I Know, But WHY?

I know.  The book is always better than the movie.  I know.  But sometimes, I just can't help but wonder why?  And I don't mean in the literal why-is-the-book-better-than-the-movie kind of way.  I'm an English major, I fully understand why a book is always, without fail, better than the movie.  But I mean "why," in the "why, God, whyyyy" kind of whiney way.

I am, of course, talking about the Hunger Games.

Now, part of my whining is really my own fault.  Usually, I do the whole dress up and see the movie at midnight thing.  It may be nerdy, but it's fun, not only the dress-up part, but the seeing-it-with-a-bunch-of-other-people-who-are-fanatics-just-like-you part, too. I've done it for all my favorite books-turned-movies (e.g. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, etc).
But for some reason, this time around, I just didn't.  Part of it may be the fact that my partner in crime and best friend currently lives in New Jersey and dressing up like Katniss when you're twenty-one years old and surrounded by twelve years just didn't really sound like something I had the willpower to do alone.

Rainy Day Flus

Being sick sucks.  There's really no better way to say it.  You can't eat, you can't sleep and for the love of God, you can't focus in class.  There's a constant stream of snot running down your face, the tissues with aloe vera in them no longer feel soft and the only sweet relief you can hope for is that half a second after a sneeze when you just feel so good.

My original intention was to try and turn my own frown upside down and talk about how being sick can ultimately be a good thing, but I'm too tired to be optimistic.  So instead, I'm going to list all the things that are so awful about being sick and attempt to come up with momentary solutions.

1.  Problem:  You can't sleep.
     Solution:  Nyquil.  I know all you fiends out there complain that they've recently downed the dosage of whatever makes you all sleepy but Nyquil is still a sure thing for me.

2.  Problem:  You can't eat.
     Solution: Soup and crackers.  Essentially soup is no more than broth, so you're not even eating, you're just drinking.  The crackers are for if you're feeling fancy and just to get something substantial in that tummy.

3.  Problem:  Runny Nose.
     Solution:  Shower.  Okay, it won't get rid of your runny nose but it will open up your sinuses pretty well so you can actually breath.  Additionally, and I warn you this may be disgusting to some of you, but you can blow your nose all you want in the shower without having to scratch tissues across your very sensitive nose.

4.  Problem:  You can't focus.
     Solution:  Awake Tea.  It's the closest thing to coffee that isn't coffee that I've found thus far.  It's definitely not the same but hopefully it will give you the slight caffeine buzz you need to accomplish the bare minimum and won't leave you feeling all dehydrated.

5.  Problem:  You just feel like shiiit.
     Solution:  Call your mom.  I promise she will have all the sympathy and kindness you need in your life right now and if you're really lucky (and live relatively close to home) she may even stop by with some homemade soup and love.

Stay healthy kids.

Shameless, Passionless

This weekend while everyone else studied, worked and accomplished other productive things, I spent hours lying in bed watching my new favorite television show: Shameless.  It's based on a British television show from 2004 that's all about a raging alcoholic of a father who somehow managed to keep his six children alive long enough to raise themselves.  Eldest sister and pseudo-mother, Fiona, runs the show at the age of twenty-one, followed by hottie mcsmartypants seventeen year old brother, Lip (short for Philip), not-so-in-the-closet sixteen year old Ian, way too old for her age ten year old Debbie, creepy and quasi-arsonist eight year old Carl and little somehow black baby Liam.

In other words, it's fantastic.

And though at times the show really flirts with the line between dark comedy and utterly depressing, what's truly upsetting is that in a very strange way, the show has forced me to realize something relatively upsetting (though rather unrelated to the show) about my own life.

I have no passion.

I'm not necessarily referring the kind of passion that you share with another person (though there's none of that in my life at the current moment either) but rather just passion in general.

I used to be passionate about everything; from politics to the environment to the Yankees' triumph over the Red Sox, I cared almost too much.  I was permanently banned from family political conversations because I took it too personally.  I'd walk away from my conservative relatives in tears, wondering how in the world the father I admired so much could possibly care so little about something so important.  I was head over heels, classic 80's movie style in love with my (now ex)boyfriend.  Most of the time I couldn't decide if I loved him or hated him but I always ached for him with passionate fury.  I was eighteen and was willing to fight to a passionate and bloody death if I had to.

Oh Twenty-Two...

How I learn from you.  Okay, so I'm not quite twenty-two yet, but I'm only a month away and as I watch my friends slowly morph into official twenty-something year olds, I can't help but reflect upon what I always assumed would be the most amazing year of my life.

The big two-one started somewhat anticlimactically for me.  I had just come home from the semester I spent drinking abroad in Italy, so the whole bar thing wasn't quite as exciting as it may have been if I had spent the previous five months attending dirty basement parties.  Additionally, I realized that my birthday was on what I deem the most exciting holiday of the year: Memorial Day.  But all that really means is that The DMV is not only closed on Sunday May 28th but also on Monday May 29th.  And I was supposed to move into my new apartment a few days early, on Tuesday May 30th.  In other words, I didn't get to go to the DMV and have that exciting moment when my license goes from this:

To this:

Instead, I just renewed my license so it wouldn't expire and to this day, I still have the "Under 21" band around the picture of my sixteen-year old self.

But I rang in the twenty-first year of my life with a drunken bang just like everyone else. (Allegedly, I called my dad to wish him a Happy Birthday... it was not his birthday).  But I quickly discovered that twenty-one is not the raging age that I always believed it would be.  The allure of the bars quickly wore off and with every night that I get hit on by a man closer in age to my father than to me, I come a step closer to acknowledging the fact that I'm kind of a... grown-up...?

I hesitate to use that word for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to the fact that I don't pay my own cell-phone bill, I truly struggle to understand what a mortgage is and in six months time I'll be living under my parents' roof again.  But the truth of the matter is that for all intents and purposes, I am an adult.  An adult that has no idea what the fuck she's doing, but still an adult.  

Twenty-one has taught me a great number of things that I'll carry over to twenty-two and I thought I'd share some words of wisdom for you young'uns who may not have crossed over into the world of legal drinking.

1.  Hangovers are no longer worth it.  Binge drinking may still be as fun as it was four years ago, but truth be told, I can NOT handle a hangover the way I used to be able to.  It doesn't just ruin my day; it ruins my weekend.  I like waking up refreshed and feeling awesome.

2.  The bars are not filled with young, hot male suitors.  Hate to break this one to you ladies but the only type of guys you're going to find at the bars are horny old men or horny drunk college bro's.  Sure, the occasional nice guy hanging out with his friends will pass through, but chances are he won't stay for long.

3.  You will pay for the free drinks.  Perhaps not with money.  But if a guy buys you a drink, you owe him a conversation.  If you think this is worth it, refer back to point numero dos for exactly what kind of guy you'll be entertaining.

4.  You will at one point or another leave something at a bar.  And have to walk-of-shame back to that bar the following day to get said item back.  (For those of you who have missed it, I encourage you to go back and read my "I live at Metronome" post... I promise it's worth it).  A bars filth truly shines in the sun.

5.  They're fucking expensive.  The cheapest beer you'll find is probably around three dollars and then you have to tip your bartender.  And you definitely want to tip your bartender.  If you don't not only are you kind of a douche, but you will probably not get another drink that night.  

All in all, of course twenty-one is a great year, but it's a growing and learning as well.  I'm sure twenty-two will even more enlightening

MANa Lisa

So, my original idea for a Vlog (thanks to my co-blogger Cait) was to provide you all with a "How-To" on braiding, which I'm relatively decent at.  Unfortunately, my roommate and "model" for this video decided it would be an excellent idea to chop off all her hair this weekend.  Though I attempted to make a video using myself as a model, it was a complete and utter failure.  Needless to say, I needed a new idea.  Now this may not be my best but it's the best I could do with the time I had.  So here's my Vlog about recent research that's being done to prove that the Mona Lisa is actually a dude...More specifically Da Vinci's loverman.  Enjoy folks.

Waitressing Woes

I've always kind of thought I'd make a good waitress.  I'm relatively friendly, I'm definitely talkative and I can take a lot of shit from a lot of people.  So when I got my first waitressing job about a month ago, I was pumped.  Though the hourly wage may suck, it's cold, hard cash right up front and mostly off the books.  You can't really beat that.  Even on a "bad" night, I'm still walking out having made between 12 and 15 dollars an hour.  And for a part-time job, that's pretty decent.

But that's not to say that I don't bust my ass for that cash.  Waitressing is stressful in and of itself.  You have to be on top of your shit all the time.  You have to make sure that you're attentive but not annoying and friendly but not clingy.  But all these things I expected.

What I did not expect was how much I'd have to bust my ass to get my co-workers to like me.

I grew up in a restaurant.  My mom was a single mom who worked as a full-time waitress to make cash.  Everyone always seemed to like my mom.  The cooks used to make special quesadillas for me, the bartenders would let me sit at the bar and color when the restaurant was empty and the other waitresses would braid my hair and tell me how adorable I was.  They all seemed like a family.  Sure they had their disagreements but overall, they got along.

My waitressing experience has been a bit different.  Some of the waitresses are your typical friendly and bubbly girls who are willing to help you out and don't mind when you ask questions.  However, others are the kind that take your food to your tables for you in a gesture that may appear nice but actually is a way of showing you that you're not on top of your shit.  Then there's the bartenders.  Some of them are friendly and some of them make me wish that prohibition had stuck.  You can't yell across the bar to get their attention... that's incredibly rude and I get that.  But standing awkwardly at the counter waiting to catch their eye isn't exactly the most efficient way to accomplish what I've come to do.  Nonetheless, that's exactly what I do.  Then there are the cooks.  And I can't quite figure them out. Sometimes, I think they like me.  Other times I think they think I'm the dumbest piece of shit that has walked through the front doors.  I realize that I could write "WW" for wheat bread instead of writing out "wheat" but I couldn't remember if the abbreviation was "WW" or "WB" and I've got seven tables that are all waiting for their food and therefore I was in a rush and if I write the wrong one, I get torn a new one.  So I just wrote out the fucking word.  But I still get a talking to.  Sometimes, it's done nicely.

"Hey, Case, next time just write WW, it's way easier."

Sometimes it's not.

"You gotta write that shit down right.  It's fucking annoying as shit."

I'm sensitive.  Perhaps a bit too much.  And I've never in my life had a job where I wasn't well received.  So I'm struggling.  But at the same time, I think it's good for me.  At some point down the road I'm going to have to work with people who are mean, so I suppose this is "training."

Guilty as Charged

Let's face it.  We all do it.  We may not be proud of it and we may never publicly admit it.  But it's true.

We all facebook-stalk.

It's like we almost can't help it.  What was that guy's name from last night again?  Hold on let me check.  (Grabs computer, immediate wireless connection, open firefox, type a mere "f" into the box, facebook pops up immediately, already signed in).  Well, the party was at Joey's so maybe he's friends with Joey?  Hm... doesn't look like he's posted on Joey's wall anytime in the recent past.  No it wasn't Jim, definitely not Freedom, not Dylan, who name their kid Phillipina?  Hm maybe I'll check... Photos?  Don't mind if I do.  Aha!  That's him.  Rick!  That was his name, Rick.  Damnit, his profile is private.  Wait... he's friends with Elena?  Ew, what a whore.  Ew!  He wrote on her wall??  What the fuck?  "haha, Kony's like so fucked man.  I totes agree. lol"  Ew.  That ends that.  Any guy who uses "lol" gets an immediate and irrevocable boot out of my life.

Does this sound at all familiar?  Because I'm pretty sure at least 70% of our generation (and that's on the lowest possible side) experiences this inner monologue at least once a day.

Unfortunate?  Perhaps.  But true nonetheless.