More Brief Sketches of Life at the MB

More haikus about my thrilling life as a supermarket cashier. (Read part one here.)

I. Ode to Customers Who are Way Too Honest
When asked, "How are you?"
Just lie and say, "Doing fine"
Like everyone else.

II. Ode to Customers Who Get Worked Up Over Nothing
The world will not end
If your chips aren't double-bagged.
Just some perspective.

III. Ode to that Stupid "Must Be Free!" Joke
Har-har-dee-har-har
Never heard that one before!
Sir, you are the first.

IV. Ode to Customers Who Miss the Point
I don't think food stamps
Are really meant to cover
Eighteen packs of gum.

V. Ode to the Store Music
Soft rock's killing me.
Never thought I'd say this, but:
Can't wait for Christmas.

VI. Ode to People Who Complain About the Temperature
Why yes, it is cold.
Been standing here for hours,
So I noticed, too.

A Salute to Latvia

Dearest blog readers,

I sincerely hope you are enjoying my blog. I know full well that most of what I put on here is me talking to myself in the hopes that someone will someday stumble upon this collection of my random ramblings, shout out loud, "By Jove, this woman is the bee's knees!" and then either offer me a book deal or turn my life into a sitcom destined to last less than one season. It's a long shot, I know, but if 50 Shades of Gray can leap from the depths of the internet to become a real thing, so can my life, even though it's decidedly less controversial and creepy.

A key part of my long-term blog/life success plan is Giving the People What They Want. I know how business works. You've got to pander to your demographic, and I'm not above selling out. And since half of my blog traffic last week came from Latvia, well...dodiet cilvēkiem, ko viņi vēlas, am I right?

So from now on until at least the end of this entry, the blog has a theme, and that theme is the glorious Republic of Latvia. Dievs, svētī Latviju!

The main problem here is that I don't really know very much about Latvia. So I did a little digging, and here are my favorite Latvian search results. Based on what I found, I think we can all agree that Latvia holds the coolness trump card for planet Earth. See for yourself:

Latvian Folk Calendar (for sale on eBay)

Obviously, I can't read Latvian, despite what my excellent (?) Google translating skills (see above, re: "dodiet cilvēkiem, ko viņi vēlas") might suggest. So I need to use context clues for this one. Based on the picture, it appears that this calendar features a Latvian folk tale about Rabbit, a school crossing guard who sneaks his friends Mouse and Royal-Yet-Nondescript Bug onto the school's track, where they hold clandestine dance parties and consistently outwit their arch-nemesis, the Dark Ethereal Shape ominously approaching from the right.

I think I might want this to become a TV pilot even more than my own life. I would watch the hell out of this show.

Coco the Clown (read more here)

Does this guy haunt your dreams? (He does now! Mwa ha ha.)

Well, you can thank Latvia. Or, more accurately, you can thank Latvia's Nicolai Poliakoff, creator of Coco the Clown. Even in the blissful years before reality TV, people liked to laugh at the misfortunes of others, and as a result old Nicolai took a whole bunch of custard pies right in the kisser.

Fun fact: his son (whom Wikipedia calls "a longtime circus 'Producing Clown,'" whatever that means) apparently "designed the post-1960s Ronald McDonald." Two dream-haunting clowns for the price of one! Thanks, Latvia!


Badass Fairytale Architecture (from Flickr)

This sort of looks like if M.C. Escher decided to design homes for woodland creatures in fairy tales. I need to move here. I need to live here. I need to have quirky adventures with singing animals here.

WAIT, hold up, it's a sauna?! I need to take a steam with Bambi or something! This is almost too awesome to exist. Latvia, prepare yourself. I'm coming over there.

Quotes Directly from the MB

MAN (appropos to nothing): I hope my knucklehead son remembers to stir the soup.

LITTLE GIRL: Daddy, can I get this candy?
GOOD FATHER: No, you already had candy today.
LITTLE GIRL: See, this is why I want a nice dad.

GOOD FATHER: You can't have candy every day!
LITTLE GIRL: You're so mean every day.

(These two should get their own sitcom. I'd watch it.)


CUTE LITTLE GIRL: What's your name?
ME: My name's Renée. What's your name?
(Long pause, then:)
CUTE LITTLE GIRL: JJJJJJJAAAASSSSSSSSSMMIIIIINNNNEEEEEE!
MOTHER: That's not your name! Tell her your real name!


GRANDMOTHER, to child trying to sneak out candy: NO! If you don't put that back right now, the policeman will come and take it away!


WOMAN (in a different line, completely out of the blue): Why does your name tag say "four years"?
ME: ...I'm sorry?
WOMAN: Your name tag. Why does it say "four years"?
ME: Because I've been working here for four years.
(embarrassed pause)
WOMAN: Oh.

You can't make this stuff up.

Curses!

Prepare yourself for the worst: I have...a black spot.

Its origins are less than mysterious: I was shelving a can of Chef Boyardee extra large meat ravioli* when I pinched the skin of my finger between said can and the shelf on which I was trying to put it. I think most people would agree that this is simply a minor blood blister sort of situation, and that any attempt of mine to put my affairs in order and start looking at coffin models is a bit of an overreaction.

*I just don't understand the concept of extra-large meat ravioli in a can. The can is the same size. You are eating the exact same amount of food. "But I'm extra hungry!" you might say. Well, my suggestion to you would be to eat a meal that you cannot buy for a dollar-fifty and does not fit in the palm of your hand.

However, I am nothing if not a pop culture junkie, and pop culture has taught me that black spots--any black spots--have dreadful consequences, particularly if one is on board a pirate vessel of some kind.

So while part of me continues to live life like a normal human being, a small, irrational part of me keeps waiting for Bill Nighy-as-an-octopus-person to come up behind me and blare "Yeh owe meh yer soooooul!" right before my spot jumps ship to go seek its fortune and marry another black spot. My one comfort is that Rory and Pirate!Hugh Bonneville managed to make it work for them on Doctor Who, and, as everyone knows, a television show about a time-traveling alien is always a proper yardstick by which to measure your own life. (Side note: your life is, and will always be, inadequate compared to Doctor Who. True story.)

Further side note: Did you know that, of all the black spots in film and television, the only one I could find a video of was the 2011 Doctor Who episode "Curse of the Black Spot?" Do you believe me now? Give it enough time, and the Black Spot (maybe it merits capitalization?) will destroy everything it touches, including media depictions of itself!

Whoa, it just got all meta up in here, didn't it?

I blame the spot.

Don't call me 'sweetie'

If you've read the rest of this blog at all, you'll know that I work with the public. It is truly delightful, believe me.

But over the past four years I've become more and more annoyed with one particular aspect of my interactions with customers. I'm sick and tired of being called "sweetie," "honey," "baby," "hon," "dear," and/or "darling." And I think I'm approaching a breaking point here. Every time one of the offending pet names is directed at me, a boiling hot feeling of frustration and helplessness starts in my heart and spreads through my entire chest until I'm clenching my hands and trying so hard to keep my mouth shut and smile politely. Because that's my job: to take whatever a customer throws at me--within the realm of reason, of course.

And let me tell you, I put up with a lot of crap from a lot of jerks. But part of what irks me about the pet names issue is that it's not exclusively jerks who use them. In fact, most of the customers who call me by a pet name are otherwise pleasant, friendly, and appear to be all-around good people. So maybe people just don't realize what's wrong with pet names. Maybe you don't either. Maybe you think I'm overreacting. I can see that--but I'm not. Let me explain.

Pet names are for people you are close to. They are for children. They are for beloved pets. They are not for the adult woman who handles your money. You  don't know me. I am not your 'sweetie,' your 'honey,' or anything else except your cashier. If you absolutely must address me directly, I have a big honking name tag. Use it.

My problem with pet names is that they are infantilizing, and I'm not okay with being infantilized. I am a twenty-two year old college graduates who works, who travels, who makes her own decisions. Please don't put me on the same level as your yappy little dog or your not-yet potty-trained toddler.

Furthermore, pet names are familiar. Like, too familiar. Would you be freaked out if I addressed you by your first name after seeing your credit card? Probably. When you interact with someone in a professional setting, you expect to be addressed accordingly: "sir," "miss," "ma'am," etc. You and me, this thing we're doing here? The one where you buy things and I make change? It's a business transaction. I didn't just make you a macaroni necklace, so stop acting like I'm just standing here to be adorable.

This whole pet names thing often comes up in the context of feminism, and it's not terribly difficult to see why. Look at the pet names that are considered "masculine": "son," "man," "sport," and, if you're surfing off the coast of California, "dude." When they don't immediately point to a truism about the guy's status ("son"/"man"), they're connecting him to an admirable trait (like being a good sport) or bestowing on him some modicum of coolness ("duuuuuuude").

Girls get stuck, more often than not, with the words that paint us as doe-eyed fragile beings wandering around a forest glade somewhere: "sweetie," "honey," "baby." Ugh.

But I hear guys get called "hon" and "sweetie" at work almost as often as I hear girls called the same thing. And it makes me annoyed for them, too. Because they are working just as hard as I am, and they are just as worthy of respect.

Let me put it to you this way: would you address the brain surgeon operating on a loved on as "dear"? If you ever met him (or her), would you call the president of the United States "baby"? If you were having dinner with your significant other's parents for the first time, would you christen them "sweetie" and "darling"? Of course not.

I know I'm not a brain surgeon or a president or anything, but I'm still a human being worthy of decent treatment. And guess what? I don't want to be known as "baby"; I want to be respected as an adult. I don't want you to call me "honey"; I want you to call me "miss," because that is my title. I don't want to be called "sweetie," because I'm not interested in being sweet. I'm interested in being a person of substance, a person whose ideas and opinions and personality are acknowledged and respected. I don't care if you think I'm a "sweetie" or a "honey"--if you don't know me personally, that's not for you to decide. All that matters is how I--a thinking, money-making, tax-paying adult--choose to define myself.

And I am not your "sweetie."

Woman vs. Macarons

I don't know if you know this about me, but I make a bomb-ass macaron.

Sorry for the slight profanity, but there's really no other way to describe how awesome they are. I tried a whole bunch of other adjectives before "bomb-ass," and none of them really captured the true bomb-assery of those little almond meringue cookies. Thus: I make a bomb-ass macaron.

Or maybe I should say that I made a bomb-ass macaron, because given today's events, I may have to find something else on which to stake my reputation, like crocheting a bomb-ass scarf (maybe someday, after I learn to crochet) or doing a bomb-ass job of parallel parking (maybe never, after hell freezes over).

But let's back up a minute. I started my macaron-making victory streak in July, when I decided to attempt them for the Bastille Day dinner I was throwing. (Yes, I celebrate Bastille Day. Yes, I actually make an entire French-themed dinner for various friends and family members. To say I miss Lyon is a bit of an understatement.) Anyway, I went into this endeavor with a healthy dose of realistic skepticism regarding my abilities in this arena, since macarons are notoriously difficult to make. Even my certified pastry chef sister's reaction was something along the lines of, "Oh, you're making macarons? Well...um, good luck!"

But make macarons I did. I made them while watching the first hour of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One, no less. And then I ate about 25% of them while watching the second hour of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One, which made for a rather stomachache-y experience once I was into the third hour of the entire ordeal. But the point is, those macarons were good. For a first run, they were even great. Crisp and delicate on the outside, sweet and chewy on the inside. The buttercream frosting was a perfect complement to the cookie. They were a huge hit at dinner and there were none left by the end of the night. All in all, my first foray into macaron-making had been a great success.

I decided to make them again for my grad party at the end of the month, this time adding a pistachio-flavored version to my repertoire. (I was going for a Dartmouth green-and-white color scheme.) Granted, I did not budget my time wisely and ended up having to let the uncooked circles of batter sit for six hours instead of 30 minutes while I went to Market Basket and endured what I'm sure was a thrilling night of overstock, but even this decidedly half-assed attempt at cookie making came off better than it had any right to. The pistachio macarons were a little too chewy and the tops weren't crunchy enough, but it was a relatively minor issue and I still had the almond macarons--aka the ringers--to make up for it. Once again, they were a big hit.

So I guess I got cocky. I started thinking I was some kind of pastry prodigy. Professional chefs bemoan what a pain in the butt macarons are but there I was, knocking off batch after successful batch like they were break-and-bakes. I could do no wrong!

Working directly off that premise, I bought a macaron cookbook I found in the bargain bin at Barnes and Noble and immediately flipped past the basic recipes to the "Fancy Flavors" section, where I promptly settled on chocolate-mint macarons. This wasn't solely the product of cockiness; it also happened to be the only recipe I had all the ingredients for (except for plain almond and pistachio, but hey, been there, done that). So off I went.

The procedure for making macarons is pretty tedious and complicated and involves a lot of sifting, whipping, folding, dough-punching (actually), rapping of cookie sheets on countertops, and so on, so I won't bore you with the details. I'll jump straight ahead to when I pulled my peppermint cookies out of the oven only to find that a.) the top rack was burnt and b.) the bottom rack had transformed from cute little green-colored cookies into a series of amorphous blobs, giving the impression that my entire baking project had begun to hulk out and had been killed in the process.

I threw away the entire top rack without even bothering to take them off the parchment paper, which broke my heart because, unlike the bottom rack, they were perfectly round and lovely. They were also a deep brown, though--pretty hard to argue with that. I cursed the cookbook in the most colorful language I could dredge up and accused it of everything from getting the ingredient proportions wrong to setting the oven temp too high.

In a flash of brilliance, I decided to go back to the macaron recipe that had given me such success from the get-go. All I had to do was sub in peppermint oil for vanilla extract! Way to go, me! Problem solver extraordinaire!

Except the second batch was almost as disappointing as the first. When I piped it onto the cookie sheet, it was runny and it expanded like it was some sort of evil goo bent on world domination. I piped the second half of the batter directly into the garbage can and immediately proceeded to throw a giant temper tantrum in which I enumerated not only everything that had gone wrong with my cookies, but everything that had gone wrong in my entire day. The one bright spot in the madness, my mother and I agreed, was that my hair still looked really nice, which is an unfortunately uncommon occurrence in my life. So there was that.

I would love to make this longwinded story a fable about persistence and tell you that I made a third batch and that it came out perfectly, but that would a lie, because all I did after my second failed attempt at cookie making was eat the sub-par cookies I could salvage from the whole mess. Then I threw the shattered remnants outside "for any animals that enjoy gourmet cookies" and wrote a blog entry bitching about it.

I suppose the next time I make macarons I will be sticking to the tried-and-true recipe that has brought me such success in the past. And until then, I suppose I can console myself with the fact that I still make bomb-ass homemade ravioli...at least, until the universe tries to take that away from me, too.

But be warned, universe: I ain't going down without a fight. And you really don't want a crazy (albeit perfectly coiffed), underemployed college graduate coming after you. I've got a lot of post-adolescent angst and I'm looking for an outlet.

So are you feelin' lucky?

Are ya?

Kill Me Maybe

I have a bone to pick with "Call Me Maybe." Mostly I'm just upset that it continues to exist.

I mean no disrespect to Miss Carly Rae Jepsen. When your parents name you something as twee as that, you're practically obligated to churn out a dancey pop hit at some point in your life. And girlfriend's gotta be raking it IN. I mean really, good for you, woman.

But does every radio station have to play the song nonstop? And I mean actually non-stop. I listen to top forty radio and there it is. So I switch to a mix station and there it is again. And the soft rock station (which has, over the course of the last several years, widened its definition of "soft rock" to include Taio Cruz and No Doubt...but that's a subject for another blog entry). It's getting ridiculous.

And let's examine this song a bit, shall we? This isn't some grand introspective opus that gives us some great insight into modern America or the human race or even Carly Rae Jepsen's mind. This song states its thesis right in the title. I mean, points for directness, but still. When your title covers the contents of your entire song, writing the song itself becomes kind of superfluous (except, of course, for the fact that no one ever made number one on the Billboard Hot 100 on the strength of a title alone).

So yeah, the song's not about war and peace and inner turmoil. It's about Carly Rae Jepsen giving a guy her number. Like twelve times. (Gotta love those repeating choruses!)

Which is fine. On the feminism front, I'm kind of behind the general idea of not having to wait for a guy to make the first move. Way to be proactive, Carly! (Carly Rae? Jeps? Jeppers?) But on the other hand, I've never been sucked into a frenzied tornado of excitement regarding the distribution of someone else's phone number, which definitely curbs any generous feelings I might have toward the song. What I find especially annoying about "Call Me Maybe"'s approach to some lady giving a guy her phone number is that it's way too proud of itself for the whole situation. "Hey I just met you/and this is crazy"? Really? No, it's not that crazy. It's your phone number. Asking him to call you (maybe) is not that bizarre. Ballsy, sure. Crazy, not so much.

Just for reference, here are some things the Jepster (just go with it) could say that would actually be insane:

1. "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I look great in white, so let's get married."
2. "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but you have great bone structure; let's have a baby."
3. "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but THE ALIENS ARE HERE! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

See, that last one was so crazy she couldn't even stay vaguely within a rhyme scheme.

But this is not enough. The song doesn't want us to think that Carly Rae Jepsen is some weird shrew harpy who throws her number at unwilling men all willy-nilly. Not possible, because, hey, she's attractive and she wants to make sure we know it: "And all the other boys try to chase me."

Well, bully for you, Carly Rae Jepsen. You've got so much sex appeal you don't even know what to do with it. Look at you being all selective and whatnot now, spurning the boys who admire you to offer your number to a total stranger who couldn't even be bothered to call you in a timely fashion or put on non-ripped jeans before he met you.

Also, "It's hard to look right at you baby"? Why? Is he ugly? Is he some sort of mythological monster? Are his teeth simply too dazzling? Is he emitting some kind of divine glow? How will this relationship ever work if she can't even look at him? Their wedding will be Carly Rae Jepsen blundering blindly down the aisle in the general direction of her beloved.

But "Call Me Maybe" tops itself in ridiculous lyrics and repetition when it gets to the bridge, which I will copy out in full so as to provide the full effect:

Before you came into my life I missed you so bad
I missed you so bad
I missed you so, so bad
Before you came into my life I missed you so bad
And you should know that
I missed you so, so bad.

Wait. Stop. You guys. What did Carly Rae Jepsen DO before she met Ripped Jeans Guy? Sit in her dim room, saying to herself, "If only I had something to light up this space, like a higher-wattage bulb or A MAN WHO IS APPARENTLY RADIATING PURE SUNLIGHT"? I mean, really, Carly. Really.

And what's funnier is that the second-to-last line makes it clear that she's trying very hard to convey this feeling. Unless this guy is ACTUALLY a marble statue, I think he gets it. Really, Carly, it's okay. He knows. This song isn't exactly a prime example of subtlety. I mean, I know every issue of  Cosmo features an article about how men are stupid and can't pick up on body language and social cues and whatnot (sidebar: UNFAIR. Men, I'm sorry), but you've been pretty clear about your intentions what with the number-giving and the apparent gaze-averting and all that.

Bein' judgemental at the movies

I saw The Hunger Games yesterday and while I thoroughly enjoyed it, I couldn't help but notice that it's pretty much a textbook example of every annoying movie plot device cliché ever. Let me break it down for you (i.e. here come the spoilers, watch out).

"Sneaky" Exposition
Except it was not sneaky and was in fact so bad that I laughed, which is probably not the appropriate response when Stanley Tucci is telling you about a way in which the protagonist and a bunch of extras may die painfully.

Basically any time a character in a movie utters the phrase "For those of you who don't know..." you know you're about to get some exposition dropped on yo' ass. And it was just so clunkily done here. I get that we've gotta establish this whole other world and there was no convenient way to really introduce it (a la Harry Potter's Muggle upbringing), since all the characters are supposed to have grown up being familiar with it, but that's exactly what makes this so annoying: ALL THE CHARACTERS HAVE GROWN UP WITH THIS. They know what Tracker Jackers are. They don't need it explained to them by Caesar Flickerman, even if (especially if) he prefaces it with, "As many of you know..." If they KNOW it, why would you TELL them? You, sir, are wasting precious Hunger Games screen time!

Also, the fact that they pretty much just broke the fourth wall to do it made it even worse. The line should have been something like, "Hey, you, person who got dragged here by your Hunger-Games-obsessed friend/family member/significant other: here's what you need to know in order for this next part to make sense. Not that you care! Please, resume your 'subtle' texting!" I mean, really.


Refrigerator Logic
For those of you who don't know (gee, doesn't that sound familiar?) "refrigerator logic" is the TV term for plot devices that no one questions as long as they're caught up in the action, but which become obvious after the show is over (and the viewer realizes it while rooting through the fridge for a snack--hence, refrigerator logic). The most glaring example of this was when Katniss is comforting a dying Rue, who asks plaintively, "Did you blow up the food?" Since Katniss did, in fact, just blow up the food, we all kind of go along with it until we realize that a.) Rue and Katniss's plan did not involve blowing up the food, and b.) Rue obviously didn't see Katniss blow up the food, otherwise she wouldn't have had to ask in the first place.

My roommate pointed out that Rue probably heard the explosion, but this is the Hunger Games. They already had a giant rushing wall of fire and there are cannon blasts happening all the time when people bite it, so I don't think Rue would necessarily assume that random loud explosions in the arena were automatically connected to Katniss somehow. So wouldn't Rue have just asked if Katniss had managed to destroy the supplies? Or steal something? That was the original plan, after all. But I guess when you're gasping out your last words, every syllable counts, especially when the scriptwriters seem to believe that the audience is about as smart as a gerbil or something.

McGuffins galore
McGuffins, which are basically events or objects that just sort of happen in order to drive the plot forward, were just popping up in droves here. But the movie kind of turned this on its head by acknowledging that the Hunger Games are basically one big McGuffin machine. You've got a bunch of people (presumably sociopaths) sitting around in a room devising horrible ways to kill children. So if your movie's been a bit slow for awhile, dealing with emotions and all that nonsense, and you want a big action scene, you just write a bit in which your control room people decide to, oh, I don't know, set the forest on fire or conjure mutant dogs out of leaves or something.

Deus Ex Machina
See above, re: sociopaths in the control room. Bam. Done. Instant action-packed plot!

Also, it's not strictly a plot device, but there was a makeover scene in which the female protagonist  gets waxed. This is such a movie makeover staple that someone needs to just make a giant supercut of it a la "Women Falling Down in Romantic Comedies" and throw it on youtube. Swear to God, when Cinna came in and greeted Katniss with "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen" I thought he was talking about her withstanding the hardship of having every hair on her body yanked out by the root. But then he clarified that he was talking about her volunteering as tribute and I was like, "Oh, yeah, that probably makes more sense."

But seriously. Every hair. By the root. And you thought starving to death in a government-operated fight to the death was bad.

Live!Blogging: book two of the Hunger Games

So, I kind of lied. I didn't actually live blog Catching Fire. I didn't have that kind of foresight. I did, however, harass my roommate repeatedly via email over the period of time when I was reading it and she was not in my immediate vicinity. So it's practically like live blogging. This is why I need ("need") a Twitter--so I can harass everyone with every thought that stomps through my brain.

Spoilers (and mildly naughty language) abound. But if you haven't read any of the Hunger Games, none of this will make sense anyway.


Fri, May 4, 2012 at 1:13 PM
it's only chapter two of the hunger games and SHIT'S GETTING REAL. gotta love it when the president drinks blood and whatnot. eesh.

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 1:39 PM
"i'll have to marry peeta."

i'm sorry. i don't see the problem here.

kidding...but actually though.

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 3:14 PM
public marriage proposal? what is this shit?


Fri, May 4, 2012 at 3:15 PM
they are SIXTEEN YEARS OLD! i know they live in what used to be appalachia, but come on!


Fri, May 4, 2012 at 8:26 PM
Subj: Wtf
You can't send victors back into the arena!!! I call bullshit!

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 10:32 PM

totally saw the fake pregnancy coming. that dress transition was bad-ass, though. cinna-rific! 

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 10:43 PM

okay so they're in the water arena and while i was initially startled by it now i keep picturing it like a round of mariokart and that makes it way less intimidating.

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 10:54 PM
wait, wait, wait. hold UP. finnick just brought peeta back from the dead. that is so not the point of the hunger games. if your ally is already dead, you don't bring him back to life, you just say, "oh, well, tally-ho, guess i'll just steal his stuff now" and move on. finnick definitely has some kind of agenda beyond winning the games himself.

also, katniss, pull it together. i know you're "pregnant" but you're acting bella-swan-pregnant, not badass-katniss-everdeen-pregnant. get a grip, woman!

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 10:55 PM
okay katniss, you and your fake supersonic left ear have redeemed themselves in my eyes. i retract my bella swan comment. it was a low blow.  

Fri, May 4, 2012 at 10:58 PM
"plutarch heavensbee might have already been given orders to knock us off."

he's got a mockingjay watch! he's ON YOUR SIDE!!!!

bella, bella, bella.  


Fri, May 4, 2012 at 11:03 PM
"finnick asks a lot of questions about the rodent...how high was it, how long did i watch it before i shot, and what was it doing? i don't remember it doing much of anything. snuffling around looking for insects or something."

THE WATER IS IN THE TREES, DUM-DUMS!!!!


Fri, May 4, 2012 at 11:07 PM

CALLED IT. i would totally win the hunger games. except for the part where i have to kill people.

 Fri, May 4, 2012 at 11:35 PM
"she keeps saying 'tick tock.' is she referencing plutarch's watch?"
"you're too smart for this book."
"that's a yes."

And then, lucky for you guys (but probably not for herself), Melissa came home, thus ending my need to email her my every thought. I'm sure she'd appreciate any and all tokens of thanks.

So...that happened

1. I read The Hunger Games. I know, I'm like four years behind the times, but GUYS, that book is RIDICULOUS. I'm so addicted I'm a little ashamed of myself. Prepare for an onslaught of references in any upcoming blog entries.

2. Blogger changed its format. My quasi-luddite self is having some issues adjusting. This is just like when they changed facebook that one time...and that other time...and last week...and probably next week.

3. With this change of format came some stats about where my traffic is coming from. This led to two surprises, the first being that this blog actually has traffic aside from my parents and their friends (!!!). The second was that a chunk of my traffic is coming from Ivy Gate, which was...puzzling. Come to find out, there's a link there to my "In Defense of Dartmouth...and Greek Life" entry because, hey, I've been quoted extensively on Ivy Gate. Would've been lovely if someone could have dropped me a line about this (I'm looking at you, J.K. Trotter), especially since I was the only person called out by name. If only blogger had some sort of commenting function to facilitate that kind of stuff!

Anyway, although I'm still undecided as to whether or not the article is mocking me mercilessly, I'm rather tickled. Someone found my blog without me having to send them a link in an email titled "READ THIS, THANKS, MOM." So thanks for the traffic, Ivy Gate readers. Hope you've also enjoyed my thoughts on Christmas music and my haikus detailing my life as a supermarket cashier.