Adventures in oral hygiene

I've found, as I get older, that in many facets of my life, I'm just a straight-up anomaly. I like plucking my eyebrows. I usually relish the opportunity to clean up a really messy room. And, perhaps most strangely, I don't fear the dentist.

I mean, it's not like I look forward to my appointments for weeks and eagerly check off the intermediate days on a calendar or anything. But I just don't have any aversion to it. It probably helps that, crooked bottom teeth aside, my dental experiences have been pretty much all positive. No braces. No root canals. No cavities, even. When I was a kid, going to the dentist was actually kind of a positive experience. The dental hygienist would poke around for awhile, which was not so fun, but then she'd let me pick a toothpaste flavor and would brush my teeth for me with that weird whirring suction stick thingy, after which I'd get a free toothbrush, a trinket (comparable in quality to the prize in a Cracker Jack box), and a compliment on how my pearly whites were, well, pearly white.

As I've grown older, I don't really look forward to the dentist (No more prizes?! What is that all about?!), but I tend to view it with a detached kind of neutrality. I go, I get my teeth cleaned, I leave, and I repeat the process in six months. Whatever.

However, my most recent foray into the world of oral hygiene was different than the others, in that I actually had a problem. My gums around my wisdom teeth had been swollen for a few days, and despite my fervent wishes that they would just go back to normal on their own, they did not. So yesterday I headed in to my regular dentist appointment and mentioned to the hygienist in what I hoped was a casual way:

"You know, I'm glad I could get an appointment for today. I have a little swelling around my gums."

"Oh, really?" she said. "Let's take a look."

I got into the chair and opened wide. She took out the least-friendly looking metal instrument on the tray and held it as she peered inside.

"Oh, yeah, you do have some swelling there," she said. She gingerly poked around with the metal thing before adding, "Holy moly."

At that point, I knew all was lost. It's never a good sign when your dental hygienist, who has presumably seen quite a few oral maladies, starts throwing around phrases like "holy moly."

So after my check-up I was scheduled to return this morning to get all the bacteria scraped out from under my gums. Sounds like fun, right?

Well, yes and no. The Novocaine shots (all three of them) weren't so bad, but ever since my medical drama in February (three stitches above my eyebrow, three on my eyelid, and about eight painful anesthesia shots preceding them) I've adopted a more blasé attitude toward giant sharp poking implements in the immediate vicinity of my face. The gum-scraping itself wasn't all that awful either, given the effectiveness of the shots, although the scraping instruments kept coming out of my mouth looking considerably gorier than they had when they went in. At any rate, the whole thing was over in about twenty-five minutes, and this includes the serious post-procedure talk I got about proper flossing to prevent future occurrences like this.

The Novocaine, however, has yet to wear off.

Granted, it's only been about an hour since I left the dentist. Though now that I mention it, I seem to have regained some control of my tongue, and I can smile again without having one side of my mouth be way more into it than the other. Bizarrely enough, though, my chin and left ear appear to be pretty numb still. It's a bit frustrating, as I've had an itch on my chin for the past twenty minutes and scratching is pretty non-effective, since I can't feel it. I don't even know how it's even medically possible to be able to feel the itch and not the scratching, but there you go.

It hasn't been all bad, though. Having the entire left side of my face numb from my ear to my chin has actually been, to me at least, pretty entertaining. (I know, small amusement for small minds.) It began in the dentist's office when I tried to rinse out my mouth. Never having had Novocaine injections before, I severely overestimated my ability to manipulate my lips and tongue and, instead of neatly spitting the water into the sink, managed instead to dribble it down my chin. A second attempt proved just as fruitless, possibly even more so, since I happened to catch a look at my face in the mirror above the sink as I was attempting to swish the water around in my mouth. I looked rather like Cletus the slack-jawed yokel and half-spit the water out in laughter while the rest of it trickled down my face again and ended up (mostly) in the sink. Luckily no one was around to witness this incredibly graceful display, and I managed (with great effort) to hold myself together for the remainder of my time in the dentist's office, speaking almost normally.

Once I got out of there, however, all bets (along with my dignity) were off, and I became a lithping mathine thomewhat resthembling Thindy Brady. My teeth felt like they were about twice their normal size and five times their regular density, my face somehow felt like it was simultaneously made out of Play-Doh and a balloon, and I kept almost choking on my own tongue. By all accounts, it was not a very proud moment for me, but it was just so darn funny.

I got home and decided that it would be a good idea to take some ibuprofen before the numbness wore off, since having someone digging around in your gums is bound to result in some soreness later on. Drinking water proved a challenge, but that was easily solved by getting a drinking straw into the mix. Swallowing the ibuprofen was a little tougher, as I actually had to throw my head all the way back and let gravity do most of the work (whilst trying to prevent it from working on my tongue, which I was still apt to accidentally attempt to swallow). And now, an hour-and-a-half post-dentist (I took some time off in the middle of this post to google Harry Potter), I've got some feeling back in the very tip of my tongue but am definitely still numb everywhere else. The dentist said it would last about an hour but that it was different for everyone. I wonder how long it will last for me. It's been funny and everything, but I'd really like to eat some lunch without the danger of accidentally biting off a huge chunk of my own tongue.

The moral of the story here is, I suppose, is that if you don't mind giant syringes in your mouth, Novocaine is pretty amusing. If you'd rather avoid needles altogether, though, do yourself a favor and floss.

Work and Play

Today was day two of my being back at the Basket, and I remembered just how predictable it all is; in fact, that I was wondering how I was going to get through my six-hour shift tomorrow without dying of boredom. And then, BRILLIANCE (or a mildly amusing idea). Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...

MARKET BASKET BINGO

(click for full size)

Note that:

• "Adorable children" and "Horrible children" are right next to each other...making play more convenient when there are adorably horrible (or horribly adorable) children prancing about.
• You can score a Bingo using both "Boy, it's empty in here today!" and "Why is it so busy in here today?" You'd think they'd be mutually exclusive...but they're not.
• I will freely admit that there are many (mostly) good customers at Market Basket and that occasionally I actually (gasp!) sort of enjoy myself there. But such things do not make for good Bingo squares. (You know I'm right on this one.)

Print this out. Bring it with you the next time you go to the supermarket. I dare you. You'll see just how (sadly) accurate it is. Oh. You'll see.

Abridged Timeline of my Finals Preparation

9:45 am: Wake up.
9:50 am: Realize that "the little tickle in my throat, probably from the room being too dry" is actually my second cold of the term.
10:45 am: Have roommate change my facebook password to help me avoid the temptation to procrastinate.
11 am: Errands
Noon: Research
1:45 pm: Take break from studying to watch roommate have a hilarious finals-induced breakdown centered around the word "punchy."
1:47 pm: Get camera to record the remainder of said mental breakdown.
2 pm: Work
2:45 pm: Realize that I missed yesterday's deadline for an important piece of financial aid paperwork. Call home to incoherently blubber apologies and beg for forgiveness.
3:25 pm: Go into hallway with roommate to send Slinky down the stairs.
3:26 pm: Stairs are too wide. Go in search of more suitable stairs.
3:28 pm: All stairs in building are too wide. Damn this grandiose dorm architecture.
3:30 pm: Build makeshift stairs out of books and boxes of cake mix for sole purpose of watching the Slinky walk down them
3:35 pm: Disassemble Slinky stairs, go back to doing more work
5:38 pm: Order Indian food
5:40 pm: Shower
6:38 pm: Food was supposed to be here 15 minutes ago.
6:39 pm: Food is here!
6:40 pm: Have awkward conversation in hallway with food delivery guy vis-à-vis how much I will be tipping him today (too much, considering the fact that he was late)
6:42 pm: Inhale naan and aloo mattar sitting sprawled out on the floor, since all table space is taken up with books, research materials, and empty cans of iced tea (not mine).
7:00 pm: "Time to get back to work!"
7:05 pm: Play "Eye of the Tiger" to psych self up
7:07 pm: Epic "Don't Stop Believin'"air-guitar/sing-along session with roommates
7:09 pm: Roommate's friend enters, is enticed to join in
7:10 pm: Okay, seriously, back to work.
8:30 pm: Sinking feeling that none of research is relevant to paper topic
9 pm: Nope. Not at all.
9:15 pm: Study break to cheer up!
9:45 pm: YOUTUBE!!!
9:55 pm: Back to work. For real.
10:19 pm: BLOG!!!
10:39 pm: Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap, another 20 minutes wasted.

Did I mention this thing's due Monday?

I hate finals.

Obsession of the Moment #1: The Library

After another long day of doing nothing productive, I have come to the following conclusion: The library is God's most magical gift to the world.

Well, you know, God or whatever deity you choose. The point is, the place is the bomb-diggity.

Last week Michelle and I started a weekly tradition wherein we go into town on Friday afternoons and spend time at the library before stopping at Dunkin' Donuts on the way back. We call it "Books and Beignets," although beignets may be too classy a term for goods that are obtained from a Dunkins located in a gas station convenience store.

Regardless, these outings (all two of them, thus far) are magical little forays away from the real world and into a world inhabited by people who are somehow way more interesting than you and I. Since I'm currently on a mystery-reading kick, my version of an interesting person is one who not only finds dead bodies strewn about in his/her immediate vicinity on a disturbingly regular basis, but who also manages to figure out without fail who did it and why. Every time.

The nice thing about reading is knowing that everything will come to a resolution at some point. I'm partial to happy endings myself, but even bummer endings are endings. No loose ends here, no siree. (If there were loose ends, chances are this thing wouldn't have gotten published.) If only life offered the same guarantee. (I mean, apart from the ULTIMATE ending, in which we all go to the big library in the sky.) But let's not get all philosophical here. Let's get back to the library, and why it is perhaps--nay, certainly--the best public institution there is.

First of all, it's FREE. What?! Free?! And legal?! Too much, too much. I mean, you could conceivably photocopy every book you ever borrow (although the legality of that is sort of questionable) and never pay for books again! (I feel like you'd run up a pretty hefty tab at Kinko's, though.) I love buying books, and I love filling my shelves with them, but I'm also a poor college student whose bank account averages about $40 from month to month. I can't go around buying books all willy-nilly. Plus, the last time I went on a book-buying expedition, two of the three were stinkers (and the third was a French-English dictionary, so it didn't really redeem the other two).

But with the library, there's no risk! No commitment! If it sucks, return it! If it doesn't suck, pretend you lost it and steal it for your personal collection! (Kidding. KIDDING.) I've discovered some of my favorite books and book series just by picking up random ones at the library, whereas when I go to the bookstore I usually have a very organized list of exactly what I'm looking for. (I'm not saying I don't get distracted, though.)

Second of all, the library is a freaking mystical repository for books that arguably "don't exist" anymore. What? Out of print for six years? Oh, hey, here it is on the shelf, just waiting for you. You're welcome.

Third: it's quiet. In bookstores, there's no guarantee, especially if there's a Starbucks or Seattle's Best Coffee smooshed in there somewhere. In the library, you might get shushed by the stereotypical cranky librarian, but dude, you probably deserved it. And that librarian is there to shush other people so you don't have to be "that bitch who told me to be quiet. Who does she think she is, anyway?" So you see, that librarian is actually taking the fall so you don't have to. Win.

Fourth, you can increase the size of your iTunes to the nth degree just by taking CDs out of the library. Again, this point is of somewhat dubious legality, but really, what can anyone do about it? And it's not like you're going to go out and actually buy "Christmas with the Brady Bunch," but damn if you don't want that crazy clan to serenade you during the holidays. Don't even deny it.

Fifth, you get to watch movies. For free. Without Chinese/Russian/Japanese subtitles and without Megavideo cutting you off. Score.

Sixth, and this is perhaps THE most magical thing: you get to put things on hold. No, really, think about it. It is the grown-up, tax-dollar-funded method of calling dibs. No need to sit around for weeks waiting for the object of your desire to become available; just slap a hold on that sucker and you get priority over all the other schmucks that want it. If only dating worked like this, life would be sooo much simpler.

In fact, my only complaint about the library is that they don't let me live there.

Pity.

All I wanted was soup, not the third degree

Ahhhh, election day.


Now let me preface the rest of this entry with the fact that I believe in one's civic duty to schlep out to the polls; my facebook political views are "People should vote," and I complain on a fairly regular basis about people who don't vote but complain about the state of the government. "If you didn't vote," I say (to my patiently-listening friends, not to the actual vote-shirkers), "what are you complaining about? You had your chance to change things and you didn't take it."


Now let me say this: I am not the most politically informed person. Don't ask me who's running for Congress in the state of New Hampshire today, because I don't know. Something that begins with a K. Kushman? Kuster? Who knows? I'm guessing s/he is a Democrat, though, since the majority of the college's "honk if you agree" sign-holders seem to be holding signs with his/her name on them.



Don't get me wrong, if a hot button election issue comes into my realm of knowledge, I'll know which side I stand on. And if I know what different candidates stand for, too, I can come up with a pretty good idea of who I'll support. But the problem is that it's just so HARD in modern American politics to tell what the issues actually are and who stands for what, considering that most political candidates spend most of their time spouting off things like, "My opponent eats babies. I have never eaten and will never eat a baby. Vote for me." And then when you ask them, "What do you stand for, though?" they generally respond with something like, "I'll tell you what I DON'T stand for: BABY-EATING," which is not exactly helpful or enlightening.



What needs to happen is at the beginning of each campaign season, each candidate releases a list of things that they do and do not stand for. Or, you know what, given the flip-flopping nature of politicians, maybe this should be more of a Venn diagram: "Things I Stand For" on one side, "Things I Don't Stand For" on the other, and "Things I'll Change My Mind About Based On What My Opponent Does or Does Not Stand For" taking up the middle.


The point I'm trying (and failing?) to make here is that I am pathetically uninformed about this particular election, and in my mind voting blindly is worse than not voting at all, as I could end up accidentally voting for a baby-eater or something. And I don't believe in just voting along party lines. (I'm an Independent anyway.)


All of this means that I've spent the day divided between feeling guilty at shirking my patriotic duty and pissed at the political activists who are hounding me about it. As I ran to class (late for my quiz), someone with a sign shouted, "Hey! Are you running TO THE POLLS?!" which frankly was not as funny as the other sign-holders seemed to think it was and made me, in my already cranky mood, want to reply, "It's none of your damn business where I'm going."


So when I had to walk into Collis to get lunch later I had to brace myself and brave the activists who had stationed themselves between me and the one thing (a giant bowl of soup) that would keep me from descending into a hunger-induced streak of madness. I'd almost made it to the door without incident, which was somewhat disappointing since I was actually craving some confrontation (like I said, I'm cranky today). But as I was heading up the stairs, a girl yelled to me, "Hey! Have you voted today?"


Politeness (cowardice?) won out, and I answered, "No, not today."


"But today's the only day when it's going to make a difference!" she said.


"I know," I said, but what I really wanted to do was stop, stare at her for a minute in mock disbelief, and then exclaim, "So THAT'S how voting works?!" before heading off on my not-so-merry way.


I want to make this clear, though: I honestly believe people should vote. I'm not planning on making a habit out of not voting. But I also think it's out of line for people, particularly strangers, to question you as to why. It's a personal thing. Maybe I'm not a US Citizen. Maybe I'm not old enough to vote. Maybe I've already voted but I just don't want to have a conversation about it with some rando on the street. Maybe I'm lazy. The reasons don't matter. The bottom line is that this aspect of politics is a personal decision, and my feelings toward people who badger me about it are about on par with people who ask me if I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.


So for the rest of the day, I am going to "be a Canadian." God bless Canadians and the fact that they're virtually indistinguishable from Americans unless they're a.) playing us in a game of hockey or b.) apologizing for something ("soor-y!").


And I am not going to feel guilty about not voting. I am going to put on a happy face and attend all my commitments - class, work, rehearsal - despite the fact that I haven't had an hour to myself for days, I desperately need to catch up on schoolwork, and I don't feel well. And in my one hour (literally) of free time, I am going to eat dinner, take some Advil, and lie down. I am making an executive decision to take care of myself first.


And that's my right as an American. So there.

My mind is a pretty weird place.

English notes 10/22

The Canterbury Tales: The Wife of Bath's Tale
Wife is actively trying to find her voice
- But she is forced almost necessarily to draw on all the preexisting discourses that shape her because that's the language she has at her disposal
- Has to give a sermon in defense of her idea of marriage

Turns around one of the fundamental tropes of antifeminism by accusing her husbands of lecturing her when she's drunk (it's all a lie, though).

Wife as proto-capitalist subject --> understands her life and position in the world as fundamentally economic and based on consumption

• She desires because she lacks, and she lacks because there's been a "cut" of some kind (symbolic castration)

Prologue, line 509: Middle English "glose" = gloss, interpret. Her fifth husband knows how to read her/interpret her, and that's why she's attracted to him

DAMN IT, IT IS SNOWING OUT. WE ARE DIGRESSING ABOUT THE SNOW. I AM WEARING LEGGINGS AND A CARDIGAN.
oh, no, wait. it's stopped. thank the lord.

but SERIOUSLY. there are still leaves on the trees.

okay, back to work.

but it was just so FUNNY. an entire room full of people got distracted and prof was like, 'what?' and someone said, 'snow,' and he went, 'oh, well, you know. new england.' and then told us how when he moved here from LA he thought snow was "volcanic ash falling from the sky." ha.

NO, IT IS STILL GOING. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG. bad hanover. bad. snow is only pretty between thanksgiving and new year's. everyone knows that. except skiiers. but they're crazy. they strap sticks to their feet and whiz downhill at speeds that no unaided human should ever achieve. crazy. we shouldn't use them as our authorities on desirable weather.

i can practically hear this snow taunting me. "wee-hee, i'm a little snowflake, i'm here a month early! not for any real reason, since i'm not even going to bother to accumulate, i'm only here to freak you the hell out about how it's almost winter and another year is gone by and you're still broke, single, and lacking definitive direction in life! tee-frickin'-hee! aren't i adorable?!"

no, snow, i hate you. with your stupid mickey-mouse-y voice and the taunting way in which you swirl outside, as if you're circling me going, "c'mon, take your best shot. oh-oh-OHHHH, missed me, suckaaaa! i'm SNOW, BITCH. y'all can't touch this!"

whew. coast is clear. yes. a good long stare out the window has proven that the sky is barren. ha-HA, sky. HA. HA.


language of choice = attribution of sovereignty to old hag that rewards knight's fantasies ROGUE FLAKE SPOTTED. okay. we're good. we're good. that's right, RUN AWAY! i will break out my roommate's hair dryer and BLOW DRY you, fools! y'all will MELT!
--> tale consists of wife's fundamental fantasy: man listens to his wife, and then she gets to be young and beautiful again.

male fantasy rather than female fantasy? --> why does a wife who is both true and beautiful have to be a fantasy at all?

possible sighting: it was either a distant leaf falling or a close up snow flake. i'm gonna go with leaf for my own sanity.

?!?!?!?!

Conversations with Sleeping People

I'm back, reporting to you from the top bunk of the room I share with three other women. Yeah. Things are getting real up in here. As my example of things getting real, I was going to complain in great detail about how I never sleep straight through the night anymore, as my roommates all wake up at least an hour earlier than I do every day (the particularly ambitious among them waking up a full FOUR HOURS before me, at four-thirty in the morning), but I was just afforded a much better opportunity to demonstrate "things getting real," completely by chance. You probably won't find it as amusing as I do, but whatever.

I present to you the conversation I just had with Madison, who has been peacefully sleeping on the top bunk opposite mine for at least two hours. She inexplicably stirred, opened her eyes, glared around the room, and wrinkled her brow in some form of half-asleep disdain, possibly (understandably) for my table lamp, which actually performs well beyond the call of duty and lights the entire room rather than just the immediately surrounding area. I happen to like this, as it's placed at the foot of my bed. (Top bunk sort of limits your options in terms of bedside table placement, and my "bedside table" is a bookshelf stacked on top of my desk. Yes, I do have to climb over my desk in order to hoist myself up onto the ladder to my bed. But I digress.) I have a feeling my roommates don't like my super-bright lamp as much as I do, especially when it's on as they're trying to sleep.

Anyway, Madison woke up, cast a bewildered and disparaging look around the room, then made eye contact with me. We then proceeded to have the following exchange.

Me: What's the matter?
Madison (long pause): Weird.
Me: ...
Madison (repositioning her blankets): Ouch.
Me: What's the matter?
Madison: What?
Me: You said "weird."
Madison: Yeah.

That was it. End of conversation.

And this, I think, is the most amusing part of things getting real. When you share a room with other people, the best part is probably the half-asleep (or fully asleep) conversations that just have a way of occurring. Sometimes they're variations on a theme; I'm fairly certain Madison and I have had several versions of the following exchange as I walk into the room when she's already asleep.

Madison: Hey, baby.
Me: Go back to sleep.
Madison: Okay.

And she always immediately just lies back down and goes to sleep. Oh, that I could wield that kind of power over the fully conscious. Creepy? Perhaps. Useful? Most definitely.

I can't say as I'm innocent of having ridiculous half-asleep conversations. I had this one with Michelle last night at approximately 2:47 am, at which point I had been asleep for roughly two hours.

Me: Two-forty-seven.
Michelle: Yeah, I just got home.
Me: Two-forty-seven.
Michelle: Yes, it's two-forty-seven.
Me: Hm. Hmmmm.
Michelle: ...
Me: Bathroom.

I then proceeded to walk to the bathroom, take care of business, and return to bed. Michelle has enjoyed telling this story to our roommates, casting me in the role of Crazy Sleep Talker, but I maintain that everything I said made perfect sense, so long as you were in my head. Because although I only said a few words, the inner monologue filling in the spaces went something like this:

"What? Someone just got home. What time is it? I can't see a damn thing without my glasses. I could just put them on, but they're all the way down at the foot of my bed. No, I can kind of see Madison's alarm clock from here. What does that say? If I really squint, it looks like two-forty-seven. Oh, okay. It definitely says two-forty-seven. Now, wait, why am I still awake? Hm. Well, Michelle coming in woke me up, but why haven't I fallen back asleep yet? Hmmmm. Oh. I need to use the bathroom. That's it. Okay."

See? It makes total sense.

And now I really need to get myself to sleep for real, as I am exhausted from a busy week, I have a busy weekend ahead of me, and it is almost 1:30 in the morning and I want to be up at 9:30. So I'm off to bed, but I will leave you with this quote from two drunk girls walking on Mass Row, aka the pedestrian street outside my window, for those of you not familiar with my lovely college campus. (And in case you non-Dartmouth folks were wondering: "Foco" = "Food Court.")

"WE'RE GOING TO FOCO! ARE YOU GUYS GOING TO FOCO?"
"You guys, I don't need to eat!!!"

Cette petite écolière n'aime pas son travail

So here I am, studying in the library, ostensibly because "I can focus better here." Hogwash. I've just found other ways to put off doing work, including...ba-ba-da-BAAA!! blogging. (That was my trumpet fanfare. Just so you know.)

I have to admit, the library was pretty effective at first. There's no one here to talk to, so there's no way for me to read something interesting, comment on it to whoever happens to be nearby (usually Madison, poor soul), then launch into a long verbal reaction that ends up only vaguely related to the original topic. So, with that being the case, I did manage to power through two chapters of engineering reading (and all the comprehension questions associated therewith), along with a three page paper analyzing a primary source I looked at this morning in the Special Collections library for my WWI history class. After that, however, I started on my paper for engines--an analysis of the History Channel documentary (if you could call it that) Life After People, which you'd think would be right up my ally, being that I haunt the TV listings for interesting History Channel programming (often in vain, I might add, seeing as the History Channel seems to be more interested in airing ridiculous shows with ridiculous names, such as Pawn Stars, instead of actual historical programming like The History of Sex or The Dark Ages). But anyway, it's not that Life After People was bad. (The show, not the concept in general. I'm not a huge fan of the general concept of a life without human beings.) But yeah. It wasn't bad. But I just don't know how to spin a five page paper out of it that doesn't sound like a book report.

I took a study break to go get some water and a ciabatta roll from Novack and then came back up to my seat in the Tower Room, which I'd clearly staked out by surrounding it with roughly 50% of my earthly possessions, including my laptop, my tote bag, my notebook, my Chinese calligraphy midterm project, my engines book, my charger and its supplementary extension, etc. I then proceeded to uphold my resolution to "jump right back into work" by checking blitz obsessively and looking at my iCal again to see if I'd almost reached the end of my blocked-out library study time. (Nope, I'm here 'til five and it's just past four. Darn.) Then an engineering stroke of inspiration hit me and I banged out a paragraph of my paper. So far, so good. Then ANOTHER stroke of inspiration hit. Unfortunately for my productivity, it was a blogging-related rather than engineering-related stroke of inspiration, so here I am.

I wouldn't say that this particular turn in my library time has been devoid of accomplishments, though. For example, I did use the word "therewith" for quite possibly the first time in my life, and most certainly for the first time in this blog. (In any blog?) So things are getting done over here. Just not the right things. You know how it is.

So I should really get back to my Life After People essay. And I should probably try to finish it with as few references to the [cock-and-bull] theory of Rapture as possible, since it's probably not terribly relevant to whether or not the Golden Gate Bridge will rust and fall apart in one century or two. But it's gonna be really hard not to. I mean, in the show, the humans just DISAPPEAR! They leave their housepets locked in the house, their cars in the middle of the street, their alarm clocks set. Where did they GO?! For a special that claims not to be concerned with how humankind came to disappear, Life After People pretty tantalizingly dangles a bunch of unspoken morbid possibilities just out of reach. And come on. People want the morbid stuff. That's why we watch horror movies. And Access Hollywood.

The Golden Girls: Run It Back

So I've moved back up to school for my Sophomore Summer (I don't feel like explaining it yet again, read all about it here) and have the incredible luck to be living with three wonderful ladies, aka my friends Madison, Amrita, and Melissa. So far, apartment life has been fantastic, if a little unmotivated. (We have a kitchen and it's really hot out, thus we don't even venture out for a lot of meals anymore.) Yesterday, our efforts to get schoolwork done quickly devolved into two hours of couch potato sporcling followed by a game of "Truth or Truth" (which began, traditionally enough, as a game of "Truth or Dare," but we were too lazy and hot to feel like moving off any of the three couches/futons we have crammed into our living room). And then Melissa came back (having left after the sporcling to go have a life outside the apartment, for which I admire her greatly) and we all ate pie. And laid out ground rules for food consumption, the rules basically being "eat whatever doesn't have someone's name on it, but don't finish the last of something that's not yours" and "if you finish off a basic item (i.e. milk, Cheerios), buy the next one for the group." All in all, a pretty good system, methinks. Although it hasn't really been tested yet.

To continue the roomie bonding, Amrita is cooking the first of what will hopefully become weekly (or every-other-weekly?) roomie dinners, which means we're going on a field trip to Price Chopper tomorrow, since our on-campus grocery shopping options are extremely limited. Here's how Dartmouth's money allotment breaks down:

Smallest on-campus meal plan (which I always opt for): $1000/trimester
Topside money (Topside being the on-campus convenience store): $200/trimester
(Off-campus meal plan: $700/trimester)

Considering the fact that I almost always have between $200 and $400 left over at the end of every term (including the ones where I DON'T have a fully functioning kitchen at my disposal), you can see that, money-wise, apartment living might be tough on me, especially when Topside is so sparsely stocked (a., it's summer, and b., they moved locations since Thayer Hall's under construction). I mean, if I'm obligated to spend $1000 on Dartmouth's campus, it doesn't make sense financially to eat off-campus food, since the price of that is just compounded on top of the $1000 I've already shelled out to Dartmouth. My parents reminded me of this quite frequently before I moved up here. "Don't cook for yourself all the time," they urged. "Eat campus food and get your money's worth."

But since it's summer and the majority of the dining halls are closed, my options include (my favorite!) pasta made-to-order (Monday through Thursday), the salad bar, and/or an assortment of meat-packed, deep-fried, and often sodium-packed culinary delights. It's so much healthier to prepare your own meals, and the variety is so much better. So how are we supposed to stock our fridge while using our meal plan money?

Easy. It's called "Grocery Shopping in the Dining Halls."

Basically, Madison and I went to Collis and raided the salad bar for veggies, which we took home and then put in plastic baggies in the fridge to give the whole thing an air of organization and legitimacy. (Plus the soybeans and chickpeas had gotten all mixed up with the broccoli and, needless to say, each other, which was probably going to be an issue.) We also stocked up on bananas and oranges from the Collis fridge. Then we headed over to the Hop to buy a bunch of Milk Chugs (those Garelick Farms individual milk bottles) for our morning cereal only to discover that apparently someone else (or a bunch of someone elses) had had the same idea, as there was not a single Milk Chug to be found in the cooler. (I can only assume that's why they took them, because milk alone is not a particularly summery drink, ESPECIALLY when chugged.) We recouped our losses by stockpiling some Greek yogurts instead, and Madison bought some of those little milk-in-a-pointed-cardboard-carton thingies that always make me think of elementary school lunch. So all in all, Operation Grocery Shop Without Paying Out of Pocket was a rousing success.

Then we returned to the apartment and Madison did work while I hung a couple more posters (including one that says "Dare to Dream," which, in a spurt of creativity, we hung on the bathroom wall across from the toilet) and wondered (loudly) where our roommates were, at which point Amrita emerged from her room after the world's longest (and quietest?) nap. She then wandered into the bathroom and shut the door as Madison looked at me and whispered, "The POSTER," at which point we heard laughter from behind the bathroom door, followed by a loud, "Whaaaaat...?!" and the sound of the door opening again as Amrita came back in to question us as to why there was a motivational poster staring you down on the crapper.

It was then that we decided that the goings-on in our apartment definitely have the makings of a good sitcom (or maybe a reality show, although there's a definite dearth of girl fights and oddly-named people). What would we title such a show? we wondered. Amrita's answer was "The Golden Girls: Run It Back," which actually seems pretty appropriate. Equally appropriate was Madison's remark that "if our lives were a sitcom, it would have to be on HBO." (Don't ask, just accept it.)

At any rate, I absolutely LOVE my roomies (in case that wasn't clear). My classes...not bad. I think I'm gonna really like my history class, despite the fact that I'm behind in the reading because the bookstore was out of two-thirds of the required texts for this particular class. It was not out of the (only) book for my Chinese calligraphy class, however, and that set me back $69. (I'm already trying to re-sell this monster, I swear to God. It's a lovely, two-inch-thick hardcover book about the art and history of Chinese calligraphy. Do you want it? It would look lovely on your coffee table. And think of how cultured and smart you'll look when company comes over and sees it there! I'll give you a goooood price on it!) And then Madison and I split the cost of our engineering textbook. Since it was the only book required for the class, we'd anticipated a fat hardcover in the neighborhood of $40-$70. Turns out it's a dinky paperback. We bought it used for $7.80 (and split the price anyway).

All in all, it's good to be back at Dartmouth and back in the States (but more on that some other time). I've got mixed feelings about heading home for the Fourth of July this weekend (a long one, thanks to Dartmouth's giving us Monday off), but I'm hoping to hang out with my friends a bit more than when I was home last (for a grand total of what, maybe four days?). But I have a good feeling about this whole "sophomore summer" thing. And not just because there's ice cream in my freezer and a river practically out my back door.*

Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer!

*Even though we're not supposed to swim in it. LAME. We can still kayak, though. (Not lame!)

Overheard in Notting Hill

Guy whose girlfriend dragged him into American Apparel: "There's just too many pastel colors. I feel physically nauseous."

I have to say, I definitely agreed with at least the first part of that statement.