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Thursday, December 11, 2003

On two different occasions, on two different parts of campus, I Amy, woman of substance with inner poise was smiled at by two different men. So this doesn’t sound too strange. I mean, I have inner poise and a cool coat. But the odd thing about this is that at both moments I was late to class. This means I was in Amy-hauling-ass-mode which gives me a serious look of concentration and purpose, and a VERY brisk pace. Arms swinging, lungs pumping, I might as well just skip to look cooler.

Not only was I late to class, I hadn’t showered in a couple of days and my hair was 2-day-old braids underneath a blue bandana. Not your typical hot off the runway look. To make it worse, I was wearing sweatpants (thus taking away from my cool coat) and was carrying my large, purple Harry Potter swimming bag. Nuff said.

The first guy grinned at me as I walked by in front of the Performing Arts Center. Wow he was cute, I thought to myself. Why did he grin at me? I know I look ridiculous, but I don’t have anything THAT weird about me…do I? Oh my god, do I have food on my face? I swatted at my face. No. What the hell? I shrugged it off and chocked it up to being my glow of inner poise.

Later on when it happened again I was frazzled. There HAD to be something wrong with me. Men just don’t randomly smile at a girl who looks like a freshman who woke up late for an exam. And managed to grab her Harry Potter pool bag.

I examined myself. There was no furry animal clinging to me. No one had taped an “I smell like glue” sign on my back. Yes, I was still wearing pants. And then it dawned on me. Perhaps my readers can identify. I am one of those people belonging to a group I have labeled “starers.” When people walk by me on campus, the metro, the mall, anywhere, I watch them as they go by. They are completely unaware of my observance…most of the time. You know “starers,” right? I’ve come to realize that only starers recognize other starers. Here are a few scenarios that may happen regarding this odd breed:

Scenario 1: starer encounters non-starer
Starer spots non-starer and watches them, completely engrossed in every move, as they pass. Non-starer is non the wiser.

Scenario 2: starer A encounters starer B
Starer A sees starer B staring. Both look away in embarrassment. Both glance back to see if the other is looking and quickly look away in double embarrassment. Both sheepishly try to grab one last look before passing. When met with the other’s sideways glance they wonder “why is that person staring at me??!”

Scenario 3: the smile
Much like scenario 2 except one person smiles thus making it a completely awkward encounter between two strangers staring at each other.

Perhaps you can relate. Perhaps you can’t and think I’m creepy. Either way, I decided that the reason these two cuties grinned at me was because of scenario 3. Sigh. I think I repel men.

Friday, June 20, 2003

In the past I have explained the irritating, sometimes nauseating mannerisms of the CSF (Computer Science Freak). It is now clear to me how tame CSFs can be in comparison to something worse. Much worse. Something grown in the mud and then spat out by mud monsters because it is so horrible. It just came to my realization, I know, after a ridiculous amount of time, that Satan is here on earth, possessing a certain type of human specimen: The Computer Engineering Frat Boy. (Enter "Ch Ch Ch, cuh cuh cuh" scary music.) Let us dissect this sub-species of anthropoid.

The Computer Engineering Frat Boy (CEFB) is obviously male. Though decades ago, the New York Times reported the endangerment of CE Sorority Girls, this sub-species died out due to fright of "those scary, gross, slimy computer bugs." Or electrocution. Or murder by their CEFB boyfriends. Guess the public cares more about pandas. In fact, I think the public probably cares more about the Dodo.

Regardless, the CEFB is an engineer, which means he is slightly more attractive than the CSF (mind you this isn’t that far of a stretch) and has a few more social skills. Your average CEFB does not pick his nose while talking to you. In fact, he seems quite normal, kind of funny, and easy going. On the outside. Obviously on the inside there are engulfing flames, pitch forks, and screams of anguish.

Beware. He will suck you in with his apparent normalcy. Later, you will begin to see the true hideousness of this creature. His main feature is, like the CSF, his complete and utter arrogance. He is smart. Too smart. He knows this and is smug with how intelligent he is. A typical thought a CEFB might have?

"I am hot. I’m so hot. I know all the answers to all the questions. This guy in front of me is trying to tell me otherwise, but I know more than him. I also know that Linux is the greatest invention that other people like me invented. Because of this, I am special. So special that I may have any girl I want. I’m so hot..."

The CEFB is cunning. He fakes emotion. Despite the inner demons, he is good at it. What could possibly be worse than such an egotistical ass? The fact that he has joined a mass of others like himself: the fraternity. They relish such qualities. They encourage them, bond over them, and guzzle beer over them. The combination of Fraternity and CE is lethal. He is not just a frat boy. He is not just a Computer Engineer. He is worse. Observe the following comparisons for further clarification (= means equal, != means non-equal):

CEFB = The wolf in Little Red Riding Hood meets Terminator (in the first one) and Voldemort. Throw in a skunk too.
CEFB != Snuffalofagous from Sesame Street.

The CEFB works out and usually has slightly larger biceps than CSFs. This makes him more sure of himself. He will not ask if you have tickets to the gun show. He will already assume you worship him. Especially if you’re female. For your protection, here are some typical CEFB falsities and their true meanings:

-He will insist that his frat is the "un-frat."
He is lying. All frats are the same. Yes, even though they have different intramural tee-shirts.
-He will say he is very secure with himself. He will say this is his reason for teasing his ape-brothers.
In actuality, he is probably gay.
-He will say what a good student he is, complain about how hard his major and his classes are (yours are SOO easy in comparison).
Riiiiight. Just ask what he does on Thursday nights. Ten bucks it ain’t coding a binary tree.

The CEFB is mace in a pleasant tin. If told this he will probably say "Heh, cool. Can I get your number?" Way to his heart (not just his bed)? Tell him only if he will demonstrate his manly intelligence skills and convert it to hexadecimal.

Though we must coexist with this scum, there are several actions one can take to ease the irritation:

1. Treat him like an inferior. When he tries to prove you wrong, ignore him and smirk.
2. Repeat "Windows" over and over until he gets scarlet in the face and bursts into flame.
3. Refer him to gay bars.
4. Say you are a vegetarian hippie democratic feminist who likes Snuffy from Sesame Street. Mention gay pride.

Worst case scenario, you could always just talk about pandas and dodos and hope CEFBs meet the same fate.

Monday, May 5, 2003

So here I stand, single for about 7 months now. In all my travels and experience I have concluded that I, Amy, ex-CS major, suck at dating. This is interesting considering the fact that I’ve been spewing Amy's Delicious Dos, Don'ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas. Well, maybe I don’t hardcore suck at dating. Let’s just say that for how much I’ve dated, I’d expect myself to be a lot better at it. Despite my attempts to like women or become asexual, I have concluded that I am stuck with men—unfortunately. Actually, I suppose that since women scare the living day lights out of me, men are a safer, less intimidating alternative. But, why in Harry’s name then, do I have the weirdest time trying to date?

Everyone who knows me knows that I am very impatient. This impatience does not comply with modern-day dating rules. For instance, when I meet a prospect guy, I am supposed to:
1. Wait 3 months for him to get up the balls to ask for my number.
2. Wait 3 days for all his friends to subtly ask if I am interested in him “like that.”
3. Wait 3 days while he proves to me that he is not desperate to call.
4. Go on a date.
5 Option A: Wait 1.5 weeks for him to prove again that he is not desperate and ask me on another date.
5 Option B: Wait forever. Rot.

I WILL NOT COMPLY! No patience means my tolerance for a 5 month courtship process is zilch. If I meet a guy, I want to know within 2 weeks if he is scum, or worth paying attention to.

Wouldn’t it be so much easier to accept the fact that both of us are slightly interested, go on a date within a day or two, and then be honest if another date is necessary? In comparison this seems so much easier. A good analogy would be like waiting in line for a book sale. One could wait in a line out the door only to realize that the book they were waiting for was something like “Jude the Obscure.” However, if there were signs for each line, one could mosey on over to the Harry Potter 5 line and commit easily. No, I don’t expect men to wear billboards displaying their good and bad qualities (though that would also save a lot of hassle). But, honesty saves time, effort, and a lot of embarrassment. So why is this not the norm? A few possibilities:

1. People are too nice. No one wants to be the ass who says kiss-off. Also, no one wants to go through an embarrassing phone call where the person just doesn’t get the hint that "I have to wash my hair" means you will be washing it every Friday and Saturday night until the end of the semester when you move back home with your Marine dad.
2. People are scared of rejection. What if you call to ask for a date and he/she give you the hairwashing bit?
3. People don’t want to appear desperate. Daters like a chase. Steal the shampoo.

Number 3) in Amy's Delicious Dos, Don'ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas.
Cut the crap. Be up front in the beginning. One only appears desperate when they're trying too hard for too long or are not being honest.

For example:
“Hey, you seem cool. Can I call you in 2 days?”

This eliminates all questions of desperation because you have allotted the proper amount of “non-desperation” time and yet your prospect if not left wondering when you will call, if ever. In some cases, after a couple days of waiting, I either lose interest or invent stories as to why I have not received a phone call. One of my most recent stories was as follows:

“Obviously Harry hasn’t called because his dad wrote my number down on a napkin which he later accidentally threw away. While searching frantically for my number through the garbage later, Harry finds it but it is stuck to a Kraft Single’s Cheese wrapper which his dog grabs out of his hand. Harry then chases his dog down the street and runs through his neighbor’s flower bed to try and catch it. The neighbor then calls the police reporting a trespasser and damage of property. Harry is soon arrested and since his dog still has the napkin he is not able to use me as his one phone call. So obviously Harry can not call me back because he is in jail.” Then I lost interest.

Being up front in the beginning means there won’t be any problems being honest later either. If you want another date and he/she wants another date, then say so. If you want another date and he/she doesn’t, both of you will feel bad but get over it relatively quickly. If neither wants another date, no sweat.

I do realize that this is an Amy-utopia-idea and will probably never happen. For it to truly work, both people must be informed of the “cut the crap” concept and follow it religiously. Until then, I’ll uh….be…washing my hair.

Monday, March 31, 2003

Amy's Delicious Dos, Don'ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas

Number 2) There is no such thing as type.

To explain this "duh" in Amy's Delicious Dos, Don'ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas, I present a poem in the style of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven. And just in case you don't believe me, here's a link to the actual poem...HA! The Raven

Tuesday, February 4, 2003

Amy’s Delicious Dos, Don’ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas

Number 1) Don’t date the hotties

I know, I know. You’re irritated with me for this first “don’t” on the Amy’s Delicious Dos, Don’ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas list. However, this is a key concept in delightful dating. How can this horrible let-down be so key? Observe Concept A:

Concept A: You may think you’re dating a hottie, but you’re really dating so much more.

This concept is important to understand so you can reject hotties when they approach you. For most of you I recognize this may happen frequently. For the rest of you, I recognize that you are CSFs (Computer Science Freaks). Alright, so you have a hottie in front of you. What else will you be dating besides that fine piece? For my women readers, in accepting a dinner date from Mr. Hottie, you could potentially be saying yes to constant ogling from his harem of female friends, meat-headishness, past hot-tub experiences, calf-implants, all his obnoxious male cronies, and of course, his alpha-male ego. Plus, who wants a guy that’s hotter than yourself?

For my men readers, in agreeing to a trip to the local cinema with Ms. Hottie, you could very well be agreeing to monthly hair-dying sessions, scary fake body parts, all your buddies trying to get her attention, conversation about all the irritants of being popular, constant questions of whether there is debris in her teeth, and her president-of-the-fashion-club-ego. YUCK!

Review of Concept A: Your hottie is really a silicon, self-centered, hormonally-charged nightmare just waiting to burn you and loved ones to a crisp (think Godzilla).

Now that you have a good picture of a potential Godzilla in your mind, who should you date instead? This is the other concept which is crucial to the overall effect. Direct your attention to Concept B:

Concept B: Date the plain, simple, unexpecting figures.

If you have hotties banging down your door, why should you even glance at the girl next door or that guy who’s been in your math class since 10th grade? Here in lies a juicy secret in Amy’s Delicious Dos, Don’ts, and Duhs for Delightful Dating and Dodging Disastrous Dating Dilemmas. Take a closer look. I bet she likes football, getting dirty, and makes an ass of herself as much as you do. I bet he likes to talk, has a sense of humor, and watches Friends. DUH! No more freakish pseudo-dinosaurs! Best part? You’ll have the upper hand cause they’ll never see it coming. Unless they read my pita too.

Tuesday, December 24, 2002

"Is it the CS?" I asked myself. Is it possible, that I, Amy-woman of substance-overflowing with inner poise and confidence, am lacking in social skills? Could I be one of the sub-humans I have teased and mocked in my pita? Have I entered the CSF(Comp Sci Freak)-losa-domain that I fabricated in my mind? God no. Please no.

But, there I was at a college party before semester break with one of my girlfriends, feeling VERY CSFish. My first party all semester and my body was rebelling. As if it they foresaw my invite out, the pores on my face had gone on strike and the oil glands had taken over. Thanks to the large amounts of picketing and rioting taking place on top of my nose, a large monstrosity had erupted. Not that I was all that bothered by this, it just added to the humor of my situation.

Sitting in front of a computer for an entire semester wreaks havoc on one’s ability to be thrown into a room filled with strangers and make small talk. I discovered this rather quickly. Although my friend made a valiant attempt to introduce me to all her buddies, I still felt totally lost. Not wanting to be a wall-flower or refreshments-table-hound, I followed her around for a bit. Everyone looked like they were having a great time, what could I possibly contribute to their conversation? I listened in on a few but none could I jump in and add "Oh yeah!! I’ve been there!" or "I saw them!" So I stood, a little awkwardly, nodding and smiling. One girl asked me if I liked cheese. "Um, yeah it’s ok," I said. "Ah," she added. I gave her thumbs up. Jeez.

I spotted an attractive guy. Hmm. My luck would have it though that, like the rest of the guys at the party, he had a girlfriend. He also:
1) Was wearing a sweater I once gave a (now ex) boyfriend
2) Was not wearing a backwards hat
3) Left early
I guess that meant he was out. Although before he left he approached me and said, "And I don’t believe I’ve met you!" Though my brain was trying to screw me up ("Say something dumb, like ‘I can recite all 4-digit binary numbers in under 30 seconds, in order!’ Say it. SAY IT.") I managed to pull it off. "Yeah, I’m Amy. Nice to meet you." I gave him thumbs up as he left. "Stop doing that," I told myself.

Wait a second. I heard a recognizable voice pattern! It was…that of a CSF! I turned, and sure enough I had picked out the 3 CSFs at the party. I followed them into a room while we talked about classes and chuckled at CS crap. Only then did I realize what I had done. I had, on my own, surveyed the crowd, zoomed in on the CSFs, weaseled my way into a conversation, and felt fairly comfortable. I was one of them. Oh my god, I was a CSF. A full-blown, antisocial, geek-speaking, corner-skulking, CS nerd. But I was no longer CS. Where did I fit in?

My friend waved at me from across the room. I gave her thumbs up. God, make me stop. Why did I feel like a middle schooler again? The zit? The heebie-jeebies? Do other college students enjoy the Disney Channel’s show Lizzie McGuire enough to want to tape it? Do other college students dream of sending letters to the CS department and turning into a school-wide hero being hoisted on people’s shoulders with their names being chanted? Do other college students throw bi-weekly temper tantrums? I sure hope so.

Regardless, my night out consisted of:
1) Realizing that I am a CSF
2) 2 indirect male rejections
3) Realizing that sitting in front of my computer for ridiculous amounts of time was indeed hazardous to my social skills and social life, and that no one cares or will ever care about binary numbers
4) Firing a potato gun
5) Holding a hedgehog
6) Realizing I should keep my hands in my pockets to avoid giving any more embarrassing pre-80s thumbs ups, criminy

Monday, December 16, 2002

Ah yes. My pita. How I have missed thee.

I took my CMSC330 final today, and for all of my faithful readers, yes, this is the one taught by Larry Herman (Vermin). Though this pita contains a fairly short story, I would like to explain it fully for your better understanding. Thus, I am including a Preface, Incident, and Finale.

THE PREFACE
Before Thanksgiving break, Vermin gave his class an exam on Monday. This probably wouldn’t have been as bad if he hadn’t ALSO given his class a project due at 10pm on Wednesday night. How kind of him. So, while all of my roomies left to go home, I sat, alone in my apartment, for over 30 hours and coded. I only slept for about 5 of those hours. After cramming for Vermin’s exam, I was already pretty pooped. Coding for that long without human interaction had the same effect on me as the full moon does on a werewolf. I went nuts. No, I didn’t bite anyone.

This, however, was the beginning of the end. All the crap I had had to deal with over the past 2.5 years in Comp Sci was infesting itself in me as I started to get a glazed look in my eyes. Before panicking, I submitted my half-completed project and went swimming to relive my inner-werewolf, instead of going to the basketball game. “No more,” my head was telling me. “No more.”

And, for the first time in my life, I didn’t care about school. Well, that’s not entirely true. I still went to class. I still attempted my projects. I still enjoyed writing papers for my Art History class. But, from then on, I stopped busting my ass in CS. It just wasn’t worth it anymore. Too much anger, too little satisfaction.

The point in this almost depressing preface? I studied for my CMSC330 final for approximately 3 hours. This is unheard of in Amy-world. In the past, life did not exist after an exam. I’d always be surprised to see the trees, buildings, cars, etc. upon walking out of a final. Not studying for a final the way I usually do had an interesting effect on me. I didn’t care. I walked into the exam after swimming, armed with a few ideas to get me through the exam, took it, and left. And there were still trees and cars! Well I’ll be damned.

THE INCIDENT
There I was at the exam. Didn’t study, didn’t care. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta. I was only worried about how I was going to get through 2 hours of CS. Since my burnout, I hadn’t really looked at CS material for more than an hour at a time. After listening to Vermin’s ridiculous speech at the beginning of the exam, I opened it and wrote my name on the front and back of each of the 15 pages. 5 minutes down. After working for about 10 minutes on a problem, I started to get nutty. My brain was shouting NO MORE at me, but I was I the middle of a final! I couldn’t go read a book, or listen to a song, or do jumping jacks. Although, the thought of bringing my knitting to the exam did occur to me beforehand (what could he have done?).

I turned to my scrap piece of paper and wrote ANTH in big letters to remind me of the cool classes I was going to take next semester. A big smile crept over my face. Apes, nature vs. nurture, and the fossil record. Sigh. Vermin spotted me and gave me a funny look. I could just tell he was wondering how anyone could possibly be smiling during his grueling exam. I smiled wider.

After glancing at the ANTH declaration on my scrap paper a few times, it started to lose meaning and I was again getting antsy. NO MORE my head was saying. “Fine,” I thought to myself, “No more.” So I decided to take a break. Looking up, I saw all the TAs parading around the front of the room like the guards of the Wicked Witch of the West. I pictured them chanting, “OOh EE OOh, OO Oh!” I tried to picture a green Vermin in a pointy hat but it wasn’t as effective.

On my scrap paper I started to sketch. I drew a TA’s foot. Then my left hand. Hmm, what else could I draw. It took me a second to realize that a shadow had been cast over my paper. Looking up I saw Vermin wearing a black hat. He was cackling at me, “I’ll get you my pretty! And your little drawing too! Ah hahahaha!” Luckily I was not intimidated. “Yes?” I said innocently. “Um, what are you doing?” Vermin asked me. Satisfaction filled my chest and I smiled. “Taking a break,” I said very seriously. “Um uh uh, are you ok?” he asked me again. It was all I could do to not laugh. “Yes,” I said firmly.

While walking away, Vermin looked very puzzled. I could see him thinking, “She is not scared by my exam? Does she not realize that this is 35% of her grade? Does she know that this is a 15 page, 7 problem, 200 point, 120 minute exam? Does she know that she will loose credit if her information provided is incorrect or her name is missing from any page? Does she know that no credit will be given for parts of her answers which cannot be read?” (Note: For any of my readers who are lucky enough to have avoided Larry Vermin in their college career, these statements, among many others, are on the cover of every one of his exams.)

Not 30 seconds later, while I was still sketching, Vermin reappeared next to my desk. “Are you SURE you’re ok?” he asked me. At that point I considered saying “No” just to see what he would do. Give me an A? Heh. “Yes I’m fine,” I repeated, “It’s a long exam.” Still bewildered, Vermin walked away again. Still smiling, I decided I was capable of working on a new problem.

FINALE
Years from now in future classes, Vermin will probably use this story to scare his students: “I recall a few years ago when one student of mine could not handle the pressure of my final examination and was doodling on her scrap paper!” Do not be fooled. This was just a simple way to make it through my exam without making an embarrassing scene, and to show Vermin that, though I may be a measly student in the thick of all his belittling and intimidating rules, two can play that game.

Friday, November 15, 2002

Rain sucks. Cold, rainy Tuesdays suck. Cold, rainy Tuesdays with an umbrella that is less than a C+, REALLY SUCK. I’m sure many of my readers have had to endure the “broken umbrella syndrome (BUS).” The syndrome usually spreads during times of severe wind, heavy rain, or just slight irritation with either. Today, I got hit by BUS (hehe).

My less than C+ umbrella earned shy of a D- today. In fact, I think today was the first time I ever put an object on my hit list. (Usually this list includes certain vermin faculty of the CS department, bugs in my room, drivers on Rt. 1, and most people when I’ve gotten under 4 hours of sleep.) Today, Umbrella was at the top of my list.

I parked in lot 1 like I do every Tuesday and Thursday. Today, like every Tuesday since the semester started, it was cold and rainy. “No biggie,” I told myself, “just walking to the Art and Sociology building.” WELL. Umbrella decided that this would be a good time to lose a hinge. It’s the type of umbrella that folds really nicely into an 8-inch long bundle. Losing one hinge was fatal. The whole side of Umbrella was sagging, like it was mad it was raining or something. Whenever I’d walk, Umbrella would flap up and down like a parachute. Needless to say I suddenly became very interested in all the other passing Umbrellas. Wow, that one was red. Leopard print, weird. AH HA!! THAT ONE IS BROKEN TOO. I didn’t feel as much like a loser. And indeed, another student was starting to feel the effects of BUS.

Surprisingly, I made it to the Art and Soc building without getting totally drenched and made it through my two and a half hour painting class. After class I have an hour break during which I go to North Campus dining hall to eat with my buddy Erin. Today was no different. I put on my coat, scarf, and backpack, opened the door to the outside, and shoved Umbrella in the direction of the rain. Walking down the steps on the side of the building was my first challenge. Because Umbrella was already pitifully sagging on one side, the gusts of wind kept catching it, much in a Mary Poppins manner except I was not merrily singing. In fact, I think that’s when I began cursing.

I crossed lot 1 and headed toward the stadium garage for shelter. By the time I hit the garage, I was soaked and my right wrist hurt. Why did my wrist hurt? Perhaps this was because during the entire walk, my wrist was fighting against the wind to keep Umbrella in some kind of upright position. To put less stress on my wrist, I choked up on Umbrella, only to realize that the broken hinge would catch on my hair and pull relentlessly with the wind. “OWW!” I exclaimed out loud and loudly to no one, “Why you stupid piece of…” Someone walked by me with a look of confusion. I could just tell they were thinking, “Is that crazy girl talking to…her umbrella? Naaah. But…is she?” I sort of smiled and nodded towards Umbrella probably only confusing my passer-by even more, maybe causing them to walk quicker. As soon as they had passed, I glared at Umbrella thinking, “Not only do you have to soak me, you have to make everyone else think I’m nuts?!”

On the way back to the Art and Soc building after a calming lunch with Erin, I soon realized that Umbrella was getting sick of the rain. With every gust of wind, the little Velcro tie that hangs over the side would spray a huge stream of water right in my face. Quickly, I tried to turn Umbrella around so the hanging tie would hang in the back. Even more quickly, I realized that this seemingly good idea would not work because the broken hinge was then in front and would allow even more water under than the little tie. So I decided on a compromise. Keep the tie behind me at about a 7:00 position, and keep the broken hinge at 1:00. Unfortunately the rain was so hard it was almost diagonal so in order to stay just a little dry I had to choke up on Umbrella, sacrificing my hair to the wind. “OWWWWWW,” I yelled again as the hinge took a huge chunk. This was probably amusing to the many people walking by because I had my head stuck so high in Umbrella that I frequently walked into things. I came within one step of walking into another student, and rammed head/umbrella first into a tall bush, which, as if to punish me, showered tons of collected rain on the back of my neck. “SONOVA,” I yelled, getting more aggravated by the second.

Luckily, I made it again to the art building though this time completely drenched. “Whoa what happened to you? “ a girl in my welding class said to me. I just looked at her and shrugged, not sure what she meant. She WAS aware that it was raining cats and dogs outside, right?? I knew I was wet, but so was everyone else. Only when I went to the bathroom after class did I realize that my hair was going in every direction because it kept getting pulled out and I had evergreen needles in my hair and on my shoulders. Totally annoyed and not wanting to tough out the rain and Umbrella anymore, I patted my hair, brushed off the foliage, gathered my inner poise, and walked outside.

By the time I made it to my car I was again drenched from head to toe. I fumbled quickly for my keys, and tried to unlock the door. Door open, I tried to fold up Umbrella but it wasn’t having it. “WHAT!!??” I yelled in the middle of lot 1 while getting more soaked. I tugged and pulled on the stupid grip-thing meant to open and close the contraption. Nothing. At this moment, I saw that the outside of Umbrella was drier than the inside. “How the hell does that happen?” I said out loud again.

I lost it. “YOU STUPID PIECE OF SH********T” I cried and threw the crummy excuse for a rain-protector down on the blacktop. I wasn’t finished. With one foot on the fabric and my hand on the handle, I pulled and bended. It wasn’t enough. I jumped on top of it a couple times for good measure. “HA!” There Umbrella lay, rain pouring down in it, looking like a large bat that had been struck by lightning. Satisfied, I looked up half smiling. I then realized how neurotic I probably looked standing in the rain stomping on my umbrella in the middle of lot 1. I don’t think anyone was around to witness my “Office Space-with-the-fax-machine” episode. Of course, if anyone DID witness it, they probably wouldn’t want to come near me.

For one second, I felt bad for Umbrella, lying there alone, wet, and defeated. “NO!” I thought, “I will not feel sorry for that stupid thing. It has half of my hair stuck in it!” And, just to prove how NOT sorry I was for Umbrella, I got in my car and backed up over it. So there. And just for the record, in case any of my readers have a case of BUS: Umbrellas are sold out at CVS, cost $30 at the Book Exchange, and are not carried at Rugged. One of these days I’ll make it to Target. Until then, I’m quite satisfied with my raincoat.

Tuesday, September 24, 2002

Ahhhhh, finally stretchin out the ol’ pita. So many people whining about no new pitas! Well here ya ga!

To fully appreciate this pita, I suggest readers scroll down to my CSF pita and refresh their memories. I may refer to it in this one.

I would now like to take you to another world. A desolate world of dark skies, deformed beings, and advanced technology. A world where leaders are ruthless, time passes slowly, and cannibalism is a norm. A world where the population increases despite the lack of sexual action. This, readers, is my Computer Science 330 class.

There I sat, in the third row, waiting for class to end. The watch on the guy next to me read that I had only five minutes left until freedom. Suddenly the guy next to me raised his hand.

“Mr. Herman? Can I get a handout from last class?” he asked. Fellow CS readers who have had Mr. Larry Vermin (who are probably chuckling at the ridiculousness of this question) know why this was silly to ask. Mr. Vermin will not give a student a handout from a past class. Why? you ask? Because he is a vermin and HE CAN. Indeed, most CS professors do things just because they can. For example, assigning a new project the day the old one is due. This is not necessary for my education. Draining me of mental sanity and stability is not aiding my learning process. Thus, Mr. Vermin will not give out old handouts even though I know very well he has some in his European Carry-all.

Instead, he will humorously suggest that you ask the person next to you “in case you don’t have any friends to ask instead” to borrow theirs to photocopy. Psychoanalysis by yours truly of this statement has lead me to believe that Mr. Vermin frequently lost his handouts and had no friends when he was 21 and was scolded repeatedly by his professors for both sins. Maybe they made him cry. In class. And made him Xerox the next classes’ handouts. Years later, he now draws an accusatory defense when either topic is mentioned.

For clarity purposes, I want to show you what my row of seats looked like. Observe Diagram A:

Diagram A
---me---guy---another guy---

So Mr. Vermin looks at the guy sitting next to me and says with his graceful cracking voice, “No, you can not have a handout from last class. BUT, (pointing to the other guy) I’m sure if you ask the gentleman on your right OR (pointing to me) the………...the………..”

I leaned forward in my seat. “The…”WHAT? What was he going to say? Could he not remember that I was of different gender? The name for my gender? Either? Both?

Mr. Vermin continued. “The……uhhhhh…….What is the equivalent to a gentleman in…..” I couldn’t believe it. Was my professor SO socially inept that he had never heard of women? Hell, at that point I was waiting for him to say, “That thing with boobs.”

In the front, someone suggested “Lady???” to Mr. Vermin. “Is that what it is???” he asked.

Ah yes, the female specimen. Recognizable by their slightly smaller size, more developed chest, and enhanced hip size, she contributes to over 50% of the world’s population. She is most likely found in her natural habitats of bubble baths and nicely decorated homes. Feeding mostly on chocolate, fruit, and pre-menstrual painkiller she is necessary in the human reproductive process. YOU DOLT.

Ask him every brand of computer chip prominent in the 80s. Ask him all algorithms that involve binary-tree sorting. My all-knowing CS professor, stumped by one question involving the name of the opposite gender. Pitiful.

“Pitiful.” I said loudly, “That’s PITFUL.” I was not humiliated or even uncomfortable, more stunned that my stereotype of the CSF was so accurate. And should the audience have been anyone other than a bunch of younger vermin, Ol’ Larry would have been quite the laughing stock. He did, however, come up to me at the end of class to apologize for embarrassing me. I informed him that, thank you, but I was not embarrassed, and next time the term “non-male” would do just fine.

Friday, August 9, 2002

So today I hit an all-time low. Two all-time lows actually. As you can tell, from how frequently I've been updating my pita that I'm MEGA bored at work. They give me crap to do, and even though I'm getting paid a lot, I still have to suffer daily psychosis between the hours of 2 and 4. I sit. I asked if I could bring a book. NO. I feel guilty if I make phone calls, even on my cell. So I sit, and sit. I have, however, accomplished a few things at work like: arranging cable and internet access for my new apartment, going to the bathroom every hour, writing snail mail letters to old friends, planning all future semesters' schedules, writing pitas and journal entries, balancing my checkbook, researching swing dance lessons, and sending approximately 20 emails a day to those who are in similar situations. Today, though, should go down in Amy-is-Bored history.

When I'm bored, consuming calories can mildly wake me up. So I resort to tea: good taste, calorie-less. But there hasn't been tea for days. We ran out on Tuesday; I even hoarded some for later in the week but drank it all. I don't drink coffee but I tried the Instant Sanka. Nasty concoction similar to sludge, mud, and ground up roaches from my basement. Not so much. I feel like I'm on a tiny lifeboat, drowning in boredom, clinging for life with my weakened fingernails to my hourly wage. Help I yell, but to no avail. They are all busy. Busy with fulfilling, important work that gets them up in the morning and keeps them occupied all day. If their jobs are steak and mashed potatoes, my job is a moldy sliver of goat cheese in comparison. Maybe I can take a walk around the building...curses! The boss sits in an office right outside my cube. TRAPPED in my florescent-lit patch of gray rug and burlap walls. There's no tea. No tea, I repeat over and over in my head, approaching delirium. My one form of amusement and they take it away. So I make a new drink. "Cream Water" I will call it. I.E.- hot fat. Normally I make my tea and add a little cream--today I just won't add the tea. After a taste test, I decide I'd rather have the Instant Stanka.

I'll go to the bathroom, I decide. I pad past all the happy working people, muttering snippets under my breath. Parking it on the toilet, I wind up some toilet paper with my hand. Then there are birds and a blue sky. I am running through a meadow full of flowers, and then diving into a glistening pond full of friendly fish. SLAM!! Someone enters the bathroom. I had fallen asleep. So bored, I fell asleep while peeing.

Possible morals to this tale:
1) Find less-paying, higher-stress job
2) Don't drink hot fat. Or Instant Swanka.
3) Bring an alarm clock to the bathroom
4) Find book with CS cover and plot-driven novel inside

Monday, August 5, 2002

This summer I was introduced to city life. Indeed, throughout my 2.5-month internship I became quite the city girl. Here is my typical routine: Every morning I get up between 6:30 and 8. I shower, eat, hair, etc and then drive to the PG Plaza or College Park Metro Station. I then ride the green line to Fort Totten, and then the red line to Van Ness/UDC. From the Metro station, I walk a block uphill to my huge office building and arrive around 9. Around 5pm I repeat this process but in reverse order. What does this mean? It means that I spend approximately 1.5 hours on the Metro.

I’m not complaining at all. I love riding the Metro. I sleep, read (if I’m not too nauseous), and observe. This long period of time, though, has caused me to develop a sort of Metro-etiquette in my mind that I, and most other Metro-riders follow. Some of these are my own opinions and observations also.

1) Keep your mouth shut at all times. I am now a firm believer that the Metro environment should be like that of a library. If you speak, it should be brief and no louder than a whisper. Emergencies only. I don’t want to hear about your crummy job/wife/boss/kid at 8:00am when I’m barely awake and irritated that I had to get up to go sit for 8 hours. Should you feel the need to vent, fine: DO NOT announce to the entire car that your husband’s sperm count is low.

2) Move to the center of the car when there are lots of people. Every damned day I hear the annoying, dull voice of the announcer on the intercom say, “Please move to the center of the cars. Use all doors. Use all doors. Step quickly and safely. Move to the center of the cars.” Anyone with half a brain should do so, if not just to shut up the announcer.

3) Let the pregnant woman sit down. This means giving up your seat. Permanently.

4) DO NOT, under ANY circumstances leave any of your body fluids on the seat. This includes sweat, spit, swass, and anything else that your imagination can conjure.

5) Wear deodorant, if only for the short people. If there is a crowd, you will most likely have to stand. This inevitably means being stuffed in between two people who have their armpits in your face. The car will be hot from the sun and the abundance of bodies. If the train should lurch, even slightly, the poor short shmoe next to you will get an armpit sandwich.

6) If you want to be lazy and miss a train, do not prevent others from doing so. Stay to the right on the escalator to let the busy people by. This applies to accompanying luggage, little smelly children, transportation devices, and large body parts.

7) If you are a 20-something, attractive male who has personality and can dance, talk to me damnit. And criminy, wear a backwards hat.

8) Keep your kids in a seat, on a leash, or in a cage. I do not want them running up and down the isles hitting all the seats or screaming when they fall over due to the train stopping (Think “A League of Their Own”). Muzzles or Benadryl are a plus.

And just for your information, I have done a lot of Metro observing and will probably write about it in a future pita. Stay tuned.

Monday, July 29, 2002

Alright, alright. I know I have been MEGA bad about writing in my pita. Please forgive me. My only excuse is that I have had a lack of material. Hard to believe, huh? No stupid situations I’ve gotten myself into to write about? Say whaa? WELL, perhaps I have had a lack of material because lately I have been full of inner poise! EAT THAT. Hehe, it was worth a shot. Here’s a small incident that is typical me being me:

This past Sunday I decided to do something for myself and visit my natural habitat: the meat market pool. Ah the life. The sun on my face, the cool water, Coppertone. Or the smell of chlorine and my own sweat. Yay. The meat market pool has always been an intrigue of mine. For starters, I’m not sure who actually invented the term “meat market pool,” but I’m going to claim it anyway. I, Amy Woman of Substance, invented the term “meat market pool.” Yes you may be jealous. And just as clarification for those who avoid such places, the “meat market pool” refers to the U of MD CRC outdoor pool.

The Meat Market has its own subculture, much in the manner of Ocean City, or Computer Science. Here’s a quick breakdown:
Ocean City:
old pasty women in large pastel tee-shirts
old fat men in wife-beaters
skanky-ho preteens in skanky-ho clothing lookin for a skanky-ho senior week
i-be-cool guys in jeeps

Computer Science:
guys who pay money to play computer games
guys who like playing with wires
guys who have more than one processor and brag about it
guys who like “multi-threading”

Meat Market (forgive me Lizzay):
herds of I-know-I’m-hot frat boys
herds of I-know-you’re-looking-at-me-and-I’m-hot-too sorority chickys
incestuous intermingling of both herds
lack of actual “bathing suits,” rather carefully positioned scraps of fabric

There I sat, enjoying the sun, while throngs of beautiful people flocked by. Out of all the interesting people-trends, I found one most intriguing. If there were 4 guys sitting on the edge of the pool, there would be 4 girls sitting close by. Not 5 or 3, 4 exactly. Over by the kiddie pool? 3 girls lounging on the side, and the 3 guys on the other side. Did they plan it this way? Was it a set number? What if there were only guys in groups of 3 and you had 4 girls in your party? Would you leave one at the concessions?

Anyway, I was scoping out this one guy (in a group of 4). For ½ hour he didn’t look outside the circle of his 3 friends except maybe to scope out the group of 4 girls next to them. Finally, while I was reading (but really people-watching) he glanced in my direction. Being the independent woman of substance that I am, I decided to look completely uninterested and take a swig of Gatorade. I’d been sipping on it all afternoon to avoid dehydrating in the mega hot sun. I held the bottle up to my mouth and tilted it, anticipating the cool lemon-lime liquid on my tongue. And a second later I felt it, with a big unknown chuck of something. What the…I said to myself. What could possibly have fallen in my Gatorade at the pool? Oh My GOD, it was a bee. I knew it was a bee. I could feel it swimming around in my mouth.

SPLURT! I spit out the Gatorade + 1 bee out before it had a chance to sting me. The bee made it back into the bottle, the Gatorade did not. So there I was, amidst all the meat, spitting Gatorade all over myself. Greaaaaaat. I set the bottle + 1 bee down on the concrete and bolted for the pool to wash away the evidence of the disgusting episode. Upon returning to my chair and towel, I realized the bee was still in my Gatorade. “Hmmm,” I thought, “Could I fish out the bee and salvage the rest of my drink?” After the previous demonstration with the bee though, I decided to leave it there.

To top it off, the guy I had been looking at was now talking with the girl who had been sitting next to me. He had obviously been looking at her. Ah heck, there was Gatorade on her chair.

Wednesday, July 17, 2002

Boo on pita-block! After this morning's commute to work though, I have plenty to write about. So this morning: I am late. This is not news. I am late to work EVERY day. Detailed below are the three options I demonstrate in my morning rituals:

Option A, The Relaxed Late: If I get up before 7:00am, I am on time. I take my time in the shower. I do something with my hair. I have time for proper hygiene and grooming. But…I take too long, resulting in lateness. Believe me, I have often tried to tell myself to rush even though I am “on-time.” No luck. I still say, “but I have SO much time!”

Option B, The Panic Late: I wake up after 7 and scream. When I was in high school and I’d wake up late I’d scream, wimper for a second, then run into my parents room in a panic-stress-frenzy yelling, “OMG I’M SOOOO LATE, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?! MOOOOOOOOM!!!” She’d look at me and say, “Amy, why don’t you get ready quickly.” Gee, what a bright idea. As you can tell, I am not a morning person. In fact, I was late so much in high school that I began to wonder if I relied on the morning-panic to wake up. Who knows.

Option C, The DIE BUGS Late: I randomly wake up at 5:30, see a few bugs on my floor, kill them, fall back asleep and continue with Option B.

This morning I choose Option A. I shower, dress, hair, eat, then hop in my car to drive to the College Park Metro Station. It’s like 3 miles away but takes me about 10-15 min to get there. No problem, I’ve been this late before. I put on my sunglasses and crank up my tunes. Aww yeah. As I’m pulling into the Park N Ride though, I notice that there are very few parking spaces left. In fact, from the street I see 3. Just 3. I remain calm.

I peel into the Park N Ride and around the corner to the few remaining spots. I soon realize that I am 4th in line. 3 spots, 4th in line. Not good. I start to sweat and panic sets in. Inner poise, I recite, inner poise. I have no idea how to get to another Metro Station. I don’t even know how to drive to work in DC. This is bad bad bad bad bad. Ok, time to think of a real poise-ish idea. Fast.

So the losa in front of me gets the last parking spot. YOU TWIT! I yell inside my car so my ears ring. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO GET TO ANOTHER STATION AND YOU DO! I AM SOOOO MUCH MORE DESERVING OF THAT SPOT THAN YOU ARE! And with that, I turned around and made my way out of the Park N Ride.

I pulled over on the side of the road before the tollbooth to think. Matt had driven me to PG Plaza a couple times but I didn’t think I’d be able to find it. I remembered turning left and then right but I didn’t know names or directions. Shit shit shit. Then I got an idea. An idea spawned from inner poise but seriously misguided. Maybe I can follow the people who are leaving and are obviously headed for another Metro station. After all, they are also without a CP Metro parking space, so they must be going to another station to park!

“Brilliant,” I exclaimed and picked out 3 cars that I would keep in my sight. I followed all three to Paint Branch, and then to Rt. 1. Uhhhh hmmm. PG Plaza is not this way, I thought to myself, we must be going to Greenbelt. At the light in front of U of MD though, one of my cars turned right, another turned left, and one went straight onto campus. “Ohhh nooo,” I moaned. I decided to follow the one who turned left since I was in his lane. A ½ mile down the road and Mr. Screw-Me-Over pulled into Wawa’s parking lot. CRAP. Now what. My idea had failed, it was 8:15 (supposed to be on the train for the past 20 minutes), and I was flipping out. Could I call someone? By now everyone was already at work or was still sleeping. My parents weren’t even available seeing that they were currently in the Caribbean on a cruise ship. Looked like I’d have to start over.

I drove back to the house and began re-tracing my steps (tires?) trying to find PG Plaza. Turn left here. OO this looks familiar! Wait, there’s the school, I’m going the right way!! I turned again and I was on the right road, I could feel it. A few minutes later I saw the PG Plaza bridge thing (random) and screamed in delight, making my ears ring again. I did it!!

On the right I spotted parking. I cut across two lanes, racking up several honks and evil glances. Ehh shut it, I thought to myself: I had just found the Metro! Bum Ba DAA! Sticking my arm out the window, I pushed the button and got a ticket. Wait a second. I don’t normally get a parking stub. Wtf. It was green and had no indication of what organization it belonged to.

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” I flagged a woman down in the parking lot. “Is this Metro parking?” By this time I was really sweating, extremely frustrated with the past events of the morning, and I all but barked at the poor woman. Not a moment of inner poise. Even though she obviously worked in the building straight ahead and knew very well that it was not Metro parking, she told me that it was, but that she was not from around here. Question: how can you not be “from around here” and work full time in a huge office building “here”? Exactly. Extremely irked, I finally asked the tollbooth guy and he pointed to where the REAL Metro parking was across the street. I had been flicked off on the road earlier for nothing.

I pulled out onto the road and cut across the same two lanes, pissing off even more people, and turned onto the road I was supposed to. Park N Ride, Park N Ride…where was it? THERE! I thought as I drove right by it. At this point I was about ready to lose it. I was SO close to being there but I just HAD to miss the turn! I’d have to find some place to 180 and have another go. Just then I saw signs for the Park N Ride. On the wrong road!! Maybe the wrong road wasn’t so wrong after all (really cheesy moral of story?). Happily, I parked and trekked down to the railways. I had done it…until that night when I attempted to get home.

Tuesday, July 9, 2002

Yay! I overcame my pita-block and discovered two new topics that I will write about in the near future. Today, while going to the bathroom, I was pondering how many paper products are absolutely impossible to like. For example, 1-ply toilet paper (which might I add Microsoft Word Grammar does not like. It suggests “toilet papers” or “toilets paper” as possible solutions.) In fact, I have noticed that I have developed a rather immature disliking for many of these products. Here is a compiled list of, I know it’s sad, paper products that IRK me:

Personally Peeving Paper Products

1) As I said previously, 1-ply toilet paper. Honestly, what is the point? If I need to clean myself I’m going to need more than just a few sheets. In fact, I have gotten in the habit (from dorm life) of taking the roll and wrapping it around my hand at least 4 or 5 times, then ripping it. Does this eliminate the 1-plyness? Wouldn’t it be more cost efficient to have it 2 or even 3-ply and only use 3 squares?

2) Toilet seat covers. Am I the only one who has difficulty with these? I appreciate that manufacturers attempt to “perforate” a few spots for me to rip the inside out, but I always end up ripping it in half. If by chance I manage to set it on the seat without letting the seat part fall in, whatever bodily fluids were on the seat always leak through to my ass. I mean, isn’t that contrary to its function? It should protect me from inconsiderate people’s pee. And then, I always end up having to push it into the bowl myself when I flush because it’s stuck to the seat.
**As a side note: upon reading this pita my mom had another insight as to why toilet seat covers are peeving. Supposedly the covers are even more aggravating when being used in conjunction with automatically flushing toilets. Mom said, "I'd set it on the seat and when I'd turn around to sit down the toilet would flush it away! I want that added to your pita!"

3)Paper towels with ugly patterns. So say my dog makes a mess on the floor. I reach for the nearest roll of paper towels, correct? I’m probably irritated that I have to clean up dog shit on the carpet/tile/hardwood/etc. The last thing I want to see is some ugly bear in overalls sitting next to a school house grinning at me.

4)Scotties brand tissues. My family has deemed them “Snotties” cause they suck so badly. See, when I blow my nose there is a lot of force. Also, if I’m blowing my nose there is a reason, usually involving snot. I use a tissue so that I appear to be a civilized human being; someone less civilized (your typical Neanderthal) may blow his nose in his hands. Thus, when I blow my nose and I blow a frickin hole right through the tissue clear onto my hand, I appear less civilized, dirty, and alright fine I’ll bite… “Neanderthalish.” Har har.

5) CS textbooks. Once upon a time there was Mother Earth frolicking in a meadow. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the trees were rustling in the wind. When we cut down her trees for paper she was sad and decided that once a year humans would suffer through Winter. When we made CS textbooks out of her paper she went off the deep end and now we have tornadoes.

6) The cardboard box under my desk. There is a recycled paper box under my desk that aggravates me. This is what is says (I’m not kidding):
MIXED OFFICE PAPER ONLY
NO MAGAZINES
NO NEWSPAPERS
NO BROWN PAPER
NO TELEPHONE BOOKS
NO GLOSSY PAPER
NO PAPER CLIPS
NO FOOD WRAPPERS

I have never in my whole life seen a bitchier box. And what about staples? To make it even more IRKing it never gets emptied. But should it ever get emptied, right before, I would like to stick a huge telephone book in it just out of spite. I mean, I do bring one to work everyday.

Monday, July 1, 2002

I waltzed into work today dreading sitting in front of my harshly bright monitor for 8 hours. Ah the life of a CSF. I went to change from my commuting “city girl” sneakers into my snazzy “professional inner-poise woman” black shoes and I realized that I had forgotten one (a black one). So today, I am forced oh-so-unwillingly to wear these dreaded comfortable shoes ALL DAY at the risk of looking like a rebellious authority-mocking adolescent. Eh, it’s Monday.

Oh crap. It’s Monday. Ugg. UUUUUUUGG. Why the ugging? Well it was also this morning that I realized that this is hell week. The one week out of the month that I, Amy Ruppel, absolutely hate my uterus and being a woman in general. It is at this point that, after conversing with a few girlies on the topic, I must note the following disclaimer:

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

Something was wrong. My whole body tensed as I ran through my house. Where was my mom? She appeared in from of me and I yelled "MOM CAN YOU HEAR ME?" but she did the same thing that everyone else had. She didn't talk, she beeped. Her mouth was opening and closing and she was beeping. “What the fuck,” I said to myself and then I started beeping too. “BEEP…BEEP…BEEP,” I went. My hands were beeping, the kitchen table was beeping, and it slowly dawned on me that the entire world was a huge beeping machine.

Then I woke up, turned off my alarm clock, and thought as I do every morning when I go through a similar episode, that I could very well be nuts. As I was drifting off again, I saw something that brings my to the topic of this pita. On the floor, hiding under my desk, was a large furry insect waiting for me. I knew it was waiting for me because when I spotted it and yelled “AH HA!!” it tittered a bit. I reached over to my nightstand and grabbed my trusty fly swatter. The hunt began. I leaped out of bed to hopefully surprise it but it was too quick. The little sucker booked all 432,345,234 legs across my carpet and took shelter under my bean bag chair. “Oh no you don’t!” I cried and lifted up the bean bag. It was there, looking at me. “You stupid girl,” it said to me. “You underestimate my speed.” “Oh yeah!?” I said. “Yeah!” it said back, stuck out its tongue, and booked it to the middle of my floor. “And just so ya know,” it cried, “Even if you catch me, I just laid 1,000 eggs this morni…” SPLAT.

Triumphantly I picked up the oozing carcass with a tissue and disposed of what was left of the nasty creature. “HA!” I said loudly and realized that it was 6:30am and I was standing in my pajamas in the middle of my room, clutching a fly swatter and yelling at a dead bug. Welcome to my world.

I suck at bugs. Not in the way you may think though. I mean, I will fully admit that I have done my share of school-girl shrieking if I see a bug larger than an inch or so. I also admit to pretending to be scared so someone else will deal with it. However, when it comes to peacefully coexisting with bugs, for me there is only one solution—they will die. If I find them in my room, they will die. If they give me lip, such as the one that morning, they will die. Even if they claim to taste like chocolate, they will die. Well…maybe. But, bugs be warned: If you are in my room, or basically anywhere that I reside, it is to your advantage to retreat to my backyard immediately. Actually, make that my neighbor’s backyard. If you so choose to test my temper, then you will inevitably become another smeared stain on my carpet or wall.

Rarely do I realize to what extent I will go to squash an intruder before I already look insane. That one morning is a good example. In explanation, having a bug in my room is similar to the sensation of having a hair in your mouth. Indeed, time stops while I’m tracking a bug, as is so when you are fishing around with your finger for the foul hair stuck on your tongue.

One of these times took place this past winter break. I had applied to be a substitute for the Howard County Public School System and my first job was the following day. The night before, I decided that I should get some sleep for the big day and so I turned in around 11:00pm.

So there I was, calm and relaxed, excited about the next day, happily reading a chapter in my novel before becoming one with my pillow and sheets. Suddenly, something flew by my head. A bird? A plane? How about both. An enormous bird-like fly zoomed by my head at 30 mph, did a 180 in the corner of my room, and headed back at me for another fly-by. The Mega-Fly sounded like a frickin 747. ErrrrRRRROOOAAARRRrrrr it whizzed by by ear.

You know that feeling of tranquility and freedom you get when you see a bird gracefully soar through the sky above you? I did not experience anything of the sort with Mega-Fly. There was no grace, no calmness. In fact, it hunkered around like it was heavy and unaerodynamic, not to mention angry at me.

So much for going to bed early. I leaped out of bed and slinked across my room to the other side. Maybe Mega-Fly would attempt another bed fly-by and I could catch it off guard. RrrrRRR…I looked around nervously…RRRROOOOOOA…what the…OOOAAAAAARRRrrrr. The damned fly had spotted me on the other side of the room and was still targeting me!

And that moment marked the first time in my life that I declared war against an insect.

“DIE YOU INSIGNIFICANT EXCUSE FOR LIFE!” I would have yelled had it not been 11:30pm with my parents asleep down the hall. Instead, I just hissed at Mega-Fly and began searching for a weapon.

I found an old towel in the linen closet and rolled it into a towel-snap. This’ll get the little twit, I said to myself, sneering. I went back to my room. Mega-Fly was there, perched on the far wall waiting for me. Staring each other down, we rotated together a few steps around the perimeter of my room and then I made the first move. I lunged across the carpet, waving the towel around in a fencing-like fashion. Mega-Fly laughed in my face. Not only did he laugh, he did another fly-by closer to my ear, as if to taunt me.

At this point I was cursing under my breath. I hacked at the air to no avail when suddenly Mega-Fly zoomed right out my doorway. No way. It just…left? I won the war? I WON THE WAR! I did a little victory dance and went to shut my bedroom door. As I was closing it and setting my towel on the ground my blood went hot again. Mega-Fly was peeking out from under the door.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?” I actually said out loud this time. I grabbed my towel and chopped at the ground with might. After a few chops though, it dawned on me that Mega-Fly was not under the towel. I peeked. It was not. It had crawled under my door again and was grinning up at me from its safe inch-wide shelter. On my hands and knees, I bent down to look under the door.

“Why you little piece of…” I muttered and flug open the door to attack. There I stood in the doorway looming over Mega-Fly on the floor outside my door, clutching my towel, heart racing. I slowly bent down to claim my victory when the little shit crawled back under my door. I was stunned. I had been outsmarted by a fly. To make matters worse, when I looked on the other side of my door, Mega-Fly was crawling right into my room. He surveyed his work, then took a few victory laps around my bed. I lost it. Wide-eyed and red-faced I went to get another towel. I turned off my bedroom lamp, turned on the bathroom light, and waited. It took 10 minutes, but Mega-Fly finally got bored with me and my room. As soon as he zoomed into the bathroom I slammed my door and shoved the two towels under it. HA! Now who was smarter!?

Seeing that it was after 12:00 I crawled into bed and enjoyed some rest before my big day. I almost died though, when at dinner the next day my brother said that a fly had kept him up all night.

Monday, June 17, 2002

The place where I am currently employed loves wasting money. Not only do they sit in a spared-no-expense palace, throw extravagant, catered, alcoholic parties in celebration of…nothing…but they pay me, Computer Scientist Extraordinaire, to sit on my ass all day and write pitas. I really shouldn't complain. I mean, I'm making a loot bigger than I ever have, my work is intellectual but not stressful, and I do write pitas and check my mail for the majority of the 8 hours. However, my boredom grew to a new level today. For example, as I was finishing my assignment this morning, I fell asleep mid-mouse-click, and continued to click even though I was unconscious. Don't worry, I didn't screw anything up, but that's pretty sad.

Amidst staring at my monitor for lengthy amounts of immeasurable time I have had the opportunity to ponder life and its most philosophical questions. "What's for lunch?" drifted into my head this morning around 10:30, for starters. I then realized that I had brought my lunch, as I do everyday, and that it probably consisted of what I had packed in it the night before. More questions equally as thrilling jumped into my brain this morning when, mid-drool, I thought of a good juicy one. “I bet I could write a pita about that one,” I said to myself. I then did something which sets the tone for this entry: I chuckled at my idea and its cleverness. This is typical Computer Scientist behavior. Alright alright, FUTURE Computer Scientist behavior. And actually, that leads me to another despicable comp sci trait: assuming one is already perfect (“already” inferring that perfection is one’s inevitable destiny, all that’s important is how long it takes to achieve such.)

(Note: For a change, this pita may not be incriminating to me personally in all aspects. Some, but not all. I will let you readers decide which traits I exhibit and which I do not. However, for now, consider me to be just an art major who is reporting her findings as a third party. Next pita I will continue with things that I suck at so don’t worry.)

So here begins my Breakdown of the Computer Science Freak (CSF). I have already established that CSFs crack themselves up, and that they assume they are of some divine order. These two in sync are a bad combination. Given these two traits, CSFs will constantly blurt out wincingly bad attempted “jokes.” Since CSFs are of an elite breed, they will do it often too. Be forewarned though, their cracks may not be in English or even any human language. Observe Exhibit A where there lies a possible CSF “joke:”

Thursday, June 6, 2002

Wow! I had no idea I had so many loyal readers. Thanks everyone for making me feel special, loved, and mockable. Glad I am able to provide a temporary boredom-cure for readers in their various places of employment and residence.

So on to another interesting episode in Amy-screwup world. Last time I established that I suck hard-core at softball. Not as bad as waterpolo, but bad enough that I have a few good stories to talk about. This story is a little different than previous ones, in that it does not result in my utter humiliation amongst my peers and the rest of the laughing world. Just my slight humiliation amongst my peers and the rest of the laughing world.

I hadn’t hit a damned thing all season. You may recall this fact from my most recent pita. You may also recall that my teammates really didn’t give two happy craps about my budding talents in hitting and fielding. However, I did not explain to you that a girl on my team, who was decidedly the devil incarnate, had set out that season to make me (and only me) feel untalented, ugly, and unworthy of participating on her team. It may have had something to do with the fact that her mother was one of our coaches, or that her younger sister was on the team as well. But this girl, I forget her name so we shall call her Voldemorta the Pitcher, hated my guts. She was two years older than I, her younger sister was my age, and I put up with endless harassment from her all season. Every time I was in the field and screwed up she’d smirk, comment, laugh, or whatever suited her evil persona that day. For example:
I see the ball coming.
I run towards the ball.
I misjudge where it will land by 15 feet.
I scramble towards the landed ball, pick it up, hurl it, and miss the cut-off man by another 15 feet.
Voldemorta shouts from the pitcher’s mound “HUSSLE, AMY!”
I wish I shout “I AM, YOU BIG COW!” but I don’t because she does not suck, I do, and she is the devil incarnate.

Anyway, that day we had just finished our last game, the one I wrote about last time. I struck out, the whole thing with Daniel, etc. I wasn’t in a great mood. Nor was I interested in anything Voldemorta had to say. After we did the half-assed handshake thing with the other team my coaches decided that it would be nice to have a fun intra-team scrimmage as a goodbye practice. We all loafed down to field 8 or 9 and split into two teams. Picking teams: a girl-like-me’s nightmare. Voldemorta was a captain of course. My best friend (the awesome short-stopest) was the other. Even with my best friend as a captain I got picked second to last, right before the semi-retarded girl. (Side note: One game, the semi-retarded girl got walked. She threw down her bat, and ran to second, right over the pitcher’s mound. We were all very confused until my coach was like, Samantha! Run to first!! She looked at my coach, looked at the second baseman, and walked over to first where she was thrown out. That’s a thinker…)

So we had our teams picked; I was not on Voldemorta’s. Thank god because she was more vile when we were on the same team, imagine that.

A few innings went by (I think we only played 6) and Voldemorta was in her usual mood. Finally, it was my turn at bat. I took a deep breath and swung a few practice swings. It was me and Voldemorta now. She pitched the ball and I waved the bat trying to make a connection. Strike 1. Voldemorta chuckled. The next one I let go by, but my coach yelled that I should swing at anything because there wasn’t an ump, thus, no balls. The next one I let go anyway though, because it was out of my range. Voldemorta yelled from the pitcher’s mound, “Amy! HIT the BALL!” Irk. What did she think I wanted to do? Actually I really wanted to go home, but hitting the ball was a close second. I let another one go. “COME OOONNN AAAMMYY!” Voldemorta nastily whined. Finally, her next pitch looked hit-worthy and I swung. SWIIIIISSSSHH-CRACK! SCREAM. Oh my god. OOOOh Myyyy Gooood. I hit the ball. I HIT THE BALL. It was the most solid hit I had ever hit, right on the sweet spot. Line drive down the center of the diamond. I don’t think I’ve hit a ball that well to this day. It was so satisfying! Then I woke up. I should be running I told myself. Drop the bat, and run stupid. As I was dropping the bat however, I noticed that there were lots of people gathered around the pitcher’s mound. Who had screamed when I had hit the ball? I decided against running to first and went to check it out. It was Voldemorta. She was on the ground screaming her spoiled head off.

“I’M NOT GETTING STICHES! I HAVE SCHOOL PICTURES IN 2 DAYS! I’M NOT GETTING STICHES!” I heard her scream then moan. When she saw me I don’t know who was more surprised. She drilled me with her devil stare, which burned a hole right through my eyes, and probably the person’s behind me as well.
“Uh, sorry,” I said, feeling kind of bad.
“Whatever,” she said flatly, taking a break from her sobs. A huge ugly black eye was developing, swelling and throbbing. A few minutes later I heard ambulance sirens approaching in the background. Voldemorta was screaming bloody murder even though the whole darned team was fawning over her. My mom congratulated me on my triumphant hit when I went and stood on the sidelines next to her. Right then I realized just how great it felt to hit that ball, and Voldemorta to boot! After all, it isn’t everyday you get to hit your first line drive and take down the devil too.

Sunday, June 2, 2002

Damn, it's been a while since I wrote a pita entry. This is mainly due to the fact that I moved into my summer house (with Mike, Jason, Matt, Tim, and Scott) and we did not have internet until now. Luckily, I am happily back to my AIM and email-checking addictions.

I had a brainstorm the other day about something else I'm horrible at that has several interesting stories to go along with it. I suck at softball. Now, not in the way that I suck at running, or Water Polo per say. I can, on some level, play the game. I played little league slow pitch with my community organization for several years (for those of you in MD, it was EYO Softball--Elkridge Youth Organization, I think). So, I am aware of strategies such as
a) I should try to hit the ball with the bat
b) I should catch the ball with my glove
c) I should not pick clovers while out in right field
Seriously though, I do know some real strategies. You know, like: if you are on base and there are 2 outs, you run on a fly or a grounder. So I'm not completely softball stupid. I am also known to demonstrate decent eye-hand coordination at times. However, I sucked at little league pretty hard. I think my mom chocked it up to my brain not being fully developed to have those coordination skills at the time--really. It didn't help that one of my best friends at the time was the star little league shortstop either. FYI I have a few stories about my softball experiences so I may write more than one pita on the subject.

Ahh I remember it well. Picture the Field of Dreams. Riiight. Now picture some crappy field, with grass growing in the infield and parents sitting in lawn chairs on the sidelines. There was my mom. Happy, probably nervous. We had been scheduled for field 1 that day. This was a big deal because we were always assigned fields 8 or 9, the fields out in the boondocks (where there were lots of clovers to pick). Field 1 was the main field. The concessions were right next to it, and it was usually occupied with the big-kid games. There were real bathrooms, as opposed to field 8 and 9's designated tree area. Anyway, this was the hotsy-totsy field in which most of that day's teams would walk by to eat or pee.

I was wearing my purple team shirt. I think I was on the Astros that year. Gray softball pants. (On a side note, the reason our pants were gray and not white has an interesting origin. Supposedly, a mother called up EYO way back when and bitched to all hell that if the girls slid and it was muddy, then our pants would get wet and people would see out "panties." Grooooan, I know, I was like 8 and was still repulsed. Thus our pants were gray, and the guys wore white.)

So there I was. It was the last game of the season. Not too a big deal cause we sucked and weren't going to the playoffs, but still, last game jitters. I was at bat. I hadn't hit anything all year.

"Let's go Amy, let's go," my team half-assed cheered because I never hit anything. The pitcher lobbed, I swung. Steeeerike 1, the ump said. Eh, like I said, it was nothing new. My team gave up on the cheering and started playing tic tac toe in the dirt. I stepped back, took a few (useless) practice swings, and returned to the batter's box. I took my cool-Amy stance where I would lean really low on my back leg. STEEEEEEERIke 2. Here we go again. My team went to get ice pops. And then he showed up.

Cue angel music and dramatic lighting with slow-motion camera. Daniel was there. Watching MY game! Time froze. My heart pounded and my mouth went dry. OMG I wonder if he recognizes me. I have my helmet on but maybe he can still see that it's me. Maybe if I turn a little, nope. He's standing right behind me, behind the fence. (Probably wondering where the rest of the girls in purple are.) I started to sweat and time came back. I stepped into the batter's box and waited. Please don't let me strike out. Harry, God, whoever there is, pleeeease let me hit it. Just a little bonk. I can get thrown out at first, I don't even care. Just LET ME HIT IT.

The pitcher wound up, I was in my cool-stance. Daniel was behind me, watching me, I knew it. Then I fainted. Ha, fooled you. No I didn't faint (would have made a better story though). I did swing at the ball though. And heard a loud...swiiiish. STEEEEEERIKE 3!! I cringed. Walking back to my above-ground dugout, I winced and looked to where Daniel had been standing. No one. Where did he go?

Looking in the direction of approaching voices, my heart broke in two. I saw my team returning from the concession stand, and there he was, talking to my best friend, the star shortstop. Double ouch.

Friday, May 17, 2002 01:29 a.m.

Ahh finals week. The one week out of the semester that the entire campus has PMS and the feeling of impending doom sets in. Luckily, all you suckas, I am finished with finals and am writing a pita! Unluckily, my list of things I suck at has dwindled to things I suck at and have no funny stories to go along with them. Like Computer Science. I suck at Comp Sci, but there is obviously no hilarity in that. I am unsure if any of my CS professors are even aware of the term “joy.” But enough about CS, otherwise I will longwindedly tell you about my daydreams of killing the department and their loved ones. Do I have anger? YES. (I hope pitas.com doesn’t get in a tissy about this statement.)

One of the only things I can think of that has somewhat decent stories to discuss is my absolute lack of directional skills. I suck at directions. I was not born with the part of the brain that allows one to distinguish between left and right. If you put me in the middle of a field, by myself, with a canteen, compass, and some chocolate for food I would probably walk in large, seemingly directionless circles for a few hours before giving up and asking for more chocolate. When driving in Baltimore City, Inner Harbor it does not occur to me that there is water to one side of me. Going someplace new? ("new" meaning first 3 times there) I need written directions there AND back. Exits off highways do not make sense to me either. For example, I do not register that two exits for say, Rt40 going east and west, are actually the same road just in different directions. My brain says, this is what happens when I take this road. There is the adult movie store here.

Knowing of my lack of an essential brain chunk, my parents were one of the first primitive car phone owners, so that if I got lost I could call them and attempt to explain where I was. And oh did I use that phone. One night, I was attempting to drive to Friendly’s by myself. I now know that in order to get to Friendly’s I drive out a little, turn there, turn there, exit there, straight there, and I have arrived. 15 minutes max. When I first began driving, however, I was not blessed with this detailed knowledge of where Friendly’s was and thus, got lost. I turned, exited, looped, and exited until I found a nice little neighborhood where I, all inner poised up, pulled over and used my spiffy 5lb car phone.
“Dad?”
“Hey, Aim! You find Friendly’s ok?”
“Ummmmmm…”
“Ok, where are you?”
“Ummmmmm…”
“Ok, are there any street signs near you?”
“Yeah there’s one that says (Toledo) Gorman Road.”
“I see. Let me get the Maryland state map. (pause) Oooook, let’s see. Iiiiinteresting…um Amy? How the hell did you get there?”
“Scooter.”
“Do you realize you took several highways and must have driven for over a half hour?”
It took me quite a while to get home from that one. Living it down has obviously taken longer.

Another good example of my deficiency was my freshman year of college when I attempted to find Tawes Fine Arts building. How I ended up at the Math building I will never know. (Note: If you do not know where these two buildings are in relation to each other, look them up on a school map, it’s that funny.)

If you have ever driven with me you know that I’m a pretty decent driver, and I enjoy it. Although, if you happen to be the poor soul who is directing me, you have to simplify your sentences to points and grunts otherwise I’m hopeless.
“Turn right at the stop sign.”
“Ok.”
“AMY TURN RIGHT.”
“I AM TURNING RIGHT. Oh.”
Thus began my skill of executing three-point turns easily. And yes, I now know how to get to Friendly’s…if you write me directions there and back.

Sunday, May 12, 2002 12:42 a.m.

I definitely just had one of the best nights of my semester! OMG I LOVE LASER TAG. I haven't been that excited about something in a while! Rudely enough you do not want to hear about my wonderful night. You want to hear about what I suck at so you can laugh at me. It's ok, on several occasions I've been sitting in my room bored and I've read my past entries to entertain myself. Sad? Very.

Another thing I am very bad at is running. I hate running. In fact, there isn't much in this world that I dislike MORE than running, and that's saying a lot (to those who know me well). However, in high school, I did not discover this extreme hatred of running until half way into the Cross Country season. Why on earth did I join Cross Country you ask? I HAVE NO IDEA. Well maybe some. My best friend, Ashley, was in this health/workout kick and was like "Hey let's join Cross Country." I stupidly replied, "Duuuuh, is it like basketball in 3 ft water??" Hehe, just kidding (note: if you did not understand this pitiful joke, please refer to the previous entry). I was really like, "Okie dokie, sounds dandy." And thus began my hell.

So obviously I was REALLY bad at it, otherwise it wouldn't be under "things I'm bad at." But let's just say I was embarrassingly bad. So bad I think even my mom cringed. When I ran for long periods of time (i.e. every practice, meet, death march) my heels and circular ankle bones would smash on occasion in this awkward first-time-ever-walking sorta way. My lungs would heave, my mouth would dry up within minutes. I'd wheeze, sputter, and swallow all at the same time which did not make a happy noise. My real moment in embarrassment-fame though, was at one of my meets.

I was standing in a sea of girls from all over the state wearing my obnoxious team uniform consisting of shorts that stick to your leg and ride up at the same time. Not a good/comfortable combo. Ponytail, sports bra, Mt. Hebron High tank top, the works. Mom was standing on the sidelines, happy smile. Then it began. The gun fired and I was off with the herd. For about 30 seconds I was at the front. Oh yeah, leadin the pack, leadin the pack, I said to myself. I relaxed. After a few minutes passed though, it occurred to me that no one was next to me. No one was in front either. I turned around, nope, no one. Hmm, did I take a wrong turn somewhere? No, I think I was left in the dust.

Inner poise, inner poise. Pace yourself, keep running. I encouraged myself. Suddenly, out of nowhere I saw Ashley in the distance! "AAAAAASHLEY!" I screamed. "AAAAAASHLEY!!! WAAAAAIT!!!!" I then saw her glance back at me, smile and wave, and she was gone. "AAAAAAAAAASHLEY!!!!! I'LL PAAY YOOU!! PLEEEEASE??WAAAAIT!!" Nothing. Dejected, and rejected, I continued to plow on. (What seemed like…) Years later, as my 5k was winding up, it dawned on me that I was last. Not just "last" but "OH SO VERY LAST." This meant that the slow ones had passed me. Even the big girls had passed me. I was dead last. I said to myself, "Eh, who gives a damn. I'm last, it takes off the pressure. No worries, just me and the road. ONE.....MOOORE...(wheeeeze.....heeeeave) HIIILL to go!!” I looked up to the top of the mountain. I saw my mom waiting. I saw the ribbon stand. I saw all the damned girls that had passed me. I saw Ashley. I saw all the boys ready to go for their turn. I heard their gun shot. I saw 298370198479 guys, barreling down the hill headed directly for me.

"INNER POISE," I screamed to myself. Suuure. I looked down at my shorts riding up on my ass and thighs, I looked at my once cheerful tank top now all sweaty, sagging, and stuck to my back. My ankles were red, I was making gasping noises, ponytail? What ponytail? Then I looked at the mountain, and the guys which were passing me, staring, thinking, "Is it possible that a girl could be that slow and frumpy? And what’s up with her shorts?" Outlook: not too good.

Somehow I made it up that hill. They even had the nerve to give me an Honorable Mention Ribbon. I think I laughed. I still laugh.

Tuesday, May 7, 2002 11:28 p.m.

Alright, I know I know. I've been REALLY bad at writing my pitas lately. It's not like I haven't been motivated. Honest. In fact, on several occasions I recall saying to myself, "damn, I'd like to expand my pita." Unfortunately, my life is not as amusing as you probably think it is and I have had a lack of material to work with. So in order to force my loyal readers to waste more time reading my thoughts, I have had to brainstorm ideas. What is funny in my life that not only amuses me but others? The "others" part of that is the kicker.

My final decision was to write about things that I am bad at and my experiences with them. At first, this idea sounded negative to me, and I thought I might receive complaints from all those annoying happy people. Eh, screw you. Plus, no one wants to hear me brag. But, because I am bad at many things (yes, BESIDES wearing stockings), I may write on other occasions about this topic.

My first non-talent: I am very bad at water polo. I recall a time during my sophomore year when my friend Lex and I decided we would join the Maryland Water Polo team. They had a cute little stand outside the CRC and after sweating the Elliptical machine I was feeling like I could conquer the world. Sure I'll sign up. Hell, water polo? Sounds fun, plus I get a tee shirt.

Lex and I show up at the first practice and I'm like, awwwww yeah. Badass Amy. Got my goggles, and a towel. Wait a second. Why are we in the deep water? And where is the basketball net? And why are these girls ripped? Hmm, perhaps I had many misconceptions about water polo. Here are my realizations:
a) You have to swim a lot
b) You do not stand in 3 ft water and play basketball
c) In fact there is no hoop, or anything remotely resembling the game of basketball
d) You have to be able to tread water for over 20 minutes
e) Which when you do, a muscle in your calf that you've never felt or even knew you had starts screaming at you to STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY OR I WILL CAUSE YOU TO MAKE AN EMBARASSING SCENE AND SINK
e) You have to have a thing called "upper body strength"
f) You have to swim a lot
g) When you think you're done swimming you're not

Needless to say, I was a good sport and toughed out the practice. My (cough) last practice. And I never got my damned tee shirt.

Friday, May 3, 2002 12:53 a.m.

May I just express my disgust with any higher power there is right now? For clarity, I will refer to any divine power as "Harry" throughout this pita. Ok, Harry. What's with all the damned tornados, huh? The first one ya sent was pretty horrifying, and now I gotta put up with a 2 day tornado-frenzy of yours? I don't know what I have done to piss you off, and what I can possibly do to make it up to you, but could you please hold off the natural disasters for a while? Please, Harry?? OK OK OK. I'll level with you. It was very insensitive of me to flick off that bad driver the other day who cut me off and almost drove me off the road causing me to stall ou... OK! OK!, I'm also sorry I keep saying how much I hate people, can I modify it to "most" people? Would that be better? I will also try to be an all around nice person for a while but you know how hard that is for me! Oh yeah, should my pleas not be sufficient and you feel the need to tornadosize the campus again, can you possibly steer it towards AV Williams or the Comp Sci building? Much appreciation.

Saturday, April 27, 2002 07:09 p.m.

Ok! So after a nice break of two non-pita days I have decided it is time to write again. Alas, if you recall, my "me" document has dried up and is quite yesterday's news. Luckily after my night on the town last night (Mariya's cocktail party) I have thought of something to write about.

I would like to express my utter disappointment with pantyhose. First of all, the word "pantyhose" should be on my hate list. It is an ugly, vulgar, and unhappy word. Perhaps I should add "frustrating" to that list. Fear not, I will explain. Yesterday, Liz whisked me from my broom-closet dorm room (thank god) after a major meltdown of mine. We trek to her place via her wonderful car and begin to get ready for the night's event. After eating, hairing, and dressing, I encountered the horrid, masochistic female article of clothing. Note this is NOT the first time I have had to put up with nylons, but during my struggle, I came to a few realizations. Control tops suck. For all of my men-readers, control-top stockings are stockings which have a reinforced girdle/rubberband around one's middle to hold and squeeze fat, bone, and major arteries in uncomfortable positions. They usually result in painful cramping and putting one's leg to sleep.

As I was saying, to put the contraption on, one has to scrunch up one leg, stick the toes in, then work her(his?) way up towards the crotch area and repeat with the other leg. Needless to say, as I am putting my first foot into the contraption, my fingernail snags a strand of the nylon and RIIIP. $8+ down the drain. Realization: Stockings are fuckin expensive. Luckily I knew of my problem with stockings and had brought a back-up pair. Halfway into the back-up pair, I almost fell head first into Liz's computer, stockings trailing behind me. This MAY BE BECAUSE BOTH OF MY LEGS WERE TIED TOGETHER AT THE BASE BY THE GOD-FORSAKEN CONTRAPTION. Realization: Stockings are hazardous to your health. I recovered, like the woman of inner-poise that I am, and continued to wiggle and squeeze into the pair. VICTORY, I exclaimed as I finished the horrible act and made a few minor adjustments (one leg had somehow gotten twisted around, thus preventing me from walking normally). Realization: Stockings can twist and cut off circulation. RIIIP. Yay. I turned around to face the mirror and there was a huge hole on my ass, laughing at me: "he he, looooooser." (Realization: Stockings can talk??) Ah HA, I pronounce to Liz, I can use my girl-knowledge and use clear nail polish to stop the run! As if the ritual could get any weirder.

The story ends with Mariya saving the day with clear nail polish and even daring to dab it on my ass for me (thanx Mariya). I can't wait until the summer when I will have to endure the hardships of stockings everyday. Realization: Permanent job must be “casual.”

Thursday, April 25, 2002 12:23 a.m.

Happily pitaing along. Good person stuff:
I love foot and arm rests, recliners, combinations of dark green, navy blue, maroon, and gray. I love getting mail. I like only black pens. I love brass fasteners, index cards, double sided tape, and school supplies. I love long, hot showers, ice cubes with holes in them, pockets, and poetry that rhymes. I love to climb trees and wear argyle socks. I like safety pins, glitter on anything but your body, orange and sour apple lollipops, and magic tricks. I love Dave Barry, big tires, and looking forward to things. I love breakfast food, mini marshmallows, and organizing. I like getting presents and giving them if I’ve made them. I like Chucks (the shoes-- converse all-stars) and italic fonts. I like the moment right before the light turns green.

To everyone's dismay I have run out of hateful things! I'm also dissapointed that my "like" list is longer than my "hate" list because this makes me seem like a nice person. However, to cure your need for more of my "me" document, I finish it out with bold statements about myself that do not fit in love or hate categories:
I’m impatient with stupid people. I am easily amused, agnostic, and a Virgo. I’m a tomboy and an evolutionist. I am a pro-choice feminist. Only basketball, football, tennis, and hockey should be broadcasted on TV. I have problems conceptualizing space and I'm bad with directions. I support the death penalty in certain circumstances. I am secure with my sexuality, and I like how I look. I celebrate Chanukkah and Christmas. I’m a lactard, I have allergies, and I sweat a lot when I work out. I can do Calculus, but need my calculator to add. It’s a remote, not a clicker. I’m passionate.

Yay that's the end of my "me" document. Other than all that I'm pretty unopinionated (suuuure). I will now have to think of other equally amusing things to talk about in future pita entries. Bleh.

Till lata losas.

Wednesday, April 24, 2002 12:37 a.m.

Damn. Look at me pitaing away. Pita pita pita. I know everyone wants to hear more of my list. So here it is, happy stuff:
I like cinnamon candycanes, pants that gather at my shoes, and swing dancers. I like things that are fuzzy, dog’s wet noses, and Bic mechanical #2 pencils. I like signing my name, watching lava lamps, and sweat pants. I like cranberry juice, Wallace and Gromit, curly ribbon, and the smell of Downy. I like glow-in-the-dark anything, baseball tee-shirts, calligraphy, and the smell of Scotch tape. I like mud fights, whistling, spray paint, and the smell of freshly cut wood. I like canned green beans, not fresh, sledding, and little boxes that jewelry comes in. I like lifesize mazes, rootbeer, and thinking about outerspace.

And boo ya, everyone reads for the good ones:
I hate standardized tests, the taste of Dimatapp, and birds as pets. I hate canceled plans, liars, and weak dispositions. I hate it when people don’t believe me. I hate the saying, “Life isn’t fair.” I hate desks that have one leg too short so they rock. I hate circling or hearting “I”s instead of dotting them. I hate all moths, and make-up. I hate sea water or hair in my mouth. I hate eraser dust, jewelry, and purses. I hate waiting, trying to keep my eyes open, and customers. I hate wearing my hair down, a cold steering wheel in the winter, and a hot steering wheel in the summer.

I am such an avid pita updater! Everyone is so proud of me I'm sure. Unfortunately, I will soon have to write about my life. Yeah, everyone groans. Soon enough.

Till lata.

Monday, April 22, 2002 08:18 p.m.

Yay! Look at me updating my pita frequently. Who wants to hear more of my "me" document? Everyone I'm sure. Alright, the happy-go-lucky:
I like bubble baths, good books, and Crabtree and Evelyn. I like having other people do the dishes, fresh clothes out of the dryer, and working out. I like finding money, 4-leafed clovers, and shiny things. I like to ice-skate. I love school cancellations, fires in fireplaces, and kissing. I like dinosaurs, pasta, and fruit. CHOCOLATE. I like confidence, wide smiles, humor, and wit. I like warm hands, meaningful relationships, and the Simpsons. I love Jurassic Park, Ever After, and 12 Monkeys. I love backwards hats, overalls, and black olives. I love any card game, mystery dinner parties, and Harry Potter. I like decorating my room, Dr. Pepper, and cinnamon toast. I love a new box of crayons, old jeans, sneakers, and thick socks.

And the fun stuff:
I hate waking up, headaches, and people who complain of hangovers. I hate whores and hootchies. I hate crying, but do it often. I hate people who love the spotlight. I hate people who show off. I hate jellyfish, being sticky, sand in my suit, and large waves. I hate self-conscious people and Victoria’s Secret. I hate wet socks and running. I hate throwing up, reflections, and yogurt. I hate ignorant teachers, smudgy windows, soap operas, and cracking knuckles. I hate shaving, strong odors, sinus infections, stomach aches and coughing.

Till lata.

Sunday, April 21, 2002 02:20 p.m.

So, everyone on my buddy list and elsewhere is so pita-happy that I figured I should see what all the hoo-ra is about. I'm a little dissapointed about the "no-threats, etc" rule that pitas.com has established seeing as though that eliminates any info I can write about the CS department and past, present, and future enemies. BOO.

Anyways, on with interesting stuff about moi that quite possibly no one will read. A long time ago I wrote this psycho document that stated EVERYTHING I loved and hated. Perhaps until I have something more everyday-life-related I will discuss parts of this document.

A happy excerpt from the doc:
I like the color gray. I like clothing that’s gray, shoes that are gray, and gray underpants. I like the violin, drums, and music with a lot of bass. I like chamomile tea, flannel sheets, and dogs. I like Rage and Mozart. I love to dance, go to the beach, and read fiction. I love math. I like being one of the guys, but need my best girlfriend to live. I love sunlight and sitting in the dark. I love funny movies and sappy movies. I like heavily supported bras, Calvin and Hobbes, and horoscopes. I love sleeping until the afternoon. I love driving in the fast and slow lane. I love singing at the top of my lungs. I like Prowlers, Vipers, and Camaros –all silver. I like snow, being warm, and naps. I like sunsets and rainbows. I like one-pieces, and two if it’s a good day. I like oil paints, Monet, and MC Escher. I like fixing things, building things, and inventing things.

And the more bitchy:
I hate pink. I hate the word “panties.” I don’t like alcohol, anything you can smoke, snort, or shoot up. I don’t like little kids. I hate racists. I hate scary movies. I hate petty, immature, ditzy, and obnoxious girls. I hate tardiness for more than 15 minutes. I hate stereotypical cheerleaders. I hate skimpy clothing. I hate high-heeled shoes, dresses, and hot dogs. I hate people who can’t work a computer, vegetarians, and Bible thumpers. I hate people who can’t raise their kids. I hate phone, credit card, and door-to-door solicitors.

These are VERY short excerpts seeing as though the entire thing goes on for a whole single-spaced 10-font page. And just so I don't offend anyone who may happen to read this, there are always exceptions to the hate-list.