Monthly Archives: March 2006

Just sick

I am sick. I don’t do sick well. In fact, I am the worst sick person I know. I whine a lot, I writhe around in my covers because I am too hot/too cold/too sick to even continue breathing – it’s all very dramatic.

I have been drinking orange juice, which I detest, but I need all the vitamins I can get. This sucks.

On the plus side, my homoplatonic life partner is back from Mexico, so I was totally happy to see her, even if she is disgustingly tan (which my forehead tan just cannot compete with) and because she is the bringer of the dog, everyone is exponentially happier to see her than they are me. Or maybe being sick is just affecting my self-esteem to a ridiculous level.

I have to go to the newspaper in a few hours. Do they really need me? Methinks they do, especially since the design team has misspelled “thief” on more than one occasion. Bleh.

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A wheezy asthmatic, a Polish girl, and an Italian mama go on a vacation…

I just got back from a weeklong vacation in San Diego with Sarah and Gosia. Aside from having no money, a peeling hairline (sunburns suck) and a horrible pain in the back which I think is from the 40 minutes we sat in the Sharper Image massage chairs yesterday (Or maybe it was the laser beams shooting out of the Sharper Image employees eyes trying to get us out of the chairs, hmm…) we had a great time.

Trip Highlights:
.Gosia mis-reading a sign and instead of Mcacques (which are monkeys) she called them mycocks. You can see the discrepancy here.

.Having sand in all my crevices, for the second Spring Break in a row. Not really a highlight, but, you know.

.Thinking that Marie Curie invented chemistry…

.Having a bum at a trolley station perform a whole stand-up routine, which involved jokes about lesbians (he has nothing against them, after all, they both want the same thing!) and a bad joke ending with the punch line “Obi-Juan’s Kenobi.” These jokes shall never be repeated in polite company, this I can assure you.

.Polish lessons while waiting in line for the Matterhorn. I can now say “I am still sunburned”, “I love you” and “I have to pee. No, really.” in Polish – my parents would be so proud.

.Standing on Main Street in Disneyland under a sky lit up by fireworks, surrounded by two of my best friends, wearing a pink t-shirt, a tiara, and holding an ice-cream cone. As much as I am anticipating my wedding day, I don’t think it really gets any better than that.

Unless I get married at Disneyland, and then it’s ice-cream and tiaras for everyone!

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Peeping Mom


When I got home from vacation last night, there was a box of Peeps on my desk with a note, “These can be sacrificed to the microwave, just for fun! Love, Mom”

My mom is awesome.

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Also, you can blow them up in the microwave

I saw something interesting on campus today. A young woman was wearing pink sunglasses, a pink Juicy Couture velour track suit with the hood up, pink crocs (a separate offense altogether) and carrying a pink bag.

I couldn’t decide if she was a pink Telletubbie or a large marshmallow Peep. After long deliberation, I decided she was a Peep – how festive.

Now, I like pink as much as the next girl, but I think this girl missed the memo. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” How true that is. But part two of that old adage, the part you never hear about, is that “all pink and nothing else makes Marge a very ugly marshmallow.”

Someone should really tell her.

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Save the pandas! (and Noam Chomsky)


















“Human beings like to rescue cute, fuzzy little things – like baby pandas. They’re very charismatic, the pandas.”

I quote directly from one of my professors. This is also the same man who refers to Noam Chomsky as “The Noamster.”

Make of it what you will.

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Mullet Tales: part 2


Because I was the (not so) proud owner of a mullet from the ages of 4 to 6, I have spent a majority of my life devoted to a study of this strange phenomenon in hair. There are so many varieties, it’s difficult to cover them all, but in my exhaustive research, I think I’ve found the Big Three:

The Standard
Business in the front, party in the back – what a classic. The clipped man-bangs, the closely cropped feathers, and the long locks that range from shoulder length to (eww) longer. The permed back portion was also a popular variation on a traditional favorite. Hip from 1988 until approximately 1993, this style of mullet will never die.

The Fe-mullet
Mullets aren’t just for men anymore! While similar to the male mullet, the fe-mullet differs in a few ways. For one, the height requirement is often more stringent; fe-mullets are usually at least 6 inches from the scalp, especially if that scalp is partying like it’s 1991. Often teased, usually hairsprayed to death, and with wings that rival Farrah Fawcett’s (except all the way around!) the fe-mullet is often popular with older moms, people who work at Jo-Anne Fabric, and those who still think that Zack Morris and snap bracelets are hot.

The Euro Mullet
I have saved the best for last. The Euro Mullet is my personal favorite, mainly because I’ve had such close encounters with it. Por exemple, I went to a wedding this past summer. The wedding took place in the backwoods of Virginia (a place deserving of a post all its own) and the bride’s four Swedish cousins were flying in. The fact that the Swedish cousins did not know any English was ancillary, because once I saw their hair, their words were the furthest thing from my mind. That’s right, the Euro mullet. On all of them. It was a sight to behold: mother, father, sister, brother all had shaggy on top, tapered at the bottom, flipped out at the ends mullets that would do Sweden proud. With their blue suits and loafers they were like the second coming of ABBA, or perhaps half a Brady Bunch. But with mullets, which was the best part. The second best part was when they got lost and missed the entire wedding. I guess that language barrier was a problem after all…!

What’s the best mullet you’ve ever seen? Or, more importantly, do you still wear one? (If the answer to the second question is “yes” I want pictures, and I also want you to again think about why you don’t have a girlfriend…)

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Mullet Tales: part 1

I am officially coming out. It’s my deepest, darkest secret, and it’s one that only a few select people know about me. But I am coming out to you, Internet, please don’t judge: When I was four, I had a mullet. Before you laugh and point, it wasn’t my fault! I requested bangs and shoulder length hair, in sharp contrast to the ‘fro that I was sporting at that time. I didn’t really have any style icons – I was four! I still watched Mister Rogers and wore Micky Mouse sunglasses – but I knew enough to know that I wanted nice, shiny hair that could go in a ponytail. A simple request, no?

Tragically, a lack of style icons was also directly linked to a lack of salon finess, so when we went to my GRANDMOTHER’S hairdresser (there’s a red flag for you) it seemed like any other place that one would go to get a haircut, if one went to a place owned by a woman who sported a silvery white beehive, black sunglasses indoors (which may account for all the bad hair that came out of that place) and loud, chunky necklaces that clanked against her heaving chest when she walked about in the smoke from her long, French cigarettes. Her name was Doris. There are no words.

Now, before I tell the rest of this story, I just want you to know that my mother still has guilt about this day. Well, we’re Lutheran, so she has guilt about more things than this, but this particular day will always be in the forefront of her mind. And if I ever find it’s made its way to the backfront, or even the mediumfront, well you can bet I will remind her of this awful, awful day.

I remember sitting down in the chair, olive green and sticky, and listening while my mom told Doris what I wanted. To her credit, nowhere in that chat did my mother ever say “And yeah, if you could give my 4-year-old a mullet, that would be great, too.” Knowing this is probably what saves my mother from wandering in purgatory, if Lutherans believed in that sort of thing. Or from a lifetime of always volunteering to make the Jell-O salad, which Lutherans embrace as the third sacrament.

Then, and this is the part where I always want to rewind and pause to stay forever four so that I never have to face the indignity of public mulletation, after I was wrapped up and shampooed, MY MOTHER LEFT THE SALON. THAT’S RIGHT, LEFT. I WILL SAY IT IN ALL CAPS AGAIN SO THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS STATEMENT: MY MOTHER. LEFT. ME. WITH A SCISSORS-WEILDING CHAIN SMOKER WHO DISTRACTED PEOPLE WITH NECKLACES SO THEY WOULDN’T NOTICE HOW BAD THEIR HAIR WAS. OH. GOD.

I believe she went to a craft store just down the way. While my hair and sense of self literally fell to the floor, my mother was examining fabric samples and looking at vases or something. Needless to say, Hobby Lobby has never held any charm for her.

Contrary to how assertive I am now, the presence of a big Doris above me with choppers was too intimidating at age four, so I just sat there while more and more of my hair was lovingly feathered about my head, making me look not unlike a small Billy Ray Cyrus. I let her do it to me, but I maintain that no 4-year-old should have to defend her own hair against a Doris – it’s just too much to ask.

Well, as you can imagine, the aftermath was catastrophic. My mom was yelling, I was crying (I was the one with the mullet, after all) and my grandma was trying to convice everyone that it was “very cute and trendy” because, after all, it was her Doris that screwed everything up. And remember that part when I said I had a ‘fro? Try mixing hair that naturally ‘fros, with a mullet. There isn’t a hairstyle called the Frullet for no reason, kids: it’s ugly.

There was, understandably, no Doris in my life after this. We left the salon that day, never to return. While I missed the time I spent trying to figure out just how DID her hair stay up in that alarming fashion?! I did not miss the creepy necklaces and bug-eye glasses. And to this day, I get a little shiver of fear when I go get a haircut, because there’s always a moment when something could go wrong, and I could end up with another mullet. Because if that happened, I would be eating Jell-O salad for the rest of my life.

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