The one with the Campo's cracked-out Christmas tree

Since my last blahg post, I’ve been through one of the most stressful times of my academic career. Thank you, Anatomy and Physiology. And since then? I have come home and have been sleeping. A lot. I also eat. A lot. Mental vacay for me! Celebration! Hoorah! But boy, do I feel like I have a lot to say. This may take a few posts to get everything out.

I’ll start with the most obvious. It’s Christmastime (which, I also add is birthdaytime for me! I turn 21 on Christmas eve. Thank you for the happy birthdays you will probably forget to tell me in advance! And once again, shout out to my parents for poor planning on my conception.) and I feel the need to get you into the spirit of things… since hot weather and rain isn’t helping much.

We just finished decorating the Christmas tree… yesterday. It’s vital that every Campo family member be present for the occasion. Keep in mind there are only 4 of us. 2 of us are old (mom and dad), one of us sleeps all day and doesn’t have friends (me), so that leaves Madeline. Thanks for being a social butterfly, thus delaying Christmas tree decorating, sis.

Every year I LOVE looking at our ornament collection. We’re so bourgie and all of our ornaments match and are so beautiful and sparkly and round. Theme colors are gold and red and we finish off the design with tinsel and a big red bow on top.

Just kidding.

Our tree is the most ghetto thing you will ever see. EVERY ornament has a story. I think we’re ornament hoarders, actually. I feel like when I would bring a craft home in preschool that my parents didn’t particularly view as quality, they threw it in the ornament box. We got a weird gift? They threw it in the ornament box. Ornaments from my great-grandmother’s tree that are falling apart? They’re up there, too. “Our first Christmas together” and “Baby’s first Christmas” ornaments are not difficult to come by either. Getting the idea?

Here we are. Atop the Christmas tree. 

On top of that (top is punny, you’ll see why), in kindergarten I made an angel at school out of construction paper with my picture taped to the face. This angel was ALWAYS the top of the Christmas tree (#onlychildproblems) until Madeline was born and soon became old enough to realize the unfairness of the situation and made one of her own… with her own picture. So, now every year, we fight over who gets to be on top (with the exception of the year the Saints made it to the Super Bowl—the Saint’s flag took the top.) This year, she won. I’m the really pretty one beneath her. The last shall be first; that’s my motto.

So, anyway, I figured I’d share with y’all a few favorite ornaments, as well as a body shot of the whole tree (which happens to look like it’s on crack—how fitting.) At least it’s a complete tree this year. In previous years, we looked for the tree without a top. They’re cheaper, usually equally as pretty as the rest, and all you have to do is cable-tie some branches to the top. Like I said, ghetto. Don’t be hatin’. I know you wish you were a Campo.

I'm honestly not even sure what this is. A miniature
angel on a string? Pretty. 

The classic Christmas gift made in class to give to mom and dad.
At least I have un-awkwardness working in my favor... 

The Christmas Story according to Madeline at 3ish years old.
They didn't have a car? Mary drived on a donkey?! News to me.

The classic mildly-freaky Christmas gift.
Seafood Santa?

We used to sprinkle this dust on our elves so they would come
to life while we were sleeping. They were watching us.

I made this card for mom (Christmas "1996 or 1997").
I bet one HOURE open slays are fun.
Grammar was always a strong point of mine.

My 1999 Christmas list: 1. A trampleen
2. To lose a tooth (LOVED losing teeth)
3.  To grow long nails (What's new? #nubs)
4. To be able to take my earrings out on my birthday
(I had just gotten them pierced...  Christmas fell right at the 6-week mark.
Took them out, just for the record, and I gagged.)

The 25-year-old ornament. 

One-eyed Mickey. Can't leave him off the tree.

We caught Santa riding dirty. Riding a branch.

And here's the whole thing. Take it in. What a beauty.

The one with the Campo pilgrims and Campo Indians

Just a few of the pilgs and Inds. The rest weren't dressed yet.

Every year around Thanksgiving time, I like to ask people (friends, fam, cashiers, etc.) what they think they are: A pilgrim or an Indian. Mom used to always ask people the same thing, and I would get mad and embarrassed, but like with everything else, I’m turning into Tammy, so I might as well embrace it.

Oh, and we picked fruit. You know, like real pilgrims.

Anyway, the responses I get are awesome. Sometimes people will just look at me. Some people will analyze themselves physically, and in terms of their personality and then ask a million questions. And some people just answer. Those are my favorite. Another observation I’ve made is that people subconsciously think Indians are way cooler than pilgrims, so everyone kind of wants to be an Indian a little. Some people really are Indians, and lots of pilgrims are incognito as Indians (which is what they THINK they are.)

So I ask: What are YOU? A pilgrim or an Indian?

One pilgrim brother and one Indian brother. 

In accordance, and as a pilgrim and hostess of Thanksgiving, I thought it would be a great idea if all the Campos dressed up as their Indian or pilgrim self for Campo Thanksgiving. The Indians even got Indian names. For example: Josh is, "Yellow Tail." (The wine. LSU boy. Go fig.) Dad is, "Fire Chief". And Grandma is, "Dawn." They’re all very well versed in the annual, “Are you a pilgrim or an Indian” question. Plus, they’re the easiest going crowd you’ll ever come across, even though I received some mild heartache from some Indians who didn’t want to dress up.  So we went through with it. Just wanted to share a few pics with y’all. I know we’re cute—don’t be jeal. And for the record, we’re going all-out next year. Stay tuned.

Gobble gobble.

The one as promised

Thank you, Adam, for reminding me to post again. Don’t worry, I’m not neglecting the blahg, I was once again just waiting for the right timing.

After my run on day #1. Sick. 

As promised, I’m going to give you an update on my running progress. By the way, I use the term “running” loosely. It’s a walk 50% of the time. Last blahg entry I mentioned I’ll be partaking in a half marathon. I also mentioned that I need to have my head examined for craziness—I still agree with that statement. I just finished week two of my training and I’m not going to sit here and say I’m having “fun” doing it.

Observations I’ve made about myself these past 2 weeks:

1. LIE: I’m so beautiful with my hair blowing in the wind, excellent posture and form and tight pants. TRUTH: After 2 minutes of running, I look like I could drop dead on the ground at any given moment. My hair is plastered to my head. My earphones are falling out. And the cold air I’ve been inhaling is making my lungs cold and lips chapped.

After today's run. Spicy.

2. My trainer (in the form of an app on my iPhone) tells me when to walk and when to run. Never fails: Everytime he says “Start running”, there is a hill RIGHT THERE. That’s when I start cursing in my head. And aloud.

3. When he says, “walk,” I want to marry him.

4. Sometimes I growl like a bear when I’m annoyed with myself. Mid-running.

5. My arms flail around like a child chasing an ice-cream truck the whole time.

6. Spice girls are my favorite pump-up jamz.

7. As disgusting as this is (and I never thought I’d do this, MUCH LESS admit to it), once I’ve been running for a little while, I feel a strong need to spit. Runners out there, is that normal? It just tastes bad. Sorry, that’s gross.

Well, #7 brings me to my final point of this blahg entry. During today’s run, (my last run of this week… I hear week 3 is a real pain. Merh.) just that happened. I had to spit. I normally make sure no one is watching when I do this, by the way, but being that I was literally the only person at Lamar park at noon on a Friday, I didn’t even bother. So, I went for it. Well, being that I’m so extremely fast and graceful, and the wind was blowing against me, when I did so, the spit landed on my cheek, then onto my ear, and finally in my hair. It was disgusting. That is all.

Don’t judge me for this. At least I ran. 

The one I may regret posting

I’m kind of excited about this blahg post. It’s killing two birds with one stone. It’s 1. Acting as a normal blahg entry in which I tell you about the non-happenings of my life and 2. Acting as a test to see if the people who I would normally mention this to in person are actually keeping up and reading like they say they are. Muahaha.

I feel like I’m getting ready to say I’m having a baby or moving to Canada or something. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not that juicy.

I think I’ve said it before, but if I haven’t, I should have. This is a big note about myself. I am the LEAST athletic person you will ever meet. I despise anything that involves me sweating, moving swiftly, and/or people looking at me while doing it. Running, in particular, is exactly what I don’t do. As a matter of fact, I’m often asked to run… “to that mailbox”, or “across the living room”, just so my friends can get a good laugh at the awkwardness that is my body. Get it, Karodge. Kenzie reminded me today about the last time she asked me to go running with her—which was a couple years ago. I refused to go and locked myself in a closet so she’d stop asking. Then she took my car and I was left stranded in the closet.

This is where this blahg post is going. Blahg readers, you’re on the cutting edge. I’m announcing to the world here and now that I will be... dun dun dun dun dun…

RUNNING A HALF MARATHON.

It may end up being me walking 7 miles and running 6. Or running 1 mile, and walking 12. My goal is to run the most I can. But either way I’m doing it, and I’m starting today. If you’re wondering what my goal for the day is: Run 30 seconds, walk. Run 30 more seconds, walk. Strenuous, yeah? If you see me running/dying on the side of the road, don’t honk. Just laugh inside your head. Feel free to doubt me. I’d be doubting me too, if I were you. But just watch!

Also, I need to thank the brains behind the operation for nudging me to do this. I shot down the thought numerous times, until something suddenly came over me last night.

The thought of this makes me want to throw up. But, there are a few things in it for you:

A. It’ll be a confidence booster for you when you come to learn how incredibly pitiful I am at being sporty. You’ll feel like an Olympic runner.

B. I’ll post highly unattractive pictures of myself (and people who I drag with me) while/after we’re running. (That’s another confidence booster for you!)

C. You get to hang this over my head and make sure I stick with it. Because if I don’t, then I’ve wasted $xxx, and I’ll look like a failure. And that’s embarrassing.

D. When I run the marathon, which is in New Orleans in March, you get to come and celebrate with me. I’ll be 21. That’s all.

I think I need my head examined. Merh.

The one with the centipede infestation

So allegedly, I’ve been a blog slacker lately. Truth is, I feel like I haven’t had anything to blahg about, so instead of boring you with nothing that has been going on in my life, I decided to bore you with not telling you anything at all. Sorry. Kind of. Wil informed me today at lunch (we went to this place called Mink’s. Y’all. It was SO good. It’s kind of hidden on College Hill—but my wrap was on point, and the girl gave us free peanut-butter-chocolate-cheesecake (one of my readers would have been in heaven). Plus, if you go with Wil, he’ll treat you.) that it has been 9 days since my last post. Ridiculous that he knew the exact number.

Anyway, I’m forcing an entry out of this. But we have an issue at our house right now. We always have issues at our house, for the record. Currently, it’s a centipede infestation. It’s disgusting. Things I’ve learned about centipedes within the last week:

Clumpy.

Curly.

1. They don’t die.

2. When you force them to die (aka crush them with roommate’s shoes lying around), they CRUNCH.

3. They look like worms.

4. The root “centi” means 100, but Chase claims they have 1,000 legs. 500 on each side? They’re an inch long, Chase. No.

5. One roommate gags when she sees them. The other roommate sprays 5 lbs of spider spray on them. I just go upstairs.

6. Adam says they’re asexual. We tried to get them to mate on a notecard. Sickos, I know.

We’ve probably seen about 600 in the past 10 days, and I’m not exaggerating. We’re experts on them thanks to Google and me studying their anatomy. If you have any questions, or want a new pet, let us know. We can help with either. As for the rest of you, are you having the same problem we are? Is it centipede season? We’d like to know. Thanks and centiPEACE OUT until next time. 

The one where I met Smeagol

My blahg is turning into all of my friends sending me funny stuff and demanding I post it. Which honestly, I’m down with. But with a small censor. Not every thing I get will make it up here… kind of like TFM. Or whatever. Anyway. I got a call last night from my friend, Joey. He said he had just discovered a talent about himself and he needed to share it with me. Certain that I was a Lord of the Rings fan, he told me he had perfected the voice of the character, Smeagol and had to share it with me. I then broke it to him that I hate all of those weird underworld-esque movies and that the most knowledge I have is whatever I learned when I read The Hobbit in 5^th grade. He shared his new talent with me anyway. 

Then he sent me a video of him re-doing it, just for you guys… my sweet blahg readers. If you know who “Smeagol” (I only know how to spell that because of this video) is, you’ll appreciate this. If you don’t, you’ll still appreciate it and cry laughing like I did. 

The one written in real time

This is happening right now.

Blahg, meet Chase. He's one of my favorite friends and has been asking for a shout out on here. Bet he didn't expect it to be in the form of him dancing alone in his boxers to Britney Spears while I film him.  He will more than likely threaten me until I take it down, so I encourage you to get it while the gettin's good.

The one where Karodge saved my life

So I’ve mentioned before my tendency to mildly enjoy being a homebody, yeah? Well that was the case Friday night. Meredith’s family (who I affectionately refer to as the “Duffy’s” were in town. Her mom’s name is Duffy, which is why the name stuck and is also a little pizzazzier than the “Clayton’s”). Anyway, we ate lasagna, played a game, and this girl was in pajamas, ready for bed. Hopeful. I ended up being semi-dragged into going to the Delta Psi house (fave fraternity, also known as “the hall”). After being ridiculed for having diseases I don’t have (Wil), and making fun of Meredith’s Wal-Mart cardigan, someone decided we needed Taco Bell. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: College students have a difficult time deciphering between needs and wants. Clearly, this was a need. And, as the driver, I was responsible for responding to my friends’ hunger needs.

Skipping to scene of us in Taco Bell’s parking lot.

Chase insists I jump on his back. He PROMISES he will catch me. He KNOWS he is strong enough. I needed to TRUST him. Okay. Fine. I made sure to make my jump very solid so that I could get enough lift to land myself on his back… until…

Nike shorts the morning after the brain crash.
See dirt as proof of fall. 

Katy. Katy Clayton, that is. Youngest of the Duffy’s, sweet Katy meant no harm in her acts. She came out of nowhere, and jumped on my back while I was in mid air jumping on Chase’s.  This caused Chase to grab and hold onto my legs, Katy to miss my back, and me to fall first on Karodge (the abbreviation of the name “Karodria”, given to my butt by Adam. See also: “Get it, Karodge,” “Those pants make Karodge look huge,” “Karodge’s signature dance move,” etc.), thus slightly breaking the hit of my skull (right Parietal bone to be exact) on the concrete. 

Meredith claims that if it weren’t for her (Karodria), I would be concussioned right now. I choose to believe that I did have a mild concussion for a brief 2 seconds while I tried to regain my connection with the world after the hard hit I endured.  Now, I only suffer from a skull bruise and tender jaw from my teeth clamping together.

Conclusion:

-Katy almost gave me a brain injury, but gave me something to blahg about.

-Taco Bell is not a need.

-You’ve met Karodria.

-I don’t have any diseases. 

The one for sister and best friend

They’re my most favorite humans, have both been reading my blahg religiously, yet neither have even been mentioned. I can tell I’m about to be disowned. So, if you want to be mentioned, you better consider upping your status with me—A. Become my best friend. B. Become my sibling. Madeline is my sister. Refer to cute baby pictures us. Actually, she’s cute, I’m…. awkward. She’s way cooler than me. Also, tall and skinny, and she dresses really good. And she’s way more loving and just sent me the raddest care package. (She snuggles, I don’t. Ew.) We’re both weird, though. I blame myself for rubbing off onto her, but really it’s a blessing to be weird, right? Yeah. She’s a cheerleader, and I’m everything but.  Which brings me to Kenzie. 

Madeline's dancing: 

My dancing:

She’s in the cool video of us dancing above (the one on the end). (By the way, you will NEVER see me in a black leotard again, so take it in. And enjoy the heels, while I’m at it. No me gusta heels, but desperate times call for desperate measures.) Organized, witty, COMPETITIVE (y’all don’t want to play in gameland with her), and brilliant (yet says/does some dumb stuff sometimes), she’s my BESTAY. I always feel weird calling someone my “best” friend, but if I don’t say that, then you may think we’ve only just hung out a couple of times back in high school. Which isn’t the case. Anyway, to give the history of this dance… I went to an all-girl Catholic school in Louisiana. This video was at our Senior retreat. It was my idea and I had to beg these two fools to do it with me. Beyonce had just released “Single Ladies” and I was obsessed. We didn’t tell anyone we were doing it, but instead just busted out of nowhere with the music blaring in the background. (Melissa, you’re the bomb for providing the video footage.) While this video is getting super old, it’s still a goodie, and equally as embarrassing as it has always been. I actually can’t believe I’m blahgging about it. I had to spice up this entry, somehow. 

The one where I hung my phone from the ceiling

All for you guys.

Blahgees, meet Pit. Pit, meet blahgees.

This is the best game ever. (Truth about me: whatever game I'm playing is the best game ever.) I used to have to force my friends to play with me, and now they force me. Actually, it's mutual. But we have fun. If you don't own this game, you should. (Jason.) The idea is to get all the same commodity. (I don't know what commodity means.) For example, all corns, all barleys, all wheats, all flax et cetera, et cetera. You can only trade up to 4 cards at a time, while also trying to get rid of the bad card (the Bull). If you're not aggressive, you lose. This is actually the second round I filmed. I re-did it due to some profanities being yelled in the first version. Trashy friends. Ugh. Just kidding, it's really that intense. If you want to be on the next gameland invitation list, holla at a sista.
My favorite part is my phone dangling from the lights by rubber bands. Dad, aren't you proud? You've taught me how to rig so well. #DaughterOfAnEngineer

The one with the tornado cave and what's worse than a booted car

Isn't this sad?

A towed car. To make a long shory stort (that’s how I said it in my head as I was typing), Friday night, I couldn’t find a spot to park at my own house. Reality is, it’s not my house, and I shouldn’t make the mistake of claiming it as my own, but I pay rent, and I assumed a parking spot was included in that fee. Wrong. A loving human came and towed my sweet little Sentra at 1:30 a.m. Saturday morning from a spot I took upon myself to make legal. Since when do people tow in the middle of the night and since when do red lines = fire lane? Oopsie. It was dark outside. I couldn’t see. In my defense, it was one illegal spot or another. A fire-truck couldn’t have gotten in there anyway. 

So, I found my car on Saturday in a random lot after trying to get breakfast at a breakfast place that decided to no longer serve breakfast. I’ll take a boot on my car any day. I had to pay $160 and deal with a rude Santa Claus look-a-like just to get my baby back. Baby’s got back.

Tornado cave view from our 2x2 ft. porch.

This next tidbit is completely irrelevant… But these pictures are building up on my iPhone, so I need to feed them to you all. My sweet, dear, roommate is Meredith. To biographically sum her up, she’s 76% more kind than me, slighty (much) messier, her closet puts mine to shame, she uses wrinkle cream, we’re GDI pledge sistas, and she has an excellent theory. The theory is brilliant. Here, I’ll tell you. Come the next tornado, we’re going to go outside, climb down the hill, and hide amongst the concrete in what she calls the “tornado cave”.

Now, let’s be real.

It’ll be storming. Possibly hailing. The wind will be blowing leaves and cows in our face. Yet, we’re going to leave our house, to spend 10 minutes crawling into nature. No thank you. I’ll live on edge, and risk staying in our house with “no interior walls”.  I was always taught to hide in the bathtub. Are you above that, Mere? Or should I say “below”? I'll let you guys know who wins: tornado girl vs. bathtub girl. 

By the way, this video is old-ish. I didn't film it for this blahg. It just works.

The one with the tangled Nike shorts

Embarrassing things happen to people. I get that. Really embarrassing things happen to me—all the time. It’s really out of hand. Here’s today’s moment.

So, I woke this morning (as I always do) for my 8 a.m. class in the t-shirt I slept in and also wore to class today. Classy, right? I ran downstairs and grabbed a pair of Nike shorts out of the dryer and there I was: in my school uniform and looking good. If you saw me today, I either hate you or love you.  I love you if you saw me and didn’t notice what was horribly wrong with my wardrobe, and I hate you if you noticed and let me go all day with this malfunction. Caleb Herod: Here's your shout out. You saw me today. Which was it?

And for the rest of you, what was wrong with my outfit (if a t-shirt and Nike shorts even counts as an "outfit")?

As you know (maybe), Nike shorts have built in lining. Well, when I pulled mine out of the dryer this morning, apparently a pair of my underwear were tangled in them.

To clarify, I had panties tangled in my shorts ALL DAY LONG.

It wasn’t until 2:30 this afternoon when I felt something tickling the back of my thigh (I thought it was a fabric softening sheet… which would have been embarrassing enough) that I reached behind me and grabbed my favorite pair of panties dangling from my shorts. I couldn’t speak for a solid 10 seconds.

Lesson learned: De-static Nike shorts and untangle any loose articles in them. And never go in public again.

The one in which I save you $1.25

Okay, so Ole Miss is really stepping things up. I went downstairs in the Union to get some Chinese food the other day, and what do I find? The raddest Coke machine in the history of the world. I wasn't thirsty at all, but I had to try it out. So, since you're probably not thirsty either, I videoed my experienceso that you could get the 1 minute taste of Disney World without paying the cost. It's a tough economy, I get it.

Plus, if you want a Diet Coke, the one I bought is still under the passenger seat of my car. You're welcome.

And for the record, the machine kept rejecting my debit card. I refused to look like I didn't have $1.25 on there, so I kept trying until it worked. Video camera out and all. The entire post office line stared at me. No big. That's nothing new.

Also, I've noticed that I'm very comma happy in this blahg entry. I, am, sorry, about, that. If you didn't notice, thanks for not being critical. If you did, so did I.

The one for the ones who want shout outs (say that 5 times fast)

Chill yourselves out.

Being mentioned on my blahg will not make you a celebrity. Believe me. I have however had one German person read it (according to my stats), so shout out to that person! They get my first one.

Next: Sean Higgins: I made you read it, but now you're faithful to my posts on your own will. Thanks for that. So here's a picture of you in case you were wondering what you look like. (Yes, I cropped myself out. I know what I look like.)

Morgan Taylor-Burns: Thanks for calling me twice tonight just to find out my blahg's URL. That's dedication if I've ever seen it. Granted, if you're as dedicated as you claim, you should have it memorized. Work on that.

Joey: Hey. I don't think you've been keeping up. So if you read this, you've redeemed yourself.

Is everyone happy now? I know I'm forgetting people, but for the ones who I did forget, you'll read this and remind me, because that proves you truly want it. Come and get it. Heeeey.

The one I wrote when I wanted to go to bed early

I’m so lame sometimes.

You know how college kids are supposed to be super rowdy? Yeah, I’m just not. I fake it well, sometimes, though. Tonight I made funfetti cupcakes after my roommate cooked for me and then I watched a Lifetime movie—which turned out to be only 28 minutes long. Now I lay in bed with several invitations on the table. I could A. Go to the library with Adam and watch him study and/or study with him. B. Begin homework that is due later in the week. C. Go to sleep early (this is the correct option). D. Blog about not knowing what to do with my time (option chosen).

So, since I’m here, I’ll campaign. Sorry if this annoys any of you, my sweet readers. For starters, one of the weirdest humans I know, whose brain still functions normally, Robin Walker, is running for Homecoming queen. Her video is hilar, and you should watch it. Oh, here’s the link! http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D0Co7buz6xYU%26feature%3Dshare&h=xAQCIOdHCAQDXlRkbDYUyQoXL-j5CPsqbCMqoXkt-oS9f6w (You’re welcome.)

And also, Alex Langhart, a new friend of mine (thanks Aj Barrios) is running for Colonel Reb. I know you campaign-haters hate people like me, especially since I feel certain you come here to my blahg as a haven of relaxation (ha.), but if you’re on the fence, I encourage you to vote. Consider yourself doing me a favor.

And if you have no one to vote for, here, I helped you decide!

The one where I look like mufasa

I mean, I don't know. My hair is just... you know... awesome. It does whatever I want it to do.

I don't know why I make myself vulnerable, but I just thought this was hilarious (hill-are-ee-us). I just woke up. Obvi. Don't be a hater. You look bad when you wake up, too.

The one I wrote with my full, sexy, face

Sorry I’ve been a slacker. I had to study this week. Weird, I know. Like, who does that anymore? Study shmudy. But the good news is that I got a B on my Anatomy lab practical. Hooray! Remember when we were eight years old and people would say, “I’m not trying to brag, but…” Yeah, well that’s what I just did there.

I’ve got to start with this. It was great. On Sunday afternoon, we went to watch the girls run. Fresh, new sorostitutes! (Just kidding. That’s degrading. I used to be one.) I thought we were going to be late and I’d have to rip Erika a new one (shout out #1), but we weren’t. I ran to avoid that. So we got a great spot, and we watched them run to their respective new houses… so sweet, so innocent, so un-aware that 20% of them won’t last long enough to even learn their new sorority’s secret handshake. (By the way, 20% is a made up number.) I caught most of the rush stampede on video, but I didn’t want to bore my readers… So if you want to see, let a sister know. I’ll keep this short and sweet, but the images describe my view perfectly.

 Guy with the Nerf gun, marry me. 

Next story. This one’s good, too, but it took place pre-blahg existence. So I’m in this statistics class right now. The teacher is absolutely precious and of Asian descent. So, simply put, she’s Asian. Chinese, probs. Anyway, as a good student should do (do as I say, not as I do, normally), I went and met my teacher in her office hour one day so she would know my face and name. This previous sentence was mistake #1. Toward the end of our conversation, she made it clear to me that she couldn’t really pronounce my name so she wanted help with it. Of course, this was no problem. I pulled out her roll sheet that was sitting on her desk and pointed to my ID picture right next to my name on the paper. That was mistake #2. My ID picture is my senior picture from high school. See visual aid. Upon seeing my picture, this is her response: (Cue video NOW.)  “Why you face so skinny?”

 

Is this real life?

She proceeded to gracefully redeem herself… “Now you face so full, so sexy.”

The one dedicated to the life of an independent during rush week

Welcome to the one weekend of the year during which the square, Oxford, everything, is dead. It’s rush week: Christmas, for us independents. Went to Boure (hoppin’ restaurant on the square) last night and didn’t even have to wait… A FRIDAY night with no wait. Isn’t that great? Don’t ask what I ordered. Okay, ask. Toffee blondie brownie: all to my self. And only that.

Now for the non-Greek-affiated downside.

There’s no one for me to drag to my house to play games with me. I mean, there are some people (hi independent readers), but it’s just not the same. I like having even teams with lots of people so I can be bossy and blame them when my team loses. So, instead I’m studying Anatomy and Physiology. I really tried not to get my face in the picture, but obviously, I couldn’t lean far enough, so I let you all see my eye ;) Rawr. We’ve also washed dishes, made cookies, windexed the counter top, taken a nap, critiqued roommate’s wardrobe selection, and now we’re watching the Ole Miss/ Fresno state game. And you thought YOUR life was interesting?!

I don’t get football, but apparently we’re winning—which is a first this season and SO exciting. (Sorry Greeks, you don’t know this yet because you’re in a bid session). Meredith (here’s your shout-out) and I are on the cutting edge of college sports. ____ Insert 2 minute pause right before this sentence. During that pause, Fresno state scored. And I took a picture of Meredith being mad, but she won’t let me post it.  Merhmerhmerh, I’m Meredith, and I refuse to exist in an unflattering photo. Sorryboutcha, posted it anyway.

I included the cookies I made. Have I mentioned that we’re health nuts here at my house? If you make baby cookies, they’re less calories. It’s the Gabrielle diet, and it works great for me. Eat whatever you want, and only exercise when you’re forced to. You should jump on board.

Also, this is just a funny dog. It’s my friend’s. Friend, if you’re reading this (which I doubt you are—you’re Greek), thanks for the contribution of this picture of Louie. And to another follower of mine who knows who he is, thanks for informing me that dogs like this can get facelifts. You live and you learn.

Anyway, independents, I apologize for blahgging out of boredom. But you’re the best for keeping up with my thrills of the night.  And by the way, Ole Miss scored again.

The one with the escapee and the immobilized car

Consider this blogging twice in one day thing an anomaly.  My friends (yes, I have friends) are already sick of hearing me talk about it. I’m thinking about giving them aliases just for kicks and giggles. I made them speed through all of our evening plans (dessert-eating, stalking fraternity row during rush, going to Kroger) so that I could get home to blog. I even told my parents to read it.

Hey mom. Hey pop. Hey little sister.

I wanted to share with you today’s excitement. As a brief disclaimer: I am an excellent rules-of-the-road follower. I’m not one of these students who accumulate thousands of dollars in parking tickets each semester. (Manny Campo would never pay that bill. And neither would this girl. Frugality is my middle name. GFC.) Anyway, I came out of math lab today with a shiny, orange boot on my tire. Isn’t that loving? Gosh, UPD, you shouldn’t have! Why did I get it? It’s because they think I still drive my old car and just stuck an illegal decal onto it-- even though the last time I registered my old car in their system was my senior year in high school. Their fault. I’ll be marching my sweet behind into parking appeals Wednesday afternoon to try to get out of my $115 debt to the university. I was scared my car was going to run out of gas while I waited on the guy to come remove the boot… Talk about “immobilizing my vehicle”… eek.  They also made me scrape my old decal off the Sentch (Sentra) with a razor blade they gave me. I felt like such a grown-up. Told them that if I chopped a finger off, I was suing.

10 fingers later, filled up on gas ($3.17/gallon. Heck yes.), and the boot gone, I’m nearing content.

Also, my neighborhood sent out a scary letter threatening to tow cars that are illegally parked. If I make it through another week still in possession of my car, it’ll be a victory worth celebrating.

Oh, and there’s an Oxford prisoner on the loose. I’m scared to move from one room to another in my house. “He was last seen wearing an orange jumpsuit,” according to the email I just got. Good to know. I’ll be sure to not let him inside when I see him peeking in my windows.

The one where I welcome myself

So, I guess this makes me a blogger! Welcome to the blog world, self! Since there’s no one else to welcome me, I figured that was necessary. If you’re reading this, you’re a loving human. I appreciate the time you’re putting aside to listen to my substance-less written words.  I’m not a writer. Actually, I was a journalism major for about a month—after I was a Forensic Chemistry major and before I was pre-dental hygiene. I really enjoyed Journalism 101 though. I was forced to blog in there, but eh, you don’t want to read that. Also, I don’t remember my password. I was such a nerd. (I still am.)

As my introductory entry, I feel like I need to cover a few bullet points. Going over the syllabus, if you will. (Oh, I will.)

1. This is just for fun. I’ve been on a blog kick lately, reading anyone and everyone’s and I’ve found them so entertaining. I get really antsy when they’re not updated at my convenience, so I’ll do my best to update you on the less-than-thrilling, yet always awkward and hilarious happenings of my days.

2. Typographical errors bother me, but I’m not above them. Dn’ot git madd if u sea a mystake!!1 Okay?

3. My stories will be uncensored. Reader’s discretion is advised. Just kidding. My life’s not that juicy.

4. My favorite show is Friends—the sitcom. I wish I were Rachel, and I want to marry Ross. Isn’t that perfect? Anyway, I’m going to title my blog entries according to David Crane’s style (David Crane = Friends writer). It’ll make this simple for every one. So when I blog about…. My grades, per se, I may title it: “The one with the A+ grades”. (Or A-, C+, B regular, etc. now. Whatever. Thanks, Ole Miss, for the new grading scale.) Anyway, get it? Great!

5. I speak in bullet point form, so I’ll probably blog in bullet point form. I speak in abbreves, so I’ll probably blog in abbreves. My stories have many sub-stories, so my entries probably will too. Breathe. We’ll get through this together.

Thanks for reading. Even if I forced you to do so. I wish I had some kind of incentive to offer. Sorryboutcha.