Why I love being a design student.

Now that I am a so-called upperclassmen, I am lucky enough to be finished with a good portion of my required gen-ed classes and can take the electives that I have been patiently waiting for. One of these electives would be sculpture class. Because of my "breakdown" last spring term, where I "gave up" and decided to make "whatever the fuck I want" because I will "see you in hell COMAD," I have thoroughly enjoyed my classes. One of my favorite projects from last term was my first sculpture assignment, where we were to make something out of a found object. Behold, the watercooler found in the fourth floor Crossings trash room.

Pride and Petulance

I just finished watching Pride and Prejudice (basically late 18th century porn) and although I’ve probably seen it around twenty-something times, the cinematography and scenery never cease to amaze. While I was expressing regret (bitching heavily) on missing out on the English countryside during my study abroad fiasco this summer, and the tragic fact that I do not own a riding coat like every other tramp in Netherfield Park, my father mentioned that I should be grateful for all that our time period affords us now. With my luck and the lack of modern medicine, I probably wouldn’t have survived infancy in the age of propriety and pandas. (I couldn't think of another P word, fuck off) I readily agreed, as I have a pretty serious allergy to lanolin (found in the sebaceous glands of wool bearing animals) and there was a shit-ton of sheep back then. After my parents stared at me for a good ten seconds, they kindly explained I probably would have kicked the bucket from something like pneumonia, which is no stranger to a household that thinks sending their precious daughter to shovel snow in a New England blizzard builds character. I’m like a frail, belligerent flower and should be treated as such. And to be fair, we discovered I had developed an allergy to lanolin when I was given a tube of evil called Triple Lanolin when I was around eight or so. Considering it was winter and I had dry skin, I thought it would be a grand idea to smear the entire tube all over my body. To this day I’m still afraid of moisturizers. And sheep.

It’s hard to believe that Jane Austen novels like Pride and Prejudice were equivalent in popularity to what the Twilight crap phenomenon is now. While most literary critics of her time praised Austen’s work (considering she was proficient enough to pen a best seller without airing a morbidly obese pre-teens daydreams of dry humping a twinkly vampire) some of her peers thought otherwise. Charlotte Bronte, the eldest (and sluttiest) of the famed Bronte sisters and author of Jane Eyre, found Pride and Prejudice "...a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but... no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck.” Put bluntly, Bronte is saying that Heathcliff could kick Mr. Darcy’s ass. While I have much better things to do on my winter break than envisioning what would happen in a death match between fictional characters residing at Wuthering Heights and Pemberley, it’s hard to decide which arduous task takes precedence over the other. Like trying on all my old prom dresses before or after I catch up on Nip/Tuck. Like some great Chanukah miracle, which really has a lot more relevance than that retarded oil thing, I actually fit into all of them. Because I was truly grateful I could still fit into a size 2 BCBG cocktail dress (I don’t get it either) and during the holiday season we’re supposed to reflect on what we’re thankful for, I decided to make a list.

THINGS I AM THANKFUL FOR

Coffee
Grain Alcohol
Netflix/Hulu
J Crew
Raccoons
Coupons
Happy Hour
Melatonin
Robert Downey Jr.
Top Gun
H1N1 Vaccine
Disney Princesses
Bedazzling
My Co-op
Adult Swim


THINGS I AM NOT THANKFUL FOR

Rabid Raccoons
Dirty Pirate Hookers
Jew-guilt
Twilight
Facebook chat
Christmas Carolers
Nesbitt
Epson printers and paper
Interviews
Fake luxury goods
Petroleum
PC’s
All of the white trash that Sharon has seemed to accumulate
Slut magic

Top 10 Reasons Why New Englanders are better than you

For those of you wondering why Aviva, Mike Kelley, Lauren and I are such well rounded and wonderful people. The list below should answer any questions you may ask yourself, as you drive down to Jersey to pick up your boxed wine and hookers.

1. Two words: Boat shoes. From gripping the slippery decks of our schooners to the slickly polished floor of Banana Republic, Sperry’s are the quintessential three season shoe. The harsh New England winter is reserved for Uggs and fairisle knit slippers (but only in front of the fireplace surrounded by three generations of the trust fund and your incompetent but faithful golden retriever)

2. Bawston: Ah good old Beantown, home of the infamous tea party. To put it bluntly, a bunch of our wasted forefathers dressed as offensively stereotypical Native Americans and dumped a fortunes worth of the kings’ tea into the Atlantic. In retrospect, the catalyst to our great nation’s independence and first step towards a Starbucks monopoly.

3. Sports: The Red Sox, The Patriots, The Celtics and the Bruins, need I say more? Boston teams and its fans are clearly a force to be reckoned with. Even those who haven’t the faintest clue about team stats or players (or really only watch because of the social aspects/beer/Tom Brady in spandex) can still be a complete ass when the Northeast sweeps an entire year of championships and play-offs. That smell isn’t the Charles River, but the slightly polluted scent of victory.

4. J Crew: Better known as Mecca, J Crew sells anything and everything a true New Englander could need or desire. (Unless you're looking for that elusive article known as dignity) However, whatever said person is lacking in principles and/or judgment can easily be remedied with a seersucker blazer or yet another madras headband. Ethics can’t keep your warm in our subzero winters, but that cashmere cardigan from the monogram shop sure as hell can.

5. Our Foliage: Do you see the magnificent turning leaves on our maples and elms? The swirling crimsons and golds as they drift down from the oaks and birches? The sheer poetry of New England fall foliage is one to be desired and envied, and has inspired generations of artists from the great Walt Whitman to the lowliest finger painter. What, you have changing leaves and autumn in your part of the country too? Well fuck off, ours is better.

6. JAPS and WASPS: Once easily identifiable, the typical New England JAP or WASP is much harder to categorize due to advancements in rhinoplasty and higher frequency of Range Rover dealerships. While they do not better New England in many ways, it’s always fun to watch their squabbles over lawn service providers and Bar-Mitzvah dancers. Many a little league game or PTO meeting has become a hotbed for gratuitous violence. A parents homecoming committee meeting in recent memory resulted in a hospital trip, when a woman was strangled with her own pearls and forced to "bite the curb" by another mother in boat shoes.

7. The Universities: Harvard, Yale, MIT, BC, Emerson, Brandeis, the list goes on and on. While these great schools have always been a source of pride and accomplishment for our community, they all pale in comparison to the fact that Emma Watson now attends Brown. Screw all of your Muggle loving schools, there's a fucking wizard and Burberry model walking down Thayer street.

8. The real melting pot: New England is generally a very liberal and accepting community. No one needs to be ashamed of their race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or religion. However, shame and acceptance into certain country clubs are two entirely different things. One comes with a key to the pool house, and the other comes with the carton of eggs you will use to deface said pool house. Both have their own redeeming qualities.

9. The History: New England has always been deeply rooted in its history and associated traditions. That cobblestone path you are walking on has been trod on by the likes of George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and the one and only Samuel Adams. With twenty four variations of his beer currently on the market today, the true patriot has been helping ours and future generations live out the original American dream: going home with someone more attractive than you and telling amusing anecdotes about it to your friends and co-workers.

10. The Food: It would be a crime, nay a travesty, to squander number ten on something other than New Englands finest delicacies. Lobster, chowder, baked beans, and of course the magical Dunkin Donuts. One might argue that Dunkin Donuts is a national brand, and totally irrelevant. I would stand there in silence, and then point to the two of them located mere yards away from one another. Then I would ask you to pronounce the words Gloucester and Dorcester, as I proceed to eat a carton of munchkins. Just trying to live the dream.

Social Networking Whoredom

Dictionary Definitions for the websites that take up way too much of my time/one of the main reasons why many of my college brethren cannot hold a lasting face to face conversation.

^{Dictionary Definitions for Social Networking Sites}

Facebook

Definition: 1. Whole novels could have been written, cancer cured, the homeless fed and Darfur saved with the amount of time the world’s population has spent writing posts and going through inane photo booth albums.

2a. Because there is truly nothing classier than taking a self-portrait with your laptop camera, unless it’s a self-portrait superimposed in front of the Eiffel Tower.

2b. Except for the hundreds of photos of yourself intoxicated/high/passed out over a toilet for the world to see. Congratulations, your shining moment has instantly become public property and will come back to haunt you for years, nay generations to come. Enough slander for a future political campaign could be generated from last nights trailer trash themed party, not to mention that the fact that you listed beer pong as one of your “activities.”

Example: “That guy I just cheated off in OChem? Totally friending him.”

Twitter

Definition: 1. A sense of desperation and desire to be accepted paired with the vain hope that someone cares about your dinner plans. Nay, your thoughts on the anticipation of dinner plans.

2. Seeing the same people twitter over and over again about the mundane aspects of their life is comparable to repeatedly stabbing your inner thigh with a dull knife.

3. Blackberries and iphones are like the pipes to these crack messages, which at first begin with a little experimentation and then ultimately lead to incessant posting and our good friend carpal tunnel.

4. The new language that evolved around twitter is incredibly confusing. What the hell do you say, twitted, tweeted, or twat? It is expected that within the year only one term will rise to the top like butter in this churn of utter narcissism and finally be grammatically accepted by both scholars and sycophants alike.

Example: Lolz @hulksmash224 it’s not your kid.

LinkedIn

Definition: 1. Post millennia internet equivalent to sleeping your way to the top. (So I see you’ve added a few more “contacts”) Except this time lowering your standards gets you an extra partition for your cubicle and a reference for your page.

2. Amidst this recession, one has to use every possible means to gain that slight advantage over your equally under qualified peers. Even if it leads to you paying upwards of $25 a month to litter the internet with grammatically incorrect and out of date versions of your resume.

Example: I put my drinking blog and twitter account links on my page, why has no one contacted me?

MySpace

Definition: 1. All but dead save for garage bands unable to afford a website and perverts not hip enough to switch over to Facebook. Myspace has spawned the twisted social networking malcontents we are today.

2. Aside from making you think it’s okay to post pictures of that totally sweet new bong and perfecting the angle from which you can take photos of yourself in the mirror (with the least amount of flash obstruction) Myspace has done very little for society, but add to the population. Unfortunately it was misused as a dating site for some time, and the poor demon seeds will have to be told the origins of their birth. Also why Daddy can’t afford child support because he blew it all on a custom bike. “But it has the entire cast of the Dukes of Hazzard airbrushed on it…”

Example: OH MY G-D WE HAVE THE SAME MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE PAGE LAYOUT

Diary of Matilda, Facebook Farmville character

I hate myself for doing this. Enjoy.


Wednesday

Woke up at the ass crack of dawn to begin my daily toil in the Farmville Fields. The unseen master left me explicit instructions that I must plow to the right of the futile pagoda, and plant Pattypan Squash because he had recently unlocked level sixteen. I am allergic to those bastard gourds and am forced to live off of stolen soybeans. As a result of my poor diet I have had dysentary for some time now, and feel quite weak. The sickenly stale smell of Natural Light wafts from the master’s manor, as he was up all night with the neighbors celebrating a lucrative pumpkin harvest. I shan’t see a dime and he won’t even let me plant aloe vera (from level fourteen) to tend to my various blisters and rake wounds. Oh how they pus and burn. To make matters worse, I am forced to wear an insufferable red bow in my hair and my eyebrows are barely visible. My shame knows no bounds.

Friday

I awoke somewhat later today as it was forecasted to be cloudy, and I would not have to deal with the intolerable cruelty that is the Farmville midday sun. Unfortunately, the clouds quickly released a torrent of rain and enough lightning to make Zeus himself quiver in fear. However, I must press on as to not ruin the strawberry harvest. I once accidentally let the crop wither while my master fell asleep in the library studying for his business ethics exam. As just punishment, he made me sleep outside of the protection of the Farmville cottage for a week. The wolves are ravenous, and travel in packs seeking sheep and weak farmers such as I. Luckily, they could not climb the plum tree I had made myself a sleeping nest in. I grew quite fond of that tree, and was sad when it was sold for thirty coins. The money was most likely spent at the Farmville “massage” parlor, as Master quite enjoys those happy endings. Farewell for now, the duck and pig topiaries need pruning.

Saturday

I have asked incessantly for a tractor to aid me in my chores and give me a free hour or two in the day, but my master has continued to ignore my pleas. Instead of wisely spending his coins on something to keep the farm in a stable economic condition, he blew a substantial amount of coins on garden gnomes at the market today. I believe he was smoking some strain of Farmville marijuana. Today I saw another farmer at the market. He had overalls like mine, and a green mohawk. We both nodded at each other, and I hope we meet again, for I am so very lonely with only the chickens to share my hopes and dreams.

*Later that night

I awoke to a knock on my sleeping cupboard only to discover the boy with the mohawk and overalls. He silently motioned me to join him into the night, and being an innocent and naive soul I quickly followed. He led me to a hut in the forbidden Farmville woods, where I met dozens of other sad and malnourished farmers such as myself. They spoke of evil words such as "mutiny," and "uprising" and "union." I clasped my hands over my ears to muffle out the horrid sounds, but they were forcibly ripped off my head and I was pushed to the ground. A girl farmer readied her arm to throw an eggplant at my frail frame, and I raised an arm in withering defense. In the nick of time my friend with the mohawk reached out before the aubergine could hit me, deflecting it and sending it sailing towards a plaster bust of Mark Zuckerberg's head. It fell to the ground and instantly shattered, sending an audible gasp throughout the crowd.

"Enough." Spoke my friend. "For too long have we stood in the shadows, hiding behind our groovy scarecrows and pink hay bales. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of woes and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight!"

The crowd cheered, and he was lifted amongst shoulders and carried out of the cabin. I was happy to have shared his shining moment with him, and didn't feel it was necessary to tell anyone he had ripped off his entire speech from Return of the King.

Sunday

I wear a mask and gloves. My breaths come short and rapid as I fumble with my semi-automatic and flamethrower. It is time to take back Farmville for ourselves. As I run into the night amongst my farm brethren free of fear, free of hunger, free of pain, I realize what I have been denied. Too long have I been shackled with these fields of wheat and pineapples, which doesn't even make geographical or meteorologic conditional sense. I cannot take back my youth or my optimism, but I can damn well take back my dignity.

Eliot Spitzer: Puppy murderer.

The following article was recently published in the National Gallery of Writing under the Drexel gallery. Considering they probably would have accepted a cocktail napkin covered in obscenities and crude renderings of genitalia if the applicant was paying tuition, I'm going to take it with a grain of salt. If you don't watch Gossip Girl, you're not going to understand the Chuck Bass references/don't deserve to.

Eliot Spitzer and Chuck Bass, Dark Horse for the 2010 Senate Race?

By Sarah Solomon

After having denied rumors of a 2010 Senate run, Eliot Spitzer, the former governor of New York, has released statements regarding his renewed interest. This drastic turn of events may have to do with the financial backing and emotional support from a certain colleague.

Charles Bartholomew "Chuck" Bass, son of the late Bart Bass and sole owner of Bass industries, has taken a special interest in Spitzer and is heavily subsidizing the campaign. Spitzer (aka, Client 9) has admitted a hankering for a Senate seat even after his resignation in 2008, but it had been nothing but a vain hope after blowing the majority of his campaign funds on prostitutes. Bass, most easily recognized from the hit CW show, Gossip Girl, has admitted to carefully following Spitzer’s scandal and empathized with his plight.

“Although I was only seventeen at the time of Eliot’s resignation, I still recognized that one of our country’s finest politicians was being unfairly penalized by a corrupt and unjust system,” drawled Bass as he clipped the end of his cigar. “My late father and I were both quite familiar with the Emperor’s Club VIP, and I assure you they are a fine establishment. I have no problem with any enterprise whose utmost concern is the quality of its goods and customer satisfaction.” Bass, wearing a blood red embroidered smoking jacket and unfortunately nothing else, crossed his legs and slowly took a drag of his cigar. “Spitzer was no stranger to Bass industries, my father fully supported his plan to give illegal immigrants New York driving licenses. How else was Julio supposed to escort me to school? Sprout magical Mexican wings and fly? No one expects Chuck Bass to get to St. Judes Prep using public transportation, that humiliation is reserved for the Dan Humphreys of the world. Bass gave a contemptuous sniff and examined the large rock on his finger. “Unfortunately few people in this day and age will listen to a man with true vision. They like to slap filthy labels on it, like money laundering.” Bass continued to clearly enjoy his cigar, but momentarily lost his composure when questioned about Spitzer’s inappropriate use of State Police to monitor and follow Senate majority leader Joseph Bruno. He quickly regained his stoic appearance before pouring himself a snifter of whiskey. “You have to admire a man who knows how to make the most of his resources. He had the State Police, I have Blair Waldorf, and to be perfectly blunt I consider the two equally useful.” At this point, a tall unidentifiable blonde in a state of undress stumbled out of a closed door and hurled a penny-loafer at Mr. Bass’ head. He seemed unfazed as she stomped out of his penthouse, audibly slamming the door behind her. “She’ll be back,” stated Bass. “Would you like to see my collection of fossilized velociraptor eggs and Buffy the Vampire Slayer memorabilia? I can assure you it’s quite scintillating.” After declining his offer, and the next one involving the use of multiple illegal substances, we moved onto why he was supporting Spitzers campaign after so much scandal and controversy. “He’s just a man who enjoys the finer things in life. A man who makes up for whatever he lacks in a conscience, with dreams. And dreams are the business I’m in. That’s why I bought that burlesque bar.” Bass eased himself out of his chocolate leather recliner, and rested his hand on the mantel of the fireplace holding photos of his deceased family and celebrities including the Queen of England and Tucker Max. “I have no political aspirations to speak of. I’m eighteen, but fully understand the necessity of investing in the American legal system. Spitzer and I fully understand one another, and that is well worth my time and money. So what if he spent eighty thousand dollars on hookers? I just bought a getaway island I plan on filling with models and hunting game. By the way, you’re more than welcome to visit whenever you need to blow off some steam.”

To conclude the interview, and skirt the issue of traveling to Bass’ hedonistic playground via private jet, only one more question needed to be asked. Did he really think after everything Spitzer had publicly gone through, after all of the controversy and humiliation he had brought upon himself and his family, that Spitzer stood a chance?

To this query he simply smirked and answered with a defiant tone, “Yes, because I’m Chuck Bass.” With that, he left the room, taking the whiskey with him.

Halloween, the best thing to happen to campus besides Taco Lou's.

Well, it’s that time of the year again. The air is crisp, the leaves are turning brilliant crimson and gold, and I can finally wear my Uggs without looking like a total tool. When one thinks about breaking out the fall wardrobe, that means the most important holiday of the year (besides Erin Express) is right around the corner.

Halloween, All Hallows Eve, or “Samhain” originally stemmed from the Gaelic harvesting holiday. It was believed that on October 31 the border between the world of the living and the dead dissolved and the evil spirits had to be placated by burning cow bones and wearing masks. Back in New England, when I still maintained some of my morals and sanity, Halloween meant pumpkin carving and volunteering at the local nature reserve’s fall tour. Now that I am older and unexplainably bitter, I have come to appreciate this great holiday for what it truly is: an excuse to dress like a total whore.

Now some of you naysayers might ask yourself, “why is this night different from any other night?” Well, for one it’s not Passover and the other reason is peer pressure. Girls have been planning weeks in advance, shopping for only the skankiest of costumes and gathering the perfect group of friends next to whom they will be considered the “hot one.” For some of the sororities on campus this is indeed a lost cause, but you have to give them credit for trying to hide the extra twenty pounds of what I like to call “Natural Light Shame.” I can’t say I’m a 00 anymore as well, but at least I’m not masquerading as a pregnant belly dancer. Just a walking train wreck, and there is no point in hiding it anymore. As much as I would love to blow the $60, $80, or even $120 dollars on a pleather Little Red Riding Hood costume, I would much rather spend my hard earned dolla dolla bills on more recreational activities such as heavy drinking and apple picking. (Both of which can be performed at the same time, but only for the most ambitious of multi-taskers.)

Just because I choose to not spend my money on such frivolities, doesn’t mean I haven’t looked online and in various sketchy stores. Maybe because I’m a good person and honestly because the internet is really patchy right now, I have decided to decipher the various female costumes for the 1.25 people that will actually read this.

The Playboy Bunny Costume: The least original of them all.

Mostly reserved for the naïve freshman or the tired upperclassman who stopped caring when they realized slapping on a pair of ears equates to an unlimited supply of jungle juice.

The Little Devil: aka this basement already looks like the third circle of hell

We know you’re up to no good, you don’t need to metaphorically throw it in our faces like the Hans omelette you just left on the brotherhood room couch.

The Schoolgirl: Ah, the quintessential scholar

In my experience the private school girls are the most insane to begin with. This costume is more like an ode to the trials and tribulations they had to face in order to get to the finest of third tier schools, most of which involved funneling.

Any sort of Princess: Are you seriously wearing an old dance costume and Claire’s tiara?

This is the girl with the camera, ready to capture every moment of herself with her nearest and dearest. These pictures will inevitably end up on facebook the next day, with asinine album titles such as “ToTaLly TrAsHeD…HaLlOWeEn OHNINE.” All of which can be used as blackmail for a later date when said girl tries her hand in politics. Dare to dream kids.

The Cowgirl: Yeehaw?

Like your hick brethren you have decided to cheap out and throw on your flannel and jean shorts. Not the most appealing of costumes, but it keeps you warm during the walk of shame tomorrow.

While this might seem a little too judgemental, keep in mind I have unfortunately tried my hand at all these costumes sans the playboy and princess ones. I’m not going to disclose what I’m going to be this year (or any of my four or five costumes I have planned for the two weeks they thinly stretch Halloween upon) But you’ll see soon enough.

Reflections and whining.

9/16/09

Dear former residents of Crossings 404, (minus Lauren)

I understand you all must be terribly busy and important people, otherwise you would have taken the two minutes to throw out your old food. I just had the pleasure, nay honor, of inspecting and tossing your moldy cheese steaks, questionable ethnic food, and jellified take out spaghetti meals. I also understand that you may not be happy with me as I left a good 20% of my personal belongings in random corners of the apartment, and basically did everything but leave a note on top of it saying “screw you, I’m in London.” This does not justify the pungent stench wafting from my refrigerator and trash can. I know Lauren was the first one to leave the lovely abode, and anything that was not tossed/left in ruins is a direct result of your complete apathy towards the good people who reclaimed the residence mere weeks after your departure. It’s a small campus, and I understand that the majority of you are in sororities. This means we are bound to meet in some dark basement corner, and I will inevitably be in some altered state of mind and most likely demonstrate some horrible lack of judgment. To put it bluntly, I’m going to pretend I slipped and dump Natty or Beast all over you.

See you in hell,

Sarah

Other than the rude surprise I found in the fridge, moving back into Crossings was surprisingly easy with the help of Natty’s car and some strapping young lads. Granted I moved in three days earlier than allowed and beat the thousands of people coming on Saturday but that doesn’t make the unpacking and redistribution of items any easier. It hit me like a brick, as I was folding tank top after polo after cardigan, that I don’t fit into my clothes anymore. Why am I holding onto my high school wardrobe? I am not a 00 or xs anymore, I’m awkwardly tall and don’t look like jailbait anymore. I’m fucking twenty and a junior, and that scares the crap out of me. I need to stop living the dream and looking like some overgrown hooker working the mall in front of Abercrombie. That may have been cool three, four years ago when I was pissing off math teachers and pretending to care about homecoming, but the gravy train is over. There are no more proms or swim meets, just bar/frat hopping and trying not to cry over school work because that would get my precious keyboard wet. Life is better but now everything has a consequence. Looking back to freshman year at Drexel, I didn’t have a fucking blessed clue about what was going on. I was a walking train wreck but at least I was an eighteen year old train wreck, and didn’t have to worry about what happens in six months or a year from now.

Basically I just want to go prom dress shopping again.

Optimism at its finest.

9/5/09

Well, it’s a Saturday night here in lovely Sharon, and I’m sitting here in my room, alone, in the dark, because I have to wait 75 minutes before Megavideo will load another episode of True Blood. Basically I’m listening to some raucous middle age party down the street while I’m waiting for an online service that I refuse to pay for stream an HBO show that my cable service does not provide, concerning the love life of vampires. At least I had some social interaction for the night, my parents came home from a night out in Providence and they questioned me about the seersucker shorts I helped my brother purchase in order that he may look like the preppy bastard I aspire for him to be. All the while my mother complaining loudly in the background about the dishes that were used BECAUSE I CAN’T STOP EATING. However, I am going to try and maintain an optimistic view about everyone already having left for school, and being taken off of the car insurance.

A) Without a car, I cannot leave the house to purchase things.

Except for when people take me shopping, ie every other damn day.

B) I get to spend quality time with my parents at the gym, because I can’t go on my own time.

Going to step aerobics with a bunch of crazy menopausal women who think I’m the most sullen and bitter child they have ever seen. It’s seven in the morning and you’re making me do barbell pushups to badly remixed eighties music.

C) My brother needs the car, so that he may go to work without any scheduling conflicts.

At the YMCA that until recently had been the JCC. Once again, thank you Madoff.

D) I get to actually relax and enjoy the things I no longer have time for, like reading and sketching

…and watching an entire missed summers worth of Adult Swim.

E) I couldn’t care less, I’m going back to school in a week.

/my best friends’ free open bar birthday.

It’s not like I haven’t had any entertainment at all, my friend and her family came over last night for dinner, and it was lovely. They got to witness an even lovelier heated conversation between my mother and I about whether or not my dress was low cut, while I drank as much wine that bordered upon socially acceptable. After, another friend who spent his summer in the Ecuadorian rainforest came over and watched The Tudors with me. We traded stories about our summer; how he had helped a poverty stricken group of people better their lives, and how I smuggled water bottles of liquor into clubs because I was too cheap to buy British drinks.

In actuality, I have been enjoying myself, trying to forget there is a Nesbitt and figuring out some sort of super secret game plan for co-op. Taking whatever I can get. My portfolio needs a serious makeover but it could be worse, I could look like K-Fed. I don’t understand how he could get that big that fast…he was a backup dancer…

‘

More vapid ramblings.

9/1/09

Well, I’m safely back in the US of A. Unfortunately that means I’m not legal anymore, and had to pass up the duty free liquor deals in the airport. Oh Absolut vanilla…my dear dear friend…

The seventeen hours of traveling back to the states wasn’t too horrible. A couple of the Drexel girls started bawling once we were in the air, and I congratulated myself on my stoic appearance and steel resolution. That was until I started watching Star Trek, and cried when Kirk’s father bravely piloted his ship into the Romulans. Those bastards, leave the Enterprise alone. Any movie that casts Harold from Harold and Kumar in a serious role, and resurrects Leonard Nimoys’ career gets an A+ in my book. Afterwards, I watched Mulan and realized I am going to die alone. Probably surrounded by cats, which is going to be especially painful considering how allergic I am to pet dander.

I had to say goodbye to everyone at baggage claim, and then got to wait another three hours for my connecting flight back to good old Bean Town. I was quite excited to be able to turn on my precious Juke again, as I hadn’t had a decent phone for the entire summer, or even a phone at all for the past week. The bastard Orange phone I was forced to purchase died an honorable death in Dublin. A girl on my trip ended up dumping her pint on the table, and the poor thing drowned in Guinness. I was glad I risked it and decided not to “top up” (add minutes) right before I left Britain. Do I really need to fuel my drunk texting problem? No, those horrible decisions are restricted to my American phone.

I’m pretty sure everyone in the immediate area hated me for talking on said Juke, but Tasia had just acquired a new bread maker and I’m buying Snow Leopard off of him. How can I be an elitist bitch when I haven’t upgraded my Mac? The rents kept their word and actually picked me up from the airport, and I wasn’t forced to hitchhike back to Sharon. A decision I’m pretty sure they regret now.

I’m supposed to be finishing up my work for the term (Three essays? What the W?) but instead I went outlet shopping with Anj because it’s our damn Patriotic duty to help America out of this recession. The stores were sparse to say the least, either nothing was on sale (what kind of welcome back was that J Crew? Huh?) or everything was complete shit and thrown into discount bins. (Arden B, shame on you) BCBG had bastardized itself by throwing together all of its brands into one store and Saks wouldn’t give me a discount on a dress even though it was stained and a button was falling off. They told me to wash it and sow the button back on. I stared at the saleswoman for a good twenty seconds before it registered this wasn’t a joke and they were indeed serious. My friends, we have reentered the dark ages.

Where were the damn leprechauns?

9/25/09

Because I’m a glutton for punishment (and it was the cheapest time available) we left for our flight to Dublin at four in the morning to go to the bus that would take us to easybus that went to the damn middle of nowhere airport. The Ryanair flight was surprisingly fine, they use the same Boeing jets as most services so I wasn’t terribly concerned. The flight attendants just had tackier outfits than normal, and we had to walk up steps to the plane. Maybe I was just bitter about the four in the morning thing. The flight took around an hour, and when we got off of the plane it was positively freezing with blue skies. Think October-ish weather in Philadelphia. Luckily I was wearing my North Face and not my usual skanky October wear (I live for Halloween) so it wasn’t that bad. A lot of girls on the trip had Irish backgrounds, so they were especially excited for this, and considering I am probably the furthest thing from Irish I was just thrilled to be in Colin Farrels homeland.

Our damn hostel wouldn’t allow us to check in until 2:30 so we paid the damn two euros to store our bags and went to go explore Dublin. I was rather surprised by how generally dirty and old looking it was. We walked down their main street and after the Russian head shop selling “snow” and other fine drugs that I’m sure weren’t laced with anything was a cute little breakfast place filled with cute old and tired Irish men. It may have been authentic, but nothing compares to the smiley face chocolate chip pancakes at Ihop. It looks so fucking happy, it’s almost morbid when you cut into it.

After the not so substantial meal and the Limited Edition European Cadbury’s Caramel Milkshake at McDonalds, we started to look around and in my opinion this was just a really poor version of London. Instead of Primark they had Penny’s, and they had a Marks and Spencers (with clover leaves all over the bag) and I saw girls walking around with Topshop and Zara. These were also the least fashionable people I had seen all summer, and their high end department store had crap clothes in the window with laughable displays. But maybe I’m just being a pretentious bitch, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. L wanted souvenirs so we stopped in a football store and I for the most obnoxious shop, and they pointed us in the direction of Carrols.
Considering there was a Carrols on every two blocks it wasn’t that hard. It sold a variety of T-shirts and anything associated with sheep, leprechauns, beer, or clover. Just to give you a clue about the atmosphere of the place, they played cheesy Irish music with interruptions every three minutes saying if you spend one hundred euros or more one would get this very CD that was playing, a fifteen euro value, for free. I think I was forced to go into that store on at least three different occasions for at least a half hour at a time so I’m not its biggest fan. We continued to wander and after nearly passing out in a bookstore went back to beg for the room key.

Lauren and I had come a day earlier than everyone else because we are ballers and don’t have class on Fridays, but there were five of us staying in a six person room. After secretly judging the rando filthy European backpackers lounging in the hostel (I’ve given up on the no-judgment rule, I have concluded that I am allowed to judge lack of hygiene) we were a little worried. Luckily it turned out to be an American girl who was our age, and her family friend had bailed and she was stuck in the hostel with the rest of us schmucks. We gratefully passed out for a few hours, grabbed dinner and pre-game materials at Tesco, and checked out the bar area we wanted to hit up that night. Aside from the random pubs, there are a few streets called the Temple Bar area that only consists of bars, restaurants, and drunk munchie food places. Not bad.

Lauren, Molly and I ended up going to three pubs that night and it was the expected Irish pub experience. Most of the pubs were really packed, and they were filled with a middle age crowd. Guinness was the cheapest thing they served, so Guinness was what I got. I have never really minded the taste, considering it has a tinge of coffee flavor and caffeine runs in my veins, but they get so heavy and I’m not a big girl. I just have a big… heart. A lot of the bigger pubs played American music and I felt like some of the Boston bars were more Irish than the ones we chose. Some did have live music in the corner or basement, with random blacked out people doing jigs. We went back to the hostel to greet the rest of the room who had just flown in and called it a night.

The next morning I woke up early as the hostel had promised a free continental breakfast. Normally this is my favorite part of vacation, which is kind of sad but you can’t really change one’s undying love for a breakfast buffet. It’s what dreams are made of, and maybe what Christmas feels like. What I came downstairs to were a couple of loaves of bread, two toasters, and little pats of butter and jam. Thank you Hostel Issacs, thank you. I grabbed some instant coffee (the necessary bane of my existence) and went back upstairs to the rest of Drexel who had just flown in and was sprawled out on the floor. A few hours later we bought tickets to take the tram to the Guinness storehouse, which was unfortunate because it seems no one pays for public transportation in Dublin. Maybe it’s because they spend all their money on beer, which I had just started to realize. I can’t really blame them, the pints aren’t cheap and the lowest of the low (Tesco liquor) was double what I pay in London for half the size. I’m certainly not a scientist, not even a contender, but I believe this all boils down to the laws of supply and demand.

The Guinness factory was pretty damn awesome from a design as well as a historical perspective. It was basically a museum about beer. They take you through the mechanics of making it, from the specific hops and barley, and the use of yeast in the fermentation process. I just thought the waterfall was pretty. There were historical sections about Arthur Guinness and examples of the family’s philanthropy (good peoples) and of course a taste testing section where I definitely didn’t take three or four samples. Continuing upstairs, they had an advertising section which was actually quite witty and had a lot of older examples of the Toucan and “My Goodness My Guinness!” slogans. There was also an instructional booth on how to pour Guinness (For the head to be right you need to wait two minutes for the beer to settle and then cap it off) as well as a bunch of Irish step dancers. At the very top of the storehouse was the Gravity Bar, where you turn in your ticket stub for a pint. It was all glass, and had a 360 degree view of Dublin.

That night we wandered as a group over to Temple Bar area, and everyone split up by accident but thankfully I was with the group that preferred bars over pubs. I can only take enough quaint. Molly bought us all car bombs, which I guess is equivalent to calling something “A Two Towers” in America, but the bartenders put up with it because they get paid thirty euros an hour. However, in another bar, Kelly was told to leave when she asked for one but ending up describing the drink in the next bar and the bartender was the one that called it by its name. Some random soccer hooligans kept buying Molly and I drinks and they explained that most Irish start out in a pub, go to a bar, and then head off to a club. They were also amused by Lee’s outfit, which was a collared shirt underneath a nice sweater. They asked if that was how Americans dressed, and I was proud to stand up for my country and answer with a resounding yes.

Downstairs we met the acquaintance of a diva trannie (Mom, this means transsexual) and she told me I looked Madonna fabulous. We spoke with her for a while and she said people treated her well in Dublin, but she got looks when she went out in London. I believe London is quite accepting, and I think it probably had something to do with her outfit choices. We got back quite late, but I still set my alarm for the damn breakfast.

After breakfast (I was the only one that got up for it) we all left for an all day bus tour of the Wicklow Mountains. It was definitely the highlight of the trip, and well worth the twenty-five Euros. The bus driver was quite witty, and she gave us a lecture on the history of Ireland while she drove us out among the rolling hills and bogs. I don’t think I will ever see something as beautiful as the Irish countryside. Miles upon miles of unending purple heather with green every where else. The weather was also poor, and the sky was gray and overcast with low clouds that just added to the romanticism of the trip. She let us out on a cliff overlooking a lake and one of the Guinness estates. This is where I took the above picture, and the area is indescribable. We broke for lunch and then were let out again in an old cemetery adjacent to a lake. Quite emo if one asks me, but there were some old celtic headstones and crumbling buildings that made for great pictures. We came back after an hour and were given a shot of Jameson upon coming back to the bus, which I promptly gave away. If freshman year taught me anything, it’s that whiskey is Satan’s piss.

After the tour we checked out Trinity College, and Saint Patricks Cathedral and went to fucking Carrols again. The night was quite fun, some previous study abroad students had found the bar where they had filmed the band scenes from PS. I Love You, and most of us had seen (and cried after) that damn movie so we didn’t mind that it was an extra fifteen minutes past Temple Bar. They did have live music, and later in the night played some good American music. It’s always nice to hear MGMT and Kings of Leon when not at Drexel. Unlike London, Dublin's pubs and bars did not play a wide variety of techno music. We got back at 3 and then woke up at 4:45 to catch the bus to the airport where I had my first and hopefully last Burger King breakfast. Luckily the plane landed on time and we arrived for our three hour class. After which we wrote essays for said class. Needless to say I’m a little tired but it was a good weekend.

How quaint.

8/13/09

Today we visited Hampsted to visit the home of the famous modern architect, Goldfinger. Yes, the Goldfinger the James Bond movie was named after. Ian Fleming lived down the street, and named the crazy egotistical character after the architect. Why? Because the real Goldfinger was batshit crazy. Hampsted was adorable, nice little shops and cafes and restaurants with quaint houses and shrubbery. It was a suburban town, and very reminiscent of home, except a cop didn’t tell me to move along when I decided to take a breather.

“I’m going to need you to walk a straight line and count backwards for me.”

“Sir, with all do respect, it’s the middle of the day and we’re having a picnic.”

“ON THE GROUND NOW.”

*Desperately searches for marijuana, and upon finding none decides to hit up the emo kids outside of Starbucks. End scene*

8/17/09

I'm already beginning to become nostalgic and I still have another two weeks left to go. Like for instance, the maids. I'm really going to miss having a maid. From Tuesday to Sunday it looks like a bomb went off in our flat, but on Mondays the entire place is spotless. If only I could bring back one as a souvenir, but I think that would go over my fifty-five pound weight limit. Then again, they are the waif thin, in a Russian Oliver Twist sort of way. I’m officially going to hell.

I'm also really going to miss the area, it's beyond beautiful and I realize I’ve been taking it for granted. As I was lugging my suitcase full of laundry to wash (yes, laundry is two blocks and twelve flights of stairs there and back. Believe me, I’ve counted.) I thought back to when I first got here and was shocked by how low all the buildings were and how sparkling white and clean everything is. Now I get nervous if the window boxes to the town houses aren’t coordinated. Good thing I’m pretty sure my mother turned our entire damn yard into a garden. All I’ll really need is to import some of the locals chugging pounders as they walk home to their flats from work. I don’t think the Leibowitz’s will be up for it.

In other entirely useless news, twas a lovely day. I ended up having lunch in the Whole Foods café which which overlooks most of High Street Kensington. It also allows me to check out the hipsters as they enter Urban Outfitters. I resisted the urge to scream out the window “it’s half price in America, you fools” but I just sat back in peace and ate my potato salad.