Caramel Frappucino Chicken Wings

Social norms are my favorite. They keep me safe from weird things happening, most the time. This was not the case yesterday. I was sitting in the lobby area of Jester waiting for class time. I was listening to some sweet jams, answering emails, and feeling really satisfied with my life.

Let me pause here to tell you folks what Jester is. Jester is the biggest dorm in the country. It's like a mall with rooms on the upper floors. There is a Starbuck's, a Wendy's, a Pizza Hut, you get it. It is CRAWLING with undergraduates in their Nike running shorts, Uggs, and t-shirts. There are tables everywhere of some cultural society trying to sell you cupcakes. I happen to have class in one of the few classrooms in this building.

So there I sit, watching the chaos swirl around me. I'm sitting on gray faux leather loveseat thing. There are approximately 34 other seats around me. Some close, some more than 20 feet away. There are 5 other people sitting all scattered around with a socially normal space in between them. One of them is carefully eating her sandwich and chips, making sure not to make too much noise or be gross. I appreciate her.

This girl walks into the seating area. She is carrying a take out tiny box that says pizza hut. I immediately think breadsticks. She is also carrying a Venti caramel frappucino. Gross. I think about how sad her glucose levels will be in 2 hours.

I've seen this girl before. She always sits here when I do but we've never talked.

And here enters the downward spiral of social norms. She passes the 28 open seats. And sits in the chair right next to me. She is now 7 inches from my ear. Now the spiral reaches the speed of sound. She opens her Pizza Hut box to reveal 8-12 honey BBQ chicken wings. The smell hits my face. And I feel queasy. "Ok, Alix. Take a deep breath. You are ok. They are just chicken wings."

Speed of light--she begins eating these chicken wings. Not politely like the sandwich girl. Her face is covered in sauce. She is eating these chicken wings like she is a fucking T-Rex. Then she morphs into a prehistoric creature and SUCKS ON THE BONE. Sucks on the bone with audible noises. And, so, naturally I dry heave. No one notices.

She takes a huge slurp of caramel frappucino. The cup has translucent bits of honey BBQ sauce mixing with condensation. It's too much. I can't live this way.

I pick up my bag. I move to the other seat. And, T-Rex gives me a dirty look and wipes her talon on the seat.

Really.

I have to make a shout out.

My dear friend Rachel introduced me to Hyberbole and a Half, the best blog EVER, written by Allie Brosh.

Why I'll Never Be an Adult captures exactly how I feel almost all the time.

Enjoy!

a lentil

Oh my gosh. A whole month without a blog entry. A sign of the times, I'm afraid. I have been SUPER busy with work, school, volunteering, and being a human.

I don't have too much to say.

This is my favorite new thing:





Enjoy :)

Focus, Floyd!

During sweaty yoga yesterday, the teacher was talking us through a particulary hard pose. She was asking us to control our thoughts of giving up. Tune out everything except our thoughts on breathing and balance. Practice self control. As sweated/rained onto my mat, I decided that I'm not very good at self-control.

All I could think about while this teacher was telling me to focus was what sort of pasta I was going to reward myself with. I was also hoping that the guy next to me wouldn't shake sweat on me again. I was thinking about how I didn't get the caked on bird crap washed off my car. I was thinking about how much my hip was burning. I was wondering why ANYONE would go to a sweaty yoga class without deodorant. I was wishing I wasn't right by the heater.

All this to say, that I'm going to try really hard not to worry about the sweaty dude next to me. Or the stuff I didn't get done. I am going to be thankful that I could show up and work really hard. This might be called focus. This might be called self-control. This is more likely called just trying to do better.

putt-putt and princesses

Friday was my birthday. It was wonderful. I'd venture to say that it was my best (adult) birthday to date. The Flamingo party of 1990 is hard to beat.

It was wonderful because I have never felt so loved and understood, ever. I walked into work to find my cube decorated in pretty, pretty princess theme--complete with pink net canopy over my chair and pink silk flooring. I had cards and candy and Tinkerbell school supplies and a Hannah Montana poster in an antique frame. I knew who was responsible. My closest co-workers. My friends--my friends who took time out of their lives to make me feel, well, like a princess.

It was wonderful because I threw a party for myself and my closest, most reliable friends showed up because they knew it was important to me. They refused to let me down, even though putt-putt is not that fun and not everyone likes pie.

It was wonderful because my friends far, far away were thinking of me and calling me and wishing they were here to sweat their balls off playing putt-putt at night and eating pie.

It was wonderful because I knew that someone had my back. Someone was invested in me having a good time and made sure I was comfortable enough to let go and let it happen.

It was wonderful because friends drove 2+ hours to hang out for 4. It was wonderful because all my most faithful friends were in one place (spirit or otherwise) all getting along.

So what? I don't get it. Why is Alix all emotional because she has good friends? Because I haven't had good friends, I mean REALLY good friends. Friends who know what I really mean when I say "it's fine." Friends who know that I don't like beer and will only drink French 75's from a thermos. Friends who know that I worry about everyone else's good time before my own. Friends who know that I love princess stuff, even though I pretend like I don't.

Maybe this is what makes this birthday different. I feel a little different. I feel like a grown-up. I feel like I have a team. I didn't know it could feel this good. I didn't know this is how it could be.

Thank you to all my wonderful friends near and far. You are irreplaceable.

vomitorium

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/sports/bb/7132223.html

Read the above linked article and then come back. Back? Good.

How horrifying is this article? On a scale of 1-10, 1 being mildly disconcerting and 10 being all consuming horrific, I give this a 7.4. A grown man intentionally vomited on a man and his 11 year old daughter. At a baseball game, America's pastime. He punched the dad after he vomited on him. I mean, seriously. That takes some guts (no pun intended).

I can't think of anything more humiliating that being vomited on, intentionally, and then beaten up. All visible on the jumbo tron. How do things like this happen? And who is this guy's parents? What if he has kids? Will he vomit on them to punish them? What color was the vomit? Was it mostly beer? Was it mostly hot dog? How much got on her? There are so many questions.

I don't understand how things like this happen. All I know, is if anyone puts a finger down their throat after an altercation with me--I'm running. I think I can outrun vomit.

just jump

There are these birds that walk on water. Well, not really. They walk on lily pads. Stepping carefully from pad to pad, hesitating, testing the next pad before putting on their weight on it. Sometimes it takes these birds a few test steps before they trust the lily pad to support their weight and get them to the next lily pad. Check out my friend in the picture. He is doing this.

I can not take credit for this knowledge. My dad said I was like these birds, African Jicanas. He would laugh and laugh at me as I tried to make decisions. I would test the waters over and over without making any real commitment to making a decision. I'd think about all the worst outcomes. And then I'd go, carefully. And sometimes, I'd get soaked. Most the time, I'd be fine and begin worrying about the next move. And that's how African Jicana's normally function. They make their way across lakes and ponds methodically moving from lilypad to lilypad, gently maneuvering their way to more food or better water or another African Jicana friend.

But sometimes, you wind up like the Jicana in the second picture. You run out of lily pads. You stand at the edge of all of other decisions and realize you've either backed yourself into a corner or that the next lily pad is there- it's just very far away.You can't test its strength. You don't know how it will feel. You don't know if it has roots. You aren't sure that you can make it without drowning. Now is the time for courage and creativity. So you jump. African Jicana's use their tiny, weak wings to fly very short distances. I guess, so do we, just until we make it to the next safe stop along with way. Those seconds in the air can feel like eternity.

In that eternity you aren't sure you made the right decision. You wonder if you will be safe again. You wonder about your African Jicana friend you left behind because you couldn't trust them for a lifetime . You hope that you can just make it to a landing spot. And if you can, you'll be ok.

Deciding to take a leap of faith onto a lily pad that is far away and very strange is hard. That strangeness overwhelms the reasons you knew you had to get to that new lily pad. At least, for a while. Then, when you are rested and fed and ready, you get ready to make another leap away from your old, another move closer to where you want to be. So you test, and you think, and you worry. Or you just jump. And trust, yourself.