The weekend before Thanksgiving, my dad scored some sweet company tickets to a concert in ATL. Then Christmas rolls around and one of my dad's co-workers gives him a game for his gift and adds, "After meeting your wife and kids, I thought you guys would enjoy this." A unanimous 'awwww', right?
Here's how the game is played. Two to four people grab a hand controller, you press the button in the middle, and wait for the button to turn green. Once the center button turns green, you press the small button on your hand controller and whoever buzzes in last gets a shock. Yes, that's right. A shock...of electricity.
Why in the world would someone think my family would enjoy this? Actually, we can't put the thing down. We Lofton's are apparently hard core.
I have recently taken to documenting things that go on in my daily life, mainly because I find some readers simply don't believe me. Thank goodness for the iPhone, right!
Here is documentation that we are crazy. Please excuse the Redneck accents, foul language, butt-crack glimpse, etc. Electricity people.
Come over any time. We even have the Billingsley's participating.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Follow Me.
Normally I have a really intense New Year's Resolution that I go ahead and PLAN to stop about January 16. Not this year. My Resolution is to have over 100 followers on SoCo by my birthday: March 20th.
Don't worry. It's not my only resolution :)
SO...if you read, or even if you don't...press the "follow" button at the top of this page and fill out a little bit of info! Help me out :)
Don't worry. It's not my only resolution :)
SO...if you read, or even if you don't...press the "follow" button at the top of this page and fill out a little bit of info! Help me out :)
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Old Man hits Lofton Chic
A young woman who lives in my house (not me) got some fabulous new Christmas clothes from Santa and her...we'll just call him her boyfriend... She came out looking so chic today for our lunch date.
Though I am apparently not allowed to use her Name or show her Face, here is what her outfit:
When I saw her I shrieked in excitement because, well, she looks fabulous. Good combo of color, not too matchy-matchy, nice use of bling vs. grunge. She worked. The only thing I could have added was a cool hat or like a purple, un-ironed plaid and she would have looked like she belonged in Little 5. No bragging, but she's related. :)
But then, suddenly, I flipped my head or blinked or something and I saw OLD MAN. Flash and then it hit me. This girl just mixed all of my grandfather's favorite wardrobe selections together...well not my grandfather, but someone's I am sure.
I'll break it down for you.
First we start with the sweater. Through all of these examples, I went to Google, typed in "old man sweaters" and so forth. Here's what I found for old man sweater:
Color variance, sure. But, in reality Victoria's Secret stole their winter line from your grandpa. Even this cardi you could do a lot with. Simply Classic.
The UGG boots in the top photo are very popular, but they always have been.
Then there's that blinged out white watch and look what was on the first page of the Google search:
I don't know. Maybe it's just me, but my grandfather actually does wear the same brand white t's that this young lady is sportin' in this picture.
My analysis? We women have gotten smart. Although I am a FIRM believer in cute over comfort, we have taken over the cool, laid back look of our fathers'. Apparently heels are out and men socks are in. Oh yes.
Though I am apparently not allowed to use her Name or show her Face, here is what her outfit:
But then, suddenly, I flipped my head or blinked or something and I saw OLD MAN. Flash and then it hit me. This girl just mixed all of my grandfather's favorite wardrobe selections together...well not my grandfather, but someone's I am sure.
I'll break it down for you.
First we start with the sweater. Through all of these examples, I went to Google, typed in "old man sweaters" and so forth. Here's what I found for old man sweater:
The UGG boots in the top photo are very popular, but they always have been.
My analysis? We women have gotten smart. Although I am a FIRM believer in cute over comfort, we have taken over the cool, laid back look of our fathers'. Apparently heels are out and men socks are in. Oh yes.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Doctor, Doctor
Earlier this week my bestie and I "took" my mom to the doctor. She has been having some crazy trouble with her knees and, as it ends up, has a form of Rheumatoid Arthritis. :( But at least she knows now...don't get me started on her other crazzzzy doctor who should be punched....in the face.
Other than that, we all had a pretty good day. I was sick, yet again, and was feeling under the weather. Actually, no...we did not have a pretty good day. It was HILARIOUS. Here's the thing: anytime my friend and I are together we normally can get into some sort of trouble, but then you add Diva T (my mother) into the mix and that "trouble" gets bumped up about three notches.
Destinee and I walk into this waiting room at 9:00am and realize what we had gotten ourselves into. This was an old people world if I had ever seen one. I felt like I had gone to visit my grandmother in the nursing home. I don't have a grandmother in a nursing home. THAT'S HOW BAD IT WAS. It was weird when we first got there. Time warp. The chairs were a weird shade of beige, the walls were a pale green, there was like this weird Native American-like wall paper boarder around the room. The place was scattered with a few senior citizens and I felt like I was 5. It was a weird place, then my mom gets us laughing at all the oldies in there. That's when SHE got to leave. Destinee and I had already volunteered to wait the 2 hours while she was being poked and prodded before we knew the waiting room would be filled to the brim with old people.
Before I move on, here's my disclaimer: I love old people, really I do. Ask my grandparents. Go ahead.
The morning drew on and my sinus head got bigger, I got sleepier, and therefore both agitated and giggly.
There were several different oldies that I'll tell you about, but first read the text message conversation that we sent each other throughout the morning.
D: This lady behind us is stating at us
(This was when my mom kept making us laugh. A lady was hanging her stuff on the coat rack...I thought that was always just for show.)
B: Shes looking at us??
D:YES hard starring
B:Girl please. Get like us.
D:This tv thing is on my last nerves
(I think this was about the time my mom left and then all we had to listen to was the annoying and slightly outdated TV. Luckily I brought a book.)
B: That old man looks dead
(I really do love old people, but he really did look peaceful.)
D:Heck yes
B:I thought she was gonna sit by me!!
(Some lady and her husband with a crazy hat. Not the first, nor the only man with a crazy hat. They all looked like outdated pimps.)
D:I love his hat
(the aforementioned pimp hat)
B: Oh yes ha
D: I am bout to cut her if she don't cut that mess out
(A younger woman had walked in, abruptly, sat down and began texting on her cell. The only problem was that she had the key tones on and every time she pressed a button a cheap "ding" would sound. People like this gives my generation a bad name. She got a couple of mean granny-snarls from the lady across the isle and for a while the laughing-stare woman looked away.)
B: For real
D: You are not the only one in her put it on mute
B:Silent that text ha
D: She was on some fb
B: What!?!?! *****
D: Yup
B: Awweweewwe
D: Nanny next to you is cracking me up with her Christmas stuff
(At this point, the room was so full of older citizens, people had awkwardly began to sit next to each other. I hate this part of waiting rooms. She was cute though. No harm.)
B: Readers Digest
(She brought it from home...just saying.)
D:What?
B: That's what she was reading haha
D: No I was talking about her out fit
B: That too crute socks
(Santa socks and a matching...well shirt, pants, sweater, purse.)
B: I need to blow my nose. I am gonna run to the car.
(I know, I know...but I did not want to edit this out. It was part of our day. I like like poop.)
B: Thanks
D: Old people can find anything to talk about
(We eves dropped on some CRAZY conversations. For instance, I know the older Asian couple in there had apparently made the day "Doctor Visit Day" and spent $115 at their previous appointment. She also had forgotten her glasses at home that day, bummer, and had to borrow his...He was getting his blood work back from the lab that was next door and she was just keeping him company and making sure he did not fall down if their was any ice. The first visit had been for her... This was my morning, People.)
B: Sho can
D: That man smells so bad
(Before you judge this statement, it was not like Old Man stench...It was so much more. Actually when he and his wife walked in, another woman asked him if he smoked. He replied yes. She replied "Well I can smell it." Destinee's eyes just about popped out of her head...but they ended up talking about a smoke detector. Again, I was not feeling so well. This was also when Destinee began to give her out-of-the-nose-huff that signals when she is really agitated. The smoker man sat right behind us.)
B: uhbgdasdgfaks
B: The sun is not shining
(A lady dressed all in red was wearing white-rimmed sunglasses the entire 2 hours I was there. Who knows if she was waiting on someone, or if she was just really early. I would venture to say she was Mrs. Clause helping out with the Naughty or Nice list.) (I have never seen so much red in one room in all my life. Old people take Christmas Cheer to a whole new level.)
Free, Free At Last. My mother was my hero that day, not because of all the normal, cool things she does for us, but simply because she got me away from all those old people. After that, I needed a nap. They rubbed off on me.
Other than that, we all had a pretty good day. I was sick, yet again, and was feeling under the weather. Actually, no...we did not have a pretty good day. It was HILARIOUS. Here's the thing: anytime my friend and I are together we normally can get into some sort of trouble, but then you add Diva T (my mother) into the mix and that "trouble" gets bumped up about three notches.
Destinee and I walk into this waiting room at 9:00am and realize what we had gotten ourselves into. This was an old people world if I had ever seen one. I felt like I had gone to visit my grandmother in the nursing home. I don't have a grandmother in a nursing home. THAT'S HOW BAD IT WAS. It was weird when we first got there. Time warp. The chairs were a weird shade of beige, the walls were a pale green, there was like this weird Native American-like wall paper boarder around the room. The place was scattered with a few senior citizens and I felt like I was 5. It was a weird place, then my mom gets us laughing at all the oldies in there. That's when SHE got to leave. Destinee and I had already volunteered to wait the 2 hours while she was being poked and prodded before we knew the waiting room would be filled to the brim with old people.
Before I move on, here's my disclaimer: I love old people, really I do. Ask my grandparents. Go ahead.
The morning drew on and my sinus head got bigger, I got sleepier, and therefore both agitated and giggly.
There were several different oldies that I'll tell you about, but first read the text message conversation that we sent each other throughout the morning.
D: This lady behind us is stating at us
(This was when my mom kept making us laugh. A lady was hanging her stuff on the coat rack...I thought that was always just for show.)
B: Shes looking at us??
D:YES hard starring
B:Girl please. Get like us.
D:This tv thing is on my last nerves
(I think this was about the time my mom left and then all we had to listen to was the annoying and slightly outdated TV. Luckily I brought a book.)
B: That old man looks dead
(I really do love old people, but he really did look peaceful.)
D:Heck yes
B:I thought she was gonna sit by me!!
(Some lady and her husband with a crazy hat. Not the first, nor the only man with a crazy hat. They all looked like outdated pimps.)
D:I love his hat
(the aforementioned pimp hat)
B: Oh yes ha
D: I am bout to cut her if she don't cut that mess out
(A younger woman had walked in, abruptly, sat down and began texting on her cell. The only problem was that she had the key tones on and every time she pressed a button a cheap "ding" would sound. People like this gives my generation a bad name. She got a couple of mean granny-snarls from the lady across the isle and for a while the laughing-stare woman looked away.)
B: For real
D: You are not the only one in her put it on mute
B:Silent that text ha
D: She was on some fb
B: What!?!?! *****
D: Yup
B: Awweweewwe
D: Nanny next to you is cracking me up with her Christmas stuff
(At this point, the room was so full of older citizens, people had awkwardly began to sit next to each other. I hate this part of waiting rooms. She was cute though. No harm.)
B: Readers Digest
(She brought it from home...just saying.)
D:What?
B: That's what she was reading haha
D: No I was talking about her out fit
B: That too crute socks
(Santa socks and a matching...well shirt, pants, sweater, purse.)
B: I need to blow my nose. I am gonna run to the car.
(I know, I know...but I did not want to edit this out. It was part of our day. I like like poop.)
B: Thanks
D: Old people can find anything to talk about
(We eves dropped on some CRAZY conversations. For instance, I know the older Asian couple in there had apparently made the day "Doctor Visit Day" and spent $115 at their previous appointment. She also had forgotten her glasses at home that day, bummer, and had to borrow his...He was getting his blood work back from the lab that was next door and she was just keeping him company and making sure he did not fall down if their was any ice. The first visit had been for her... This was my morning, People.)
B: Sho can
D: That man smells so bad
(Before you judge this statement, it was not like Old Man stench...It was so much more. Actually when he and his wife walked in, another woman asked him if he smoked. He replied yes. She replied "Well I can smell it." Destinee's eyes just about popped out of her head...but they ended up talking about a smoke detector. Again, I was not feeling so well. This was also when Destinee began to give her out-of-the-nose-huff that signals when she is really agitated. The smoker man sat right behind us.)
B: uhbgdasdgfaks
B: The sun is not shining
(A lady dressed all in red was wearing white-rimmed sunglasses the entire 2 hours I was there. Who knows if she was waiting on someone, or if she was just really early. I would venture to say she was Mrs. Clause helping out with the Naughty or Nice list.) (I have never seen so much red in one room in all my life. Old people take Christmas Cheer to a whole new level.)
Free, Free At Last. My mother was my hero that day, not because of all the normal, cool things she does for us, but simply because she got me away from all those old people. After that, I needed a nap. They rubbed off on me.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Charlie.
I could watch this video over and over again! It reminds me of my sister!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OBlgSz8sSM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OBlgSz8sSM
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Jersey Shore comes to Spanish class
A huge Spanish test is coming up and my professor is going over some grammar that has been particularly complicated for most of us; for once, I am beginning to get it :)
To begin with, she was saying questions out loud to the class and we were, in turn, supposed to answer. Even as a full class, we were getting them wrong. Slowly she would explain that we were all wrong, yet again, and then start over with the instructions. She wrote diagrams on the board (in Spanish...but I won't criticize her teaching habits...), made up cute little sayings (again in Spanish...just to be clear), and finally the class as a whole started doing better.
My teacher progressed to calling on individual students and at one point the majority of the class raised their hands. She called on a girl at the front and the girl repeated back the correct response. Ding, Ding...we were getting it.
There is a nice guy who sits a few seats back from me. He's real funny and pretty good at Spanish. After the girl at the front answered her questions, my teacher looks past me and asks if the boy had a question.
"?Pregunta?"
The guy says, "Oh no. I got the answer right. I was just fist pumpin' to my success."
The class bursts into laughter and all my professor managed to say is, "Bueno" with a huge, confused smile on her face.
To begin with, she was saying questions out loud to the class and we were, in turn, supposed to answer. Even as a full class, we were getting them wrong. Slowly she would explain that we were all wrong, yet again, and then start over with the instructions. She wrote diagrams on the board (in Spanish...but I won't criticize her teaching habits...), made up cute little sayings (again in Spanish...just to be clear), and finally the class as a whole started doing better.
My teacher progressed to calling on individual students and at one point the majority of the class raised their hands. She called on a girl at the front and the girl repeated back the correct response. Ding, Ding...we were getting it.
There is a nice guy who sits a few seats back from me. He's real funny and pretty good at Spanish. After the girl at the front answered her questions, my teacher looks past me and asks if the boy had a question.
"?Pregunta?"
The guy says, "Oh no. I got the answer right. I was just fist pumpin' to my success."
The class bursts into laughter and all my professor managed to say is, "Bueno" with a huge, confused smile on her face.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Redneck Thanksgiving
There is a certain pride and joy that I have from being born in Mississippi. Mostly there is the is that southern-pride thing and the joy that my dad got us the hell out of there. No matter, I am from a VERY small town in Mississippi and most of my family lives there. I love going home because I love my family, no matter how insane they are sometimes :)
Thanksgiving is also my favorite holiday probably because I have so much to be thankful for...and the food. This Thanksgiving we went "home" and although I was sickly, we still had a wonderful time. I knew I would have lots to blog about with my family around and this story is only about an hour of my Redneck Thanksgiving. More to come :)
The men in my family scare people just by their gruff nature and their strong/silent type of mood. My grandfather, Earnie, is no different, except for that silent part. I am always trying to talk him in to giving me his truck, but alas this never happens so this Thanksgiving I asked if he would teach me to drive the [white] truck that hauls the horse trailer.( Every year he takes his horses and dogs up to South Dakota and stays at a house of his up there. Old man stuff....and he just got back) Of course, he couldn't deny my request.
My sister and I along with my dad and grandfather go outside in the wet and he tells us to load up. My sister and I cram into the front seat: we don't like the back. Kristen finds a cowboy had and slaps that on, starts searching through his junk (she found a ring and a GPS), and as I look listen to my dad and grandpa talk. I hear my dad tell my grandfather this is the first time driving a trailer this big and he should give us "some instructions on that blind spot." With Kristen and her "riding cap" we head off.
His instructions went about like this: "see that [points out the right mirror], watch that" and he hands over the wheel to my sister who frequently tunes out instructions. WTF. Yeah.
She takes it around the 3 mile loop (which is like a 4 or 5 mile road with no lines) and then we switch and do it again. Apparently we were watching whatever we were supposed to be watching okay and then Kristen pulls into a church parking lot and just about destroys the shrubs. That's when I take back over. At this point we had turned around and started going the other way...left turns :). My grandpa says, "Bit, come over a little you are gon' hit so-and-so's mailbox." So I say, "Thanks I did not wanna clip it."
The southern man sitting next to me looked like he was about to crap his pants, "Clip it hell, you just about took the aluminum off the slide of my trailer."
Woops. Guess those left turns are a little trickier than I thought, huh. I was not invited to South Dakota next year.
Thanksgiving is also my favorite holiday probably because I have so much to be thankful for...and the food. This Thanksgiving we went "home" and although I was sickly, we still had a wonderful time. I knew I would have lots to blog about with my family around and this story is only about an hour of my Redneck Thanksgiving. More to come :)
The men in my family scare people just by their gruff nature and their strong/silent type of mood. My grandfather, Earnie, is no different, except for that silent part. I am always trying to talk him in to giving me his truck, but alas this never happens so this Thanksgiving I asked if he would teach me to drive the [white] truck that hauls the horse trailer.( Every year he takes his horses and dogs up to South Dakota and stays at a house of his up there. Old man stuff....and he just got back) Of course, he couldn't deny my request.
My sister and I along with my dad and grandfather go outside in the wet and he tells us to load up. My sister and I cram into the front seat: we don't like the back. Kristen finds a cowboy had and slaps that on, starts searching through his junk (she found a ring and a GPS), and as I look listen to my dad and grandpa talk. I hear my dad tell my grandfather this is the first time driving a trailer this big and he should give us "some instructions on that blind spot." With Kristen and her "riding cap" we head off.
His instructions went about like this: "see that [points out the right mirror], watch that" and he hands over the wheel to my sister who frequently tunes out instructions. WTF. Yeah.
She takes it around the 3 mile loop (which is like a 4 or 5 mile road with no lines) and then we switch and do it again. Apparently we were watching whatever we were supposed to be watching okay and then Kristen pulls into a church parking lot and just about destroys the shrubs. That's when I take back over. At this point we had turned around and started going the other way...left turns :). My grandpa says, "Bit, come over a little you are gon' hit so-and-so's mailbox." So I say, "Thanks I did not wanna clip it."
The southern man sitting next to me looked like he was about to crap his pants, "Clip it hell, you just about took the aluminum off the slide of my trailer."
Woops. Guess those left turns are a little trickier than I thought, huh. I was not invited to South Dakota next year.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Remember...
[I should be studying]
One weekend over the summer I was at my best friend's house with my mom and sister ; her dad and brother were also present. To outside observers, this should seem weird, but for us it is not. [side note]
This past summer I took a couple of classes in Athens and my "bff" was filling me in on the latest small-town gossip. This summer in particular, it seemed like there were a lot of pregnancies from couples that we knew. Both of our parents were super young when they got married and had us and we were chatting about what it would be like to have a kid right now.
Apparently, this scared her father. Now, her dad is...how do I say this?...a little rough around the edges. He acts all tough with us (he thinks my sister and I are two of his own) and tries to keep us on a straight line. Despite his gruff nature, we normally break him down pretty easy. I have personally been known to make him blush.
Anyways: Because my own dad was not there, I guess he decided to take on the arduous task of giving us three girls a quick run down on the "birds and the bees." Yeah, you read it correctly. 19, 19, and 21 years old...our moms pretty much covered all that, but this was no ordinary talk.
This talk happened to be around the same time we were learning about the male and female reproductive systems in BIO 1103 and I decided to share a few stats that a guy in my class shared with me. Hot tubs, killing sperm. Very strange. Very wrong. Very scary that he believed these tall-tales.
Her dad was scared.
At one point we were all talking and the next thing I know, I see his hand make this strange, snake-like motion from across the room. "The swimmies can still swim." The room went silent. Then he began to elaborate...I guess he noticed the confused looks on our faces. "The swimmies will find their way. They will still swim." Was he referring to the hot tub story? Why does he keep moving his hand that way? All of these internal questions had me glancing around at the other females in the room for some sign of what to say next. It was all too strange from a man that accuses us of unlady-like behavior when we say "hell".
Not to mention, my best friend's younger brother was in the room and is in full-puberty mode. After this conversation, I sure hope his mom does not expect grandchildren.
Finally, my sister, who had been quiet through most of this process speaks up: "Can you please stop with the hand." At that point we could no longer hold in the awkwardness the conversation.
His attempt to showcase that he cared about our conversation, lives, and the decisions we make was completely overshadowed by that one solitary hand motion...and the fact that he was listening in on our gossip.
Now, it is an inside joke about "swimmies"; we never fail to use that hand motion.
One weekend over the summer I was at my best friend's house with my mom and sister ; her dad and brother were also present. To outside observers, this should seem weird, but for us it is not. [side note]
This past summer I took a couple of classes in Athens and my "bff" was filling me in on the latest small-town gossip. This summer in particular, it seemed like there were a lot of pregnancies from couples that we knew. Both of our parents were super young when they got married and had us and we were chatting about what it would be like to have a kid right now.
Apparently, this scared her father. Now, her dad is...how do I say this?...a little rough around the edges. He acts all tough with us (he thinks my sister and I are two of his own) and tries to keep us on a straight line. Despite his gruff nature, we normally break him down pretty easy. I have personally been known to make him blush.
Anyways: Because my own dad was not there, I guess he decided to take on the arduous task of giving us three girls a quick run down on the "birds and the bees." Yeah, you read it correctly. 19, 19, and 21 years old...our moms pretty much covered all that, but this was no ordinary talk.
This talk happened to be around the same time we were learning about the male and female reproductive systems in BIO 1103 and I decided to share a few stats that a guy in my class shared with me. Hot tubs, killing sperm. Very strange. Very wrong. Very scary that he believed these tall-tales.
Her dad was scared.
At one point we were all talking and the next thing I know, I see his hand make this strange, snake-like motion from across the room. "The swimmies can still swim." The room went silent. Then he began to elaborate...I guess he noticed the confused looks on our faces. "The swimmies will find their way. They will still swim." Was he referring to the hot tub story? Why does he keep moving his hand that way? All of these internal questions had me glancing around at the other females in the room for some sign of what to say next. It was all too strange from a man that accuses us of unlady-like behavior when we say "hell".
Not to mention, my best friend's younger brother was in the room and is in full-puberty mode. After this conversation, I sure hope his mom does not expect grandchildren.
Finally, my sister, who had been quiet through most of this process speaks up: "Can you please stop with the hand." At that point we could no longer hold in the awkwardness the conversation.
His attempt to showcase that he cared about our conversation, lives, and the decisions we make was completely overshadowed by that one solitary hand motion...and the fact that he was listening in on our gossip.
Now, it is an inside joke about "swimmies"; we never fail to use that hand motion.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
It is a wild ride
This "carnival" consisted of three rides--two of which I had never been on--and some junk food stands that fried Oreos. The first ride was a complete success and I only got a mild case of the sea-sickness that I normally encounter at events such as this. (I can get car sick driving myself.) While we were standing in line, we caught up with some friends from last year and basically chilled until the nice carni man set us up with our own four-seat bucket on the ride. The Ride: when you sit in the bucket and turn the wheel, and then the whole thing spins... I have no idea what this is called. Anyway...success.
With our wind-blown hair and scratched voices, my two friends and I headed to the next line. This one was even longer than the first, but some nice gentlemen let us cut in front of them and we were on the ride in no time.
Here is some information that I forgot to mention. The second ride was the Pirate Ship one that goes back and forth in the air; being a Union member, I knew this one was coming. I asked a family friend if I would be okay, considering the fact that I had never tried this one before. Her response was, "Of course, just don't get on it if it has an over-the-lap harness." Okay, no big deal.
About the time that me and my two girlfriends got to the loading zone, I noticed that this ride did indeed have over-the-lap harnesses. But, because of the supreme success I had had on the first ride, I was going for it. Big mistake.
Not only did this new carni man split up my friends and I, but he also STOPPED the ride after it had started going and had people switch around because of a weight imbalance. Was this necessary? That's when I started to get nervous. As he started the ride back up again, I thought to myself, "grow a pair." Two minutes later, they were stolen away and given to the boy beside me.
I remember when I was little and my sister and I would try to swing higher than each other on the rickety backyard swing that was at our house. This thing was made out of some sort of aluminum, it felt like, and about the time we got to going really good, the dang thing would HOP up and lifted off the earth. Our butts would lift off the seat at precisely the same moment. Then, of course, my mom would tell us to slow down and keep the legs on the ground. On this ride, my mom was not there.
I felt like we had been riding for 10 minutes when we started to speed up and get higher in the air. That's when my butt, just like when I was little, began to lift off the seat. This is when I remembered the "no over the lap harness" rule and I could SEE WHY!
Thank goodness for the brown boy sitting next to me on this said ride. Before the ride I slid in and noticed that he seemed a bit nervous too, but he was a boy...he would survive. The odor the surrounded this lovely young man told me that he had been there way longer than I had, but I was not judging. When my butt lifted off that seat the first time, I made friends with this boy REAL quick. "I don't know you..." but I grabbed his arm and dug my skull into his skinny shoulder (odor not noticed). He quickly said, "It is okay! I won't let go." An image of Titanic surfaced in my mind and then my butt lifted off the seat again. Then a few foul, four letter words slipped out and I could feel the queasiness rise to my throat. Thank goodness for the little brown boy. That stranger helped me though possibly one of the worst experiences of my life. I owe him...though I don't remember his face. My eyes were closed.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
In-Grown
After eating a good breakfast (dining hall-how good can it get?) I grabbed a bus and headed towards the art building on campus. Several other people got on with me and I hear a conversation start up behind me. I am sitting in a single seat and I tend not to face forward; they were in plain sight. Obviously, I don't refer to myself as a "snooper" but when someone talks loud enough I simply can't ignore him/her. Today was no different.
This conversation starts between a male and female student. When my voice fluctuates if often means I am nervous, but I have noticed that other people change the octaves in their voice, subconsciously, when they are excited and/or happy. Let's go with that.
Boy: Hi _____!
Girl: Helooooh ______! (said octave change)
I assumed they were simply acquaintances but they were not "hatin'" their current situation. Flirt on Playa. Pleasantries continue and just as I think the conversation is dying down to that awkward "yeah" the girl asks the boy where is off to. Health Center. Girl seems concerned (nice touch), adds another fluctuation in her voice then asks, "Oh, no! Are you sick." The next few words changed my bus ride. "I have an in-grown."
Now, me? I am super squeamish and would have changed the conversation REAL quick as to avoid throwing up all over this nice young man's sneakers that housed his weird toe. This girl was a trooper. She continued to ask about his toe as he went into an anecdote about how this was a follow up visit. Apparently the toenail had already been removed (barf for me). [digress: more than one person on this bus was listening, intently, to this story]
Okay so in-growns are a natural part of life I suppose and I mean no disrespect to this poor boy, but honestly that is not the sexiest of conversations out there. The detailed description of the puss and ooze that evacuated his toe when the doctor shot him up with pain relievers was simply too much for me.
Maybe it was love that kept this female Freshman talking to toe-boy, maybe she's just really nice. All I know, after the description of the puss, she got off at the next stop.
Thank you public transportation for being my muse.
This conversation starts between a male and female student. When my voice fluctuates if often means I am nervous, but I have noticed that other people change the octaves in their voice, subconsciously, when they are excited and/or happy. Let's go with that.
Boy: Hi _____!
Girl: Helooooh ______! (said octave change)
I assumed they were simply acquaintances but they were not "hatin'" their current situation. Flirt on Playa. Pleasantries continue and just as I think the conversation is dying down to that awkward "yeah" the girl asks the boy where is off to. Health Center. Girl seems concerned (nice touch), adds another fluctuation in her voice then asks, "Oh, no! Are you sick." The next few words changed my bus ride. "I have an in-grown."
Now, me? I am super squeamish and would have changed the conversation REAL quick as to avoid throwing up all over this nice young man's sneakers that housed his weird toe. This girl was a trooper. She continued to ask about his toe as he went into an anecdote about how this was a follow up visit. Apparently the toenail had already been removed (barf for me). [digress: more than one person on this bus was listening, intently, to this story]
Okay so in-growns are a natural part of life I suppose and I mean no disrespect to this poor boy, but honestly that is not the sexiest of conversations out there. The detailed description of the puss and ooze that evacuated his toe when the doctor shot him up with pain relievers was simply too much for me.
Maybe it was love that kept this female Freshman talking to toe-boy, maybe she's just really nice. All I know, after the description of the puss, she got off at the next stop.
Thank you public transportation for being my muse.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Bumble Bees
There are two pests that seem to overrun Athens. The first are the enormous amount of cockroaches that consume the city at night. If you have ever walked in the direction away from downtown, you would have noticed that with every step there seemed to be something moving. Well, it was. I guess they come out at night because no one is around? I guess they are attracted to certain sections of North Campus in particular; I guess they like all that sweet alcohol that has been soaked into the dirt for the past, eh, 116 or 117 years. Give or take. Understandable I suppose.
The next of these pests I have only recently begun to notice. Bees. Now, I'm no Animal Science major and I don't know what kind of bees they are, nor do I really care. All I car about is the fact that one ruined my apple today and his sister almost made me pee my pants.
My recognition of these said bees began when my roommate came home with a huge lump on her arm. Shocking, just shocking. It was, to say it nicely, HUGEEEEE and scary. We took care of that though. The second was when I was on a bus and there was a bee inside with us. Screams and shrieks were heard all around.
Today, was my third and most recent encounter with the fuzzy, yellow guys. I was waiting ever so patiently for a bus that was late, and in turn I was late, when I decided to whip out my apple and munch. I was munching along when I noticed a few girls down from me were swatting at some bees. What? Did your mother never teach you anything? You don't swat. So I watch these girls swat and I keep munching and then a quite attractive male approaches. Now, this male just happens to be is ridiculously in shape. Nice, huh? Broad shoulders, nice tan, groovin' to his iPod, the works. I keep on munching and enjoying my view when all of a sudden two giant sized bumble bees, apparently, attached this said male. Watching the girls a few folks down had caused me to snicker, but this guy was C-R-A-Z-Y. His long legs flew into the air, arms flapped (disco style), and that's when he initiated this weird half twist in attempts to get away from the bees. Thank goodness for my aforementioned apple. It was only only thing that kept me from a rolling over, abdominal grab, deep laugh. As if this was not enough, he then shooed the bees towards me and let out a nice long squeal. I keep telling myself that his iPod made him unaware of the noises he was sending over towards me.
Thanks cute-male-who-sent-bees-over. The bees then tried to attack me, but I had learned my lesson: don't look like a hellafool while trying to get away from bees. I walked away, as calmly as I could. This is when a bee landed upon my Red-Delicious. Uhhhh. My cheeks turned red in fury. My snack had been ruined. As the bee stayed on my apple I wholeheartedly threw it into the nearest trashcan. Brittany Lofton: bee tamer. Cute-male: not so much.
The next of these pests I have only recently begun to notice. Bees. Now, I'm no Animal Science major and I don't know what kind of bees they are, nor do I really care. All I car about is the fact that one ruined my apple today and his sister almost made me pee my pants.
My recognition of these said bees began when my roommate came home with a huge lump on her arm. Shocking, just shocking. It was, to say it nicely, HUGEEEEE and scary. We took care of that though. The second was when I was on a bus and there was a bee inside with us. Screams and shrieks were heard all around.
Today, was my third and most recent encounter with the fuzzy, yellow guys. I was waiting ever so patiently for a bus that was late, and in turn I was late, when I decided to whip out my apple and munch. I was munching along when I noticed a few girls down from me were swatting at some bees. What? Did your mother never teach you anything? You don't swat. So I watch these girls swat and I keep munching and then a quite attractive male approaches. Now, this male just happens to be is ridiculously in shape. Nice, huh? Broad shoulders, nice tan, groovin' to his iPod, the works. I keep on munching and enjoying my view when all of a sudden two giant sized bumble bees, apparently, attached this said male. Watching the girls a few folks down had caused me to snicker, but this guy was C-R-A-Z-Y. His long legs flew into the air, arms flapped (disco style), and that's when he initiated this weird half twist in attempts to get away from the bees. Thank goodness for my aforementioned apple. It was only only thing that kept me from a rolling over, abdominal grab, deep laugh. As if this was not enough, he then shooed the bees towards me and let out a nice long squeal. I keep telling myself that his iPod made him unaware of the noises he was sending over towards me.
Thanks cute-male-who-sent-bees-over. The bees then tried to attack me, but I had learned my lesson: don't look like a hellafool while trying to get away from bees. I walked away, as calmly as I could. This is when a bee landed upon my Red-Delicious. Uhhhh. My cheeks turned red in fury. My snack had been ruined. As the bee stayed on my apple I wholeheartedly threw it into the nearest trashcan. Brittany Lofton: bee tamer. Cute-male: not so much.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Hair stylist
So apparently I have become the go-to girl for style questions and concerns. Lately, however, I have added barber and stylist to my resume. My mom was a hairdresser in the early 90's and has taught me a few tricks of the trade, but I am in no way qualified. Did you hear me? I am in no way qualified.
My friends seem to think otherwise. If in the future worst comes to worst, I could probably highlight my hair. I could also trim up my bangs or clip a few split ends. I have highlighted a couple of guys and girls hair under the supervision of my mom and it turned out really good if I do say so myself. Well, I have learned my lesson to never tell that to broke college kids.
A few weeks ago, my roommate was complaining about her hair and the massive thickness that was consuming her. She knew exactly what sections she needed trimmed and clipped and shyly asked if I would do it. "Sure. Do you have scissors?" I asked. She ran to fetch my craft scissors that I keep next to my extra number 2's. Mistake #1. If she was okay with having craft scissors, which have been used to cut just about everything this side of Atlanta, who was I to stop her? So, we set up shop . She spreads a cut plastic bag out on the floor to keep hair in one space and I go grab my handy step-stool that I use to climb into bed. Her hair is still wet from the shower and that's all she wrote...well after a few panicked moments on my part. Why do people trust me with their hair????
She wanted it angled, easy enough until I got going and noticed that her hair was MASSIVE and apparently grows unbalanced. Mine does too, so don't feel bad roomie. I ended up cutting her hair; not trimming, not thinning out...cutting.
Tonight, I thinned out one of my guy friend's hair with some of my mom's thinning scissors. This went okay...he's a dude. Whatever. My roommate later picks up the strange scissors and I explain to her that only a section will be cut, blah blah. I test drive these scissors on a small section of her hair and leave her be. Mistake #2. I turn my back and Curious George snips the scissors shut multiple times on the largest chunk of hair she can grab. When she pulls out a toupee worth of hair, she begins to hyperventilate. I have a hair phobia and she's hyperventilating because "half her head" was gone. Drama queen. It was a lot of hair actually. So, dom dom dom, I have to play fix-it and even out her hair so her mother will not notice. This is my style on the line here woman!!
Now, she thinks she did a great job on her hair, while I am the one with two appointments for next week. Yep, you just keep on believing roomie.
My friends seem to think otherwise. If in the future worst comes to worst, I could probably highlight my hair. I could also trim up my bangs or clip a few split ends. I have highlighted a couple of guys and girls hair under the supervision of my mom and it turned out really good if I do say so myself. Well, I have learned my lesson to never tell that to broke college kids.
A few weeks ago, my roommate was complaining about her hair and the massive thickness that was consuming her. She knew exactly what sections she needed trimmed and clipped and shyly asked if I would do it. "Sure. Do you have scissors?" I asked. She ran to fetch my craft scissors that I keep next to my extra number 2's. Mistake #1. If she was okay with having craft scissors, which have been used to cut just about everything this side of Atlanta, who was I to stop her? So, we set up shop . She spreads a cut plastic bag out on the floor to keep hair in one space and I go grab my handy step-stool that I use to climb into bed. Her hair is still wet from the shower and that's all she wrote...well after a few panicked moments on my part. Why do people trust me with their hair????
She wanted it angled, easy enough until I got going and noticed that her hair was MASSIVE and apparently grows unbalanced. Mine does too, so don't feel bad roomie. I ended up cutting her hair; not trimming, not thinning out...cutting.
Tonight, I thinned out one of my guy friend's hair with some of my mom's thinning scissors. This went okay...he's a dude. Whatever. My roommate later picks up the strange scissors and I explain to her that only a section will be cut, blah blah. I test drive these scissors on a small section of her hair and leave her be. Mistake #2. I turn my back and Curious George snips the scissors shut multiple times on the largest chunk of hair she can grab. When she pulls out a toupee worth of hair, she begins to hyperventilate. I have a hair phobia and she's hyperventilating because "half her head" was gone. Drama queen. It was a lot of hair actually. So, dom dom dom, I have to play fix-it and even out her hair so her mother will not notice. This is my style on the line here woman!!
Now, she thinks she did a great job on her hair, while I am the one with two appointments for next week. Yep, you just keep on believing roomie.
It has been a while...
It has been a stressful past couple of weeks for me. Enough said. So tonight I will be catching up my followers on as many posts as I can. They have been floating around in my noggin' for some time now. Tonight, the creative juices are flowing.
Last week one of my very best girl friends and fellow Divas talked me into going to a 6:00am spinning class at the gym. Now, when she told me this, I realized there were several parts to this question. 1) 6:00am? For a normal person this would have been a hell-to-the-no, but I get up early to go to the gym three or four days a week so it was no big deal. 2) ...with my friend. She is fierce gym diva. She goes to tons and tons of dance classes and body sculpting "things"...this in itself made me nervous. And 3) Spinning. I have been invited to spinning classes before, but those were always at times that I was (cough, cough) not in my best shape. So, before my new found revolution (unnamed at this point) I would have said no. Now, I enjoy a little burn so I accepted.
We meet at our dorm and she drives us over to the gym where we were greeted by about 15 or so anxious gym rats who were, literally, pacing until the doors opened. Once we get in, my girl friend shows me everything I need and helps me set up my chosen bike. We get on and start pedaling and my first though it, "accept for the uncomfortable pain in my behind, this is not so bad." That's when the instructor, all 110lbs of her and her pegged biking shoes, hops onto the bike and starts counting out number and sequences. It was 6:00am. The earliest math my brain encounters every morning is counting out the number of sugars that go into my coffee. Puh-lease. So I was confused, butt beginning to hurt, and then we start. Yeah, finally right? The first time this little instructor, who I later found out had a baby 3 months ago, told me to stand up you should have seen my face in that huge, obnoxious reflecting mirror. My next three words: "What the hell?" I knew I would either a) leave undignified and early or b) die. Those were my options and my ego is not that big.
I give myself a little credit, I pedaled for 40 minutes until she wanted to do "core" workouts. I kind of got excited because this was off of the bike. But by this time, my feet were numb and my butt was throbbing because it had knocked off the seat cushion earlier without my knowledge, and when I stepped off my knees had no locking capability what so ever. It was then I decided "I should go stretch outside...on the floor." I causally made my way out the door and duck walked to a mat where I dropped to my knees. Oh my.
This was last Tuesday, I just recovered from a bruised butt and sore thighs. Tomorrow I am going back to the gym with the same girlfriend. No way will I ever see that 110lb instructor ever again. Puh-lease.
Last week one of my very best girl friends and fellow Divas talked me into going to a 6:00am spinning class at the gym. Now, when she told me this, I realized there were several parts to this question. 1) 6:00am? For a normal person this would have been a hell-to-the-no, but I get up early to go to the gym three or four days a week so it was no big deal. 2) ...with my friend. She is fierce gym diva. She goes to tons and tons of dance classes and body sculpting "things"...this in itself made me nervous. And 3) Spinning. I have been invited to spinning classes before, but those were always at times that I was (cough, cough) not in my best shape. So, before my new found revolution (unnamed at this point) I would have said no. Now, I enjoy a little burn so I accepted.
We meet at our dorm and she drives us over to the gym where we were greeted by about 15 or so anxious gym rats who were, literally, pacing until the doors opened. Once we get in, my girl friend shows me everything I need and helps me set up my chosen bike. We get on and start pedaling and my first though it, "accept for the uncomfortable pain in my behind, this is not so bad." That's when the instructor, all 110lbs of her and her pegged biking shoes, hops onto the bike and starts counting out number and sequences. It was 6:00am. The earliest math my brain encounters every morning is counting out the number of sugars that go into my coffee. Puh-lease. So I was confused, butt beginning to hurt, and then we start. Yeah, finally right? The first time this little instructor, who I later found out had a baby 3 months ago, told me to stand up you should have seen my face in that huge, obnoxious reflecting mirror. My next three words: "What the hell?" I knew I would either a) leave undignified and early or b) die. Those were my options and my ego is not that big.
I give myself a little credit, I pedaled for 40 minutes until she wanted to do "core" workouts. I kind of got excited because this was off of the bike. But by this time, my feet were numb and my butt was throbbing because it had knocked off the seat cushion earlier without my knowledge, and when I stepped off my knees had no locking capability what so ever. It was then I decided "I should go stretch outside...on the floor." I causally made my way out the door and duck walked to a mat where I dropped to my knees. Oh my.
This was last Tuesday, I just recovered from a bruised butt and sore thighs. Tomorrow I am going back to the gym with the same girlfriend. No way will I ever see that 110lb instructor ever again. Puh-lease.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I've been attacked
It is no surprise that my roommate/best friend and I are quite unique. As discussed last night, we have very few things actually in common, but at the same time we very alike. For instance, we discovered I like just about any type of music, except for her favorite. She is in a super-smart-policy-writing-club and I am in social clubs that will build my resume and portfolio. She loves research and The Office. I love planning and Jersey Shore.
It works.
She has recently come up with a theory to why our relationship works. One, because we are compliments but not copies. Two, because we fight like men. All through my childhood, society told me that girls were "catty" fighters and boys simply "duke it out" when they have issues with one another. I beg to freakin' differ. Our mutual guy friends, as pointed out last night by one of them, are way more catty than our girl friends. Instead of confronting their male counterpart head on, our friends often whine to us or talk crap. So, we fight like men.
I know you are wondering "fight"? That's right. My roommate has even come up with trading card poses for us. Her strength is her long arms and legs; she can always reach me. My strength is that, well, am stronger than she is. Her words: limbs and pounce.
The other night, I climbed up to my lofted bed and commented that I had forgotten to change the thermostat. She insisted that I get back down and change it, but because she had knocked it up one-zillion degrees earlier, I stood my ground. Finally she proceeded to get down off of her bed and scurry to the thermostat. She then lied and said she turned it up some more. I knew this was a lie because she kept laughing. She giggles when she lies. So, I left it alone.
About five minutes later I was drifting into sleep-good land and I feel something move. I open my eyes and I see a dark figure cascade across the room. I have been hit with one of her blue-jean pillows. This, apparently, was my payback.
It works. Instead of her getting angry that I would not get out of bed, or me getting mad because she lied, we fought via our beds from opposite sides of the room until we lost several pillows to the ground below.Don't fix it if it ain't broke.
It works.
She has recently come up with a theory to why our relationship works. One, because we are compliments but not copies. Two, because we fight like men. All through my childhood, society told me that girls were "catty" fighters and boys simply "duke it out" when they have issues with one another. I beg to freakin' differ. Our mutual guy friends, as pointed out last night by one of them, are way more catty than our girl friends. Instead of confronting their male counterpart head on, our friends often whine to us or talk crap. So, we fight like men.
I know you are wondering "fight"? That's right. My roommate has even come up with trading card poses for us. Her strength is her long arms and legs; she can always reach me. My strength is that, well, am stronger than she is. Her words: limbs and pounce.
The other night, I climbed up to my lofted bed and commented that I had forgotten to change the thermostat. She insisted that I get back down and change it, but because she had knocked it up one-zillion degrees earlier, I stood my ground. Finally she proceeded to get down off of her bed and scurry to the thermostat. She then lied and said she turned it up some more. I knew this was a lie because she kept laughing. She giggles when she lies. So, I left it alone.
About five minutes later I was drifting into sleep-good land and I feel something move. I open my eyes and I see a dark figure cascade across the room. I have been hit with one of her blue-jean pillows. This, apparently, was my payback.
It works. Instead of her getting angry that I would not get out of bed, or me getting mad because she lied, we fought via our beds from opposite sides of the room until we lost several pillows to the ground below.Don't fix it if it ain't broke.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Car troubles
This week marks the occasion of my parents' birthdays. Both of them...the same day. In our family this means two things: cute gifts for the parentals and car tags are due, all four of them. Tuesday Kristen and I awake to an alarming email form my dad saying that we must go get an admissions test done on Red (my truck) and Hatch (her car). We got a follow up phone call from our mother who confirmed that we could not wait and had to have it done within the day. So, unwillingly enough, Kristen and I made plans to meet for a quick lunch and to then head over to the local Jiffy Lube to have the tests done and be home in time for some studying.
Everything about our afternoon plan had gone accordingly until we got to the Jiffy. Kristen, being the diligent leader of the two, allowed me to follow so that I could see what I was supposed to do. We pulled up and one guy walked over to Hatch and another moseyed his way over to Red. "I just need an admissions test done," I said. He looked around, confused kind of, and then I told her, "Yeah, she needs one,too." "Okay, yeah. Just pull up here," he said and pointed me over behind Hatch. He continued to approach Red and I knew this was the part I was simply unprepared for. "Pop your hood." Now, I've heard these three words before, many times actually. In particular, the last time someone told me to "pop my hood" was the last admissions test I got.
This is the part where I flip my hair; imagine it. Even though I've had to do this before, the hood thing is not something I come across everyday; I needed a little refresher. So I do the hair flip that seems to happen when I am confused, embarrassed, or am thinking. This instance happened to involve all three. Luckily I look in the right direction of the hood-popper-button and glance at this guy confused. Now he's young so I try to level with him. "This one" is all I ask. He laughs at me. "No," he says and gives me some direction, "Learn something new..." "...Everyday I guess," I say finishing his sentence. Whew, now that that part was over, I could just go inside, sit, and wait. Wrong.
Smart guy, we'll call him Duke...because he just seems like a Duke. So Duke then asks me as I am walking away, "You know how to open it?" Open what? Duke, I am done here. She's all yours for a little while. Open what? I really don't know what he is talking about so I just say "nope" and keep walking. He then insists I try actually opening the hood of Red. This, to me, was a little rude. I mean, did I ask Duke if he knew what's this fall's must have item? Did I ask Duke here if he knew how to make his own exfoliating cream or that Victoria Secrets was having a sale? No. Let's stick to what we know Duke, and not go trying to teach each others.
I was wearing white, I got my hands dirty, and I was hot all because Duke wanted to flirt a little, make me feel stupid and call it customer service. Hell, I did not want to learn. Apparently, though, there is a latch. Ya don't say Duke? How else did it keep from flying up into the windshield when I was driving? Oh Duke, you're so smart. Yeah. This is the last time I flip my hair without real cause. Sometimes, it's just not worth it.
Everything about our afternoon plan had gone accordingly until we got to the Jiffy. Kristen, being the diligent leader of the two, allowed me to follow so that I could see what I was supposed to do. We pulled up and one guy walked over to Hatch and another moseyed his way over to Red. "I just need an admissions test done," I said. He looked around, confused kind of, and then I told her, "Yeah, she needs one,too." "Okay, yeah. Just pull up here," he said and pointed me over behind Hatch. He continued to approach Red and I knew this was the part I was simply unprepared for. "Pop your hood." Now, I've heard these three words before, many times actually. In particular, the last time someone told me to "pop my hood" was the last admissions test I got.
This is the part where I flip my hair; imagine it. Even though I've had to do this before, the hood thing is not something I come across everyday; I needed a little refresher. So I do the hair flip that seems to happen when I am confused, embarrassed, or am thinking. This instance happened to involve all three. Luckily I look in the right direction of the hood-popper-button and glance at this guy confused. Now he's young so I try to level with him. "This one" is all I ask. He laughs at me. "No," he says and gives me some direction, "Learn something new..." "...Everyday I guess," I say finishing his sentence. Whew, now that that part was over, I could just go inside, sit, and wait. Wrong.
Smart guy, we'll call him Duke...because he just seems like a Duke. So Duke then asks me as I am walking away, "You know how to open it?" Open what? Duke, I am done here. She's all yours for a little while. Open what? I really don't know what he is talking about so I just say "nope" and keep walking. He then insists I try actually opening the hood of Red. This, to me, was a little rude. I mean, did I ask Duke if he knew what's this fall's must have item? Did I ask Duke here if he knew how to make his own exfoliating cream or that Victoria Secrets was having a sale? No. Let's stick to what we know Duke, and not go trying to teach each others.
I was wearing white, I got my hands dirty, and I was hot all because Duke wanted to flirt a little, make me feel stupid and call it customer service. Hell, I did not want to learn. Apparently, though, there is a latch. Ya don't say Duke? How else did it keep from flying up into the windshield when I was driving? Oh Duke, you're so smart. Yeah. This is the last time I flip my hair without real cause. Sometimes, it's just not worth it.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Quad Fighting
Tonight I was tired, hungry and had gotten off of work pretty late. Me being an economically driven college student, I decided it was a better choice to drive to Snelling (a 24 hour dining hall) instead of the drive thru at Chic-f-la. Yeah, go me.
I finally found a parking spot somewhere close to the location of the said dining hall and began my adventure through cross walks and up stairs, around and around. Now, it was dark. When I say dark, I mean I darted across the road in attempts to get under a flickering street light. If the darkness and creepy strobe light lamp were not bad enough, the moon was/is full tonight. I have a fascination with the moon and although my favorite is when it takes on the color of butter, tonight was a treat: clear skies and full moon. I was semi-enjoying my walk when I hear this "clank, clank" sound from the quad located near the dining hall.
This was enough to send me STRAIT UP into a panic. I mean think about it: moon, lamp, darkness, weird "clank, clank" sound. This was a recipe for horror film and naturally I decided to investigate. Face those fears head on, right? As I got closer to the "clank, clank" I noticed tons (ehhh 10 or 15) people fighting. Literally. Swords hitting together were the cause of the "clank, clank." For a moment this seemed normally and I continued to walk towards my grub. But, as I continued to walk, I realized this was weird. Let's go over this again: darkness, strobe light lamp, full moon, "clank, clank," people in armor?
At first, this was okay, then it was weird, then I began to feel sorry for these participants. They were willingly fighting each other. Why? Is this a hobby? Was someone filming this? I mean, each to his own. I go shopping. I listen to grueling rap music. I go to football games. Some people sword fight at 9:30pm with metal swords and armor while the moon is full and lamp posts are flickering. No big deal. Right? Right?
I finally found a parking spot somewhere close to the location of the said dining hall and began my adventure through cross walks and up stairs, around and around. Now, it was dark. When I say dark, I mean I darted across the road in attempts to get under a flickering street light. If the darkness and creepy strobe light lamp were not bad enough, the moon was/is full tonight. I have a fascination with the moon and although my favorite is when it takes on the color of butter, tonight was a treat: clear skies and full moon. I was semi-enjoying my walk when I hear this "clank, clank" sound from the quad located near the dining hall.
This was enough to send me STRAIT UP into a panic. I mean think about it: moon, lamp, darkness, weird "clank, clank" sound. This was a recipe for horror film and naturally I decided to investigate. Face those fears head on, right? As I got closer to the "clank, clank" I noticed tons (ehhh 10 or 15) people fighting. Literally. Swords hitting together were the cause of the "clank, clank." For a moment this seemed normally and I continued to walk towards my grub. But, as I continued to walk, I realized this was weird. Let's go over this again: darkness, strobe light lamp, full moon, "clank, clank," people in armor?
At first, this was okay, then it was weird, then I began to feel sorry for these participants. They were willingly fighting each other. Why? Is this a hobby? Was someone filming this? I mean, each to his own. I go shopping. I listen to grueling rap music. I go to football games. Some people sword fight at 9:30pm with metal swords and armor while the moon is full and lamp posts are flickering. No big deal. Right? Right?
Friday, August 20, 2010
Stain Stare
Another yucky day in Athens which makes me, and my hair, feel just eewww. Today after class I strolled over to the dining hall where I ordered my usual grilled chicken sandwich on bun and picked up some sweet potato fries along the way. This all requiring the attention of my favorite condiment, Ketchup. As I made my sandwich and squeezed two lovely ketchup packets on to the bun, I realized my love. But today, Ketchup was not my friend.
Apparently my bite was too big for my mouth, or something, and I dropped a piece of a fry onto my pink men's Polo that I often wear on these kind of drab days. "Woops," I thought to myself and tried to dab it off. No such luck. For those of you who know me, you understand why this was no big deal to me. In a short, honest phrase: I am a messy eater. Though I try to salvage all of my clothes from the stains they acquire, Spray and Wash is my hero.
So as I was walking out of the dining hall I grabbed my Tide-to-Go pen that in conveniently located in my book bag for instances like this. As I walked and dabbed, the wet-looking spot on my shirt tail got larger and larger. I did not mind, because I was fighting the stain off right before my next class. I am here to tell you that every single person I passed looked, not at me, but at my ketchup stain. I am stain fighting here, people. These strangers acted as this had never happened to them before. They acted as if I was a crazy woman marching towards class with three wet spots on my shirt (only part of this is true). I was proud of myself for my multitasking skills today, and they shut me down. Now, as I type this my shirt is dry. The stain however is only slightly seen and reminds me of this instance where I was again a misunderstood fool.
Apparently my bite was too big for my mouth, or something, and I dropped a piece of a fry onto my pink men's Polo that I often wear on these kind of drab days. "Woops," I thought to myself and tried to dab it off. No such luck. For those of you who know me, you understand why this was no big deal to me. In a short, honest phrase: I am a messy eater. Though I try to salvage all of my clothes from the stains they acquire, Spray and Wash is my hero.
So as I was walking out of the dining hall I grabbed my Tide-to-Go pen that in conveniently located in my book bag for instances like this. As I walked and dabbed, the wet-looking spot on my shirt tail got larger and larger. I did not mind, because I was fighting the stain off right before my next class. I am here to tell you that every single person I passed looked, not at me, but at my ketchup stain. I am stain fighting here, people. These strangers acted as this had never happened to them before. They acted as if I was a crazy woman marching towards class with three wet spots on my shirt (only part of this is true). I was proud of myself for my multitasking skills today, and they shut me down. Now, as I type this my shirt is dry. The stain however is only slightly seen and reminds me of this instance where I was again a misunderstood fool.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The higher the hair, the closer to God.
For those of you who know me really well, you would know that I am from southern Mississippi: home of beauty queens and debutantes. Though these two roles do not accurately describe me, I have yet to forget the big hair I come from. The women in my family have big hair. Or at least we try to; even the Lofton women have bad hair days. Teasing and an ample amount of hair spray along with a few squirts of Freeze It moose are all a part of a morning routine that we take very seriously.
I have personally been a member of the fohawk and poofed hair style for a while and have been perfecting my skills since, oh, early high school. But this Bump It thing is ruining me. Recently, more than ever, I have been asked by total strangers and acquaintances if my "poof" is a Bump It. What? That's like asking me if I have silicone stuffed into my chest. Its like asking me if my 10-year-old truck runs on ethanol. No. For the record, I do not wear Bump It's, nor do I need to. My mother, bless her, bought me a pack and we tried these three-sizes-fit-all Bump It's. Here is my customer review. They suck, but the smallest one happens to suck a little less than the other two. If the higher the hair, the closer to God is true, a Bump It would make you all up in God's grill. No one wants that in this situation. So no, I don't use a Bump It.
When I am asked the same question of, "Is that a Bump It?" I get a little annoyed because often times the questioner is not looking at me, but directly at my rounded "poof." I breath deeply, and shyly answer no often times with an added giggle or twang. This is when the conversation can go one of two ways. Either the questioner can accept my answer and move along or he/she can continue to stare in awe and an non-believing manner. If the latter of the two occur, I simply ask if they would like to touch it. At this point I give a little demo of bouncing my "poof" and that's when they look at me like I'M crazy. This, my friends, is when all of my Southern Comfort runs out the door and B.Lo. comes out to play. Now the story with B.Lo. is for a different time, a different day. Just know, she is my alternate personality and is less patient and kind that I am. So when these strangers and acquaintances act like I am crazy, I simply continue to bounce the "poof" and walk away. They are officially off the list of "give out health and beauty advice to" that I have dialoged in my head.
For those of you who are reading this and have asked me about my high-life hair, ask yourself this: Have you found your way off one of my many lists? If so, make it up to me by never asking me about a Bump It again :). All the love.
PS: I am always willing to demonstrate the non-Bump It "poof."
I have personally been a member of the fohawk and poofed hair style for a while and have been perfecting my skills since, oh, early high school. But this Bump It thing is ruining me. Recently, more than ever, I have been asked by total strangers and acquaintances if my "poof" is a Bump It. What? That's like asking me if I have silicone stuffed into my chest. Its like asking me if my 10-year-old truck runs on ethanol. No. For the record, I do not wear Bump It's, nor do I need to. My mother, bless her, bought me a pack and we tried these three-sizes-fit-all Bump It's. Here is my customer review. They suck, but the smallest one happens to suck a little less than the other two. If the higher the hair, the closer to God is true, a Bump It would make you all up in God's grill. No one wants that in this situation. So no, I don't use a Bump It.
When I am asked the same question of, "Is that a Bump It?" I get a little annoyed because often times the questioner is not looking at me, but directly at my rounded "poof." I breath deeply, and shyly answer no often times with an added giggle or twang. This is when the conversation can go one of two ways. Either the questioner can accept my answer and move along or he/she can continue to stare in awe and an non-believing manner. If the latter of the two occur, I simply ask if they would like to touch it. At this point I give a little demo of bouncing my "poof" and that's when they look at me like I'M crazy. This, my friends, is when all of my Southern Comfort runs out the door and B.Lo. comes out to play. Now the story with B.Lo. is for a different time, a different day. Just know, she is my alternate personality and is less patient and kind that I am. So when these strangers and acquaintances act like I am crazy, I simply continue to bounce the "poof" and walk away. They are officially off the list of "give out health and beauty advice to" that I have dialoged in my head.
For those of you who are reading this and have asked me about my high-life hair, ask yourself this: Have you found your way off one of my many lists? If so, make it up to me by never asking me about a Bump It again :). All the love.
PS: I am always willing to demonstrate the non-Bump It "poof."
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Standing too close
I was standing in line this morning for breakfast at the UGA dining hall. I was waiting patiently for the boy in front of me to pick out which piece of melon would be his when suddenly a brash girl darted up behind me in line. She was standing at an incredibly close distance and peaked over my shoulder at the strawberries. EXCUSE ME. I was here first. But of course, the non-confrontational side of me kicked in and a stepped only slightly forward in attempts to subconsciously tell her to BACK UP. It did not work and she prowled forward when I moved on to the berries. Rude. I just don't understand those around me who cannot simply identify social context clues.
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