College nomz.

Maybe I should make it a tradition that I post something college-related this time of year. This is fun.

I’m in one of those moods where I’m convinced I’m an expert in a field that would slap me if it knew I was talking about it like this. Today’s field is cooking. I like cooking, because I really like food. And out of respect to cooking, I apologize. But I have a good feeling this will be moderately helpful.

Actually, it’s not just about cooking. It’s about food. Food in college.

If you didn’t already infer that.

For the sake of my dignity and the relevance/applicability of this post, my roommates’ wisdom will be heavily incorporated.

…for the freshmen.

It’s important for you to remember that you are in college, which infers two things: you’re always hungry, and you’re always broke. I know that all the movies and TV shows have told you differently, but you probably aren’t going to be ordering takeout and pizza every weekend. That pizza was funded by the people who made the movie that lied to you, and those people are funded by Hollywood, who is funded by all the money your parents wasted sending you to midnight premieres of the Batman movies. You more or less brought this on yourself. But that’s okay! The important thing is to realize this before it’s too late, and all you can afford is Ramen.

This brings up another good point: Ramen. I know Ramen is a running joke synonymous with young Americans and fiscal lack. This can be taken as a sign that you should avoid Ramen at all costs, or that you should only ever eat Ramen, ever, until you’re sneezing noodles. There really isn’t a balanced view on eating Ramen (not that we need to have a think tank or anything, on this or any form of prepackaged food item), that it’s okay once in a while, or that you should only eat it on this day of the week. There really doesn’t need to be. The rubber doesn’t hit the road when you form an opinion on it, it hits the road when you’re strolling through the grocery store and realize that you can get five of your next meals for a dollar.

Thirdly. This is the most important one, so I’m going to drive it home.

I KNOW the freshman fifteen is all anyone ever talks and teases about. I KNOW that you think you’re supposed to look hot and stylin’ and put together, all the time. And I KNOW that coming home heavier is a little daunting. But do. Not. Let. That. Rule. You. I promise it is just as scary coming home and having your mom and your high school friends and every sweet old lady at church come up to you and ask why you’ve gotten so thin. People (with class) generally won’t come up to you and inquire about your weight. If they comment on it, it means they’re worried.

It’s not worth it. It’s so not worth it.

And just think about it logically, too. What else goes along with freshman year? A lot of times, kids leave the house and start partying like crazy, and they start drinking, maybe not a ton, but more than they used to. College parties are put on by college students who don’t have a lot of money, and would want to buy inexpensive liquor. They aren’t going to dish it out for high end tequila; they’re going to buy cheap beer. And beer has so many calories. Honestly, there’s a reason you call them “beer bellies.”

All I’m trying to say is be careful. Your metabolism will change and your body will change. But so will your mind and your soul and your interests and your friends and your plans, and basically everything. Embrace it.

Lastly, use your meal plan. You’ve already paid a ton for these meals; don’t waste them. I know the food is gross. Get used to it. Also, I’m guessing that you probably packed about twelve bags of Sour Patch Kids, and I respect that. You won’t have any trouble eating those. Have snacks. Have Easy Mac. Have cereal and granola bars. But don’t forget the green stuff. Sesame Street put millions of dollars into campaigning so that you wouldn’t leave out your five servings of fruit a day. Tangerines go a long way, as do carrots and snap peas.

Actually lastly (oops), get a water bottle, and get a backpack with a place to clip it.

...for the apartmenterz.

All I have to say about this is that I know essentially nothing about cooking, but still manage to make a lot of my own meals, so have no fear.
Here is how.

Pasta goes with everything.
Here is how you cook pasta:
1. Boil water (wait for the big bubbles).
2. Dump in pasta.
3. Wait for pasta to cook. (Spaghetti will stick to the ceiling when it's cooked completely.)
4. Dump out water.
5. Consume voraciously.
So SIMPLE. Also, so tasty. Heat up some sauce (you can use the microwave if cooking the pasta has you undone) and you are good to go.

To go off of that, buy a lot of food that only involves boiling water as the other ingredient. Like coffee. Or jell-o. Or eggs. Or rice. Or oatmeal. Or freeze dried food in boxes. Follow this path and invest in a good water heater. I'm pretty sure ours harnesses the power of lightning because it boils in a literal minute, but I don't know where we got it and I don't ask questions.

You will consume a lot of canned soup (or Ramen) regardless of whether or not you want to, so be bold and try something besides chicken and stars.

Invest in tuna.
And Tuna Helper.

Frozen pre-cooked chicken is available for those who are a danger to themselves. Frozen chicken can be cooked in the microwave. I cook it by pushing it around on a frying pan (that's the official terminology, actually) until the edges are burned. Sometimes I cut up apples and put it in with the chicken. See? Barely any effort, but everyone else will be like, 'Dang, check her out,' and not because I'm hot.

Have a go-to salad dressing that you can use in...um, salads.
Eat spinach, because it has iron in it, and anemia is when you don't have iron and become sickly, and you don't want that.
Fruit and vegetables can be eaten raw or cooked in the same way as the chicken was, and eating them will help you not die.
Apples have caffeine in them.

Buy a Brita filter.

Learn how to make a good sandwich. This will take effort.
   A. Buy bread.
   B. Pick a lunch meat (or a protein element). I always always always always have turkey, and that's just part of who I am. If you aren't a turkey person, who cares; be true to your inner lunch meat. My dad identifies with bologna, and he's still a swell individual.
   C. Decide if you want cheese. Again, follow your heart. 
   D. Pick a vegetable (or fruit) (or two) (or twelve) that you appreciate and would like to consume jointly with the other ingredients. If it is not shaped for ideal sandwich creation, chop it up.
   E. Pick a gooey bottom layer (e.g., cream cheese, avocado, mustard, Nutella).
Decide if you want to toast your bread. If you do...then do it. Spread your gooey bottom layer on one slice of bread. Now add the everything else, with maybe salt and pepper. Now put the top slice on. YOU DID IT. LOOK AT YOU.
I know you know all this, but this is an important checklist, and it will help you grocery shop. If you always put hummus as your gooey bottom layer, keep hummus around. Or whatever. It speeds up the process.
Really, I just like to act like I know everything.

DECIDE WHO IS BUYING WHAT AND WHEN AND WHERE AND HOW. AND WORK OUT A DIFFERENTIATION SYSTEM.
Here's what we do. We all buy groceries. We have communal bread, tortillas, turkey, cheese, and tea, and the twins let me use their milk in my coffee. We TAKE TURNS buying replacements. Everything we want for ourselves only has our NAME on it. If we cook together, we try to pool. If we need to borrow an ingredient, we ask nicely with profuse assurance that we will replace it. It sounds rogue, but it worked for us. This may not work for you, because you may not be as close to your roommates as we are. But you still live together.

Learn how to cook eggs. Eggs are protein. You need protein.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1wjhJaAC4Y
This is a video about cooking eggs. I have not watched it, so I hope there is no vulgarity.

Find a cereal staple. Mine is Captain Crunch.
Maybe don't make yours Captain Crunch, because I don't always feel 100%.

Tupperware should be your very best friend and should keep your leftovers in them. But make sure you actually eat your leftovers, so you don't start hanging out with your other best friend, moldy applesauce.

Big bucket of yogurt + big box of granola = breakfast for the rest of your life

Fish sticks + tortillas + salsa = fish tacos

Canned corn + salsa = salsa 2.0

Peanut butter + anything = snack

Pizza dough + nutella + marshmallows = magic

Don't be afraid to hit up Pinterest if you have a little extra dinner-cooking ambition, a couple extra grocery dollars, and roommates who are willing enough to consume the mystery that comes out of the oven.
The moral of the story is that you shouldn't be afraid of cooking. There will always be instructions online and there will always be easy recipes. And cooking your own food is so dang satisfying. The most important thing to remember is that eventually, you will probably have to cook for yourself, and probably other people, if you like your friends, and better to learn sooner than hide behind a facade of Easy Mac for the next six years. Experimentation is your friend, if you just use your common sense and maybe Google.

The final and most important rule of college cooking is to always steal food from your parents whenever you visit.

The end.

Pride and Prejudice...and potatoes.

Hello, kind souls.

I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves. I just finished the fastest spring break in history, and am quite bitter that it has come to a close, so this post might give off an aura of frazzlement (the best word I have yet invented), due to either my intense desire to spend my last moments of freedom as fruitfully as I possibly can, or the fact that the other two documents I have open right now are an unfinished persuasive speech on flossing and a minute fraction of a lab report.

But I digress.

First and foremost, I owe you a post on the Bachelor, which is still yet to be completed, as I still have yet to process everything that went DOWN with Sean (actually, I was morally convicted two episodes into the season and announced to my roommates that I was above it and that it negatively impacted society to a far too drastic extent, and then watched more of it later anyway), but more on that some other time. I’m going to write it after I watch the final proposal and the episode where Tierra fakes hypothermia. Those seem crucial. You can thank Audrey Nissly for keeping me interested, and also, you should probably follow her on Pinterest, because she is the pinner of the century.

Tonight I cooked scalloped potatoes, which was nothing less than a struggle, and if you’re coming to my house tomorrow you had better flipping eat some out of sheer gratitude and appreciation for my fabulous cooking. And if you find part of a butter wrapper in them, my bad. Right now I’m eating toast, because the only thing I ever see when I open the refrigerator now is organic strawberry preserves, and tea, because I’m better than you. Just kidding! Oh look, a transition. Tea: England.

Ahem.

You probably [don’t] know this, but I’ve tried about six times (give or take a couple) to try to read the book Pride and Prejudice, and I have failed miserably, which I do partially attribute to the fact that my attention span for books has left more than several hanging in the darkness. But given the vast number of my attempts, I refuse to take the whole of the blame. As of today, I have gotten through almost half of it (yay), which is farther than ever before, and I’m enjoying it, which is a handy little bonus.

I’m always that person who says things like, “Oh, I never watch the movie unless I’ve read the book,” because I like being an intellectual brat. But more than that, I don’t just say it, I do it. This summer, I read the Hobbit so that I could go to the midnight premiere. I’ve never watched a Lord of the Rings movie all the way through, because I haven’t finished (started) them. I also never watched a Harry Potter movie without having read the book…except that one time I think I watched Chamber of Secrets because my dad was watching it and I didn’t know I was allowed to read them. Again with the digression.

This book is not the same way, and it sucks to say that, but I don’t think I could actually be at chapter 30 if I hadn’t watched the movie (the short one, with Kiera Knightley, not the four-hour BBC one that all you other intellectual brats brag about watching). And even now, I’m plowing slowly, but the dialogue is more meaningful, and at least I know there’s a happy ending, so I am motivated.

I’m usually not the fastest reader, because I can’t skip anything (except Up from Slavery, but I pretty much skipped the whole book, OOPS). I spend a lot of time taking things in and trying to catch all the little baby nuances that are crawling around in the paragraphs. For this reason, I often miss the big picture. I am of the opinion that the reason the movie helped was that it gave me a lattice that I could build all the flowery language on, in order to provide surety that there was actually deeper meaning behind all the British jibber jabber. Truthfully, each sentence is a maze, and I’m not taking in so much of it because I’m so caught off guard by how much better people used to be at talking.

Going off of that, I don’t think I adequately grasped the character development that was necessary the first few times through the book, because I was trying so hard to understand what the heck everyone was saying. My most explicit example is Mrs. Bennet, who, at the most, I only identified as moderately eccentric. Then I watched the movie, and now, as I read, I am more aware of her ridiculousness, and now better understand just how much of a TOTAL PSYCHO she is, and that has made things so much clearer.

Also, Mr. Collins? What the flip? Who is this guy?

Actually, let me start over.

Who is anyone in this book? Because I’m going to be completely honest, it sounds like my high school. To the t. Just replace marriage with winter freaking formal and we’re there. Maybe this is just girls, because some of these chicks are fifteen and sixteen, so it makes some sense. But you would think that people with such a sophisticated vocabulary would have their crap together.

So…uninformed character analyses! Go!

(As of right now, it is my greatest dream that someday my AP English teacher finds this and doesn’t think it a disgrace to literature, but the odds of that are low and currently plummeting even farther.)

Elizabeth is supposed to be the one everyone relates to, right? I’ll be honest, I kind of feel like half her, half Jane, because Liz has a little more chutzpah than I would be comfortable giving myself credit for, and Jane gets pushed around by people because she’s too trusting and unsuspecting, and…yeah, anyway. Me. But Elizabeth has more character development than really anyone, so I’ll assume that she was intended to parallel with most women.

Jane…as I said, is chill. The protagonist can’t be perfect, so they set up a foil for them that is essentially perfect, but still brings out the protagonist’s superiorities. That’s Jane. I think. Eh. I still like her. And Google Spellcheck is trying to tell me that superioriites and Spellcheck are not words. What is this.

Mary's the awkward bass player in this band of sisters. (pun!) I always forget she’s there, and expect her to sneak in and do things that are useful, but she just sings all the time and acts smart, and I kind of hate her until I realize that’s all I ever do. But if Mary’s the bass player, Kitty is the back-up guitar player, and all she does is play back-up guitar, not even back-up vocals or anything, and I don’t even think she’s crucial to the story except she's probably the only logical reason that Lydia hasn't gotten herself kidnapped.

UGH. LYDIA. WHY DID WE HAVE TO HAVE THE SAME NAME.

I’m trying not to use the word “slut” anymore, so I have nothing left to say on Lydia.

Mr. Collins. Geez.

Here’s what I think about Mr. Collins. Did you ever have that guy friend, who meant well but was super awkward, and always picked the randomest girls to go to dances with, and he’d be like, “Yeah, I think I’m going to ask Sarah (generic name) to winter formal,” and you’d say, “Oh…okay…um, mistake?” This would all happen because he talked to her one time at a football game, and you’d try so incredibly hard to persuade him not to, and then try so incredibly hard to format at least a cute, reasonable presentation of the offer, and then try so incredibly hard to console him when she said no, and then two days later he’d be like, “Hey, we should go together!” and you’d be like, “I’m sorry, what even,” and then you wouldn't communicate for a year aside from his hurt looks in the hallway.

That was seriously spot on. Snaps for myself.

The rest of the small characters are moderately generic…Miss Bingley, awful, Hursts, awful, Lady Catherine, eh. Mr. Bennet is in my top three fave literary father figures EVER, so that's great. Miss de Bourgh sounds like a real party pooper, but it might be because she’s deathly ill or something. Truthfully, I should probably cast judgment after I finish the novel. Or just not cast judgment. Ha. Oops.

I like Bingley (who will henceforth be affectionately referred to as “Bing bing”), even though his sister is a ditz. Bing bing is the foil for Darcy, because Darcy, even though he is the pensive, brooding, macho, prime love interest of the book, can’t be perfect, so Bing bing will be stereotypically perfect, which, in turn, will make Darcy look realistically perfect. Darcy’s character development isn’t quite there yet, but I’ve heard he’s swell. This is only slightly hampered by the effects of the film, so as perfect as Darcy becomes, in my mind, he will always have a ginormous nose. And that is okay.

--

As my roommate Nicole said once, so wisely, “That was a lot of words to say basically nothing.” In the course of this posting, I have burned myself on the potato dish, and eaten four pieces of bread with the aforementioned strawberry preserves. I’m sorry there was no stellar life advice included in this Happy Meal. Then again, even when I try, there usually isn’t.

If you’ll excuse me, I have a lab report to write.

Fin.

Caution: opinion(z) included.

I really wanted to start this post off, “Ladies and gentlemen!” but alas, this post is going to be horrifically discriminatory, and the phrase, “Ladies!” is so often connoted with, "...ladies,” which you have to read in a majestically deep man voice to be funny, and I didn’t know how to type that.

So.

…ladies.

I realize I go off on you a lot, which is really too bad, but you seriously need to get a hold of yourselves. Really, I need to get a hold of myself, so we’re all in this together. And once we know who we are, we’re all stars, and we see that. And that will show where we stand, hand in hand, TO MAKE OUR DREAMS COME TRUEEEE OHHHH… EVERYBODY NOW!

That actually summed up my sentiments pretty well, and I didn’t have to be purposefully cheesy. Next point.

You don't have to listen to anything I say. Except this: stop telling yourself you aren't good enough. You are freaking fantastic. You are unique and I know you tell yourself it's a bad thing that people don't understand and obsess over everything about you, but it's so completely a good thing. I promise. Your incongruencies are not inadequacies.

Also, incongruencies is not a word. Yet.

Well, it's too bad that got all mushy, because I'm honestly (no, dishonestly) just going to write out a long list of frustrations and only say one thing that's a little meaningful, maybe. I should probably just go ahead before it gets any worse. This might cut deep. The thought process behind it was this one time my ministry professor talked about how defining our vocabulary was our primary concern, because we so often throw around words we don’t actually mean or understand. This followed that plane of thought.

Happy crying.

Girlcabulary (I know, so creative, right?)

1. Boys: fluctuations in confidence.

So hopefully we’ve established that boys don’t have cooties anymore, but I guess they don’t have feelings either. I don’t understand why it’s fair for them to only matter as long as we’re okay with it. So they like you. So you don’t like them. So freaking what. Stop stringing them along like your plaything where if you push a button nice words come out and you feel good. It's pretty rude.

2. Conversations: periods of extended whining.

Example: this blog post.

3. Awkward: that one time when you didn’t elicit cheering as a response.

I’m going to be real with you: you not being unfathomably sexy every second of the day does not constitute as “awkward.” I was homeschooled. In the boondocks. You don’t even know awkward.

4. Social justice: being nice to people who are ostracized collectively.

I’m all for protecting people who have been served an injustice by culture. Just keep in mind, a lot of those people include all of those friends of yours who are, how do I say this… a lot to handle. As in, hanging out with them isn’t a chill night at the movies, it’s probably playing therapist. Or maybe their interactions have confused some of your friends with a lower “awkward” tolerance, and you don’t want everyone to know how close you actually are to them. Or, probably, they’ve been set up for a great joke right now, maybe at their expense, but hey, they aren’t here, and it’s not like it isn’t true…

I mean, thanks for playing, but just because they don’t have a show on TLC doesn’t mean they don’t deserve your respect either.

5. Ex-boyfriend: not actually proof of anything.

You know what phrase I’ve heard a lot? “Well at least you’ve had a boyfriend.” Do you know what phrase I said a lot in high school? “Well at least you’ve had a boyfriend.” Do you know what phrase literally makes no sense at all?

Hint: it’s a pattern. Figure it out.

Taylor Swift has like eleven thousand ex-boyfriends. She also has like eleven thousand million billion dollars because she wrote songs about them.

These are really the only positive results that have ever come out of a breakup.

6. Let’s get coffee: you’ll never get coffee.
Awk.

7. Eating: something to be embarrassed about.

WOMEN. STOP FREAKING OUT EVERY TIME YOU EAT. MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS IT IS FOOD. IT IS FOR YOUR BODY’S CONSUMPTION.

So you like chocolate. Eat chocolate.

Don’t announce to the planet you ate chocolate and are so embarrassed you did so. Obviously they understand. It’s flipping delicious.

8. Thin: better than being fat.

9. Fat: worse than being thin.

Do you even know what fat is? Or thin? Do you even know what healthy weight is? The only person who is allowed to tell you you’re “fat” (or thin) is your doctor, and he does that to help your heart, not your appeal. Beauty is not a mold you have to fit into, and if you don’t, then rough life. Don’t even freaking go there. First everyone liked curvy women, then Twiggy-like women, then white women, then ethnically diverse women, then oh look, the cultural norm shifted, because that’s never happened before. There is something pretty darn attractive about you someone just hasn’t brought up yet. Wait it out.

10. Feminism: women have the right to be terrible people.

Before any of you pee your pants with indignation, let me explain. I don’t have issues with women’s rights. I think women are just as capable as men, and that it is wrong to be treated differently. What I’m tired of is feminism that involves yelling at men who offer their seats to you in the bus or bashing all of the opposite gender because they are incompetent (unless it comes to having babies, then bash away) or tyrannical or promoting the oversexualizing of women. I’m not saying they all aren’t, because some of them definitely are. But you play along with it. I don’t care if men want you to look like a Victoria’s Secret Model every morning, noon, and evening; you’re the one who’s walking around basically naked.

Feminism is not when the prince shows up and looks bravely up at a lava-surrounded castle’s tower and cries out, “Princess, let me save you from the fire-breathing dragon and your stifling isolation!” shouting over the roar of said fire-breathing dragon—who happens to be gnawing at her window and breathing fire, as usual—brandishing his sword and his newly purchased bridge-building kit, and looking all studly and capable, only to hear her call out, “No thanks, I got it, and I’m insulted that you think I’m not capable enough to manage my own affairs!” and then she is swallowed, and the prince is like, “What?”

Feminism is when the prince shows up and looks bravely up at the castle tower and yells, “Princess, let me…wait, what?” and notices suddenly the body of a once-fire-breathing dragon spanning the moat of lava, and the princess brandishing her fists of steel, saying, “Thanks for the sentiment, but I figured it out,” and the prince is all, “Cool, wanna make out?” and the princess says, “No thanks, I have standards.”

But that’s just my opinion.

11. Flirt: why someone else is a slut, but it doesn’t apply to you.

Why is everyone opposed to flirting? It’s great. Oh, that annoying girl is doing it, and she’s totally coming on to him, and SHUT THE FRONT DOOR SHE TOUCHED HIS ARM, oh my gosh, what a whore.

COOL IT. Yeah, flirting is annoying, but it’s part of life, and I don’t really think you can control it. If you can, and that works for you, then…well, fine. I mean, I can control my flirting, but it involves me staring at the floor and not being responsive to certain individuals.

“Hi, Lydia, how’s it going?”

“…….” *runs away*

That’s how I get men.

Don’t not flirt because other girls will judge you. As we’ve already established, we’re all horrible people. You can totally flirt and be classy, and you honestly probably will end up having to do just that someday. And if a boy doesn’t realize you like him, and you want him to realize you like him and that maybe he should like you, you probably should laugh at his jokes and tell him he has nice hair.

---

Well, sorry that was long. And offensive. And probably all wrong. Just remember: everyone matters. 
Including a lot of other people who happen to not be you.

And you.

fin.

Party in the library.

This one is short, but it's a verbatim transcript of the thought process that went down in the library tonight.
Well...maybe not verbatim.
It's basically right.
Happy studying...studs.

the thirteen phases of OChem homework.
(actual number of phases may vary by experience and interpretation)

8:30 p.m.
The Pep Talk.

Okay. Okay. Okay...okay.
I have three days until the test.
I have extra time off this week.
I am going to be fine.

9:00 p.m.
The "Nomenclature" Phase.

Bro I am so good at this ish. Check me out. No. Don't. Check out freaking 4,6-dimethyl-5-(1-propynyl)-5-octene and then CHECK ME OUT.

9:15 p.m.

You know, I probably should have brought my answer manual, because I have no idea if I'm actually doing any of this right.
I also have no idea what any of this means.
WAIT WHAT

9:16 p.m.

ALL THESE WORDS ARE SO BIG. WHY.

9:18 p.m.

HOLY RICHARD F. HECK THAT IS A LOT OF SUBSTITUENTS.

9:19 p.m.
*Regroup*

...

9:25 p.m.
The "Copy The Notes" Phase.

Wait, this is so fun! Where are my markers!? Let's make this a rainbow! A rainbow of chemistry and happiness! Dr. OChemTeacher, I love you so much!

9:40 p.m.

I HAVE TO KNOW ALL OF THIS BY FRIDAY WHAT EVEN

9:45 p.m.

WHY ARE ALL THESE WORDS SO LONG

9:50 p.m.

HAVE I REALLY BEEN STARING AT THIS PAGE FOR FIVE MINUTES

10:00 p.m.

Literally everything in this book sounds like a supremely questionable sex act.

10:10 p.m.
The "Screw It" Phase.

Screw it.


12:30 a.m.

WAIT WE HAVE A QUIZ TOMORROW

...there's that.

Hello, America.

I suppose I forgot to mention that I wrote two posts while I was on break and didn't post them on Facebook because I gave away my password for Facebook. They're both under the December heading. You are welcome. Merry late Christmas to you and I'm sorry I'm not better at gifting.

Writing a blog post is an elaborate process. It involves starting a post that I never finish, briefly editing and revamping several other posts I never finished, and thinking and wishing and almost getting to something good while my ideas slosh about, until, three weeks later, and right before a significant assignment is due, usually, it suddenly erupts into some variety of weird volcano that doesn't make coherent sense but still explains how I'm feeling.
Today, I was musing upon what the heck I was going to write about next, and when the heck I was going to find time to study for my OChem quiz (the answer to that question is right now...oops), and who the heck was going to have to clean up the remains of my psyche once my impending meltdown hits, and how the heck many times can I use heck in one sentence, and so on and a heck of a so forth. I felt sick, but I went to class, and I went to see my mom, walked to the store, made myself some food...
...and here we are.
And now, here we are not, because it's 3 days after I wrote that last paragraph. I didn't have the patience or the time to finish it, because I was...tired...and I had Cell lab at 6 and I think I started it at 5. Oops.

In other words, today is another one of those days upon which we will attempt to show yet again why I am not destined for any vocation that is even remotely related to philosophy.
Also, I just read through it all again, and it's kind of boring and preachy, so...sorry.

Some (like eight) Reasons Why Life Is Exactly Like Chocolate Pudding.

You can't see into it.

Can you see into the future? No. Nobody knows whether or not you're going to be rich or famous or dead (ooh, morbidity already?) in ten years. You don't even know what color your hair will be. HA! Everyone seems to think the future is this crystal ball we can look into and rely on as a standard for what we should be working on now, but maybe staring into a bowl of pudding would be just as useful, because either way, you won't be able to know what will happen, except that you will probably be hungry, and when that happens, you will have a bowl of pudding.


It's riddled with uncertainty.


Speaking as a college student, who muses everyday on the chance that nothing I'm learning will ever be valuable to me, I'd say that it was a semi-accurate statement that a lot of us don't trust the system. Who cares if we get an education? Who cares if we fail this class? Who cares if we study for Chem? I probably won't get a job anyway! Why do you think I'm writing this? I have a Chem test in five days! Do I care? NO! No. Yes...yeah. I care a little.

Eh.

All personal procrastinatory (not a word) tendencies aside, how are we supposed to know? All our friends who didn't go to college have jobs and apartments and fiancés/fiancées (did you know that word was gender-specific?) and we have dorms and dependence on our parents and homework. All we can do is go by the numbers, that people seem to be better at getting jobs if they go to college. We go by the instructions on the box, that even though expecting pudding to come out of a giant bowl of milk and two spoons of powder seems like the most counter-intuitive thing we've ever done, it might end up as something delicious and wonderful. Until then, all we can be sure we amount to is oblong lumps floating around in disappointment.

It is a mystery.

Going off of that, I don't understand how cells become babies or how whatever is in that funky little box becomes the ultimate center of deliciousness. The miracle of life, the miracle of Jell-O.

It is easily shelved.

When I was young, I was of the opinion that the unexpected or the uncertain were things to be avoided, or not meant for me. GUYS. I still think that. You still think that! Right? Oh...
Well. Okay.
I don't know what to write here.
Hm.
My point was going to be that as human beings (not robots), we tend to be very go with the flow, not in the sense that we take things in stride, because that's a good thing, but more in the sense that we tend to shift our equilibrium towards disappointment. (Chemistry joke, anybody?) I was going to say something about how we need to not be satisfied with boredom, or maybe that our potential needs to be made kinetic (there it goes again), and in order to experience life at its finest, or be ourselves at our fullest, we may need to raid the pantry. I was also going to throw something in about how after long hours (or ten minutes, let's be real) of searching for a snack on a set of packed shelves, a box of pudding is often the reward, and it would have gone unnoticed for weeks, maybe years, at my house, if we hadn't gone looking for it.
I just couldn't figure out how to word it.



It is intensified about a hundredfold when you're on your period.


My friend's boyfriend asked me what happens when girls are menstruating (which may be the most uncomfortable word in the English language, which is why I prefer to say it in a British accent), and I told him that we cry, yell, write nonsensical blog posts, spend too much money, and fall over a lot. Speaking and walking become nearly impossible. Living becomes the hardest thing we've ever done. At the same time, we also develop an insatiable taste for chocolate, especially chocolate pudding, which magically becomes a hundred times better right at that time of the month when you need it most.
For the record, the same principal applies to Oreos and cookie dough and sometimes buffalo wings.


It used to be gross.

Back to the concept of blobs of lumps in milk. Really, though. It's pretty nasty. I don't know how else to describe it. It was gnarly, yucky, chunky, moderately offensive, possibly resembling vomit. LIFE CAN DO THAT TOO. Believe me when I say that everyone has a crap ton of struggles and problems and issues that they fight through every day. People have screwed up. And yet, even through that pain and that overwhelming yuck, they become the heroes that they are. Against all flipping odds.

I definitely just almost threw in a plug for Jesus. 
But really. Jesus.

It comes out of nowhere.

The whole point behind chocolate pudding is wanting to eat something gooey. Most people would imagine that the process by which you achieve gooeyness is to mix together two things of the gooey variety. In the case of some puddings, especially ones that involved mashed bananas, this is true. However, I am poor, and the Jell-O variety is all we have; therefore you are going to have to roll with the metaphor. Jell-O pudding comes by taking something that is very dry and lacks all the characteristics of gooey and mixes in milk, which is far too, um, milky? and runny, and not gooey either, and magically, you get pudding, which is goo at its finest.
My mom always told me that before the occurrence of my father, she never wanted marriage or children, or anything that even slightly resembles anything that she has now, which so happens to be marriage and children. I think a lot of young people run around saying they know what they want, and they know how to be happy. A lot of old people thought that too, and say now that they were wrong. They fell in love. They found their calling. They were hired to some job that changed their life. And they let go of whatever they thought made them happy, because they knew that in comparison to what they have now, they were sad. My mom's happier than she ever thought she could be. Or else, she better be, because, hello? Me?
The key to enjoying chocolate pudding is not thinking about the fact that it was powder and milk literally minutes ago, and accepting the fact that it's delicious. The key to enjoying life is trying not to think about how your parents had to have had sex in order to make you. GROSS I'm kidding. And you just thought about it.
I actually don't know what the key to enjoying life is. I think maybe having hope is a good idea though, that maybe the ick has a chance to become something delicious, if pudding is a reliable standard.



It doesn't work unless you stir it.

IT TAKES EFFORT, FOOLS. GET ON THE BALL.
I'm kidding.
But seriously.

fin.

Happy boring day!

I have nothing significant to say, but I desperately want to post something. Thusly, I will yammer on about what I've done over break so far, since I know you're all dying to know what oceans of excitement I've been diving into since school ended.

First of all, I've absolutely wrecked my sleep schedule. I've woken up at one in the afternoon at least three or four times, and the other days I've woken up at noon. Most days I also nap. Today, my dad made me get up before eleven, and I almost died. Granted, I've also been staying up until one or two in the morning, reading great literature and musing on the definition of life, so it's most likely my mental exhaustion is to blame.
Actually, considering how difficult last semester was, that's entirely possible. In my opinion I'm still catching up on all the sleep I lost...last year. I'm not even close to this year's quota, so everyone can just get off my back.

My internet usage is rather prolific; however, my roommate Kelly and I switched passwords before we left for break, and now neither of us have access to Facebook until we get back to school (unless she's hacked her account, which wouldn't be surprising, as she is something of a genius and another something of a sneaky devil) (in a good way). I did this so I wouldn't feel like I had to see everyone from high school or spend time at fancy parties or go out of my way to make crafty presents for the people I love. I will see who I want and I will procure presents on my own time, thank you. So I spend a lot more time on Pinterest, pinning away, usually food I'll never have the patience to make or clothes I'll never have the money to buy. The usual stuff. Today, I unfollowed everyone's wedding boards.
I have been spending more time on Twitter, but you can only do so much on Twitter. I usually end my internet sessions by Google-stalking news stories of people from the Bachelorette.

I'm babysitting chinchillas, which are like giant fluffy mice that sleep in the day and cavort haplessly in the night, which is a big part of why my sleeping has been disturbed. I didn't realize that chinchillas squeaked, but they definitely do. If you can call it squeaking, which you really can't. It sound like they're being suffocated. Here is a video (click the word video for the video); you can see for yourself. Two final fun facts concerning chinchillas: (1) they do bite, if you put your finger next to their mouths, but so far it's been harmless nibbling and I haven't had another medical episode, and (2) they hate water, so they bathe in dust, which is so counter intuitive I honestly don't know what to do.

Last Saturday, I had the privilege of meeting my good friend's fiancée. The experience in and of itself was what you would expect the experience of meeting your good friend's fiancée would be if you had never met any other fiancées that happened to belong to your good friends.
It was fine. He was great. But no one else that I care about is allowed to get engaged for a long time until I decide I'm okay with being a grown up.

In nerd news, I checked my grades for the semester and was overjoyed, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Also, I got A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy for Christmas, the entire quintogy (like trilogy but there's five of them) (it's not a word), so...yeah. There's that. My family is mad at me because I don't talk to anyone anymore; I just read and read and then think about time travel until my brain hurts too much to do it, so I try reading again, creating a vicious cycle of frustration, which may or may not also have something to do with the fact that I'm not talking to anyone.

I saw the Hobbit, and, unlike everyone else of the entirety of people who saw it, felt ambivalently towards it.
I baked like a thousand cookies. My brothers ate all of them. 
Actually. False. I did. Plus, I made a list of things I need to do, and I keep adding to it and never doing any of it and not caring.
EVERYONE I KNOW JUST GOT PREGNANT.

...I think that's it...

...yeah, that's it. Beyond that, pretty much the usual stuff: existential crises, frustrated grumbling over what the crap I'm going to do with my life, writing future best-sellers and then giving up after the first chapter, gagging on my toothbrush, watching the Big Bang Theory every day, and accumulating heinous debt in student loans.

Whatever.

OH AND I WROTE THIS BLOG.
MERRY DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS.

fin.

Mice don't like to be saved.

This happened a couple months ago, and I wrote most of it then, but never finished it, oddly. Now it is done, annnnnd...um, tada! 
I hope you all appreciate that I get into these ridiculous shenanigans just for you.
Actually, they're...not really for you at all.
I hope you enjoy this epic regardless.

Once upon a time, there was a little mousey who decided that today, he would sit on the steps of the science center and bother the crap out of everyone. Mousey was fat, with a pointed nose and the longest mouse tale ever beheld by mankind. He nuzzled himself into the wall and prepped for a long day of being irritable and inconveniently positioned.

Back story.

I have an embarrassingly powerful obsession with small rodents. Once, I found a website dedicated entirely to 1500 photos of baby hamsters, and it was the best day of my life. I have never owned a small rodent, but I have spent enough time staring at them longingly in Petsmart that I might as well have. There has never been a time in my life that I have not wanted a rabbit. (I realize that rabbits aren't rodents - they're lagamorphs, obvi - but nobody knows that besides you and me, and...I mean, I know I'm a loser, so maybe you should come to terms with yourself.) My freshman roommates described me once as a "true mouse advocate." I also babysit chinchillas for Emma and Nolan when they go to Oregon. Now I'm kind of in a kitten phase...or bears. I like bears. But the rodent thing isn't a phase so much as it is a lifestyle.

End of back story.

As the diligent little science major I am, I'm on my way to lab with my sandwich, and unlike all the people I was walking with, happen to notice mousey in his hideaway at the edge of the stair. Naturally, I gasp, really loudly and embarrassingly, and squeal a lot and jump up and down and then say goodbye and eat my sandwich, because I get pretty hungry after micro lecture.

I know. I should have left it at that. I know.
Trust me, I know.

So anyway. Om nom nom. Sandwich is consumed. I wander back over toward the direction of our mouse friend and find with some concern that he has moved onto the step, right into the line of foot-stepping-ness, but hardly a foot from where he was before. I assume he is sick, so I stare at him for a little while like a complete lunatic. This is right at the end of a lecture block (of COURSE), so all of these freshmen are coming out of their classes and thinking, what is this chick doing just standing on the stairs, but I stand strong and continue as a protective force to his minuscule existence. 
After a while, a small crowd gathers, and some freshman gives him a handful of Captain Crunch (word to the wise: mice don't like Captain Crunch), and I decide that, because there are literally five people standing and looking at him and some kids STILL aren't noticing that he (we're assuming it was a boy mouse) is there, someone has to take it upon themselves to remove him from the danger zone.

You can probably guess that person was me, because I'm the only one stupid to make that judgment call in the first place.

I dash heroically into my micro lab (not really dashing, because you're not allowed to run in lab) and obtain a pair of nitrile gloves in order to preserve myself from the rampant bacteria crawling through its fur. A little struggling ensues, but eventually I have a hold of mousey and am running down the stairs with metaphorical fanfare blasting in the background as I go to release him into the ravine where he will be safe from the feet of the unobservant science majors. And right where the hawks can get him. But that's not important.

I'm sure you know what's coming.

chomp.

So now I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs holding an angry, squirming rodent, and I can see blood pooling under my glove, and I think to myself, everything my farm-raised, mouse-hating mother has ever taught me has gone to waste in this moment. In honor of that achievement, I say a bad word.

Still the job has to be done, so I chuck him into the ravine (he bit me, I'm not going to tuck him in). With renewed vigor, I run upstairs and my lab instructor tries not to laugh while we start performing necessary hygienic procedures that involve rubbing alcohol and squeezing out a lot of blood and my entire class laughing at me and my friends signing as witnesses to my stupidity and me filling out paperwork and crying in front of my supervisor.
They tell me I have a big heart. It doesn't make me feel better.

Fast-forward.
I'm at the health center. The doctor is telling me I need antibiotics because, of course, there's something called rat bite fever. Oh, and I need to get assessed for a rabies shot.
Yeah. Rabies. I could have rabies.

Excellent.

Since things can't really get any weirder, I text my friends and threaten to bite them.

That night, during the lab I TA, I look up the health center the doctor told me to talk to about the vaccination, and this page opens up with the biggest font I've ever seen saying, "STD Clinic," right in front of all my little first-year chem students, but I close it really quickly so I don't think they notice.

Fast-forward.
I'm on the phone with the Monrovia Health Center, who doesn't administer rabies shots but who tells me the phone number for a place that actually does, but I get nervous and lie about having a pen so I don't write it down. I google some more and eventually find a place that advertises having them, so I call them.

"Do you administer rabies shots?" (There's one heck of a conversation starter.)
"Yes, we do, did something happen?"
"I was bit by a mouse yesterday."
"Ohh, okay! Well we do give those; did your doctor say you needed one?"
"He said I needed to be assessed for one..."
"Then you probably do."
"Okay, well how much would that cost?"
"Well, there are five shots, one you take blahblahblahblahblah and the last you take twenty-eight days later, and they're $295 each."
"Two hundred ninety-five each?" Please, Jesus, let there be a decimal.
"Yes, and you can make your appointment..........."

I forget everything else she said. You would have, too, if an ungrateful rodent was about to cost you fifteen hundred dollars.

It was around now that I start to realize that despite my best efforts, I am probably going to have to inform my financial beneficiaries of my misadventure.

Excellent.

"...hello?"
"MOM! HOW ARE YOU?"
"...good...how are you?"
"GREAT!"
"...uh huh. Is everything okay?"
"OH YEAH EVERYTHING'S FINE!"
"Did you fail something?"
"NO!"
"Okay?"
"No..."
"...um..."
"No, this is beyond failing."

Fast-forward.
Mom takes impending financial deficit rather well. She also calls every health department in the state, all of whom tell her, "We don't give rabies shots for mouse bites." Which puts me in a predicament, because Dr. What'shisface told me I might need one, and the lady at the clinic told me that if he said I might need one then I do need one, but Mrs. Nursefrompasadena told my mom that I don't need one, because mice don't carry rabies. Also, if I do need a shot, but I don't get a shot by tomorrow, I can't get one. Ever. Also, RABIES KILLS YOU.
To add insult to injury, everyone keeps asking me why I didn't pick it up by its tail. I'm not sure why the whole world assumes that's a universal precept, because...I've never heard anything about it.

The next day, because I'm at my wit's end, and because I might maybe be looking for a chance to suck up, I inform Dr. Microbiologyprofessor of the predicament, and he looks at me like I'm a nutcase for a few seconds. Then he discusses the general lack of rabidity in mouseys, and describes the symptoms involved just to keep me informed, adding that now that I know what it means to have them, I will think I'm having them until I'm sure that it's impossible for me to have them, and even maybe after that.
That didn't make sense and I'm not fixing it.

Eventually, more very grumpy people from various clinics inform me multiple times that I don't need a shot. Dr. What'shisface confirms that his comment was only investigatory, not actually diagnository.

Conclusion: Lydia forgoes rabies shot. Everyone else is 99% sure that I don't have rabies. I'm only 80% sure, but I'm also the only one who was dumb enough to pick up a mouse. And the only one whose life is in jeopardy, but no one seems to remember that. Maybe next time if I get bitten by an angry bunny rabbit people will care. Or a bear. I bet bears give you rabies.
Technically, the incubation period for rabies is up to a year, meaning that the virus can decide to not kick in for basically forever until after you get bit, which makes no sense, but viruses are incapable of logic. So I'll let you know what's up next October.
Oh and my antibiotics made me throw up. But that's beside the point.

Fast-forward:
Nicole and I are walking past CVS, and Dr. Microbiologyprofessor - the one who I talked to about the bite, and also the one who told the whole story to my class, which was AWESOME - walks out, and before we can recover and greet him sufficiently (seeing professors in parking lots is a weird experience), he says, "It's the mouse lady, as forever and always you shall be known! It's your legacy!"




Excellent.

fin.