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.