| Spiffy! |
[22 Jul 2006|11:30pm] |
Well, y'all, it's late, I just got back from a day of conscripted ring stewardship, and, well, there really isn't that much interesting news, other than I TOTALLY cheated on my diet and I don't even feel guilty about it. Brownies will do that to a person.
(Hint: the red boxes are truths, the blue x's are falsehoods, italic comments are my own. See, organization is FUN!)
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| Minefields? Only dangerous SOME of the time. |
[19 Jul 2006|09:41pm] |
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So, y'all know how my dad is often batshit crazy (TM) right? Well, another example to our growing list is when he thinks it takes EXACTLY THE SAME AMOUNT OF TIME to DRIVE from SC to Pittsburgh rather than fly... the hell? Batshit crazy continued in Bob Evans on Friday night, when during a heated discussion about his inability to believe that maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to handle 18 hours of classes, he threw his hands up in disgust, shouted "I can't even talk to you" and sulked for the rest of the meal. Heh.
Obviously, I am now back from Pittsburgh. It was HOT. And there was a lot of family, which? Eh. It was nice to see everyone, if not for the circumstances that brought us together. My dad and I stayed at his sister's wicked cool house. It was built in the 1800's and is occupied by the most frou-frou of cocker spaniels I've ever seen. She's sporting a SHOW COAT, complete with Don King afro. She's a therapy dog, which is not exactly the same as showing at Westminster, but still apparently requires that my uncle groom her TWICE A DAY. He doesn't leave the house much in order to prevent her from spending any time alone. End result? Slightly neurotic dog, even more neurotic uncle. (Seriously, he's so smart that he's unable to socialize with society. He does complex math IN HIS HEAD.)
In an attempt to prevent my great-uncle from haunting us all, no traditional funeral service occured. Instead, there was a rather informal memorial service at the funeral home, where I, bloated and cramping, got to stand next to my size 2, blonde cousin. Fun times. Several guests inquired as to when I might be getting married. Well, there is that small matter of a MISSING GROOM, with no prospects in sight. Older ladies of another generation, I realize that being 22 and utterly single, in your eyes, makes me a spinster, but today, in 2006? I am YOUNG, and certainly too immature to be married. However, I did meet a woman who said she's already working on the design of my wedding cake, so I can check something off my list.
Lest you think the weekend went off without drama, enter Obituary Crisis '06, where my great uncle's daughter in law (mother to size 2 cousin) wasn't mentioned in 2 of the 3 obituaries. The only person that seemed to think this was world ending was my aunt, owner of frou-frou spaniel. Are we sensing a pattern? She really is very cool, but, as is typical with my family, tends to dramatize seemingly unimportant events.
Speaking of obituaries, while reading the lovely one my pop pop had written for himself, I learned that he was awarded a Bronze Star during WWII. Apparently, this would have been a Silver Star, but the government/ army does not feel that a MINE FIELD is as dangerous after a battle is over. So, in case you were wondering, a mine field is only cause for concern when gunfire is also involved. The rest of the time, it's like a field of kittens and flowers. Except that the kittens have claws of death and the flowers are actually poison ivy. Hooray for government ineptitude.
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[13 Jul 2006|06:38pm] |
This afternoon at about 2, my great-uncle/surrogate grandfather, James McLaughlin, passed away in his sleep.
I'm heading up to Pittsburgh tomorrow for the Jerry Springer of family reunions. We're bad Irish drunks, and some of us *ahem* (not me) enjoy starting family drama. I am not above punching these relatives in the face.
Be well, Pops.
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| When did pre-school re-begin? |
[07 Jul 2006|11:44pm] |
Things said to me today by my [former] favorite vet intern:
1. I have, at maximum, two feelings. Basically, I'm cold and unfeeling.
2. His stomach would hurt, too, if he had to live with me.
...the hell?
Apparently someone is a bad sport about losing to a game of checkers to me during a hush-hush top-secret vettin' break at a scary town store in Mt. Rest. It was later announced to the store by Boss Vet that I was a Yankee. A hush fell over the crowd. Vet tech J later expressed that he was scared I would be shot. I'm feelin' the love.
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[05 Jul 2006|11:04pm] |
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For the first time that I can recall, my aspirations to be lazy have worked to my advantage. My dad found out that I was being charged out of state tuition for my Brit Lit class, to the tune of $2300 for an online, one month course... the hell? His solution involved having me drop the course, two days before it officially starts. I heart being a slacker at my dad's request. Of course, this will all blow up in my face when he relapses to batshit crazy (TM). At least I was in the class long enough to read Swift's "A Modest Proposal" about butchering and feasting on young children as a method to combat poverty and overcrowding. Yay for satirical English authors!
Prior to my father-enforced slackerdom, CVB professed his undying love to me when he found out I was in the class and could thus help him in a later semester when he has to take it. Is it pathetic that I was willing to trade my knowledge of obscure literature for sex? You say slutty, I say inventive. At this point in our friendship, even the other techs are picking up on the sexual tension. Schwing.
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| An unhealthy addiction. |
[30 Jun 2006|11:07pm] |
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wishing life was like a movie |
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I.
So, here's the thing. I enjoy tv. I realize it's not a particularly witty or intelligent or stimulating thing to profess enjoying, but, I do. Not that I don't also dig books and movies, 'cause I do. But right now I'm talking tv, so let's stay on point, shall we? There's something incredibly nice about escaping from you own life for the length of a tv show and pretending to be a part of one that's funnier, better written, and generally better. And really, how much cooler would life be with a laugh track, musical score, and gorgeous romantic lead?
Y'all may be aware of my unhealthy obsession with a show called Veronica Mars. It's a sickness, I admit it. I read and re-read the recaps at TWOP, my ipod is filled with music from the show (it really is some of the most kick ass music on television, bar none), and I've nearly worn out my Season One dvd's. However, due to the lack of stellar tv recognition on the part of my friends, I've had no one with which to discuss the merits of VM. (I still hate y'all.) Until my Wednesday parental mandated therapy session, however. In an attempt to corral my slacker attitude, Dr. A proposed that we schedule my entire semester, hour by hour. I mentioned that VM would have to be scheduled in, to which she stead-fastly agreed, as she is also a hard core fan. We spent the majority of the appointment extrapolating on all the ways that Rob Thomas is a god. And then, because Dr. A is wicked cool, we finished my scheduled semester, containing 22 hours of studying a week, yet leaving me two weeknights for tv, barn visits 5 days a week, a Friday nap, and weekend evenings off. Sweet.
II.
While I do enjoy slapstick comedies and Oscar nominated dramas, a cheeseball romantic comedy gets me every time. The horrible acting, the cliched moments, the gorgeous boys, the happy endings... Oh, that it could be me.
Case 1: The time I drove to a far away theater so I could see She's The Man without being recognized.
Case 2: When ABC Family showed Chasing Liberty with Mandy Moore mutiple times, and I watched it each of those times. Oh, it was bad, but it was so good.
Case 3: Saved on constant rotation of my Sat. TV movie channels. Now, Saved doesn't necessarily fit into the romantic comedy/ teenage bad acting genre, as it stands alone on merit, but I dig the romantic parts, especially on the seventh viewing.
Case 4: The time before finals when Nickolodean decided to ruin my life be airing What A Girl Wants infinite times, back to back. I typed the following review into my Repro notes:
Montage of father/daughter dances where daughter looks like main character at different ages. Do you think it’s to parallel the relationship she’s missing? Because that would be deep.
Daphne is a bad ass. We know this because she listens to music that isn’t well known, wears black nail polish, and wears lots of layers.
The conniving and two faced assistant to Colin Firth shows that he is conniving and two faced by squinting and razing his eyebrows. Unfortunately, this look, when directed at his daughter, portrays more of a “my daughter is hot” vibe. Gross. He must have learned that from Joe Simpson.
Enter the ornate/gaudy chandelier with back-story longer than the movie. Do you think it might be important later on? And maybe, when everyone is dancing in a circle around back-storied chandelier and the bass is cranked up (because they are WILD) that something might happen?
If your boyfriend knows how to curtsey, then maybe he’s not actually your boyfriend. He’s probably more of a shopping partner. Oh, wait, they did that too. Sorry Daphne, true love will have to wait until you find a boy that doesn’t know the meaning of “versatile top”. Oh yes, I went there.
Um, last time I checked, henna tattoos were not painful. It’s ink on skin. Nice emotive acting, Colin Firth. Also: leather pants on a middle aged man? Ewwww.
Swearing in a kids movie: “flying fart in space.” HEE.
Nearly 1 hour and 52 minutes into the movie, the father daughter wedding dance is back! Do you think the movie is going to come full circle? Oh, look, there’s Colin Firth on a gondola. Pretty coincidental that he was invited to the same wedding where his former girlfriend and mother of his child is singing and his daughter is waitressing and--- Oh, I get it. Full circle. Do you think he had to practice a lot to keep his balance on a boat? Like, special boat standing training? For several weeks before the filming started? Because that’s the type of training I’d need.
III.
Why do I wish my life was like a movie? Because CVB has reunited with his girlfriend, and that would never happen in my movie. For once, let the girl with the "good personality" get the hot guy, sheesh.
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[27 Jun 2006|12:38am] |
Not much news here, at least not news that y'all would be interested in. It's been a whole lot of vettin' and I've seen some unusual cases, fo'sho (thrombocytopenia, heartworm, parvo, urethral crystals, flea infestation requiring a transfusion from an Animal control seized Pit, etc).
I think I'm cutting back my hours though, as I've only been there a week and a half and already done over 80. After 10+ hours, I'm too beat to do anything, and with my summmer lit class starting next week, that just ain't going to cut it. The class is British Literature, and the reading list seems relatively standard. Plus, it's online, so no scheduled class time, which? Yay! My poor ponies have also been sorely neglected, so it's time to readjust my schedule a bit so I don't get burnt out, as I am so prone to do. Stupid pysche.
On another note, in case y'all need a gage to detect when you have too many animals, here ya go:
At one farm call, I saw: 6 Hybrid wolves, 5 goats, 1 wormy donkey, 4 Great Pyranese, 3 Corgis, 1 Boston terrier, 2 cats, and about a flock of Guinea fowl. That wasn't even counting the dozens of ferrets they're rumored to have inside the house. Upon return to the clinic, I did a bit of snooping in the file room (Future in PI?) and discovered 46 files for that one particular place. Too. Much. Pet. And none of them were spayed or neutured either. Yay for responsible pet owners, huh?
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| Could it really be doable? |
[24 Jun 2006|12:31am] |
In one of our numerous vet school acceptance discussions, Dr. S promised CVB and myself stellar recommendations to UGA, his alma mater. Dr. S went on to say that as long as we have a GPA of 2.7, we'll be considered. Um, done! Of course, a 3.7 is a more effective method of attracting attention, but if I can pull off an average GPA, 800 hours of work experience, glowing recommendations, and passable GREs, this vet school idea may actually come to fruition.
It's kind of surreal when your long term goals and aspirations have moments of plausibility.
Did I mention how I procured this glowing recommendation from Dr.S? I taught him the following SNL cheer, which he sang all day:
Taco, burrito
What's coming out of your speedo?
You're in trouble, ooh
You're blowing bubbles, woo!
(This was in addition to his stylistic vocal versions of My Humps and Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me... oy. He also calls things like his file box and the sharps bins "hoobies" as in: "Stick that in my hoobie." HA! It's a wonder we get anything done with all the laughing that goes on).
On another note, I have developed a bit of a reputation at the clinic. My father is well known in the area, and while I am all about using nepotism to my advantage, I'd rather not be seen as a spoiled doctor's kid. Yes, I am incredibly blessed to have such supportive (financially and emotionally) parents, but I like to think that I'm grateful for what I'm given. It's certainly not expected, and I like to think that I always appreciate the intense amount of work that my parents do in order to provide me with a comfortable life. And while I may whine a bit about the cost of vet school, I honestly don't think I would take the tuition money if it were offered to me. I'd like to prove that I can take care of myself and that I want it badly enough to sacrifice in order to achieve it. These feelings are not easily explained at the clinic, when all they know is that my dad is a doctor and I have no paying job to speak of. Conversations about money always wig me out a bit. How am I supposed to respond to comments about my truck and its associated payments? Or my apartment? Or my tuition? If I was really as obsessed about money as they seem to think, wouldn't I have (a) married the first rich guy I could find or (b) go into a profession that pays a bit more, such as a doctor or a lawyer? Sheesh.
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| Late night ramblings. |
[23 Jun 2006|01:12am] |
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First and foremost: Happy Birthday Mom! I am an excellent daughter, and had lillies delivered to her office yesterday. This was also done to make up for the fact that neither her card nor her gift will arrive in time, as the post office closes before I'm done at the vet clinic.
Secondly, while I was travelling to the boonies on a farm call this morning, I heard the funniest stupid criminal story on the radio. (Dr. S nearly drove off the road for laughing so hard. Good times. Then we nearly gotten eaten alive by the attack dog we were supposed to vaccinate.) So, anyway, this guy gets arrested for drug possession during his community service. Sounds ridiculous enough already, eh? Just wait. Well, he was serving his community by cleaning up a local park where the POLICE DRUG DOG graduation was to be held. The graduates showed up to the park a bit early. HEE!
Thirdly, do y'all remember that time when we all shared six unknown things about ourselves? Well, for me at least, and y'all if you choose, it's that time again.
1. I don't tie my shoes correctly. It's hard to explain how I actually do it, but it involves two bunny ears. This is the way I originally learned as a tike since I wasn't dexterous enough to master the regular way. Most people learn bunny ears, then switch to the normal method. Not me.
2. The first things I tend to notice about people I meet are the things that bug me about myself. This would be innocent observation, except that the things I notice are eyebrows, eyelashes, forehead size, and chin/neck attachment. Do y'all think this is a marketable talent?
3. I wish I were more worldly. I watch the news or at least scan the CNN scroll when I get a chance, and I actually enjoy reading Time, but I just don't get politics. Or the economy. The exception being the SNL political parodies, which are funny as hell.
4. I'm developing Monk-like organizing abilities- things are arranged by size, color, or classification. But only at the clinic?
5. An oddly observant friend noticed that when I roll my eyes, my right one moves more slowly than my left. While this is not exactly relevent to life, I find it wicked cool. My eyes? Are disfunctional and uncoordinated! Much like the rest of me.
6. If I had to compare my life to a movie (which, sidenote: how neat would it be if your life ACTUALLY was like a movie?), it would most resemble a conglomerate of Never Been Kissed and The 40 Year Old Virgin.
Discuss.
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[22 Jun 2006|10:59pm] |
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Holy cow, I must love y'all!
I just moved a year and a half of blogs here from MySpace. You see, it all started at work (i.e. unpaid internship) when I was discussing internet predators with the receptionist (an internet predator was arrested 10 minutes away) and she mentioned she had a MySpace account, as did CVB ( I already MySpace stalked him, because that's what I do.) And me with my big mouth mentioned that I use MySpace, too. Well, then it hit me. Some day, people that I actually see everyday, here, in SC, are going to find me on MySpace. I mean, come on, I can't be the ONLY ONE in the WORLD who cyber stalks people. And when this day comes, I can't just deny adding them to my friend's list because I don't want them to read my blogs, so I had to come up with a solution. In my sleep deprived mind (I've worked 70 hours since last Wednesday), this solution was to join Livejournal and move all journalings here. Because really, the only reason I write this nonsense is to keep in touch with my Yankee pals. Now I can have MySpace SC friends and still rag about them here, to y'all. Am I brilliant, or what?
Although I am receiving no compensation for all my hard work at the vet clinic, it's really an amazing, if not completely exhausting experience. I worked 21 hours the first two days, but luckily, that's not an ordinary occurence.
Here's a run down of the menagerie of people (without using actual names, because it just seems like a better idea, eh?):
Dr. O: head vet, runs the clinic with an iron fist, but loves me because he knows my dad. And I am ALL about using nepotism to my advantage. Dr. O has 2 techs that are at his beck and call but also run the surgeries. I don't actually know their names, but they are who you go to when you are dumb and need help, because they rule.
Dr. S: vet who hired (and by hired I mean allowed me to hang out for the summer and get in the way in return for a vet school recommendation) me; he handles all the farm calls with his tech (or assistant? Some of the job titles are a bit fuzzy), who is really cute and married to a girl my age. They have THREE kids! Also working for Dr. S is CVB. Today, the 3 guys took me on some farm calls, and they all opened up their bags of chewing tobacco (Strike 1 for CVB). When I [jokingly] said I felt left out, I was offered 3 different bags of chew. I'm sticking to gum, as I rather like the lack of cancerous holes in my mouth. That's just me, though.
Dr. H: only female vet, and the most serious of the 3 vets. She lives with her tech and this took me a while to figure out, as it wasn't openly stated. Dr. H's tech is also wicked smart. Dr. H is the spay and neuter QUEEN, regularly doing 5 or 6 in an hour or so. Give the girl a medal!
Then there's everyone else, a mixture of techs, assistants, and the like. They include:
1. an assistant who started a few days prior to me
2. a compulsive clinic organizer, like myself- all the fecal slides have to face the same way, the muzzles are arranged by size, etc. We've decided we were separated at birth.
3. a very patient mother like tech whom is beloved by staff and clients alike
4. an tech whom I try to avoid as she can be a bit too harsh and abrupt for my sensitive skin
5. a dirty old man who claims to be having torrid affairs with everyone in the office except the other boys. He's wild! And also a great Pictionary partner. He wants to set me up with his son, so I told him I'd need a head shot.
It's quite the motley crew, but I totally lucked out, because all in all, they're a great group!
Ok, so I know that there are a million different fonts and none of the times correspond with the old entries, but we'll just have to deal with it and move on with out lives, capeshe?
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| Life's a Beach... and a bit of a Bitch, too. |
[16 Jun 2006|10:59pm] |
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Wow, y'all... over two weeks since I've last done this. I may have forgotten how. Except, not really.
I. Mexico.
This would fall under the "life's a beach" portion of my mad ramblings. The St. Croix group reunited in Playa del Carmen, Mexico for the wedding of one of the groupee's fathers, whom the majority of the St. Croix group had never met before and yet were still somehow guests at his gorgeous beach wedding. We even managed to be included in the offiical wedding photos, 'cause that's how we roll. And also, we were all drunk, and drunk people are always in photos.
Lest you think this weekend getaway was all boozing it up, I did manage to log some amazing drift dives (I finally saw sea turtles! And an amazing eagle ray, which swam a bit too close for my liking) in Cozumel under the watchful eye of Scuba Tony. You must call him Scuba Tony. And, as is the case with all scuba instructors, he was a cutie. It must be a requirement. I, crafty bugger that I am, even fooled Scuba Tony into thinking I was a hard core diver, when in fact, I have now only been submerged a grand total of 9 times, 3 of which occured in Mexico. It's about damn time I'm a natural at something, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't basketball, soccer, skiing, learnin', dance, baton, or horseback riding.
My main souvenier from this weekend of grand debauchery was a second/third degree sunburn on my legs. Y'all? I am fair and I am Irish. I have been these things for 22 years. I know a bit about burnin'. I ALWAYS wear SPF 45. I even stay in the shade. And yet that tricky Mexican sun got me. I blame the booze. Sixteen days later, I have yet to show my legs, as they are purple and resemble something akin to Backdraft. Good times.
II. The Bitchy Part.
Last week, after my pops had taken me to dinner, he decided it was time for an intervention. At that time, I had not spoken to my mom for about five days, as we couldn't talk in a civil manner to each other, what with her being all bent out of shape about my inability to procure an internship. Obviously, I was a bit out of sorts, as my mom is my lifeline, the one person who completely understands, without explanation, when I tell her that my dad is batshit crazy. Last Thursday, Intervention Day, was such an instance.
The intervention went a little something like this:
Poppa J: We need to talk.
Self: Yeah, can you believe what a trashy whore Britney Spears is? Really, you think a person can stoop no lower into the Scale of Redneck, but, there she is--
Poppa J: You have two options. Option 1: Therapy four days a week until further notice, or Option 2: Inpatient therapy for the remainder of the summer.
Self: --
Poppa J: Well, which one will it be?
Self: Can I see what's behind curtain number 3, Pat?
Poppa J: Now, if you decided to go the inpatient route, it would be more intensive, and thus may lend itself more completely toward fixing your problems. However, you would be locked in a ward with adults. So, what will it be?
Self: Yeah, I'm going to need some time to think about this.
Obviously, my dad was in full on batshit crazy mode, but there was no one with which to share this, so I just figured it would pass, as his batshit crazy spells often do. In order to facilitate this passing, I turned off my phone. Please note, if your father has staged an intervention because he is batshit crazy, turning off your phone does not seem to alleviate the situation. Case in point: The following afternoon, as I was ready to leave my apartment to take the Zappster to the vet for a recheck of his Stink Foot, there was a Swat Team-like banging on my door. The gist of Intervention 2.0 went a lil' something like this: My dad had made an immediate appointment with a therapist, who would attempt to help me out of my crisis. The crisis being that I had no friends, no social life, no will to do anything, and no internship. This apparent crisis had been diagnosed by my batshit crazy father, party of one, so obviously there was a lack of perspective in this diagnosis. My refusal to this demand was not met well. Batshit Crazy then hit me low: go to therapy or all financial support stops, including my COLLEGE TUITION. [Which, per the divorce agreement, which no one thinks I've actually read, states that payment of my tuition is non-negotiable, but I didn't think Intervention 2.0 was the appropriate time for semantics. Said semantics would also include the fact that in the previous week, I had gone on vacation and out to dinner with my dad 3 or 4 times, happy all the while, but this may have been due to the alcohol. None the less, I failed to see, and still do, where my crisis was?]
So, Irish people? Are inheritantly stubborn. My father? Is also Irish. We were in a bit of a stalemate until I up and left my apartment, kitten in toe for the vet's office, with the promise that I would go to a therapy session, alone and on my own terms, the following Monday. Apparently, I am not to be trusted, as my dad: 1) called the vet's office while I there to make sure I was, in fact, there; and 2) called the pyschologist after my scheduled Monday appointment, to make sure that I had, in fact, gone. By Monday, however, Nice Therapist Woman had been clued in to the fact that my father is often batshit crazy, and my mother was now speaking to me on a regular basis, but only due to the fact that the terms of my summer internship had been finalized. Team Batshit Crazy now has three members, including myself, so I think I'll be alright should my father go for Round 2.
III. Vettin' is HARD.
And by vettin', I mean standing around and watching the professionals and fetching paper towels or thermometers when asked. It's a small animal clinic (with the ocassional farm call), so I am without a doubt out of my element, but the staff is fantastic and patient with me, so I'm learning a ton, including dog headlock restraining techniques, cage cleaning, fecal slide set-up, veterinary terminology pictionary, which has sinced morphed into song/movie pictionary, because Friday afternoons are s--l--o--w, and it's really difficult to draw cardiomyopathy or feline leukemia. What isn't so slow are the days when there is one vet in the office (one is off, one in Myrtle Beach for a conference) and everyone in the county has a self-diagnosed medical emergency. These instances occured during my first two days, where I worked a total of 21 hours, without a proper lunch break. Still? It's a phenomenal experience.
IV. I'm such a GIRL.
Evidently, I am so out of practice that I had forgotten how much I blush when a cute boy talks to me. Cute boy in question in a fellow Clemson student who works afternoons at the clinic and goes on farm calls with the main vet, his cute (but married) assistant, and (lucky) me. Cute Vet Boy (or CVB, because why break tradition?) has several things working against him. He is three years younger than I and has a girlfriend, and a very pretty one at that. Evidently, my mother is a pyschic, because I told her about the girlfriend, to which she proclaimed that things change, and POOF, the day after I'd met CVB, he'd broken up with his pretty girlfriend. I'd like to think it was because he met me, but, given my track record, it would be foolish to think so. However, a cute and funny boy to flirt with (and blush around, damn fair skin) is never a bad thing.
V. Back to Britney.
Seriously, y'all? She has gone off the deep end of Redneck.
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[30 May 2006|10:58pm] |
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When the news hits home.
On Friday night, a Clemson student was murdered in her apartment, which just happens to be located two complexes down the road from mine. I didn't hear about it until Sunday night, when I was flipping through the channels and happened to stop at CNN upon seeing the word Clemson. That's right, it wasn't covered on the local news, nor were Clemson students sent an email, nor did my apartment manager attempt to inform the residents of the news. I have now seen the story two or three times on CNN, but not once on the local news. According to CNN, the police have no leads nor suspects. CNN has also informed the public that this is the first Clemson related murder in decades. Nice of local authorities to completely drop the ball on this. CNN? Gratzie!
I hope, for the sake of her parents and friends, that they catch the sick bastard that strangled her with a bikini top.
I'll be out of touch until Sunday, as I'm off to the beach tonight. Adios.
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| Return from the abyss. |
[22 May 2006|10:58pm] |
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I.
And by abyss, I mean the kind where I've moved to my apartment but the internet does not work, like last night, where I wrote this incredibly long blog and the internet ATE IT because it is SPITEFUL and MEAN and I am angry. So now? I am typing this in Microsoft Word, which never lets me down, and I will copy and paste it onto myspace. See, internet? Do not fuck with me, because I will bust a cap in your ass. I will, really.
So, speaking of apartments, and those belonging to me, Hi. I am here, in my apartment, pretending to be a grown up adult. Except there hasnt been much adultness as I spent the last week with my mom, who cooked and cleaned and generally spoiled me. If that is adulthood, I could get used to it!
Also, I am completely digging my new domicile! It is clean and organized and MINE and has a kitchen and its clean! Basically, its everything my dad's place, as much as I loved it, was not. My favorite aspects of my new place are 1) the satellite TV and 2) the ceiling fans. Can you guess which one I'm most stoked about? I bet you'd guess the satellite TV, but you would be WRONG because apparently y'all dont know me AT ALL. I have only wanted a ceiling fan for as long as I can remember. Do you think it's bad to run it all the time? Yeah, probably. But do I? Hell yes! Why? Because I'm an adult, thats why!
II.
Another adult thing I could potentially be doing is gaining veterinary experience via an internship. I could be doing this if the stupid vet would PICK UP THE PHONE and RETURN MY CALL. I had planned on staging a sit in at his office, but alas, he does not work on Mondays. Who the fuck doesnt work on a Monday?
III.
What with all the moving and whatnot, I have seen my ponies a grand total of TWO times in the past week. Guilty, party of one. One of those times, however, was spent showing of the Rock Star to my mom, who pronounced him a) stellar and b) fat. A fitness regimen is in the works. Also in the works? Mommy sponsored lessons (as I am still paying extreme amounts of dinero on a PADDOCK. Rawr!) in preparation of taking the Rock Star to his very first dress-ege show. I've never ridden him away from home. I may die, but I will look like Anky doing it.
Because I cannot speak of the ponies without mentioning Gamit: He is hairy. He is orange. He is lame. The third description could be remedied if my padre could schedule a time to make the casts for his orthotic braces. Cause I'm sure as hell not paying the vets to do it when my dear ol dad can do it for free.
IV.
No thanks to you losers, Veronica Mars has been renewed for a third season! YIPEE! This was a doubtful event, given the upcoming merger between UPN and the WB to form the oddly named CW. I like to think that CW stands for "Craptastic television every day of the Week except that one day when we show Veronica Mars and Gilmore Girls". Yeah, thats probably what it stands for. They did, after all, renew 7th Heaven for a mind blowing 11th season, even after having aired the season finale where all of the Camdens ended up pregnant with TWINS. Seriously. No, I mean really, it happened.
I expect y'all to catch up on the first two season of VM this summer. There will be late night discussions and the possible pop quiz, so don't say you weren't warned.
V.
A Saturday trip to Petsmart in search of dog biscuits ended a bit unexpectedly. There I was, minding my own business in the dog toy aisle, when I was spotted. By the spawn. Of Satan. In the form of a 12 week old kitten. Damn adoption days. It was touch and go for a bit, as the rescue only excepted cash and I had none and Petsmart is the only place in America that does not allow checks to be overwritten. Enter my patented Sad Face (TM). As I type this, the satanic kitten is locked in his bedroom (yes, he gets the spare bedroom/bathroom to house his litter and food) because he was adamant that I not communicate with the outside world and professed his disgust by LYING DOWN ON THE KEYBOARD.
I have named my kitten in quite an unusual fashion. You see, at the moment, he has some rather unfortunate tummy troubles, leading to a classic case of Stink Foot. My nutty father has always quoted a Frank Zappa song called Stink Foot. I think you can see where this is going. His name, obviously, is Zappa.
After a preliminary diagnosis from my favorite zookeeper, Zappa traveled (alternating screaming and sleeping) to the vet (a separate one from the one who cannot use the phone, and as such, the new vet with whom I hope to intern with). Diagnosis: Coccidia. Ewww!
Petey is a bit perplexed with the new houseguest, but all seems to go well at night, with the dog sprawled out under the covers, the cat ON MY HEAD, and me, with barely any covers, pillow or bed space. Its fantastic!
I'll post pictures as soon as I can, but for now? I hear the Zappster destroying the guest room door. Uh-oh.
Update: tons of pictures at Facebook!
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| I birthed a horse! Updated with PHOTOS! |
[08 May 2006|10:57pm] |
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And it's [another] boy!
He was so considerate and birthed himself at the early time of 1 am Sunday morning (as opposed to the 4 am birth of Reggae, the foal formerly known as Flip). After his mother kindly passed her placenta an hour later, we hightailed it to Waffle House for some much needed nourishment. Birthing horses is hard work!
I, of course, had to go to Waffle House covered head to toe in amniotic fluid. How does one get soaked in amniotic fluid, you ask? When you (meaning I) are the designated physical therapist of the largest foal in existence (almost 50" tall!), who, as a result of his ginormousness, has contracted legs, and requires you (meaning I) to hold him up until he figures out how to use the 93 percent of his body that is legs. That's how. As I was covered in afterbirth, I apparently smelled like his mother, and for the first 20 minutes of his life, he was convinced that was exactly who I was. Have you ever had your arms and hands nursed on by a foal? It's undescribable. Me = never having children. Or at least, if I do, they will not nurse on me.
Despite his contracted limbs (3 of 4), he is the coolest thing. And his flippers put Reggie's to shame! They were honest to goodness flippers! The biggest ones my barn owner had ever seen. At one point, NewFoal flipped his front foot forward and HIT ME WITH HIS FLIPPER as it dislodged itself from his hoof. I think he was just thanking me for helping to birth him.(You can see his gargantuan flipper in the very first picture.) He also has the best personality, so laid back and chill about life, and ever so friendly! And flashy! 4 stockings, a huge star and a perfect pink circle on his nose. Best part? His gray goggles and gray nose, meaning he will turn GRAY. And we all know my weakness for gray horses (Mine offered nickers of encouragement after the birth. Or, he just wanted food). I've already called dibs. Just don't tell my dad.
This is his poppa. Yes, he is a hunter. EEP! Confirmed foal name: Phlash Dance. HEE!
Post-birthing update: Phlash is currently at the UGA hospital as he became a bit septic on Monday, but is doing well now. In addition, he also has a scrotal hernia that may need to be corrected via surgery in a few weeks. He's quite full of himself and on the mend, with straighter legs to boot!
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[04 May 2006|10:56pm] |
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Item of Importance #1
Last Thursday I stopped traffic. How? By FALLING OFF THE CURB and INTO THE STREET. True story. Except traffic didn't actually stop, it just swerved around me. Like, nice display of southern hospitality, right?
Item of Importance #2
The bad news is I failed my Repro lab final but actually passed it due to the curve. Thanks, fellow stupid students! The badder news is that I end up with a C for the semester and even if I get an A on the [optional] final (won't happen), it won't change the C. Conclusion: Repro finals are for losers!
Item of Importance #3
By this time NEXT WEEK, I will be MOVING INTO MY NEW APARTMENT! EEP! And at the same time: YAY! It's 10 minutes from the barn, which was my primary criteria for a prospective apartment. Obviously.
Item of Importance #4
I repeat: $1300 for board is insane. Especially when $600 of that is on top of board for a PADDOCK and I buy my own grain to the tune of $100 per month. So much for lessons/showing this summer.
Item of Importance #5
I kicked some serious ass on my Animal Health exam, despite waking up 45 minutes before it started (I live 30 minutes from campus). Yay for reckless driving!
Item of Importance #6
My very last exam is this evening at 6:30. Subject: Math. Amount of time studied: 0. Location: ?
Post-exam update: It was 17 PAGES! That, is too much math. Brain = fried. Me = DONE!
Item of Importance #7
Again, why the hell don't y'all watch Veronica Mars? So good! And I can't discuss it with anyone! Hate!
Item of Importance #8
Ways in which Lauren's body deals with stress:
1. migraines
2. heart palpations
3. a thumb twitch that has become a near constant spasm. *NEW*
I don't know what's up with my thumb. I asked Papa J, MD. who pronounced it stress related. Great, but how do I MAKE IT STOP? Is he sure it's stress? What if it's like a giant brain tumor and he's afraid to tell me?
Item of Importance # 9
I am officially done with school this week and I have not set up my 400 hours of vet work for this summer. Wait until the last minute, me? Never.
Item of Importance #10
Tomorrow, 10 am, I meet with my advisor to decide what to do WITH THE REST OF MY LIFE. No pressure, though.
Item of Importance #11
I think [cross your fingers] that Gamit has finished shedding. After the feeling had returned to my hands, I attempted to corral Rocky in the back 40 (HEE! Farm humor is funny!). His response: to turn and walk away from me. Thanks, buddy.
Also pony related: the fact that Gamit's body appears to be REJECTING THE SKIN on his cannon bones. Not quite, but I think that paints a pretty accurate picture of his new mysterious skin ailment.
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[28 Apr 2006|10:56pm] |
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For Sale.
Board: $900
Grain: $60
Shoes: $80
Carrots: $15
Orthotic Braces: $1000
Snuggles: priceless
There are some things money can't buy... for everything else, Lauren will sell a portion of her horse in order raise money. Or sell her own eggs.
For a limited time (of my choosing) you can purchase stock in Gamit (TM) at $20/share. As a stockholder, you will receive pictures of Gamit (TM) in his $600/month paddock (in addition to the $300 I already pay for board), sporting his $1,000 orthotic braces.
Seriously? $600 for a paddock? Seriously.
Gamit = World's Most Expensive Retiree. And here I was, under the delusion that it was less money to care for a retired horse. Sheesh.
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[26 Apr 2006|10:56pm] |
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Wah.
Why is it that everytime I start to get my life back on track and gain just an iota of confidence in myself and my ability to be successfuly and smart and mature that it comes crashing back down around me? I don't think I've angered any voodoo doctors or collected that much bad karma. And here I thought my mojo had returned. Sheesh. Way to psyche a girl out.
Case in point: my repro lab exam final, which I have been studying and reading and outlining in preparation for the previous FIVE days. None of what I studied (i.e. the lab material from the year) was on this exam. I needed to put in a stellar performance on this exam to make up for my abyssmal midterm lab exam. I really thought I could do it. I knew the material and I still failed. Fucking fantastic.
Next up is my 6 pm Math exam, which I have not done the homework for (Repro lecture exam) nor studied for (Repro lab exam). Damn, when I fuck up, I fuck up spectacularly. It seems that my leopard changing spots matamorphosis has left me working twice as hard with the same results. I think I liked it better when I did nothing and failed then when I work my ass off and still do poorly. It's a conundrum, this college business. Slack and fail or work your ass off and fail? I think I might need a pro/con list.
----------------------------------------------------
[post Math update where I do not talk about Math at all]
After the Math exam that I will not speak of, I decided to go to the library. See, I've never technically been inside the library. I was intimidated enough from the outside in January. It is May, so I'm here. In the library. Y'all? I can't even describe it. But I'll try. There are SIX levels! SIX! As in three or four more than Wilson. That's kind of a lot. There are ELEVATORS. To move the people among the SIX floors. There are TREES (well, huge plants really) inside! There are TWO coffee sho-- Oh, ya'll will not believe it. Someone just had a PIZZA delivered. To the LIBRARY. Where the fuck am I? I'm trying not to look around too much and attract attention to myself but hot damn this place is ginormous!
I need to leave and compose myself. I rushed the library orientation process. It was too much, too soon. I mean, come on, SIX FLOORS? I never had a chance.
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| Anger! |
[25 Apr 2006|10:54pm] |
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mood |
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the chronicWHATles of narnia |
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Why don't any of you watch Veronica Mars? Seriously? You are missing brilliance! I am DYING to discuss tonight's abolutely stellar episode (honestly, it was EPIC) but I can't because y'all are flipping stupid and don't watch it. Hate! Hate! HATE YOU!
Speaking of hatred (because I just did), do y'all remember when technology kicked my ass several months ago? Well, my bad luck is back. In the form of my brand new laptop refusing (quite adamantly at that), not to let me connect to the internet.
Self: la la la [connect to wireless]
Lappy: What is this "wireless network" that you speak of?
Self: Why, this one of course!
Lappy: Fool! I do not recognize this network! We have never connected to this network before! You could be a Nigerian scam artist attempting to extract valuable financial information from this lovely girl's computer. I'm afraid I'm going to need the 87 letter/number password.
Self: The WHAT? [searches house, 8 hours later, locates nondescript scrap of paper with password (IN THE RECYCLING); enters password]
Lappy: Why thank you, beautiful girl! Allow me to connect...
Self: Oh, God bless you!
Lappy: Connecting...
Self: la la la
Lappy: Connecting....
Self: La? La? La?
Lappy: Connecting...
Self: [cries]
Lappy: Connected!
Self: Yay! [happy dance] la la la [opens Internet Explorer]
Lappy: I'm sorry, what page were you searching for?
Self: la la la [refresh]
Lappy: Page! Not! Found!
Self: la la la [refresh]
Lappy: Fuck you.
In an attempt to appease my laptop, I introduced it to its shiny new printer that is roughly the size of a compact car. It prints 30 pages a minute! It prints pictures! It scans! It faxes! The laptop's response? "Oh, lovely! Why thank you! But you still ain't gettin' on the net." Because I imagine my laptop speaking in ghetto speak, yet in a complimentary tone when necessary.
Well, now wasn't that a fun diversion from studying for my Reproduction lab FINAL and Math exam? Which are both tomorrow? Back to the Law & Order: SVU marathon...er, I mean studying! Back to studying!
Oh, and y'all remember the Repro exam of last week? The one where I learned 5 chapters in 2 days? The average for the class was a 65 percent. I guess not everyone loves a word bank. I got a C. Proving that I am most certainly above average.
Also, this = comedy GOLD!
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| Too punk rock... |
[20 Apr 2006|10:54pm] |
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...for my Repro exam.
I guess it went as well as a 4 page fill-in-the-blank exam could go. I could have done without the word bank. No, really, listen. This word bank? Came directly from the smouldering depths of HELL. Seriously. You know it's bad when half way through the exam you toss the word bank aside because the answers that you are 95 percent sure of ARE NOT ON THE WORD BANK. Now, I know you're saying "Just ask the professor" and you would be correct, but who's telling the story here? In my version, the professor wasn't there and some TA who had nothing to do with the class was there to proctor.
...for Mickey Hall.
Since I skipped out on classes on Monday (I say I was just living vicariously through Wilson's Dean's Day, but that's neither here nor there...) I wasn't in class to receive my graded Animal Health exam from the previous week. No problem, right? Just ask the professor, right? WRONG. I think the following conversation should clear up any misconceptions y'all may have about one Mickey Hall.
Self: Um, hi.
Mickey: [glowers]
Self: Um, I was wondering if you still had my exam? If you don't have it with you right now I could stop by your office--
Mickey: I threw it in the trash.
Self: Um... what?
Mickey: I don't have time to keep track of your papers. It is in the recycling bin in my office.
[Now, I was only slightly wigged about this. I did, afterall, skip class on Monday. I can accept that she has a tone about it.]
Self: No, I understand. Is there I time when I could stop by and fish it out of your bin?
Mickey: I'd prefer it if you didn't rifle through my trash.
Self: [!] Um.
Mickey: [sigh] If I get a chance, I might look for it.
Self: Um, ok thanks.
[Now this is where I should have just TURNED AROUND and WALKED AWAY. But NO! I promised my parents I'd ask about extra credit...]
Self: Um, I was wondering...
Mickey: [sigh] What were you wondering?
Self: Is there any type of extra credit that I might be able t--
Mickey: [face red, steam from ears] ABSOLUTELY NOT. I don't DO extra credit!
I sure hope someone enjoys lengthy, highly specific and incriminating evaluations!
...for my ponies.
[Technically, I suppose, THEY are the ones that are too punk rock for ME, but I had a theme going here...]
In other news... well, there is no other news because I am a negligent pony owner who only stopped to snuggle with the boys yesterday and have done nothing else with them. Tomorrow, as they say, is another day. Especially since SOMEONE has no more classes on Tuesdays or Thursdays.
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| You know what they say about leopards? And spots? |
[18 Apr 2006|10:53pm] |
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And how they can't change? Well, it will surprise no one more than myself to admit that they were WRONG.
Since we last spoke, some pretty wicked cool things have happened.
I have read 4.5 chapters and written 20 TYPED pages of notes. I may actually do well on this exam. Or not. But at least I can say I actually tried. Even if it is too little, to late, I went down fighting.
My dad got cable. As a reward for my [brand new] awesome studying habits, I get to watch my very favorite show, Veronica Mars (UPN, 9 pm, WATCH!) for the first time since DECEMBER. Squee!
For the low, low, NOT low price of $800, I may be purchasing Gamit an orthotic brace (casting done by Dr. Dad) that will prevent further suspensory damage.
My Equine evaluation class is completely and totally done for the semester. No final, no more classes, nothing. Final grade: A. Whoa.
I have the best long distance friends a gal can have. Thanks, y'all.
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