jump still scare the willies out of me. I couldn't pole vault, that takes a lot of training. But, there was one thing they hadn't tried before: long jump.

To their surprise, when they took me over and told me to jump, I didn't fail miserably. I made the minimum requirement to compete (making it into the sandpit). So, two days before the regional meet, they took me over and gave me a crash course in long jump.

The problem: two days wasn't long enough. I knew this as soon as we showed up for the meet. I took one look at the sand pit and went to talk to Female Coach.
"Female Coach," (I'm pretty sure I actually used her real name) "their sandpit is a few feet farther from the spring board than ours is. I don't think I can make the sandpit," I told her in my most worried and shaky voice.
"Carrie, don't be silly," she said. "It's no farther away than ours."

We both knew she was lying to me. She didn't want me to freak out, but it was much farther away. I spent the next few hours of the meet alternating between praying to not embarrass myself and having entire-body convulsions.

By the time it was my turn to compete, the prayers worked. I was no longer scared of being embarrassed. I had accepted my fate, I was going to die. I watched the other long jumpers on the team compete, and probably place (they actually had skill and had been doing it for longer than two days).

When it was my turn, I stepped up to the starting line, ran down the strip of track, jumped off the spring board, and went as far as I could. Sadly, as far as I could was (as I'd predicted to Female Coach) not as far as the sandpit.

I repeated this action 3 times. After I finished, I left the few feet of track in front of the sandpit, walked over to Kathleen, and said "I'm hungry, want a granola bar?"

Kathleen was shocked. I'd pretty much just made a fool of myself in front of the entire region's track and field athletes, but it didn't bother me. Yes, I could hear their disdainful comments and snorts of disapproval, but I was used to it. I ran track for fun, not for glory.

Plus, I was hungry, and there were granola bars in my track bag.

Earthquake! Earthquake!

Today, I was sitting in my bed, and it began to shake.
I thought maybe I was just moving my legs too much.
Then I realized it wasn't just the mattress that was moving.
It wasn't just the frame that was moving.
MY WHOLE ROOM WAS MOVING.
I got extremely afraid.
I didn't grow up on a fault.
There are no earthquakes in Oklahoma.
Unlike all of these West Coast kids, I didn't grow up doing earthquake drills.
Do I get under my desk? Do I stand in the door frame? Is it better to be outside or inside?
I grew up doing tornado drills. I know to go to a central room with no windows.
Get into the fetal position in the bathtub.
If you're outside, you get in the fetal position in a ditch.
None of those things help during an earthquake. Especially when you're on the third story.
I was petrified.
Then I realized. It wasn't an earthquake.
They're doing construction in the creepy lot next to my apartment.
They're just shakin' things up a little bit.

aaawkwaaaaaard... (read that in a high pitched squeaky voice)

I'm sitting at a computer in the library. The computer across from me is occupied. Every time I stretched my legs out I kicked his feet (or so I thought). I didn't understand why he didn't move his feet. Come on man, if someone were repeatedly kicking me, I'd at least flinch. If only to get rid of the awkwardness. This is not a hard concept. But no. He just sat there with his freakishly long legs stretched out into my space making me incredibly uncomfortable.

Finally, I got fed up. I looked down underneath the table to give his feet the withering stare I was too chicken to give his face. To my surprise, my prize winning withering stare was directed not at his lower appendages, but at my own computer's chords. Because they're inanimate objects, they couldn't move to protect themselves from my incessant kicking. Sorry chords, I'll stop now.

the staircase debaucle that derailed my life plans.

I found a blog. It's pretty darn funny, and the girl who writes it draws pictures to go with her posts.

I decided to try it. So, this post will involve pictures. And a very embarrassing moment.

I'm studying advertising. In the advertising major, you have two options. You can do the management track or the creative track. You have to apply to the creative track. Last winter, that was my plan.
I was getting ready to turn in my portfolio after working on it for a semester, but I needed to find out the specifics (what information to put on it, what size, when. those specifics). So, I went to the professor who is in charge of the creatives' office (from now on, we'll just call him Professor), and picked up the paper that gave all of the instructions. I was hoping that Professor would be in, that I would get to talk to him, impress him, and show him how awesome I am. I would get into the track and i would WIN advertising! (well, you can't really win advertising, but I would.)

However, to my disappointment, Professor was not in his office. I picked up the sheet of paper, put it in my bag and started to walk down the stairs. As I was walking, who should be walking up the stairs but Professor.
A light bulb pinged inside my head. THIS IS THE PERFECT MOMENT TO TELL HIM WHO I AM! I was really excited.

Professor and I were in a small staircase, me walking down, him up. we did that awkward little dance where you both try to go the same way at the same time.

Now, remember. Professor doesn't know who I am. To him, I could be just another freshman who's gotten lost in the Brimhall. I could be a PR major, or a journalism major. He had no idea that he held what was then the dream of my future in his hands.

So, as Professor and I danced our awkward little dance, my brain did this:



It was a brilliant plan. He would be so impressed.

Then I started to fulfill what my brain told me to do, only halfway through, I saw a glitch. After saying "HI!" enthusiastically, I got this face from Professor:

But the words were already coming out, I had no way of stopping them, just inhibiting them a tiny bit.


So I mumbled "ahmcurrieahdell" quickly and quietly. I got a tiny glimpse of his unimpressed and confused face as I scurried down the stairs.

Three weeks later, I turned in my portfolio and waited for acceptance or denial. The result was the latter. I was upset, but I somewhat expected it.

Obviously, I'm creative (I drew all of these pictures) and I'm a hard worker. The only explanation could be that, upon seeing my portfolio, Professor remembered our awkward incident and thought that I had a mental condition and was therefore not fit to be in such a rigorous program.

Moral of the story:
Never try to introduce yourself to someone who controls your future while standing in a stairway. It does not work out well.