The Queen of Crank(y)

We had a social function last night. The theme? Kings and Queens of Crunk. First of all, I don't even know what "crunk" means. Second of all, whatever it means, I'm sure I'm not it. Third of all, I didn't plan on actually going.

But I really needed the study break. What could be so bad about getting crunk?

Plenty. As soon as we walked in, we were accosted by drunk frat boys (oh goody) asking us where we'd been all evening. We told them we were fashionably late. And then, random frat guy #1 said "Or, you might just be wizards, because they can appear on the spot whenever they want... oh my gosh I really said that I'm such a nerd I watch Lord of the Rings...wow." And it just got worse from there. From random frat guy #2 wearing an alarm clock on a bike chain around his neck, to random frat guy #3 who told me that I needed to learn how to dance (his suggestion was to wave my arms like I was trying to fly - that would definitely get all the hot guys!) to random frat guy #4, the biggest creeper of all, who asked me if I wanted to come back to his place. Unless you are one certain boy (who will remain unnamed) the answer will always and unequivocally be no. Please remember this for the nex time you will inevitably want to ask me to sleep with you. Yes, I'm a cold hard bitch. Deal.

By the end of the night, I realized that I'm not a LOTR fan, a great dancer, someone who you take home to the frat house, nor am I, I've decided, crunk. At all. After spending my entire week studying for two tests, having daily panic attacks about what I'm going to do with my life, and realizing that the person I've been in love with for almost a year has no clue how I feel, I am decidedly a little more crank than crunk. I am the Queen of Crank.

All she wants to do is pants, pants, PANTS!

My entire weekend can be summed up with the asking of one of life's greatest questions: should I or should I not wear real pants? To define this a little further: pants that are "real" are jeans, dress slacks, khakis or any others that you couldn't possibly get cozy in. Anything that you could nap or even full-on sleep in, i.e. terrycloth, sweats, PJ pants, the pants you wore to the gym (you don't judge me, I don't judge you) or any of their other comfy pants compatriots are not real.

Let's back up a little.

Friday night was freezing cold. I know I said earlier that I was liking the cold, but I lied. Also, I was in a better mood then than I am right now, and when I am in a good mood, I am inclined to like things more. (This should be noted in case you ever want me to tell you that I like your new dress/shoes/tattoo. Catch me on a good day.) Anyway, Friday was cold, I was feeling fussy and didn't want to go out under any circumstances. But, since having a candle party for one in my room wasn't the most appealing of options, I decided to call the best friend. Best friend is usually up for most anything, which is why I like her. However, she has never said "no" to a night in either, which is really why I like her. After a trip to get some beverages, we settled in for a romantic evening of "Grey's Anatomy" and "Troy" just the two of us. We went to sleep at midnight, (again, quit judging!) woke up at noon the next day and went to IHOP in our non-real pants.
Pants pointage: real pants: 0, faux pants: 2 (sweats, and long underwear with race cars on them. Don't ask.)

Saturday came and went with much napping and also much painting of the toenails. And perhaps a candle... After going to the gym, I took a nap, then took a shower, then put some more fake pants on, and then did homework. There was also a party in there somewhere, but I was for sure not wearing pants to that!
Pants pointage: real pants: 0, faux pants: 3 (gym pants, pajama pants, other pajama pants.)

Today, went to the gym, then shower, nap, repeat.
Pants pointage: real pants: 0, faux pants: 2 (other gym pants, more sweats.)

You might ask why anyone needs to wear seven pairs of pants over the course of three days. I might ask you why you even care?

Total pants pointage for the weekend: real pants: 0, faux pants: 7.

It's a good life.

The weather outside is frightful

Oh, who am I kidding, it's not really that bad. I don't usually like winter. In fact, I would go so far as to say I downright hate it, and could do without it snowing ever again. But, for some reason, I am enjoying this winter immensely. That's not to say that I can't wait for Spring Break and all the beach time that will come with it; but thus far, the snow has been beautiful and the real Colorado cold has been a welcome change from the will-it-won't-it ambivalence that was December. When I'm walking across campus and everyone is bundled up, I don't know who is what gender, I can't recognize anyone - I kind of like it. It's like we're little Arctic explorers, taking the medicine home to save the family. We're all in this together. Plus, if no one can recognize me, then I totally don't have to do my hair.

Implement THE HOOK

"Man, I wish I had a real hook...hands are just so overrated."

We found a plastic pirate hook at my place of employment yesterday.

Work has become exponentially more fun since then.

I love my job.

La Vie Boheme

Tonight, my twin and I went to the Alley Cat to study. I've been there a couple of times before, but never for an extended period of time. We got a table with great black and white photos under the glass, which enabled me to procrastinate for quite awhile. I just love going there to people watch, listen in on crazy conversations and look at the snow outside. The baristas were banging on the counters, a guitarist was strumming in the corner, girls with Louis Vuitton bags were minging with dreadlocked guys a table over.

Places like this make me feel so college. The free flow of ideas, the mixing of lifestyles (and hairstyles) remind me that I'm human - that we all are. And even if my inner Bohemian girl is supressed by my outward sorority girl, all it takes is some good tea and the perfect atmosphere to let her come out, at least long enough to (briefly) consider dreadlocks.

Things that scare me:

.Whales
.Sharks
.Fish
.Okay, really anything that swims in the sea
.Chucky dolls
.Any other dolls that kind of look like Chucky
.Certain words and phrases (like heebie-jeebies...insert full body shiver HERE)
.E.T.
.Banana clips
.Mom hair

Shoot with intent to woo

Well, it's Valentine's Day. I have a very full schedule: studying for an American Government exam tomorrow, journal entries for State and Local Politics, I have to complete all my reading, and let's not forget the pining. My homoplatonic life partner and I will be watching "The Notebook" and then we will commence with pining away for the great loves of our lives, and then ask the eternal question "WHERE IS HE?"

Really, it couldn't be more fun.

However, contrary to most years, I am not so upset about it, because we have goals, we have objectives - we have A Plan. A Plan To Woo. Basically, due to the mysterious forces of the universe and the convienient timing of the school schedule, the boys we intend to woo are positioned perfectly and are about to be wooed like they have never been wooed before. Not that they know it, of course, but with a finely tuned plan such as this, they will know it and soon. No, Internet, I'm not going to TELL you the plan. That would totally ruin the Alias-esque stealth of the Plan To Woo. And we are nothing, if not stealth.

And if the goals are not met, we will turn instead, to world domination. Nothing is hotter than a woman in charge. Except maybe a woman in a bikini, in which case I should quit typing and go to the gym...

Hilary's Anatomy: Kiss my ass

Well, I'm pretty mad. Nothing new there, as righteous indignation is one of my favorite emotions, but REALLY. All I asked was for someone to tape "Grey's Anatomy" for me last night. I even stuck in the tape. Out of all the people I live with, I thought it could be done. We've taped things before, and it's not even TiVo - how hard could it be?

Apparently, real hard. Because instead of a tape of "Grey's Anatomy," I got a tape of WB2 News at 9. If anyone would care to fill me in on what happened, I'd be much obliged. And if anyone has a tape, I'd be even further obliged, perhaps to the point of all the chocolate in my posession and sexual favors. Yeah, it's that important.

The Sound of Music

The Mezzanine bathroom of our house has been recently redone. It's pretty much a spa, and I spend as much time in there as I possibly can. The warm and cozy atmosphere is great for things like face washing, tooth brushing, and also reading and doing the occasional tap dance (we have good tile.) There is also a shower radio, which is really useful for when we decide to stage a musical. The upstairs bathroom will soon be just as fabulous and I can't wait.

But I really can't wait, because while our upstairs bathroom is out of comission, we have to schlep around the house in our towels, using different bathrooms, carrying our shower caddies around like little homeless people who have a lot of shampoo but no real clothes - it's tragic.

This morning, however, the tragedy truly hit home. I was in the shower, minding my own business, (I really try not to mind other people's business, especially while in the shower) enjoying the nice tile, thinking about my day, when someone else got into the shower next to me. And then, all of a sudden, my delicious showery silence was interrupted by none other than EMINEM. Yes, EMINEM. Was there. Gratuitously cussing from the shower radio.

I'm not easily offended, especially by bad language. I'm Italian - bad language is a genetic thing. But EMINEM? In the MORNING? Ridiculous. I think the radio was offended too. After all, it's become accustomed to the show tunes.

I hope it's not contagious

Disclaimer:
This is an actual conversation that happened in my dining room at 9:00 a.m. this morning. In telling you, I am assuming that you remember I live with 20 girls, three housekeepers, one house mom, an old repair man, and a part-time chihuahua named Stella. You've been warned.

The Cast:
B - House mom who spends inordinate amounts of time smoking and trying to convince us to redecorate by making all the furniture purple, paisley or a combination thereof.

John - Old repair man with lisp. Drinks Mountain Dew like it's his job, which maybe it is, because that bathroom we're paying him for is still not done.

Me - I like shiny things and I write this blog. Also, I eat bagels for breakfast. This will be important for later.

Ashley - Sorority sister who lives down the hall. Enjoys sports, sleeping, and making me squirm.

The Scene:
John - "Well, I think we need 100-watt lightbulbs. Those last the longest."
B - "Well the ones we have in there now don't last very long at all. Those advertisers decieved me!"
Me - Silently and innocently eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Enter Ashley, wearing sunglasses.
Me - "Hey Ash, why are you wearing your sunglasses in the house?"
Ashley - "Well, my eyes are infected, and so I'm really light-sensitive right now."
B - "Is it conjunctivitis? Because my son-in-law had that, and his eyes were pink and gooey and-"
Me - Staring at and no longer eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Ashley - "Well I don't think they're very conjuctivy yet..."
Me - "People I am EATING!"
B - "Well it was just the most awful thing I ever saw in my life, that's all I'm saying."
John - "So did you still want 100-watt?"

I hope she doesn't pass it along to the dog. She already had mites, I don't think she can handle any more.

Purple is the new pink is the new black

I have discovered a disturbing trend. Okay, actually I guess it can't be considered a trend yet. According to Esquire magazine, there have to be three of something in order for it to be considered a trend (as in BOTH Olsens AND Nicole Ritchie wearing whatever is ugly right now!) But I am officially going to be the first to jump on the "Trend of Two" bandwagon and say that I think I'm on to something here: Men in purple.

I know, sounds crazy, but I saw it twice within five minutes today. The first mauve-sporting male was seen outside the Natural Resources building. Granted, the NR kids are not generally known for their high-stylin' ways (sorry Lindsay) but this man was wearing a large, hooded ski jacket, and it was definitely purple.

Second sighting happened just moments later, in my Media Effects class, when my professor waltzed in (and it was a waltz) wearing pants with a distinctly purple tint. While I can't say they were quite Barney the Dinosaur in coloring, they leaned a little closer to mulberry than I've seen in awhile.

All in all, I would say that Queer Eye is doing a fine job metrosexualizing the nation. Either that or today's man just really likes purple. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Confessions of a chocoholic

If you think I'm kidding, I'm not. It's like when I told my Orientation kids over the summer that the campus squirrels were to be feared. They laughed. I told them to laugh it up, because it's all fun and games until somebody finds a squirrel in their pizza box. That's not funny. In college, we actually call that being hungry. I know hungry and funny sound kind of the same, but they're not.

So really, I do have a problem. I am, most definitely, a chocoholic. And it's serious.

It used to be not such a big deal. I liked chocolate as much as the next person, some m'n'ms here and there, maybe a Snickers bar if I was feeling particularly needy - normal chocolate consumption. And I didn't even like chocolate cake, so that particular evil was eliminated, too. And I went through a time where I didn't eat any chocolate at all - none. It just sat on the shelf, that chocolate did, and cried sad chocolate tears because I was off at the gym or finding a cure for cancer or watching "The Bachelor" - you know, important things.

But now, something ugly has reared it's head inside of me, and the only thing that will silence it is MORE CHOCOLATE! Well, that and MORE COWBELL!, but I don't have a cowbell, so the chocolate will have to do. I don't know what to do about it. Every meal I eat has to end with a dessert of chocolate - I kid you not, I ate a bagel and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup for breakfast this morning. You can judge me later.

Short of getting rid of all the chocolate in my sight (of which there is plenty) I just don't know how to beat my addiction. I've already looked into a 12-Step, but they meet at Cold Stone Creamery, so I don't know how effective that would be.

Maybe I'll give it to the squirrels?

In the world, or of the world?

Isn't is strange how you can be in a huge crowd of people, and yet feel entirely alone? I realize that I am not the first person to make this (not so?) profound realization, but it wasn't something that sank in until I was in the middle of it. At rehearsal today, I was in a hall with hundreds of people, and yet everyone was so engrossed with doing homework, listening to iPods, eating Chipotle etc... that I made no impact whatsoever on the dynamics of the room - zero. It was the strangest feeling to walk into a place and not have one single person be happy to see me, or angry to see me, or even to acknowledge my existence. I'm not saying a parade erupts and "Hail to the Chief" plays whenever I go somewhere, but to know that you have made no difference in a given space is so surreal.

I'm not holding any sort of pity party for myself. I decided long ago that music people had their own little groups and as the lone non-music major (ie, crazy person who can't possibly understand the angst that lives in their poetic souls) that was fine with me. You can have your fermata jokes, because I don't need them: I know a really funny Pope joke.

But it's not just this - I realized that I have a tendency to isolate myself in life too, and not just when I don't know people. And the strange thing about all of this, is that it doesn't bother me. To walk into a room full of strangers and go sit in a corner alone would scare some people, and just seem weird to others, but not to me. But then, it doesn't seem weird to me to eat dinner alone, go see a movie alone, or even just sit in my room alone, despite the fact that I live with several other people. I think it's good to be OK with me; to be able to sit inside myself and not be afraid of the introspection that goes on. I really do like myself most of the time, and I don't think many people have that. But do I like myself so much that I'm afraid of letting other people in? Or am I just afraid that if I let someone in, they won't like me?


Am I destined to be alone?