A Moving Day

Reviewing today, these were some of the things that inspired me to do some things:

This picture inspired me to
1. WASH my hair and to TRIM IT SOON because it looks like ONE HOT MESS right there. And it also smelled like one. Do you see Michal Lynn's face? It's like "I smell something...I don't know what it is...but I think I'll lean a little bit away from the stench..."
2. Not be friends with petite people anymore.
3. Wear my island pants outside, since she wants a pair and she's a talented seamstress and designer, so if she likes them, then hmph, I don't care what everyone else says



1. Continue taking Italian
2. Turn off the flash in outdoor settings
3. Not to ask complete jerks to take my picture who would understand that a car is not an appropriate backdrop in any picture
4. Once again, to not like petite people. Ever. Under any circumstances.



1. To slam my head repeatedly into a brick wall

Very Short Post

My dream last night involved criticizing someone's eating habits at a business casual dinner. The business casual packet has evidently backfired.

Long Day at the Office

Since several years ago, I have more or less made friends with insects. This happened in Hungarian Scout Camp, where there were enormous, skinny spiders scampering all over the place. After a while, I just didn't even notice when they were crawling all over me in my sleep. If it's true that you eat 8 spiders a year, or your lifetime, or something (it involves the number 8), I must have eaten 15 during this time. Long, skinny spiders. Sort of as a substitute for spaghetti, because when at Hungarian Scout Camp, you don't eat spaghetti. You eat MEAT and EASTERN EUROPEAN THINGS. So MEAT and SAUSAGE. Up to this point in my life, I had an unholy fear of insects in me, to the point where I'd look on the curve of the toilet bowl and in the toilet bowl to see if one of the spiders my mom had flushed down there was not crawling back up to finally get the revenge he dreamed of on his way down the drain.

In any case, since then not many insects have phased me. Spiders? Meh. Bees? Meh. Cockroaches? Me...eh. I can deal with these things, and part of it is that I survived Hungarian Scout Camp. The other is that, well, I'm basically a Grown Up now.

Last week at work, I noticed that there were a few bugs here and there. They weren't cockroaches, but looked remotely related to them. It looked like if you gave them a hamburger, side order of fries, and a milkshake they would baloon into bonafide cockroaches, but they weren't much to worry about. My boss, however, would interrupt phonecalls by running out into his adjoining room and smashing them with his shoe, bellowing "BUG BUG BUG BUG BUG BUG," nearly frothing at the mouth, and then return to the phone with an apologetic "Sorry, there was a bug" to the person on the other end, just in case he hadn't heard the crunching of the exoskeleton.

I had seen a couple of these little things, but hadn't thought it worth the trouble of jumping out of my chair and rabidly run toward them with a newspaper to kill them. They were just there, no big deal. Yesterday, when I was working (with my shoes off) I kept on feeling something tickling my toes. I figured it was just a hair or something until I looked and I saw these little suckers running around my feet. Then I decided that ok, fine, I should just kill the things, and when I went to dispose of the bodies, I rounded the corner of my desk to see that there was a veritable little colony of these guys hanging out, lounging on couches, watching tv, and asking for beers.

My boss has been in Paris for the past 2 weeks, so I didn't have anyone to complain to. I haven't yet performed the mass execution, but I don't know how to go about it yet. Electrocution? Hanging? Use the guillotine? Torture first? Give them a trial? Because if I've learned anything at this job, it's that there is nothing tiny, seemingly insignificant enough to not spend at least an hour on.

Conundrumed

A quick Google search of "oxymoron business casual" results in around 10 pages of most likely people ranting about the booming business world and all that it entails. I choose not to add to that list, since life is already full of oxymorons that no one seems to rant about. Like nondairy creamer.

As you can probably tell, I had to go to a "business casual" dinner yesterday for the program I'm doing during the summer. At work I quickly googled "business casual" to see exactly what it meant and if it would be throw-on-able in 15 minutes. Khakis - which I no longer have and button-up shirt - all unironed. Which left me with 2 choices: a leotard or a dress/skirt.

I arrived and realized that most everyone had read no further than the "business" in "business casual" and there I was, bright magenta toenails exposed exposed in a sea of suits. It was only when we had broken up into smaller groups that the lowly liberal arts interns came together and I realized that they were the ones who had seen the "casual" in business casual. Ah, HERE were my people! The girl with the patterened Keds shoes and the boy with the cape! And since misery likes to hang together, during the crucial, life-changing "networking" session we had, we just sort of milled around together like farm animals waiting to be called to dinner.

In the meantime, we carefully reviewed a packet we were given about how to be a stellar intern. A large section of this was devoted to dress and to eating at business meals. And while the packet would impart such important, inevident advice like "Do not dunk your food into a beverage" or "Never call attention to the dining mistakes of others or be overly apologetic about your own," it also left us hanging with recommendations such as "dress for the position you want." What if you're working at a bank but really want to be working at Starbucks? Should you still dress like a barrista? Huh? What then Mr. Business Casual?

And so the rest of my "business casual" dinner went without anything else unusual. Aside from the tasteless chicken being served on plastic plates with plastic cuttlery, it was nearly like eating at home with my now-solid "network" of people around me.

So it's now that I think I'll laugh at my 12th grade art teacher's prediction that I would one day work in an office. Maybe. But since I am currently using quotation marks around every word remotely associated with the business world. As if it were a different language. "Deutche Bank" translates into dumplings.

Because we can't bear to be separated

Ah, spring. That season of flowers, surprise warm rain showers in which I feel perpetually damp and I can't tell if I'm sweating or actually just moist from the rain, and of course, the season of love. Of all sorts. In abundance. Sort of like bugs. Which we have. I decided to substitute love with bugs this year.

And this was a decision. Not a situation forced upon me.

Last year when we moved into this apartment, we had a minor bug problem. By minor, I mean that there were flying ants covering almost absolutely every part of the room, and for lunch I would simply reach out my hand, grab a handful of them, puree them in my hands, and swallow them. But then the pesticide man came, and this situation:


Became a thing of the past.

Bugs, I find, will come no matter what. Even if you do or don't clean the bejeezus out of a place. And while I'm currently using the toilet brush as a toothbrush and I just picked my dinner off the ground and rolled it around in a dust bunny for flavor, I wouldn't particularly say we're living in complete squalor. Nevertheless, the bugs have decided that they might be interested in taking up residence with us, and their giving our apartment a trial visit at the moment. They are still coming in small groups, but I'm guessing it's only a matter of time before word gets out on the street that we've got a pretty *sweet pad* and they'll be arriving with their extended family and lots of baggage.

Which led to the following last night:

No, not that Gwen Stefani is sleeping in our apartment. That we moved Mary Kate's mattress into Julie and my bedroom after Raid-ing her room to high heaven so that we could all huddle together in fear.

(Yes, no need to point out the obvious: I am STILL sleeping on a boat of an air mattress.)

My mattress was actually overlapping Mary Kate's after I reinflated it to its full glory, and that's how we spent the night. Can you feel the love?

And Rita, just say the word. I am ready to lead a revolution of the pants.

BACK

A few things I did recently while entirely sober:

1. Buy Mortadella thinking it was cheese, when it was clearly listed under the "Specialty Meats" at the grocery store
2. Smash my head against the refrigerator entirely by accident
3. Wear shorts to the gym

All these things could be explained a little easier if I had had a small bit of very cheap the finest caliber wine in me but alas, I have no excuse. Especially for #3. I have not worn shorts since the last time I bought a pair during the summer after 10th grade in St. Louis when Abbie and I anxiously examined our burgeoning waistlines expanding with gooey butter cake and gallons of smoothies from the student center at Wash. U. We went to Target to buy shorts so that we could exercise. The shorts I bought were from the 4th of July blow-out sale. My shorts have a star on them, and has USA proudly printed in red, white, and blue underneath in some glitter crap.

I wore the shorts during that summer once to play tennis. I gained over 10 pounds.

There are few things in the world that belong less together than Adrianna and shorts. Pickles and ice cream is one of them, and me in skinny jeans is another. We just don't fit together, metaphorically and physically. I could go into why we don't, why the ONLY ACCEPTABLE PARTS OF MY BODY ARE MY HANDS, but alas, this isn't a therapy session.

What also didn't fit recently was Looptopia in Chicago. Ala White Night in Paris, Chicago decided it would try to have a "dusk til' dawn" deal, and pretty much failed. Not because it wasn't a good idea, A for effort, but simply because the people and the place are different. What started as a good idea ended in a messy cabal of pushy, frat-like drunken people vying to get into buildings or content with unaffectedly bellowing in the streets. In Paris I think mayhem would consist of well-aimed crepes and berets being shot around, but here it was just drink. And lots of people.

Some things are better kept on Europe. If something doesn't work out, they can just go with the excuse of "Well, we've got thousands of successful years of history behind us, what do YOU have Chicago?" And while Sears Tower and Trump Tower, along with Henry Hobson Richarson, Frank Lloyd Writght, and Louis Henry Sullivan architecture is unbeatable, I'm afraid we don't have Swiss chocolate or REAAAAAAAAAAAAALLY good mozzarella cheese.

(I sound like such a tool right now. Let's see how you'll feel after what you see what I like to wear when I get the chance.)

What else belongs to another world, consequently, are these:



These, ladies and gentlemen, are the infamous "islandwear" pants. Pants I felt entirely comfortable walking around in among hippies, girls whose hair was all shave except for three long, thin tails on various parts of their skull, and who were indiscernable from men when lounging topless on beaches. If I wore this around Chicago, I would either start a major trend, or would not be allowed on public transportation.

These pants are great.

Here they are undone. As you can see, the idea is that you put them on, then fold and tie them over. A one-size-fits-all deal, leaving plenty of room to eat tons and to stick a small child into the pouch on your tummy if you're a marsupial, and then cover him up.

These pants, while wonderful, loose, comfortable, and hide absolutely all flaws you might have on your lower half on account of looking like a large potato sack, do not go with several things.



With high-heels? Formal islandwear outfit? I'm afraid not.



Maybe rainboots? Perhaps if I'm planning on leading some sort of a revolution.

No, these pants belong to a different time and place. With an outrageous tan and flipflops, and where people don't know your name.

Nevertheless, who would still be my friend if I wore these around campus?

Ciao!

I was extremely close to not setting foot in the library AT ALL this week. Nay, not even just the library. Campus! However the gods (I'll blame them, seeing as I have no one else to blame), sensing an overwhelmingly relaxing and nonchalant attitude emanating from my apartment, decided at 7:30 PM on Sunday afternoon that it was high-time I mosey on over to the A-level to work on a project with Arnaldo Rafael Jose Vera Arroyo.

That is his full name. And he only lets you talk to him if you say that 25 times very quickly before you begin addressing him. You have his permission to be very jealous.

This weekend will definitely not take the prize for Most Eventful Weekend Ever during my Thursday night Pancake Proceeding. You might wonder what the Pancake Proceeding is: it's something I am very reluctant to call a tradition, or anything, but for the past 6 weeks some friends who I don't normally see during the week have been coming over Thursday nights to witness what might be the only time Adrianne uses a stove during the week while she makes sometimes failed, sometimes ok pancakes that aren't American but which aren't Hungarian enough to be called Hungarian. And then we sit around, people politely washing down my creation with copious, rather, miniscule amounts of wine or whatever else is about.

And then we talk. Or gossip. Whathaveyou. With the celebrated Linda Muzere usually taking home the prize for The Most Eventful Weekend of All of Us. You think you had an exciting weekend? Linda had a more exciting one. You think you can dance? Linda can dance better. You think you can breath well? Linda can breath better. The only way I could have a more riveting weekend than her would be if Gumby or a unicorn turned up on my doorstep and we went out together.

Anyway, one of this weekend's major highlights was going to a movie with someone whose name I didn't find out till the next day. Friday evening I went over to a friend's "open house" where A Girl voiced her desire to go to the movies and I invited myself along.

In any case, a new week! New opportunites! Fresh slate! Have a nice Monday!

Almost Over

Today, after handing in my last essay, I went to my Problems of Modernism: 1913, class. I was pretty tired. This is what I wrote for one of the sentences of my notes:

The artists are attempting to soak some of the others' art through naughty candy

Naughty candy? That came out of NOWHERE. The rest of the sentence might seem stupid to you, only the teacher actually talks that way, and I find him to be so amusing that I write down everything he says. EVERYTHING. Even the sweet jokes he cracks. Even when he ended the lecture with "And next time I will show you MORE pictures of naked men!" Except for the "naughty candy" part, the rest of that sentence makes sense to me, but there was no way he said "naughty candy" at any point in the lecture.

This week has been an absolutely rip-roaring, spine-tingling, rousing, sensational adventure roller coaster ride of a week filled with essays, midterm, essays, essays, essays, midterm, and oh, what the hell, why NOT another essay?

Ok, so maybe that up there is a wee bit of an exaggeration.

Everyone have a really tablecloth evening. I mean nice evening.

Full Circle

I re-met David today. He is not Ivan.

Day of let downs

I met Ivan today. He is not David.

Bruce, I tried as hard as I could to use your idea for a thesis statement. The best I could manage to eek out went something like "Even though X appears confident in his writing, he actually isn't." I think it's acceptable.