The Spartan Sweetheart

Though I complain about school a lot, I really do love learning.

However, the things I’m interested in and the things professors want to teach me couldn’t be more different.

Right now, I should be reading Act III of Othello and working on my five-to-six paragraph biography for the J-School Awards Convocation. Instead, I am watching a child beauty pageant documentary on Youtube and debating a trip to QD for a frozen snickers bar.

I spent last week prepping essay questions for two exams on state and national politics. (I have been acing these classes using my knowledge from CNS, The West Wing and hours of Meridian Township Planning Commission meetings.) In my AMS class, we’re learning how advertising affects our brains. (My knowledge on this subject comes from two seasons of “Mad Men” and living with Diedra for three years.) In Shakespeare, we read a play every week. (Most of my Shakespeare knowledge comes from Shakespeare, but I’m not gonna lie - a bit comes in the form of Mr. Feeny from Boy Meets World.)

Thanks to the internet, I’m free to educate myself on any topic I like. And my favorite learning experiences are those that make me feel confused, appalled and uncomfortable:

Child beauty pageants, military wives/girlfriends, the purity movement, and rich housewives.

Sara has dubbed my interests, “Aspects of Womanhood I Don’t Understand.” And I think if I had to teach a class, that’d be a good name for the course.

When I say “womanhood,” I don’t mean actual womanhood. I don’t mean the womanhood of myself or anyone I actually know. I am not close friends with any pageant queens, rich housewives, overzealous army girlfriends, or virgins who are virgins for religious reasons. When I define womanhood I think of my friends and housemates: powerful, strong, funny people who are going to run the world someday. And I think it’s because I know so many remarkable women that I find these cultural trappings of “femininity” so fascinating.

Womanhood 101

Embedding for the video has been disabled, but check out all of “Living Dolls” here.

Child Beauty Pageants

I’ve been watching Toddlers and Tiaras on TLC for months. I’ve seen every pageant documentary I can find on Youtube, and I’m always eager to learn what the former contestants are up to, now that they’ve outgrown their cuteness. My fave pageant documentary is “Living Dolls,” for the sheer creepiness of Leslie Butler and her gay dads, especially when gay dad #1 is prancing around demonstrating his new Pro-Am routine to a terrified four-year-old. And I’ll never forget the look of sadness and confusion on Swan Brooner’s face as her mom stuffs her into a “Holiday Barbie” look for the Winter Formalwear event.

This shit is epic because it involves three of my favorite things: big hair, the south and bitches. Pageants are full of bitches, especially the crazy moms trying to prove how much they love their daughters by hair spraying them to death and forcing the girls to don false teeth/nails/eyelashes. It’s a strange world to watch, especially for a girl whose mom refused to put blush on her for her kindergarten dance recital. But that’s why I love it. Bitches be crazy.

Military Wives/Girlfriends

Before I go on with this, let me add the disclaimer that I have no issue with people who choose to date someone in the military, as long as it’s not your entire life. I have a few friends who are dating/have dated military dudes, and these friends have managed to retain their own identity while doing so. However, there are a lot of people out there who think that dating a serviceman means they are forever branded as a “Marine’s Girl,” “Air Force Wifey” or “Army Sweetheart.” There are hundreds, if not thousands, of web sites and Facebook groups offering “support” to these women. If you’re ever bored, check out their forums. Shit’s weird. I hope I never feel the need to add photos, blinking crap and anniversary dates to the end of my e-mails.

I think it’s great that you want to talk to other people whose boyfriends/husbands are deployed. It’s a scary and tough time, and god knows, I have no right to judge that. It’s the culture that leads to the “LACY AND TOMMY FOREVER!!!!! 5-28-08 TTC OUR FIRST ARMY BRAT!! <3<3<3″ shit that I have a problem with. If you love someone, why do you need to declare it to the internet? Also: are their web sites devoted to guys whose girlfriends are part of the military? Do they need sparkles and *support groups* for their lives? Yeah, I didn’t think so. You’re not his property.

Once again, embedding disabled, but check out a clip here.

The Purity Movement

I’ve already talked about my disgust with the purity movement, but let me reiterate that I find the idea of promising your hymen to Jesus and Your Daddy to be just a bit creepy. Again, I’m fascinated by the issues of sexism and identity. Women are supposed to be “pure,” because heaven forbid we tempt the men or have control over our own sexuality. Virginity is seen as this way over-prized “gift” that we give our husbands. I don’t like the concept of my vag as a business transaction between my dad, God and my future husband. Hint: two out of those three do not belong anywhere near a conversation about my ladyparts.

I look at the girls in these documentaries, and I always wonder if their lives are somehow easier/happier because they don’t know any better. If they are so trusting of god, is it easy for them to just offer their problems to a higher power? Or are they more miserable, always questioning how their actions correlate with their beliefs? It’s a strange and forbidden world, and I can’t say I’m not intrigued when I see them doing their little ballroom dances in white dresses, as the fathers sign their daughters’ sexual futures away.

Rich Housewives

I should really amend this to include the idle rich in all their forms. One of my fave childhood shows was MTV’s Rich Girls, featuring Ali Hilfiger and Jaime Gleischer, two Upper East Side princesses whose lives were not unlike the families I dealt with at camp. In fact, I think half the reason I enjoyed my receptionist/secretary work at camp was the fact that I got to pry into rich people’s lives all the time. I’m totally entranced by the idea of Hamptons houses, black-tie benefits and the constant old money/new money debate. I love all the Real Housewives shows, as well as Millionaire Matchmaker and My Super Sweet Sixteen. Though I find most of the behavior tacky beyond belief, I can’t turn away.

I think it’s because, somewhere in my heart, I like the idea of social scandals and gossip and conniving to get what you want. Once you have money, you can do that shit full-time. I always thought I’d be an excellent courtier in the days of English Monarchs. (Hence my love for Anne Boleyn and all things Tudors.) And I think watching rich housewives bicker about society pages fulfills my inner Boleyn girl.

Happy Spring Break, East Lansing!

I celebrated by going thrifting in Ann Arbor. During my Sunday afternoon Value World clean-out, I purchased three amazing pieces of early 90s nostalgia.

First, I picked up my very own copy of “Girl Talk!” It’s the second edition (1990), which I awkwardly purchased from the way-too-cool-to-be-here hipster at the counter. It is just as gendered and ridiculous as I remember, with a pastel pink box, spinner cards filled with “wacky” dares, and a board decorated with what I can only assume they imagined as a superhot late 80s hunk (who actually looks super gay). I’m working on developing a more adult version of this classic (instead of taking a zit sticker for each completed dare, you take a shot), and should be posting a photo essay once I convince my friends and roommates to play with me.

Next, I found a book called “POP QUIZ!” (why is everything from the 90s so eXtreme and neon?). It’s a little trivia book filled with questions and answers about you favorite pop stars! Included in the book are NSync, Spice Girls, Hanson, Puff Daddy, Alanis Morisette, Aaron Carter, and (my personal 90s pop hero) Jewel. Sara and I attempted to answer the Spice Girls section, and only got 6/25 correct. Clearly, we need to go back to fifth grade.

But my best purchase by far was a 1999 “Love Stories” teen romance titled “The Dance.” I was intrigued by the 90s-tastic guys on the cover, and once I read about a quiz to determine if my crush was an ideal dance date, I was sold.

Inside photo to follow, once I get it off my camera phone.

“The Dance” is told in three parts, with each part focusing on a particular couple and how the big dance changes their relationship. The inner cover features the couples looking cozy in sweaters and knit hats. All the guys have gelled hair or floppy bowl cuts, and all the girls have some version of “The Rachel.” They all look at least 25.

The most lol-tastic thing about the book is the first page introducing “The Guys.” The descriptions are cringe-worthy, and written in that overenthusiastic, gushy, teen magazine way that adults think teenagers talk. (I have never actually heard a 12-year-old call someone “gorgeous.”)

Mason (gorgeous guy in gray sweater): Most Popular, Most Athletic. Most everything … except for Most in Love with his Girlfriend, the other half of the Class Couple …. his, um, date for the dance.

Michael (cutie in ski cap): As Class Clown, he asks his buddy Caroline (also Class Clown) to the big event as a gag. The whole night’s a joke, right? So why is she taking him so seriously?

Claude (the shy European): A foreign exchange student from Belgium, he’s flying home the morning after the dance. Which means tonight is his last chance to finally talk to the girl of his dreams.

“Chicks. They’re Complex.”

Part I: Mason and Erin

Erin is the tomboy-ish little sister of varsity basketball player Torin Scott (holy soap opera name, Susan Lucci!). In a desperate attempt to get with her brother’s bff, Mason Parker, Erin campaigns to be named Queen of the dance, knowing that Mason will win King and she will get to dance with him as a result. Besides his REDONKULOUS name, Mason sounds like Mr. Perfect, and I picture him looking a lot like Blaine, the techno-futuristic Ken Doll of the 90s:

Erin’s bff David teases her about wanting to be Queen, and notices that she becomes all tongue-tied and flaily when Mason Parker is around. Everyone really likes to use Mason Parker’s full name. Also, everyone really, REALLY likes sweaters. Erin is wearing a cable-knit sweater, Mason Parker is wearing an “oatmeal-colored” sweater and is described as “looking like he stepped out of a J-Crew catalogue.” Combined with all the sweaters on the cover, I can’t help but think of that episode of Felicity where Felicity’s roommate describing her life as “like Little House on the Prairie, but with more sweaters.”

Mason Parker has also, apparently, been noticing Erin for reasons that are only there to further the plot. He’s known her for years but has suddenly decided that she’s super hot. However, he’s been dating classic young adult popular bimbo/villain/cheerleader Cecily Vaughn for three months, and they’ve just been named “Class Couple,” so he is hesitant to break up with her. Mason Parker, when taunted about wanting to end it with the Hottest Girl in School, says, “there’s more to a girl than her looks.” What 17-year-old boy believes this? I think he must, like Blaine, have plastic genitals.

Before the dance, Erin talks with Torin (what were their parents ON when they named their son?!?), where he reveals that he’s always known about Erin’s crush on his bff. When they’re done getting ready for the dance, Erin and Torin pose for pictures together. What about their dates? I guess they don’t warrant a picture or plot development.

At the dance, Erin and David go around bribing people for votes. Because she’s a lowly sophomore, and going up against Mason Parker’s girlfriend Cecily, who is a senior and the most popular girl ever. Erin promises to do a lot of things for people (sadly, no sexual favors) if they will vote for her as Queen. I think Erin is a bit pathetic, but I’m not sure the girl who once lied about where she lived for three months so someone would have to drive her home is really qualified to judge.

Mason Parker notices Erin, and Erin notices Mason Parker. Each wants to approach the other, but doesn’t. After Mason Parker hears that Erin is being a whore for votes, he thinks she must be a popularity-obsessed bimbo like Cecily, and begins to question his interest in her. He is mean to her when the two meet up at the ballot box, and basically tells her that she isn’t as awesome/different as he thought she was. If he’s known her for years as his bff’s little sister, wouldn’t he know better by now? Why are you such a bitch, Mason Parker?

Mason Parker is crowned King of the Dance, which I am hoping is nothing like Lord of the Dance. Although, at least Mason Parker’s junk wouldn’t be flying around in those little tights, since we’ve already established that his sugar lumps are made out of molded Mattel plastic. Cecily Vaughn is announced as Queen, and Erin is crushed. She watches Cecily and Mason Parke dance together.

However, during their dance, Mason Parker tells Cecily that he doesn’t want to go out with her anymore. Cecily tells him she’s glad, since she’s actually interested in Torin. They agree to “just be friends,” but since one of Mason Parker’s problems with her was that they had no real intellectual connection, I am skeptical of this plan.

Erin’s bff David saves the day by going up to Mason Parker, explaining (I actually typed “sexplaining” at first. Freudian slip?) that Erin really does like him and that she’s not shallow, she just wanted to dance with him. David is a good friend, and if he’s not gay, Erin should choose him instead. Although he’s obviously nothing compared to the tousled-hair joys of Mason Parker, he seems like a pretty decent guy. Mason Parker is all shocked that Erin likes him, and when he asks David why she didn’t make a move, David replies, “Chicks. They’re complex.”

OK David, maybe you’re a douche after all.

Mason Parker thanks David for this healthy dose of sexism, and goes off to find Erin.

After the crowning ceremony, everyone starts demanding that Erin do all the favors she promised. Although she stooped to bribery, she forgot to say that the offers were null and void if she didn’t win. Erin fails at being shady.

However, just as two guys are pestering her, Mason Parker shows up and offers to do one guy’s Spanish homework if Erin bakes the other guy cupcakes (o hai gender roles!). Erin is touched (because she’s a freak with no self worth). Mason Parker tells her she didn’t have to go to all that trouble just to get him to dance with her, and they finally dance. They kiss, and their story ends.

SUPER BONUS FUNFACTS!

The band playing at the dance is called “Xenophobic Linguistics.” Deep. Like, “Mad Libs” deep.

According to Mason Parker, Torin once forbade Erin to watch “Party of Five” after he heard her talking about kissing. Wasn’t “Party of Five” the show with Matthew Fox aka Jears McCrybaby on LOST?

Teen Product Placement: Erin uses Pantene shampoo. I remember hearing a lot of those ads growing up. “For hair so healthy it shines!”

I like to think I’m intelligent.

I was on the Honor Roll in high school, I came to MSU with 22 Advanced Placement credits. In college, I’ve managed to maintain a decent GPA while juggling a job, an internship and a social life. (Except for that whole debacle where I failed Constitutional Law, but that’s another story.) Everyone I know is insanely smart, talented and successful. My entire house is a testament to the future teachers, techies and politicians of the world.

But there’s one area where I have to admit ignorance.

And sometimes…it’s really embarrassing.

I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about animals.

I don’t know where I was when all this animal knowledge was passed along. I assume I was off doing something Star Wars-related, or reading, since that’s what 90 percent of my childhood and early adolescence was about. Maybe I should have watched more cartoons starring animals as characters, but I wasn’t into anything that wasn’t about princesses or women in general. If it had boys, machines or animals…I didn’t care. Maybe that explains my love for trashy semi-historical fiction, movies and television.

Perhaps, this knowledge was passed along the same day as the class on vampires that I also apparently missed. (In my “Gender and Pop Culture” class, my prof. asked how you kill a vampire. And I was prepared to answer! Good thing I got that vamp education after all.)

I wasn’t aware of my animal ignorance until ninth grade, when my best friend Emily and I were passing notes and reading science fiction behind our textbooks in “Career Preparation and Exploration” class. This particular part of the Saline High School curriculum involved a health/sex ed segment where we had to go around having “cup sex,” which involved everyone having to pour special color-changing liquid from their cup into other people’s cups to show how easily you can get AIDS/have sex/get pregnant and die. (Luckily I was still mature about sex and determined to take this educational lesson very seriously, or I would’ve actually enjoyed asking people to mix their fluids with mine. Instead, it was just profoundly awkward in the way that 14-year-olds are profoundly awkward and resulted in a lot of homosexual cup sex since we were all way too afraid to ask men if they would do some hot n’ heavy pouring.)

Anyway, this particular health class, we were passing notes back and forth and insulting one another for the hell of it. When the note came back to me, I remembered a wonderful piece of trivia our marching band instructor passed on that morning: an ostrich’s eye is as big as its brain. So I wrote, “Your brain is the size of an ostrich’s.” Then I proceeded to draw a picture of an ostrich, looking something like this:

It wasn’t long before I got the following note back:

“OSTRICHES DO NOT HAVE FOUR LEGS, YOU MORON!”

So that’s how I learned that lesson.

Another time, my mother and sister and I were playing Pictionary with our family friends. My mom’s best friend Lynne is an art teacher, my mother is a former art teacher, my sister is an artist and she’s been drawing with Lynne’s daughter Mina since they were five. (Seriously, one of them draws a line and the other immediately knows what it’s going to be. It’s super creepy.) I drew what was supposed to be a jaguar and heard all the artists in the room ask if it was a dog, lizard or some bizarre dinosaur-Chester Cheetah hybrid.

When I failed to make my team guess the correct animal, my mom and sister looked at the card, busted up laughing, and said, in unison, “JAGUARS DON’T HAVE SHORT LEGS AND NECKS LIKE HORSES, YOU MORON.”

This summer, during my last night on Mackinac Island for my summer internship, my friends and I were out drinking and decided to get special expensive ice cream drinks. The drinks consisted of lots of booze, lots of ice cream and various toppings. They were named after different places on the Island, and my friend Alex decided to get one called “The Great Turtle.”

“Why do you think it’s called ‘The Great Turtle’?” I asked. (I was barely tipsy at this point.)

“Because turtles have nuts in them,” Alex responded confidently.

I sat there dumbfounded before the questions started pouring out of me.

“Wait…how does THAT work?”

“Exactly where is the nut? Is it inside their shells?”

“Is it all green and wrinkly and smelly, because that’s what I’m picturing.”

My friends just looked at me like I was insane.

Finally, Alex said, “TURTLES LIKE THE CANDY, YOU MORON!”

“Oh.”

Alright, so I clearly wouldn’t pass biology class, but animals are just weird. How is everyone aware of the fact that dogs don’t sweat? Or that foxes are carnivores? Did everyone but me get those Zoobooks magazines and start acquiring biological knowledge while I was out pretending to be Catherine Zeta-Jones in “The Mask of Zorro?”

The only thing I learned about animals in school was during our unit on spiders in first grade. I made a big picture for our class book that said, “The female Black Widow spider devours its mate.”

Valentine’s Day might be over, but as Fabio points out, “it’s always time for romance!”

Here are three things I’m laughing at this week:

“When you want something done right, it’s best to do it yourself. And that includes asking girls out on dates!”

Photo Courtesy of the Fabulous Robin @ The Dairi Burger.

I don’t know how many of you children of the late 80s/early 90s remember “Girl Talk,” but for those who don’t know: it’s the single greatest tween board game ever made. “Girl Talk” challenges you to embarrass yourself by calling cute boys (I’m picturing my 6th grade crush with his bowl haircut and flannel shirt) and doing “dares” requiring you to apply lipstick while wearing a blindfold.

In this version of “Girl Talk,” your objective is to match up guys and girls (o hai hetero-normative society) and get them to go on dates. You put the little cards in the tape recorder, and the guy or girl asks the other on a date, resulting in a match or a fail.

Luckily for me, someone made an mp3 of all the rejections…and they are amazing. I will never again feel bad about myself after hearing Tracy’s friends turn down guys with excuses like “I’m washing my hair.”

“I’m a real man. With real feelings! Be my countess! My lover!”

Is Fabio ever NOT hilarious? This video seriously makes my life. I might be depressed or stressed out or incredibly exhausted, but every time I see Fabio with his blazer and no shirt, claiming to have the secrets to every woman’s fantasy….I can’t help but crack the hell up.

The best moment, though, is at the end when the 80s-tastic woman is all skeptical about Fabio being a figment of her imagination and, when asked what she’s going to do with him, he goes, “Anything. Absolutely anything you want….” Gross. What a smarmasaur.

“It’s like Legos.”

Diedra and I have made an Olympic sport out of making fun of the purity movement. So when “17 kids and Counting” came on, we couldn’t turn away. The Duggars are our favorite overly fertile fundamentalist Christians, so when the “A Very Duggar Wedding” special aired, we, like JimBob and Michelle, suddenly felt blessed by Jesus himself.

The crowning moment of “17 Kids and Counting” was during the wedding, when JimBob is explaining sex to his son Josh, who is getting married to a girl he has never even kissed. “You’ll figure it out,” he says. “It’s like Legos.”

I envision the world’s most awkward wedding night.

TLC has some ridiculous programming choices these days. It’s like the family freak show all the time. (Not that I’m complaining, I love freaks!) Between “Jon and Kate Plus Eight” and “Toddlers and Tiaras,” TLC is rapidly vying for my roommate appalling/TV-viewing time. I was disheartened to hear that “Toddlers and Tiaras” is on at the same time as “Real Housewives of New York City.” How ever SHALL I pick between my bff Luann and overly-made-up Southern children who just want to go to the snake farm?

BONUS: If you need more time for romance in your life, or if you’re just a stalker, follow me on twitter at sprtnsweetheart!

My friend Bunny IMed me last week with a link to fmylife.com. Accompanying the link were the words, “I saw this and thought of you!”

Roommates Diedra and Noel are forever sending me things they think I will enjoy, ranging from the latest LOST spoilers to ridiculous 1980s instructional videos to photos of White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel. Consequently, I appreciate all these things, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder how people get my name mixed up with their latest internet oddity.

There are some things that people just expect me to know. Like they lyrics to The Lonely Island’s latest comedic hit, or the latest infomercial products like Snuggie and ShamWow. My “Gender and Pop Culture” professor learned my name in under two weeks thanks to the fact that I’ve seen every dorky movie/TV show on our syllabus.

Take this conversation I had with next door neighbor Kevin:

Me: The Naked Cowboy isn’t naked. He wears underwear. They’re briefs that say, “GO USA” on the ass……don’t ask me how I know that.

Kevin: OF COURSE you know that! God, have you even MET you?!?!

In a way, I’m flattered that people see something horrifying/sexual/immature and think of me. I was thrilled to receive multiple Indiana Jones hats as Facebook gifts when “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” came out.

However, there’s one particular group that thinks they have something I want, when in reality, I want NOTHING, and I mean NOTHING, to do with what they’re offering.

I’m attracting the wrong type of guys.

Generally, the guys I meet in bars are your typical bros/douchebags who fail my father’s childhood test by not having a job or a car. The last time someone hit on me at The Riv, he used the line, “I’m sorry I’m not better looking.” Um…I’m sorry too? Is there an appropriate response to this? What exactly is he hoping to gain from this particular apology? “You’re super hot! Let’s Bang?!?” Wait, never mind, I’m on to his devious scheme now!

But the guys I meet outside of the bars are actually so much worse.

They think they’re sensitive.

The guys who are into me are convinced that they are in fact the deepest souls on the planet. They have goatees and take philosophy courses and label themselves “Independent” or “Classically Conservative” on the political spectrum. They wear old-fashioned hats or those leather necklaces with mystic metal charms in the center. Former “Magic: The Gathering” players, they now spend the majority of their time collecting their radical and original thoughts on their much-coveted Livejournals. They like cats better than dogs, and sometimes smoke a pipe because they think it makes them look hip. They label themselves sarcastic, when really they’re just awkward assholes who don’t know how to crack a joke without making everybody in the room uncomfortable.

This particular breed of guy likes me because they think I’m feisty and original. They think all they need to do to win my heart is convince me to read their latest blogging rant on the keg party lifestyle. They’re intrigued by my relative inexperience, and see our “relationship” as a teaching opportunity wherein they can show me the ways of a true gentlemen. Our initial conversations usually go something like this:

Him: Well, you know I dabble in writing a bit myself.

Me: Oh really? Where can I read your work?

Him: I do my best philosophical work on my Livejournal.

It’s not that I’m anti-Livejournal. I have one. I angst in it sometimes when I don’t feel like being public with my feelings. I’m a member of a “Sweet Valley High” recap community that I adore, and I wouldn’t get my celebrity gossip fix without OhNoTheyDidnt. LJ is fun, and I’m glad people have fun with it. But if you want to get in my pants, do not, under any circumstances, ask me to read your Livejournal.

I hate to break it to you: but I’m not interested in reading the inner workings of your mind. Half of my fun is trying to figure out if you like me or not, and having a free, all-access, “all creepers, all the time” pass to your thoughts is, well…it’s just too easy. I like the chase, the questioning, the game of avoiding a direct declaration of feelings. I like to entertain an idea for a very long time before accepting it, and I can’t do that if you declare your intentions to win my heart over the internet. I’m convinced the man I end up with will be the one who convinces me that it was all my idea to get together in the first place.

I love writers. If I ever get married, I know he’ll be a writer, and probably a journalist, because if we get sick of talking about each other, we can always return to our other favorite subject: talking about ourselves. If you have a column or a novel or a legitimate blog where you post funny and topical observations- great. Send it my way. Just make sure the writing’s good because there’s nothing worse than crushing on a guy and discovering that he’s in fact a shitty writer. (I learned that the hard way, and it’s a total boner-killer.) But don’t send me your jumbled-up collection of thoughts on “society” and “women” because trust me, it does the exact opposite of turning me on.

The guys I’m attracting always have lofty ideas about “women.” They always call them “women,” and will perhaps list them as such on Facebook. If you ever spot a guy with “women” in his Facebook interests, I can guarantee you he has a Livejournal, a goatee and a fedora that are just calling your name. These guys always think I’m going to change the way they look at “women.” They’re always feeding me bullshit like, “But you are different from the other women!” and “You are the exemplary of my ideal woman!” No, no, no. I am not some creepy specimen that you examined in your no-doubt extensive butterfly collection. Don’t lift me up to a magnifying glass, calling out, “Hey look! This one’s DIFFERENT!” Of course I’m different from all the other women, jackass. Every woman is different. If you think any other way then you’re never going to get the “women” to share a coffee and some Nietzsche with you.

I am not the answer to your ironic t-shirted prayers. I am not going to save you from yourself and your “deep” thoughts, and I’m certainly not running away from society to join you in your little pseudo-Thoreau cabin, complete with wireless internet so you won’t miss the daily update of your favorite web comics. What I need you to do is get off Livejournal, put down the cigar, get your pasty self outside, and give yourself a nice kick in the ass. You’re not a special and unique snowflake.

I’m not sure how these guys find me, but I am sure that they always will. They’ve been following me around since high school, and I’ll probably keep running into them until I’m 95 years old in the nursing home. The attendants will have to talk me down from bludgeoning my fellow patient to death with a kleenex box. “He just wants to show you his Livejournal!” they’ll cry, as I stand, tissue box in hand, prepared to defend myself in the land of the bitter, the pretentious and the sarcastic.

I’m not dead. Just busy, confused and uncreative. But I can promise you updates in the very, very, very near future.

Topics will include:

- The disturbingly large number of people who visit my blog looking for the lyrics to “Hit that bitch with a bottle.”

- Do It Anyway: the senior’s philosophy on life.

- J-School withdrawal and the consequences

- Lol-worthy romance links

- Nerd Valentines

Get excited!

I always hoped for the day I’d be hastily putting my clothes back on in a secluded part of Comm Arts.

I didn’t think it would happen like this.

I had a job interview on Thursday afternoon. This interview, like most coordinated by the J-School, happened to be on the third floor of Comm Arts. I had work at 8:00, class at 10:20, and then planned to spend the rest of my day in the CNS newsroom, making phone calls and writing my weekly article.

When I woke up, I decided there was no way I was squeezing my tired, bloated ass into a skirt, sweater, collared shirt, heels, pantyhose, and “scary stomach-holding-in panties” a la Bridget Jones. Instead, I opted to wear my favorite pair of camp sweatpants (they were free, as were about 90 percent of my working out/sleeping/lounging clothes) with writing on the butt and a Spartan Edge t-shirt from sophomore year. I took along my dressy outfit, figuring I’d have plenty of time between class and the interview to change, primp, pace the halls, etc.

Everything went off without a hitch, until I finished class and journeyed upstairs to the CNS office to make phone calls. I looked around at our comfy, worn, windowless newsroom and thought, “I could just change here. No running to the bathroom, no trying to put on pantyhose without falling in the toilet, no worrying about what kinds of disease my feet will acquire while they lie naked and defenseless on the tile floor between shoe changes. It’ll be great.”

I should have known better.

Since I was in possession of the only key (besides the one belonging to the assistant bureau chief, who I figured would just laugh if she somehow decided to come in while I was half-dressed), I thought I was safe. I locked the door, and pulled the trash can in front of it, just to be safe. I considered the idea of a hidden surveillance camera, but decided to risk it. If you want to sell footage of me attempting to put on business attire on the internet…whatever. I’m sure there’s a market for “tired, disgruntled journalism students who can’t put on pantyhose without ripping them.”

I managed to change my shirt before I heard a scuffling at the door. Clad in a formal white button-down, black bra, and the infamous camp sweats, I rushed to the door. Outside was a tech guy, attempting to get in.

“Um…hi,” I said. I was caught! And I had that “I was just naked” look on my face — the kind you can’t wipe off. My hair was messed up, I wasn’t wearing shoes, and my clothes didn’t match. And judging from the look he gave me, he knew what I’d been up to.

“I have to fix this router…right now!” he said eagerly. It briefly crossed my mind that this is how porn usually starts, but since I wasn’t feeling particularly Jenna Jameson at that moment, I simply picked up most of my belongings (clothes were strewn EVERYWHERE, so this was particularly awkward and telling) and made my way to the bathroom.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to the tech guy.

While dressing in the bathroom, I noticed something horrible. My skirt was missing. I looked all around, dug through my bag multiple times, even retraced my path to the bathroom, but nothing. A slow and terrible realization crept over me. I’d left my skirt lying on top of one of the computers in the newsroom.

With all the dignity I could muster, I went back to get it. But not before waiting at least fifteen minutes to make sure tech guy was gone. The last thing I needed was to run into him again. “I was just getting my skirt,” I’d have to say. “I don’t usually undress here. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Luckily, he was gone when I got back. I briefly pondered just putting the skirt on in the newsroom, but decided not to chance it. God knows, the next time I attempted to get naked in the newsroom, my editor would walk in with half the J-school staff. Although he was in Turkey for a human rights conference at the time, I wasn’t going to test my luck.

Just as I finished getting properly dressed, I called my friend Laura to tell her this hilarious anecdote. Since she happened to be in the building, I told her to come by and hear the story in person. As I was relating my naked adventures, the tech guy CAME BACK, just as I was saying, “and then I opened the door, and he was right there! And I was so obviously changing!” So…if he didn’t know I was nearly naked the first time, he definitely knew now.

So that’s the story of how I had my own episode of “Naked News.” As I was relating this story to Sara, we both remembered the time last year when I left my underwear in the hallway all night. (If you recall, I had gotten home from the bar at 2 a.m. and I reeked of cigarette smoke. Too tired and drunk to get up, I had waited until 5 a.m. to shower, and then changed my clothes in the shower stall. On my way back from the shower, I dropped my purple and green-patterned panties in the hallway and didn’t realize it until I heard my nextdoor neighbor’s dad laughing about it on my way to lunch the next morning.)

Sadly, I can never have a secret identity. I’d probably leave my cape in the telephone booth after changing into Super Diane.

I’m never getting naked outside my house again.

This is a piece I wrote for MadHouse last week. Some of it’s recycled from previous posts/stories, but some of it is new. Enjoy!

Get your creep on

“I can help!”

The words, cheerily emblazoned on the white plastic name tag, hung precariously close to my chest, barely contained by the red pique polo shirt that made my skin break out in hives.

A more appropriate slogan would have been, “Hit on me! I’m totally receptive to your glassy-eyed leering and creepy come-ons.”

I worked the jewelry counter at Meijer the summer after graduation.

Though the job didn’t do much in the way of teaching me real life skills, it did show me how to arrange fake gold chains.

More importantly, it introduced me to creepers.

One day, in between rounds of fixing my hair in the many reflective surfaces, I noticed a short, over-muscled white guy swagger up to the counter. He sported sunglasses indoors, even though it was raining, as well as several gold chains, a nose stud, a do-rag, a backward baseball hat and baggy jeans. But the crowning glory was his t-shirt. The shirt featured a large clock face, where, in lieu of numbers, were pictures of devils having sex in various improbable positions. It said something like, “I’m horny ALL the time in Cancun!”

“Hey, girl,” he mumbled as he sauntered up to my counter.
He proceeded to buy yet another gold chain, and as I was ringing it up at the register, I saw him eyeing me.

him: (glancing, I hope, at my name tag. He was probably just looking at my chest.) So Diane, you got a man?

If you get nothing else out of this blog, let me tell you one thing: the answer to this question is ALWAYS yes, and he is a professional wrestler and VERY jealous.

me: no.

him: Well good. Cuz I’d like to get yo’ number.

me: um…I don’t think so.

him: Why not, beautiful?

me: Well I’m leaving for school in two weeks. (I was trying to be polite. It was a legitimate excuse.)

him: That’s ok I take you out befo’ you leave.

me: Actually I have someone else in mind, sorry.

him: Ok, ok, it’s all good. (loooong awkward pause) Are you intimidated by my thug appeal?
I don’t remember what I said then. I was too busy trying not to break out in Steve Urkell-style snort laughter. He swaggered away, finally, gold chain in hand.

Thug Appeal? Was he serious? Now growing up in Saline, Michigan, I’m not exactly at one with the ‘hood, but I thought thugs were supposed to be smooth brothers, or at least really tough looking, like 50 cent. I’m sure 50 cent doesn’t have to assert his ‘thug appeal’ when he talks to the ladies.
And at the very least, he could have attempted to talk to me before just randomly asking for my number. Maybe if he’d introduced himself or tried to make small talk, he might have been slower to be rejected. Did he honestly think that his mere presence for the five minutes it required to purchase the chain would turn me into a drooling puddle of lust, eager to get a piece of that do-rag?

And if you are going to hit on a girl, don’t wear your sex position t-shirt.

Creepers, sketchballs, shadesters. It doesn’t matter what you call them. They’re everywhere. As far as I can tell, they’re not going anywhere soon.

And somehow, they always find me.

I think I’m a magnet for creepers. I can’t help it. It’s probably genetic. I was born pale, brunette and feisty. This makes me a magnet for every wannabe “sarcastic” guy with a black t-shirt reading, “your village called, they want their idiot back.” These are usually the kinds of guys you find sitting in the backs of classrooms, talking about government conspiracies, laughing at their perceived superiority over the stupidity of mankind, or using e-bay to find the cheapest dragon chalices for their Dungeons and Dragons dinner wear sets.

These guys love me because I am mean. I’m straightforward, and I don’t sugar coat. My motto is, “it’s OK to hate some bitches.” And unfortunately, creepers love this. Creepers think that all they have to do is swagger over, fight with me, and then melt my hostile exterior with a few choice lines such as, “it’s great that you’re such an ice queen.” They act bored and unimpressed with the world, throwing their feet up on tables like they’re trying desperately to be Han Solo when Luke and Obi Wan first encounter him at Mos Eisley Cantina. But their shoes are dirty, and their wallet chains graze the table, and it just doesn’t work.

I saw one of my most notorious creepers today while getting coffee. He’s so creepy I’ve actually attached “creepy” to his name. Seriously, every time I see him I think, “hey, there’s Creepy Bob.” He he used to write for the same online publication as me, it was unavoidable that we interact. Several times, I’ve almost called him Creepy Bob to his face. I’d try to find ways around saying his name, but there’s only so many times you can say, “you with the dagger necklace and goatee! Come help me rewrite this lead!”

My friends didn’t believe me that Creepy Bob was actually as creepy as I said, even after I told them the story about how he suggested I take off my shirt while we were working on a class project. For some reason, people never believe my stories, even after I have proved that I do, in fact, know that many freaks.

Finally, we ran into Creepy Bob at a Halloween party, where he was dressed as Hugh Hefner. He proceeded to hit on me and my roommate, who, after he ogled her breasts for a good ten minutes, finally pronounced that Creepy Bob was indeed, creepy.

Creepers are everywhere. One must always be on the lookout, especially after one has imbibed too many Long Islands and is now attempting to shake one’s thang on an overcrowded dance floor. The most common kind of dancing creeper employs the standard “grab you unsuspectingly and start grinding on you.” This is always alarming, because one second you’re doing the faux lesbian dance with your best friend, and the next thing you know, you’re playing for the other time.

Why do creepers do this? Are you a cave man? Can you do more than grunt and shake your package in my general direction? Is it too much to ask that you at least face me and approach with caution?

But even worse, is what I like to call the Sidling Creeper.

I encountered the rare and dangerous sidling creeper this summer at Mackinac Island’s Mustang Lounge. (Slogan: Hang at the Stang! I should have known better, since stang sounds like a horrible euphemism for penis, which was half the reason my friends wanted to go there in the first place. We didn’t get “hang at the stang” shirts like I wanted, but we did participate in some unwilling and unwarranted freak dancing.)

He started out standing behind us, just kind of bopping along to the music. I wasn’t paying attention to him, since he seemed to be chillin’ in the corner. But as more people flooded the dance floor, he sprung, or more like, creeped, into action.

Very, very slowly, he began invading my personal space. Then the second I felt my personal bubble constrict, he would move back to his corner. I would glance at him, and he’d act totally innocent, and continue doing some version of the robot where the robot has something very hot stuck to his groin. This slithering approach happened for a good half hour, and it just continued to confuse me.

What was he doing? And more importantly, just who does he think he’s doing it with?
If you’re going to thrust your pelvis in my general direction, I think I deserve to know about it. Dancing isn’t something you can do sneakily, and it’s certainly not an accident. You never hear someone say, “sorry I did the Soulja Boy with you last night, I totally didn’t mean to. I really don’t want to superman a ho, if you know what I mean.” If you want to grind with me, at least ask. If you can’t be bothered to get my permission before attempting to hump my backside, I suggest you buy a Real Doll.

Finally, the slinking creeper turned to me and said, “Since we’ve been dancing so close for a while, I’m Dave.” I promptly moved to the center of my friend circle for protection, like gazelles in the jungle when they realize the lion is closing in. My pack and I danced away from Slinking Dave as fast as our little hooves could carry us.

When dealing with creepers, or any guys in general, it’s best to follow my father’s advice. I have a weird uncle, as do most families. I’m finding they’re a pretty common breed. After every Weird Uncle stunt, such as being fired from another job or “losing his wallet on the golf course,” my dad would sit me and my sister down and give us some stern advice.

“Girls, if you have a boyfriend, he needs to have a job and a car,” he said.

We nodded.

“Now, repeat it back to me. What does your boyfriend need?”

“A job and a car,” we’d say, like little parrots of dating wisdom.

And as hokey as it seemed at the time, it’s advice I live by today. Because any guy can turn into a creeper if he starts mooching off you. And in the words of TLC, “A scrub is a guy who can’t get no love from me.”

And love is really the difference between creepers and those of us who have done creepy things. We’ve all stalked people on Facebook, or planned our schedules around a crush, or even lied about where we lived so the object of our desire will give us a ride home. Or wait, maybe that last one is just me.

Creepers aren’t after one particular person. They’re the “whatever I can get” people. And that’s what makes them truly terrifying.

I’ve been M.I.A. the last week or so, due to some unusual and awesome events.

Deciding to take one for the team, or “do it anyway,” as the rainbow-bedecked sign in our living room suggested, I got up at 6 a.m. to wait in line to see Barack Obama speak at Adams Field on Thursday. I skipped work, class, and had to scramble to finish an article before deadline. But when I stood (for seven hours in 40-degree weather) in the second row and shook Obama’s hand, it was all worth it.

A photographer from the Lansing State Journal decided to document this historic day. However, instead of photographing me holding a sign, cheering or even eating the apples we begged for after Kevin held up a “will vote for food” sign…my indelible moment looks more like this:

I’m “that girl” standing in the corner, looking like a nesting doll who ate a Russian refugee for breakfast. You can see a bit of Kevin’s shoe while I am tipping over in a mixture of hypothermia and laughter.

Sexy.

Moving on, I also auditioned for The Vagina Monologues this week. I won’t know if I have a part for a few weeks, but I’m crossing my fingers! It was a great experience regardless, and I’ll probably help out with advertising and PR if I don’t end up in the show. While auditioning, I got to do my best impersonation of that certain scene in When Harry met Sally. It was delightfully awkward and ridiculous, but when else would I have the opportunity to fake an orgasm in front of total strangers.

I’ve been working on numerous posts, and I haven’t really finished anything yet. I have, however, finally gotten a chance to catch up on “True Blood” over the weekend, so as consolation I can offer you a…

Super-mega-jumbo “True Blood” recap!

But I’ll have to offer it to you tomorrow.

Stay tuned for more ridiculousness. I’m not gone just…incredibly busy.

Or…Part II of my “True Blood” recap. Better known was, “God, why am I still watching this show?” Or, “I might love making fun of vampires more than I love baked potatoes.”

Before we start, let it be known that I asked my mom if she liked vampires or werewolves better, and she said werewolves. I hope she wouldn’t be a Jacob Black fangirl if Twilight existed in her time. I’d like to think that she wouldn’t have read it at all, but she does like Harry Potter, so all bets are off.

Anyhow, back to the dazzling show.

We last left Sookie getting her ass kicked by Mr. and Mrs. Trailer Trash. As they hit her in a billion damaging places, they make out. It’s gross.

WERE-PUPPY returns and tries to save the day! But since he’s, you know, a were-puppy, he fails spectacularly and ends up bounding off into the woods, whining like someone stepped on his tail. But fear not, for here comes Mr. Backlit, Pasty, Broody, Sketchy Hair Bill! Bill does that superfast vampire thing where he kills everyone in the vicinity in under ten seconds (except for his latest delicious morsel Sookie, of course.)

Back to Jason (Sookie’s brother, the huge whore who arrested for killing Maudette, his latest conquest). He’s at the police station, watching an awkward sex tape he made with Maudette. Apparently, the police only found this tape in the apartment, and not the tape Jason watched where Maudette is with the vampire. We see him doing Maudette, another image I will surely add to my collection of “things that cannot be unseen,” and then we see her pretend to stop breathing and Jason freaking out. After he leaves, terrified, thinking he accidentally choked her during sex, we see Maudette come “back to life” and start laughing at him.

The police, who are right up there with the Sweet Valley and Stoneybrooke police departments as far as competency goes, clear Jason of the crime, even though they can’t find evidence that a vampire actually killed Maudette. They come to the conclusion that Jason is too stupid. I would have to agree.

Meanwhile, in the swamp behind Merlotte’s, Sookie is in bad shape. Bill has dragged her by the water, but her injuries are grave (no pun intended). Since vampire blood restores human health and vitality, Bill hites his own arm at the artery and tells Sookie to (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP) “suck it if you want to live!!!!1!!1!”

All I can do, between trying to breathe while laughing so hard, is think of Michael Scott from The Office finding this the ideal moment to proclaim “…that’s what she said.”

Sookie asks if drinking from Bill will make her a vampire, and he says no, and while she is still skeptical, he makes her drink. Is this blood-drinking rape? I’m confused. I’m even more saddened that I had to ask this question. Good Lord.

Tara returns home from a shift at the bar, where she has now decided to work, even though it requires her to interact with stupid people on a daily basis. She asks Lafayette, her super gay cousin (the one who proclaimed the now famous, “everyone is scared of the pussy” line) to come and pick her up and take her to a party, because her alcoholic mom is passed out on the couch and her life is sad. I feel bad for Tara. She deserves better than …any of these people.

Jason, now a free man, decides to stop by and get a booty call from one of the Merlotte’s waitresses. He uses almost being framed for murder as an excuse to get ass. To quote Regina George from Mean Girls, “Jason, why are you such a skeeze?”

A recovering Sookie is telling Bill about her telepathy, and how awesome it is that she can’t hear his thoughts. Bill asks Sookie why she doesn’t date, and she says it’s because she can hear their pervy or just plain depressing musings. I can’t blame her. After a lot more staring into each other’s eyes (barf), Sookie says the vampire blood has cured her, and Bill sees her to her car.

We learn Bill was made a vampire in 1865, and he was in the civil war. I’m loling at his cliche description of being a solider. He even uses the phrase “our boys.” However, he does agree to speak to Sookie’s grandmother’s Civil War society, because it would make her happy. Bill asks her, “when may I call on you?” It’s sort of adorable. They agree to meet at her house tomorrow night.

The next day, Sookie is hanging out at her house, watching the news, where a Stereotypical Bible Belt Religious Figure is arguing with a vampire rights supporter. I wonder if the whole “vampire rights” thing will become a bigger issue later on? I don’t exactly see Bill as the marching in protest type, so we’ll see.

Sookie’s grandma informs her that a tornado touched down the night before, claiming Mr. and Mrs. Trailer Trash as its only victims. I’m wiling to bet that Tornado’s name was Bill.

Sookie investigates the devastated trailer, where she runs into the sheriff and the coroner. They tell her they suspect Bill, and she defends him as per usual.

When she returns home, her grandma is vacuuming in preparation for Bill’s visit. Grandma is a little shaken by Sookie’s seemingly intensified senses, after she waxes poetic about sausage and smells rotting food that turns out to be a crumb on the floor. I’m betting Sookie’s newly keen senses of taste and smell are related to drinking Bill’s blood.

At twilight, Bill arrives. Sookie has to invite him in, because (as I learned quite recently) vampires can’t enter a house uninvited. I wonder who first made up that rule and why? Is it because of the seduction element? That somehow, their victims are willing and show that by inviting the vampire into their home? Sookie’s grandma, Tara and Jason are all there to witness their awkward first date.

Finally, Bill suggests he and Sookie take a walk. Jason protests, but Grandma tells him to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up (only in nicer words, of course). It’s all delightfully and ridiculously Southern.

During their walk, Bill informs her he can “glamour” someone into agreeing to let him feed upon them. I think this might be similar to Robert Pattinson aka Edward Cullen’s “dazzle” in Twilight. (See the “do I dazzle you?” “Frequently.” conversation in the first book for giggle-inducing.) Bill tries to glamour dazzle Sookie, but she isn’t falling for it. I guess she’s smarter than Twilight’s Bella. Yay!

Bill tells Sookie that, because she has fed off him, they are now eternally connected. I think this is just an excuse for him to creep on her, to be honest.

We learn during some flashbacks that Sookie has always had problems with her telepathy. After she read her mom’s mind at a young age, a psychologist told the parents not to worry about it, but Sookie knew they were afraid of her. Both her parents were killed in a flash flood when she was eight.

Then, we have another classic Twilight moment, when Bill decides to sniff Sookie’s hair. They start to make out, but Bill’s fangs pop out, so they have to stop. I love that this always happens in vampire stories. It’s like premature ejaculation, but even more awkward.

The next day, Jason’s latest ho, the waitress who I finally learned is named Dawn, ties him to a bedpost and leaves him there while she goes to work. I have no idea what the point of that particular plot development was, only that I enjoyed it immensely. Jason’s too dumb to figure out what to do, so he just sits there all day. Awesome.

At work, Sookie is having trouble focusing, and ends up reading the minds of her coworkers. Sam reminds her to try and keep out of everyone’s brains, and then tries to hit on her by telling her to read his mind. Dear Mr. Were-Puppy, she’s just not that into you!

On one of the bar’s TVs, Sookie hears that the Southern Right Wing anti-vampire activist and his family have been killed. She suspects Bill, and drives over to his house (he’s living in “the old Compton place” down the street from her). She knocks on the door, and three super creepy vampires answer. They express interest in her apparently amazing-smelling blood. We leave our heroine on their doorstep, her fate unknown.

I know I’ll be watching/downloading the show this week! So stick around for more “True Blood” recaps, and other posting that don’t involve vampires.

Trivia: Bill’s license plate is FANGS 1, which reminds me of 1BRUCE1, the license plate of resident dickweed Bruce Patman of “Sweet Valley High.”