I'm Famous!!

Hey World,

     I think it's safe to say that this will be my final post of Freshman year. But fear not, I'll still be my spastic self, I'll just be a spastic Sophomore. Huzzah for alliteration!
     Let's get down to business (if you caught that Mulan reference, you get a high-five). As you know, I took Chem152 this semester. I've developed somewhat of a reputation as the Lab Spazz. I've broken things, performed inaccurate calculations, and spilled highly concentrated corrosive substances on my skin. Such substances have included sodium hydroxide and hydrochloric acid. I even bent down and sniffed a beaker full of simmering phosphoric acid once. Let me tell you, that was like a drop-kick to the face.
     By the last few weeks of the semester, Mark, my lab TA, had clearly caught on to my shenanigans. Every time he heard me giggling (or the shattering of glass) from across the lab, he would call "What happened?" in a resigned tone and make his way over to my bench. I somehow managed to escape permanent injury. That's great, but I can't help but feel a teeny bit of disappointment that I never got to use the totally awesome emergency shower.
     For reasons unknown to me, my experiments have turned out quite well. My lab TA even gave me an A+ on my performance evaluation. On the last day, I was turning in my check-out slip to the prep-room. The prep-room guy is basically responsible for examining each student's supply drawer and drawing up charges for any missing or broken materials. He is only ever seen on the first and last days of class. So I went up to the window, handed in my slip, and he asked for my name.
     "Ah," he said, "so you're the famous Chelsea."
     Oh, that's nice....Wait, what? ".....What am I famous for??"
     I never did get an answer. I'm still trying to decide whether I have fame...or infamy.

Good luck on finals, and have a wonderful summer!

Surviving Spring Break

Well hello there!

     I hope everyone's Saint Patrick's Day was safe and happy. Personally, I enjoyed a home cookout of steak, broccoli, and mashed potatoes with green gravy. But I know you don't want to hear about that. You read for the lulz. Nothing wrong with that.
     Spring break is coming to a close and I'll be headed back to Tucson in a couple of days. While I've thus far managed to enjoy my time away without thinking too much about impending project deadlines, I did not escape my week of freedom unscathed - not by a long shot. Sunday morning, I took my horse Sassafras out to the local equestrian park for a ride. She's a speedy little thing and never passes up a good gallop when I offer it to her. She also has an irrational fear of tractors. (That's foreshadowing, folks, take note). So, we were sweeping around the big warm-up arena at a pretty quick pace (not her fastest, but a gallop nonetheless), and I was feeling good. I had a chipper little tune from the 'Up' soundtrack playing on my iPod and a lovely view from between Sassy's fuzzy ears. Life was wonderful.
     Annnnnd cue disaster! No less than 200 feet away, a little red tractor started plowing an arena on the other side of the park. Sassafras just couldn't help herself and darn near jumped out of her skin. Two months out of the saddle had left my grip a little off. That speed, an English saddle, and sharp swerve to the right sent me flying right over Sassy's head. I don't remember much about the landing; but I can tell you it was spectacular. I somehow managed to avoid scrambling my brains on impact, but I smacked my back so hard it took me a good two minutes before I could feel or move my legs. My immediate reaction was "Oh crap, Dad was right - I am going to end up paralyzed!" Luckily, it wasn't long before I could stand up. I won't lie, though, some part of me wished I'd stayed down. I hobbled a few steps toward my horse, who was standing a few feet away and looking positively pitiful. Her nose was nearly in the dirt and she was staring at me with a look of sheer misery. Poor girlie has always been sensitive about my using the eject button. I think she has abandonment issues.
     I took stock of my injuries - bloodied back and shoulders, bruised hip and elbow, and a cracked ego - and hopped right back on to finish our run. Five days later, I still can't sleep on my back or sit down without whimpering, but I haven't let it stop me from riding. I'm going out tomorrow for another gallop. Here's to hoping the tractors take a day off.

Until next time, be blessed!

The Sanctity of Starbucks

Good morning, World!

      As I type, I am sitting in the Starbucks on University Boulevard, in a quiet corner by the window and sipping a steaming mocha latte. Life is good. Apparently, when I'm happy, I'm some kind of magnet for other happy people. Allow me to explain.
     When I first walked in here with the hope of sitting down with my coffee and doing some serious studying, I was bummed. It was packed - the line was nearly out the door and every table and chair was taken. So I got my latte and was headed for the door when I noticed a small table in the perfect little niche - away from the bustle and noise. No kidding, people, away from the noise. In Starbucks. And no, to my knowledge, pigs have yet to fly. But at this point, I'd say it's pretty likely.
     So a random guy walks through the door, gets a couple steps past my table, and then spins around, beaming. "You know, that's really cozy," he says. He turns away, then back again. "Seriously. I've worked in about a million Starbucks all around the country, and I always try to find the best, quietest spots. But that, that's gotta be the coziest. Nice job."
    
     There you have it, folks. I, Chelsea Linehan, have found the coziest corner in the country. Am I proud of myself? Absolutely.

What Makes a Burger a Burger??

Dearest World,

    I know, it's been a while. Between exams, homework, and my professors threatening to kill me for forgetting to do my reading, I've barely had time to sleep, much less check in to the blogosphere. But thanks to my awesome brother (who would be considerably more awesome if he were a Wildcat instead of a Sparky), I have returned. In the middle of synthesizing indigo dye in chem lab this morning, I received a text from him:
     "So, I've been thinking about something this morning and would like your input. How should we define 'burgers' vs. 'sandwiches'? What characteristics should a food item have to be included in one group and not the other? Mom gave me a chicken burger patty on slices of bread and I am wondering what to call it."
     After a hearty laugh, I consulted with my lab partners. We reached the following conclusion: If it's beef, in a patty, on a bun, it's a burger. Any other meat, regardless of shape, or beef on anything but a bun, is a sandwich. Personally, I'm satisfied. What about you, World? Thoughts?
     Before I leave you to ponder this great mystery of the universe, a funny thing happened when I went to get lunch an hour later. I was standing in line at a restaurant in the Student Union cellar, when the guy behind me asked: "Is the special today a chicken burger, or a chicken sandwich?" With confidence, and perhaps more enthusiasm than is considered appropriate (or normal), I answered: "Sandwich."

So long, World.

P.S. If you're feeling down today, take some advice from my bro: lose an electron and stay positive!

Second Semester Spazz

     Good evening, people of Earth.
     It's the first day of the new semester here at the UA, and I'm feeling pretty good. Which is interesting, considering that last night I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to even get to sleep before 2:30am. I'd said goodbye to my horse that morning, my dad and brother that afternoon, and my mom had just pulled out to drive back to Phoenix. After a month at home with everyone I loved, the prospect of sitting alone in my apartment wasn't exactly exciting.
     My morning went a little something like this:
     Hauled my zombie-like self out of bed. Took a cold shower (horrible idea, by the way; I wouldn't recommend it). Had a bowl of exceptionally ordinary oatmeal. Checked the clock. Craptastic. Skipped morning coffee (definitely wouldn't recommend that one). Threw on a hoodie. Caught the shuttle to the uni. Sulked for twenty minutes.
     And there you have it. Nah, I'm just kidding - I wouldn't leave you with that. All of the above is true, but my day did a complete turnaround in a single moment. The moment I reached the second crack in the sidewalk, to be exact. The moment I did what I do best. It wasn't a dramatic tumble - rather a 'near-faceplant experience,' as it were. Nevertheless, surprisingly uplifting. A bit like a cuff on the back of the head; like, "hey, snap out of it." So I did. I put on a smile and made the most of my day. Optimism is a wonderful thing.
     Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pop a couple of Aspirin and hit the sack. Unfortunately, making the most of my day turned out to mean cleaning my bedroom and killing my back in the process. Not awesome. Oh, right...optimism.

Have a wonderful night, earthlings. Until my next trip,
Be blessed!

The Coffee Bean and Tea Tsunami

Hey there, World.

     Blog-worthy news has been in short supply the past few weeks.You'd think Christmas break would be prime time for injuries, especially for someone like me. Not so this year. Ordinarily, a hiatus on tripping would make me one happy spazz. It's actually been a bit of a downer - I've missed you.
Alas, the arrival of Chelsea (you remember my evil twin) in my hometown has provided me with the perfect opportunity to tell you a story. I've come to the conclusion that she is a catalyst for my klutziness; her, and vastly important milestones in life during which tripping would be pretty much the most embarrassing thing one can do, short of losing one's trousers.
     Evil Twin rolled into Phoenix this afternoon to ride my horse with our friend Keili (who, if her parents had named her Chelsea, would make us an Evil Trio, which would be awesome). Afterward, the three of us headed to the Coffee Bean. I ordered the largest iced tea they could give me. No joke, this thing was a beast. Chelsea must have been radiating some serious spazz-waves, because I had barely begun to enjoy my tea when it happened (insert dramatic music). I was sitting down at a table and leaned a bit too far forward. One of my...uhh...girls..caught the rim of the tea and pulled the whole thing straight into my lap. When the suffocating bouts of laughter finally fizzled out and I stood up, I looked down. The bulk of the liquid had hit just the right spot to give me the quintessential "I had an accident" look, then proceeded to cascade down the leg of my jeans. Brilliant. And it didn't help matters that the tea was about the right shade of yellowish-brown to be urine from someone in desperate need of a new kidney. Or two.
     I predict my next update will be coming soon - I'm starting the new semester in under a week and am bound to have a fresh series of incidents for you all to chuckle at. I look forward to it.

A Short Story Long

Hey there, World.
     I've been wrapped up in some pretty crazy stuff these past few weeks (we'll talk about that later - it's not funny just yet). It's finals week and I'm tired of studying for now, so I thought I'd check into the blogosphere with a mini spastic update.
     If you know me, then you may know I have a little something called LLD. No, it's nothing like ADD, even though it may seem like it sometimes. For reasons unknown to me, the medical world thought it was necessary to assign an acronym to 'leg length discrepancy.' In case acronyms scare the bajeebers out of you, that basically means that one of my legs is significantly shorter than the other. This actually turns out to be a rather convenient scapegoat for my less-than-graceful ways.
     On with the story. When I have to stop my bike, I don't like to get off the seat; I prefer to just drop one leg like a kickstand. This is nearly always done with my long leg (the left), for obvious reasons. On occasion, though, I forget about my LLD and try to use my right. That usually results in my seeing you, The World, from a very different perspective: taller, and possibly upside down.
     This morning, I had yet another lapse in judgment and tried my short leg again. I guess my subconscious just wanted to see if it had grown. Predictably, it was still about two centimeters shy of touching the sidewalk. I managed to catch myself, but my bike wasn't so lucky. It hit the pavement hard, as usual. People stared. I laughed inside.
      And that's the long and short of it. I know, that was bad. I've been deprived of puns this week, so I'm taking it out on you. Deal with it.