Fishy Fishy Fishy

I have figured out why my dating life is slow

(or some would argue – doomed.)

Last night some friends suggested that we go get sushi. There is this great place that’s super cheap and that I would love it.

Well if I’ll love it, I guess now I HAVE to go.

We walked over to a little restaurant, even though it was   6:30 on a Friday night there were all of maybe 5 customers. We found a booth by the wall and settled in. One of the seven staff members hanging out behind the counter brought us menus and took drink orders. The other girls I was with knew immediately what they wanted. I looked down, overwhelmed.

Here’s the thing. Raw fish SCARES  me. We can’t eat chicken or eggs because of salmonella, beef is just a terrifying meat, but there is an entire INDUSTRY devoted to raw fish? Something sounds fishy here.

No pun intended.

I scoured the menu for a sufficiently solid thirty seconds trying to find the item with the least amount of uncooked filet  possible. I ordered the Poke Bowl (pronounced po-key, as I was promptly corrected by my waiter).

The food came quickly and I observed my meal. Observed is the appropriate word of choice because it looked like my sophomore year biology project.  My  meal had come topped with not JUST raw fish. It came with a PLETHORA of raw fish, in a single bite I could enjoy the taste three different water beings at the same time.

My stomach was begging for a hot juicy burger or a fried chicken wing. Nice and cooked and not slimy.

After the initial shock of my ordered food, I looked down and realized this was not one of those super American ethnic restaurants that presented you with both chopsticks AND a fork, EVERYONE was required to eat with only chopsticks.

Guess who never learned to eat with chopsticks?

Sounds about right.

I’m never sure how unorthodox that is, that I have not mastered the skill of the chopsticks. To be honest, my life is not hindered in any way because I lack that credential, I still got into school, I have a job, and I can function in most aspects of society. However, EVERY time I end up in a CSS (ChopStick Situation), I almost always seem to be one of the ONLY ones who never acquired this skill. Was there a class that I missed? Dad, is this like when you skimped on teaching me hand-eye coordination with any sort of sports ball? Did you and mom skip the “teaching your daughter how to eat with foreign utensils” chapter in the parenting module?

The setting has been framed, this is a recipe for disaster. My friend tried to teach me how to use chopsticks, but after I flung two balls of rice in her face (chopsticks would make excellent weapons) we had fallen in a fit of laughter.

Our waiter walked by, and ever so stealthily, slid a orange chopstick helper in front of me. He gave me a wink and walked away.

That’s cute right? Hypothetically, that’s a great movie scene moment: girl can’t use chopsticks, flings rice, knight in shining armor flies in, presents her with tool to save the day, she receives sushi man’s number and they live happily ever after.

Unfortunately, life isn’t the movies, and that waiter was a little too dorky to be knight in shining armor.

But the setup was nice.

Except for one of the other key components of that movie scene, my suaveness, or lack thereof.

He presents me with the tool, and I can’t even look at him. I have fallen into a fit of laughter, and not the cute giggles, but full on bellows with tears streaming from my eyes. The rest of the table joined me in this moment of humor, but the moment was so far lost with my lack of poise.

I didn’t eat much of my $10.00 Poke Bowl, but I think of it more as paying for entertainment rather than sustenance.

It also taught me a huge lesson about my dating life:

If he wants to go to a sushi place on the first date,

I better turn and run the other way.

Coming Home

Being home is always refreshing. It always requires a bit of an adjustment from the fast paced lifestyle in Nashville to having zero schedule or commitments at home.

Yum.

I also somehow always manage to gain a pants size in Ohio. Thanks Mom. Actually, it’s not ALL my mom’s fault. A lot of it is because of Graeters, the BEST ice cream in the world (that is an official title, not an opinion).

There’s also the weird sensation of being back in my hometown and being flooded with nostalgia wherever I go.

There’s that wall that I ran my bike into, that street I got my first (and only!) speeding ticket on, the playground I forged my first friendship on, Cici’s Pizza where I held my first job, or (of course) my hometown Starbucks, where I have had countless long conversations with my friends over the years.

The worst is that I have to look presentable every time I leave the house. More than likely I will run into someone I know or graduated with.

Which is REALLY hard when you are in vacation mode, nothing is more unappealing than the hair brush or bottle of foundation. … or shoes.

The grocery store is THE WORST. I don’t know why, but I cannot walk into the grocery store without seeing someone that I know. Normally it warrants one of two reactions: 

a.) If it was someone that I knew, but we never really talked. Somehow we mutually decide that it would be more awkward to acknowledge each other than to just  avoid eye contact, so that’s what we do  (which can be super awkward when you BOTH are looking for Honey Nut Cheerios).

b.) If this is a person that I knew, but fell out of contact with OR someone I never really talked to, but that person is just feeling outgoing (which happens way more often than one would think), we engage in a semi awkward hug in front of the Campbells Soup collection. We talk about school and what we are doing and ask how each other’s family is. We talk about what we are doing home and wish each other a good break. Then we part ways.

Personally, I prefer option b much more than option a. It just breaks all walls down and actually creates a precedent for future interactions. I said hi to this person before, so NEXT Christmas when I’m looking for semi-sweet chocolate chips, it’s perfectly acceptable to say hi to this person.

It is cool to come back and see people I haven’t seen in a year and hear about what they are doing and see how far everyone goes, even if it has only been two years since we graduated. It is insane how many different directions everyone goes and how different people become. It makes me wonder where we will all be in just a few years.

Outsmarted By Starbucks

Today I decided to treat myself with a chai from Starbucks.

I went in and waited in the obnoxiously long line.

Seriously. How long does it take to decide between poppyseed or a multigrain bagel?

I get up to the front of the line and barista looks at me, anticipating my order.

I explain that I want a chai tea latte, made with skim milk.

She makes eye contact with me and asks, Grande?

For those readers who are not Starbucks frequent visitors, that is coffee shop talk for medium size.   

I stop and think for a second. My default size is tall (a small drink), and ordinarily the barista asks me “what size?” so I make the active choice to say ‘tall.’ There is no temptation, only habit.
However, she specifically asked me if I wanted a grande, so the idea was in my head. Now I wanted a grande. Before the frugal side of me could regain control, I felt myself nodding my head and smiling.

“Yes, grande sounds good.”

 That’s how the game is played. I used to be a register girl at a Cici’s Pizza. They would play the same game.

Cici’s Pizza is an all-you-can-eat $4.99 buffet. Can’t get much better than that, all the food you want and for only five dollars?

A lot of times people would come in so excited about the low prices, and then ask how we still managed to make a profit from our salad, pizza, pasta, and dessert buffet. It was my job to smile and shrug and chalk it up to the magic of the Cici’s Gods.

In reality almost all of our profit came from the beverages. 

Beverages are profit traps for restaurants. It only costs a restaurant a few cents for a standard fountain drink, but what does a customer often pay? At Cici’s it was a $1.79.
That’s about $1.50 in profit every sale. Bring in a few hundred thirsty customers, and now it’s a few hundred dollars.
 Oh, but that’s not all.
 People who came to eat at Cici’s could get a clear water cup for free (clear cup because then we can yell at people who steal our precious coke. That was my favorite part), or they could pay $1.79 for a red drink cup.
OR if they wanted to only pay fifty cents extra, they could buy the FANCY SMANCY STYROFOAM TO GO CUP. It held thirty-two ounces of fountain drink goodness.
Let me tell you, 32 ounces is A LOT of drink. As a register girl, selling these cups were key to success. Regular drinks were profit traps, but these to go cups were gold. Styrofoam is dirt cheap and essentially these cups were pure profit.
Little known fact about me, I am crazy competitive. Once I was hired as a register girl, I was going to be the best register girl. This meant I would put on my winning smile, belt out that “Hi welcome to Cici’s,” and sell those to go cups without fail. 

Not to toot my own horn (Toot. Toot.), but I became awesome at selling to go cups. I developed tricks, like holding the cup right under the customer’s face as I asked them if they wanted to buy it. They saw it, they wanted it.

Or I would stack the cups in pretty formations, they just looked so much happier and like a luxury item.

I also started to stereotype customers depending on their likelihood to buy the cup, it isn’t exactly PC, but is surprisingly accurate.

•  Parents with children hardly ever bought to go cups, probably penny pinching. The few that did probably felt guilty because their three-year-old child tore down my carefully constructed cup display.

 

•   Elderly folk often turned down the upgrade, normally with an exaggerated, “OH babycakes, I can’t handle something that big.”

 

• Single men – almost always bought the cup. Probably were free from the controlling women in their life and decided to splurge a bit.

 

• Men were much more likely to upgrade than women and often if she did, she would assure me that it was for iced tea.

 

• If a group of friends came in and all paid separately the bandwagon effect almost always decided what would happen. If the first person bought a drink or a to go cup, almost everyone behind them would follow suit. The same unfortunately applied if the first person only took water, I knew immediately to throw in the towel. We are such followers.

 

• Teenage boys were my favorite to prey on, They often had mom and dad’s money and so were fine spending it. It also helped that as a sixteen year old girl I would often turn my flirt on and develop a good banter before proposing the inexpensive upgrade. 95% success rate.

 

 I should have gone into marketing. I’ve got this down. It worked too, I could read people and knew exactly what to say to get them to upgrade their beverage. I was easily the best register girl at selling Styrofoam cups (Toot. Toot.)

Standing at the Starbucks counter waiting for the barista to swipe my card for my now $4.15 beverage (Outrageously high for any drink. I’m on a mission to find a homemade chai recipe, any suggestions PLEASE send them my way!) , I realized that I had fallen prey to the EXACT mind game I used to play with the people who would come in for their buffet.

Somehow I had been stereotyped (what about me told her that I would buy a grande? That I was a college student? Short? White? Wearing cowboy boots?), and she took her shot, and in my moment of vulnerability, succeeded.

As soon as I walked away I realized this was against my better judgment. Simple marketing ploys had overcome my desire to be frugal. For a moment I resented that Starbucks barista, she had used her skills for evil and took my extra money and forced me extra calories. Then I realized that it was all part of the game, I once too used my skills for evil and pulled fifty cents out of many innocent fingers. It wasn’t all the barista’s fault. It was the system. It was my responsibility to be above the mind tricks.

Today I was conquered, but not next time, Starbucks. I will have ownership of my purchases and my chai. Even if you outsmarted me this time.

Real Personhood

When did I become a real person!?

This weekend was a test of my independence. This was my first time without the security of a college campus or the watchful eye of my parental dynamic duo. I was a free bird.

Over the course of the weekend I learned a few life lessons about Real Personhood.

1.) Real People pull themselves up by their bootstraps


Real People have to make due with what they have. If something goes wrong they have to figure out how to fix it.

For example: when we figured out that the house I am moving into did not have space to keep two mini fridges, we found somewhere to store them. The night before we moved out.

I’m impressed with myself too.

And it’s alive.

Or when it’s raining and you have to bike home from a coffee shop with your laptop: 

Real People ask the barista (I want a job that makes me sound so fancy for pouring coffee) for a plastic bag to wrap your computer in.

It helps when the barista is attractive, as mine was.

Is it a baristo if it’s a male?

Mom! Look what I did!

Or while we’re talking about bikes, when you have a backpack AND a purse, it’s really hard to ride with both on your back. So, Real People use their intuition and innovation to create a solution.

It took three struggling rides to figure this one out.
It’s tied AROUND the handle bars. Out of my and the bike’s way.
I should patent this and stop working so hard.

2. Real People have to ask for help

This is the life lesson of the weekend.

I learned that I do not enjoy asking for help, because it makes me feel vulnerable.

It must be one of those lessons you don’t learn until you realize that you have overcome it.

Because, I also learned that I will never be able to do anything by myself.

I am so thankful I have friends that help me out when I need it.

3. Real People Grocery Shop

The people in my life have been so great about teaching me most of the skills I need in life:

• How to read and write
• How to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’
• How to drive a car

My question for all of you adult mentors:

Where was the lesson on how to grocery shop?!

I’m not asking how to find the bread or milk. I got that part down.

I’m asking WHAT ON EARTH DO I BUY TO SUSTAIN MYSELF?

I just couldn’t handle it.

How do you walk into a grocery store and see aisles and aisles of products and know how to choose the golden items?

How do you make a grocery list when you don’t even know what you need?

Why does everyone else in a grocery store look like they know exactly what they are doing and I am the only one who is lost?

I quickly realized also, as I was stumbling through the grocery store, wondering why ON EARTH the yogurt and milk were not located next to each other, that grocery shopping forces you into various Real People behaviors.

If forces you to send texts to your best guy friend that suggests middle aged married couple status:

For the record: wheat does not mean just wheat bread.

There is wheat with fiber enhanced, 12 servings of grain, 15 servings of grain, extra vitamin,  or WHOLE grain wheat bread.

All of it makes my choice very complicated.

My second grocery shopping induced Real Person behavior was when I signed up for my very own Harris Teeter membership. 

My name, my phone number, my address.

My keychain has aged 10 years in the past week.

Oh, and no worries. 

Miss Shannon at the register made sure to let me know JUST how much I saved with my purchase.

And I am  excited about my $2.31 in savings.

Thank you, trusty VIC card, for buying me a tea.

I’m not sure I’m ready for Real Personhood, but I guess I better be ready for it. 

These life lessons are just coming by the day now.

That counts as an adventure right?

The Party

My body hurts. A lot.
I’m not sure if it’s because this is the first time I’ve actually used my body (other than to walk, type, talk, and breathe) in months and I’m out of shape, or I’m just getting old. I’m not sure which one is worse: one is completely my fault and takes work to fix and the other I have no control over, but I can use as an excuse.

Anyways, I’m working to run every day, which I’ve been impressed with my ability to keep up with. Although every day I want to cry at how out of shape I’ve let my body become. It’s a work in progress. One sweaty morning at a time.

(Ain’t that just appetizing?)

This week I also volunteered to help set up this event for the graduating seniors called The Party (creative right? Top twenty institution with the brightest minds in the nation, and that’s all they can come up with).

Basically it’s a chance for the graduating seniors to come with their families, listen to a not so fantastic band play oldies music, and have a few drinks. By the end of the night, the dance floor was populated with just enough embarrassingly intoxicated parents that a lot of our campus experiences start to make sense.

Thirteen undergraduates and I have been working for three days in the heat alongside the real tech guys (who actually do real labor) to prepare this event. Our task essentially is to set up hundreds of tables and chairs and assemble dozens upon dozens of centerpieces.
At first I was dreading the experience, it sounded monotonous and hot.
I could not be happier that I did it. It turned out to be three of the most peaceful, fun days I have had in a long time. We spent all day outside, doing tasks that didn’t require much thought, but just allowed me to be outside, talk to some new people, and enjoy the fresh air.

It turned out beautiful, there is something truly to be said for seeing hard work come together to make a tangible product.

This is the final product. Unfortunately it was dark before I thought to take a picture. Every one of those lights passed through our hands.

One of the aspects of our job was at the end of the night we had to strap on blue plastic gloves and go through all of the glasses and separate through the paper and plastics for recycling. 

Part of the job was we had to pick out all of the used straws, of course they are not recyclable. This is also the reasoning for the necessity for the plastic gloves.

The party ended and our team of fourteen jumped into action. 

About seven tables into our project a disheveled girl, heels in one hand and mascara streaking down her cheeks, approached me. 

She explained, while exhaling red wine aroma into my face, that she had lost her wallet and that she was helpless without it. (Somehow this wallet was connected to her ability to graduate and get married?) 

I calmly offered to assist her in her search for her lost possessions. We walked together to look for her wallet. By the time we had reached the end of the lawn, I knew her boyfriend’s name was Marcus and he was a good driver and that he drove a blue car. She doesn’t like the blue car.

The wallet was under the first table I looked under.

She squealed. I was happy she was so happy.

All of a sudden I was in her arms, never met this girl, but she was hugging me. Just don’t touch this poor girl with my spit covered blue gloves.

She stepped back and asked for my name. Did I have a Facebook? 

She pulled out her iphone and found me right away, I was impressed with her motor skills. 

I also have a new Facebook friend. 

She squealed again. Other recyclers started to look. This was getting awkward. 

She went in for another hug. 

Then she grabbed my hands. Guess she doesn’t care about my blue spitty gloves.

“How many years do you have left?” She asked loudly. Most of the lawn was looking in my direction now.

Two.

“You are going to have a FANTASTIC two years! And I am NOT just saying that because I am drunk (not at all), but because I feel it in my BONES.” She said, giving my head a pat. A little weird, but I took it.

Summary: Working for The Party (should that be copyrighted? Someone may take it) was a fantastic experience full of good people, food, and days of being outside. 

The best part? I received a visit from the red wine psychic and discovered that I have good things coming my way.

Overall, I think I can chalk it up to a productive week.

Work Begins

Yesterday was my first day at Calypso.

Any restaurant that has this as a menu topper is my kind of jam. Look at those dancing beans! Don’t you just want to spend every day there?

Wow. This is going to be quite the summer. 

I walked into this restaurant at 11AM to start my shift. Immediately, the manager had me shadow a girl as she started stocking the line, the assembly line of food behind the counter.

She was a sixteen year old girl who was just gushing about how she had driven on the highway for the first time.

We chatted about driving and high school and her summer. It made me realize how long it had been since I had interacted with anyone from high school.

As the first few minutes of my shift progressed, the rest of the staff started to make their way into the restaurant.  I immediately fell in love with the people that I am working with. Almost all of them are in the music business (maybe they can give me a little bit better taste in music) and make me look like the driest person on the planet in comparison. 

It did take them about an hour to realize that I wasn’t sixteen (an awesome reminder that I in no way look almost twenty years old).  In fact, they did not believe that I had finished my second year of college. 

It’s pretty amazing how sore a person can get from only standing for five hours. Either I’m out of shape or I’m getting old. I’m not too sure which one is worse.

Either way, my legs hurt.

Anyways, I now wear a bandana to work and will probably eat black beans every day for the rest of the summer.  

One of Calypso’s other top selling points is their chicken.

Thus, I now know the anatomy of a chicken like it’s the back of my hand.

Did you know the part with the legs is the dark meat, but the half with the wings is white meat?

Did you know that there are people out there who can cut a chicken up in about thirty seconds flat? 

Guess who their trying to make their next professional rotisserie cutter?

Me.

Good thing I’m not chicken. (I couldn’t resist)

I may wind up vegetarian from working this job.

Biking Adventures

One limitation about spending a summer in Nashville is that I will not have a car. So, I am using a friend’s bike for the summer.
This is a great thing because it forces me to exercise every day, otherwise I don’t have transportation. Back in Ohio, I would attempt a healthy lifestyle and bike to places when I could. I could do the mile bike ride to work like it was nobody’s business. So this summer won’t be a problem at all.

Ha.

Two nights ago I picked up my friends bike, a shiny purple mountain bicycle ready for adventures. Today was the first day I really decided to use it. My freshman year, a friend drove me to a fabulous coffee shop and I wanted to go back all this school year. Today I had some work to do, so I thought I would go on a little adventure.

Sidenote:

I am in love with coffee shops. It’s an unhealthy obsession. It doesn’t really make sense, they can be loud and crowded and frustrating when there is a shortage of tables. I’ve narrowed it down to a few plausible reasons for my infatuation with these cafes.

Who has enough free time to do this?

• We’ve already established that I love hipsters (see Bring on the Weirdos)

• I love being able to be alone in a sea of people.

 Sounds artsy and NOT original at all, don’t I sound like a lost soul?

• There’s Chai. (Look at my bank statement… too much $$ goes to the chai industry)

For those prospective males who wish to court me. (I know there are a lot of you out there). If you take me to a coffee shop that I have never been to; you might as well put a ring on my finger right there. I’ll already be looking for somewhere to have a wedding reception. Maybe another coffee shop?

Anywho, I put this coffee shop in my iphone (Is it healthy to be that dependent on an inanimate object?) and saw that it was 2.3 miles away. Not bad for a bike ride. 

This is how long it would have taken had I walked. But I BIKED.

So I began my journey.


I’m feeling good and then I realized that I had miscalculated one minor (by minor, I meant major) detail.

I’ll give you a hint:

“The _________ are alive with the sound of music…..

For those of you who did NOT grow up with an awkward obsession with musical theatre:

Nashville has HILLS. 

Big hills, small hills, low hills, and high hills.

Channeling my inner Dr. Seuss….

Also, for the record, I was wishing that the hills were dead with the sound of music.

Yes, this is a field of 6 feet tall cement corn. Yes, it is in my hometown. No, we don’t know why it’s here, All I know, is we really are proud of our corn.

In my blessed homeland, there was this pesky little glacier that decided to creep down over Ohio and flatten all that was rolling hills. 

It allowed for Ohio’s overabundance of corn. They take pride in it. This also made for easy and enjoyable bike riding terrain. 

Unfortunately, this glacier did not make it down to Nashville.

10,000 years ago, it would have been nice if the glacier had thought of me and just went a little bit farther down south. It really wasn’t too far out of the way.
SO I was not properly prepared or conditioned for these obstacles.

But anyways, what is done is done and I have to work with what I have. 

So I battled these hills for 2.3 miles. Remember when my phone told me that it would take 46 minutes to walk to this darn coffee shop? 

Google images is fantastic. WHO TAKES THESE PICTURES?

It took me 53 minutes to BIKE there.
Just because I couldn’t get up the hills.

In fact on one particularly irritable incline, I think I heard an 85 year old man cackle at me as I passed his porch swing at a snails pace. I wanted to tell him to get on this bike and pedal up the hill, but my mama raised me better than that (Wish you hadn’t…)

My heart has spent too many nights on the couch eating potato chips.

The entire time I was riding  I kept trying to remind myself that between running and biking this summer I am going to be an athletic superstar. My cardiovascular system is going to be made of steel.
My mind kept saying it, but my body wasn’t having it. It kept screaming at me to stop, it didn’t care about a cardiovascular system of steel, it only knew that right now it was made of jello.
Apparently my body doesn’t believe in delayed gratification.

Eventually, I FINALLY made it to the coffee shop. Nice and sweaty and ready for a cold drink. It took a solid 10 minutes for my heart beat to slow back to its normal pace. 

I still had to park my bike. 

In my suburban town in Ohio, bike locks were never necessary. More often than not, I would just leave the kickstand down and leave it in the bushes somewhere. No one would steal my bike. 

Then I came to Nashville, and learned that I have to do things like lock doors and carry my wallet in my front pocket. Living downtown teaches you a few lessons real quick. Anyways, with the bike being a novelty item, locking up and appropriately parking bicycles is an task I am still becoming acquainted with.
I didn’t see any bike racks so I awkwardly walked around the parking lot looking for SOMETHING to tie by bike to.
Remember, I’m an amateur.


There was this staircase in the back of the building with a rail. Perfect. I started trying to maneuver this bike lock, that I still haven’t quite mastered, so it takes a solid five minutes to lock up.
I’m concentrating intently and then I look up and a MAN is standing on the stairs watching me fumble with the stairs, the bike, and the lock.

We make eye contact. He grins. I wonder why he’s staring at me.
“You’re MORE than welcome to park your bike here, but there are bike racks out front.”
I am way too sweaty and sore to be interacting with someone this enthusiastic.

My first response is to tell him, “NO YOU’RE WRONG. I already checked. And I’m tired and all I want to do is tie by bike up here.”
Then I remembered he was a real person and worked here and probably knew better than I did. So I humored him and walked around the front.

Sure enough there were bike racks. But they were super trendy bike racks that were meant to blend into the scenery. They did too good of a job.

I think this is what it was supposed  to look like tied up. Yep, didn’t do that right.

He met me around the front (he was really concerned about my bike) and showed me the rack. He told me that they had been designed by an artist in Nashville (there are bike rack artists?) and that you put your bike saddle on the book and then tie the bike up from there.

My first thought?
What the heck is a bike saddle?

This is a bike saddle. They make your rides comfy. Sorta.

I was too embarrassed to ask. I already looked like an idiot tying a bike to a staircase. So I just tied the bike to the pole and tried to make it look somewhat like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t do anything with the bike saddle.

 I looked it up when I got inside. A bike saddle is the SEAT.
Why couldn’t he just say seat? I was clearly a novice.

Yes, I realize it should have been common sense, a saddle is what you sit on on a horse. BUT STILL, I had endorphins pumping through my body. They were disorienting me.

So here I was: tired, dehydrated, and humiliated. But I made it, does this count as an adventure?
 I think so. I learned about the trendy bike racks of Nashville. That is an accomplishment.

So after an hour of typing this post, I think I’m going start the work I came here to do.

While perusing google images for saddles and bike racks I found this gem:

IT’S A BENDY BIKE! I’m putting this on my Christmas list.

The Power of a Smile

The number one way to ruin my day is when I lose anything.

And if you ask my roommate, that happens way too often. 

So the day I realized that I had lost my school ID card for the fifteenth time, my mood was less than sunny.
This ID card is what swipes students into just about any building, acts as an on campus debit card, and grants me luxuries such as laundry and food.
Essentially, it is hard to exist an hour in college without your card.
So, thank you capitalistic society, my school exploits that demand and charges $20 for a replacement card.

“This is golden. Nice work. That should cover our bonuses for at least another five years.”

$20. In college world that is at least 4 meals or 6 chai lattes or 10 loads of laundry. Let’s be honest, the cost of the plastic, printing, and hard labor of pushing the print button probably costs $2 at most.
So why ON EARTH does the university charge such steep prices?


It’s a conspiracy.


The college gods know we are going lose our cards. They sit around that stupid glasstop conference table and negotiate how exactly they can squeeze every last cent out of our porky privileged undergraduate fingers before we walk across the stage at graduation.

Anyways. I lost my card and I was bitter.

So I sauntered into the card office, hungry because I couldn’t swipe for my breakfast, and observed the shiny plaque one the wall that my previous three replacement cards had probably paid for. I approached the receptionist and tried to put on my “I’m interacting with a service person” face. 

She smiled at me.
I smiled back. I explained I had lost my card.
She put on a face, 

“Couldn’t make it until the end of the year?” Do people who are stealing your money make jokes? 

I laughed, “Nope, apparently not.” I can banter with the best of them. 

She took my picture.

“So what are you doing for the summer, sweetie?” Sweetie?  

I told her. My smile wasn’t quite as forced.

“Do you work here over the summer?” I asked her, maybe she isn’t so bad.
“Yep, but it’s slow.”
“I bet.”

It was the moment. This was where she asked me if I wanted to pay cash or from the debit system through the school. The conspiracy was in the works.

Pictures of people winking  are a little creepy.

“Well, have a nice day.” She replied, standing up to walk away, with a wink.

What?!

My card was free. I could now freely eat food and do laundry. I could even get into my dorm room. 

And my $20 was in my pocket.

I thought through the interaction. Why did she do that? What could have possessed her? 

I smiled and was nice.

She probably sat behind that desk day in and day out tired of crabby students walking in because they had lost something, even though she had nothing to do with. 

It’s nice to know that not everyone is in on the conspiracy. She may not even know about it.

It’s nice to know that there are people who appreciate genuine people and even do their own part to brighten someones day. She had definitely brightened mine.

It’s definitely a good reminder to always keep on a bright face, because often I take it out on people who have absolutely nothing to do with my bad day. It’s also a reminder to work to brighten someone else’s day, they may just need it.

So now I think I am going to take my $20 and go find a chai latte. 

The Commitment

Today’s the day.

Proof, in case you didn’t believe me. Look how happy and cold I look!

In high school, I loved running. I was slow, but loved it. I even ran cross country for a season! …Total disaster, but I liked the pasta parties.

Anyways, during those awesome four years in adolescence (bold=sarcasm), I hardly ever missed a run and my body and sanity thanked me for it.

And then I came to college.

New friends, crazy schedule, and a ginormous meal plan.
                                                     ^  I thought that was a made up word.
                                                                                        

Fitness was among the first to be cut out. Don’t get me wrong, over the past few years I’ve done some exercise, a zumba class here and there, a one day hiking trip, and that chacha dance performance that I spent way too much time preparing for.
Then there was the random month in January that I was super motivated and worked out hard core for about a month, then gave up.

This time WILL be different for a lot of reasons:

• I’m writing about it. This can count as a legal contract right?
• I’m gong into summer where time is much more plentiful. I hope 
• I’m ready and pumped! Remind me that I said this tomorrow when I’m complaining.
• I’m making a commitment to run a half marathon!

Sunday, October 7 is the big day!

So, here’s the thing.

About a week ago I tried to pick up running again. I had my iphone and earbuds, my tie dye sports bra, my laces were tied, and my hair was pulled back from my face: all things that announce to the world I am a runner, cars and pedestrians get out of my way. 

I started this wonderful app on my phone called MapMyRun, which all serious runners should have. It tells you exactly how far you’ve run, uses a map to show your route, and has a lot of other fancy features I am just not qualified to have access to.

My pump up music, The Hairspray Soundtrack, was blaring in my ears and I took off ready to go. Not too fast, I didn’t want to burn out too soon.

I was feeling good. The breeze was in my face, blood was pumping, and I was on top of the world.

Then it happened. My stomach started cramping, my legs filled with lead, and someone kept putting a sword down my throat and pulling it back out again. Ok, I thought, I’ll just take a quick break and start running in a second. So I stopped and look down at my phone.

I had traveled . 36 of a mile. 

What!?

In high school I ran several miles at a time, 2 miles was a really bad day. AND NOW?

So this is me saying, I have a long way to go.

And now I think I’m gonna go put my shoes on and take on the elements….

I’m Employed!

Well, doubly employed.

By day, I am an after school program couselor/site leader/ whateverthehelltheytellmetodo.

By night… Server!

Thanks Calypso for the opportunity to wear a tacky t-shirt and serve people food!

I found this job not because I necessarily needed the extra $$
(Let’s be honest though, who doesn’t need the money?)

I found this job mostly because I wanted to interact with more coworkers than the 5 middle aged ladies at my office. I also would like to open the door for more adventures. Serendipity anyone?

Hopefully I like the people I work with.

I start Saturday.

Let’s start the adventures.