ineptitude, perhaps.

Just a couple of things.

I am not a very subtle person. My tame rhetoric may fool you, but please know right now that I am le obvious in just about everything that I do. May that serve as the disclaimer for what is about to come.

Also, me being a nice person and me being an honest person are mutually exclusive. Some people have perfected the gift of both at once, however I am not one of those people. Work with me.

If I don't like you, please understand where I am coming from. Sympathize with me, even. I don't want to not like you, but clearly you have done something so blundering and grotesque that our friendship cannot carry on. I commend you on your continuous efforts of sending me bi-monthly text messages that serve no purpose, using me for connections when you are in town and throwing your oh so genuine pity in my direction when you hear word of my "sickness," but please know: You suck. It may seem as if my emotions toward you are in a constant evolutionary state, but that is not the case. Yes, I am excited to hear from you. Yes, I show optimism and excitement that you have chosen yet again to grace my life with your presence. You see, all of that is great and good, but the reason why it lasts only about an hour and 14 minutes before I stop responding is because that's how long it took me to remember and realize for the fiftyleventh time that you, in fact, still suck. Waste of existence? No, never. Waste of my time, however? Oh hell yea.

Please find new friends that don't include me. Perhaps look for crowds of people that hold a less definitive standard for what exactly they're looking for in a "friend." Just saying.

-

Everything I say is cryptic. My dependence upon ambiguity has gotten me really far in life. By really far I mean nowhere at all. However, I like it and will continue to make no sense. Suck it up.

My words perform a single pervasive function. What is that function, you ask? Good question. Humor. My intent is humor, yes. Rarely am I successful, yet I push forward with optimism. Unfortunately said optimism is met with failure time and time again... and again.

When writing a paper, I typically depend on either pain medication or really intense metaphors to complete the body of the text. I toss in the occasional pun and give an example of something I heard in class to show that I was paying attention (of course). I develop a moving introduction that somewhat correlates to the topic at hand and throw in a concluding sentence that can make a grown man cry. (Granted, this grown man is typically a decrepit professor who has more emotional baggage than Eric Massa.) Regardless of who is shedding the tear, I accept the waterworks and the passing grade and move on with me life. Argh.

If ever confronted about my paper, I typically use humor to gain the upper hand. Making a joke does three things:
1. Disguises that I may or may not have a mild retardation when it comes to anything involving effort.
2. Covers up the fact that I read absolutely nothing before beginning this paper.
3. Expresses what little personality that I have.
Make note. Professors like this. Students with personality? They eat that shit up. Who cares about peer reviewed journals? This girl has jokes.

For 20 years humor has been my go-to aid in all shortcomings and awkward situations. Three years into this college mess and all of the sudden funny just isn't cutting it anymore. Over the past semester I have had to alter my approach. I tried actually doing the work and applying myself for about a week or two, but let's be serious. Way overrated. Bump that.

My new tool? Investment. In your life, that is.

I haven't spoken all semester in your class, but all of the sudden I want to hear about your daughter and the puppy she lost when was 12. Oh, were we just talking about my wretched paper that had nothing to do with the Cold War? My bad. Wait, do you have any other children?

That's right. Bring up the cute kid or the dying mother. Marriage is tough, the economy is plummeting and all you have to live for is this job and the charismatic students that you love to teach. Allow me to be your favorite. Perhaps I have failed to do an assignment recently. Perhaps I didn't answer a single question before turning in the test you just distributed. Please know there is no correlation in my lacking participation in your class and my sudden zeal for learning about how you became such an inspiring professor. Nope, none at all. You were saying? Ah, yes. Your daughter.

You see, that is why I love male professors. They rock.

Unfortunately for my GPA, there is this little thing called gender equality in the workplace. That's right. Women. Ugh. Who do they think they are?

I may have mentioned my paper writing approach and how successful I have been by doing the minimum up until now. Ps, I like minimal effort. It leaves time for more important hobbies like passing out and yelling obscenities that violate social norms as I collapse in the middle of J.Crew in pain. No big deal.

Let me tell you what happens when you write a paper for a woman:

• You fail.

Let me tell you what happens when you bring a hospital note to a woman for an absence:

• It isn't excused.

Let me tell you what happens when you try to engage in witty banter with a woman:

• It dies faster than Hilary Duff's music career.

Let me tell you what happens when you ask a question in a woman's class:

• She degrades your intelligence.

Let me tell you what happens when you visit a woman's office hours:

• Time is wasted.

Let me tell you what happens to all women:

• They die.

Hey, I'm just saying.

my life be like.

The beginning.

Year 0:

• Bonnie names me.
  
• Monogram established.

Year 1:

• Still abnormally bald.

Year 2:

• Pictured in the newspaper for no good reason besides my dad knowing a man who owned a camera.
  
• Still bald, yet somehow wearing a bow.

Year 3:

• White hair sprouts. Success.

Year 4:

• I learn my birthday and spread the word.
  
• I fall off the slide, but lie and say some harlot named Kristen did it because I am coerced by Bonnie and her cool friends.
  
• I tell a boy named Jimmy that I am going to be his wife.
  Present day: Jimmy is in jail.
• Want to be a cheerleader for the Panthers.
  

Year 5:

• What up, kindergarten?
  
• Reign over the Craft Center.
  
• Make frenemy for K-12, Anna Carpenter.
  
• In love with Drew Howell, rat tail and all.
• Chicken out of getting my ears pierced.
  Oh hey, surprise. I'm five.
  

Year 6:

• Joutfits galore.
• Life of soccer begins. Thanks, Ed.
• Make an official BFF.
• Learn what BFF means.

Year 7:

• Perfumed lotion makes me itch and no one believes me.
• Confuse "hail" and "hell" and serve a sentence in Time Out because of the mix-up.
• Drew Howell gets rid of the rat tail.
• Fall in love all over again.
• Bucket hats are my jam.
  

Year 8:

• Finally get my ears pierced.
• Get my first bloody nose at school.
• Piano lessons begin.
  
• Learn to give correct instructions on how to make a peanut butter sandwich. Thanks, Mrs. Bradley. You rock.
• Do my own hair for soccer pictures Fall and Spring.
  Epic fail, twice.

Year 9:

• Get da chub. Thanks, Chef Boyardee.
• Brace face.
  
• Have my first male teacher.
• Win 1st place in the Math Team Competition for the county.
• Win 1st place in the Individual Student Math Competition for the county.
• Get a cool neon Math Team hat.

Year 10:

• Change the words of Christina Aguilera's What a Girl Wants to a summary of Gilligan's Island. First legitimate group project. Success? Hardly.
  
• Want to be a fashion designer.
  Make the AIM screen name to prove it.
  
• Spice Girls. Enough said.
• Learn every cuss word. Thanks, Casey.
  
• Get 4th place in the Math Team Competition for the county. Fail.

Year 11:

• 6th grade, ew.
• Hair turns curly.
• American Eagle plaid button down shirts, worn open.
• Carry my first pocketbook in public.
• Cheat on a math test.
• Camp Caswell Talent Show:
  Dance to Geri Halliwell's new hit single. No joke.

Year 12:

• Hold my first gerbil.
  
• Become a thief of all things belonging to Bonnie.
• Make a solar system of cookies. Delivered in pizza boxes.
• Find out that people my age have sex. Possible?
• Make Bonnie cry and leave her lying in kitchen floor.
  Still sorry about that, ps.
  

Year 13:

• Own a straightener.
• Print out Abercrombie and Fitch wish lists after school on the daily.
• Lose braces.
• Buy bottle cap belt. Bad idea.
• Wear bottle cap belt. Worse idea.

Year 14:

• Transfer schools.
• Lose da chub and then some.
• Transition from Right to Sweeper.
• Wear make up for the first time.
• Wear make up for the last time.

Year 15:

• Learner's permit, word.
  
• Look sickly.
• Goodwill t-shirts take over my wardrobe.
• Transfer again.
  

Year 16:

• Appendix ruptures.
• Hot bod gets gangrene, sexy.
• Driver's license retrieval.
• Total car. Woops.
• Scare the mess out of everyone that knows me. Success.

Year 17:

• Color my hair brown. Look gothic.
• Abnormal obsession with golf and boys that play it.
• Force everyone to listen to Cake.
  
• Make Colt 45 the soccer team theme song.
• She's the Man.
  

Year 18:

• Overrated, yet so not.
  

Year 19:

• Yo college.
• Most legit birthday celebrations ever.
• Fainting begins.
• Courtney Fells is my baby daddy.
  
• Make Bonnie love me and like me all at the same time.
  
• Lose roommate, gain closet space.
• Make purple.
  

Year 20:

• Live with 40 girls. Bad idea.
• Live with 3 girls. Better idea.
• Make Anne's wildest dreams come true.
  
• Insides blow up again - times about 72.
• Get money. New money.

The end of the beginning of the end.

what up vasovagal syncope?

To all you ladiez out there that have dreams of working in a cardiologist's office and giving heart ultrasounds to morbidly obese men and young girls in a very vulnerable state, please do not observe Casual Friday. You own bedazzled jeans and you have a steady job. Great. Please keep them as separate entities. I know, this is America. I get it. However, just because you have a baby and a blender doesn't mean you need to go get button happy. Just saying. All I mean is that I would really appreciate you smockin' it up before you put your sanitized hands on me.

Your Aeropostale hoody is really cute and that bright green gum hanging out of your mouth es muy atractiva. If this was a burger joint, you and those sparkly jeans would be a hot commodity. Who needs Millionaire Matchmaker when you've got style like that? However, this is not Burger King. We don't do things your way. I am lying here bare chested as you and your trainee feel me up with something that looks like it should be scanning cereal barcodes at Harris Teeter. My heart? VIC Item of the Week. Needless to say, we will be doing things my way today.

In addition, please understand that subtlety is a beautiful thing. That being said, as you perform the procedure, please avoid using phrases such as:

• What is that thing right there?
  
• Oh, wow.
  
• That is what that's for?
  
• Daanng.
  
• Is it supposed to look like that?
• What does that one do?
• That looks funny.
  
• Doesn't it sound weird to you?

I mean, I love unexpected remarks that can be construed into something perverse. Who doesn't? Oh, right. Bonnie. Anyway, even she can enjoy the occasional, "That's what she said." Seriously, though. My mind was legitimately drained as I walked out of the office. Come on ladies, at least make me work for it.

So, yes.

Overall success to say the least.

yea, i like dat.

I am white.

This may come as a surprise for all one of you that doesn't know me, but make no bones about - I am white. Always have been. Always will be. Unless, of course, my next medical concern is a flesh eating bacteria. We'll cross that bridge when it comes. Until then, let's talk music.

My mission in life thus far has not been to solve world hunger or to raise money so homeless kids can have warm coats in the winter. No, I like to expand my horizons to see the true necessities of this world. What does this world need, you ask? Good music, I answer.

If I meet someone and they have horrible taste in music, I find it hard to treat them with respect. All that I'm saying is a lot can be taken from one's purchases on iTunes. Sorry, kid. You can be the sexiest man alive, but if all that is coming out of your headphones is the latest Creed album, we are going to have some issues. (Although in a perfect world, every man would strive to more like baby daddy, Scott Stapp, in With Arms Wide Open. Just saying.)

If you love Creed, that is fine. Human Clay is legit. Insulting your bad judgment was not my intention. I just think people should recognize bad music when they hear it. Although my taste in what is acceptable has changed tremendously over the years, my determination for the greater good has yet to cease.

In high school I refused to listen to two types of music: Country and Rap.

Country music, in my mind, was the downfall of every American living in the south. Having a bad day? Then why in the world do you want to listen to a man whining about his broken truck, dying dog and wife that sits at home and contributes nothing to the family income? Dumb.

To my friends that thought the monotonous beat correlating with rap "music" was dope, I had no sympathy. My question: Why should I buy their CD and promote their talent when they can't even buy a toothbrush or promote literacy by correctly spelling the word little? Just a thought.

To me, Frank Sinatra was a god. Ben Folds may have been troubled, but whoever can turn a song consisting of only cuss words and sexual references into a beautiful piano sonata deserves honor in my opinion. Cake had horns and hidden meanings and that is all that mattered. Switchfoot had the ability to make you feel as if you were doing something to benefit the world as you sat in your car waiting for soccer practice to start. Lifehouse took you down to a safe level of depression and then brought you right back. Jack Johnson? Well, it is safe to say he is the only man that has made me want to own a sandbox. As bands went, as long as they had a talented drummer and a guitarist (or four) that knew what was up, I was a fan.

To sum up, I was a music snob.

As much as I hate to admit, my taste has cheapened over the past several years. I still shy away from all things twang and nasal, but there is something about the repetitious beat of hip hop that pulls me in. Perhaps it is the engrossing lyrics that deal with the true dilemmas of the world or the gifted artists that personify everything I want my future children to be, I do not know. All I know is, I am hooked.

The big news of my musical epiphany has yet to reach the Pleasant City. I come home at Christmas and the occasional weekend with dirty laundry so there hasn't exactly been an opportune time for such a bombshell.

Unless I am in a social setting where both getting low and droppin' it are the norm, I try to hide my passion for all things worthy of a good twerk. Most of the time I succeed, but every now and then a song comes on shuffle that I just can't force myself to pass up. Case in point, Lollipop.

Sunroof open and back windows cracked, I am driving down one of the many highways in this town (joke). On the way to my grandmother's house I go. A song by Ray LaMontagne has just finished playing so the volume is up a significant bit. I don't think to turn the knob to the left when, "I said he's so sweet.." comes through the speakers. In fact, as I slow to a stop at the light, I take advantage of my massive water bottle and begin performing with my cool new microphone. I may have mentioned before that I am white. Although my fluency in ebonics is impressive beyond belief, my whiteness remains constant regardless of what song is playing. Sometimes I forget this little fun fact. Either that or my hydrating microphone calls me into reform.

Lil' Wayne has done wonders with his debut of this song. Not only does it provide every girl with the esteem needed to engage in a legitimate relationship with a man of great wealth, but it shows the world just how wholesome the lifestyle of a rapper truly is. Evangelical to say the least. If we can learn anything from his long locks and pearly whites, it is that we would be a better people if we would just lose our inhibitions and lick the rapper.

Something spoke to me today. Maybe it was Lil' Wayne's immeasurable talent for enunciation or perhaps the very essence of world peace that this song represents. No matter the reason, I was on my game. Unedited versions of songs tend to have that affect on me. What can I say? Raw lyrics and raw talent make a beautiful team.

By the time the light changed and the long line of cars began to move forward, I had reached the instructions of calling Lil' Wayne so he could get it juicy for me. (I like to over analyze many things, but this song is not one of them. I prefer to think he is simply making a nice cold glass of lemonade and his intentions are moral and clean.) Not only did I utilize my steering wheel for an additional drum accompaniment during my number, I also employed some immaculate dance moves and back up vocals. I'm sure you can imagine. Shoulder pivots, head bumping and the occasional beatbox sound as I felt appropriate.

Again. I am white.

The light changes, the wheels spin and ding! I have a new text message. Oh, cool. It's a video message! I love video messages. From.... Lance? Uh, that's odd. I haven't talked to him in two years. Weird. Must be a chain text or something. I open it regardless and the clip begins to play. My heart drops to my stomach. The entire video is of my stop light performance. Awesome.

As tempting as it is to post the video here for kicks and giggles, I must refrain. However, the text that corresponds to the video I am happy to share (verbatim):

"hEY FiSHY u wuz TRiPPIN bak there!! ShAwty wanna WAT?? lol gurl u crazii. Imma send dat video to ALL ma boyz. They aint gunna bELIEve it. gurl u a hYPoCRIT if i eva see 1 ~ n U said u neva gunna listen to dat ish. u gotta lil col0uR n u!! y u neva tell nobdy? lol WHO IS LAUGHIN NOWW?? lol"

We will avoid the topic of my nickname in high school for a moment and focus on what is truly at jeopardy here: my pride. It took me a hot minute to decode his message while driving, but even with the painful grammar and desperate need for spell check, I got the gist. I was about to go viral. The many years I spent trying to prove to my peers that talented musicians did, in fact, exist were now swirling down the drain.

Ok, let's be real. No one ever really cared about my ambitions of changing the world one string instrument at a time. I realize that. However, this quest of mine contributed to my reputation. I was the epitome of naive white girl. I wore my oversized bows, played my sports and made inappropriate jokes that I never really understood the meaning of. I was awkward, but something about that intrigued this boy and all of his friends. I never understood why. When they cheated on their girlfriends, I threatened to tattle. I forced them to listen to George Michael almost every day. When they tried to dance with me, I would run away. I made fun of their pastel church suits. I corrected their grammar in mid conversation. Basically, I was obnoxious and ignorant. (My two greatest traits.) Their retaliation? Humiliation.

Good to see things haven't changed.

I embarrass myself a lot. I've mentioned that. However, I like choosing when I am going to be a public spectacle. By giving me a nickname that is often associated with something rather perverse, the door was swung wide open for many punch lines and remarks. It has been quite a while since I've heard any allusion to that beauty of name. Lucky me, that all changed today. After his video sharing, I received 12... count them TWELVE more messages from le brethren. Ten of which entailed aquatic name calling. I walk into the grocery store hours later and see the girl who used to sit in front of me in American History. Before I can go in for the awkward greeting hug she says, "I just saw that video of you dancing!" Since, believe it or not, there are many videos of me dancing available for any willing viewer, I ask her to elaborate. She does so. Yep, dancing in the car. She then thrusts her phone in my face to clear up any confusion. I take the waving phone from her so I can focus. I look closely. As the video continues I scroll up to read the text she received with it.

"Fishy got ghetto lol!! lo0k @ her go!!! pass this on."

Cool. Oh, too bad the message was sent to her by a girl that graduated two years ahead of us. That's not sad at all. Who said nothing exciting ever happened in this town?

I hope this is the end. Either I will be the next YouTube sensation right next to Metal Roze or I will be coming to a cell phone near you. Either way. Stephanie is back in town.

Word.

late night stunna.

Second post of the day. Excessive? Yes, but necessary nonetheless.

Not to overshadow the impeccable music video making skills shown in the previous post, but we may or may not have a little competition on our hands. Due to the graces of a dear old friend, I have stumbled upon something of great worth. Now that I am home for several days, it is only appropriate that I catch up on the affairs and successes of my fellow high school graduates. About 35% of my graduating class left this county to pursue a higher education. Although only about 10% of us remain on this path, we try to keep in contact with those that stayed back to tend to the farm or enroll in the local School of Cosmetology. As painful as it is to admit, we often lose touch with those that chose the road untraveled. Until we hear their hit single, that is.

Not one, but two of these cute fellows have written in my yearbook. The skinny one was my lotion source in gym freshman year. He told me at least once a week that my feet looked like monkey hands. Basically, he loved me. No big. The other (which I assume to be the lead singer) strolled the halls with his elite crew before coming to AP Calculus each morning. I should have known he was destined for glory. I just thought I'd be seeing his face on ESPN with the rest of his friends, not MySpace.

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Metal Roze.





Fo sho.

uninterrupted prosperity.

mahna mahna.

What: The epitome of an 80 year old vs. 20 year old conversation.
When: March 16, 2010. 11:32am - 12:37pm. (65 minutes).
How: I never really know, but you get a recipe out of it so who cares.

I stop by le family office to visit with my grandparents before I leave for the Queen City. I choose my time of arrival with great care. Too early and I will be put to work looking up stock market numbers or performing some sort of fundamental analysis that I will never understand. Too late and I will be forced, err... strongly encouraged, to accompany the group to lunch. I mean, I love me some free barbecue, but not today. I had an agenda. This agenda did not involve pork.

I start eating a peanut butter sandwich before I walk into the building so I can dodge any lunch tricks. You learn to play the game early in this family. I keep the napkin and plastic bag in sight at all times as a reminder that I did, in fact, have lunch. Stephanie is eating. Whew. Family concern number one is abolished. Next up, I refuse all offerings of water and other beverages. Liquid makes people liquid. If I were to make a trip to the restroom at any point during this visit, it would be assumed that I am sick. Kind of tired of the poor Stephanie mentality, I decline and have a successful bathroom free office visit. I knock out family concern number two with a swift jab. Look at me go!

Napkin in hand. Plastic bag on lap. I sit facing my grandmother. Preparing myself for the inevitable conversation topics, I wait for her to make the first move. Ah, yes! It seems we will, yet again, carry on the exact same conversation we had two days ago. Perfection.

The conversation opens.

My hair: (3 minutes). It never fails. If it is straight, it should be curly. If it is curly, it should be brushed. If it is brushed, I should pull it back or put a clip in it. Today it is pulled back so she works with what she's got. "Your hair has gotten really dark. You been puttin' color on it?" Nope, no color. Just life. "I think you been puttin' color in it and you're not tellin' nobody." Yes, because my hair color is definitely something worth lying about. I consider her advice on getting a few "light streaks on the top" and wait for the next topic.

Her hair. (4 minutes).

My health: (8 minutes). I am happy at school. I hit my head, but it doesn't hurt now. Yes, I can eat just about anything I want. My face is red because I was in the sun. I feel fine, don't worry. I pass out when I am stressed so I will work on managing my stress so I don't do it again. Since it is that simple. Yea, about that.

Her health. (6 minutes).

My personal life: (7 minutes). No, there are no new boys. Yes, he is a nice boy. No, we are not together. Yes, I know you like him a lot. I like him too. I'll keep you updated. Yes, yes. I will. If anything changes you'll be the first to know. What? Oh, she showed you pictures on Facebook, did she? Well that was awfully nice of her. Remind me to show you some pictures of her the next time we have the chance.

More of my personal life. Bonnie's personal life. (9 minutes).

My birthday: (2 minutes). It is coming up, I know! So close. I know, I am getting old. No, no. You are not old. Eighty is young! Oh, hush. You are in better shape than I am. Yes, I am probably going to dinner or something that night. I don't know what I want. I have nothing in mind. Cash will suffice just fine, but you really don't have to do that. Really, you don't have to do that. Really? I mean, are you sure? Ok, if you insist.

Awkward silence.

The silence has met the two minute mark. Uh oh, I feel it coming. The go-to conversation topic. We've established that I have horrible hair, my health is dwindling and my personal life is not meeting her expectations, so what now? Please, no. Please, no. Her mouth opens. My heart races. Yep, here it is. "So I got some good Crock-pot candy waitin' for me in The Deep Freeze when I get home."

Yes, "The Deep Freeze." She loves it. She cherishes it. She visits it daily. That thing is more spoiled than anyone in our lineage. I honestly don't think I've ever had a legitimate conversation with my grandmother without it being mentioned. Today's interaction was no different.

-

Since the remaining 26 minutes of our chat was dedicated to this monstrous object, I may as well give you a little background.

My grandmother has a very close relationship with her deep freezer. Yes, hers. That's right. She has her very own, as does my grandfather. They are married. They share a house, a company and an obsession for their youngest grandchild (hear, hear), but that is where they draw the line. The two frigid chests (no pun intended) share a room. For well over twenty years now, these massive igloos have been the only decor this room has seen.... ever. Strange? Perhaps, but what can I say? We like our food. Their motto is why eat it now when you can freeze it, thaw it out and eat it eight months down the road? Sounds good to me.

Over the years, these deep freezers have seen many a cake, pecan and tenderloin. Typically my grandmother's chest is piled high with desserts she made on a whim for some unplanned family reunion, frozen pizzas from their monthly venture to Stouffer's and delectable concoctions she whipped up from ingredients lying around the kitchen. Enter: the infamous Vegetable Cake. A pink vegetable cake. Delicious, you ask? I wouldn't know. My cousin and I cut enormous pieces and disposed of them promptly to avoid hurt feelings and damaged taste buds. Note to self, don't tell Mamaw you're having a potluck engagement party.

In case you were wondering, my grandfather's freezer is much more manly. We conservatives like to keep things traditional. Lady junk stays in the lady trunk. All the meat and nuts are kept in - what else? The man chest. Hey, hey. Minds clean, please. These are my grandparents I'm talking about. Geez.

-

She continues on about her Crock-pot candy. She had to transfer some of the delicious frozen Stouffer cuisine to the manly meat box just to make room for all her treats! This candy has to be the best thing she has ever tasted. I ask her the ingredients just to keep the conversation going and out of nowhere she whips out the recipe. Lucky for me it was printed out on cardstock. She hands me the piece of paper and apparently my genuine fanaticism for all things recipes is radiating from my sunburnt face. She insists that I keep it. I try to spurn her offering, but am denied. "Don't worry," she says, "I have copies." I think I was more impressed with her copy machine capabilities than her ability to ignore the fact that I may or may not have just laughed at her expense. By the way, I am not as horrible as you think. Promise.


As it turns out these wonderful Crock-pot clusters are legit. Although she was avid in believing that her Sunday School teacher originated this recipe, it turns out Google said otherwise. Maybe I am sharing this out of the kindness of my heart. Maybe I am sharing this because Anne needs to eat up instead stressing out and becoming nocturnal. Maybe I am sharing this so you will get distracted and not realize that I completely forgot the point of why I started this story. Believe what you may. Doesn't matter to me.

Plug in your pots and get to cookin'.

Ingredients:

• 2 pounds almond bark, broken into pieces
• 2 cups (12 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips
• 4 ounces German's Sweet Chocolate
• 24 ounces dry roasted peanuts

Preparation:

In Crock-pot, combine the white candy coating or almond bark, German's Sweet Chocolate, and semisweet chocolate chips. Cover and cook on HIGH for 1 hour; reduce to LOW. Cover and cook 1 hour longer, or until candy is melted, stirring every 12 to 15 minutes. Stir in roasted peanuts, mixing well. Drop peanut clusters by teaspoonfuls onto waxed paper; let stand until set. Store candy at room temperature (or as we have learned, the freezer). Makes about 3 to 4 dozen chocolate peanut clusters... or as I like to call them MAGIC.

Anne has a hot bod. You're welcome. Now, go to bed.

all that heaven will allow.

Since everyone reading this clearly has nothing better to do with their time, shall we walk through my day? Yes, beginning to end. Ok, just until 4pm. Lucky you! Compromise. First on the docket, let us learn a bit more about what the wonderful life of Stephanie entails. By that I mean, let me bullet point useless information about myself that makes me both vulnerable and self-consumed as you sit perched, mouth agape, eager to hear more. Man, this is beautiful.

• I like making lists. Obvi. Bullet points are like tiny little pieces of magic. My wand? Pilot G-2, 0.38 pen. Black, please. This is my pen of choice. I have one with me at all times. No back ups, just one. ONE, I say. Without it I am incomplete.
  
• I pass out. It's like this cool new fad my body is trying out. You know, just living life on the edge. Who doesn't love the unexpected black out? Face, meet ground. Ground, this is face. Your new friendship means so much to me.
  
• Public embarrassment. I love it. I live for it. I will name my child after it. However, public embarrassment has an appropriate time and place. Please know this place is not the doctor's office.
• I am a forgetful person. I lose my keys. I leave my purse. I misplace my phone. A monstrosity of a fault, I know. Work with me though, I am pathetic.
• I live in a small town. Although to the State of North Carolina my hometown is considered a city, those kids in Raleigh aren't fooling anyone. The cows in my backyard and my closest neighbor 3 miles down the gravel road agree with me in saying this place ain't big. People know each other. Just saying.
• I like water. I drink it regularly. I bathe with it (somewhat) regularly. It even turns out I need it to survive. Who knew? So needless to say when this natural resource is lacking, I get antsy.
• Tattoos are not my thing. Granted once upon an 18th birthday I did dabble with the idea of a monogram inside of the proverbial ixthus, but then I remembered something. I don't like pain. So as long as my skin is involved, no thank you. Yes, I enjoy them on other people. Yes, I may tend to make quick judgments due to both placement and content of the cool tats le men and women in my vicinity, but let's be real. You've done it too. Tis justified.
  
• Acerbic jokes are my thing. I am usually the only one making them and the only one who finds them humorous, but at least someone is laughing. Right? I gave up being appropriate and politically correct the day my insides died. Just trying to live a little. Don't hate.
• I am awkward. Enough said.
  
  

There it is. My heart poured onto a keyboard. Maybe a smidgen too much emotional honesty for the first week, but the sooner we get our foibles out into the open, the more we can love each other unconditionally forever and ever. Inspirational, I know.

I hope you all took down elaborate notes on everything I just shared. Done? Let us proceed. This morning I wake up. Shocking. But rather than my typical Body Language phone alarm (what up Jesse McCartney), I wake up to a loud pulsating beat coming from the wall in front of me. The last time I checked that wasn't normal, so I get up and investigate. I follow the obnoxious pounding into the hallway, to the left and into my bathroom. (No, this is not another bathroom story. Chill out, Bonnie.) As it turns out the rhythmic beat is coming from the water faucets and the toilet. Weird. I turn the handle to one of the faucets and nothing. Perfect. My decision to wait until the morning to shower is instantly deplored. Gross.

Deprived of my beloved water, I dress for the awesome day I have planned. Flannel shirt, moccasins and all. Oh, don't judge me. I figured my hair was disgusting and my teeth were not brushed so I may as well complete the definition of unfortunate looking while I had the chance. I assumed I would only be seeing about three people of worth during my adventure so I wasn't that concerned. As I mentioned just a moment ago, my face has met the ground on numerous occasions over the past few months. No one knows exactly why so it was decided that my Spring Break was the opportune time to figure this baby out. Who needs sun and sand when you can have needles and heart monitors? I hope you girls are having fun on your cruise! The view from my hospital bed is beautiful, thanks. So yes, my day. Hair pulled into a side braid to camouflage the nasty, I make my way to my first doctor visit of the week.

First of all, I walk in the wrong entrance. New buildings for older businesses in this town are rare. Seeing as how I do not do very well with direction and/or change, this was problematic. After about six doors and three different staircases I finally stumble upon the main waiting room. I thought all the fun was over! Oh, Stephanie. How wrong you were.

I put my name down and take a seat among the other degenerate generations waiting to be called for a urine sample. Man, I love the doctor. I feel as if everyone is staring at the sun glistening off of my beautiful head of hair. (Again, gross.) Because of this, I already feel uncomfortable. To avoid eye contact, I tend to my intense game of BrickBreaker until my name is called. First name.. and last. Cool. Now about eight more heads have turned to watch me make my way to the lady living inside the glass box. I may have mentioned this town is small. Old people may not know me personally, but I guarantee you they have a dead dog in their backyard that at one time loved my grandfather or a granddaughter that played recreational soccer that at one time feared my dad. (Only a select few of you can appreciate this to the full extent.) The point of this? They may not know who I am, but they know who I belong to. I can hear it now, "I saw that sick little girl Doris always talks about at the doctor. She looked terrible. Poor thing was dressed like a hobo and came in the back door lookin' lost and scared. She must be dyin ' or something." Oh yea. I'm for real. I am here for a week and gossip of my demise ensues for three months. Got to love that small town math.

I follow the path to the woman behind the glass. "You Stephanie?" Yes, lady. Me Stephanie. Shall I surrender my club and other miscellaneous stone tools so we can continue? I take a seat as she files paperwork and enjoys her swivel chair more than anyone ever should. Just watching her in those brief moments almost gave this cave girl whiplash. Yikes. She comes to a safe landing and asks for my insurance card. Woops. It seems that I misplaced my insurance card. I remember that I gave it to my sister during my emergency room visit days before and silly me didn't make card retrieval my first priority. Yet again my absent mindedness has caused a dilemma. I try to explain the mix up to the nice lady hoping for some sort of sympathy, but am quickly disappointed. "I don't understand." Haha, lady. I can see you don't understand a lot of things. I start from the beginning in a very hush tone (since we are in waiting room) and reiterate the simple mistake. Rather than picking up on my preferred discreteness of this little interaction, she employs her outside voice, "So you don't have your insurance card with you?" Oh my gosh. Seriously? My back is turned, but I feel about six more heads turn around to watch the show. I can only imagine the gossip that will arise and spread from this. I solve her immense confusion with a simple, "Yes."

She looks at me, face scrunched and after about a five second pause she extends her arm beyond the glass box and hands me a clipboard and a piece of paper. "Fill this out." I am frustrated, but excited at an opportunity to use my list making pen. At least something is going right. I find it odd that I have to fill out my home address and things of the sort when I have been coming to this doctor since birth, but hey. It's whatever. I am using my pen. I glance up to see her contemplating her next action. Suddenly a light bulb flashes and she swiftly spins to face the two ladies standing behind her. I retreat to my paperwork. Maybe it was just my paranoia or my heightened sense of hearing due to the numerous hearing aids in the room with me, but it seemed as if what she said next was legitimately screamed. "This girl don't have her insurance card. What should I do? She says she left it in Raleigh and can't get it today." Ok, sweet thing. Keep it down. Yes, the people in this room may be deaf, however the boy that sat next to me at graduation that works at the KFC down the street is not. Seriously. Lower your voice.

I look up to watch the surreal play going on in front of me to which I am the main character. I did not ask for this part, mind you. Wide-eyed, I take it all in. Something catches my eye. There it is, ladies and gentlemen. The tattoo. Time to kill two birds with one stone. The tattoo and my sudden animosity towards this woman. Anger builds in the pit of my stomach as I attempt to decipher exactly what kind of business is taking over the back of homegirl's neck. A heart meets a bed of roses? A naked baby meets a butterfly? Wait, wait. Ah... there it is. "Angel" in cursive. No, I am not kidding. There are little hearts and other designs all around it, so it is permissible. Oh, and an angel wing. Just one though. Just one. Cute, lady. Maybe it's just those sweet Care Bear scrubs you're wearing or that borderline buzz cut that keeps that dank tat displayed for the world to see, but to me you are nothing short of beautiful. Now that I can see your full look, it clicks. You are like an avenging "Angel" who just stepped out of a Springsteen lyric to take back the good name of old school American trash. On behalf of my generation's lacking taste in music, fashion and everything that is good, I thank you. We don't know what we're doing! We can't even remember our insurance cards! Thank goodness you are here.

My case is discussed and solved by the three women, but not before my name is announced to the invested audience at least six more times. Sweet. Thanks, ladies. Angel asks for the clipboard back so she can process the information she moments later realizes she already has in the computer. Surprise, surprise. The glass window is pulled closed and I am on my way back to my seat when I realize there was a casualty in the war that just occurred. The pen. My beloved pen. I had attached it to the clipboard in the midst of the controversy. Crap. I was not about to walk back up to the window with all the people watching to ask for it. Mourning the deaths of both my dignity and favorite office supply, I wait my turn to see the doctor.

Dear Jesus. Ok, so.

Let's revisit the goods:

• Lists: Made.
  
• Pen: Lost.
• Doctor: Strike one.
• Public embarrassment: Check.
• Item forgotten: Insurance card.
• Small town stigma: I will be the hot topic at the BBQ place tomorrow, no doubt.
• Water: Lacking.
• Tattoo: Angelic.
• Bitter remarks: Duh.
• Awkward: All day everyday.
  

My appointment summed up in one word? Stinky.

frailty, thy name is woman.

I spend a lot of my time in the bathroom. The four of you reading this know that this statement is unsettling, but very true nonetheless. This fun little hobby of mine has presented me with many opportunities and anecdotes over the past seven years. I like to think of these as the silver lining to my porcelain filled life. Too personal? Oh, please.

I have made many a friend in front of the sinks of Cafe Carolina. There must be something about that abnormally small stall that was clearly intended for infants and double jointed lady folk that forms bonds and lifelong friendships. Thumbs up to the man with a Grade A digestive tract that designed that mess. My intestines thank you, as do my friends posted up in a booth waiting on me to get my life together.

I digress.

It is safe to say Cafe Carolina bathroom stalls, in essence, represent a caste system of bodily functions. Bodily needs, if you will. Let me explain.

SUDRA: The tiny stall may be a tunnel of doom, but it is accessible. Ladies, please. If you simply had too much Diet Coke, be a pal. Practice your fetal position and get going. Don't consider yourself an outcast, but understand that your importance is minimal in this context. It is the number one stall for a reason. Just saying.
VIASYA: Now, we've reached the middle stall. Hey, middle stall. You're a little lanky and awkward, but in comparison to the runt next to you, you are definitely the prettier sister. The proverbial middle sibling. No one hates you, but no one wants you. You secretly hope that your big sister will overflow or get clogged with feminine products and although you appreciate the unfortunate state of your little sis, you're still jealous of how much everyone talks about her. Attention hungry son of a potty. You just can't win.
BHRAMIN: One step further and we now find ourselves at the glorious handicap stall. Look at its magnitude, all big and spacious. The hot older sister married into royalty. Her man is a priest and whatever happens once her door is closed is nothing less than holy. Amen to that.

Who deserves to sit upon such a royal throne, you ask? Is it for the elite? Is it for the unfortunate? Is it first come first serve? Some people say that the stall should remain empty unless the threshold is passed by wheel, crutch or cane. I, however, am not one of those people. If it is the only available option, please help yourself! In most public restrooms, as long as there is no wheelchair in sight, I am going for the gold. Without doubt. I must say though that I do, in fact, consider myself as one of the deserving elite. Pretentious? Sure. I may be better than you, but your insides are better than mine. We'll call it even for now.

Public restrooms in general? I am just a commoner. Sudra Stephanie.
Cafe Carolina? Bhramin, baby. It is safe to say the third stall is mine. I do not care if every other stall is empty, I will wait until my second abode third commode is available. Duly note that piece of information and let us move on.

Now that we have that out of the way, let's talk about bathroom etiquette:

• Unless you are with child or aiding and abetting in a toddler's potty time, there should be only one person in a stall at one time. That makes sense, right? One toilet. One person. One time. I mean, it adds up to me.
• As you are one person, using one bathroom stall, please keep in mind that every bathroom user has a mission. That mission is to get in, get out and make way for the next paying customer. (This mission may or may not be similar to that of a prostitute. Just saying.) Please do not partake in questionable activities or send lengthy emails from your squatted position. People are waiting.
• Men's restrooms are for boys. Women's restrooms are for girls. They have signs for a reason. No, there are not typically separate bathrooms available for the androgynous people of Raleigh, however I don't think there have been too many issues with that. I am guessing eeny, meeny, miny and moe are utilized and life goes on.
  

These are my three main rules. They seem easy enough, right? I don't like when people break my rules. When one or more of these very simple rules are violated, we have issues. That is all I'm saying.

As I mentioned, I tend to build relationships over soap dispensers and toilet paper shortages. It is what I do best. Sunday afternoon I met an older lady who I contemplated adopting as my third grandmother. My life could have easily changed for the better as I stood in front of the paper towels that day. Conversation commenced from a shirt compliment and ten minutes later I walked out holding a business card of her event planning daughter. That may seem sketchy, but she was wearing Lilly head to toe so I legitimized it and moved on.

Onward.

Just days after I came face to face with everything that I hope to be in 50 years, I found myself standing in front of those same paper towels. With my friends finishing dinner on the other side of the restaurant, I had excused myself to study a little Hinduism. Eager to see what the bathroom had in store for me this day, I was somewhat disappointed that there seemed to be no other avid bathroom goers like myself present. I walk to my stall of choice and turn the handle, but it is locked. Locked!? Empty bathroom with a locked door? Unacceptable. I try again with a little more power. Laughter erupts from behind the castle door. Excuse me, rude. I am not laughing. I want my stall. I apologize and back away feeling a hint of remorse for trying to barge in on someone doing something rather personal. Rather than an acknowledgment of my awkward apology, I hear whispering. I'm sorry. At no point was whispering ever mentioned in the mission statement. Rule breaker #1. Oddly enough, this specific whispering involved more than one person. Rule breaker #2. One voice is deeper than the other. Ok, sketch. Rule breaker #3. Confused and slightly uncomfortable, I summon myself to the first stall due to the temporary unavailability of the middle sister. After I close my stall door and settle into the cave I hear the mansion door swing open. I look down and watch four feet shuffle past my door. Two lady feet. Two very not lady feet. Illegal much?

I am working on my presentation that I had planned to give my friends as to what had just happened while I wash my hands. Assuming the lovebirds or whatever they were had fled the scene, I walk out of the bathroom area both extremely upset that my stall had been occupied and in awe of what had just occurred. I spot my friends across the main room, but look to my right because I felt someone looking at me. I glance over to find four very unfortunate eyes staring back at me. A seemingly young boy and girl are sitting across from each other at one of the booths right next to the bathroom hallway. They are holding hands from across the table. Seriously? I do a double take and the girl looks away, however the boy keeps his eyes locked. Perhaps it would have been a social norm for me to break eye contact and continue on. Yea, about that. Two problems: 1. I am still pretty upset about my throne being stolen so any communicative standard has officially been dismissed. 2. I am pretty sure the words social and normalcy have never been uttered (or comprehended) by either one of these cute kids.

I pass their table, but because I am neither senile or 100% deaf, I hear their comments as I continue on. Due to the criticism and content of said remarks, I have a few observations of my own.

-

Homegirl,

Ok, I know you've got some elaborate justification worked out about standards of beauty and how the holes in your face would look totally normal to the Uighurs of Western China, but you have to realize that they get bored out there. You, however, have no excuse. As for your pants. You are not wearing any. No shoes, no shirt, no service. I know, I know. Pants were not mentioned. Their mistake, my correction. Please put on pants. The snow last week may have not been a very clear indicator, but it is, in fact, winter. Don't worry. Your boyfriend was right! That is a good look. Just know by good look I mean destitute middle-aged Ukrainian prostitute who has been walking directly into the wind for three months to numb the pain of her aerated face.

Please tell your boyfriend that, yes, I am the girl that was in the bathroom. Yes, I knew he was in there. No, I'm not going to tell the manager. I know the high school mentality of tattling seems appropriate, however this is real life. I'm sure he is an amazing boyfriend and knows all the right angles to use and Photoshop effects to apply for the perfect MySpace profile picture, but I don't like him. I hate to tell you this, but his ambitions of becoming a roadie for My Chemical Romance will inevitably fail. He will take all of your black eyeliner and when you confront him about it he will break up with you. His new girlfriend will look even more scary than you do and all you will have left are sweet Cafe Carolina bathroom memories and that 7mm gauge he gave you for your two week anniversary. Just saying.

With all my love,
Girl with the ugly pink rain boots.

-

In conclusion:

• The demographics of Cafe Carolina vary (like woah) depending on time and day.
• I like my pink rain boots.
• Question my actions and insult me? I question your integrity and insult your boyfriend.
• Please keep all sketchy bathroom behavior at home or in restaurants that I don't go to.
• The handicap stall is mine. The end.
  

the name game.

Since I am so prestigious and admirable, it is inevitable that I start a blog. I feel as if I owe society a little something. A little something meaning me, of course. That's Stephanie. Always thinking of others.

Here's the thing. I have many friends (or fans as I like to call them) and by their request I have decided to share a few other blog name ideas that arose during a brainstorm session... or five. As the list ensues, I will provide a little explanation for each so you can get to know me a little better. Isn't that what everyone wants? Ok, great. That's what I thought.

• Lilly & Lexapro: Depressed and not impressed in a pink and green dress.
• A Meritorious Monogram: My initials make people drool. Always have. Always will.
• Grosgrain Gratification: Ribbon Reciprocity. Word.
• Abominable, with love: I'd like to think you can justify anything as long as there is love.
• Polka-dotted Prozac: Chemical imbalance as a new fashionable print? I think so.
• Pleasantly Pretentious: I can't help that people want to be like me.
• preserved like jelly: ...because I'm smooth like peanut butter, duh.
• Non-sequential Humor: .either it get don't I
• I'd Monogram That: The celibate alternative.
• destitute decision making: Apparent in the creation of this blog.
• That's what she said: Although this was my first choice, it was my sister's last. Apparently I'll want a job someday or something.
• Yes, please: No, thanks.
• hickies & hiccups: Inevitable for just about every walk of life. Just saying.
• Botany & Monotony: Why not? It rhymes.
• From the Emotional Fund: Check yourself before you wreck yourself.
• good advice you just shouldn't take: Nothing I say is credible. Thanks anyway, Alanis.
• Habitchual Humor: Pun? Perhaps.
• Inside, out of context: I decided I wanted legit readers. You know, ones that don't contemplate self-inflicted violence or want to think too much. You're welcome.
• the Cake: I mean, there is the Onion and the Oatmeal. Why not?
• stickshifts & safety belts: Bucket seats have all got to go.
• SLY: I like leaving things to the imagination. Except not really.

Word.