How I Chose My Undergraduate College

You know when you are in junior high/early high school and you have to take the PSAT? Well after you take it, and if you do well, you start getting a whole bunch of junk from colleges that want to recruit you because you are oh so smart. Well unbeknownst to my dad I returned every damn info card I got in the mail. Every. Single. One. 

I got hundreds. 

Why would I do this? Well I knew I wanted to go somewhere in life. I wanted to venture out into the big wide world and DO SOMETHING. Something important. And getting out into the world and doing something important would most likely not happen if I stayed in Indiana and went to IU, IUPUI or Purdue like my high school friends. I needed to get OUT of Indiana. So why not send postcards out all over the wide berth of the US? Sounded good to me. 

My dad was so angry with the amount of mail I was getting. Hehe. 

Here was my system of selecting a college:

1. Get postcard or small letter-y type thing telling me about some fabulous college far from Indiana in 200 words or less. 

2. Fill out postcard saying "YES! I would like more information about your far away college. Please bury me in mail."

3. Get a much bigger and more in-depth mailing about far-flung college with pictures and lots of words describing whether or not it was cool. 

4. Look at materials the college sent and decide if they were lame or not. This was a somewhat random process. Mostly I looked to see where they were (no where too cold or snowy, e.g. Minnesota), whether or not they had been sneaky with their first mailing and they were secretly a religious college (No Jesus freak schools for me), and if they seemed hippie and random enough (I can't be somewhere all stuffy and strict). Lame schools went into the trash and good enough schools went into the maybe pile. 

5. The maybe pile got pretty big. I had to go back through and apply more strict standards. Not really too sure what these standards were, but they were obviously important at the time. 

6. I somehow managed to whittle it down to 3 schools (plus IUPUI which was my safety school). I applied to all 4 and waited. Eventually got accepted to 3 and waitlisted at 1. Decided if they thought I was only waitlist material I hated them anyway and I'd rather drop dead than attend their school. So I really had two decisions.

7. Since I am a procrastinator extraordinare I waited until like April (when most of my peers already decided where they were going and had plunked down deposits) to start realizing I needed to really pick one. So I packed up on two marathon road trips. My dad got to go to Florida with me (and this is where we had the 18 hour drive where we spoke barely at all) and my mom got to go to Pennsylvania with me. 

8. The Florida school had managed to be sneaky through all of their materials. They turned out to be way too strict and too religious. Yuck. Nevermind. 

9. Luckily my Pennsylvania choice turned out to be PERFECT. Since they had bombarded me with lots of mail and even phone calls I had already had a sneaky suspicion that I would love them. I was right. It was a glorious trip and I had found my perfect school. My dad continued to be annoyed that I chose a school 8 hours away. He bought me a car so he didn't have to drive to Pennsylvania again until I graduated. WIN!

Turns out Juniata was the best random decision I ever made. If I had to go back and do it all over again I wouldn't have changed a thing. The experience I had at Juniata really shaped who I am today and of course who I am today is AWESOME. I was confident in my haphazard system and it worked out for me. Don't let anyone boss you and tell you that you are not making informed and sensible decisions. Sometimes wacky systems turn out to work well. Just be fearless and confident that you'll find your way.

Gay Marriage

"Is Ange going to move with you?"

Do you know how many times people have asked me this in the past 6 months? Way too many. I've been sitting on this post for a week because although I love politics and soap-boxing I've mainly kept my blog focused on funny things, old family stories and travel related stuff. Light-hearted stuff. But lately, there's just been so many things that have really annoyed me or pissed me off and I can't hold it in anymore. I just need to get it off my chest and hopefully I'll feel better. Things won't change, but I can at least put it out there and set it free from my body of worrying.

There is lots of information out there on the interwebs about gay marriage. You could read and read and read for about a million years about the perceived benefits and perceived cataclysmic events that would happen if gay marriage was legalized. I won't bore you with all of those "facts" or details.

I want to tell you a personal story.

This is my life and here's how not being able to be married affects me.

I am on the job market and will hopefully be accepting a full-time tenure track faculty position in the next month. Part of earning a PhD is the realization that you can't be employed just anywhere. I mean, I could probably get a job at a fast-food joint if I wanted, but really, why would I do that after I've worked so hard? People looking to hire PhDs are fewer and far between than jobs that don't require a PhD. I've chosen to stay in academia which means I have to go where ever a university may be hiring. That means my job search has been nation wide. There have been a few jobs in Indiana but mostly not. And frankly, I'm ok with that. I love my family and it really hurts my heart to think about moving away from them. But it also is exciting to think about moving away to a new place, particularly a place that is more liberal and accepting of my values.

Now let me be clear, my partner Ange moved in with me almost a year and a half ago. We'd been dating for a year before that. When she moved in we made the decision to open a joint checking account and to handle our finances together. First of all it made it easier to manage household expenses, but it also made us equal partners in this relationship. I didn't want her to write me "rent checks" because she is not a renter. She is my partner. We are equals who are equally invested in this relationship. Furthermore I believe it is a mark of seriousness about our relationship. Intertwining one's finances with another person's indicates a level of commitment that is more than just casual. I trust her and she trusts me and we make financial decisions together. This is not a secret. We are open about it.

So why is it that when I talk about possible job offers that I am entertaining many people (who are lovely and wonderful in all other ways) ask: Is Ange going to move with you?

What.

The.

Fuck.

Would you move across the country without your spouse? I have a very hard time believing that if my sister decided to up and move across the country that people would ask if her husband was going to move with her. They might ask "How does your husband feel about this?" or "Will your husband be able to get a job right away?" but they would not assume that my sister is going to up and leave her husband behind. So why do people assume that I would leave Ange behind?

Why? Because we aren't married so our relationship is clearly not as serious as my sister and her husband's relationship. Nevermind that we have the same structure and functions in our relationship that they do in ours, but they are married and we are not. Clearly, domestic partnerships and marriages are not the same.

Indiana recently passed a bill in the House of Representatives banning gay marriage. I was reading an article and I just got so pissed off:

"Nothing, nothing in this legislation in this resolution interferes with (the ability of) people to live with whomever they choose, to love whomever they choose," Rep. Ralph Foley, R-Martinsville, told lawmakers Tuesday. "But loving friendship is a different relationship than the relationship between man and wife, and we should represent that in the law."

You know what Rep. Foley? Fuck you.

My relationship with Ange is not a "loving friendship" though we do love each other and she is my best friend. We are more than friends. And my relationship is not different than the relationship that my sister and her husband have. What the hell do you know about my relationship anyway? Have you visited our home? Have you seen the ways in which our relationship are different? No you haven't because it isn't. So fuck you again for speaking of things of which you have no experience.

For the longest time I've had no interest in getting married. I have always believed that gay marriage should be legal but I have never been that interested in attaining it for myself. I was never the little girl who dreamed about my wedding day and it was never something I really felt that I needed.

Until now.

versa).

And perhaps gay marriage won't solve all these issues, but it is the only step that will get us started in the right direction. I don't expect that overnight people will start realizing that gay marriages are just like straight marriages and I'm sure I'll still get stupid questions about our relationship. But until we can even claim to be married I know that will never happen.

Ange and I have started researching states (& countries) where gay marriage is legal. Even though we know that our current state of Indiana will never recognize our marriage and states where we may move might not recognize them either, we will at least be able to say "Yes, she is my wife and our marriage is legal somewhere." Again, it's not perfect, but it's a step in the right direction. This way when I call her my wife (as I often do) people won't say 'Well, she's not really your wife." She is apparently only my wife to me until I get a silly piece of paper than says otherwise. And maybe then people will stop asking me if she is moving with me or stupid people will stop referring to her as my "loving friend."

And if not? Fuck you again.

The Sleeping Fake-Out Move

I mentioned previously that my dad is a weirdo. Like totes weird. If you think randomly buying me a car after school or riding in a car for 18 hours without speaking are weird? Just wait for this shit.

My dad was convinced that we were going to die in our sleep when we were little. My dad has some weird anxiety issues and this stems from that. He would be so worried we were dead in our beds he'd get up in the middle in the night to come watch us sleep. On a good night he'd just stand in the doorway for a few minutes to see if our chests were rising and falling. He'd stand in the doorway because p.s. we were not allowed to sleep with our doors closed. A. He couldn't spy on us and B. If there was a fire in the house we might not hear the fire alarm and then if we didn't just stop breathing and die? We'd die in the fire. I am so serious about all of this. I know my mom and sisters will vouch for this being the 100% truth in the comments.

On a bad night? He would come stand next to our beds and move his face about 3 inches from ours so he could really tell if we were breathing. Yeah, it totally sounds creepy now, but at the time? It was totally normal to us. It was mostly just dorky and annoying and it never crossed my mind that it was weird.

The major problem of this whole staring in our face thing was that we were usually awake when he started the first round of sleep death stalking. As I mentioned previously, my sister and I shared a bed for about 7 years. So we'd usually be awake giggling and being wacky and then we'd hear dad coming and we'd have to pretend to be asleep or we'd get in trouble. So we'd close our eyes and pretend to be sleeping. On a good night? He'd stand there awkwardly for a few minutes and he'd go check on Hilary and then he'd go back to his part of the house. Then we'd giggle and talk some more.

On bad nights? He would come in and stare at our faces and because we were secretly both awake it would make us want to crack up so much. Again. we didn't think it was that weird, just kind of dorky and annoying and if we did start laughing we'd probably get yelled at. So we perfected the "I'm totally asleep" fake out move. After he stared at one of us for a minute we'd groan or yawn and roll over on our side. Since we were moving this was an indication that we were NOT dead and he'd go away and we could giggle some more. This was also a good safety move because sometimes we'd be cracking our eyes open and looking at him (but since it was dark and you know when you have your eyes barely open you can't tell they are open?) and sometimes when you stare at someone too much you just start to giggle hilariously. So at the moment when I thought I'd just crack up and die laughing I'd pull the fake out move. Because then I could groan but actually be giggling and then he'd go away and Leslie and I could giggle some more.

I know I've said giggle like 87 times so far, but really, we DO giggle that much. My whole childhood was giggling.

So there you have it. My dad = totally paranoid and weird. My sister and I = the best fake sleepers ever.

"Strings are your kryptonite"

Tonight Ange and I were driving around town when I noticed this string hanging off my glove. 

I hate strings.

Haaaaaaate.

They drive me nuts. 

NUTS.

So of course, I pulled it. I tried to do it so neatly so it would just come off and stop bothering me and nothing would go wrong. 

DAMN.

Things always go wrong when they involve strings.

I immediately sent the picture to my mom along with a "Whoops. I accidentally pulled a string."

My mom hates when I pull strings. 

When I was little I was always pulling strings. And my mom was always getting mad. Mostly because they ended up like the above picture. 

And then one day? I pulled a string on my tights and to my surprise it ripped all the way around my leg and the lower half of my tight fell down to the ground. Whoops. Mom was way pissed about that one. But also? Secretly feeling all sorts of hysterical laughter. 

Tonight we were texting back and forth about why I shouldn't have pulled the string on my glove. And she said "Strings are your kryptonite." She's totally right. I am weak where strings are concerned. Even though it overwhelmingly ends up like the above I always hope that it won't. That I will pull the string and it will come off and it won't leave a hole and I won't be bothered by the string anymore. That rarely happens. But still I pull. I srsly can't help myself. The string just calls my name. It BEGS me to pull it. I obsess over the string. Obsess until I can't take it anymore. And then I pull it. Most of the time that is a major failure in my plan. Every once in a while it works out. It's kind of like a gambling addiction. I keep thinking I'm going to win. But usually I just end up with a hole in my clothes or perhaps even a cut on my finger (true story: one time I tried to pull a string off the upholstery of my car and it sliced my finger open). My mom always asks me why I don't cut the strings. As if I carry scissors around with me all the time. As if I am patient enough to wait. Or motivated enough to go get the scissors. A quick tug is so much easier. 

Damn strings.

My Sister and I Shared A Bed for About 7 Years

And not because we were some poor kids struggling or anything. It was mostly by choice.

She had her own bed in her own room. We just shared a bed in my room. I know, this sounds weird. And I guess it kind of was, but whatever. That's why we're BFFs now. Sister bond!

So Leslie was a sloppy pig when she was little. She hated to clean her room and it was always, as my parents put it, a "pig sty." One night, when I think I was a sophomore in high school, which would make Leslie a 6th grader, my sister's room was such a disgusting mess she couldn't even get into her bed. She didn't feel like clearing enough space off of her bed to get into it so she asked if she could spend the night in my room. I said fine.

Well, she never left.

Never.

We slept in the same bed for the rest of the time I was in high school. And then when I left for college she moved her crap into my room. And when I came home from school on break, I would sleep in the now her room that was really my room that she took over. But always in the same bed.

We didn't stop sharing a bed until we moved to our new house after our dad got remarried. I don't know why we did, but I guess since we had new bedrooms and Leslie's was clean since she just moved into it she decided to give it a go. That's the only reason I can think of.

Anyway, I know it sounds strange but Leslie and I are not really loners. We like to be with people and don't like to be alone too much. Sometimes, but not really that much. And it was pretty much like having a sleepover every single night. Normally you can only attend sleepovers on the weekends right? Well not when you share a bed with your sister!

I think my dad tried to get her to clean her room and sleep back in her room but that didn't happen. Sadly my dad was overwhelmed with the estrogen in his house and rarely succeeded in getting us to do things we were dead set against.

So there you have it. Rationale (or at least explanation) for why were are BFFs and perhaps why we are so weird.

The Clutcheon

I got my first for real car (yes I had a for fake car for first but that's a different story all together) right after I turned 18 and had decided to go to college 8 hours away from home. My dad was not so happy about this decision but he had long ago realized that his eldest daughter was a strange, strange child who was oh so different from him and that sense could not be talked into me so instead he gave up and bought me a car so he did not have to drive back and forth several times a year fetching me from my very far away from home school. Win! Sometimes it pays to be difficult and random. 

Sidebar: My father is not a good communicator. At all. We once drove 18 hours in a car together and "chatted" for no more than 20 minutes the entire trip. The rest of the communication was:

• "Do you have to go to the bathroom?" 
• "Are you hungry?"
• "We need gas."
• "I love this song."

And I am SO not even kidding. Not even one iota. I almost died on that trip. I also realized on that trip that my dad was way weird. Like not normal "my-dad-is-weird" kind of weird. But like whoa, clinical weird. That's another story for another day. I love my dad and he is way awesome in so many ways, but he is also way weird.

So I got home from school and my dad says "Get in the car. We're going to buy you a car." This was the first I had heard that I was getting a car. For a normal person this might be completely jarring. I however had spent my entire life with this strange non-communicative man so I was not floored. A little surprised yes, but not shocked.

So we go to a used car dealership near our house and my dad inquires about two different cars that he had apparently researched on Consumer Reports (his favorite magazine ever). We took said two cars for a test drive. However these two cars were manual transmissions and I did not know how to drive a manual so my dad test drove them and I rode in the backseat. Yes, again, this is normal. 

My dad settles on the black Geo Prizm. It is cute and it is mine. That's all that matters. Now I can't drive this car so my dad decides to give me a "driving lesson" before we head home. And by driving lesson I mean he sat in the front passenger seat and screamed at me while I drove like a blind lunatic with whiplash. It was not good. We got in the car and he handed me the key. I put it in the ignition and turned the key. Nothing happened. I didn't know why. My dad helpfully says "WELL! You have to push on the clutch to start it!" And I'm like "What's a clutch?" He sighs loudly (cause clearly I am the incompetent one) and says "It's that pedal next to the brake." Luckily this is not my first "figure it out yourself" scenario so I somehow manage to figure out the two footed driving thing. My dad is oh so helpful by again screaming at me while I alternate between pushing the clutch too hard and zooming the engine and pushing it not hard enough and killing the car and/or grinding the gears. I somehow manage to move the car towards the direction of my sister's school where she is in the middle of softball practice. 

We somehow managed to not hit any red lights until we were right in front of the school. When I pull up to the school I kill the car HARD because I did not know I had to keep my foot on the clutch when I stopped. My dad screamed his favorite question in life "WELL WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" and at this point I was so frazzled I screamed right back "BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT CAR AND YOU ARE NOT HELPING!!!" He sighs again and says I am being dramatic and it is not hard. He is oh so helpful and encouraging sometimes.

So we get to my sister's school and he hops out to watch softball practice and instructs me to drive behind the school to the large parking lot and practice. And try not to kill any track runners I suppose. So I drive behind the school and kill the car about 487 times and worry that I will never be able to drive this car and I will be a failure at life and my dad will be screaming at me forever. 

Finally it's time to leave and I whiplash us back to the dealership to pick up my dad's car all the while my sister is complaining LOUDLY that I'm hurting her neck and that I suck at driving. Hate little sisters sometimes. 

For the next few weeks my sisters delight in my less than awesome driving skills and nickname me and my car "The Clutcheon." I do not really know what this means but it's definitely not a compliment and makes me annoyed every time they scream "THERE GOES THE CLUTCHEON!" every time I leave in my car. 

Eventually I learned to drive a manual transmission car very well. And eventually my sister got a manual transmission car and my dad "taught" her how to drive too. Payback is a bitch. Ahahaha.

Me and My Mustache

Hello Pretty All True friends! I figured since I was a featured blogger I should come up with something new and fresh to keep you all entertained so you will not feel that Kris wasted her time and space talking me up. So without further ado...

Confession: I have a wee bit of a lady mustache.

I'm no hairy Eastern European woman, but without maintenance I do have a wee shadow with some darker hairs here and there. I even tried to take a picture of it with my iPhone but it is so unimpressively hairy that it didn't look like anything other than a picture of my lip. I am all about baring my soul here people. But sadly, there was no soul to bare on this one.

However, amongst my family members, my mustache is often a punch line to a joke. Hahaha, very funny. Anyway.

Last summer I had a pimple on the area between my actual lip and my nose. I was talking about how annoying it was while I was driving in the car with my lovely girlfriend. I said "Ugh, this pimple on my upper lip is so annoying." And Ange says "That's not your upper lip." And I was like "It totally is. What the hell else would you call the plane of skin between my actual lip and my nose?" She says "It's just your face." Well that's a rather vague explanation. What if I needed to describe it to a blind person? Or to someone on the other end of a phone? Like 911? If I said "On my face" they would say "where?" On my upper lip, duh.

So we meet up with my baby sister for some reason or another. My baby sister who is the former troll-haired Somalian who thinks me and my other sister pick on her way too much (this will be important in a minute). So I say to my baby sister, while pointing to my pimple, "What would you classify this part of my face as?"

And baby sister says "Do you want me to tell the truth?"

And of course I say "YES, why the hell else would I ask you?"

And she says "(giggle) I would say it's your mustache!"

Baby sister likes to pretend like me and other sister are all kinds of mean. She gives as good as she gets.

More laughing hysterically.

And then? My baby sister is dead to me.

And then baby sister and Ange are all hysterically laughing together. Laughing so hard they are leaning on each other to hold themselves up from their peals of laughter. And then my girlfriend is dead to me.

And then I am alone. All alone in the big lonely world with no one to keep me company. No one, except for...my mustache. Bitches.

Thoughts While Traveling: Chicago to Sacramento

8:20 am (We've moved to Central time; try and keep up)


Turn on phone. Ange has been texting me. PNC is stalking my charges. Apparently food in Bloomington for 2 days followed by going to the airport in Indy equals possible fraudulent charges. Quit spazzing people.


8:30 am


Listen to the longest automated system in the history of the world to verify I am indeed in control of my bank card and have authorized all of the under $25 charges made in the past 3 days.


8:35 am


Ange tells me that she tried to call PNC for me. They said she is not allowed to know charges I have made with my bank card. Nevermind they called her number to verify the charges. Nevermind we have a joint account. Nevermind she could login to our joint account online and look at my charges. Only I can verify my very top secret charges at Starbucks and United. Lame.


8:48 am


After wandering around a bit listening to very loud Chicagoans talk at very loud levels I choose a seat to sit down and wait for gate agents so I can get my boarding pass. I chose the wrong seat. This lady next to me is going on and on about her very tragic divorce from her no good cheating husband. After I hear the phrases "Republican women's luncheon," "going hunting," "hitting up the Opera for a bluegrass show," and "the only bad part is it's a Baptist church" I decide I can no longer sit next to Sarah Palin's sister and I get up to nonchalantly look for a power plug so I can get some extra iPhone juice. Chicago is apparently Amish because I can find none. Ugh. Go get my boarding pass and find a new seat away from Wannabe Palin.


9:27 am


We finally start boarding. I'm standing in line behind a little man that is a dead ringer for Chairman Mao. This makes me think of the time we were playing Wii Jeopardy and my mom said "Chairman Mao" and Ange said "Who the heck is Churman Mal???" I giggle hysterically to myself. As we near the jetway, Churman leans over the railing and hocks the biggest loogie I've ever heard in my life and spits it in the trashcan 2 feet away. Giggling stops and gagging commences. Sick ass.


9:34 am


I am on the plane and I look over and see a man pretending like his boarding pass is some sort of fake mustache. Then I realize he's using the boarding pass as some kind of silencer because he's talking on his cell phone and apparently doesn't want to disturb anyone and/or let us hear about his affair/Republican luncheon/bluegrass opera/hunting trip. Well carry on then I suppose weird mustache man.


9:57 am


After sitting at gate for eleventy million years we finally push off. I have decided I like United. Much nicer than Delta (my current preferred airline). They have more amenities. Including more comfortable seat belts. Delta appears to only make seat belts for those people with a BMI of 25 or less (e.g. Not me). I am no small lady but I am not a whale. Be reasonable with your belt length for the love. I have plenty of excess belt on United. My gut thanks you.


10:11 am


They are showing Unstoppable on the (communal) movie screens. Good movie. Glad I've seen it so I don't feel tempted to watch it and then get annoyed when I inevitably fall asleep and miss major important parts.


10:27 am


I notice the dude in front of me has the grossest hair ever. Like not washed in 4 months gross. And he's rubbing it all over his headrest. Now I will attempt to never lean my head against my headrest on a plane ever again. So grossed out.


10:32 am


I wish the Captain would turn off the seatbelt sign. I have to pee like whoa even though I'm terrified of using airline bathrooms because I'm afraid my butt will get suction cupped to the seat in some bizarre airplane malfunction. Yes I know this is completely irrational (I specialize in irrational fears, see: sharks in pools), but I'm terrified nonetheless. Especially after hearing a flight attendant acquaintance talk about the toilet paper races she's had with other attendants where they each stick a roll of toilet paper in the toilets and stretch the other end to the middle of the plane and see who's toilet sucks it up fastest. That could be my butt people.


10:37 am


Ugh. Stupid lady on the aisle. She just unpacked a buffet on her tray table. I don't want to be the asshole that asks her to pack it all up so I can pee 20 minutes into the flight. Starbucks this is all your fault.

10:42 am


Stupid lady still hasn't eaten from her buffet. It's just sitting there blocking my way to the suction butt bathroom. Now they are doing drink service. I'm never going to get to go pee. Should have asked for a pair of Depends from the poop Giant on the last flight.


10:53 am


Lost the headrest game. Guess I'll just have greaseball cooties on my head. The guy next to me is snoring. Billy Chuck Fawcett was snoring loudly on the last flight. How do people not know they are snorers? Do they not care that their snoring is annoying others? Annoying.


11:08 am


God. Stupid lady is the slowest eater on the planet. I've never seen someone take as small of bites as she does. She might be done by the time we get to Sacramento. On a sidenote, she also appears to have an iPad. She has officially become my arch nemesis.


11:19 am


Apparently Ms. Buffet (no relation to Jimmy Buffet) is a Wastey McWasterson. She ate about half of her sandwich and a fourth of her salad. Normally I would frown heavily upon this, but I have too much pee in me to be judgmental at the moment. I wait for her to pack up her garbage and then crack a joke about too much Starbucks and needing to get up. Neither Wastey McWasterson nor Snorey McSnorerson crack a smile. Whatever. I have not yet given YOU rude looks for your annoying behaviors so too bad so sad for you that I have to pee.


11:20 am


Ahhhhhh, relief.


11:25 am


Settled back in for the duration. Flight attendant is walking down the aisle collecting "rubbish." Someone (probably another idiot) asks her a question I don't hear. She says rubbish sounds so much more lovely than trash. I love her immediately. Ok, time for a nap.


12:57 pm


God, I'm like a toddler. If there were sleeping Olympics, I'd be a gold medalist. I hate airplane air. I'm so dryyyyy. My contacts are suction cupped to my eyes. My nose holes are dry. My mouth is dry. Yay, here comes the flight attendant with some juice!


1:03 pm


Bwhaha. Suction cup lenses have cleared up. Lady across the aisle is asleep and looks like a frog waiting for some flies to land in her mouth. Dying.





1:17 pm


Ugh. Annoying man 3 rows behind me WON'T. SHUT. UP! He's talking (stupidly) about politics & religion. He's annoying. I shouldn't hear you this loud in my seat. Where's my iPod?


1:23 pm


Curse you aqua scum! My iPod is dead. I thought it was charged. Apparently I was gravely wrong. I'll have to use my iPhone. Hope it doesn't die before I get to Chico.


2:15 pm


Thank god we're landing. I'm over this flight.


2:38 pm


Damn you Aunt Flo! I just landed and NOW you come to visit? Bitch.


2:47 pm


Sunshine! Yay!

Thoughts While Traveling: Indy to Chicago

I don't Tweet. I try not to abuse my Facebook friends by treating FB as if it were Twitter. But sometimes there are so many things happening I just need to share these moment by moment actions.

Luckily I've installed BlogBooster so I can draft blog posts even while on a plane. Yay for me and now yay for you.

6:25 am

GZUS. So freezing. 8 degrees is unreasonable.

6:37 am

OMG. My car never warms up when it's cold. I'm going to freeze until I get in the airport.

6:42 am

This parking lot sucks. I just had to barrel over a two foot snow and ice bank to park. Still freezing. Walk over to the shelter to wait for the shuttle. Still dying. Oooooh, a warming lamp in the shelter. Warm me up like a rotisserie chicken! Damn, here comes the shuttle. I was just getting in to my chicken method acting. Oh well, the bus is warmer anyway. Old man driving the bus. Love old men. He flings himself out of the drivers seat to grab my bag. Proceeds to ignore the men getting on at the next two stops. Good old chauvinism at its finest. Helps me get my bag off the shuttle. I give him a buck. He can use it to buy some 50-50 raffle tickets at his next Lions Club meeting. I'm positive he's a Lion.

6:51 am

United is annoying. They won't let me self check-in. That means I have to talk to the way too chipper gate agents. They are messing with my plane in Chicago so that's why it wouldn't work. I will get my boarding pass and seating assignment in Chicago.

6:58 am

Yum, Patachou. Waitress is also chipper and chatty. I would not be if I had to work at the airport at 6 in the morning. She asks where I'm going and I say to Cali. She asks for what. I almost said a lobotomy. But I decide not to. For an interview I say. She said you're a college professor right? I'm weirded out. Yes. She says isn't it weird that I know that? Yes. Please go away.

7:20 am

Go through security. Am not laser beam strip searched. Now am sad.

7:24 am

Walking by American Airlines gate I overhear the gate attendant saying that if your bag is too big or you are trying to sneak on extra carry ons they will take them at the gate, check them and charge you the same rate as checked luggage. Good for them. I hate annoying people that try and take too much luggage or not check an obviously too large bag. Just check it for god's sake.

7:27 am

Find some new ear buds for my trip. Ange is probably going to stab me. This is the third pair I've bought in 2 months. I keep losing them. I have not lost either of my Apple pair even though they make my little ear holes hurt which is why I keep buying new ones. These are pink. Maybe I won't lose them.

7:38 am

Some old lady sitting across from me is staring at me with the giant-est smile on her face. I feel like telling her to take a picture cause it lasts longer. But instead try out my new ear buds so she doesn't try and talk to me. They announce boarding will be happening soon and as an extra special treat TSA is doing random ID checks so have your ID ready.

7:42 am

I get stopped. Damn.

7:43 am

The jet way is freezing. The man in front of me is approximately 43 feet tall. He smells like poop...like literally. Like he just shit his Depends. He has very gross back hairs fighting to escape his tragically tacky t-shirt. He has to stoop down to get on the plane. Good, he's not sitting by me. No more poop smells.

7:48 am

My apparent seat mate arrives. She stares at me and says I'm seat 17D. I stare at her and say I'm 17F. She stares at me some more. Then stares at the handy label on the overhead bin. Oh, I guess D comes before F and I'm on the aisle. Glad to have reviewed the alphabet with you. Sit down and don't talk to me again.

7:49 am

They make an announcement that small items should be moved to below the seats to make room for idiotic people's large roller luggage. Psht. I paid the same amount (if not more since it was last minute) for my ticket. I'll take overhead space if I feel like it.

7:50 am

Ugh. An annoying person with a roller bag needs overhead space. He points to my bag and says it could be moved to make room for his. I want to stab him in his leg. The flight attendant says she can't move people's bags. He stands there and starts looking at those of us around the bag. I sigh loudly and say it's mine. He asks if I would mind giving up my space. I do, but I decide to fill up my karma bank and say fine. Yes, let me put my very expensive and brand new Kenneth Cole bag on the ground do we can make room for your crusty hideous too big bag. The flight attendant takes pity on me and stores my bag with her stuff in a special area. Suck it karma.

7:52 am

Whoa, move over Billy Ray Cyrus! The bastard child of Farrah Fawcett and Chuck Norris just sat down in front of me. Serious feathering in the business portion of his mullet and very sleek ponytail in the party section of the mullet. His denim embroidered shirt is a great compliment to the ensemble.

7:54 am

Ms. Alphabet Soup decides she is very hot and opens her little vent to the max. It's blowing her bangs around like a Supermodel photoshoot, and since we're crammed in like sardines, my left arm hairs get to play Supermodel too. Great. I'm going to have a frost bitten left arm by the time we get to Chicago.

8:55 am

We arrive 20 minutes early. Yay! But our gate isn't open because we're so early. Hissss. More arm freezing. 

Make New Friends, But Keep the Old...

My sister recently wrote about her time in the Girl Scouts and now I have Make New Friends stuck in my head. Which brings me to the subject of friends. I have a couple of things to say about this topic, but in the interest of not writing marathon posts I've decided to break them up.
 

Recently my dearest BIL told my sister she needed to get friends other than me. As if! She had to patiently explain to him that it is just coincidence that two of the awesomest people on the planet happen to be sisters and naturally, when two awesome people find each other they are of course going to be friends. So get over it. We are bffs and always will be. 

There are several good things about having your bff being also your sister. There is nearly a complete lack of formality. My sister doesn't have to clean up her house to have me over, I don't have to worry about wearing dirty sweatpants over to her house, I can call her and say "Hey, I'm around the corner from your school and I need to get some groceries, wanna go to Target with me?" And the list goes on and on.

Another good thing (at least for us) is that you can never really get mad at your sister bff. Even if we are being annoying to each other we get over it in about 5 minutes. Hello, she's my sister. Like I could ever hate her guts. And if we do get annoyed with each other we can just get out of each other's way for a little bit and it's not a big stinking deal. We just call each other later. Not that we really ever get in fights. Like I said before, we're awesome. 

My final point: we have a shared history. We've spent all of our lives together. This allows us to speak almost in code; certain phrases and words that mean nothing to other people bring back memories and context for us (e.g. "Get your own bagel boy!" or "HILLS!!!"). I almost always know where she's coming from and she gets things about me that no one else would. 

I know not everyone has this relationship with their sisters. And I know that I specifically mention my sister Leslie in this post but I also have the same relationship with Hilary. She just lives farther away and is younger so the relationship is slightly different, but still strong. It makes me sad that others don't have the same relationship with their sisters. Most of the best memories and moments of my life include my sisters. So even if I have other friends, and even if I meet new friends, my sisters will always, always be two of my best friends.