Lips

As you may well know, I am an avid stalkbooker. If you do not know what that means, see the series of letters I wrote titled “Dear Facefriend.” Anyway, with Facebook comes facebook pictures, and with facebook pictures comes the overindulgent use of the Jersey-shore pucker. Now, I am not from anywhere or have even BEEN anywhere near Jersey shore, but I have decided this: it should stay in Jersey shore. I am in Utah, and most, if not all, of my friends are also from Utah and have no business doing the pucker–ESPECIALLY not in every photo contained in your Beloved Facebook albums. Do they hate their lips? Hungry for some face-sucking? Aliens bent on sucking out our brains leech-style?
My

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Attack of the hair rats.

Ever since I cut my hair to facilitate a more leisurely and hair-care-free lifestyle, I seem to have developed an automatic belligerence are prejudice against girls with long hair.   This may be due to how impractical it all seems now, especially if they obviously spend more than fifteen minutes working on it every morning when they could be using that time to sleep or eat–two doubly more important parts of life, especially college life.  However, this prejudice is tripled when they are of the “poofy hair” genre.  I am not talking about the poofy hair of the texans–this actually looks not-so-bad because they have the all-over body and curl and it’s just so… Iconic.  No, I am talking about the Utah poof.

This is the hair that symbolizes Utah–hair that looks pregnant.  Much like a large percentage of the women in Utah.  Hair that makes you wonder what they’re hiding up there (probably one of those newfangled godless contraptions called the bump-it).  [I actually just tried to watch the commercial for bump-its and almost died.  Seriously.]  Hair that may also resemble a waterfall, or perhaps some sort of brain tumor.  They may also looks like cat ears.  The varieties are endless, but they all have one thing in common–ratting and a straight iron.  Lots and lots of both.  Oh, and hairspray.  Lots of that as well.

Anyway, this really has very little to do with what I am actually feeling belligerent about, other than my roommate, who is also cousins with my other roommate, has employed this travesty as her everyday look, and it irritates me to the core.  BUT… What I am actually irritated with is that today, Sunday the 21, was her birthday.  We shall call her Heather because that’s what I call her anyway because I categorize her actual name and this name, Heather, under the same heading of “boring teeny-bopper names [who probably have poofy hair and have seriously considered buying a bump-it].”  The cousin-counterpart [let’s call her Nelly, after that mean, controlling girl from little house on the prairie] cleaned the kitchen this morning for a celebration they were to have this evening, which is I think is very nice–however, the moment she saw me this morning she immediately pounced on me, trumping my every thoughts of making any sort of mess in HER kitchen.  I was to keep the kitchen clean–in perfect condition–and if I were to make any mess, I was to have it all cleaned up by 7:45.  I kindly informed her that I could make no promises as I was to be making lasagna that night because lasagna makes me happy and cleaning obsessively does not (minus the last part).  But I would try.  She then went on to explain that she had “reserved” the kitchen like, forever ago, which got me wondering where the playplace and crappy arcade was, and whether our apartment was suddenly Chuck-E-Cheese’s.  I again stated that I was still going to be making lasagna and I could make no promises because I wasn’t sure when JD would be around to help, and after a bit more dialogue, she decisively stated “It WILL be clean by seven forty-five because I said so.” because apparently I’m five and she’s a big scary nine-year-old.

Again, I rephrased what I said before, that I would try, but it might be seven-fifty or seven-fifty five by the time I finish cleaning up, at which point she thankfully seemed to have given up.  And thus was my morning.  I’ve been angry all day since.  But my lasagna was delicious.  And I probably showed up in a good few of her birthday pictures, looming in the background like a dark cloud amongst her poofy-haired high-voiced friends and male friends who watch football, and like tackling each other and shooting things.  But there were a lot of them, and almost all of them brought gifts.  Seriously, how does one amass that many friends who are willing to buy them birthday presents?  So many anomalies…

UPDATE:  I just realized I have the same shirt as one of the girls in the instructions for bump-its… I question if I can continue to wear it without shame.

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Things that try… But not really.

This is a post about things that try… But only about halfway.

Such as my car.  Last Sunday, as I was rushing out the door to go to church, I stepped in my car, put in the key, and turned the ignition.  I enjoyed the sound of the revving engine for a few seconds, until I realized that it was going to continue revving and not actually turn over.  I found this very odd, since I had just filled it up with gas the day before.  So, I tried again.  And so did it–it tried really, really hard to start, but it just… couldn’t.  It was quite pitiful.  So, now I have a dead car in my driveway and no time to do anything about it.  Luckily, I have another music major friend with her morning classes at the same time, so she gives me a ride to school.  Then I’m stuck at the school for the rest of the day until I can convince JD to take me back to my house.

Another thing that tries hard, but not really?  My fingers.  I have recently been… Ah… asked… to play a piece titled after a swear word that rhymes with “Slam,” with the percussion ensemble.  I have not taken clarinet lessons in two years and seldom practice technique anymore because I am a VOICE major and clarinet is just a fun thing on the side in band.  I believe the only reason I was asked to do this is because I just so happen to be dating one of the percussionists, and the percussion teacher seemed to have decided we just don’t spend enough time together as it is.  Anyway, the piece is by a guy named John Mackey, a guy who seems to take great pleasure in creating some of the most bizarre fingering combinations at the most obscenely fast tempos that are absolutely impossible for someone with as little technical skill as myself.  Seriously, I feel like the IQ of my fingers (negative a million) is seeping into my brain when I attempt them.

I’d come up with a third thing, but my brain isn’t really in the mood to try very hard right now.

 

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Tech Savvy

So, I recently moved into an apartment-type-living space, which is more like just a house connected to another house on one side.  There was no internet set up yet, and I already had a contract leftover from my previous living space and a router, so I took it upon myself to get the internet set up.  The guys next door wanted to go in on the internet as well, which I figured was a lovely idea.  So, we got it set up and left it unlocked for the time being.

My father set up my internet so, when I lock it, only those whose MAC addresses are on the list can access the WiFi.  I informed the guys next door to give me their MAC addresses so I can lock the WiFi from unwanted intruders.  I left a note on their door and four days later recieved a list back from them.  The only problem?  It included one MAC address for and iPod, and two IP addresses.  In what world would they think that TWO different things are both the right thing?  Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem with it, however, I told them on the note to LOOK IT UP because it is kind of confusing to find it using Windows–on a MAC, it takes approximately three steps.  I know, ’cause J.D. showed me.  I even told them EXACTLY what to google to find out how to find their MAC addresses.  So, I sent the note back, circled the correct MAC address with a note “THIS IS RIGHT” and “THIS IS WRONG” next to the IP addresses, and then told them, again, to look it up.

That was something like three weeks ago.  I still haven’t gotten a reply back.

So, this week, as I was trying to make my way through the internet, and taking occasional breaks from homework to watch some Hulu, I noticed that things were working a bit slowly.  So, I decided to lock the internet.  Then it started working much faster. 🙂

Perhaps this will give them some incentive to get me the right addresses.  Although, now they’ll have to go all the way to the school to find out how to find their MAC addresses.  Silly boys…

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Sometimes, it’s NOT the only good thing that happens after midnight…

Denny’s is well-known amongst college students to be a great place to go around midnight–and only around that time.  It’s just not as great before then.  However, I had an experience last night that I’m not sure how to feel about it.

It began with a trip to St. George with my Guy to visit his friend who was down for the weekend and wanted to hang out.  We met up with him (after a trip to the mall to replace my Guy’s destroyed and over-youthful shoes) at another friend’s house, where we enjoyed watching A Goofy Movie, drinking soda, and throwing water bottles and stuffed animals in Santa hats at one of the other guys there.  We then made our expedition to Denny’s around 11:00.  By this time, the rest of the young men with us and I were very hungry people, and probably would have killed a cow ourselves if it meant us getting our food faster.

We were quickly seated in a booth for six (as that was how many people we had in our party, however, with no offense intended, some in our group seemed of the breed that loved food and should not often be shoved into a booth with more than one other person of their particular interests) and looked over our menus for our meal of choice.  Soon after, our waiter, Tyler, I believe his name was, arrived.  He was of a rather small stature, with blonde hair and rose studs in his ears.  He appeared to be of the breed who ought to still be working in his family’s five-buck-pizza or McDonald’s, but I suppose Denny’s is okay, too.  Everything seemed to be in order as he took our orders–he had originally come just for our drink orders, but we were all already ready to order our meals.  Four of them ordered the slam burger–including Myguy, to my… well.  I don’t agree with all that food being shoved into one’s larges facial orifice–and I ordered an Ultimate Skillet (only after being told they were out of soup after 10).  Tyler even managed to create a chuckle and gain some rapport by jokingly telling our last member, who ordered the all-you-can-eat pancakes, that he expected great things of this young man, and something else about eating at least three plates.

Tyler took our menus and walked away, and we had little idea what interesting things were about to befall our poor table.

The real fun began about five minutes after Tyler had left to take care of our drink orders.  Another waitress was passing by and offered to take our orders, to which we informed her that we had already had our orders taken.  Another five minutes passed.  No drinks.  Finally, another woman approached our table and asked us for our drink orders again.  I thought nothing of it, as when I worked at Dragon Hill, drink orders would occasionally get jumbled up with other drink orders.  We told her and a few minutes later I received my hot cocoa and everyone else received their own various drinks.  Then Tyler returned to re-take our food orders, graciously apologizing about how this was his first day, and he was originally a cook and they had pulled him out that night to wait tables and blah blah blah.  We laughed and told him it was okay–especially me, as I am familiar with how bewildering waiting tables can be.  However, I had no idea it was THIS bewildering, especially when one has been provided with pen and paper to write down our orders.  I wonder what he was doing with the pad the first time he took our orders? I imagine it to look something like this:

Either way, I think he did the same on both tickets because approximately fifteen minutes later, as we were about ready to resort to cannibalism, our table was approached by yet another waiter offering to take our food order, and apologizing profusely for the confusion.  When asked about Tyler, he appeared to be ready to embark on a rant that would likely surpass anything I could write here, but instead continued taking our order and said “I don’t want to say anything bad…” and shut his mouth on the subject with a very uncomfortable chuckle.  It appeared that everyone in the restaurant was in a state of confusion, as this same man who finally seemed capable of getting our order through to the cooks had previously been wandering from table to table with a small tray of beverages (come to think of it, they may have been ours) and a look on his face similar to this:

I lost track of him as he continued wandering around until he came to take our order.  And thus, about ten minutes later, around 12:15, we at last received our food from an angel of a woman named Dee, who did a wonderful job taking care of us and even brought us a caraffe of water and me another cup of hot chocolate.  I could have hugged her had she not been rushing to take care of her own assigned tables.  Instead, I may just name my first child after her.

In the end, we got our drinks for free because all our tickets said “no beverage” on them, and they were “giving away the farm in Tyler’s section tonight because… Well…” and then she left us our receipts before she said something truly passive aggressive.  I think I was the only one to leave a tip, specified to go to Dee.

And that is why I love Denny’s.  Or something like that.

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Yeah… So um… Yeah

Yeah.  It’s been a while since I last posted… I seem to have a bit of problem keeping up with these–mostly due to not being able to finish any thoughts beyond single sentences, which, in my opinion, do not make good blog posts.  Perhaps twitter posts.  Luckily, I made the resolution long ago to never get pulled into such a beast as Twitter.  Even though I’ve been pulled into every other popular social sharing website available.  I feel this semester thus far has been kind of a bloggable experience, but I apologize beforehand–I am not exactly the most pleasant person at the moment.  My friends tell me I need to find a job at a rainbow factory.

Anyway, here is a more recent story from my semester, occurring quite recently… Ah, who am I kidding.  I can’t think of anything right now.  All I’m thinking about is the fact that we don’t get a fall break and I’m going absolutely bonkers.  I sincerely apologize to anybody in my path who I choose to bestow my moodiness on, whether it be my outlandish excitement, bitterness, or dog-gone-tuckered-out-ness.  Luckily for most, they’re only there for one of the four.  My guy, on the other hand, has to suffer through all of it.  Poor guy… But seriously.  No fall break??  What were these people thinking?  I’d like to see the statistics this year, see if it has affected grades at all compared to other schools.  University of Utah is getting a full danged week!  Really??

As you can see, I’m rather bitter about this, which is doubling my other aggravations toward other things, such as poofy hair, over-done makeup, and trucks.  Yes, trucks.  I came home from rehearsal tonight to find a giant, black-hole of a truck in my driveway (my roommate’s boyfriend’s monster, I’m assuming, who I think I’ve only met once, but once I realized he was the one driving the truck, I decided then that I really don’t like him).  I can’t imagine a reason for a college student to be driving a truck like that other than… Over-compensation.  Poor self-image.  I don’t know.  But all I know is that I can’t stand trucks.  And truck PEOPLE.  I once had the misfortune of getting in a conversation with a truck person of the worst kind–I believe the man owned not one, but THREE trucks, all of them louder and bigger and more ridiculous than the previous.  Me, I feel terrible when I drive down the street and my car starts making loud noises that may cause annoyance to the poor souls in the homes I happen to be driving past.  I can’t imagine WHY anybody would feel comfortable driving through a neighborhood at six in the morning with one of those growling monster-like things.

The following is a text-based reenactment of what occurs when I hear said noise.

Me: Tralala I’m enjoying my peaceful music

Truck outside: RAWR I’M GOING TO EAT YOUR CHILDEN!!

Me: Oh my goodness there’s the SEMI IN MY HOUSE!!  AND IT WANT TO EAT MY CHILDREN!!

Truck: BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

And that’s the best I can do.  In essence, the noise they create is like unto death.  And I don’t understand.  If anyone can provide me with a logical explanation to the draw of driving one of these things every day and scaring the crap out of me, feel free to tell me (of course, there aren’t that many of you, so oh well).

I hate trucks.

 

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What’s this Big Square thing?!?!

The following post was written by my older brother, but I have no problem relating to it.

“I’m not much of a blogger but recent experiences have been much too appalling not to share with the world.

Most people in the older generations are under the strong impression that all of us in the new generation or pretty technology-savvy. Or at least computer-savvy. This has been one of my own strongly-held beliefs… until I took Management Information Systems this semester at USU. I’ve now realized that there is a large portion of the population that, when staring point-blank into a computer monitor, become at least three times as dumb as they normally are. Let me explain.

For anyone not familiar with MIS (Management Information Systems), the class itself is basically set up thus: it teaches you some basic principles of business management (specifically interacting in the Information Systems side of things), it covers basic and intermediate Microsoft Excel techniques, and touches a bit on web design. It really is very simple, or so I thought.

A perfect example of people freaking out in front of a computer happened today in class. Our professor told us he was going to go over some new Excel features that we hadn’t used before. Like ALWAYS, we’re required to start by opening up an excel file that has all the information on it so all we have to do is manipulate it the way we’re supposed to. So, the professor opens up the folder with all the files and explains that instead of only opening up one file, we would be opening up *GASP* FOUR files. After naming only two of them, a loud buzz falls over the classroom as people start freaking out before they’ve even opened up a file.

“Wait, which file is it?”

“I don’t see that one!”

“Is it this one?!”

“I still don’t… oh wait, here it is! Wait no, that’s not it!”

Ten hands go up before he even finishes telling us which files to open. In hopes of answering people’s questions in one shot rather than individually, he tells us that two of them are Text files, one is the excel file, and the fourth is an Access file. Unfortunately this just further confuses everyone since apparently no one knows what a text file is (even though we just finished creating HTML on Notepad) and everyone gets confused when they open it up (if they actually find it) and, heaven forbid, it’s NOT an excel file.

So while the professor has to go around and help half the class just find the files we need, I open up Solitaire and manage to win my first game before the professor makes it back up to the front of the classroom.

Okay. So we’ve finally found all the files, so we’re ready to start and blast through this thing right?

Step #1: Click on File > Save As… to save all the files to the desktop so we can find them easily when we need them later. Simple enough right?

While everyone is happily saving along, all of a sudden we hit another bump in the road. Uh oh, the read-only Access file doesn’t work like all the other ones!

Once the professor realizes this, he shows the simple solution up on the big screen. Solution: The “Save As…” button is in a different spot.

The familiar hum returns as people become confused. A different spot? Will it still save my file? Why is does it say this on the screen? How come my screen looks like an excel file and not an access file?

Just when the professor thinks everyone is on the same page, another hand goes up. “Uhm, my Access file didn’t save to the desktop!” Professor goes over to computer, and shows him *once again* where the right button is.

Wow, we haven’t even started working with our Excel file have we??? Ok, let’s get started. Step #2: Click this button, and choose this option and choose this text file that we just saved to the desktop to import the data.

Miraculously, everyone seems to be on the same page up to this point.

Ok, this box will come up. MAKE SURE THIS OPTION IS CHOSEN and then click Next, and you will see this box come up.

The hum returns as everyone starts talking and fifteen hands go up because a different box came up. It was quickly apparent that it was because the wrong option from the first box was highlighted, but he is forced to explain it individually fifteen times.

Just as he’s about to move on, (I’m really not making this up or just trying to throw out stereotypes) this blonde girl across the room shouts out that she still has no idea what files to save to the desktop.

On the bright side, I’m getting really good at Solitaire.”

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