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April 22, 2003

WOW That’s What I Call Blogging

1 test, 1 quiz, 2 finals and a partridge in a pear tree. I’m almost a college graduate, baby! I’ve just got those four pesky test-type things to deal with, then it’s sayonnara hallowed halls of academia!

I went to visit my academic advisor, Waggs today. She always puts me in a fabulous mood. She congratulated me on my engagement to Angelface, and stopped to admire my gorgeous jewel. She told me to go through the “senior checklist”, and if i was a good girl and came prepared, she would read my name off the list at graduation. V. funny lady.

Today I turned in my final eval of internship-o-horrors. It felt *so* good that I decided to ceramonialize the event.

As I was leaving the old main street office I turned, and gave a symbolic salute. Graceful as a swan, I faced the old renovated townhouse. I decided to memorialize the “good times,” but then I remembered there really weren’t any, save the day manager Smitty was out of the office, leaving me to my own devices. Instead of working I emailed anyone I could think of, called Angelface a few times on the company dime, and ate stinky hummus at my desk – eating food in the back office is highly illegal, after all!

And so, with the memories of an internship not so far past, I gave the final hurrah. With palms out, head turned back, a look of serenity passing over my face, I presented my tribute. Carefully, concertedly, I pulled four fingers down towards my thumb. The middle appendage, straight as a flag pole, traced a line straight to heaven. It was glorious.

And I got an email today from my worthless office manager asking if we’d like to “do dinner” before our group goes off into parts unknown. I feel like I can’t go – like with that final salute, I had given every last bit I could give to those people.

However, as I am a very poor college student, I will probably go. It’s a sin to turn down free food you know?

Oh it’s so difficult having convictions!

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April 19, 2003

Coup d’e Tat

It has been one crazy, careening out of control, flying off-the-tracks rollercoaster-o-rama around h䮮ihouse. In the past ten days I’ve ranted, raved, laughed, smirked and schmoozed – oh how i’ve schmoozed! I’ve slept in $1,300 seats and bathed in three states. I feel like I’m moving at both one hundred miles an hour, and two, all at the same time.

This is the frantic, last hurrah before grad after all.

The Internship-o-crap has finally wound down – but not because our tyranical bosses have given their blessing. Get this: so we sell like crazy to get this career fair off the ground. Our group of seven has outsold last year’s group of ten interns, and in fact, has had the most sales ever in the history of the event.

You’d think the big bosses would give us a break. I mean, the Super Seven kicked butt and took names, and we did it all for just three paltry credits.

Read: we sold space at the cost of 500 benjamins a pop, but, as we were interns (read: not earning a red cent) the only thing we reaped from this experience was the knowledge that being a sales intern blows goats.

So anyway, we do all this and some of us are whisked up to the mothership, the homebase, under the guise that we will be offered employment, as a reward for all our hard labors.

Long story short, we are lectured for three grueling hours on how to sell the next show. Keep in mind we are seniors. We have about 1.5 weeks left to party and sleep in. We are tired. We are angry. We are *not* offered jobs, and frankly, 0 cents/hour is not enough to keep me a motivated sales woman extraordinaire.

Consequently, a small coup d’e tat is occuring at my intern site. Most of us aren’t showing up anymore, this girl included. Take that intern slavemasters!

And I’m so looking forward to moving to Florida in the fall. I’ve decided that I need to get the heck out of dodge – Virginia’s alright, but palm trees and sunshine are better. And so, after pulling my hair out in frustration over the intern deal, I took a mini-trip to Orlando with Angel this week. We flew free the whole way, even sitting with the aristocrats in first class on the Orlando-Atlanta leg.

In Florida I had some job-search schmoozing, sundress wearing, apartment hunting good times. The anger of internship abated and I was at peace.

Now I’m back. The intern office called Friday – my manager says he’s taking a half day and Happy Easter, I don’t have to come in. It seems the home office took the day, but expected us blacksburgians to keep on truckin. I don’t think so honey.

In conclusion, and to quote the immortal 80′s hair band, Twisted Sister, I would just like to say we’re not gonna take it. No we ‘aint gonna take it.

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April 5, 2003

Ghetto Fabulous

I live in a quasi – old folk’s home in the projects.

Why “quasi – old folk’s home” – I think PMC is where spunky upperclassmen go to live out their college years in relative peace and tranquility. The suite environment allows the kids to continue their participation in those oh so fun indiscretions of youth, because no one can bust them for downing forties in their room if no one knows about it!

See, in traditional halls you have to yak in the same toilets that Wanda, your bushy-eyebrowed hallmate uses. Partying doon, if you will, is a public event in other halls.

This suite – liberation has a curious reversal effect, however. You see, the thrill of the chase, the danger in the chance is gone, and so the kids of PMC are all mellow. The “old folks” that live here enjoy watching TLC on Saturday nights, instead of going out to boogie at the club. PMC kids’ idea of a perfect date involves a healthy serving of fat-free angelfood cake and some fuzzy slippers… Or maybe that’s just me.

Regardless, you may still be wondering why do I say I live in the “projects.” The answer is simple. PMC consists of subsidized government housing. If you think about it, that is what the projects are. These hallowed cinderblock homes are just fancy-assed ghetto cribs.

And all I have to say is, watch out 50 Cent, there’s a new Ho in the hood and I’m representing at this hizzy. Pass the government cheese.

So I have to chuckle. Everytime someone complains about PMC’s ac, ants, flooding, peeling paint, I think it could be worse. At least we don’t have any shady crack dealers in our study lounges, we don’t have any hookers named “Vixen” offering 5 dollah sucky sucky in our kitchen, nor do we have homeless men writing their names with urine our the stairwells.

I guess not every government project can be this f*a*b*u*l*o*u*s.

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April 2, 2003

Celebrate Good Times, Come On

It’s the nicest of days here at hannihouse. The sun is pouring through the windows, my tummy is full of hotdogs and spinach (delish!) and it’s my day off at the internship-o-dread. Simple pleasures, I know.

Am feeling so great today. Sunday an abrupt three-inch snowfall had me all frowny faced – Ruby and I were going to go shopping, but the snow foiled our plans! So, I just went out and wiped the snow off her top and told her she was beautiful. I couldn’t reach the very middle though, and a strip of thick, fluffy snow made a nice little mohawk for rebel Ruby.

So I’m just sitting here on this glorious weds listening to John Mayer, contemplating the cosmos. I think tomorrow I may go hike the cascades after classes. I think Friday I will ditch internship work and take that aforementioned shopping trip. I think Saturday I will fly to Paris and dance the polka on the moonlit steps of the Louvre. Then I will dine at a fine patiserie and have my portrait painted by a new bohemian named Madelline.

Yes, yes I think that sounds entirely lovely.

Also in the entirely lovely department is the fact that Dawson’s Creek has finally gone into syndication. And I’m wondering why it only took 6 years for those network bigwigs to grow a brain and syndicate the greatest show on television. the greatest show on television, ever.

There’s only 9 episodes until the show ends May 14th, but with syndication, I am proud to announce, the show goes on. Dawson’s will live forever.

In the interim between now and D-day (May 14) TBS is showing ‘the creek in 4 hour blocks, beginning at 8am and running until noon every day! After the 14th they will air in two hour blocks, from 10am until noon daily. And I’m in heaven. God bless you TBS.

Oh dawsons, sunshine, hotdogs, Ruby, I love you more than words can express. Today is truly the nicest of days here at hannihouse, and I wish you, my loyal readers days filled with nothing but magic, tranquility and surprises!

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March 28, 2003

Ruby: She’ll Take Her Lovin To Town

In addition to a fiance, diamond ring, digital camera and all the blessings of family and friends, I am proud to announce the latest addition to wonderful things aquired most recently. Her name is Ruby. She is sparkly red and drives like a dream.

Yes kids i’m talking about my *new* 2003 Toyota Corolla!

I have a caar. I have a caar!

It’s kind of scary. I mean, me, owning a motor vehicle? Why, it’s never been done before! The last time I drove (previous to Ruby) was once last fall. I don’t really get around that much, preferring instead to be driven as if I name were Miss Daisy.

But as there is a first time for everything, I feel ready to face the challenges that ownership presents. I am ready to get that oil changed, to replace that air filter, to rotate those tires and pay dearly come tax time. I am ready to ride long distances on sunny days with my hair blowing out the window. I am ready to walk the mile and a half from the Cage (parking lot) to my front door. In short: I am ready to ride.

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March 27, 2003

Havana Day Dreaming

So I woke up at the butt crack of dawn (ie 7 am) this morning to read a supreme court case. And the fact that I did this just reinforces my conviction that I am one crazy lady. just wacky. I’ve got a few screws loose, am losing my marbles, am one fry short of a happy meal, etc. etc. (insert witty euphamism here)

Who gets up at 7am to do homework? And who the heck gets up at 7am. Period. Too f-ing early if you ask me.

That being said, I got through about 1/10th of the case and am now enjoying hot green tea and cinnamon roll flavored oatmeal. Yum.

And it seems okay to quit the study for which i awoke unnervingly early. You see, it is spring. Every morning the birds serenade me and the trees are beginning to blossom with pink flowers.

This morning the sun is high and bright, yet there is a good breeze coming through my window. You see, as it is the early a.m. it isn’t hot out yet, but still sunny. Like having a delicious bratwurst, onion and green pepper sandwhich for lunch, this morning is just so wonderful.

Oh bratwurst how I love thee. Am not currently eating bratwurst though obviously, as it is the aforementioned butt crack of dawn. But as I feel it is spring and time to be healthy, I do not believe I would eat the wurst. I’m on a healthy-lifestyle kick and am regularly attending yoga, avoiding deserts and am reading instead of watching t.v.

I know. I know. It sounds horrid. But really, I convince myself that I am rising above my mediocre and plebian ways of old by making my new routine something that richard simmons, the diet and fitness guru himself, would jump up and down about.

But not too much jumping.

He wears those booty shorts after all.

And he’s no Justin Timberlake, who admittadely I wouldn’t mind seeing in booty shorts.

But actually booties kind of gross me out, regardless if they are worn by sexy pop singers.

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March 20, 2003

When it Rains, It Pours

The worms come out when it rains. Here in Blacksburg when the wet hits the pavement, the worms respond in thousands. Pink curlie ques, wriggling question marks, and long exclamations mark the path on the way to class.

I am careful to look down on rainy days. I am careful not to step on the rosy nematoda, lest one get squished into my nike treads, making for a grotesque mess on bottom of shoe.

And I think it ironic that it’s raining today, of all days. You know, some people say that rain is really God’s tears, that when it pours, He’s crying.

And, being practical, I never believed the God’s tears theory. I thought, it’s just a tale – a tale of the fairy, or old wives variety. Rain is really (rationally, scientifically) caused by weather occurences, by gasses and exhanges, precipitants and patterns. Everybody knows this is the truth, right? We know it’s true cause we were taught this in our fourth grade classroom by our smiling teacher.

But what if Mrs. Bennett was *not* right. What if indeed, the fat drops of water falling heavy outside my window really are the tears of Emmanuel?

Today I disregard science and rationality. I believe something greater than cummulative clouds governs today’s rain.

I think it’s ironic that it’s raining today, because, today marks the start of a truly sad and horrific day. Today, hannihouse readers, we are at war.

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March 18, 2003

Oy Vei and Pass the Chocolate WaterFall

Sunday was a day of drudgery. Between speech writing and outlining I had a full day of menial tasking that was less than desirable for my lazy, apathetic, graduating senior – self. I did take one break Sunday. I headed to the Bridal showcase and workshop being held on campus, just feet from my room. (prime location, because, as previously mentioned, I am lazy).

Don’t get me wrong. Don’t think I was there to gush and postulate over my upcoming nuptuals. Don’t think I was there to discuss green mums, veil lenghts, or mary kay facials. Don’t think I went there to purchase a photo package or book a stay at the ramblin road inn. I was not looking for a wedding planner, caterer, videographer, or hair stylist.

Believe me. This is very important. I am *not* thinking about weddings until I get a job, a place to live, and silverware that you don’t throw away at the end of a meal.

I went for the break. I went cause I was curious. I went cause I’m an idiot about all things wedding. As I am the MOH (maid of honor) for my bestest friend Nolie, I figured I had better get some edumacashun on the subject of wedding junx.

If you go to these things, be prepared to get asked this question a lot: “so when are you getting married?” And there is no variety, no variation. Every vendor will do it the same way. First they will make small talk. Then they will halt abruptly, look you square in the eye and give you the mushiest smile ever and say, “So, when are you getting married?”

It doesn’t matter if they want to sell you hor d’oeuvers or houses, they will all give you that pathetic smile and bam, it’s “so when are you getting married?”

The *only* acception to this was the DJ. He definetly didn’t ask any questions whatsoever. DJ dude and his lady assistant just sat around and played some music. When asked if the DJ and assistant were married, they said “no, but we’ve been together forever.”

Ha. These people play weddings for a living and they haven’t even gotten around to getting hitched!

The people who work these shows are all wacky anyway. The women who run a rental store brought a fountain that bubbled milk chocolate. “Only $250!” they said.

The wedding planner/videographer ranted for ten minutes about the pros and cons of having a runner. (I have no idea what that is.) The lady had hair like Anna Nicole Smith.

The resort lady tried to sell me a honeymoon package with all inclusive golf.

The look of horror on my face could’ve stopped clocks.

No way am I going anywhere with Angelface that has all inclusive golf, *especially* not my honeymoon. I want to actually *see* Angel on our honeymoon.

The show was fun, but I tell you what, it’ll be a long time before I go back to that looney bin again!

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March 16, 2003

Tech Bytes

I find it ironic that my blogger template won’t open today. (I am typing this in word for post later.) It is only fitting, as I’ve decided to write on the topic of why my computer, slow servers, and technology in general is ruining my week.

After spending an agonizing week compressing, zipping, uploading, downloading, copying and deleting my paltry 86 pictures from Disney world, I still can’t get them small enough to email or post on the filebox server. And I totally want to show people my great pics.

Why the hell do I have a digital camera if I can’t post the pics? I certainly can’t print them, as have 8 pieces of photo paper and an HP deskjet that is only sufficient for printing black and white word documents ? well it probably could print in color, but as I haven?t bothered to replace that cartridge that ran out in 2000, well color is a non-issue.

So I think, okay, gotta get those pics distributed some way. And then I think maybe I should burn them onto a cd ? I think I have a couple of those lying around.

The only problem with said burning plan: my CD burner hasn?t worked for months, (although angelface claims that it does.) Apparently the windows player can burn data cds, but I really don’t see that working either. I just don’t.

I am the computer?s bitch.

Let’s face it. They say computers will one day rule the world. Well, at Hannihouse the future is now, and I?m a slave to technology that refuses to do my bidding.

This is computer bitch 23456 signing off. *beep*

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March 12, 2003

I Believe in Magic

I’m back from fabulous Spring Break 2003, and I have to say it was better than I could even imagine.

At Disney World I:

Rode the monorail, tram, bus, ferrie, boat and train. I screamed my way down splash mountain and laughed my way through the muppet 3d theater. I growled like a lion at the lion king show, and sang along with Belle during Beauty and Beast. I ate icecream shaped like mickey ears and bratwurst from a bavarian village in Epcot. Fat Tuesday I celebrated New Years Eve at Pleasure Island where dancing on rotating dancefloors in front of huge video screens was the order of the night. I came, I saw, I believe – in the magic of Disney, that is.

I am back, sparkly-eyed, tan, healthy, alive. I returned to my little home in blacksburg, virginia where I was greeted by Boris and Paulo, who bubbled happily for me. I then took a big, deep, happy breath.

To my dismay, something else was waiting to greet me – the housekeeper had left my bathmat on the floor when she cleaned the shower. It wasn’t just wet, it was sopping, which lead me to believe the housekeeper had cleaned the tile floor without even *trying* to move the fluffy mat off the floor. The odoriferous smell of mold and feet – on – mat permeated my little 12 X 14 space.

Yes, there’s no place like home.

And I think the housekeeper may have done it on purpose. I had a very good working relationship with Mary, the lady who used to clean my commode. This new housekeeper is afraid of me or something, as she is prone to gasp and leave the room if she sees I am in bed when she comes in to clean. Hello, if it’s freakin’ 9:00 a.m. I will probably be in bed. I am, after all, in my final semester of collegiate freedom!

This housekeeper has also left the shower head off before, putting me into a panic as I do not wear deodorant, and am therefore required to thoroughly bathe every day. Well, if the shower head is off, you *can* try to get a good soak, but the intensity of the liquid splashing from the hole in the wall (where the head should be), is enough to send even The Rock in all his muscular splendor washing down the drain.

The rushing waters of Payne 323 may even be strong enough to send the mighty jafar packing!

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