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My little cousin Samantha, age 7, invited me to her “special persons” lunch at her elementary school this afternoon. I was completely flattered, especially since I was the only one there between the ages of 8 and 35. One of her more charming little friends walked up to me, among the crowd of parents, looked up, and stated, “You look like you’re 13!”

My GOD! A whole 13 years?! I knew I shouldn’t have worn so much makeup!

There was one thing in particular that really struck me as I walked into the cafeteria.

I miss those little, cardboard, two-sips-per-serving milks. Their lunches, however, were much evolved from what I experienced as a Catholic school student. I mean, they had choices. We never had choices. And the servings were huge. And their little uniforms were adorable.

And I feel old.

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I had to transport my two rather large cats from my mom’s to my dad’s house tonight. Being indoor cats, they don’t really know much of the outdoors beyond what they’ve seen out the kitchen window, let alone speeding in a car through a busy city at night.

Being colossal, they’ve never really been the “meow” sort. The sounds coming from their faces could only be described as banshee-like. They screamed in terror, making noises resembling,

“MEERRRAAAAHHHAAAAYYY” and
“MMMAAAHHHHHEEERRRRRR” and
“MIIIIIIIIOOOOOAAAAHHHHH!”

Speaking of animals, Derrick’s family got a new puppy! She’s a bernese mountain dog, and a rescue after being in shows for two years. This means she’s incredibly affectionate, and unbelievably obedient. And, she’s cute. They already have a bernese named Cooper, who is equally as cute.

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As I write this, I’m sitting in my class entitled “The Holocaust” and thinking about how much my professor reminds me of the one from Legally Blonde. I think I like mine more, although she may be even more ruthless.

I’m still trying to get comfortable with the whole “I’m in control of my life” thing. I work a lot, and I make money a lot, and the second I get it, I’m wondering (a lot) what wonderful things I can spend it on. About an hour ago, another one of my professors was talking about how he loves papaya, but it’s usually around $4.50, and that’s too much money, so he doesn’t usually buy it.

Too much money? You’re a professor, you don’t have five bucks? I spend more than that on Wendy’s.

I really wish I didn’t think this way. And very lucky that I have a boyfriend who is more conscious of money than I am.

And the class has left. Crap, did we learn something?

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I’m already a big fan of the private college. It makes me realize how uncomfortable I was with living on or near a university campus. No wonder I hated studying so much; I never really got away from school.

Or maybe it’s just nice having classes in an atmosphere where eight girls of different ages sit around a long wooden table and talk about writing with an incredibly smart and beautiful professor, who prints us pages of addresses to send our work to and brings her giant puppy to class to run around through our legs while we laugh like we’ve had that class for five semesters.

And then it’s nice to come home and do homework while watching True Hollywood Story: Home Improvement and not have to hear about school again until the next morning.

I was told last night that I have a similar writing style to Chuck Palahniuk. I was kind of leaning more towards the genre of M. Night Shyamalan, but either way, my short stories must be slightly demented. I’m going to order Haunted and watch Fight Club. Anyone have an opinion of these?

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A bunch of high school kids came to the restaurant I work at last night for dinner. They were all decked out in frilly dresses and coordinating tuxes. I was somewhat surprised since it’s neither prom nor homecoming season, but watching them talk and take pictures brought back memories and I really missed wearing gowns.

It seems like dresses have already changed a lot in the three years I’ve been out of high school. A bunch of them were puffy, but only from the thighs down. The girls left behind millions of glitter specks, all over everything. I don’t remember any of my dresses really being glittery.

Anyway, I decided to see if I could dig up a picture from each dance for each of my four years of high school. I sort of feel displaced from them now, but it’s intriguing to try to relive it all.

9th Grade, Semi-Formal, Age 14, Derrick

10th Grade, Dinner Dance, Age 15, Derrick

11th Grade, Junior Prom, Age 16, Phil

12th Grade, Senior Prom, Age 17, Dan

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We’re finally wired!

The cable and internet guys came earlier yesterday afternoon and left no less than three hours later. Apparently, all of our wires were bad. They shut down the main street in front of the apartment for a good 15 minutes to do whatever it is they do to the pole across the street. The best part? It was very soon after the schools let out. Buses full of children were halted until our cable was good and ready. Drivers cursed aloud, and many a child was late in coming home from school so that I had the means to update this blog and watch South Park. It doesn’t get much better than that.

So, I’m taking this opportunity to post pictures of the new place. Come along with me!

One of the many things I was looking forward to upon moving out was uninhibited and unlimited bookshelf space. And if you look in the lower left corner, you’ll notice the boxes that hold the beautiful Tiffany’s necklace and matching bracelet that I received from a certain wonderful boyfriend for Christmas.

I don’t know how to play chess, but there’s always a board set up on the coffee table.

I was told that if I took the place, they would throw in a couple boys. I haven’t been able to get rid of them since.

The pig enjoys the waves of fluff on the massive bed.

My grandmother’s rocking chair, then my mother’s, and now mine. Kind of a scary thought. I’m almost afraid to sit in it, as it seems to come into possession by the women of my family soon before a child is produced.

And that is so not going to happen anytime soon.

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So remember when I used to post all the time? Those were the days.

Who knew that obtaining such a beautiful apartment would lead me to bills? Bills?! That, and I still don’t have internet at home. Come on, Friday!*

These professors at these tiny schools…pretty tough. Pretty tough.

And also, these professors? All quite wonderful. Especially a certain one they brought in from a larger, local university to teach our 7-person creative writing class. I’ve never wanted to write more in my life.**

Anyone see Click? Who knew it would have such a horribly sad ending? And such a funny little Asian boy?

How come it’s so difficult to find close female friends in a big ol’ city? Darn skeevy girls.

*The internet actually should’ve been here last Friday, except that I didn’t have the money to cover the insane installation fee.

**I guess that shows you how much I’ve been disregarding the website lately, which means I also have less time to read other happy things. Who’da thought I would actually have to study in undergrad? I haven’t studied like this since…9th grade. 6th grade? Did I ever study?

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At my last two universities, which were both (of course) co-ed, I woke up and, without even glancing in a mirror, went to class. Why am I more compelled to look pretty on a campus full of (only) girls?

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I feel I should write, if only to get the pictures of the damn cat out of the way, even if I don’t have the opportunity, at this time, to be as thorough as I need to be.

I’ve made quite a transition.

In late December, I applied to a very private college located right in my city. Mind you, this would be my second transition to another university in the three years I’ve been a student. Upon meeting my creative writing professor for the first time last night, she appropriately labeled me a gypsie.

Anyway, I was accepted, sent in some of my more formal writing, and was awarded a scholarship.

On the day of orientation, I expected what I had witnessed at my last two universities – signs of welcome and hundreds, if not thousands, of undergraduates carrying printed plastic bags and scurrying back and forth to different stations set up for financial aid, athletics, academics, etc.

I was hard pressed to find one person on my new campus. The driveway to campus led past trees and mansions and large, grassy fields. I parked and walked, searching for anyone. I finally ran into a girl who directed me to the opposite end of campus.

Long story short, I found the building, and the room, and the twelve other girls there for orientation. Twelve. Which says a lot about the total enrollment.

We were then served a catered lunch (the were four forks! Four!), and the president of the college came in and talked to us all together and individually. At my table, there was a girl from India, one from Africa, one from Iraq, and a tiny little blonde from Texas who spoke with such a deep southern drawl that I was having more trouble understanding her than the Indian girl. And the boys? No boys. None. This same institution was at one time, for the years following its openning, designed to provide an education for girls similar to that of boys of the time, while also providing training on becoming a proper wife.

Of course, the wifery aspect has since been dropped, but I can’t help but feel like I am living Mona Lisa Smile.

Following the dinner, we were each handed tablet PC’s in carrying cases complete with the school’s embroidered emblem.

The whole time, I was thinking, where the hell am I? I dreaded orientations. But this? This was a vacation.

My meeting with my advisor and my first day of classes are stories all their own. That, in addition to the fact that I’ve moved into what’s probably the most beautiful apartment in the city.

Appropriate for the first week of a new year.

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