Hippy me on Infant Development, Cobblestone streets, and well...

My Child and Adolescent Development class is soooooooooo boring. And today I have 30 pages of textbook reading and copious note taking for the quiz tomorrow. It's tasks like these that makes me revert to my hippy-daydreaming-self. When reading about whether or not to breast feed, share the bed with your baby or do baby's dream does nothing to excite me. My initial hippy answer for all these questions is a basic one size fits all: babies were born, feed, and cognitively developing long before Gerber had developed formula, epidurals were possible (question, am I the only one that thinks shoving a HUGE needle in someones spine as being a bad idea?)and websites available for interpreting dreams. Hippy me just wants to embrace the fact that nature has provided and "progress" doesn't always lead to a better solution than what nature has already presented, usually it's just a more sophisticated problem. That's my hippy rant.

As a way to try and escape my textbook I have been daydreaming. Lately I've been in France a lot, Avignon, where lavender fields, crepes, biased waiters, and exotic toilets were found. But my favorite part was the cobblestone streets wet with fresh rain. The world is a more romantic, beautiful place with cobblestone streets (unless it's the Versailles cobblestone, that's just dangerous).

I know that every European town/city has cobblestone streets (except for the ones that were annihilated during the WW's), but there is something so classy about them, unless you're in highheels--I've tried it and given my natural grace it's a miracle that 1) I'm here today, 2) someone didn't die as I tripped many times--my body is an awkward, yet capable weapon. 

Moving on...

Cobblestone streets, it's almost as though they promise summer romance, hot men, chocolate to die for, and your first kiss in the rain. Or Johnny Depp from Chocolat:

 

Then you also expect to look like this: 

 Oh well, I suppose we all have our little fantasies...Which reminds me I'm hoping the Groundhog was wrong and VA will experience an early spring! Wouldn't that be wonderful?! Then I'd find a colonial town with cobblestone where I can lazily walk hoping I look suave while the hippy in me continues to grow out her leg hairs, protest textbooks, GMO's, liver dumplings, and personality tests.

PROFESSORS UNITE!

I don't know when I'll learn not to go to my dad for comfort over college drama's. He's answer is a timeless classic when I go down the self-pity road and cry: "why me?"

Dad will reply: "TRADITION!"

(Now play this movie clip:

                                                                                                                               )
I used to think that dad was just on a cynical, unforgiving tangent rooted from a long history of college abuse, until a professor admitted to it. My professor lightly touched on the idea of, "the tradition of the mysterious professor...the man that you can never figure out and his standards are unexplained." But the way that Professor D. referred to it made it sound like there's some higher, secret order of professors out there, kind of like the Masons, meeting together for the purpose of destroying their students peace.

Dad and Professor D. have got to be right! I'm totally convinced!!!!! I can picture it now.

"Faculty Meetings" 

 

The perfect cover--"transparent", out in the open, unsuspected, lethal. Students fund with hard work and loans the rich, luxurious office they meet in. It drips with rich mahogany, maroon, wing-backed chairs, smells of wax and fresh ink staining the pages of an essay on the desk. They nonchalantly saunter in, and settle them selves in chairs arranged in a circle. The last one to enter comes fashionably late. With a heavy limp he enters, trailing behind a blood trail of red ink with an essay clenched in his hand. It's wrinkled, torn, stained with more red than black ink. He looks like a mix of a vampire and Quasimodo and Mr. Addams. He is the self-sacrificing, dedicated professor that stays up late every night feeding off of innocent essays.

The provost of the college probably stands and leads them all in reciting their pledge (Standing at attention they recite these verses, and then they finish by taking their red-inked pens and drawing an F in the air before being seated):

Professors unite! 

Now is the time to ruin the peace

of the future--one student at at time

no student left behind!  

They then open the floor for discussion. The topic? New and creative ways to support the holy tradition of ruining the peace of the student

Ideas rush forth like girls at an One Direction concert. 

• Suprise essay assigned before spring break
• Dispensing with fall break
• Alluding to cancelling class the day of an exam and then don't
• Rearrange the seating chart
• Pop quiz

Then the half-human half-who-knows-what professor that was late raises his hand:

"I support the order of the mysterious professor. The one that cannot be charted, defined, predicted. The powerful one that has only one true constant: the forever changing mind. The one who captivates his students peace by keeping them subjective to his ever-changing whims. This professor is one that does not bow to the technological era of transparency, outlining the grade scale, or addressing the material that will be on the exam. This professor is the true consummate of our trade. But if any of you still lack the clarity of this vision I have rewritten William Ernest Henley's Invictus for you:

Out of the night that covers them,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable approval.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
The students will winced and cry aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of premeditated enigma
Their heads will be bloody, and bowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the exam,
And yet the peril of the grade
Finds, and shall find, them panic-stricken.

It matters not how difficult the syllabus,
How charged with absences the scroll.
I am the master of their fate:
I am the captain of their soul."

Silence, they all stand and give him the honorary air F. They feel too much respect to clap or say another word. But after being taught by the master, they silently depart and head to the psychology department to receive advise on how to be more enigmatic.

*End of meeting*

Only one remains in the room, an English professor that is deeply disturbed that the rewritten poem didn't rhyme as the original did. Then a maniacal smile spreads across his face--it must be a devise used to prove how unpredictable he must learn to be. Happy at this new interpretation he returns to write up a secret syllabus full of his expectations for the class, then the syllabi antagonist. "This antagonist is what I will give my students." He mediates evilly.

And that is how the tradition continues.

Hamlet, Essay, Exam, Valentines Day

College. Snow day. Paper due tomorrow. Exam tomorrow. Valentines day tomorrow. But here I sit trying to pound out a paper on Hamlet's theme of action vs. indecision with the movie comparison of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I have sat here for too long trying to be productive, but all I come up with is horrible! My head is too far into this essay that I hoped would stand as a David among my portfolio. And then all the negative self-talk starts about my writing aspirations. But in the depths of my mind a flash of pink and red was seen that helped me feel better about life! VALENTINES DAY.

By definition I am a single woman, in college, and I have no one to spend Valentines day with and I should be miserable, but instead a smile spreads across my face. Valentines day is a better excuse for a crappy day than Friday the 13th.  No matter what you're complaining about if you add, "and it's Valentines day..." to the end of your complaint suddenly your problems are validly much worse than anyone could have supposed. Let's test this out:

Which sounds like a worse day:

• 'Ugh! My alarm didn't go off and my hair looks horrible!' 

 Or

• 'Ugh! My alarm didn't go off and my hair looks horrible...and it's Valentines day...'

• 'I have an essay that is ruining my life!'

 Or 

• 'I have an essay that is ruining my life and it's due on Valentines day!'

• 'This essay is putting me through the meat grinder and it's making me all self-conscious about writing and stupid that I want to go into creative writing. I AM A FAILURE!'

Or

• 'This essay is putting me through the meat grinder and it's making me all self-conscious about writing and stupid that I want to go into creative writing. I AM A FAILURE! AND IT'S VALENTINES DAY!'

• 'This chick flick stinks!'

Or

• 'This chick flick stinks and it's Valentines day!'

 See what I mean? By merely adding four words to the end of your sentence suddenly you're just pleading for validation and anyone who doesn't give it is then insensitive. 

Red Herring:

In Paris I was walking around with a group of friends when a bunch of drunk guys felt like some of my friends were incredibly pretty and they wanted to get up in their business. We ran onto a bus, but our new suitors wouldn't be deterred. Here's a photo of them blowing kisses to me. They were probably drunk and that's why they got confused and decided to blow kisses to me instead of the girls they were originally hunting for. 

 Oh the men of Europe, sometimes it wouldn't hurt if an American guy wanted to be a little more forward and said I was pretty...I got that all the time in Europe, but maybe those guys were just scamps.

Back on track:
 Life hurts today. I hope I'm a writer of any kind (except the average or horrible kind). I love writing. I know it's a powerful thing, but it's a competitive field and I kind of feel like an average or horrible writer. Well, I've got things to do, and it's Valentines day, so I better make it look good.

Shebz

Table for One

I'll just admit it right now. I've never been on a date (I suppose this is where people scratch their heads and then reluctantly agree that it makes sense). So what if a guy never took me on a date? I mean I was asked out on a date through text once and this is how it went:

John Doe: Hey! So I'm moving out of town soon, but I think we should go on a date before I leave.

(I received this in Anatomy class. When I saw the word DATE I freaked out, interrupted my teacher and announced that I had been asked out on a date! Everyone was so happy that it finally happened that I didn't even get in trouble for interrupting or texting in class. True story.)

Me:  Yeah a date sounds like might be fun...

(Now I'm sitting in a car with my divorced classmate freaking out. It took all my willpower and her mothering skills to keep me from saying: "I'm on my way over to your place with matching t-shirts. I'll see you in three minutes!")

John Doe: Great

*Days pass without hearing from him*

Me: Do you have any plans?

John Doe: Well I've been wanting to see Avengers.

Me: Ok, well when would you like to go?

(At this point L-O-S-E-R  comes to mind. Asking over text, not getting back with me about plans, then choosing a hero movie, which I had absolutely no interest in seeing.)

John Doe: idk, maybe Friday?

Me: Ok

John Doe: Hey, do you have a money?

(This is where I'll admit that I was loaded, but he didn't need to know that.)

Me: Nope, clean broke.

John Doe: Oh...

John Doe: Hey, do you have a car? 

(REALLY?)

Me: Nope, I thought you had a car.

John Doe: Yeah, but it died.

Me: Oh

Me: Is there a plan b?

The universe: Cricket noises

It was obvious to the world that I had just been in an awkward situation. Three weeks later two dashing guy friends found their way to my desert oasis. Like a considerate, civialized people they called me up and invited me to go to the Avengers with them. Unwilling to miss out on being with two of my most favorite guys I swallowed my pride and went to a hero movie.

I dressed up, found my friends, sat between them and prepared to enjoy myself. As I watched people walk in I had a devilish glory when my ex-best-friend walked in and saw me sitting on the right of the hottest boy in our high school with the second hottest to my left. Immature, yes. Worth the scathing look I received? Totally!

Right as the lights began to dim a guy that looked familiar walked in with a girl. Feeling like destiny had finally given me a chance to turn the awkward tide I couldn't help myself from having another victory.

I leaned forward and with half loud voice, half whisper I said, "Hya John Doe!" He jumped and with a completely guilty face turned and said, "Oh, hi. I didn't think I'd see you here." Then the lights went out. Leaving me with the upper hand.

The end of my dating story/life.

Now as a powerful, traveled, college woman I'm thinking that any guy who asks me out as got to be in for a treat. I'm not a girl with a string of ex's, hateful about men, or desperate to get married. Wow, now that I think about it, I really am a peach! ;) My friends laugh at me. On any given night when I feel like going out I follow a strict protocol. 

1. Shower, and shave legs. I might not shave my legs for the rest of the month, but on my special night I shave for myself.
2. Dress up in my finest. A girls got to look her best when she's going out for a special night.
3. Do make-up. I normally don't wear make-up and when I do its just mascara, but who's to say mascara isn't enough?
4. Pin up hair in the most attactive style.
5. Decide what I want to do.
6. Go out to dinner. Yes, I sit at a table for one.
7. Enjoy the evening.

I don't do this because I feel like I'm un-dateable so I have to take myself out on the town. I just do this out of habit and for fun. It's fun to dress up for yourself and enjoy an evening to yourself.  Everyone has evenings when their dying to go out, so when I do I just dress up. As my one Aussie friends pointed out, "You're so funny! You only dress up when you go out by yourself!" She's of course right. But my fuzzy socks wouldn't want me any other way.

Fish Food

As I traveled Europe the inevitable thing happened. My feet became really gross! My shoes also began to stink, which I felt like was an unusually unfair case of injustice. Thankfully, I just have never fought with smelly feet during my childhood. But Europe had the special something that made me stink.

The first night in Barcelona I walked into my room and kicked my shoes off. After that one of the Aussie roommates I had began to complain about a weird smell in the room. Then ALL of my roommates began to complain. Sheepishly I had to admit to the truth...I'm thoroughly convinced that the only reason why they didn't throw me and my shoes out of our fifth story window was because, 1) they'd have to touch my shoes, which would have been way too close, and 2) it was a really small window.

Instead of kicking me out on the streets with my shoes we came up with a compromise. I found a plastic sack, threw my shoes in and tied it shut with lightening speed. Then I dashed to the under-bed-lockable-drawer-with-a-lid-safe-keeping-cubby-thingy. An Aussie had bravely volunteered to open it, I threw them in and as fast as we could we closed, locked and pushed the drawer under the bed. Then, hours later, when no one was in the room I grabbed them out from their under-bed prison and ran to the down stairs laundromat where I payed a million euros to wash the criminal weapons of footware.

After that night I continued to fight stinky feet in Europe. My friend and conducted a few tests to see why for no apparent reason my shoes stank. We never figured it out. We'll have to lay that mystery to rest next to the, 'what-is-in-mystery-meat-and-why-do-they-serve-it-in-Elementary-cafeterias-mystery.' in the X-files of life graveyard.

One day as I walked around the adorable Greek island of Paros I saw a sign. I walked by it then did a double take. I stood their in front of someone's business gaping. Now, in Paros, you, yes YOU can have the pedicure of your life! An unforgettable, unique, natural experience that will leave your feet feeling like they just came from a whole new world found under the sea. Don't go back home with nasty feet, and settle for and averaged pedicure experience. Stand out from your friends and have the pedicure that will give you distinction among your fellow co-workers.

After I got over the shock my next though was, "WOW! These fish have been trained in the ancient art of acupuncture and know exactly where to suck on your feet so that your kidneys feel better! What will these fish think of next? Dental school?" Jokes aside, my real thought was, "People pay to have minnows eat their feet?"

Then an extraordinary thing happened. I stood in front of this sign and daydreamed about what this spa experience would be like (I believe it was the totally economic, humane and responsible thing to do. It saved me from having to pay for the treatment, it kept the fish from being exposed the nuclear toxins growing on my feet, and yet I got to live the experience anyway.).

Daydream Disclaimer: 
I rolled up my pants legs only to expose my legs which hadn't been shaved in over two weeks. Then I took off my shoes, peeled the socks from my feet and dipped them into the tank. At first the Sweetish fish (okay they probably weren't from Sweden, but a girl can dream right?) eagerly swam to my feet, excited to practice acupuncture on my feet. They latched on for their first suck on my feet and suddenly realized this was an inhumane trap. This tourist had the worst smelling feet! NO! The brave fish that had been assigned to start at the ankle were now trapped in leg hair as long as Chinese noodles. Between the Bactria that they had suddenly sucked into their tiny unsuspecting bodies and those caught in my leg hairs they would all spend a split second in panic before the whole tank of fish went belly up.
End of daydream, now you may resume reading with safety:

Good thing that was a daydream, 'cause if it that had actually happened I would have died of embarrassment and then someone would have to figure a way to ship my body home.