Acute Viral Rhinopharyngitis (Take 2)

So, apparently I have to post again...because SOME people think my previous post left a little to be desired. Frankly, I think all of my posts leave something to be desired...but, here I am....ever the obliging, sweet, entertaining, funny, articulate, humble one. (I decided to quit while I was ahead, before running out of appropriate adjectives.)

Just this past week, I've had the privilege of experiencing the blissfully joyous feeling of a head cold; courtesy of my dear brother, Jimmy, who caught the bug from school. I first heard the term "head cold", when Rachel mentioned, a while ago, that some of her siblings were suffering from it. At first, I thought it meant that they simply thought they were sick, but were in fact, healthy. As in, their symptoms were purely psychological. **cough** Apparently, that's not the correct definition of a head cold... aaand, since everyone ELSE knows what it is, I shan't bother giving you a definition.

I can't believe I'm sick again!

**please allow five minutes for Lois to throw a hissy fit over the injustice of life**

My immune system wasn't always in this piteous condition. Like I've said before, I hate being sick, but it's even worse when you have to go to school. You can't imagine how wonderful it feels to ask for help in math from the scrawny, Indian tutor that's on duty, when you're visibly afflicted with a contagious ailment.

I wave him over. He brings with him a piece of paper, which, upon studying me closely, he cautiously sets down on the farthest corner of the table, taking care to avoid coming near me. I show him my problem, and ask him for advice. Gripping a pencil delicately by its eraser, he proceeds to scratch out some symbols on the piece of paper. Apparently my vision isn't what it used to be, because I can't make out anything besides chicken scrawl and ancient runes. That paper is awfully far away. So, I move on to plan B; I ask him for a verbal explanation, something he has not given me thus far, because it could damage his effort to avoid contamination. With much trepidation, he creeps slowly into the kill zone I've created with my great, hacking coughs, all the while eyeing me suspiciously. Before taking the last step, he inhales a huge lungful of air, and closes the gap between us.

He tries to expel as little air as possible in his explanation, making up for the lack of oxygen by talking rapidly and incoherently in a language I'm not sure is English. He soon runs out of air, which abruptly halts his speech. He looks at me, (at this point, I'm getting scared, because I can feel another coughing session coming on) but refuses to take a step back for more oxygen, knowing this would be rude and insensitive. (There's a fine line between surreptitiously avoiding disease, and avoiding it in an offensive manner.) Time is running out, and I'm still clueless as to the solution. His skin has started to turn an unhealthy shade of blue. Wait! His eyes have lit up... I sit, transfixed, as his lips migrate to the left side of his head... an incredible distance. He purses them, making a small "o", and sucks in a tiny stream of what he hopes is unpolluted air, before again turning to my assistance. Suddenly, I can't take it anymore.

I'm bent over double, coughing and sneezing for all I'm worth. I can literally feel my internal organs jumbling around, arguing over whose turn it is to be coughed up. The poor Indian guy took one look at the heaving, wheezing, snotty mass of humanity in front of him, and lost all of his social graces. He jerked back as if electrocuted, ran to the counter, and signed himself out of tutoring for the day.

Yep, being sick stinketh.

DISCLAIMER: I have in no way dramatized or exaggerated the event described above. Things happened exactly as I described them. Rully.

How Not to Clean a White Skirt

Ah yes...this wee neglected corner of the blogosphere belongs to me...
I haven't had much time for posting lately, because I'm striving to be a diligent student at college. Ah, who am I trying to kid. I haven't posted because nothing interesting has happened. (Notice how this sounds light-years better than "I was too lazy to post.")

During this past week, I've had the epitome of all blonde moments. So far, it's my second time going down this route, since a person can have multiple epitomical blonde moments. The first, was when I stated with confidence that the capitol of New York is New Jersey. I've since learned that New Jersey is, in fact, it's own separate state.

Last Saturday, I oxi-cleaned and bleached my favorite white skirt, actually, my only white skirt, until the fabric had nearly dissolved. With utmost care, I wrung out my spotlessly white garment, and hung it up to dry. On Sunday, I laid it out on my bed, and waited patiently for the iron to heat up. Gingerly, I began pressing my skirt. Then, I made a horrible, gut-wrenching mistake. Seeing that there was still a bit of water left in the iron, we have one of those new-fangled contraptions that allows one to unwrinkle a garment using indirect heat, I pressed the steam button. Apparently, the person who had last used the iron had forgotten to wipe away the excess moisture, in retrospect it was probably me, so the little holes that allow steam to escape had developed a bit of rust. Tragically, as I began to iron my skirt, the rust mingled with the escaping steam, causing a dribble of disgusting orange liquid to ooze out all over my pretty white skirt. Have you ever had the irrational urge to cause an inanimate object physical pain? Cue nervous break-down. Admittedly, it wasn't one of my finest moments.

I used up half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the offending stains, threw my skirt in the sink, and hoped for the best.

So, on Monday, I began the whole cleaning process...again, and left my skirt to soak in a basin full of water and detergent. I promptly forgot all about it, until Wednesday night. Wednesday! So, I ran out the door at around 10 p.m., dumped out the old water, rinsed my skirt, and filled up the basin with fresh H2O. When do you think I remembered it again? That's right...today. Friday. I found it floating amongst the decomposing carcasses of dead flies, mosquitoes, and other disagreeable insects. I'm going to take this as a sign that God doesn't want me to wear white skirts...

I'd like to direct your attention to the fact that you've just spent a whole two minutes of your time reading several paragraphs on: a white skirt. Heehee.

Acute Viral Rhinopharyngitis Stinks.

It's about time I got back to this. I would hate to be counted amongst the slackers currently littering the web with their shamefully unupdated excuses for blogs. (you know who you are.)

Right now, I'm as sick as a....I can't seem to conjure up a simile that accurately portrays exactly how horrible I feel, and look, for that matter. (I am coming to your monitor today from the computer lab at Cerritos College...unfortunately for me, 'tis a very public area.) Well, just use your imagination and envisage an image of such hideous proportions as would frighten a small child. Got it? That would be me. Now, multiply that by a googleplex. That's how I feel. You can thank me for the charming mental (to give you an idea of how sick I am, I originally spelled that mentle) pictures I've had you contrive at your earliest convenience. :)

Boy, do I ever hate being sick. You can't think, you can't work, you can't play, you can't exercise...and you can hardly eat. It's a state of being that is neither life nor death. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Today alone I have consumed 3500% of my daily allotted vitamin C, and 1 ounce of Swedish Bitter. (A devilish concoction of Vodka and bitter herbs renowned for its healing properties.) Yesterday, I chewed and swallowed 4 cloves of raw, organic garlic. (WAY more potent than your average supermarket stuff.) Needless to say, any person unfortunate enough to be in my immediate vicinity was in danger of being knocked clear into next week. Amy, dear, as a fellow Sickie, I feel your pain.

On the bright side, the 3 out of my 5 professors for this semester that I have met are super sweet and very funny.

English 100 Professor: "You should have received an e-mail from me last week explaining the purpose and length of this orientation. Did any of you receive this e-mail?"
Several hands go up.
"If you did not receive this e-mail, you either are not enrolled in this class, or the e-mail from me is currently in your junk folder... please go home and tell your computer that I am not junk."

-Stephen Clifford

I already "buzzed" about my biology professor. You can pull up a new tab if you'd like to see her quote. I've heard it takes quite a bit of effort, but, you know, I have faith you can muscle your way through this arduous task.

I do have something else to share from biology. Last night I used a microscope for the first time in my life. It. Was. AWESOME! I examined the leaf of an aquatic plant, my finger, the letter 'e', and brine shrimp. BTW, your hands are much filthier than you think they are. In order for the human eye to perceive an object, in must be at least 0.1 mm in size. There's a heap of stuff on your finger that you can't even see. It's pretty gross, and really neat to observe. Mom was right, though, don't eat with your fingers.

My Spanish teacher is hilarious. She is the smallest woman I have ever seen, and she speaks 5 languages. She looks like an older version of Disney's Jane from "Tarzan". The same up swept bun, and the same facial features. She also has really cute spectacles. She pronounced my last name with astonishing accuracy and informed me it was French. I was none too pleased with that piece of news, so I informed her that it was, in fact, Romanian...and she had pronounced it in a rather Frenchy way. She slowly raised her spectacles. Thus began a lecture which concluded with me conceding that perhaps I had been a wee bit hasty and that my last name was borrowed from the Frenchies. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

SO, I'm pretty happy and thankful for my classes and professors thus far. :)

These past few weeks preceding the start of the Fall Semester have been a total blast! Why? Because Laura Brown and Kayla Updike have graced us with their superawesomefunnycharmingbeautiful selves. We went shopping, did a photo shoot, had our make up done,(although not to the extent that SOME people did theirs. I seriously doubt Ally reads my blog, and so, this inside joke is completely wasted), and we had pedicures to boot! Not to mention all the totes amazing laughs we shared. I have two things to say to you girls...never, EVER Facebook stalk anyone, AND, when in doubt, belt it!

All the rest of you less privileged beings(less privileged in that you could not understand the above paragraph) welcome back to my blog post. Oh, you've left? Oh. Well, ok then. Have a great week. ...Toodles.

***~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~*~***~*~*~**~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~***

It's only my second day back on campus, and already I'm getting a bit peeved, albeit, on only one issue...for now.

1) Um Question. Girls, if you positively have to dye your hair, why must you be so indecisive? What's with all the blue and purple streaked blondes? Why the neon highlighted dread locks? WHY? It's visually disconcerting and emotionally disturbing. I would like to be one of the first to protest this brutal form of ocular harassment. Thank you.

In Which Lois Survives Her First Semester

Hey, it's me again. Don't look so disappointed, this is MY BLOG, as I've reiterated countless times on numerous occasions. I expect you've come for some entertainment, a word or two of advice, pearls of wisdom, perhaps even a cookie? Well, you've come to the right place!

(If you'd like a cookie, just drop me a comment and I'll send you one, right away.)

Just in case you're currently experiencing a brain spasm, and therefore wondering what I'm wearing as I sit here and type this, I'll tell you. Pajamas. Yes. It should be an inalienable right; a nationally, no globally, embraced holiday. One should set aside one day each week to parade around in their pajamas.

"Scientific" research has concluded that health and longevity correlate proportionally to how much time one spends in their pajamas. Allow me to pause and demonstrate how one should properly celebrate GWYPD.(Global Wear Your Pajamas Day)

*Enter Pause*

Lois proceeds to jump on the bed, climb a tree, jump on the trampoline, jump on Jimmy, run from Jimmy, and do a happy dance as she manages to escape Jimmy's clutches by locking the door to her room; all while wearing her pajamas.

*End Pause*

This is how things should be done. It must be mentioned, however, that Jimmy strongly objects to any person weighing in excess of 200 lbs. jumping on him. Unfortunately, this means that people who weigh more than 200 lbs. are discouraged from participating in GWYPD. In fact, they are prohibited from celebrating GWYPD altogether; which brings me to the reason I am writing this post in the first place.
I MADE THE PRESIDENT'S LIST!!!

Oh, how I enjoy giving people mental whiplash. Naturally, the above paragraphs are not even triflingly related to the former sentence. That's the beauty of experiencing mental whiplash, you don't even know what hit you until I explain it.

Speaking of explaining things, I'm sure you're wondering at the monstrously deplorable state of disrepair our school system suffers from, considering the fact that I made the President's List. Contrary to what you're thinking, I did not hire an expertly skilled ninja to threaten my College President with assassination should he fail to add my name to his list. I'd looked into it, of course, but it's far too expensive...and, at a stretch, morally questionable. No, I earned my A's by working hard, praying, and studying; which apparently is the second most recommended way to make the President's List.

A is for Accounting...

Without a doubt, this class was the hardest I took this semester. Accounting is organized, precise, and logical. It spits on creativity. Basically, Accounting is a free-spirit's worst nightmare. If you step a single toe out of line, mess up one teensy number, incorrectly label an account...you've failed. Miserably. In this situation, you, the miserable failure, will have to go back through all the work you've done, retrace all the information you have, and cross-examine every single account until the total number of debits equals the total number of credits. If you've done this, good for you, nobody cares. You're only possibly correct, if not entirely wrong. Just because you've managed to come up with the right sum for both columns, doesn't mean that you've correctly debited and/or credited the correct account. So you go back and look everything over, making sure that the total of each respective account has been properly recorded. Again. By this time, your eyes will be popping out of your head, and your brain should feel like mush. If you've reached this stage, rejoice! You're nearly done! Total the columns and pray that your calculator is working properly. If the sums match, you're done. And that's only a tiny, basic part of Accounting. I mean, we haven't even gone into evaluating accounts based on market fluctuation. A word to those who think Accounting is easy: you disturb me.

The Lord gave me the grace to work hard and study, enough to barely make it out of the class with an A. Hopefully, that's the last I'll ever have to see of Accounting.


Computer Information Science...

Or, Computer Information Systems, but this is what my Professor called it. My Professor for this class was a sweet old man who hadn't the minutest clue what he was doing in a class of 20 teenagers. Honestly. The confused, slightly perplexed look he wore perpetually testified to this fact. He didn't teach us...he gave us a PowerPoint presentation of our CIS book, which we had purchased for an absurd amount of money, and read from it in class. For 2 1/2 hours. Interspersed throughout the fascinating monotony of this lecture were comments on how different computers were 20 years ago, and his amazement at the speed with which CD's had replaced floppy disks. Seriously, during the third week of class, as soon as he began talking, for 2 1/2 hours all I heard was a buzzing sound in my ears. This would have been problematic, had not all my tests been open book. And my assignments idiot-proof. In order to fail an assignment, you'd have to not do it. In order to fail a test, you'd have to be illiterate. A disturbing fact was that some people were, indeed, failing the class. Over achieving show-offs. They worked much harder than us 'A' students. Since I had aced all of my tests, my Professor informed me that it was unnecessary for me to complete my two remaining assignments or take my final. So, with great shame, and a healthy amount of guilt, I accepted my 'A' in his class.

Volleyball...

The difficulty of this class nearly drove me insane. I literally had to roll out of bed at 7 in the morning, pull on some loose clothing, eat, and go to school. THEN, I actually had to show up for class! Can you imagine? For all of this hard work and dedication, my reward was a measly 'A'. Will horrors never cease!

Mathematics...
Boy, am I glad this class was over with 10 weeks ago.

So, really, the only A's I'm proud of achieving this semester are the ones from Accounting and Mathematics. The ones I actually worked for.

Congratulate yourself. You've just finished reading the brief synopsis of all my classes for this semester. Did I mention I made the President's List? Funny thing about the President's List. For the first time in my life, I've one-upped Jimmy on something, albeit by default. As a student, you have to take at least 12 units worth of classes in order to make the President's List. Jimmy's piano class counted for 1.5 units, causing him to miss making the President's List by .5 units! Haha! I'm deliriously happy. Uh-oh.

*Lois runs to her room and locks the door*

No, actually, Jimmy deserved to make the President's List this semester, and I'm disappointed for him. There's always next semester.

I want to leave you all with this thought. It's Mom's thought, actually. I was borrowing her MacArthur's Study Bible this morning, and a little note fell out of it that completely made my day.

' "For when we were still without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly. - Romans 5:6"
Without strength to train, to live right...Christ died for my ungodly moments, hours, days, years!'

Thank You, Lord, for a great first semester at Cerritos!

**~L~**-**~L~** Top Ten Things I Love About College **~L~**-**~L~**

1. Sitting in the amphitheater and eating dinner with Jimmy, while he stares intently at random passerby trying to get them to glance in his direction by using his formidable brain power.

2. Laughing at Jimmy's antics until I choke on my food.

3. Opening Gatorade bottles for girls who are too skinny to do it themselves.

4. That point of despair before receiving your results when you know you've failed your test and will fail every other test you take for all eternity, until the realization that it's all in Lord's hands hits you like a ton of bricks.

5. The determination and drive that overcomes you when you do fail your test, and the commitment you make to yourself to study harder, and ace the next one.

6. Not having to work out for a full 18 weeks because you're rushing from class to class like a frenzied rabbit and skipping breakfast and lunch.

7. Just touching the ball so that it barely tips over the net and watching 5 people dive for it simultaneously.

8. Never letting my schooling interfere with my education.

9. Pretending to fall asleep in the library, while in reality eavesdropping on a debate about social science.

10. Making the President's List.

Sobering Thoughts

"He who is slothful in his work
Is a brother to him who is a great destroyer."
Proverbs 18:9

So, this week was finals week. I studied fairly hard, to pass a class I had no interest in taking in the first place, to learn a subject I have no aptitude for. Such is life. I came across this verse today, from Proverbs chapter 18. Now, I have read Proverbs at least a hundred times; but perhaps the fact that this week was finals week prompted me to do a study on it.

Who do we think of as Destroyers? Right off the bat, most of us would say Hitler, Castro, Mao Zedong, Ceauşescu, and Stalin. Dictators and Murderers, destroyers of lives and freedom. Could I take it a step further? Who is the ultimate Destroyer? Satan, of course. Right about here, my train of thought screeched to a halt and I experienced mental whiplash. 'Woah, God, wait a second. You can't possibly put being slothful in near the same category as being like Hitler, or Satan, can You?' The thought horrified me. I mean, I nearly lost it just thinking about the many times I've been slothful in my work. I pulled out the dictionary to do a little research.

Destroyer: 2. a person or thing that destroys (I don't think the military definition applies.)
Synonyms- arsonist, brute, demolisher, savage, terrorist, wrecker, vandal, wild man.

Slothful: disinclined to work or exertion; "faineant kings under whose rule the country languished"; "an indolent hanger-on"; "too lazy to wash the dishes"; "shiftless idle youth".
Synonyms- ambling, apathetic, bone-lazy, cadging, do-nothing, faltering, flagging, foot-dragging, good-for-nothing, idle, inactive, indifferent, indolent, inert, lackadaisical, languorous, lax, lazy, leisurely, lethargic, shiftless.

I went to Mom for some wisdom and asked to hear her thoughts on this. She asked me where being slothful lead to. Let's take slothfulness of mind, for example. If a person is slothful in guarding their hearts and minds from immoral influences, they will become immoral, wicked beings. After all, Hitler was once a child. He was once a person whose mind was not poisoned against all that is good and pure. If not for the grace of God, we could all be Hitler. Here's one that hits too close to home with me. Being slothful with my time. A person who wastes their time is a person who is wasting their life. If the only things worth doing are the ones that count for eternity, we should avoid wasting time like the plague. It's enough to cure you of several lifetimes of addictions to Buzz. And a whole lot more.

Anyway, that's my sobering thought for the day. Summer is practically here, and I'm done with school. I'm praying that I won't waste the free time I now have by lazing around being slothful and doing nothing for the Lord. I pray that you also will be actively engaged in living for Him. I can hardly wait to read Proverbs 19 tomorrow. Read proverbs, friends, a sobering thought per day helps keep temptation at bay.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like A Big Pizza Pie

...that's Amore. Jimmy has a blog. Check it out. HERE!

Hullo Chumsy-Wumsy! I have nothing to post about...so this is just going to be a non-post, as it were.
"Calvin: You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood.
Hobbes: What mood is that?
Calvin: Last-minute panic." Right-o. After all, procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday. Since I like to take it a step further, I'm going to post about Spring Break...which I wanted to do awhile ago. I hope you enjoy wasting your time reading this...because obviously time you enjoyed wasting technically doesn't qualify as wasted time. Am I right, or am I right? Yeah I'm wrong, so sue me.

Spring Break Madness:
In order to celebrate the glorious freedom Spring Break affords young, hardworking, diligent, conscientious, brainy, clever, resourceful, punctual, too-humble-for-their-own-good college students like me, I invited myself over to the McIntire's house for a few days. Naturally they were absolutely thrilled, insisting that I invade their residence as soon as their busy schedule permitted. I obliged and arrived at their house Thursday night, around 7ish. I had thought they lived only 15 minutes away, on account of how much fun we girls had in the car driving up to their place the last time I slept over, so I convinced Dad to leave the kids alone at home (Mom and Jimmy were gone) to drive me over. *cough* Apparently, the McIntires don't live 15 minutes away from us. That caused a teensy bit of a fiasco, especially when Jonathan heard about the situation and offered his two cents.
Jonathan(whispering): "What if they're dead!?"

Thankfully, it all worked out. When Dad got back home the house was still standing, the shed hadn't burned down, and the kidders were in one piece. Separately. That is to say they were each their own whole, separate, unharmed, individual piece. I didn't mean that they were all jumbled together with duct tape or anything like that. Ah, the difficulties of grammar.

Meanwhile, back at the McIntire Residence...WE PLAYED FORT! Feel free to be jealous. For those of you who've lacked the pleasure, Fort is a strategy game that requires physical and intellectual stamina. Players could also benefit from acquiring an accurate throwing arm. It is a game so extraordinarily brilliant that only someone whose mad creative genius far surpasses my own could have thought to conceive it. Sacrilege, of course, since no such person exists. Credit must, however, go to Jonathan for coming very close with his superbly prodigious magnum opus of a game. The object of the game is for each person from the three teams to pummel opposing players with stuffed animals in the hopes that one of their throws miraculously hits its mark, thereby eliminating a player from an opposing team. Last time, Jonathan's aggressive bomb launching managed to knock down the walls of mine and Amy's fort. Terrified, I threw a blanket over myself and proceeded to do nothing but scream for two minutes straight while Amy tried valiantly, but ultimately failed, to defend our position. Jonathan won, to my utter disgrace and humiliation. This time around, I was determined to reclaim my dignity.


As I mentioned, there are three teams. Teams one and two each have a bunk bed that they convert into a fort using sheets and blankets that overlap in complicated ways. Amy is our resident fort maker extraordinaire. The last team, the one Jonathan is usually on, has no fort. With relatively little protection, Team 3 has fantastic offense, but insufficient defense leaves them vulnerable to early elimination. With the forts made, and our stuffed animals at the ready, the battle was about to begin. As per tradition, Jonathan picked a spooky song from the Braveheart soundtrack, and hit 'play'. Bombs Away! Amy and I 'killed' Sarah...that left Jonathan with Michelle as his lone teammate. Despite doing his best to remain in hiding, Daniel was 'killed' by a stray bomb, leaving Cristin to fend for herself in the other fort. A period of pointless volleying back and forth with words and cotton bombs ensued as each team struggled to devise a strategy. Jonathan, greedy for a repeat ending of our last epic battle, began to batter our fort with renewed purpose. Amy, eager for vengeance, inched forward a little too much. She must have stepped on sheet corner, because a portion of what was our fort suddenly fell away; exposing a gaping hole in our defenses. Amy, shocked, barely had time to register Jonathan's Scottish battle cry of victory as his beanie baby sailed through the air and finished her off.


Adrenaline rushed through my veins...I would not let him win. With a yelp I grabbed one of our remaining stuffed animals and threw it as hard as I could. As if in slow motion, my missile sliced through the air and, bulls-eye! It hit Jonathan's Adam's apple. (The small choking sound that escaped his lips was particularly satisfactory.) I was elated, victory was within sight! I threw a curve ball bomb, and, miraculously, Bunny the Rabbit sailed through the air in a perfect arc, hitting Cristin! So jubilant was I, rejoicing in my sure to be legendary conquest, that I failed to notice the silent, deadly enemy. Too late I turned around, only to feel the sickening thump of a cotton bomb slamming against my abdomen. Michelle, the patient assassin, had bided her time until opportunity presented itself. When the time was ripe, she pounced! So, in the century's most anticlimactic ending since Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Michelle stole my triumph causing Jonathan, by default, to win...again.
"Who says life is fair, where is that written?"
-William Goldman
How true, how grievously, insufferably, dreadfully, unfortunately true. You can go away now, I've so depressed myself by remembering the incident that I can't be bothered to end this post properly. I really can't be bothered.

All McIntires who read this post are required by law to leave a comment.


~**~**~**~**L**~**~**~** Ten MORE Things I Hate About College


1. Please DO NOT show me your belly button. I have one too, and I don't particularly need proof that yours exists.

2. Makeup should be applied with a brush, not a shovel.

3. Makeup should be worn only by girls. You're thinking that goes without saying right? Huh. Wrong.

4. Want a culture shock? Stop by the cafeteria and listen in on a group of students as they eat lunch.
Girl 1: Ugh. Can you buhlieve this? My taco is sooo soggeh.

Girl 2: Rully? That is sooo sad.

Guy: Fo reals? Dude, that stinks.

Girl 2: TacoBell is so, like, wrong.

Ahhh! people! It's a TACO! Are you kidding me?? Just. Eat. It.

5. All of you Neo-Nazi dudes with the creepy hairstyles and liberally applied eyeliner, it should be illegal to look that weird. What are you trying to do, terrify small children?

6. Girls, this is not high school. I will not yield my right to use the computer simply because you are wearing Jimmy Choo Sandals, and Valentino designed your sundress. The whole pout and glare thing doesn't phase me either. I was here first, find your own computer.

7. If one more skinny, peace sign flashing, hippy-looking, dread-lock sporting, Greenpeace advocate tries to get me to petition against the commercial exploitation of endangered baboons, I will break his clipboard over my knee.

8. I have to buy my own scantrons?? '“Remember, for the midterm on Thursday, you need to bring a scantron to the exam. I won’t have any for you,” my professor reminded us last week. Having paid ridiculous sums of money for tuition, with the sum likely to increase next year, the one thing I would expect the school to do is to provide students with the necessary test-taking materials at no cost whatsoever. Don’t you agree?' I do indeed.

9. It's terribly frustrating to forget your student I.D. on the day that In 'N Out is on campus giving away free lunches.

10. A few quotes...because I'm drawing a blank on college-related atrocities at the moment.

"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."
— Mark Twain

"There are few sources of energy so powerful as a procrastinating college student."
— Paul Graham

"Helen Keller was blind and deaf when she graduated from college with honors. So what's your problem?"
— Charles Stanley

Good day, Readers! May you have a blessed week!

The Adventures of Purple Girl

Hello Reader(s)!

Welcome to the fabulously entertaining, tremendously witty, marvelously informative, stupendously productive corner of the the world wide web that is my blog. You'll pardon my conceit. Yes, you will.

I've been up to quite a few things lately, so this will be a rather long post. Ah, ah, ah!...you're here, and here you'll stay until the remainder of this obnoxiously long entry comes to a close. Good manners and fine breeding prevents you from exiting this page without first fulfilling your obligatory duty. Now, now, we've been through this before. Chin up, wipe your eyes. There's a stout-hearted chap/chapess. And so, I begin.

Several weeks ago, the Ouatu Family graciously took me, and two other girls and a guy on a ski trip to Big Bear. Being my typically pestiferous self, I brought along my snowboard, the only person in the entire group who went snowboarding. It was a total blast getting to know the girls. The snowboarding was AWESOME! As an added bonus, it snowed the whole day we were up there! Naturally, I have no pictures. It was a wonderful time, full of fun and fellowship. Thank you Ouatu Family! The night before, I had gone to get my bindings adjusted. Now, I had received my board from my uncle around the age of 13. He's never been very particular, so I doubt the board was new when he bought it. Luckily, he had average size feet, so with three or four thick wool socks my feet fit quite nicely into the boots. Plus, I didn't have to spend a cent on new bindings. Bottom line, my board is an antique.




Anyway, I come in to the shop, greet the guy behind the counter, and unzip my case to pull out my board. He took a look at it, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him I'd like my stance to be wider, and would he please angle my ramp/disk thingie more to the right. As he's adjusting my board, some guy from behind him reaches over to grab something and spots my snowboard.
"DUDE, that board is like, ten years old man!" (To a snowboarder who spends his yearly salary on new gear, this amount of time is unfathomable.) He looks at me in amazement before leaving. Just then two other guys walk in; they also see my board.
"Hey! You guys are still renting step-in bindings, or is that a personal board?" The guy behind the counter dropped my board like a hot coal.
"Oh n-no," he stammered, "it's her personal board." The friend of the guy who asked the question gave me a little smile.
"That board is ANCIENT! Really, really old. You should try *insert the name of some ridiculously expensive brand name bindings, the cost of which could feed a small country, or Jimmy, for a week here*; these guys hooked me up last year." The man had a Spanish accent, because HE WAS FROM CHILE! Like, by what authority do people from Chile give advice on snowboards and bindings to Californians? Do they even HAVE snow in Chile?? Yeah, I was steamed, because they made fun of my totally awesome board, that I knew they were all secretly jealous of anyway. Only not. Whatever.


While we were going up the lift, Johnny and Andrew entertained me by relating the plot of a film they had seen. A mild horror movie about three men who go up the mountain on the lift just before the park closes...leaving them stranded near the top. They all freeze to death, and movie concludes with the image of a frozen hand, eerily rising from the fog. Charming. Precisely the sort of story one wants to hear as one embarks on the very first run of the day. Nothing like some twisted fiction to put a spring in your step. Consequently, they let me know that the probability of something like that ever happening is very low, and of course it could never happen in real life. Alas, the damage was done. We had a great time skiing/snowboarding together. (At least I did, I don't know about them, they were stuck with me.) Without exception,(except me) all snowboarders are arrogant, selfish, boisterous creatures. Imagine, if you can, the presumption, the nerve, the amount of pride it must take to plop oneself in the middle of the slope, without regard for anyone else. Next time I see one of those punks I'm going to let loose what I've restrained for 10 years: "Hey you! Yeah, I'm talking to the walking Burton advertisement! Get out of my way before I run you and your precious beanie over!" Ooh, that'll feel good. I can hardly wait for next year.



A few days after I came back, I went snowboarding with Florin at Mountain High. (If you don't know who he is, he's the man renting a room from us, and I've known him for 16 years.) Somehow, Florin and I got separated. It was getting close to ten 'o clock, the time the park closes, when I decided to take one last run down the mountain. I got into the lift, meant for 4 people, by myself. That's always fun. When the attendants aren't looking, I turn sideways and prop my board up against the back of the chair so that I'm lying down. It's a ridiculously comfortable position. The attendants will yell, scream, and generally make pests of themselves if you do that when they're looking. Try it when you're out of their sight range. Speaking of which, visibility was 30 feet, max. Less than that at the top. The fog was so thick you could cut it. The scene: I'm merrily enjoying my ride up the mountain, when suddenly, the lift stops. Ah, no big deal, it's stopped before. But it doesn't start up again! Two minutes go by...nothing. Four minutes...nothing. Six minutes in, and I hear a faint shout: a rude variation of "Hey! What's going on?" after that, nothing. Eight minutes in, I've switched out of my cozy lounge and into the much more appropriate sitting-on-a-lift fetal position. I began calculating the distance from the lift to the ground, when sheer terror overwhelmed me. All I could think about was a frozen hand! THANKS FOR NOTHING ANDREW AND JOHNNY!

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And now, I suppose I must explain the title of this blog post, before you die of curiosity. It's a rather boring tale, so keep your hopes down where they belong. I wear almost exactly the same clothes for every single volleyball class. My outfit includes a hideous pair of stretchy purple bell bottoms, and an over sized purple t-shirt. Bell bottoms used to be quite popular with hippies, though they at least had the good sense to make use of denim. Somehow a crazed lunatic got ahold of some stretchy cotton, made a pair of bell bottoms, and forced my mother, at gunpoint, to buy them. Waste not want not, so I'm wearing them. First day of Volleyball class. This skinny, Hispanic boy wanted to get my attention. The ball was flying towards me, and I had no idea. Brilliance has a way of striking people at opportune moments.
"Hey! Purple Girl!" he shouted. That got my attention, I assumed the position I vaguely remembered Jonathan teaching me, and sent the ball flying across the net. Victory!

Moving right along, my friend and I had a test for CIS(Computer Information Science). I scored 54/55, and she 51/55. The statistics show that in a class of 30 people, the first 3 people who stand up will receive D's. Numbers 4-11 receive A's. And all the rest get C's, with a few scattered F's. As everyone knows, all the information garnered from sources like the Internet, and statistics, is infallible. Does your humble self care to contest this fact? Smart cookie. :)

Unfortunately, dear reader, the randomness has petered out and our time has drawn to a close. Halt. Mind you be polite and let me finish before you run out of the room in a frenzy of delight. Ha ha. You are now my prisoner. I will finish with a quote I found very amusing, to celebrate the joyous occasion commemorating the completion of my Algebra 2 class. Which, by the way, I'm very confident I'll get an A in.

Anyone who cannot cope with mathematics is not fully human. At best he is a tolerable subhuman who has learned to wear shoes, bathe, and not make messes in the house. ~Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love

Apparently, I am a tolerable subhuman who still makes messes in the house. :)