Fragmented Funnies

     I realize that my blog entries may give many people a rather severe case of TLDR. For all of you readers who aren't current with nerd-speak (shame on you), that means "Too Long, Didn't Read." Large blocks of seemingly meaningless wordage can be intimidating, am I right? In fact, by this point in the paragraph, I expect to have lost at least half of those who clicked on my link in the first place. So, this time around I decided to give you little bits of fun I've encountered over the past few days. Enjoy.

• This morning, my chemistry professor asked us if we had ever smelled ozone. Most said no. Her description? "If you could smell water, and it smelled awesome, that's what ozone would smell like."
• Shortly thereafter, a classmate shouted "It smells trippy!" After giving the student an odd look, Dr. Van Dangerous turned to address the rest of us: "Soooo....who thinks that guy smoked his breakfast?"
• I went to my roommate's band concert last night. One of the trumpet players lost his place on the score, and spent half the song flipping through his papers and pretending to play...like, lip syncing on the trumpet. I know, I shouldn't find that funny...He played wonderfully the rest of the night, so it's all good.
• Monday morning, I was at the uni studying for a chemistry exam. The LOST theme, which was playing on my iPod, was suddenly interrupted by a loud rumbling. I looked up to see a giant airliner flying so low, it looked as if it was going to land on my head. Irony rocks.
• During my study session, two gentlemen sat at the table next to mine. Suits and ties, briefcases and coffee in hand - they looked like they had business to discuss. Instead, they talked for an excess of fifteen minutes about last week's episode of Big Bang Theory. Good to know they're handling the important things first.
• In the middle of a separate chemistry study session for an entire class, the girl sitting behind my roomie and I suddenly said to her friend: "I haven't washed these jeans since I got them."
• In the shower today, I remembered a little song my Equine Science teacher in high school used to sing:
       My bonnie has tuberculosis.
       My bonnie has only one lung.
       He coughs up his bloody consumption,
       And dries it and chews it for gum.
  Disturbing? Yes, yes it is.
• My roommate wrote on our kitchen whiteboard last night: "Most women would rather have beauty than brains, because men can see better than they can think." Burn. If any men are reading this, my apologies, but it is kinda funny.

ROTC

     In my previous post, if you recall, I admitted to having a hobby of stalking cool people. Well, I have another confession to make...ROTC people are cool. Very cool. Every morning, I get up at a quarter after five, have my oatmeal and coffee, get ready, and take the 6:40am shuttle to the university. I arrive at 7:00am. No class until 8:00am. Luckily for me, the ROTC of all branches are already hard at work by the time I show up. Some days the Army perform marching drills on the mall, some days the Marines run by singing cadences, some days the Air Force do sit ups and push ups in front of Old Main, and some days the Navy jog laps in front of the Union. Whatever the PT plan for the day, I find a bench, sit down, and watch. Sometimes I even turn off my iPod to listen to the commands or enthusiastic battle cries. This morning's was rather interesting - an Air Force guy sprinted by, pumping his fist in the air and yelling "Spartaaaaa!!"
     Today, I actually had the privilege to be a part of their routine, however small. I was riding my bike to the Chemistry building and ended up on the same path as the Air Force ROTC, who were running their laps around the mall. I was going along at a fairly leisurely pace when I heard one of the guys behind me trying to pep up his group. "Come on, we've got this. Let's go, catch that bike!" Who, me? Yes, me. I kept going, waiting to see if they would overtake me. I felt like one of those little white rabbits that greyhounds chase on the track. They were having a hard go of it so I slowed down, just enough for them to catch up without noticing I'd done it. I like to think I made them feel accomplished.
     C.V. Wedgwood, a 17th century historian, claimed that "the behavior of individuals is more interesting than their behavior as groups..." Not always, intellectual dead guy, not always. I see the exception every morning. When they march, they move with nearly flawless synchrony. When they run, faster members sink back alongside those who struggle, offering them encouragement and confidence. Thursday morning, I stepped off the shuttle to see the Air Force ROTC out on Old Main's lawn. They were lying on their backs in a circle, knees bent and feet facing in. Their arms were all linked and they were doing sit ups, rising and falling together, pulling each other up. I just can't help but be enthralled. To see these incredible groups of people, many of whom have known each other barely two months, displaying such camaraderie is simply amazing.
     Determined to feel secure in my creeping, I contacted my older brother, Aaron, who is an Army ROTC cadet at Arizona State. I had to be sure I wasn't alone. Surely someone else enjoyed observing the occasional PT session? Come to find out, they don't. Aaron tells me he's caught a few looking, but they don't hang - just "slow their roll" as they walk by. Drat. I was really hoping for a "Yeah, sis, the troop's already got collective restraining orders on a couple of these chicks." No such luck.
    

I'm Not a Creeper. I Just Like to Creep.

     If there's one thing I've learned from the internet it's that, if you're going to stalk, you never do it half-way. In fact, in this day and age, any half-hearted creeping is an insult to the World Wide Web itself, and all who use it. Keep in mind, I'm not talking about the real, creepy flavor of creeping...that's just wrong. I'm talking about the innocent variety. And yes, it exists.
     I've stalked plenty of people. Don't judge me. You get bored, right? Don't tell me you don't - I know there's no way your life is that interesting. Think about what you do to alleviate that boredom. It's fun, isn't it? Well, when I get bored, I stalk people. Cool people. Now, before you get all butt-hurt because I haven't stalked you, consider this: maybe I haven't gotten around to it yet. Or maybe I have and I'm just so good you never noticed. Okay, so I suppose there's always the possibility that you aren't cool enough, but let's just assume it's one of the first two.
     My current stalkee is Mr. Zachary Levi - actor, director, singer, and professional nerd. To all of you out there who have yet to stalk Mr. Levi (go on, do it...I know you want to), he might be better known as Chuck Bartowski, AKA Special Agent Charles Carmichael. Sidenote: anyone with no idea who I'm talking about, get off my blog...Relax, I'm totally kidding. But really, the show's called Chuck. Look it up; you'll be glad you did.
     I'm going to preface this by saying that I am not the only internet stalker he has. I don't even want to know how many are actually out there, or how much farther they take the whole thing than even me...Anyways, back to Zac. Ooo! Perfect example of my stalking skills. By way of a rather obscure, impromptu interview on YouTube, I know that he is very particular about the spelling of his short name. It's not Zach, Zak, or (God forbid you use this version) Zack. It's Zac. And don't you forget it.
     Thanks to the many services offered by my friend The Internet, I had, and took, the opportunity to follow Zac's summer-long vacation in real time. Photo albums on Facebook, tweets, and live video streaming. You might say I lived my dream of a European tour vicariously through him. Venice is fantastic, by the way. There you go judging again. Knock it off before I creep your Facebook pages and ridicule your hobbies.
     I own all three seasons of Chuck and carve out a spot in my busy, college-ridden Monday nights to watch every new episode of season four. I also own Chuck apparel - Nerd Herd (featured in the photo on the left) and Stay In the Car T-shirts, and an Orange-Orange hoodie. I bought a pair of Converse All-Stars specifically to match. I plan on purchasing Mr. Levi's official "NERD" apparel as well. You may think I'm spicing this whole thing up just to make it interesting. Trust me, it's all true.
     One more thing before I go. One night several months ago, my Dad came home from a night working security (Phoenix Police) at some big shindig downtown. No sooner did he walk in the door than he called the entire family into the living room, pointing excitedly at his left hand.
     "You see this hand? Touch it. Go on, touch my hand. This is the hand that shook the hand of that guy who plays Chuck on Chuck. What's his name?"
     "Zachary Levi!" was my remarkably high-pitched reply. I couldn't believe it. Apparently, Dad had run into Mr. Levi after the event, introduced himself with a "My whole family loves the show; we watch it every week," shook his hand, and wished him a good night. Hello, Dad, how about "Oh, by the way, my daughter would like to marry you"? I'm not gonna lie, I have never been, and probably will never be, more jealous of my Dad.

Stay creepy, dear readers, and go watch some Chuck.

Drowning Fish

     I'm pretty convinced at this point that I was simply not destined to have a good weekend. I spent nearly the entirety of it stuck in front of the computer, up to my armpits in Chemistry homework, and two midterm exams on Monday to study for. I had just finished my lab report and was about to reward myself with a ten-minute TV break when I caught sight of Amanda's beta fish, Mr. Pina, in a terrible pickle. He had squeezed underneath three of the large rocks at the bottom of his bowl and was drowning. Yes, you heard me, drowning. What kind of world do we live in where fish drown?
     My first thought was "Crapcrapcrap" followed closely by "Oh my geez, Amanda's going to murder me in my sleep!" (Keep in mind, Amanda has gone back home to Phoenix for the weekend, putting me in charge of Mr. Pina. She specifically told me before leaving that she would kill me if he died because she'd never be able to find another yellow beta to match her bathroom decor. Craptastic, you say? I agree).
     I plunged my hand into the bowl and, with all the care I could muster in my panicked state, dug him out. I thought: "Don't freak out - as soon as he's free, he'll swim to the surface." Guess who didn't swim? By that time, I had resorted to cradling him in my hand at the top and imploring him not to die. He took a few puffs of sweet, sweet air and floated there for a bit whilst I left a frantic message on Amanda's phone explaining the situation (along with an "It's not my fault, I swear" thrown in).
     Mr. Pina survived and is currently glaring at me from behind the glass of his bowl. My guess is that he misses Amanda so much (or hates me with such a passion), that he decided to end it all. He even buried himself, to boot.

October 8, 2010

     It's been a busy day at the uni. Wicked playing at Centennial Hall with all 1,400-some seats sold out, people waiting in line since before 7:00am, and local news filming. Parent Weekend kick-off on the mall. Even the wedding of a lovely Asian couple on the front lawn of Old Main, complete with three-tiered cake. And no, that last one wasn't a joke - I even saw the kiss...I clapped. The funny part is that I've never had to privilege of attending a wedding, and there I was watching the most important day in the lives of two complete strangers. I'd have felt like a creeper, but I don't suppose they would have held their wedding in the middle of a major university without the willingness to accommodate a few spectators.
     My Chemistry professor, Dr. Van Dorn (affectionately termed 'Dr. Van Dangerous,' for reasons which are abundantly clear on a daily basis), had a surprise for us today. I could smell the terror all around me within seconds of those two retched words springing onto the powerpoint: Pop Quiz. I knew then that every person  in the room felt the same way: like an innocent bunny caught in Dr. Van Dangerous' Snare of Death. Some were snagged by the leg, others by the ear...there was no question - I had it 'round my neck. I don't work well under pressure, and if I don't see that pressure coming..well, you can pretty much kiss my brain function goodbye...Which might become a problem in vet school. I should probably work on that.
     Anyway, I'll skip ahead a bit. After the papers were collected (and undoubtedly sent to a special drying rack to rid them of their tear stains..), Dr. Van Dorn announced another surprise. Don't worry, you'll like this one. She had called a student up to the front, relinquished her microphone, and announced: "Sometimes during Parent Weekend, students like to bring their parents to class. Jarrod here brought his mom - hi Jarrod's mom! Because I think that's AWESOME, Jarrod is going to show his mom how much he rocked this test."
     Watching him go through the solutions with utter ease, seeing his mom beaming with the quintessential "That's my boy" smile, quite simply made my day. Dr. Van Dorn could have gone on with the lesson and saved herself from playing catch-up for the next three lectures. Instead, she chose to brighten someone's day. It's a special thing when people go out of their way to bring joy to others. I hope with all my heart to see, and do, more things like it in the future. And that, dear readers, more than the humor behind it, is what I wanted to share.
By the way, in case anyone cares...I aced the quiz.

Ahh, the Smell of Methane in the Evening..

      After having dinner (a lovely salad with fresh lettuce and enough carrots to turn your skin orange) and enjoying an all new, action-packed episode of Chuck, Amanda and I decided it was time to freshen the abode. Amanda proceeded to dance and twirl like a fairy around the apartment wielding a can of Febreeze Air Effects. "It smells really nice in here now," she noted as she walked by me to put the can back under the kitchen sink.
     "Yeah, it does," I agreed.
     "...Actually, it smells like you farted."
     "...I did."
     This wonderful exchange has been brought to you by complete security - the level of comfort with another human being afforded by being best friends and roommates. Technically, I got the ball rolling on gaseous conversation in the very first week at the apartment. In one of our first sit-downs as a group, Cheryce, Leila, me, and an initially reluctant Amanda all chatted about that thing that everyone does, but no one wants to bring up. The discussion was longer than you'd think. We went on about types, sound levels, and (my personal favorite) methods of concealment in public. I for one prefer the head-into-an-empty-isle-drop-one-and-walk-away-briskly tactic. It has served me faithfully in the past. I figured, and maintain to this day, that if people can talk about farts, they can talk about anything. Open that dialogue right off the bat and, from that point on, virtually no subsequent conversation will be awkward.
     Case in point: a couple of days ago, I told Amanda that eating blueberries turns your poop green.  Awkward, you say? I think not. In fact, she may have even consumed more blueberries than considered appropriate for simple snacking, just to see if I was telling the truth. I was - I don't joke about poop. Stop laughing.

September 23, 2010

     What better way is there to say "I'm a college student" than to sit down and enjoy a piping hot bowl of Top Ramen? That's right, none. Those oodles of noodles are a symbol. A symbol of blood, sweat, and tears. Of shrinking wallets and expanding waistlines. Now, I like to pump some extra delicious into my Ramen. Think of it like a Mustang GT; fantastic as it is, it's always better with racing stripes. A little chicken, green onion, celery seed and cilantro, and my soup is souped.
     Yesterday afternoon, after a long day at the UA and a cold nipping at my heels, I decided to indulge. I had nearly made it to the living room couch, steaming bowl in hand, when I had a spaz-attack. My toes hooked the leg of the coffee table and the floor came rushing toward me. Unfortunately, I didn't go down alone. I landed shoulder-first on the table, tipping the entire frosted glass top and knocking it right off its supports. You know in the movies when some guy gets smashed against a window and there's this hideous squeak as he slides to the ground? It was a lot like that. Half of my Ramen - extra broth, extra hot - poured down my arm. I found myself flashing an image of the glass shattered, its shards running me through like a samurai sword and leaving me to bleed to a messy death on the rug. The upside: the carpet's dark brown, so at least the stain would be negligible.
     I snapped out of my worst-case-scenario-induced stupor just in time to save the remainder of my lunch. Four paper towels and one short fit of frustration later, I sat eating and staring down at my toes. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I can't always have an audience, but thanks to Blogspot, the world can still enjoy a snicker or two at my expense.

September 17, 2010

My morning was fantastic!
            How much sarcasm can you muster? Think about it. Now, multiply that by 113,482 and apply it to the above statement. As it turns out, sometimes being a spastic freshman hasn’t a thing to do with having a bad day. Sometimes, bad days just find you. Granted, spastic freshman such as myself are far easier to find than others, but you get the picture.
            I’ve heard it said of many situations: “you’ve either gotta laugh or cry.” Thanks to an inspirational message I received from an unlikely source at about 5:30 this morning, I’m choosing to laugh, and thought you might like to as well. ‘Don’t cry, get back in the game.’ You might be wondering what that source was. Let’s just say a certain company has decided women could use a pep talk now and then, courtesy of their favorite feminine products…
            Anyhoodles, on with the story. I have one of those supremely awesome schedules (there’s that sarcasm again) which requires me to be on one side of campus from 8:00-9:55am, and on the other side by 9:58am. Now, I’m no track star, so I’ve got wheels. Thirty-two inch wheels. With spokes. And gears. And a very temperamental chain, but we’ll get to that in a minute. To keep my baby from being assaulted – or worse, bike-napped – I lock her up in an enclosure in one of the university’s parking garages. The gate needs a six-digit code to open. (I know what you’re thinking: it’d be way cooler to have one of those CIA optical scanners. Trust me, I’m with you there.) Should be simple, right? Type in the numbers, and open sesame! Yeah…not so much. So, I go to the garage attendant’s station and explain my predicament. The response?
            “You need your bike now?” …No, of course not. I’m just here at 7:04am because I can’t go more than fourteen hours without hearing the beep the little keys make. It’s music, really it is. So she gives her partner a buzz on the walkie, I thank her, and I wait. And wait. The guy finally arrives about ten minutes later, opens the gate for me, and tells me he deactivated my locker code yesterday. He doesn’t remember why. I hide my frustration, wish him a good day, and hop on my bike, thinking I might still make it to watch the ROTC’s morning drills before my class. Except I hear this awful grinding and almost enjoy an asphalt breakfast because my bike chain has come completely off the track and lodged itself between the gears and the spokes. Five minutes later, I’ve got a functional ride. Trouble is, I’ve also got a pair of hands blacker with grease than a mechanic who hasn’t seen soap in eighteen years.
             Feeling like a BP oil spill casualty, I ride four blocks to the nearest building whose restroom location I’m sure of. Turns out, that restroom is being cleaned. I politely hold up my hands and beg the maintenance woman entrance. No dice. I’ve got to go two floors up and down the hall. It’s a bit of a hike and, let me tell you, people stare. I consider throwing out a casual explanation, but by this point I’ve given up on blending in. As I’m lathering my eighth handful of soap, I chuckle to myself. It’s time to write.

Tales of University from a Spastic Freshman

     So there I was at 7:45am, strolling down the sidewalk toward my first class of the day: General Chemistry. Caramel macchiato in hand, bag slung over one shoulder, and my hair (which I had worked exceptionally hard on that morning) swaying lightly in the breeze. It was official: I was a University student. A freshman, sure, but the only thing that would have betrayed me was my campus map, and I'd begun leaving that at my apartment two weeks ago. High school and all its not-so-glorious memories were far behind me. Or so I thought.
     My feet, which had served me faithfully for nearly the entire first month of classes, were headed for disaster. Picture a crack in the cement. One barely big enough to put a bump in an ant trail. Got it? Good. Well, my feet found that crack. The next few seconds were a blur of flailing limbs, flying curls, and espresso raining from the sky.
     As I sat among the throngs of my fellow chemistry students, wishing my skinned knees were not so painfully red against my barely-tanned legs, I realized something. No matter where I went, how far up the social ladder I found myself, or what kind of 'fresh start' I was looking for, tripping in front of the world would always be the story of my life. That realization may seem a little gloom and doom, but it came with a decision: If I'm going to trip, and the world is going to see, I may as well have some fun with it. And if the world has a little fun too, even better.
     So, world, have a laugh - I don't mind.