Morning ramblings.

Good morning, family.

I currently am seated beneath the shade of a majestic gingko tree, at 7:32 in the morning, when there is no need for shade because it’s the only reasonably temperatured time of the day in this desert, rejoicing in the fact that the school’s wifi has finally recognized that the security they gave me to download is compatible with their policies.

For the sake of literary development, I’ll be supplying your dialogue.

“Lydia, why are you at school? It’s the summer. Get a freaking life already.”

Well, that’s an excellent question, young ones. It turns out, that when one is in possession of a carpool with one’s timely and overachieving mother, one is denied all privileges of waking up and growling at such things that would involve a higher level of function, like walking or opening one’s eyes. I, however, woke up today at 6:00, packed a lunch, dressed myself appropriately, brushed my teeth, spoke incoherent words to my dog, who just gazed at me mournfully, as per the usual, and created tea, and I performed all these tasks sans growling.

You may be interested to know that as it turns out, Irish Breakfast Tea is a bunch of nasty crap in a bag that, when soaked in boiling water for an extended period of time, makes nasty crap water. As would be expected. Based on my observation, however, in which I was the unlucky test subject, I’m starting to wonder if there may also be drugs in the tea bag with the crap, and judging by the looks I got when I left the car to go to work today, my conclusions are not inconceivable. Hence, I was all wound up today, with no room to move, because seatbelts are safe and blahblahblah, and now this is happening.

Moving on to the question that I asked myself earlier, I am at school because I have a job there. So…ha. Also, yes. My mom does work at my school. Don’t laugh; she’s just a needy person, and we all can be like that sometimes.

“Okay, Lydia, that’s nice. I’m so happy for your achievement. What is your job?”

HA. What is my job. You silly little mouse people.

Actually, I don’t know why that was an insulting question. I do research on termite behavior.

“Termites? Really?”

That was an insulting question. Yes. Termites. They’re…adorable…

“So…does this mean you want to be an entymologist?”

Nope!

“Well…gosh Lydia, then what do you want to do?”

How about you’re not allowed to ask me that question, and when I get worked up enough about it, I’ll write a blog post about it. Okay?

“Well, why don’t you introduce another topic you can ramble about?”

Here’s a thought I had this morning: I’m studying abroad next semester in South Africa, and everytime I tell anyone that, the people my age all say, “That’s so sick! I’m so jealous! AHHHHHH *faint*” but all those who are old and gray or my parents seem to be highly disappointed in my decision. “Lydia, you know that’s not safe,” is the big winner in phrase bingo. And I say, “Okay, Mr. African Travel Expert, do you know the crime rate? Do you know the distribution of violence in the cities? Do you know where I’m staying? Because here’s what I know…” and then I spout off all of the stuff the program told me to say around nervous people. None of them seem convinced. At all.

And yeah, I’m sure South Africa isn’t the safest country on the globe, and I know that there’s a whole butt ton of precautions I’m probably supposed to take in order to be completely safe, but yesterday I received an email from the campus safety office, here, in America, where I go to school and live every day, that someone was stabbed

STABBED

not on campus, but nearby

STABBED

but apparently is okay, but

HE WAS STABBED.

What kills me (ooh, bad pun) is that at the end of the email, it said “Suspect description was unavailable because the victim was incoherent at the time.”

WELL YEAH, HE HAD JUST BEEN STABBED.

I’m discussing this with Chris right now, and his thoughts on the subject are, “Well this is an interesting place, that’s for sure.”

And now we’re discussing Lil’ Wayne, and Breaking Bad, and apparently, “…even though I’m a biology major, I would like it.”

?

The essence of this post is threefold: first and foremost, I wanted to warn you about cruddy tea and a local stabbing. Secondly, I needed something constructive to do while I ate my breakfast. Thirdly, and most importantly, I read a blog post (someone else’s, although yes, I do read my own blog) about how good writers utilize good verbs more than they employ good adjectives, and I desired for my writing to be improved upon.

That’s all. I have to go communicate with real people now/go to work/walk across the atrium to the lab and wonder why I don’t have any experiments to do.

“Bye!”

Bye!

"You hang up first!"

No, you!

“Are you confused yet?”

Me too!

…

fin.

BECAUSE I'M NEEDY.

I told someone yesterday that I haven't posted in a while because I haven't been in a funny-writing mood.
I wasn't lying. I just haven't had any good ideas.
I guess we're back in business.

One nice thing about living at home for the summer is all the extra time you get to spend with your family. But before you say, "AWWWW WHAT A GOOD DAUGHTER," ask me what the bad thing about living at home for the summer is.
Exactly.
It's also been dumb because my car decided to go all depressed on me, and it's always whining and it won't tell me how much gas is in it, and I don't know, I feel like that's pretty important? So she's grounded, which puts me at the mercy of my parents' cars' schedules and ends up making me feel like I'm grounded, but I guess there's nothing we can do. So Cam and Coco and Tim have driven me a lot of places. Incidentally, I happen to owe all of them money for pizza.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Last night, it had been two days since I saw my mom (TWO WHOLE DAYS) which isn't long (IT'S LONG) compared to how long I was in school last semester (IT'S REALLY...wait, what?), but still, when you live at home, with big little brother and baby little brother and father and lunatic dog and a copious supply of football laundry and NBA 2K13 blaring on your TV speakers until two o'clock in the frigging morning, your mother becomes something of a novelty. And when you want to tell her things, it becomes an ordeal. At least at my house. It's mastering the art of shouting without people hearing you, really. This can become draining, and when I don't feel like spending time with anyone and just lie on your bed for hours, I've decided that's okay, which is why I napped for half of May.

But sometimes you really do want to talk to her, and what sucks about that is that moms, contrary to popular belief, would rather organize filing cabinets than ask you about your weekend. This has been proven by none other than yours truly and the garbage bag of desk-crud that I threw away last night.
Of course, it probably bothers you to hear this, especially if you are a mom and think that I'm a prissy little brat for posting this. Or if you're my mom, and you know I'm a prissy little brat for posting this. So let me clarify: this is not a bad thing. Sometimes, moms just have things that they need to get done, and they forget that they have children. If you had to clean and cook and work all the time, you'd forget your own name. Moms have it hard, and if you're not the kid who needs to be registered for NCAA football scouting, you're going to be the kid that gets forgotten.

So if you've ever had this conversation...

"Oh boy, I was so busy today, but I got a free lunch, and - can you throw this away for me? - your brother is having his birthday party soon, and I'm cleaning the house, and everyone loves me, because I'm great, and you're so cute and I love my pajamas!"

"UGH, MOM, LISTEN TO MY ANGST."

...then I have good news! You don't have to live your life being forgotten! As I've been learning throughout my college years (all two of them), there are two sides to every relationship (unless you're a triplet), and sometimes, your side of the relationship may need to speak up. Or resort to trickery and manipulation. Both have worked. And I am the grand master of convincing my mom that I'm cooler than her super cool manila folders.
The bad news is that the last dosage of caffeine I had was a Chai Tea Latte from Panera, which I finished by 7:45, and it is now almost six hours later, and the computer screen keeps going blurry and my head feels like it's full of tar. So this might not actually be helpful...at all.

Some safe ways to get your mother's attention.
by Lydia

1. Stare at her.
This works on most people, so why not your mom? It'll probably make her feel super uncomfortable, plus, if she does have eyes in the back of her head, which everyone says she does (by the way, if you say that, and you think you sound funny, you actually don't...sorry), she'll notice right away and get super uncomfortable. Since you're her child, she can ask you, "Sweetie, why are you being a creep?" instead of deftly avoiding someone who actually was a creep. Or maybe you are a creep, but your mom loves you anyway. In that case, proceed to step two.

2. Sit close to her, but don't talk.
This seems counter intuitive, because normally, if you want someone's attention, you yell or make yourself slightly more boisterous. But moms are different, especially when they're in the filing zone, so if you're being loud about something that doesn't involve personal injury or death, she'll probably ignore you. Being quiet might not get her to ask questions (and it might still be pretty creepy), but at least she'll know that you're full of intriguing mystery.

3. Follow her.
This works best if she's just wandering around the house through different rooms. If she's driving, it starts to become a little needy.

4. Send her a lot of ambiguous texts.
"Hi Mom."
"Hi sweetie. What's up?" 
"..."

(My mom refers to people as "Sweetie" a lot. Except my guy friends, who for some reason are all "goobers.")

5. Lay on her bed.
In some cases, this can be difficult, despite the fact that laying on beds was recently voted America's favorite pastime. The key to getting this tactic right is remembering that you are not her companion; you are an impediment. My mom and dad have a California king sized bed, which is what wild elephants hide behind during hunts on the Serengeti (lol jk elephants don't hunt), so if I'm going to get in the way, it involves spreading myself out like a flying squirrel just so I can cover the mattress. It doesn't actually work, because your mom will probably just wander around her room in her pajamas talking about her day. "La la la la, look at me, I'm an adorable mom. I filed today."

6. Play hard to get.
Eventually she'll figure it out, and when that happens, you have to remain silent, just to make her feel bad. Feel free to intermittently scowl.

7. Look sad.
Apparently yanking on the compassion strings works too. Actually, the heartstrings. You tug the heartstrings and get compassion. Whatever. Words. Just fake some emotion to draw her in, and she'll become all nervous and worried. You may find yourself hearing those kind, comforting words:
Normal (British) mom: "Beloved child, is something the matter?"
Or, sometimes, these words:
My mom: "What's wrong, sweetie?! Look at your forehead! Why are there frownies?"

8. Write a passive aggressive blog post.
This should be self-explanatory.

Eight is kind of a weird number when it comes to pointage, but...eh. Basically, if your mom ignores you, stalk her.
Many thanks to the readers and to Josh for giving me coffee before I started drooling on the keyboard.

fin.