Dysfunctional student puts stuff in boxes.

I hope that all my little freshman friends read this and choose not to make the same mistakes that I did.

The past three days have been a set of incremented move-ins. Monday was the monstrous furniture day, yesterday was the unplanned appearance at the homestead where I dropped off my water bottle day, and today was everything else plus myself hastily shoved in the back of the van and unceremoniously dumped in my bedroom day.

Of course, because my family is so adventure-prone, it’s been much more than a move in. In my mind, at least, it more resembles what would happen if someone built a plaza containing Bed Bath and Beyond, Forever 21, Target (always), and a used book store on the top of Mount St. Helens, and it went off in my house. Which wouldn’t happen, of course, because Mount St. Helens is in Washington, and most contractors know better than to build shopping complexes on active volcanos. BUT. It is done. Regardless of volcanic activity, it is done. We just need to go to Target (again) for some minor omissions, but the remainder of my existence is organized in a set of plastic shelves and six drawers, and I am currently sitting in the very comfy blue armchair with my laptop and my lap desk, typing away this beautiful story as I soak up the air conditioning that WE DON’T HAVE TO PAY FOR BECAUSE WE DON’T HAVE A UTILITIES FEE! WEEEEEEE!

I’ll just tell you the story before I start jumping around like an idiot.

Monday, as I mentioned, was the shippin’ of flippin’ ginormous furniture day, but it was also Mommy-goes-to-work day (as it is every day, and yet we still have not learned to cope) and Big Little Brother’s first day of junior year at his old school, and Baby Brother’s first day of eighth grade AND first day ever at the aforementioned school. Naturally, transport of oversized furnishings was second priority. That morning, I got up at whatever ungodly hour was required to get them to school on time, brushed my teeth, drove that stupid route for the millionth time while realizing being around that school still makes me sick to my stomach, dropped off two boys, two backpacks, ten thousand sets of football gear, forty million books, and America’s stock of writing utensils, and spent the drive home bawling over how old they are now. (As you can see, emotional instability is going to be a theme of this post.) Exhausted, I came home and agreed with my dad that we shouldn’t leave until eight-thirty. I woke up at nine-thirty and didn’t care. But finally, with everything stacked tetris-style in the back of his vehicle (a.k.a., the baby monster truck, to give you an idea of how much crap I have), we migrated towards the mod, passing the time with a nice, awkward discussion about how holding hands leads to pregnancy. Don’t ask.

(For reference, a mod is basically a mobile home, split in half between two living assignments and their corresponding ant colonies, and built with walls that threaten to fall over when you hammer into them, but probably won’t. Ours is blue.)

Everything went off without a hitch, because I had Daddy, and Daddy has chosen to ship our family across the country with twenty times the amount of boxes before. Twice before. We’re experts. Really, if we’re honest, it was easy because all we did was set down boxes of stuff in the respected rooms, put a few bottles of cleaning supplies under sinks, and mutter about where the furniture should go. He offered to help move a couple of things, but I said no thanks, because we didn’t know what other furniture was coming, and if it did, we knew boys that could help us. Looking back, that wasn’t the best idea, because Daddies hate not helping their daughters almost as much as they hate when they know boys.

He doesn’t need to worry. I moved my desk myself, and apparently all the boys we know have done is leave the toilet seat up in our bathroom and comment on how our apron defines our societal role.

I wasn’t actually planning to come back yesterday, but it so happens that after I had to get up at another ungodly hour to drive my brothers to school again, my roommate (Camille) and I were asked to be makeshift caterers at our other roommate (Kelly)’s grandpa (Earle)’s funeral reception (may he rest in peace; from what I heard, he seemed like a really boss grandpa), and I ended up driving her (Camille) home. Lo and behold, she already is in residence at our modular apartment. Instead of driving home from there, though, I thought, “Hey, why not make this move in a hundred times more complicated than it has to be?” Seeing as my mother works at my university (no, I’m never going to get away), I figured we might as well save gas, and she could take me home and then drive me and my avalanche of belongings in her van the next day. I left my water bottle in the fridge, so I count that as a minor yet necessary step of the relocation process.

I just want everyone to know this: waiting until ten at night to pack when you’ve been up since seven and have been on a bogus sleep schedule since May is probably the stupidest thing you can do, not only because you’ll move more slowly, but because you’ll spend a lot of time staring at the floor, wondering why you can’t just get up in the morning to do it, convincing yourself you can stay up, deciding to take a shower, doing the world’s tiniest load of laundry, walking outside to unlock and start packing the car, and realizing that the moon is really pretty and you should sit in your driveway and journal about it instead of looking for your philosophy textbook. Sometimes I tell myself I think more clearly at night than most people. This would not be one of those times.

This morning, I woke up at the most frighteningly early hour of them all, with none of my boxes or bags or multicolored, dorm-section-of-Walmart storage units in the car, and (shocker) made my mom late for her carpool, because we still couldn’t find my philosophy textbook (my dad took it and then put it back and then my brother did his homework on top of it or something). She still bought me coffee, which I spilled on myself and the parking lot and the twelve napkins I accidentally pulled out of the dispenser. And we actually still got her to work on time…holla! All I had to do from there was drive to my little mod and voila! The story is over!

But you see, the story is not over, because despite the fact that I have several friends, even guy friends, who vouch for my driving abilities, this week has not been very good for my self-confidence or my car’s shocks. Of all the trips I have made this summer, the worst trip I have made was from WEST TO EAST CAMPUS OF MY SCHOOL, in which I went the wrong way out of a parking lot, realized it when I was approached by another car containing my mom’s coworkers, ran into a small wall to avoid them, ran a red light (barely) to turn onto a street, and bumped the car next to mine’s mirror with my door. Worst. Drive. Of. The. Summer.

Aside from yesterday, when I was almost flattened by a truck driver on a cell phone.

And had to cross the double line of the carpool lane to get to an exit.

And drove into the curb.

And ran another red light.

…

I’ve spent the rest of the morning with the car parked, trotting back and forth between the mod and the vehicle in an old T-Shirt and gym shorts, hoping no one comes by and realizes that I’ve given up on life. But really, if you can’t organize and unattach your hangers with any sort of poise or control, you really start to wonder what has made you think you could even come close to passing Organic Chemistry.

I have found myself thinking things like, “Wait, why did I pack this sweater? I decided I was not going to pack this sweater. I didn’t want this jacket either! What’s wrong with me!? WHY AM I SO STUPID!? HOW…hmm…actually I might wear this.” Or, “I really don’t think I can bring these pictures from high school to decorate my wall, because…wait…who are these people.” Also, “How the heck am I going to fit all these pants in this drawer if it’s so dang small?” (for your sake, I edited my thoughts, and for my sake, I folded them) I have searched high and low in the car for razors that were actually neatly packed in a jar. I have realized, that despite all my roommates’ efforts to make their work and living spaces creative, fun, and pretty, all I brought to decorate was a wooden frog and a poster of Katniss Everdeen. I have debated on whether or not I should set up the giant mirror, and of course, chose to err on the side of narcissism. I have brought a few things that I didn’t need, like bubbles, play dough, season one of Royal Pains, four pairs of converse (I know, right? I was supposed to get another one for my birthday, but everyone forgot), and measuring cups that are shaped like turtles, but have forgotten a few vaguely important life implements, like band aids. And socks. Somehow, I have miraculously organized my desk, but only with the help of an entire drawer dedicated to nonacademic, “fun” things, namely, every movie that every girl brings to college, ever. I even threw up a little (that was weird, and I'm fine now). Now I’m eating Cheerios straight out of the box.

Something is wrong.

But all the same, all is well. I am here, finally. We have some great chairs, some great appliances, and one too many bath rugs. Our roommate painting is unfinished, but for an unfinished painting, it looks pretty dang good. We have a vinyl couch, which is good, because bed bugs don’t like vinyl (they are the classiest variety of parasitic insects). I have a giant pillow I can jump down onto in the mornings so I don’t wake all my roommates up when I crash to the ground from the top bunk. We have a guitar that no one can play and wind chimes that play themselves. We have an apron that does NOT define our role in society and magnets on our fridge that almost spell out our names. We have four different air fresheners, because at the moment, we are more comfortable with the destruction of our ozone than our closest friends knowing what we actually smell like.

I am home.

WE are home.

Well, once Nicole gets here. And Kelly.

Until then, Camille and I are home.

Actually, Camille's gone.

...you get it.

fin.

Ish my baby brother says.

I have this eighth grader who lives in my house and says fun things. Apparently we're related, which would explain why we have the same face, but his brain operates on a completely different angle than mine. And yours. And everyone's. This makes him one of my favorite people to talk to.
I've mentioned that my he would outdo me if he started blogging, so I decided to kick start his popularity.
All quotes taken over the course of the summer.

---

Dad: "I've decided I'm starting a rock band, son. It's time."
Brother: "What?!"
Dad: "You've heard of the band 'Yes'? Well, here I come with the band 'No'."
Brother: "Or you could be like the band 'Kansas', except 'Kentucky'!"
Dad: "Yeah, that's a good one!"
Brother: "Dad, I have a good name for your band. How about 'The Alzheimer's Association'?"

Me: "Once my roommate and I ate a whole Little Caesar's pizza all by ourselves."
Brother: "You know how pizzas have eight pieces? Well once I ate thirteen pieces. And I threw it all up in Sam's sink."

Me: "What's your favorite kind of flower?"
Brother: "...I don't know. But my favorite flower name is a chrysanthemum. Or a poppy, because... 'poppy!'"

Brother: (while stretching) "OH! Kidney cramp!"
Me: "You can't have a kidney cramp; it's not a muscle."
Brother: "But I just DID!" (falls over)

Me: (singing offhand) "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy..."
Brother: "...but here's a technical, so go Miami!"

Brother: "This isn't a poem! It doesn't rhyme!"
Me: "It's free verse."
Brother: "Free verse sucks!"

(concerning Pinterest)
Brother: "Why aren't you pinning half of this stuff?"
Me: "Because most of this stuff is a waste of time!"
Brother: "This whole thing is a waste of time."

Brother: "Did you know you have more tendons in your hand than teeth in your mouth?"
Mom: "Wow! No, I didn't know that. What an interesting comparison. Where did you hear that?"
Brother: "I made it up."

Me: "I'm sorry I missed your game tonight."
Brother: "Yeah, it's too bad. I was a little LeBron."

Me: "Why don't I have any clean underwear?"
Brother: "We don't fold your underwear. We only fold MEN'S underwear."

(while looking at pictures) 
Brother: "LOOK! You're so pretty! Do you think you look pretty?"
Me: "I guess. But I think they look prettier."
Brother: "No! They're ugly! They're farm animals compared to you!"
(This one was kind of funny, but more sweet. And a blatant lie.)

Brother: "You know what kind of movies I like? Japanese movies."
Me: "Are you just saying weird stuff so that I'll blog it?"
Brother: "No, I'm not! Because I was watching Rebirth of Mothra 3 the other day. You know how there are like five Mothra movies? Mothra, Birth of Mothra, Rebirth of Mothra 3... Death of Mothra... Mothra's Babies..."

"Every day, I wake up, and morale is soaring. And then it just plummets, like a runaway rocket, except that those actually go up. It plummets like a rocket whose engines are on the tip of the rocket, and then it goes down."

"Dad wants to know if you've fed the chinchillas...and I know what I'm going to name my kid."

(during Olympic gymnastics)
"Quit watching sissy men and help me!"

"Why don't we give wilted flowers at funerals?"

"Everything that comes in a box is special. 
...wait, I didn't come in a box. Am I special?"

"Your friends are just little Catholic schoolgirls!"

"You look like Queen Amidala. That's not a compliment."

"Once, he told me that he dated a girl with more arm hair than he had leg hair, and I asked if she was part gorilla."

(concerning my dog being in heat)
"Mom, are those her utters?"

"I learned that I was changing schools, and I ran into a door."

"Wait...the Beatles did drugs?"

(while holding stuffed animal) 
"Remind me not to get a girlfriend. I have this dinosaur."

"Remember the pizza story? Well, once for my birthday, I ate half the cookie cake. And then I ate a whole bag of Munchies. The cheesy things. And then I ate two things of Dippin' Dots. I was in Mom's bathroom throwing up all night."

"I need a tattoo that says...not Mom or Dad, but...Authority Figure."

"Blink...hundred eighty-two...is that a rapper?"

"How old is she? She's really getting up there. I'd say she's in her hundreds."

"What if I named my child Fandango?"

"I feel like this post is going to give me some unwanted popularity."

Kristen Stewart does it again.

I've never had a moment where lightning struck me and showed me where my life was supposed to go. I don't know what I'm supposed to do as a career or as a person or even as a daughter who is eagerly waiting on dinner. I'm usually in the dark about things until someone else's decision makes it clear that maybe I shouldn't turn there or buy that brand of peanut butter.
Today, however, I did have one of those moments while I was at the movies. There wasn't any actual lightning, which would have been nice, because it was so dark we couldn't find a flippin' seat. Also, a really long preview for Brave was playing, and we thought we were in the wrong theater. That kind of threw us off initially, so even when we did find an unoccupied row, it was several rows further up front than it needed to be. Finally, I sat down, on top of Katie, and then on a seat too far away, and then on a good seat. The previews finished and the long awaited title scene flashed past us.
Thirty seconds later, I realized that I needed more than anything in my life at that very moment to blog about Snow White and the Huntsman.
So here we go.

I don't ever review movies, and I don't know what parameters are established around what you can and can't say, so I'm just going to tell you everything that happens and hope you can get over having such a masterpiece of film spoiled for you.
Organizationally, I will be chunking (not a word; that's dumb) the major events into sections, headed by the exclamation I proclaimed into the theater at that time.
P.S. This is why no one likes watching movies with me.

Snow White and the Huntsman (alternate title, Ten Seconds of Abs Make This Movie)

"That's......nice."
In a creepy twist, we find that the naming and coloration of the princess was based off of an incident in which the queen pricked her finger and blood dripped onto the snow, and her mother decided she wanted a child with skin as white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair dark as a raven's wing (wherever the raven came in, I have no idea). Lucky for them, it actually happened, and even luckier for them, they were cast in a fantastic society in which a name like "Snow White" would not ostracize their child. Cue heartwarming scene of Snow White and potential (duh) future love interest, William, saving injured bird, and symbolic image of partially eaten apple falling to the ground. Then of course the queen dies, like she does in every princess movie ever, leaving the king emotionally ravaged and unstable and susceptible to the wiles of a psychotic hottie.

"I don't want to see this."
Post two-second inadequately-explained fake battle, psychotic hottie (told you) weds grieving father, and wedding night "ceremony" commences. Truthfully, nothing really happened, but some of the things that Papa mumbles to his new Queenie suggest that perhaps he was not grieving as much as he let on. Anyway. There was a lot of neck kissing so that Blondie could perform an untimely soliloquy, and you could just tell she was about to do something kinky, which is why I said what I did, and then she stabbed him, so I guess I was right. King dies. Kingdom flushed down metaphorical toilet of selfishness. OH. Debut of Creepy Brother, as well as Man in Mirror, who confirms to Angry Blonde Queen that she is, in fact, way sexier than the survivors of her rampage.

"You forgot something."
Snow White, like every other princess ever conceived, is imprisoned in the north tower until her 18th birthday. Somehow, she has learned to make fire, and she sets up a small altar, where she lights a bonfire but not the candles around it, clutching dolls while she prays all but the end of the Lord's Prayer. I don't know if that was a religious statement or just lack of research. Either way, her lonely routine is interrupted by the imprisonment of a neighbor, a girl named Greta. Greta asks fearfully what awaits her; Snow White just stares at her.

"Ew."
I don't remember the purpose of this first scene, except that Psycho Lady eats a bird heart. (Hence "ew.") Flash to her throne room, where stabbing of the tyrant is attempted and failed, revealing Queenie's imperviousness, and stopping of the heart of the attempted stabber is performed, revealing Queenie's tendency to overreact. After a vague, possibly incestuous rendezvous between her and Brother King, Greta's purpose is revealed: the queen literally sucks the hotness and youth out of her, turning herself back into the Crazy Seductress we all know and love, and turning Greta into a vivacious yet unbecoming old lady. The Man in the Mirror decides now would be a good time to announce that Snow White is actually better looking than she is. Oops! Also, because she is so innocent and sweet and kind, she has magic blood, and the queen has to cut her heart out in order to have immortality and eternal hotness. Of course.

"Ew."
I said it again because Creepy Brother decides, like his sister, that seduction would be a good way to get his victim to comply, except he's the kind of person that would make you tell your children to come inside after seeing him at the park. In accordance with her innocent, holy reputation, Snow White chooses to deny his make out attempt and shanks him in the face with a nail, still showing no sign of emotion. Old Edition of Greta encourages her to "go on without her." Heart-wrenching. Some magpies (they're key) flutter around and show her a hidden passage out of the castle, a.k.a., the sewer, and she becomes the first fugitive to escape successfully. Lucky her. The magpies flutter around some more and direct her to a lone, conveniently-located white horse that carries her away from the approaching soldiers and into a forest.

"Ooh...oh my gosh."
I didn't expect this movie to have such intense special effects. Snow White finds herself in the creepiest forest ever imagined by human minds, complete with oysters oozing tar, living fungus, toxic gas, beetles, worms, dead magpies (there they are again), trees with arms, dementors, and a creepy giant winged bat thingy that is weirdly attached to a trunk... I don't know. No one follows her in, and she stumbles about between alternating angle shots of her face and enhanced heavy breathing sounds. Eventually, she hyperventilates and passes out on the ground.

"There he is!!!!!"
Because Snow White is in the aptly named "Dark Forest," no one wants to go in and get her, because they're all secretly babies, and someone who has already braved the dangers within has to be hired as an assassin. Apparently creepy healing powers aren't enough to stop demonic bats. But it's okay, because that means we are introduced to the huntsman (YAY), a.k.a., The Huntsman, because they actually did not give him any other name in this movie. Huntsman is an untrustworthy drunkard who is conned into procuring the princess by a promise of resurrecting his dead wife, because every good hero has to have an angsty, sensitive side. Cue journey.

"That's hot."
Mission: accomplished. Creepy Brother: spills beans about lying concerning resurrection abilities of Freaky Seductive Queen, also escapes Dark Forest when Huntsman OBVIOUSLY switches sides and peaces out with the girl. Awkward conversation between Dead Fish Princess and her new friend occurs, where Huntsman tells her the forest feeds off her weakness or something, and then tries to teach her how to sword fight, and then cuts off her skirt to reveal her more war-appropriate pants. Snow White's innocence level falls ten points, and her increased level of pensive stares heightens the sexual tension. Ooo.

"Best role in the whole movie."
There's some random village scene where they end up somewhere after Snow White stares down a troll (she does a lot of staring in this movie), and they meet some lady who feeds them and informs Huntsman of his sidekick's identity as a magic princess (surprise!), as well as helps provide them with shelter from their enemies, but most importantly, provides the sole opportunity for Chris Hemsworth-ab-viewing by applying a poultice to his injured left pectoralis major. Oh, and the village catches on fire because the crazy soldiers found them. But they escape again.

"There they are!"
The nifty escape leads the unofficial couple to...dwarves! Because they had to come in eventually! All of them have bad haircuts and strongly opinionated personalities.

"...this is so cool."
Again with the special effects. The crew sets up camp in magical forest, surrounded by slowly unfurling ferns, blueberry fungus, mushrooms with eyes, butterflies, hanging jellyfish flowers, magpies (hello!) that give birth to small fairy people (what!), floating sparkles, butterflies, turtles covered in moss, unidentified rodents, tiny birds riding said rodents, beetles (nice ones), butterflies, all stereotypical mammals used in classic Disney movies, and white deer with giant branching horns who eventually dissolves into...butterflies. Amidst the overwhelming nature of the...um, nature, Snow White performs a supes awk dance number with a flirty ginger dwarf, continuing to stare at Huntsman, and the dwarf with the worst hair stops speaking English. Later on, there's a vague hint at Snow White's impending usefulness, and an unexpected fight scene (they found them!) where Creepy Brother finally dies, impaled on a jagged stump with a shard of tree jutting out of his body from a place that could not have been an accident on the part of the director.

"THIS IS NOT HOT."
I don't actually know what part of the movie this was, but there's a shot of Queen Freaky's naked back where you can see her skeletal system very prominently while she has a flashback, and I was quite near to announcing to my fellow audience members that her body shape was unhealthy and not a physical trait to be sought after, and that the movie had failed to mention the queen's eating disorder.

Good grief this is getting long. I don't remember a lot of the things I said, so here's a summary of a good chunk of the movie:
There's a nice long trek across all kinds of irrelevant landscapes that kind of appeared out of nowhere, the long lost William sneaks his way into their party and Huntsman is obviously jealous, and more pensive looks from Snow White. The love triangle is pretty common knowledge. Somehow, Snow White and William end up wandering around the snowy forest together (it snowed in one of the landscapes they crossed), and he gives her an apple.
Of course everyone knows the apple is bad, but no one knows how. Everyone's more confused by the fact that they just kissed, because Huntsman is WAY hotter than Childhood Sweetheart, even with the mud that's been smeared on his face since the dark forest. Plus there's all that unanswered sexual tension! And staring! Meanwhile, the bitten apple starts growing fur, and Snow White starts crawling around on the ground and gagging, and for a second I thought she'd turn into a monkey, but she just dies. Apple-giving William turns into the Blonde Tyrant and vanishes in a flock of ravens, and real William kisses Snow White's dying self, but nothing happens. Body is transported to nearby castle. While paying his respects, Huntsman starts downing more booze and plants one on the corpse, because everyone in this movie has to have a pervy side. I guess the alcohol answers the question as to why the hero kisses a dead girl in the story, but someone failed to explain how kissing would end up breaking this movie's rendition of the spell. But of course she wakes up, and gives a rousing speech, with plenty of volume to make up for the lack of facial involvement, and the now formidable army rides off to fight the Hated Blonde, Snow White sans helmet, because it's not like she's going to die AGAIN.

"Wait...what!?"
You know what happens. They win. The Scary-But-Now-Potentially-Misunderstood Queen dies at the hands of the Innocent Princess turned Feminist Role Model. She becomes queen and stares at her people. The dwarves toast her. She stares at William, she stares at Huntsman.

The end.

No seriously. As in there was no resolution.

That's it.

Go home.

Have a nice day.



GET OUT OF THE THEATER.

fin.

Musings of the uninformed.

Look how SPECIAL this is. Another blog post. Right now.


I'm not one to say my opinion of politics, because I'm a firm believer in muttering the answer quietly to myself when the teacher calls on the class. (Career option #218: gone.) 
I do however, have to vote this fall, and since I pretty much bash everything else on the planet...why not the presidency. I think I represent about, I don't know, all of voting America when I say that I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. And yet, even with all the uninformedness running around out there, I still feel like I'm the only one who hasn't made some outright, bold-faced, utterly wrong conjecture and posted it to my Facebook. And I feel left out.
So. Here is me, looking out for the little people, joining with the 99% (whatever that is), taking a stand for complete incompetency, doing something to make the world just a little bit brighter. You know. All that crap.

Lydia's Bold Political Statement: Pun Intended

-Guaranteed to be longer than you care about!-

So.
I'll just start out by saying politics make me grumpy. There are many reasons, but first and foremost, it is because it makes my dad grumpy. And when my dad is grumpy, we end up doing a lot of chores. Secondly, I'm absolutely terrified of all solicitors. I hate insulting people. I hate being rude. And I hate having to run into Target with a crowd of strangers so that I don't have to sign a petition and/or admit that I'm still not registered. (She's still not registered? How is she even qualified to write this!?) Unless it concerns sex videos where they step on puppies and baby rabbits. I'll sign bills against that all day. (I don't actually sign the bill, do I? I think I just vote for it.) Even if the guy with the bill/petition/legal paper of importance has a Canadian flag tattooed on his wrist. Long story. (Once my mom was signing petitions outside of Target, and the guy had a Canadian flag tattooed on his wrist.) 
Thirdly, I live at college, and that means that my mailing address, what with all its numbers and P.O.'s and university memorabilia, 
WILL NOT FIT IN THE BOXES,
and no matter how hard you try explaining that to your mother, she still says it's a stupid reason to not be registered.


Let's discuss solicitors now, seeing as I'm in control of this conversation and you are not. Aside from my terror, I do not have a problem with soliciting, unless of course, there is an obvious sign or angry manager that says, "No Soliciting!" And then you should not do it. But if you feel like you should do it, then maybe you should do it. Because that's how the world works, you just go with what you feel and make run on sentences and do what you want and wear shirts with Bob Marley on them even though you know deep down that you're a poser. Um. But I think that soliciting for petitions is probably good, because it's a good way to...um, find people to sign them? I guess. You just have to realize that a lot of people are just going to avoid you very purposefully, a lot will probably be rude, and a couple (one) (me) are just going to stare at you very uncomfortably and then decide to go to a different store. My biggest issue is that you HAVE to be a respectful solicitor.
Good example: "Hello, ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you and interrupt all your important errands and jeopardize the nourishment of your family, but I'm working on this petition for the rights of all humanity..." 
Bad example: "Would you like to help us send Obama on a permanent vacation?" (this was something I heard today, and I know it was about impeachment, but it sounded like assassination, and if I remember correctly, that doesn't work.)


Now I just have some general questions.


Two General Questions:
Firstly, aren't we supposed to vote for people besides the President? Who are they, and why aren't we hearing about them?
And secondly, are we supposed to capitalize President? (I've been doing it both ways and hopefully you haven't noticed. Oops, I just told you. Oh well.)

I know what you're thinking. No, seriously, this time I actually do. It's, "How the heck did Lydia pass Government?"
I don't know. But I passed Economics, too. And nothing against my teacher, but...we'll just say favoritism wasn't an issue.


I'll pretend, however, that a few of you are thinking, "Man, Lydia would make a crappy President." And that gets me thinking.
What would I do if I were president?
I pretty much know nothing. 
Or maybe I'm pretending to be stupid like I did all through high school.* Bam.
I just lost all my friends right there.

Regardless of my intellectual ability, I do bear strong animosities toward a lot of stuff. And since vague hatred is all it takes to put up an argument in these here United States of Dissatisfaction...this is a list of all the things that I would do/illegalify if I was Mrs. President, the head honcho, Captainette America.


Lydia's Presidential Campaign:
You see this? Lydia is happy: happy blog post about happy music playlist. Lydia is grumpy? Long list of death. Controversial death. This could end up bad for everyone.


First of all, we get rid of the obvious problems. Slugs are gone. Worms would be on a form of permanent parole in which they could live peacefully as long as they stayed in the dirt, but immediately penalized/squashed when coming within a two inch radius of the sidewalk. I realize that's discrimination, but we have to stand for something. We bail on all "paranormal teen romance" books ever. That genre needs to be thrown out a metaphorical window. My brother thinks we should also ditch combination locks; I think there's always a place for nepotism in government. PLUTO COMES BACK. The word vase is pronounced right. Like v-ay-ss-e, and not like you have a hoity-toity head cold. Okra would be the national vegetable. Do we have a national vegetable? WE DON'T. This could happen. I hope okra is a vegetable. Hedgehogs are legal in California. Oh, what? That wouldn't work because hedgehogs would overproduce and then run rampant over the state? Um, who said THAT was a problem?
I can't deal with Snooki, I can't deal with Kim Kardashian (or her family), I can't deal with Nicki Minaj but I don't have to, because she's British. The other two can be sentenced to community service for destroying television because if I put them in jail, they'd probably die. Kristen Stewart can retire from acting forever, but she can say she's doing it so she can raise her and Rob Pattinson's vampire spawn. (I wrote this before anything happened with infidelity...........too soon.) Lady Antebellum Lipton commercials? Are you KIDDING me? Also, news stories will contain NEWS. (If it's CRUISE, it's not NEWS.) Miley Cyrus would be sentenced to being Hannah Montana until she died. 
"Hannah Montana Forever"...FOREVER.
Fourth grade would be entirely devoted to the differentiation between its, it's, their, there, they're, your, and you're, because it's not like we learn anything important in fourth grade history or science in the first place. I'm allergic to mangoes, but they are tasty, so for the good of this country, we can keep them. 
Also, I also have a theory that if we actually charged people the fines that we assigned to littering in the first place, we could pay off the national debt with the money gathered from California alone.
So let's do that.



...presidents can't do any of that, can they?





fin.








*that was a lot more personal than I intended to get in this post. Woops.

You look amazing!

I'm going to start this off by saying that as fun as it would be to write a recap blog post after the season finale of every Bachelor/Bachelorette, I'm never watching the show again.


That being said... I AM FULLY AWARE of how hard I bashed last season with Ben and Courtney. Because it was stupid. (And for the record, it was one of the lowest rated/appreciated seasons in history. And they're still together? What?) This season, unfortunately, was kind of maybe a little bit good I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I KNOW I SHOULD HAVE BETTER TASTE THAN THAT AHH FRICK ME I'M SO EMBARRASSED. But that's why I'm never watching it again. It'll end on a good note.


Whatever. In spite of my plummeting dignity, I'll be the first to second the statement that Emily Maynard was one of the best, if not THE best (not the best, the best was probably the first one, but we'll take second, thank you) bachelorette in history. And she had the greatest final three guys in history. Whatever. I'm going to say whatever a lot this post.


...whatever.


BACK STORY.


Okay. So once upon a time, there was Emily Maynard, and her fiancé died in a plane crash, and she had his baby and named her after him, and she decided to be one of the three classy women to ever appear on the Bachelor, and surprisingly "won." Unfortunately, her new fiancé dumped her, so in the long run, she lost. And she still had this daughter that needed taking care of, so obviously, it was reality TV to the rescue. Again.

I already explained the whole process of Bacheloretting in one of my previous posts, so I don't think another derision of how ABC is destroying love is necessary. And I can't explain what all happened until you kind of figure out what's going on. So I decided I would psychoanalyze (some of) the guys so you could at least pretend you knew what was going on.


DESTRUCTION OF CHARACTER a la LYDIA.
These are the important ones, or the ones I didn't forget.


Arie.
I know what you're thinking. "Who names their kid Arie?" Well, he's foreign, so get over yourself. Arie is a race car driver from Arizona who likes to do all the normal things that every normal person does, and really likes to make out, according to these last ten publicly broadcasted weeks. Arie was the favorite from the beginning, as evidenced by Emily's actions, Emily's feelings, celebrity media's expert opinion, America's observations, and pretty much everything other than the season finale. Woops. Personality-wise, he's a pretty chill, nice guy, but according to the outtakes, he might actually be funny. Too bad no one noticed.


Joe.
Emily went on a date with Joe because she thought he looked like Matthew McConaughey.
He does not look like Matthew McConaughey. 


Kalon.
Everyone hated Kalon. He showed up in a helicopter with Louis Vuitton luggage. Mistake. That in and of itself should give you enough insight into his personality right there, but, alas, there's more. He also was rude, abrasive, unthinking, and called her daughter baggage. Emily told him to "#*&# #%$#@% *%&#*@."  (not really, but basically) I would say that I think Kalon was a little misunderstood, and that as he was brought up in the rich community, in context, he might not be such a jerk. Unfortunately, rich people are usually jerks, so that really doesn't help his case. I'll stop now.


Charlie.
Charlie hit his head a long time ago and that was basically the only cool thing about him. I'm sure he was great.

Ryan.
Ryan told Emily he wanted a trophy wife. He told her she couldn't get fat if they got married. He wrote her a seven page letter two weeks after meeting her. HE SHAVED A PATTERN INTO HIS BEARD. He used every pick up line imaginable and the only things that made them bearable were Arie's reactions. He was real smooth, smooth enough to almost talk her out of sending him home. He usually made me worry, but when he told Chris Harrison (the host) that he was excited to get married and chase his wife around the kitchen with a spoon, I fell off the couch laughing.


Stevie.
Stevie was really cool because he was a party MC and could dance. Then...he wasn't. 
I don't know. He fought with Kalon a lot, and I started to side with Kalon because Stevie wouldn't SHUT UP.


Alejandro.
I heard he was nice, but I didn't pay attention. I was too distracted by the phrase "Mushroom Farmer" that appeared under his name every time he talked, and I spent the half of the season that he was present convinced that he was a drug dealer.


Alessandro.
He was boring and scary and had a weird name and looked like a grandpa.


Travis.
I would probably want Travis to be my best friend. He showed up on the first night with an egg that he said "symbolized their relationship" and how he would take care of it, and apparently he sang to it and tucked it in to bed every night.
He lost.


Aaron.
Aaron was a biology teacher, so I thought, "Hey, maybe he's cool!" and then after a while I thought, "Hey...maybe not." He got sent home at the same time as the guy who looked exactly like him whose name I can't remember. The end.


Chris.
Chris pretty much fell in love with Emily the first night, and acted that way until the very end, all the while making Lydia more uncomfortable than she has felt in a very long time. I don't know if I was the only person who felt this way, and I very well might have been, but every time Emily said, "Chris is so hot," I thought, "WHY?" and when she would say things like, "He's so sweet and he makes me feel so comfortable!" I would think, "HOW?" and when she would talk about how he seemed more mature than he actually was, I would think, "NO!" And pretty much every rose ceremony he would look so scary and intense that I would cling to the couch in fear and wonder why the heck she called his name and found it attractive when he grinned at her like a hungry hyena.


Doug.
Doug was a daddy, so he got an extra bonus for that. He was super nice and stuff, and he really liked Emily, and he got the "first impression rose," which means absolutely nothing except a free pass to Go and collecting $200. I'm also pretty sure he was friend zoned on national TV. Bummer.


Tony.
Tony was also a daddy. He was so much of a daddy, in fact, that he went home because he missed his son so much, according to Emily's jurisdiction and his wishes. I know it sounds like he got dumped, but he actually stopped crying when she told him she thought it was best if he left, so no one really knows what happened.


Jef.
Jef was Emily's schoolgirl crush of the show. She had more obvious connections with some of the guys, but she was secretly obsessed with him and how cool he was. I mean, come on, he showed up on a skateboard. He also had his own company that built wells for impoverished countries. She would basically stare at him and then wonder why he wouldn't talk to her, even though she was too nervous to talk to him, and then ask him later why he didn't like her. He was totally the same way, and it really would have been cute if they were still in high school.
Also, every time he saw her, he said, "You look amazing!" which is why I titled this post the way I did. Also because I am uncreative and sleepy.


Nate.
I think Nate cried.


John.
John introduced himself by saying that all his friends called him "Wolf," and he put it in his description, so everyone read John "Wolf" every time he said something. For the entire show, no one knew any good reason why anyone would ever call him "Wolf." Therefore, no one called him "Wolf," ever, and it was so awkward. But then he wore pink pants to one of the final events. That was fun.

Michael.
No one gave Michael a chance. He was a rehab counselor with a ponytail.
In other words, HE SHOULD HAVE WON.

Sean.
No one knows why he didn't win, but it's okay, because he might be the next Bachelor. He never said anything wrong. He was so nice to her and never a jerk to anyone and just a big hunk of...well, honestly, we could just stop at hunk, but he was also a big hunk of love. And a hunk of hunk. During one of the dates, when they talked to her mom friends, he said, "I think our families would blend well because they're both centered on family and faith." Their response? "Would you take off your shirt?"


BRIEF REHASH OF (subjective) IMPORTANT EVENTS.


So Emily's kind of boss, and decided to hand out an extra flower a couple of times, and send some people home in some under-the-table (polite) kind of ways, and that, I think, is a tribute to her desire to actually maybe form something meaningful. I mean... she has a daughter. And she sent home people because they had different goals for family life, or different perspectives of how a home should be. The result? She ended up with the best final three men in Bachelorette history: Sean, Jef, and Arie, who I already gushed about plentifully.


The night she completely gained my respect (on the Bachelorette? Wait what is respect?) was when she was supposed to hand out the fantasy suite invitations, a.k.a., the sex tickets. The three guys, in any other season, would basically get a free pass into her room all night. If she wanted them too. Which apparently was key, because Emily gave both Sean and Jef (she actually had the sense to say she didn't trust herself with Arie, which...was awkward, yet still smart), but she told Sean after giving it to him that she wanted to preserve a good standard for her child and for her family, and that even though they could hang out for a little while, that she would send him home before anything happened. Then she gave it to Jef, with the intention of repeating the phrase above, except before she could, he told her that he wanted to preserve a good standard for her child and for her family, and that he didn't think it would be a good idea if anything happened.


I'll just fast forward to the end. He won.


Yes, it was sad when Arie got dumped, and supes awk, because he was all stoked to propose to her, but he didn't know that Emily had already announced to America that she picked Jef, as well as secretly decided to introduce him to her daughter, who loved him, and, of course, that was the end of that. So Arie just got to brim with excitement for their last date while we just sat there groaning the whole time.
...I cried.

But then Jef proposed with the biggest flipping ring I've ever seen.
...and I cried.
And then her daughter ran out and they all hugged.
...and I cried.


...and everyone laughed at me.


So naturally, I really hope that they last because then MY TEARS WON'T BE IN VAIN.
Have a nice life. I apparently don't have one anymore.


fin.

Because she isn't dead.

Today, as many of you realize, is July 11th. It is the day that copper mines were legalized in Chile, the birthday of Kyrill, Prince of Preslav, and the deathday of Bob Sheppard, New York Yankees and New York Giants announcer. But most importantly (not really, but this is what I'm going to write about), this is the day that my beloved doggy turns one. I've been trying to write something about her for a very long time (this post will have no flow at all), because she's something of an adventure, and it's actually kind of exciting to me that I finally get to post this.

So. In honor of her living, this is Coda's life story:

Once upon a time, there were some dogs of nondescript origin that had a baby, and then a bunch of people adopted her, and now she's ours.

Now for the nonsense.

Coda is a very special dog, and I mean that in every sense of the word. When we got her, she almost knew how to sit and lie down, and was a little potty trained. (In the long run, we all know that there really is no middle ground between "not potty trained" and "potty trained.") Since her arrival, however, her ability for tricks has expanded, and she is now capable of

• only pooping in the grass.
• only peeing in the grass.
• letting us bathe her.
• running through the poop after her bath.
• sitting (she can't lie down anymore).
• shaking paws.

When I first met Coda, she growled at me very viciously, because she had been adopted while I was away being a studious little collegiate. She could be a very promising guard dog, as she holds her ground up until she sniffs you, and then immediately becomes your best friend. So if she never sniffed the burglar, it would be fine.

Coda is, like every good American, of questionable descent, and no one knows exactly which breed she came from. She's probably part lab and part shepherd, as she looks exactly like a lab, but with a more pointed nose and ginormous bat ears that point up when she becomes interested in looking into our windows. She's black. Which contrasts nicely with the rest of the albinos that live in this house.

I call her lots of things (dog, Coda, puppy, sweetie, honey, it's like she's my child and this is kind of weird). I usually just let whatever name rolled off my tongue be the one I called her by, and hoped that she would realize it was her if I used my ridiculously high pitched quirky dog owner voice. You know that voice, the one you only use for dogs and babies. The one that every person uses to say, "Come here puppy! Come on! Ohh who's a good boy!?" whether they're talking to a baby Labrador or a wolf. But yeah. It's for that reason that most of the names I gave her sounded idiotic, and also the reason that I somehow ended up always calling her Boog. Or Boogy. Sometimes I mess up and call her Boob. Hopefully she doesn't start responding to that.
...not like we say that a lot...whatever.

Coda has a lot of gifts (you can refer back to her list of tricks). The other day she ripped the screen door, and we had to replace it, so she ripped it again. Also, whenever we eat (actually, whenever I eat, because she's figured out that I'm a sucker), she gazes at you pensively until you "drop" something, and if you decide not to "drop" something, or if she's unsatisfied with the amount you've dropped, she'll just keep gazing, and eventually rest her paw on your knee, and if that doesn't work, you have no soul. (They don't call them "puppy dog eyes" for no reason.) When you go to give her a treat, she immediately sits down and holds out her paw for us to shake because she's so used to what we expect of her. Also, before this summer, when I didn't spend as much time living at home, Coda discovered an effective way of using her cuteness and overactive bladder to interrupt all my phone calls with my mother.

Here are some fun facts about Coda: 
1. She's in heat. 
For those of you who don't understand, heat for a dog is like something else for a woman, but it lasts two weeks and only comes twice a year and gets all over your backyard.
2. She's terrified of ducks. I'm serious. 
We have a pool, and whenever the ducks come and land on it to swim around and poop in it, she starts barking for her life and ends up hiding in the side yard with her tail between her legs. Seriously. Once, a brown plastic bag landed on the pool, and she thought it was a duck, and she begged for ten minutes to get inside. It was pretty embarrassing.
3. She likes everyone better than me. 
4. She likes her dog food with ketchup.
5. She's not allowed on the furniture.
6. She takes naps on the couches when we're gone.
7. She is a supremely courageous shot-getter.

I think that's enough rambling for now. Have a nice day.

Wednesday.

This is what happens when no one wants to employ you.


I don't do a lot. Mostly I sit around and then decide it's naptime. This blog actually might be the most productive thing I'm up to these days.
BUT.
ON WEDNESDAY...


...I WASHED MY CAR.
Half of you just gave the screen a questioning look.
The other half gave it a very firm, confident look, and kept reading.
(I hate the word firm.)


I know car washing is lame, but regardless of its attractiveness, it's highly necessary. And I'm not going to write a blog about napping. The reasoning behind it started way back when in all the early car making days, when Henry Ford realized, "Dang, I'm going to have to clean this thing, aren't I." This happened in 1903, which I know because I moved to California in 2003, and before I moved here I stayed at my grandma's, and since the only way to hold us rambunctious grandchildren down was to make us watch TV, I saw the Ford company's 100th Anniversary Savings Event ad during every commercial break for two weeks. But MY car washing all started last semester (not the one that just passed, the one before it), which is probably the last time I washed my car anyway. And I realize that that's kind of really disgusting, but it really does make the experience that much more satisfying in the end.


That and my dad made me because some bird pooped on it about a thousand times.


The adventure started with a lot of senseless rummaging through the garage to find the supplies, out of which I procured...a bucket. I decided (was commanded) to walk to Albertson's, where I purchased car-washing soap, because lo and behold, Dad threw the old stuff out. I also got green tea, again. I have a problem. All the sponges they sold there were DUMB so I had to go home and rummage some more for the rags. But then I was done. Soap, rags, and a bucket.
Two hours.


I moseyed (did you know that's how you spell moseyed?) out into the driveway to begin the process, then walked back into the house and into the backyard and all the way around the side of the house to turn on the freaking hose. I returned to fill the bucket with the soapy cleansing goodness.


Now comes the moral of the story.


Regardless of how helpless you are when you are washing your vehicle, or how tired you are of holding up the fort yourself, or how much he claims he's trustworthy, you


never


EVER


let your brother be in charge of the hose.


After you are thoroughly soaked, you have to soak the car as well. And you can't let the car dry before you put the soapy ish on it, because it leaves water spots, and you can't let the soapy stuff dry, because it leaves soap spots, and you can't rinse it without being prepared for drying it yourself, because it leaves more water spots. And you have to allow for twenty minutes while baby brother decides which hose setting he wants to use. It's a complicated process, especially when you've used all the rags to wash the car. I chose to demote the Tweety Bird bath towel to non human duties, and there was much grieving.
Oh well. Rinse, wash, rinse, dry.

Whenever I clean, I suddenly have these weird spurts of compulsive germaphobia (newsflash: that's not a word, and neither is germaphobe) that make my job intensely more difficult because I add so many more steps to the process, but also make it way more fun because the crazy part of my brain decides that I suddenly enjoy housework. Carwork. I can't explain it; all I know is that one second, my car was perfectly clean as it was, and the next I was Windexing (that also is not a word, but it should be) the crap out of it. Including the seats and dashboard (and the proof of insurance...woops), which may have not been the original intent of the product. Get over it. And I realized two things:


1.I have been driving everyone I love around in a biohazardmobile (that is a word) for over a year.
2. (nerd problem) If I were to swab the steering wheel of my car and create an agar plate of the collected bacteria, not only would it create a thriving little colony of bacteria, the colony would probably decide to secede from its homeland and bring forth a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all germs are created equal.
And then everyone would die.
3. I lied. Three things. I'm still not sure who drew the heart on the windshield on the passenger side. I think it was Matt or Jeremiah. Someone also drew an arrow through it and wrote "Mom," but that was almost definitely Jeremiah. Either way. If you did, you should tell me, unless you don't want to, and then you shouldn't tell me. The end.


The last step of the super fun filled scrub a dub dub project (which I realize you're probably glad about, because this post...lacked...) was to clean out all the stuff that I and my father and mother and siblings and friends have left in my vehicle over the past...9...? months.
And they were:

• an old ESPN magazine, complete with blatant insult of A-Rod on the cover.
• dead leaves of various shapes and sizes.
• a dead bee (which means that not only was there a bee in my car, it was there long enough to die...so like a few days, unless it got heat stroke, then maybe like five seconds).
• my big little brother's athletic clearance form.
• a note from my mommy.
• the lens that fell out of my sunglasses.
• Lord of the Flies.
• three water bottles, unopened, in case of emergency in desert.
• a sweatshirt, long forgotten, in case of emergency in arctic tundra.
• an umbrella, in case of emergency in rainforest.
• a purse that looks like a trout, in case of emergency white elephanting.
• the ball pump we've been looking for since my senior year of high school.
• a wheat penny from 1919 (probably Henry Ford's), which is worth $1.10; I looked it up.
• double sided tape.
• all manner of useless paperage.
• empty water bottles from past desert expeditions.
• a notebook I was supposed to use for biology.
• plastic bags, conveniently provided in case of mass trash exodus.
• a supes ghetto tarp.
• more empty water bottles.
• an extra windshield wiper...?
• a golf ball, for the beaning of enemies.
• a cardboard model of my car, don't ask.
• flippity flops for the haters of barefootedness.

And, at the very bottom, I found, crumpled underneath all of the other junk I had placed there for so long...

• my dignity.

fin.