First Week of School Fashion Show

You step foot on campus for the first time in months. You know you’ve missed this place. You missed walking a million miles to get to a class that you don’t want to take just so you can graduate and get a job. You missed professors yelling at you for not turning in your paper on time and then taking seven months to grade it. You missed staring at the attractive people of the opposite sex only to realize that you have a piece of lettuce in your teeth and you spilled your water in a place that makes it look like the million mile walk between bathrooms was just too much for you. I know I have missed all of this.

In all honesty though I have missed school. I am glad to be back. I especially love the first week of school because it is like a fashion show. You get out of your car, off your bus, conclude your walk, or exit your spaceship and see everyone dressed to the nines trying to impress each other. The girls stomp down the sidewalks in 14 and a half inch heels trying to impress the guy who walked by staring at his reflection in the window of a building to make sure that every piece of hair is perfectly in place so that it looks mussed – of course the girls then trip and the guy inevitably runs into the nerd with the pocket protectors racing to the engineering building. Best fashion show in the world.

The first week of school everyone has done their back to school shopping and people come to that first week of classes dressed to impress. The girls wake up three hours and twelve minutes before classes to put on their make up perfectly and wear their cute new outfit, dreaming that “the one” will be in their class and hoping to make a good impression. The boys wake up a whole sixteen and a half minutes early to shower, do their hair, and put on the outfit that their mothers bought for them so that they look decent. Then, everyone struts their stuff down the sidewalks and to their classes.

In class, everyone is looking around to see if there is anyone attractive. If your classes are like mine there are about twenty girls who look like they have just been ripped from the pages of Vanity Fair (prom dresses are an option for the first week of school, after all, you want to look good). Then there’s one guy who looks like he may have modeled for Wal-Mart at one point and the rest of them look like malnourished versions of Mickey Rourke (post operation, of course)! Sigh. Such is life. Oh, if you’re wondering how I look for the first week of classes I shall describe myself: I’m the nerd sitting on the front row wearing glasses, basketball shorts, an oversized t-shirt and flip flops. I’m not wearing any makeup. Everyone else will look like me in two weeks. Unless they have amazing stamina. Or unless they are attracted to malnourished Mickey Rourkes.

I wait to do my back to school shopping until I’ve seen what everyone else is wearing and what is cool. It doesn’t really matter what I wear though. I always seem to end up attracting the malnourished version of Mickey Rourke who thinks he looks like Brad Pitt and thinks that everyone should be interested in the psychology of a nuerocircuit under the right moon of Mars during an eclipse. Sigh. Welcome to my life. And welcome back to school. Let the fashion week begin!

You're All Winners - Except Those Who Aren't

It's that time of year when scholarship awards are being announced. After months of staying up late, perfecting your essays, crying because you knew that you should have volunteered to feed the homeless squirrels with the group in high school, or joined the Star Wars club, or maybe created your own language - this is the time when you know if all that heartache, all that berating yourself over not being involved more, all of that time spent at your computer was worth it. Probably not but don't tell the guys in the Star Wars club that I said that. They've already threatened to make me give up my lightsaber.

You check your inbox. There it is. The fateful letter. Now you will know if you have the opportunity to remain in college, if you will be able to future your career as dictator of the world, or if all those dreams will be shattered in one fell swoop of an unforgiving scholarship board. You click the link, the e-mail pops up and you see these words, "While we regret to inform you that you did not receive the scholarship, you are still a winner in our mind! Congratulations on a great effort!"

For real?! I hate that phrase. It's used all the time, "You're all winners." It's a lie. Psh. In reality, there is only one winner and they know who they are. Saying "You're all winners in our hearts" is like saying, "That is the ugliest woman I have ever seen...bless her heart." Actually it's not even close. For some reason "bless your heart" makes any insult okay. Saying "You're all winners" doesn't make anything better. It makes it worse because in your mind you're thinking, "Yeah I'm a winner. A winner of nothing! I am a winner of second place. First place loser. Grumble. Snarl. Deathrays in general direction of kid who won all the money."

Can you tell that I hate the phrase "You're all winners"? I think it should be replaced. I suggest, "One winner to rule them all, one winner to bind them" - wait. That's been used before. How about, "The winner who lived" - oh. That's taken too. I know! We could just tell the truth. "You're all winners, except, of course, those who aren't, and in that case, you're a loser."

Okay, so maybe that's a little harsh. I should be encouraging. Uplifting. Happy. Right. You whip those scholarship committee peoples' little tushies. Tell them that you will win that scholarship! You participated in high school! You drew caricatures of your teachers during your free time! You started a club that was centered on the study of medieval beverages (if this is true please tell me what meade is)! You sewed your own Captain Kirk costume and created a Star Trek badge out of recycled rubber erasers! You are the ultimate winner!!!!!!! And even if you aren't, it was a good effort anyway and, in my heart, you're all winners.

Decisions, Decisions

It’s here! Summer break…finally. I would be more excited but, lucky me, I have to take a summer course online so I can graduate on time. The best part of an online course is that I can put my professor on pause. If only I could do that in real life. But that is not what this post is about. Fooled you, didn’t I? I would say “April Fool’s!” but, let’s face it, I’m like, over a month late on that one.

Speaking of fools, one of my ex-boyfriends won’t stop calling me. He’s a 24-year-old man who thinks it’s mature to block his number, call your phone, and then when you say hello, to breathe into the phone respond with, “Oh crap.” And hang up. Yup. It’s always about my ex-boyfriends. Except this post is not about my ex-boyfriends. Fooled you again, didn’t I? I’m tricky. You gotta watch for the unexpected with me.

Okay, so what this post is really about is Facebook statuses. It is. Really. I’m being honest. Keep reading. It gets better. I enjoy reading peoples’ statuses. Just their statuses. Sometimes they are funny, other times they are so overly dramatic that they are funny, and yet, other times so drab that they are funny. Facebook statuses are funny things. The Facebook statuses that really irritate me though (and you were beginning to think that there weren’t any of those) are the ones that are incomplete thoughts because people are dying for attention.

I can see the wheels in your heads turning, going, “What is she talking about?” Well, let me give you an example. I hate statuses that say things like: “Decisions, decisions.” Of course no one knows what in the Sam Hill this person is talking about so they ask, “What decisions?” That is the question that the person wanted someone to ask in the first place. Usually it turns out that they were trying to decide something like whether or not to shave the hair in their ears and then they proceed to launch into a long, self-evaluative, and WAY too detailed comment about how long their ear hair has gotten.

So, I am now warning you: If you ever post an ambiguous status I will comment and I will make it less ambiguous. How? I will give you another example: Your status says, “Decisions, decisions.” My comment says: “I know. I hate it when you have to decide between boxers and briefs.” Don’t force my hand. I will do it.

If you want people to know your business, go ahead and just post all the information in your status. Granted, if you advertise that you have finally decided to get that fungus on your big toe removed, you’ll probably lose a few friends, but at least you won’t look like you’re desperate for attention.

Tips on Killing Your Ex's - With Kindness of Course!

I admire people who are still friends with their ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, really I do. This has never been possible for me. I have always hoped that a carnivorous squirrel will chew off the faces of my ex-boyfriends…okay, so maybe not. This passive aggression could also stem from the facts that my breakups are always ridiculously dramatic. If I had my way, I would never see my ex’s. Ever. Seriously. Unfortunately, I live in a small town, with a small population. Ergo, I run into my ex’s frequently (Not literally run into them like with a car…although this idea does sound appealing).

Whenever I see my ex’s my fists clench into little balls, my eyes narrow, my teeth start to grow sharp and hair starts to sprout from all over my body. I begin to howl at the moon – oh, wait. That’s a werewolf. Never mind.

My ex’s do make me tense though. They are a combination of the worst things on earth: Rob Pattinson, mud that sucks off your shoes, speedos, and broccoli. All of these things are utterly disgusting alone, however, when you combine them you get something utterly horrific. You get one of my ex-boyfriends.

Many people have told me that I should kill my ex-boyfriends with kindness. This got me wondering, how does one kill with kindness? As I sat, puzzling and puzzling until my puzzler was sore, I thought of something I hadn’t before: Kindness is good. Kindness is strong. Kindness is solid. Kindness is something you can depend on. Kindness is a Louisville Slugger with the word “Kindness” carved into the wood. It’s true. I now have a bat named Kindness. She is lovely. She has yet to be used.

Let’s face reality though, I’m WAY too afraid of prison to use Kindness on one of my ex’s. So, I’ll do what I’ve always done when I see one of my ex’s and I get tense. I will do the mature thing. I will do the thing that shows that I am a bigger person. I will do the thing that shows I am an adult. I will blog about it, consume some chocolate, and then proceed to deface any picture of him that I can find. I’m a grown up. We do these things.

Dear Professor: Your Fly is Down - and Other Awkward Moments

Today was the first day back from Spring Break. And the first day after Daylight Savings Time. From the minute my alarm started screaming at me, I knew it was going to be "one of those days." Sigh. Well, I rolled out of my bed...right onto the floor. That always hurts. I ate my breakfast in a rather zombie-like manner. I even pretended that my cereal was brains. It was actually some sugar-coated goodness but, hey, who cares?

Then I arrived at school. Somehow those buildings grew over Spring Break. Maybe I shrunk. I really didn't think that I could get any shorter. I followed the trail of student bodies crawling to their early morning classes, and dragged myself into my first class. I was late. There was only one desk open. It was on the front row. Of course. So I sat down in it. It is the desk that the professor feels the need to stand directly in front of to lecture. Bad news. My day got worse. His fly was down. I couldn't avoid seeing it. It was there. Shirt hanging out the unzipped area and everything. Awkward.

So, early in the morning, in my first class, in an unfortunate seat, I was facing a moral dilemma. Do I tell my prof. that his zipper is down? Or not? To zip or not to zip? I looked around the class. Surely there were other people seeing this. Yup. The dude on the fourth row back was nudging his buddies and pointing. What to do? I could just leave my poor professor exposed to the ridicule of his merciless students, he probably deserved it anyway. But I was uncomfortable. Should I raise my hand and say: "Excuse me professor, XYZPDQ!" No. I couldn't do that. Should I pass him a note? What should it say? I know: "Dear Professsor, your fly is down. Please zip it up. Or leave the room. Do I get extra credit for telling you this?" No. So I kept my eyes down for the rest of the class.

It was a good thing too. From my unfortunate seat, I had to crane my neck up to see the professor's face. I still couldn't see his face. He's a tall dude. And he was leaning over my seat. I could only see up his nose. He must have allergies because no one can have boogers sculpted like little flowers in their nose unless that's what they're allergic to...right? And he needed to trim the hair up there. Donald Trump would be jealous of what that man had up his nose. Incredible. Really.

Could this day get any worse? I regret even asking the question. Of course it could. It's like in the movies when they say that it can't get any worse and it starts raining. It didn't start raining, but I did suffer a gas attack. Now, I'm not pointing any fingers, but my professor's fly WAS down and that does make for a pretty good air vent which makes it easy for a smell to escape. It was a deadly smell. So, I did what all girls do in such situations. I put some lotion on and began to sniff my hands desperately. It didn't help. Now, it just smelled like a floral scented fart. I watched the clock. I think it was dead. Daylight Savings is bad for clocks too.

Finally, the time came when I could leave my class. I rushed out of the room, almost tripping and falling down a flight of stairs. I could breathe! I was alive! Freedom! And then, I heard it, a voice coming from behind me. Could it be an angel? "Hi! My name is Bob." It wasn't an angel. I could tell. I don't think angels wear shirts that say, "Nerds R Hot" and hold in their hands an assortment of Pokemon and Digimon cards. Welcome back from Spring Break. The end is near.

College Students are Ugly in the Winter

As I was walking to class the other day, a terrible snow storm hit quite suddenly. This means that suddenly, the sky went from being blue and beautiful to black and scary. Then it started snowing. I shook my fist at the heavens and ran to class. When I came out of class I noticed two things:

The first thing that I noticed is that after this snow storm, which left the ground icy, people walked like ducks. Their toes were turned in, their arms were out, and their badonkadonks were sticking out behind them. While I realized that walking in this manner gives people a sense of security, it still looks ridiculous. The purpose of walking in this hideous manner is to prevent a fall. It doesn't help. It just makes you look ridiculous before you fall down. So, I tried to save some dignity and not walk like a duck. Needless to say, I fell down more than the other people around  me. Don't feel too bad. I think I looked rather attractive when I fell. Perfect damsel in distress moment. Unfortunately there were no knights in shining armor around to save me. There was only a group of boys discussing Pokemon. Yeah. I ran away. Like a duck.

The second thing that I noticed after this snow storm is that college students are ugly in the winter. Laugh if you will. It's the truth. The girls don't put their faces on. Seriously. I don't wear makeup so I am accustomed to my own face looking quite naturally dull. I am not accustomed to other girls' faces looking the same way. Girls also don't do their hair. That's a lie. Girls do their hair, but it looks funny. Different. Ugly. I think they walked down a flight of stairs...using their hair. The boys don't look any better though. I didn't think that boys needed to do that much to maintain their look. Apparently they do. The boys don't do their hair either. But they wear hats over their ugly hair. These hats always seem to be pulled down to the end of their noses - from whence a long line of snot dangles. Boys also don't shave in the winter. They begin to look like Sasquatch. Both boys and girls wear sweats in the winter. I think they wear the same sweats. Nobody can tell what gender anyone is because everyone is apparently shaped the same. The only way to tell who is what is to look and see if the hair is wild, or if there is a long line of snot dangling from under a hat.

Yes, it's true. College students are ugly in the winter. They start to look better when spring comes around. The boys shave and the girls comb their hair. Then finals week comes and it's right back to where it started. So, I have made a decision. To avoid all this ugliness, I vote college students hibernate through the winter. Then we avoid all that ugliness...and the duck walk, of course.

Flypaper for Freaks

It's not that I don't enjoy male company. I do. Very much. However, I do not enjoy the kind of male company that involves a complete stranger coming up to me and talking to me. Especially if within the first five seconds I can tell that I am not going to like that person. If you're wondering if this happened to me today, it did. You know the guy that is in every town, that every girl fears? The one who talks to himself, consumes at least two packages of processed cookies on a daily basis, plays video games so much that he has callouses on his thumbs, believes he has been captured by the mother ship at least once, and confides in you in the first five seconds that you and he are destined to marry on Mars where his birth father and mother live. You know who I'm talking about. Every town has one. And he always seems to find me.

Somehow, I attract the kind of males that everyone pities but also scares everyone enough that they're not sure whether to be friends with this person or run away screaming like someone had informed them that chocolate is no longer available for consumption. I don't know what it is about me that is so attractive to these guys. Maybe it's because I look helpless - in which case I should probably buy combat boots and a wickedly menacing looking black trench coats with spikes. Then again, maybe it's just because I'm nice. I really need to stop smiling at complete strangers.

Yes, it's true. I am flypaper for freaks. They find me. Then they stick to me. Then, inevitably, I look like a freak. So no normal guy asks me out. Okay, so that's not entirely true. I did go out with a normal guy, fairly recently, as a matter of fact. He was what every girl dreams of: tall, dark, handsome, witty, smart and a complete gentleman. Unfortunately he hasn't called and asked for a second date. Maybe it's because he saw the reaction I got from the little 16-year-old wearing a "Kiss me I'm a Nerd" shirt at the restaurant we went to. He winked at me. And tried to smile. At least, I think he was trying to smile. His top lip got caught on his braces.

Today Smelled Like Old Bacon

At one point in your life you will meet someone who is vivacious, bright, witty, and beautiful. This, is not that time. My name is Tasha. I am clumsy, sarcastic and I hate getting out of my bed in the morning. I make no claims for this being a particularly interesting or enthralling tale of my current life - mostly because my life is neither interesting nor enthralling. Part of the problem is that I'm a history major. I like dead people better than most living people. They're easier to get along with for one thing.

I'm honestly no sure what to do with a blog. Most blogs I've read are authored either by eclectic authors or mothers who have something fun to say about their kids. Since I'm not an author and I am also not a mother (although I do have a beagle who thinks she is a baby), I guess I will just tell you about my day.

My day started with the sound of an oven beeper - which of course meant that I was finished. I hate my alarm clock. After rolling out of bed and onto the floor (a common occurrence), I stumbled down to eat breakfast. Frosted Flakes aren't entirely appealing when you're fully lucid, which is why I believe they are marketed as a breakfast cereal - at 7:00 am no one really cares what they are ingesting. After slurping down my cereal, I got ready for school and exited my home to be greeted by none other than Jack Frost. If I could see him I would punch him in the face. As it was, I just shouted something mean at him. When I got to school, I sat down, hoping to go through my day as an inconspicuous person in a classroom. It was sadly not to be. Someone sat down next to me. He smelled like bacon. Old bacon. I think my face went a little green. I don't remember much about my first class. I think the fumes overwhelmed by power to think. I do remember stumbling out of class and down the hall, outside to my next class. I gasped for clean air. Instead I inhaled smog. After chewing my air, I went inside for another class. The rest of the day was pretty much the same - I even think it smelled like old bacon for most of the day.