TWO

TWO DAYS TWO DAY TWO DAYS

I can't wait for leisure time again.

Things I Don't Have Time for Anymore...

Dear readers,

I know you have been patiently awaiting my comeback into bloggerdom. The bad jokes. The crappy picture-taking. The unimportant and wholly uninteresting posts. These things are important. I know it. It's been a long, hard month without my blathering on and on about nothing. But the waiting must continue. I still have another two weeks full of scrambling to finish homework and falling into bed exhausted at night. You must attempt to enjoy your summer without me. How will you survive? How will you survive enjoying a beautiful, carefree summer indeed.

When I get my three weeks of carefree-ness, I shall be back! Dull life updates that no one cares about and all.

Love,
Barson

Day 15: Universe!

Today was my first day of graduate school; ironically enough, today is also the birthday of West Virginia, which I find as just another one of the millions of reasons that the world is telling me I don't belong [really universe, really; today of all 365 days of the year TODAY is the birthday of West Virginia?]. The picture is of the one building I have classes in this summer; it is a windowless (but who needs natural light when there's fluorescence to burn our irises?), ugly, unadorned building, which the university has attempted to make more original with enormous works of art, and the much more modern, and ahead of the curve, escalators in lieu of any staircases (if you look carefully, I've captured three stair-eh-escalators in this picture).

Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Morgantown anymore.

Day 14: Papa's Day

Happy Father's Day! Today was a day spent getting beat down by the weather, playing cards, and all around dreading the first day of graduate school tomorrow. I'm not sure why I'm so nervous; my chronic feeling of Oh my God, I bullshitted my way here-I'm way out of my league is coming back to get me. Hopefully all goes well and people do not find me to be the unworthy girl I probably am...

(No, that had nothing to do with the picture. The picture has nothing to do with anything really; it was a present from my grandparents to my parents. And it's pretty. The end.)

Day 13: Irish Pub

Today, I happened to find myself at PISA, where I used to play soccer as a kid. Much to my surprise, they added on and added a BAR into the gym. A sign inside informed parents that they would be able to watch any game they wanted on their TVs-because obviously watching your child play a sport is not as awesome as professionals playing their sport.

Day 12: Mama Says

In my family's kitchen, we have a tile which we write reminders or nice things on to the rest of the family, which my two brothers or father promptly switch to something either illegible or to mean something else. Yesterday, however, when I came home from work, the tile said one word: "Asparagas." Not only was there no explanation, asparagus was spelled to more resemble flatulence and was written in HUGE letters, so I took it upon myself to edit the tile and incorporate my favorite veggie.

Day 11: Gotham City

The gothic style Cathedral of Learning has always been an imposing structure, looming over the rest of office building Oakland. As intimidating the structure is on the exterior, the International Rooms manage to be warm, and I love to explore the building-especially when it's all decorated for the holidays. As many hoops there are to jump through to start grad school (I'm positive it's this difficult only because I'm a WVU student), I do adore the historic Pitt campus; the mixture of city (minus parallel parking) and open spaces next to historic buildings always takes my breath away.

Day 10: Mmm Beer

For the first time in weeks, Boyfriend and I went to dinner. The middle drink is a Captain Morgan Rum Punch and a has a delightful summery tang that was perfect on a beautiful night in the 'Burgh. The Coronas were more of the same; there is nothing more ideal on a warm summer night than a Corona and lime-perfection.

Day 9: Tryin' to Ketchup

The old Heinz factory is considered an eye-sore by many Burghers, despite the effort to spiff it up and make apparently fancy-pantsy lofts. However, I love the historical significance of the place. Yeah, so maybe it was a part of the factories which made Pittsburgh such an unhealthy place to live and covered the area with grime, but it's good to know how far we've come to make Pittsburgh one of the most beautiful and livable cities in America (of course I'm not at all biased).

Day 8: Deadly Sinful

Fast food is the true reason that gluttony is a deadly sin. My organs have all kicked by this afternoon's splurge on this delightfully foul food. As I work at night and Boyfriend's internship is a 9-5er, we have a tendency to meet up for lunch, but he only has an hour so fast food joints have been our go-to; don't worry, I exercised vigorously to remove as much gunk as possible from my insides immediately after.

Day 7: Desiderata

This blurry, and all together crap-tacular picture is of the title of my favorite poem, Desiderata, which I have posted in my room. As you certainly have already ascertained, I am about as artistic and as accomplished of a writer as a chimpanzee; however, the simplicity offered by Max Ehrmann's writing, not convoluted by allegory and metaphor, suggests a stark reality about life that is so frequently forgotten by too many. I found this moving work from Stumble Upon several months ago, which only proves that the internet isn't all brain-rotting material.

Here is the original site I found it on, but there are many other sites describing its apparent interesting history (oh yeah, history nerd) and reproducing the poem.

Day 6: So tired

It's six minutes to midnight and this is the first time I've stopped moving since six A.M. This is my dog, Lana, who sleeps on my bed and hogs the bed like you wouldn't believe. If you wish, think up some creative "dog tired" joke; I'm too tired to be funny.

Day 5: Just Under the Wire

Almost forgot-again, but whew didn't. I forgot my camera in the basement as I was planning on taking pictures on my run today, but I left it at home in case it rained (it did) and I am too lazy/tired to walk all the way down there so I am reduced to using my phone again. My cheap, plastic, collapsible bedside table (purchased for approximately $5) is spruced up to the best of my non-existent budget; the Mexican vase complements my brightly colored bedroom even without flowers, and the tiara was purchased for one of my college birthdays and fits perfectly on my bedside lamp to make it less utilitarian and more, well, pretty, not to mention brings many a college memory back (not pictured is a vomtastic framed picture of me and Boyfriend in NYC at Christmas last year).

Day 4: Born Runner

My love of shoes extends farther than the average woman's fawning over stilettos; I can spend hours analyzing every angle, fit and design on every shoe I purchase, including tennis shoes. These guys are a year old (purchased after a particularly nasty game of flag football when the opposing team ripped right through the mesh on my old Nikes) and I have already put them through quite a bit; from outdoor hikes through mud to intense daily workouts to get in shape for Spring Break and another workout regimen I'm starting to get in shape for vacation in August. Every time I get a new brand of tennis shoe (originally Adidas, then Nike, now Puma), I swear I will never change to another brand and get a little sad when my old tennis shoes are worn out; I absolutely despise throwing them away, and these guys will be no different as I foresee their demise at the end of summer.

Day 3: Do you belong here?

Disclaimer: today's photoblog picture contribution was taken on my cell phone's camera, so please excuse the quality; for the first time ever, I forgot my camera on my wanderings.

Today, as I was venturing into newly not-so enemy territory [read: Oakland] to get some of the apparently endless paperwork filled out for grad school, I decided to snap a picture of this bizarre and puzzling building. For the life of me, I cannot figure out the purpose of it, nor the business a medieval castle torrent has in a 21st century urban setting. I suspect it's for the beheadings of unworthy WVU students who have the gall to attend this rival institution, because clearly we're undeserving and under-qualified (Henry VIII/the Red Queen would be so pleased).

Belated Day 2: I'm Already off Track?

For me, it can always be Christmas season; Boyfriend insists that an ideal job for me would be to open a touristy Christmas ornament store (can't say I disagree either)! The smells, the songs, the festivities, the hustle and bustle, the good tidings, and all-around feelings of happiness and excitement still evoke a feeling of child-like enthusiasm for the holidays in me; even my impoverished state and Fall semester finals do not jade my Christmas spirit. These lights hung in my apartment at school; at home, I am still searching for a way to hang my lights in my room so I can ding-dong merrily all year round.

P.S-I apologize I suck badly and am already behind on my photoblog and it's only Day 2. I honestly forgot I was supposed to do this daily. Oops. Plus, I only went to work today and didn't otherwise leave the house so the pictures to be taken are pretty finite.

Day 1: The Mermaid Sink

This bird wash belonged to my great-great grandmother, and for as long as I can remember, I have loved it. To my childish eyes, the pristine whitewashed lawn decoration shone like a pearl, and the oscillated lip, complemented by the design along the basin, appeared as if it was made for a mermaid. Although we now use it as a flowerbed, its classic and unassuming elegance is still breathtaking and retains some magic reminiscent of my childhood.

Growing Up?

Let's be honest here, after that particularly whiny post from earlier today about how meaningless my posts are, I have come to a separate conclusion. Not that my earlier stories are meaningful, either. They still aren't, I still know it, and I still acknowledge it. I still want to have a more purposeful, interesting, and largely relevant blog.

However, while I firmly believe I need to change this, I also firmly believe in baby steps. As a kid, I was always the girl who would cringe and balk at the prospect of launching myself into a swimming pool; the frigid waters be, uh, darned! I preferred to slowly, patiently, ease my body into the water, and stand idly getting acclimated bit by freezing bit to the temperature. The last plunge, getting my head wet, was always the worst part, mostly because I always dreaded it so. I suspect now will be no different.

That method is perfectly applicable to my blog. Regardless of my desire to have depth and become a talented, flowing writer, strength isn't something that blooms overnight. Thus, I have an intermediate step in place. Or rather, twenty-five intermediate steps in place before I shall focus solely on being deep and things of that nature.

In order to do so, I must regress. In such a way that, I must admit, I am following around my sister like I did as a child. I am joining her quest to make Life After Graduation: The Photoblog Edition throughout the month of June. I know that June has already been continuing around me while I was in an oblivious, purposeless writing funk, but late is better than never.

Starting tomorrow, I shall have a purpose (or at least attempted one) for dragging my Sony everywhere. The terms: one picture, three sentences per day for twenty-five days. My subjects will vary and be based upon whatever catches my eye wherever I wander that particular day. I will attempt to focus on something with meaning, or is at least worthwhile and isn't a picture of my television set because I didn't leave my house that day.

The hope is that over the course of this month, I can baby step my way into growing up and having meaningful, interesting, engaging things to chat about come July.

Tomorrow, I get my toes wet.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia

On a lazy Sunday morning, on the first day off I've had in many a day, I find myself sitting on the couch with my laptop on my lap, contemplating my blog. I have an obnoxiously high opinion of my writing, which I can only blame on my professor for my English 101 class I took Freshman year, who, numerous times, stoked my ego about how witty and funny my writing is. Oh, and that whole being a History major thang; my grades were based on term papers, I wrote like it was going out of style, yada-yada-yada. However, as time progresses, I have become a little bit more realistic, I realize that talented writing is only half the battle.

Anyways, this morning as I had my sickly sugary cinnamon bun creamered coffee (Heaven in a mug, I swear to you) in my favorite extra large mug, I was sitting on my back deck (easily my favorite place at home, even if it heats up to rival the surface of the sun on days such as today) reading a book my mother recommended to me, The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I am only 85 pages in on a 500+ novel, and I can't put it down. It's one of the best books I've read in a long time; far better than the usual gunk of chicky-brain-rotting novels I frequently read. Just to clarify: I do not read romance novels, but I do read books that are Sex and the City-esque, written by people like Candace Bushnell, Lauren Weisberger, etc. I read them because I am one of those people who are deeply affected by movies or books they read, and I am a cryer. So if I read a sad book or a scary book, it generally messes with my mood the whole day. I guess I never grew out of that as a kid: separating emotions about real things pertaining to my life or real events in the world, and emotions about fake things. Long story short, it's just easier to maintain my sanity if I read junk, and I'm comfortable admitting that. Judge away, audience of, hm, I'm guessing only Carinne (that little "how many views you've had" info, very telling).

ANYWAYS. The reason I bring up a lengthy discussion of my reading material is because a passage in The Help, not to mention the premise of the novel, is particularity striking. The setting, plot, but more so in any novel I've ever read, the perspective of the characters and their opinions on such events is startling. Even though it is fiction, the emotions and undoubted reality of the scenarios the characters are placed in is truly eye-opening. Books like these are why I want to be a history teacher. Such a poignant perspective of how life was shows not only how far we've come, but reminds us how imperative it is to keep moving forward and learn from the past, and not just drill facts and dates into children's heads and bore them to tears. If you make it real, everyone loves history.

Wow, I'm just hopping from one subject to the next without ever truly getting to the point. The point is, inspired by the passage I just read in The Help, that while I enjoy writing and find the little self-centered stories I write about amusing, it's junk. It's right along the lines of the chicky-brain-rotting novels I digest, with the exception that it's not very funny, try as I might to jest. The second half of the battle of being a very truly exceptional writer is meaning. A clever story about the attack of birds or a trip to New Jersey really does not have a purpose. I also apparently never grew out of my feelings of self-efficacy; I think that what happens to me is vitally important and everyone is as interested in my life as I am. Hell, this blog is dedicated to the things that happen to me as I transition back to living at home and becoming a graduate student. Me me me, is that all I talk about? Apparently so.

So if something I find particularly amusing or worthwhile in my own life to laugh about (tested out on telling the stories to other people in person, just in case), I will still attempt to work on my sense of humor and report the stories. As I work nearly every day and have no money, however, these stories are few and far between. The main reason of this post is that I am going to try and make this blog be more meaningful. More posts on relevant matters. Not necessarily politics or anything, but stuff that is important. I'm not really sure how this will go; writing about important things is not really my forte. It's worth a shot though, right? And worse comes to worst, I realize that I just can't transfer my interest in real or meaningful events via writing and I am a selfish, self-centered girl and I like to read and write about crappy, boring, un-funny events. And that will be how I will live, another ignorant American. God I hope not. PS-please don't think I don't know or care about current events; I try to stay up on important matters, I just rarely talk about them. I'm not sure if that makes me a better citizen or a worse one.

Also, do feel free to judge my writing as poor, my jokes as not very funny, and my opinions in general and about my writing laughably insane.

Jersey Is as Jersey Does

Over the long Memorial Day weekend, I let my inner Jerseylicious self free. All big haired, bronzed, beach bummin', aviator-wearing, careless, Jersey girl me. Or my nerdy Pittsburgh-y version of that. Which includes big hair as in my red, curly, long hair swelling to its fullest extent from the heat and humidity, bronzed as in burned, beach bummin' for four hours next to a fifty-five degree sea, but, okay, I was wearing aviators and careless and experienced a weekend of new things.

Most importantly, no trip to Jersey would not be complete without a festival of alcohol. The New Jersey Blues and Wine Festival, hosted by the New Jersey Wine Growers Association, was the real reason Boyfriend and I ventured our Iron City selves across the state, through enemy territory (Philly-land), and landed dead-smack in the middle of Jager-ville. My sister, Carinne, recently went to every winery in the state and entered to win a free trip to Italy, which was to be announced at the festival.

The weekend was spent doing appropriately Jersey activities. Other than the wine festival, I popped my Jersey Shore cherry, walked down my first boardwalk, where we found ourselves surrounded by Zombies for the annual New Jersey Zombie walk (of course we pick the Zombie Walk day to go to the Shore), participated in a strongman game (not all big fatty arms me, that's laughable), found where Springsteen is from, and I found my very first starfish. And Carinne was rated 17 in the country in Buzztime Trivia. It was amazing. And that was just Saturday.

The wine festival was on Sunday and it was my first wine festival ever. Coming from a long line of winos, it's pretty remarkable I have never found myself at a wine festival. But, alas, it was true. Minus the overbearing heat (95 degrees and unbelievably humid. Insert sweat-like-a-dude here), the fest was quite enjoyable! There were tents upon tents of wineries there with all-you-can-taste wines for free. There was a cover you had to pay to get in, but my poor college kid self was ecstatic. It is pretty much the only place I did not take pictures over the weekend; I was too busy being happy about the festivities.

Not to mention the wines! As the heat was killer, the Sangria and sweet wines were life-saving. Unbeknown (is that a word?) to me, New Jersey is known for their blueberries, so the blueberry wine was a-flowing! I had also never had blueberry wine before, and I could not get enough. Delicious. I spent the afternoon in a gluttonous haze of hot weather, wine, and junk food while picnicking in New Jersey's Natirar Park, which is absolutely stunning. If you are in the area, I highly recommend going for a jog in the park. It is fantastic.

Afterward, we had a very enjoyable evening feasting on take-out Chinese food and Sushi. It was marred only by my extreme dehydration and my inability to remember the term "General Tso Chicken," as told everyone that I wanted, "Oh, I don't know what it's called, but it's my favorite chicken. I know it starts with something in the military..." If you never want to read my blog again, adios and I do not blame you.

Monday, Boyfriend, Carinne, and I explored historic Morristown, NJ just the tiniest bit. It is one of the most quaint, gorgeous, historic towns I have ever been to. I definitely want to go back and satiate my history nerd desire to explore the town and see the National landmark of the town Fort Nonsense (Oh, Jersey).


Boyfriend and I finished our weekend visiting one of his friends from school in West Chester, PA. We did not have enough time to explore the second historic town of the day (the suburbs of West Chester are on the battlefield of Brandywine Creek and is not far from Valley Forge. Actually, Boyfriend's friend's family home is on a part of the Brandywine battlefield. You have no idea how unbelievably jealous I am), but I was dying to explore. My nerdy history self was quite disappointed in the lack of exploration on this trip. However, I still managed to snap some unusual and interesting pictures of West Chester.


This is a statue called "Old Glory."

This is the second unusual building of the day. Morristown had a building for "Weights and Measures" that we did not know its purpose. This one is equally as mysterious. Farmers and Mechanics? Is it a secret club? If so, they need to work on their subtlety. What do they do in there? Discuss cows, hounds, and tractors? In which case, are lovers of country music allowed in?


This is the menu at a local restaurant in West Chester. Which is a suburb of Philadelphia. As in, the Philadelphia Flyers. As in, one of the Pittsburgh Penguins biggest rivals. I spy a Penguin on their menu. Not a Flyer. Unfortunately, I don't know who it is. It kind of looks like Miroslav Satan (look at those eyebrows-holy hell), but I really can't tell. Regardless, I am in awe of the epicness of the failure of Philadelphia.

And that was my Jersey getaway, not so much summed up as dissected and explained in excruciatingly minute detail, complete with a large amount of poorly taken pictures. I think I don't blog enough so my few posts are unreasonably long.

Fist pump.

This is a Story about an Ax

But don't worry, there is nary a limb lost or blood shed.

This is also a story about boyfriends and how freaking weird they are.

As technically it is the beginning of summer here in Pittsburgh, my boyfriend decided he needed new sunglasses. This might be a little premature of him, as the only sun yet to be seen this year is a few brave rays of sunlight trying to best the thick downy cover of clouds that have settled in for the long haul. The story of the demise of his old sunglasses is a dull story in which the sunglasses in question may have been commandeered by and subsequently dropped and broken by a certain guilty girlfriend. Oops.

Anyways, in order to protect his eyeballs from the non-existent sun here, we went bargain hunting in the Poor College Kid's Mecca: Gabriel Brothers. You want mismatched clothing? You want brightly colored uncomfortable boots? You want cheap clothing with holes in them? You go to Gabe's. Yes, I have purchased all of those items before. I'm a fan of the themed parties, and off to Gabe's I go in search of a cheap costume.

So while I was wandering around the aisles, blissfully looking at hideous cheap clothing and bizarre shoes, perfect for stopping circulation to your feet, my boyfriend was trying on every and all pairs of sunglasses located in the store. After a rather long period of deciding between two markedly similar pairs of aviators, he finally made a decision.

As we were standing in line, and I was blathering about this that and the other thing, Boyfriend (unfortunately for him, calling him 'Boyfriend' is a habit I've had for years; it got to the point that all my best friends from college called him Boyfriend when he was around rather than his real name. He acts all embarrassed, but I know he is really flattered that five girls call him boyfriend.) stopped listening, as per usual, but for a more serious matter. He stood, transfixed, by the glowing set up before him. I glanced at him, and I swear I have never seen his face look more enraptured.

Lucky for him, I have a habit of carrying my little Sony camera everywhere. Not that I'm an avid, or even quality photographer, but just in case, I like to have it on me. What Boyfriend saw was the above picture. Dozens of glittering axes sitting in a cage, patiently waiting for some unsuspecting customer to make an impulse buy. Of a weapon. A bargain weapon at that. Your very own limb-cutter-offer, for the low, low price of $19.99!

As soon as Boyfriend could tear his eyes off of the sight making all of his manly man I-am-your-protector-grrr-ness going crazy, he turned towards me, eyes full of hope.

"Ohh no," I managed to get in before an onslaught of pleading and explanations took over.

"Please? Oh c'mon, why not? How cool would this be? I mean I could use it as protection from intruders. And I could go into the woods and chop stuff! 'Want a fire, honey? Well me and my ax will go and chop some wood!'" At this, he went over to the cage, plucked an ax out of the lot and held it in front of him as if it was the pick of the litter.

"And I've always said I want some suspenders," he continued. "This would be PERFECT to carry around in my TRUCK!" Steroid-infused men got nuthin' on him.

This exclamation led me to sing, "He's a lumberjack and he doesn't care," whilst jigging in the line. We were making quite the scene.

"I WANT this. For my birthday! Get this: you can even wrap it in ax paper!" He knows I'm a sucker for witticisms.

I finally managed to convince him that buying an ax when you don't have your own grown-up place yet would be pointless. And, if he really wanted an ax, he should go to Home Depot and buy a good one, not a Gabe's knock-off.

I thought the story was over. Until two days ago, when we met up with one of my best friends from from high school and her fiance to catch up and have celebratory shenanigans on our surprising successful completion of college. After several hours of chatting and reminiscing, Boyfriend poked me and hissed, "Tell them about the birthday present you're getting me! He'll understand!"

I began to recount the tale of the object of my boyfriend's desire, culminating with the showing of the picture on my camera. Male fiance looked at my friend and simply said, "Wow. Please?" After the girls stopped laughing and the men stopped high-fiving, the jokes about how necessary an ax is for one's life in the suburbs started.

The most convincing argument was, "So, there's an intruder in your house, ok?"

Between giggles, I interject, "What are they stealing?"

Glare. "Oh, I don't know. Stuff."

My friend: "Oh, no, not our stuff! Where's our ax?!"

"Exactly! That's the beauty of it! 'Oh, you're trying to steal my stuff? Meet my ax.' BOOM! Now he is disarmed. Yes. See what I did there? Disarmed? No more gun AND no more arm?" I do love those puns.

I do not understand men. Why is an ax essential to life, when you have no land in which to tend, is beyond me. But I do know that this ax thing is not over.

In Which the Birds Strike Back

I have a history of hating birds. It’s a deep, all-encompassing complete loathing of those winged creatures. Where they are not feathery, they are wrinkly and scaly. They have beady little eyes and horrific, threatening beaks, and talons. Disgusting and the stuff of nightmares (Thank you, Alfred Hitchcock)

Not to mention, they do something called “molting.” Revolting.

My hatred of birds dates back to when I was pet-sitting a neighbor’s two dogs and bird when I was 12. I opened the cage to feed the bird, and suicide dive-bombed me and seized it's opportunity at freedom, squawking and screeching at me. As the beast did a victory lap around the house, I cried until my dad came to put the bird back in the cage. I never got over it.

Birds have never forgiven me either. While in Jamaica this past year, the hotel we stayed at had a couple talking parrots in cages. Neither bird liked me. Contrary to my usual state, I’m not just being paranoid, oh no. As I was walking to the beach one day to meet my friends, I stopped to talk to the chatty parakeet, Buddy. Buddy was not only not in a chatty mood, he was apparently angry. As soon as I stopped next to his cage, he climbed down from the top of his cage and started attempting to rush the cage where I was standing and spread his wings out to be threatening. Again and again and again. According to a hotel employee, he was angry about some of the colors on my cover-up. Delightful.

Again, birds and I don’t get along.

When I was two I once caught a pigeon. Maybe that’s why the dreadful accident of Monday happened. Karma, as I understand, can come back to bite ya.

I was in Oakland to get some forms filled out for grad school, and walking down Forbes Avenue, smiling at everything and feeling pretty damn good about life. Having some of my life figured out, even for the moment, is a nice change.

Anyways, I was walking near The O restaurant when I feel this whoosh feeling of air on my head. Instinct kicked in, and I ducked. In that instant, a pigeon flew from the heavens directly where my head was located a second earlier. My hair, which is a delightfully bright and obnoxious shade of auburn, which I love quite dearly is NOT to be treated as pigeon food. As much as those red-eyed devils may think so, I am not for eating. The monster landed on the ground and circled around, glaring at me with its one eye. I am still certain it was looking for a second opportunity to swipe a chunk of hair.

I could not suppress my little yelp of horror at this traumatizing event, and lifted my eyes to the two guys standing on this dreadful corner. My eyes were wide and frantic as I locked eyes with one of them.

OhmyGod, WTF, I mouthed to them, as I was still listening to the soothing sounds of Benny and the Jets via my iPod and couldn’t actually converse. They just gave me a disgusted “Ew,” look and offered no condolence. Chivalry is dead, I tell ya. Just now, as I type this, I remember I was wearing my WVU charm necklace. No wonder they gave me the impression that me and my kind are not welcome in Oakland. I’m not.

One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just doesn’t belong. What do you do when you’re the thing that doesn’t belong? And everyone and everything knows it and will do their absolute best so you know it?

You dance it out. Hello 1980’s rock music and Ray Bans!

Alma, our Alma Mater

Get ready world: I am officially a West Virginia University graduate!

I had a very long and very interesting post all typed up this morning, but I saved it and I don't think blogs allow you to save posts and then go to a different page. After all that wasted effort, I really don't have much of a desire to re-type my lengthy interpretation of my graduation.

So I'll leave it to your imagination: thousands of young minds eagerly waiting for their turn to receive that hard-earned diploma, listening to the passion-filled speakers about our burgeoning futures, the charge to WVU's newest alumni to work earnestly, proud faculty and family dabbing their eyes as they see such an impressive class leaving their beloved school. The graduates seemed to glow from within...

In reality, it was long and composed mostly of the reading of every name, which may not seem like a lot, but in the largest college in the university, it took some time. The speakers, while very eloquent, were the college dean and an alumnus from 2005. To put it in perspective, last year the speaker was Bill Clinton. We're an impressive class, my ass. Most graduates spent the time texting and not listening. 90% of graduates were desperately hungover. Families started a cheering competition in which the loudest one just let their graduate know they were there. Cow bells were rung. It could have been worse, as the graduate sitting next to me pointed out, they could be playing vuvzelas. Well done not playing into the stereotype, West Virginia, well done. The crowd was so dense, I waved vigorously to a group of people who screamed out my name, hoping it wasn't some other graduates family who happens to have my name.

Honestly, it was a nice ceremony. The dean did a good job of speaking; keeping it short and sweet to give enough time to read the names. The charge to the alumni was fabulous; he indeed spoke poignantly and passionately. When I stood to change my tassel over to the left and was officially awarded my degree was the only time I was near tears and had to furiously blink them back to avoid mascara-filled disaster. Afterward, I met my family and friends at the Jerry West statue, which was a poor idea in itself. The statue was the only place I knew at the Coliseum. As it turns out, it's also the only place everyone knows at the Coliseum. I win. Pictures, pictures, pictures, hugs, hugs, hugs, congrats, congrats, congrats, and my career at West Virginia is over.

Relief? Sadness? Excitement? Let's go with an unfortunate conflicting hodge-podge of all three.

But the best was yet to come! I badgered, whined, pleaded, and bargained until I convinced a whopping 15 family members to go, including my boyfriend, my sister and her boyfriend, who had to drive ten hours in a day to get there and get home to Jerz for work today. I owe them. My family, as we were not staying in Morgantown for the day could not be bothered with the amount of traffic associated with graduation, decided to tailgate in the Coliseum one last time while we waited. We had fold-up chairs, cheese, crackers, pretzels, chips, and the most important ingredient: six bottles of wine, which we drank out of plastic goblets. We keep it classy. It was actually my favorite part of the day, just hanging out and relaxing; it was a nice change from the stress of the previous two days. I had a blast with my family; we know how to have fun.

All in all, it was a great graduation. The ceremony coupled with the celebratory shenanigans after (and a brief reprieve from the continuous rain plaguing this part of the country for what feels like forever) was the perfect way to say good-bye to my four years of relative independence.

Let's give a rah for West Virginia

And let us pledge her anew,
Others may be black or crimson,
but for us it's Gold and Blue.
Let all our troubles be forgotten,
Let college spirit rule,
We'll join and give our loyal efforts
For the good of our old school.

It's West Virginia, It's West Virginia
The Pride of every Mountaineer.
Come on you old grads, join with us young lads,
It's West Virginia now we cheer!
Now is the time, boys, to make a big noise
No matter what the people say,
For there is naught to fear; the gang's all here,
So hail to West Virginia, hail!
-"Hail West Virginia"

Three Strikes You're Out

Two days ago, as I was casually playing online Drinking Scrabble with my sister, Carinne of Waffle Snob, she sends me an oh-too-familiar link.

My blog from high school.

I glared at the link, feeling my chest get tight, sweat beading on my brow from anxiety, my fingers twitching from fear. I clicked on the link...

Ok, so I just made that up. But I really did not want to read the musings of my angst-filled emotastic 17-year-old self. My memory of myself from high school is one of a shy, frizzy-haired, whiny, stereotypical teenager who thought my life was over every other day. Oh, who also, shocker of shockers, hated high school and everything associated with it. Spare me.

The last thing I wanted to do was deviate from my super-cool and not-even-almost-nerdy game of Scrabble and read: "Ohmigod, you will NOT believe what my bff Blah-blah-blah did to me yesterday. She hit on the guy I like, Wuh-wuh-wuh! She is SUCH a bitch! I cannot even BELIEVE we were EVER friends..." (Again, exaggeration. But only slightly this time.)

But, curiosity, as it always does, raised it's damn head again. I just had to click on the link. How else would I know just how miserable I truly was back then?

I clicked on the link, and was actually pleasantly surprised. I used commas, and semi-colons, and periods appropriately! Grammar! I occasionally used words with two, even three syllable words sometimes! Vocabulary! Best of all, there was not one "ohmigod," "totally," "like," or "my life is overrrr" to be seen! Dare I say it, I was borderline intelligent? Now, that isn't to say I was interesting; oh hell no. The content left something to be desired. I wrote quite a long epic post about walking my dog. And my last post was on my senior class schedule. Hardly the stuff of literary geniuses.

So that whole long post about nothing, means simply: I'm back! With a slightly more advanced grasp on grammar and a few more multiple-syllable words under my belt, and a college degree to boot. This blog will discuss what life has to offer after graduation.

More importantly, this blog will discuss what will happen in my life after graduation.

Let's play catch-up, shall we? And then I SWEAR I'm done writing this God-forsakenly long post.

As of tomorrow, I am a proud graduate of West Virginia University where I received my B.A. in History. Wow, I'm sure you find yourself thinking, what kind of loser gets a History degree in this economic climate? Right you are, reader! In the beginning of my senior year, despite my pretty good grades and several jobs so my resume is all spiffed up, I had no marketable talents to find a career. Nor did I particularly want to become some office drone, a la Pam from The Office.

Did some soul searching, and I realized what I want to do with my life, which included getting my masters degree. So I started the annoying, and grueling process to apply for masters programs. I started school as this major, and dropped out because, as previously noted, I was still a little too emotastic and self-centered at age 20 to want to try anything resembling a career. So I knew what I was in for. Still wasn't fun.

God, I love narrating my own life, don't I? Ok-skip forward a few months.

I am now going to the University of Pittsburgh for graduate school. I am going to Mountaineer Hell for this. I have accepted that fact.

So here I am, rejuvenated blogger, five years later. High school diploma, forthcoming college diploma, lotsa "Cheers, Beers, and Mountaineers!" chants ingrained in me. In the same place I left you. Living at home. Going to school in Pittsburgh. Talking about nothing for long periods of time. I've come so far.

Get a beer; you'll need it for this one.