Do they serve Boston lagers before interviews?

The day has come!  I am free of my Shakespearean misery and out of freshman overdrive.  Summer school is over.  I have never been so happy.  Happy, that is, to catch up on my sleep.  I will never again have an 8 am class.  My enthusiasm is unexplainable. 

Next Thursday I will be going to Boston to visit my number one prospective graduate school.  Here’s a little something about me: I want to write children’s books.  Well, I have already written a few very rough drafts of books but I want to be successful in my future career.  This graduate school will help me do so.  I have always loved reading, writing, and religion; that’s what my mom says.  I used to want to be a kindergarten teacher…until I changed my mind.  No offense to you elementary education majors out there, but I wanted to challenge my brain a little more.  I knew I wanted to be a writer, then one day it just hit me like a ton of bricks: writer of children’s literature.  What could be more perfect for me?  I have always continued reading children’s literature even when I was no longer legally classified as a child.  Ever since I had this moment of realization I have immersed myself in the children’s literature world.

I have already warned all those close to me that if I am not accepted into this program of my dreams I will probably need to be put on suicide watch.  Not really, but I will be distraught to say the least. 

There are two other programs that I am looking into but the one in Boston is my number one.  My main anxiety about going on this trip is the interview.  I have never really technically had an interview before.  Every time I think about it, I am confident my blood pressure sky rockets.  I have found innumerable websites with lists of graduate school interview questions.  My main concern is what do I do if they ask a question not on this list?  What do I do?  Can I take note cards?  This is why the telephone interview seemed more appealing.

I have never been a fan of public speaking after I hit puberty.  I used to absolutely love acting and singing until I turned into a little bit of a fatty in middle school.  I began hating anything I had to do in public.  Since then, I have dreaded public speaking and anything that resembles it.  I hope I don’t vomit on the interviewer.  Or hug him/her like Blair Waldorf did in Gossip Girl. 

I am going out tonight to prowl for good blog topics…and for good, old fashioned, American fun.  Hopefully my ladies will keep me entertained since Jake refuses to go out.  The good news is that secures a ride home for me.  Yippeeeeeeee!

Ice ice baby.

Last night I once again had a night out with my ladies. As Jake is in Chicago, I needed to have some of my own fun. While at a bar, there was a gentleman sitting at the bar by himself (I use the word gentleman VERY loosely). As my dear friend Mary Magdalene waltzed up to the bar this character pulled a fast one on her. She was iced.

For those of you who don’t know what being “iced” is I will tell you (this is primarily for my mother and her comrades). On a perfectly lovely evening you may be imbibing with your friends. Then, suddenly, before you know what has hit you there it is: Smirnoff Ice. Gag. Once you have been presented with this jewel you must get on one knee and chug it. Oftentimes, this leads to gagging or vomiting.

So there she was, a simple former-president-of-a-sorority girl just trying to get a $1.50 Coors Light. It was too much for her. She calmly walked away. Then we scolded her. “You can never turn down an ice!” we said. If only we knew what was to come…

As I think I am Daddy Warbucks, I decided to get my ladies some shots. They weren’t feeling the bar scene and I needed to, in the words of Lil Wayne, get their swag on full attack. As I walked up to the bar (thinking I looked really cute because a boy was staring at me) I was iced. I squealed. I jumped. I ran. “NOOO!!” I said. Then, I hid.

I broke my own rule. What was I to do? I couldn’t handle it. In all actuality, I did this man a favor. I would have vomited all over his face and he may have been slightly perturbed. He should have thanked me.

I saw the kindle owner last night. He strutted in the bar like a prize-winning horse. To make things worse, whenever he reads aloud in class, he reads with a semi-British accent. Can I just tell you how annoying that is? NEWSFLASH: You are not actually Gloucester and this is not an actual production of "King Lear." Move on.

June said that I explained the spotting of this character as if he were a drug addict. “He’s the guy,” I said, “the one… with the Kindle.” All of my lady friends admitted that he did look like a doucher. I win.

As I am not out trolling for man meat when out, I find myself people watching the folks in the bar. This is a commonly used phrase and one that I use often. However, after I spent quite some time people watching I thought about perhaps giving it a different name: creeping. Isn’t that what we’re really doing? Reading the mouths of others as they have conversations with their exes? That’s what I’m doing. Admit it, it’s fun.

I am a creeper by nature and I use facebook to my full advantage to indulge in this dreadful habit. However, by the minute it seems as if people are deleting their facebooks. This puts quite a damper on my fun. Jake deleted his some time ago, which really annoys me. He thinks he’s too cool for school. What am I going to do when facebook phases out?! How will I indulge? I feel like an alcoholic with a dwindling supply of vodka.

Last night I saw a girl from my past. She is a raging ginger in every sense of the word. She hates me because I am dating Jake. This has never made sense to me. Why hate the girl that is dating your ex-lover rather than the dude himself? This is a moral question far beyond my means of comprehension. This is a true-life story of our encounter many moons ago:

It was the first formal event Jake and I went to together. We were pregaming at one of his friend’s houses. This random girl shows up and offers to give us a ride to the bar. Fine by me. Then I realize that they used to be involved. I was feeling a buzz and loving life when all six of us got in her tiny car. I had to sit on Jake’s lap because there wasn’t enough room. Since I am so tall I had to bend my neck to fit comfortably, I decided it would be a “good” idea to roll down the window and stick my head out, for the sake of comfort. Ginger says, “I don’t think so,” and literally rolls up the window on my head. Being the deft lady that I am, I nearly made it out with both of my ears. I did, however, lose a few strands of my golden locks.

On that note, adieu.

Is that a baby in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?

After watching an episode of “Bethenny Getting Married?” tonight and having an introspective conversation with myself I have made a life changing decision. I am most likely not going to have children.

I have always wanted to have children and live the fairy book life but that just doesn’t seem to be a very good plan to me anymore. The main reason I don’t want to get pregnant is for the sake of fatness. I don’t ever want to be morbidly obese and I can see myself getting that way during pregnancy. I love food and love any excuse to eat enough for a family of 10, much less a family of 12. I know myself, and I know that I would use a pregnancy as an excuse to eat as much as I can possibly shove in my face. I am willing to bet that I wouldn’t hesitate to stick my face in a vat of cheese dip.

I don’t want to be crazy, either. I have raging hormones on a daily basis and especially during my “fun time” as Jake likes to call it. I am fairly certain that this week is quite the opposite of fun for him. I get a liiiiiiittle crazy sometimes. I could only imagine the kind of maniac I would turn into if I were fat and hormonal at the same time. I don’t know if Jake could take it. It would be a war zone.

Through my life as a woman, I have heard horror stories about women giving birth: pooping yourself, ripping your womanly parts wide open, getting them sewn back together wrong, and the worst of these: crowning. None of this sounds the least bit appealing to me. It makes me clench my inner thighs (a good workout to avoid obesity) just thinking about my twinkle being ripped in half. I like it just the way it is, thank you sir.

The final reason I would rather not have children is because it seems they borderline ruin your lives. I LOVE kids, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes they can just be too much. I like to take them in doses, like some of my super intense friends. I can only take so much at a time. I hear all these moms saying, “Oh they bring so much joy into my life.” Really? Then why are you popping a xanax every ten minutes? Riddle me that, mommy.

I think I like my sleep too much to wake up in the middle of the night to feed another human from my teet. It’s just not for me. Also, I hear of all these mothers grappling between their careers and being a mother. I don’t want to have to choose. I want to do both.

I think adoption would be my best choice. Then I don’t have to worry about the hormone, fatness, vaginal rippage scenario. Maybe I’ll have kids, maybe I won’t. Only time will tell. As of this moment, they don’t sound too appealing to my body.

Kindle the swindle.

My apologies for the grumpy post. I was going on only a bowl of cereal (in 12 hours, and that is NOTHING for me), 3 hours of sleep, a pot of coffee, and two midterms. I had discovered some comments that were less than complimentary and they chafed my ego, to say the least.

I would, however, like to thank those that massaged my bruised ego and sent me compliments. You guys are the best! Cupcakes for everyone!

I would like to answer a question that many people are asking me about my previous post. In response to an anonymous poster saying “nothing as interesting as a wealthy white girl’s life” I explained that I am neither wealthy nor white. I admit, this was a clever ruse. Although I am not wealthy (who IS wealthy at the age of 21? Not this girl), I am what some people would call “white.” “White” is SO boring. When I was little I called myself “golden.” So suck on that.

There is something that I have been itching to write about that has been heavy on my heart. Something that is just too much for me. Today, whilst watching The View (I only watched it because my obsession, Bethenny Frankel, was on co-hosting) they spoke about this thing that has turned my world upside down and shattered my life, emotionally. The Kindle.

I can’t do it. I just can’t. There are several reasons for my insistence upon rejecting this piece of “technology.” Here goes:
1. You can’t smell the book. This may be weird and creepy to some but the smell of new books, library books, books from my home, books from my elementary school, and books from my favorite bookstore have always been comforting to me. Like mashed potatoes. Or pinot grigio.

2. You can’t turn the pages! What a beautiful sound. To live without it is like a day without a good glass of wine: theft. The digital sound doesn’t count. Ew.

3. The feel of the paper and the words on the paper. You may say you can’t feel the bumps that are raised on the pages, but I can. Touching a screen just isn’t the same, obviously. It’s my version of Braille.

4. They steal author’s work! I had a teacher whose work was stolen, plain and simple, by Amazon. As a writer, this is all we’ve got! Nothing else. I’m counting on you folks to pay my grocery bill (actually that would be my parents at the current moment but next year I will) and how am I supposed to be able to do that when I have the imminent fear of my work being stolen? Unfortunately, my work isn’t good enough to be stolen right now, but you get the idea.

5. You have no relationship with the book you’re reading. As a reader and a writer, I like to love my books. I treat them with the kindness and respect their author has treated them. I know I have truly loved a book when it does not close fully when it is sitting on my desk. Each page is a masterpiece. As a writer, I understand the work that has gone into their book and I oftentimes feel a relationship with the author. I can empathize with them. That sounded kind of sexual. Whatever, I like books okay?

6. You look like a douche holding one. There is a guy in my class who has one of these things. He not only looks like a loser, he looks like he is too persnickety to use anything that isn’t technically installed. Gross, bye. Go back to Best Buy. How much do you want to bet he works at Geek Squad?

In short, don’t buy it. It’s just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! I can’t say it enough. I’m concerned that children’s books are going to take this route. Then what do I do with my career? Oye. I’m getting a little worked up. I need to cool it down, where is my wine?

After careful and thoughtful consideration, I have decided that if I am ever to actually have something published and develop some figment of a career, my publicist will be June. As my roommate and BFFFL (best friend forever for life, duh) who better to make me sound better than I actually am? Although marketing is not her direct specialty, she has taken the reigns of telling everyone how funny I am all the time. She laughs at literally everything I say and when she introduces me to people she always says, “This is Anna. She is soooooooooo funny. Read her blog.” What could be better? Although sometimes I fear that I cannot live up to the expectations of others, one thing is always for sure, June will think I’m funny forever and always, in the words of Taylor Swift.

After writing only one sentence about pageantry in my previous post, I have decided to delve into this strange and complicated world. The only grand supreme thing I’ve ever had is a pizza. Why Mommy, why? Was I not pretty enough as a child? False. I did some amateur modeling in my time. It was for Dillard’s, but who’s counting?

I’m kind of stealing this “Why wasn’t I in pageants?” riff from Kathy Griffin (because she is the funniest B on the planet) but I don’t think she would mind. After a comment by my dear friend, Charlotte, I have decided it is time. Time to become grand supreme. I will be entering a pageant in the near future. In the mean time, I need to practice my cupcake hands, work on my faux tan, and get a flipper.

An ode to the haters.

Recently I have had an interesting amount of negative comments. Here’s my response.

I’m feeling as if some of these folks don’t quite “get” me. That’s fine if you don’t, but don’t try and argue with me across the means of cyberspace. I really don’t have time to explain to you “I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind” are Snoop Dogg lyrics. You need to take responsibility for your own lack of pop culture knowledge.

This is America. We can all do what we want. We don’t live in China for a reason. If you want to blow coke off the bathroom counter, fine. I’m not going to do it with you, but you go right ahead. Therefore I can write what I want. If I use a word in the wrong text, maybe I wanted to. What do you think about that, anonymous?

That’s the other thing. If you’re going to go balls out and write some crazy shenanigans all over MY blog, at least sign your name. I’m wondering whether these people actually know me or are arguing just to argue.

I have had a lot of experience with arguers. My Dad is a lawyer. Jake is an expert arguer. I can take you. The question is: do you want me to? Can you handle it, anonymous? Doubtful. Verrrrry doubtful.

I don’t want there to be any confusion between criticism and negativity. I can take criticism that is constructive to my writing by those that are qualified to do so. I can’t take mental retards trying to correct my language. It just doesn’t work for me. Furthermore, why is it necessary to make a comment on my socioeconomic status? Of which, I am not a member of “wealthy white girl” status. I am neither wealthy nor white. I do not appreciate rudeness. There is no reason to be ugly.

Finally, here’s the big question: If you are so bored, annoyed, or offended by my blog then why are you reading it? Why are you commenting on it? Once again, I reign supreme. Grand supreme, if we’re talking in pageant terms.

Therefore I set new rules: No more mean comments. Only comments that make me want to dance in a field of rainbows, flowers, and kittens.

Please be respectful and keep it classy. Cheeeeeeeeeeeese. :)

The Freshman Apocalypse.

Tonight was the end of a very special moment in history: the end of The Hills.

What will the world do without shifty-eyed glances, conversations full of confusion, and girl-on-girl drama all over catchy tunes? The world just might not go on.

Here’s the kicker. At the end of the show Brody (whom I like to call Grody) walked away from Kristen as she was leaving for “Europe” outside her LA home… Or so we thought. Suddenly the skies shifted and the clouds opened. Sunlight beamed in from behind the FAKE TREES. The scene walls were moved away. Is this some sort of sick joke?!

I think it has become clear to all of those with a functioning brain that Laguna Beach, The Hills, and The City (how did Lauren Conrad do all that?) have all been scripted to some point. However, to what point? Was Heidi and Spencer’s marriage a clever ruse? Was Heidi’s plastic surgery a fat mask like the one Mrs. Doubtfire wore? I feel so betrayed.

While living in my beloved college town this summer, I have discovered something that I have never been so aware of. Freshmen.

These creepy crawlers are everywhere. Perhaps it is my own fault for taking a Journalism 101 class the summer before my senior year, but I’m telling you, they know something. They’re just like the squirrels frolicking around campus; waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

I have spotted these children everywhere I look. In class, on campus, at the gym, at the bar (I’m pretty sure you aren’t 21), and even through the drive-through at McDonalds. I’m pretty sure if there were a nuclear war attack, they would all survive… Like cockroaches. What gets me more than anything is that they aren’t active; all they do is stand around and look. Last time I looked it up, you were supposed to move your body when you’re at the gym, not just look around at the sorority t-shirts every other girl has on.

I would like to note that YES, I do understand that I was a freshman and YES I was just as clueless as they are. However, I tried to blend in, which I feel, they are not attempting. The main reason I am irritated with these little ones is because they spend too many minutes wasting my time. I don’t have fifteen extra minutes that I would like to spend in my class explaining to these creatures how the collegiate website works. This, in turn, is a waste of my money. Time is money. I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind.

Male cheerleaders: An exposé.

This past weekend (4th of July!) I again adventured to the strange land in the South… That’s right, Arkansas. While I was there I was once again reminded why I did not choose to attend college there.

As it turns out, 78% of those that graduate from Arkansas end up being raging douche bags. That’s a fact. Luckily my Dad was exempt from this frightening statistic.

Not having anything better to do, I went to a little shindig with my parents. Those kids know how to party, let me tell you. Sometimes I can barely handle the drinks my Dad sends my way. Those two are not playing tea party when the liquor comes out. While there I met a gem of a man. His spiked hair was a dead giveaway of how our interaction was going to go down. The first thing this crater face said to me was, “By the way, you’re sunburned. You forgot to turn over. You have to turn over. Tuuuuurn oooooover.”

Of my many qualms with this statement I was irked that he began a statement with “by the way.” This was his beginning line and he began as if we had already been involved in a conversation. We had not. He then asked me where I went to school. When I told him he sighed and said, “I would never let my girls go there.” The kicker to this conversation was when he divulged that he was, in fact, a male cheerleader in college. Need I say more? What a freaking loser. He explained it as his way to travel with the football team… So basically you’re an Arkansas Razorback groupie? Cool. Woo freaking pig sooie.

As we all know my boyfriend, Jake is working at a fireworks tent. As if his life isn’t miserable enough living in a camper in a gas station parking lot, his phone was stolen Monday evening. Some asshole was with his children and was trying to work Jake over. It’s a good thing I wasn’t there. I would have given that penny pincher (not to be confused with penny pitcher) a piece of my estrogen filled mind.

After this creep stole his phone, Jake called it several times. The idiot answers. Jake offered him money or free fireworks to no avail. Johnny-Do-Good was too belligerent (bellige, I like to say) to talk.

Speaking of bellige, I had another fun night last night. It was my friend Mary Anna’s birthday so we went out like there was going to be an actual vampire/werewolf war. June’s friend Audrey came into town, whom I have grown to love. We were wine sisters last night, to say the least.

While at the sketchiest bar in town, Audrey and I decided we would like another drink. While waiting to be served, the bartender was pouring two hefty Jagermeister shots, which would make even a hairy-chested sailor barf. After discussing the last failed attempt I had at taking Jager bombs, the bartender told us the shots were for us from the “gentleman” at the end of the bar.

Audrey took her shot and mine without even a blushed complexion. That’s when I knew things were going to get serious. This man was king of the crop. He was at a creepy college town bar… alone. After buying us the sickest shots in the history of bartending, he wouldn’t even look us in the eye. After having several drinks of my own, I can only partially remember what this statuesque man looked like. I tried to make eye contact but it just wasn’t happening. Not interested. Why was I going out of my way to look at this creeper? I don’t know.

“Ew. That ugly guy just bought us shots,” Audrey said. Wise words from a wise woman. As it turns out, the guy was a taller version of one of Santa’s elves. He, however, did not have pointy ears or rosy cheeks. Basically this guy was just a tall midget, or as my mom would say, a leprechaun (by accidental fallacy, of course). Here’s my question. Did this character think we were going to walk up to him after a licorice shot and say something along the lines of, “Hey stud muffin, wanna get out of here?” NO. Dream on, freak. I bet this guy was a male cheerleader, too. A brand of man I steer clear of.

Some time later, after the shots had kicked in Audrey greeted me with another pearl of wisdom. “Anna, we are SO beautiful.” After reviewing a photo album of pictures from last night I can definitely agree that at one point or another in the night we were beautiful. Sadly, at this point I believe we were more along the lines of hoochie, sweaty, and possibly slurring. It didn't stop Dopey from buying us several more shots and sending them down the bar. Keep 'em coming, I won't tell Santa.

Stay classy.