The below posts make me sound like a rage-filled, negative little shit, which I often am (otherwise how would I write this blog?) but I'd like to clarify that my friends are more amazing, funny, cool, charming, unique, interesting, and talented than I could ever ask for, and my life is pretty sweeeeet -- because of them and in spite of interference from "normal" people. Whoopie!
I'm off to hang out with some of them now.
April 10, 2010
People... people who bore people
Maybe you get the impression, reading this blog, that I'm not exactly like most people you might run into on a daily basis. Maybe I'm a little more neurotic, more observant, more narcissistic, more loquacious, more cynical. Maybe I have a unique perspective or even put new words and a new voice to things you've thought yourself. Or MAYBE if you don't have a good vocabulary or any sense of imagination, you'd describe me as "weird."
I was called weird in grade school, middle school, and high school. Then somewhere along the line, most people grew out of whispering behind my back about my "weirdness," and I guess I took that for granted because apparently I have to deal with it again now.
My boyfriend and I were having coffee on campus when we ran into a younger student from our program that he knows. He introduced us and we both said hello to each other before parting ways. The next day he heard from this student that she heard from other people in her year that I am "weird." Considering that I haven't even had a conversation with these jerks, I'm sort of pissed off about it.
1. Who meets someone's girlfriend and immediately turns around and calls her weird? I tend to associate that caliber of social ineptitude with autistic spectrum disorders and children under ten.
2. The individuals who are apparently referring to me as weird have, as far as I know, interacted with me one time. They crashed a party I hosted in my apartment, stood in the middle of the living room ignoring the other guests and drinking my liquor, and stared at me like deaf mutes when I smiled and greeted them. I guess I'm the strange one in that situation, but it's strange relative to the norm of inexplicable rudeness.
Thus, what I understand about the label "weird" is that I am a distinguishable personality from the indistinct mass of mounded flesh and Walmart clothing that makes up this group of students. I shouldn't feel offended, right? I should feel complimented that I'm not a boring, bland, uninteresting plebeian Ph.D student. But I'm still pissed off. If you're reading this, you lackluster potato-faced redshirts, why don't you kiss my ass? It's not my fault you put so much effort into being average that you didn't have time to develop a personality.
I was called weird in grade school, middle school, and high school. Then somewhere along the line, most people grew out of whispering behind my back about my "weirdness," and I guess I took that for granted because apparently I have to deal with it again now.
My boyfriend and I were having coffee on campus when we ran into a younger student from our program that he knows. He introduced us and we both said hello to each other before parting ways. The next day he heard from this student that she heard from other people in her year that I am "weird." Considering that I haven't even had a conversation with these jerks, I'm sort of pissed off about it.
1. Who meets someone's girlfriend and immediately turns around and calls her weird? I tend to associate that caliber of social ineptitude with autistic spectrum disorders and children under ten.
2. The individuals who are apparently referring to me as weird have, as far as I know, interacted with me one time. They crashed a party I hosted in my apartment, stood in the middle of the living room ignoring the other guests and drinking my liquor, and stared at me like deaf mutes when I smiled and greeted them. I guess I'm the strange one in that situation, but it's strange relative to the norm of inexplicable rudeness.
Thus, what I understand about the label "weird" is that I am a distinguishable personality from the indistinct mass of mounded flesh and Walmart clothing that makes up this group of students. I shouldn't feel offended, right? I should feel complimented that I'm not a boring, bland, uninteresting plebeian Ph.D student. But I'm still pissed off. If you're reading this, you lackluster potato-faced redshirts, why don't you kiss my ass? It's not my fault you put so much effort into being average that you didn't have time to develop a personality.
What can brown do for you?
NOT MUCH.
I had the most annoying experience with UPS this week. I ordered some bedding from Urban Outfitters and had to pay $10 for shipping. Urban Outfitters accidentally (?) omitted my apartment number on the shipping label, so when the package was delivered, they had to take it straight to the building office and leave it for me. Whatever incompetent debile working there at the time told them that I had moved out of the apartment complex and not left a forwarding address.
This baffles me, since I've been living here for two years and stop into that office all the time and make small talk with those ladies. Anyway, UPS had to take the package back and it experienced something called an "exception," which essentially means they are confused and plan to take actions that will completely inconvenience the intended recipient.
Instead of calling the phone number that I had associated with the billing and shipping address when I placed the order, UPS decided to call my parents' house. This, too, confuses me, because I'm not sure how they got the phone number. They reached my father, who couldn't imagine why I would be ordering anything off the internet and assumed UPS was some sort of scam artist targeting me and trying to squeeze my address out of him. He told them they would have to call me. They told him that I had to call their help line.
UPS's help line has one of those automated voice-recognition navigation systems employing a frustratingly peaceful woman's voice. You can choose from options like "track a package" and "send a package" and "shipping information," all of which require you to clearly state numbers and letters and words in a clear manner such that a robot can decipher your speech. So imagine me sitting at my desk in lab, running an experiment next to whirling and whizzing pumps and electrical equipment, enunciating a random stream of 8 billion numbers and letters into my phone, trying to maintain the emotional vigor of Al Gore. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you." Aaaaaand repeat.
This help line helped me learn that my "package has experienced an exception," and could I please "pick it up within 5 days at the UPS facility." What UPS facility? The one in my town? A quick phone call there told me that they only sold shipping materials and did not handle packages. In order to talk to a person, I had to play the old "I'm too stupid to use a phone" trick and nod mutely at the phone until a representative from customer service came on the line. Her advice? "Just go to the UPS facility to pick it up." WHAT UPS FACILITY? "The one nearest you."
After I extracted an address from this clueless peon, Google informed me that it was a 20 minute drive from my apartment. An hour of telephone runaround and 20 minutes of driving later, I had my stupid pillowcases. Thanks for nothing, UPS!
I had the most annoying experience with UPS this week. I ordered some bedding from Urban Outfitters and had to pay $10 for shipping. Urban Outfitters accidentally (?) omitted my apartment number on the shipping label, so when the package was delivered, they had to take it straight to the building office and leave it for me. Whatever incompetent debile working there at the time told them that I had moved out of the apartment complex and not left a forwarding address.
This baffles me, since I've been living here for two years and stop into that office all the time and make small talk with those ladies. Anyway, UPS had to take the package back and it experienced something called an "exception," which essentially means they are confused and plan to take actions that will completely inconvenience the intended recipient.
Instead of calling the phone number that I had associated with the billing and shipping address when I placed the order, UPS decided to call my parents' house. This, too, confuses me, because I'm not sure how they got the phone number. They reached my father, who couldn't imagine why I would be ordering anything off the internet and assumed UPS was some sort of scam artist targeting me and trying to squeeze my address out of him. He told them they would have to call me. They told him that I had to call their help line.
UPS's help line has one of those automated voice-recognition navigation systems employing a frustratingly peaceful woman's voice. You can choose from options like "track a package" and "send a package" and "shipping information," all of which require you to clearly state numbers and letters and words in a clear manner such that a robot can decipher your speech. So imagine me sitting at my desk in lab, running an experiment next to whirling and whizzing pumps and electrical equipment, enunciating a random stream of 8 billion numbers and letters into my phone, trying to maintain the emotional vigor of Al Gore. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you." Aaaaaand repeat.
This help line helped me learn that my "package has experienced an exception," and could I please "pick it up within 5 days at the UPS facility." What UPS facility? The one in my town? A quick phone call there told me that they only sold shipping materials and did not handle packages. In order to talk to a person, I had to play the old "I'm too stupid to use a phone" trick and nod mutely at the phone until a representative from customer service came on the line. Her advice? "Just go to the UPS facility to pick it up." WHAT UPS FACILITY? "The one nearest you."
After I extracted an address from this clueless peon, Google informed me that it was a 20 minute drive from my apartment. An hour of telephone runaround and 20 minutes of driving later, I had my stupid pillowcases. Thanks for nothing, UPS!
April 3, 2010
Apiphobia
I feel like I have often written about my fear of bees and wasps on this blog. This will not deter me from writing about it again today.
Several months ago, I was having recurrent nightmares about bees, which was odd because it was the middle of winter, and my apian nightmares typically don't start until spring. In my dreams, I returned home to find my bedroom infested with so many bees that they covered the wall like wallpaper, teeming on my bed and books, and streaming out of a gaping hole in the wall where they must have made their nest. The humming surrounded me, droning and and out of focus as I was charged with the task of blocking up the nest entrance myself with a clumsy, melting block of clay. All of my nightmares ended with me running from the bees, unable to escape the incessant buzzing as a dense cloud of insects followed me into oblivion.
Every morning I awoke exhausted and confused as to why my apiphobia was emerging so early in the year.
One night I awoke unexpectedly in the middle of a bee nightmare, and the terrifying hum of insects still penetrated my bedroom. In a panic, I patted my bedding and shook my head in case there were bees crawling in it. No? Then what was this humming sound?
I realized very quickly that it was my new upstairs neighbor, who is apparently insane, vacuuming at 3am. WHO VACUUMS AT 3AM!? Every night!? Needless to say, I don't have very much affection for my new neighbor. Actually, I despise her and her red-eye vacuuming, schizophrenic plant care schedule, and seemingly normal and pleasant interactions with me when we occasionally run into each other on the walkway. Anybody who makes me dream of bees is my instant and permanent enemy.
Keep that in mind, Jerry Seinfeld.
Several months ago, I was having recurrent nightmares about bees, which was odd because it was the middle of winter, and my apian nightmares typically don't start until spring. In my dreams, I returned home to find my bedroom infested with so many bees that they covered the wall like wallpaper, teeming on my bed and books, and streaming out of a gaping hole in the wall where they must have made their nest. The humming surrounded me, droning and and out of focus as I was charged with the task of blocking up the nest entrance myself with a clumsy, melting block of clay. All of my nightmares ended with me running from the bees, unable to escape the incessant buzzing as a dense cloud of insects followed me into oblivion.
Every morning I awoke exhausted and confused as to why my apiphobia was emerging so early in the year.
One night I awoke unexpectedly in the middle of a bee nightmare, and the terrifying hum of insects still penetrated my bedroom. In a panic, I patted my bedding and shook my head in case there were bees crawling in it. No? Then what was this humming sound?
I realized very quickly that it was my new upstairs neighbor, who is apparently insane, vacuuming at 3am. WHO VACUUMS AT 3AM!? Every night!? Needless to say, I don't have very much affection for my new neighbor. Actually, I despise her and her red-eye vacuuming, schizophrenic plant care schedule, and seemingly normal and pleasant interactions with me when we occasionally run into each other on the walkway. Anybody who makes me dream of bees is my instant and permanent enemy.
Keep that in mind, Jerry Seinfeld.
How To Neglect Your Blog
Greetings, strangers. I am a bad, bad blogger. I offer you this posting as a pittance and excuse for my long, long, long, long, long, long absence: How to neglect your (beloved) blog in 5 easy and sometimes enjoyable steps.
1. Become embroiled in ridiculous personal drama.
I didn't want to be tempted to write about it on the blog, and yet it was all-encompassing in real life so I had a hard time thinking about other things to write. Because time has given me space from my hysterical perspective on the entire situation, I will summarize it for you now: I dated a guy. I became extremely interested in his friend. Guy #1 got angry and told all my peers about my extreme personal details, making me extremely angry. Following this, there was a dramatic vacillation between taking the high road and gritty, soul-gnashing revenge for several weeks (months...?) until awesomeness of Guy#2 made me realize Guy #1 is totally irrelevant.
2. Develop a personal life.
... And by personal life I mean, have friends and a boyfriend. It's lame to say that I neglected my blog because I got a boyfriend. Really lame. I apologize. I am not one of those girls who only has interests in things until I'm not single anymore, I swear. But in my defense, I've also been going to a lot (a LOT) of rock concerts. So I come back to you a more experienced Elyse.
3. Become interested in other things.
In this case, it's been documentaries on Netflix (which I honestly could have been writing about, but would you really want to read it?), eco-conscious living, and my cat. I got a cat! Her name is Free Tibet Glasseater Twisby. I'm not really a crazy cat lady, but I have to say that she might be the best cat in the entire world.
4. Graduate school.
Need I say more? It exhausts me.
5. Be a lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, quasi-literate 24 year old.
Let's cut the crap. I'm a lazy little bitch. I sit around all weekend and overdose on documentaries, coffee, and emotional post-documentary crying spells. My only defense of this is that the documentaries give me emotional perspective, and the coffee keeps me from sleeping 15 hours a day. Okay? Okay?
Do you forgive me!?
1. Become embroiled in ridiculous personal drama.
I didn't want to be tempted to write about it on the blog, and yet it was all-encompassing in real life so I had a hard time thinking about other things to write. Because time has given me space from my hysterical perspective on the entire situation, I will summarize it for you now: I dated a guy. I became extremely interested in his friend. Guy #1 got angry and told all my peers about my extreme personal details, making me extremely angry. Following this, there was a dramatic vacillation between taking the high road and gritty, soul-gnashing revenge for several weeks (months...?) until awesomeness of Guy#2 made me realize Guy #1 is totally irrelevant.
2. Develop a personal life.
... And by personal life I mean, have friends and a boyfriend. It's lame to say that I neglected my blog because I got a boyfriend. Really lame. I apologize. I am not one of those girls who only has interests in things until I'm not single anymore, I swear. But in my defense, I've also been going to a lot (a LOT) of rock concerts. So I come back to you a more experienced Elyse.
3. Become interested in other things.
In this case, it's been documentaries on Netflix (which I honestly could have been writing about, but would you really want to read it?), eco-conscious living, and my cat. I got a cat! Her name is Free Tibet Glasseater Twisby. I'm not really a crazy cat lady, but I have to say that she might be the best cat in the entire world.
4. Graduate school.
Need I say more? It exhausts me.
5. Be a lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, quasi-literate 24 year old.
Let's cut the crap. I'm a lazy little bitch. I sit around all weekend and overdose on documentaries, coffee, and emotional post-documentary crying spells. My only defense of this is that the documentaries give me emotional perspective, and the coffee keeps me from sleeping 15 hours a day. Okay? Okay?
Do you forgive me!?
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