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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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.
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