My Dad sucks/is awesome

My Father's Day post, a day late.

I often first describe my dad to people by saying “My dad is such an asshole”. But I shouldn’t, because people interpret it the wrong way. What I want to say is “My dad is that asshole friend you have who always makes fun of you but he’s a totally awesome dude.” But usually all I can muster is a chuckle and “God, my dad’s an asshole.”

When I first started going to school here, my dad told all our family and friends that I was going to an “arts and crafts school”. Then he would promptly crack up at his own joke. He also constantly makes fun of me for choosing visual arts over performance arts, repeatedly referring to them as the “static arts.” In high school he chastised me for not having a boyfriend, literally calling me “loser” a few times, but when I finally did get one he just talked about shooting him all the time (again, jokingly). When I failed at hockey he made fun of me for not being a “true Canadian”, and when I failed at every other sport he probably just laughed more. He was in Type A classes for most of my childhood so I remember a fair amount of anger and aggression followed by lesson plans and coping tactics. Some times I feel like he should probably still be in that class. He is, most certainly, bossy and able to dish it out but not able to take it. His temper is short.

But here’s the thing. My dad also bought me my first camera, taught me how to use it, and has given me all my favorite cameras after that one (and taught me how to use them as well). He is the reason I am able to travel so much. He introduces me to endless foreign countries. Thanks to him, I am now trilingual. He is maybe the only person in my family genuinely interested in my art. He knows exactly how to brew my tea in the mornings and would bring me a cup in bed every day before high school. He makes amazing spaghetti sauce, has a great sense of humor, and is probably the reason for my wanderlust and interest in other cultures. He stops at nothing for my education and furthering of life experiences; he is the one who took me on my east coast college tour where I had stupidly planned to see 14 schools in one week. He didn’t complain.

I love my dad, and it makes me so happy to see us becoming friends who can share a beer without losing our father daughter past. I owe most of my favorite experiences to him and yes while he is an asshole, I’m pretty sure I’m one too. I hope I get it from him.

Shut up stars, you don't KNOW ME

So, this website claims to list some of the things that your astrological sign hates. I of course had to look. That kind of stuff makes me really curious and half the time I believe it, so I searched for Pisces on the list. Here's what it said for me. Laugh all you want...because I did.

Places that are too hot
This is, surprisingly, true. I cannot stand it if it is over 75 degrees outside and you can pretty much consider anything dealing with humidity a huge out for me. Having grown up in Northern California, the heat has been present, but easily avoidable. Being on the coast has always added a nice ocean breeze to the mix. However this doesn't mean I totally loathe it; my family and I regularly visit Death Valley and the National Parks of Southern California. Plus, in 10th grade, I did an exchange trip with a school in Tahiti and had an amazing time. Let's put it this way: I don't love it. I won't search it out. But to experience amazing things, some times you have to face what you hate. It's that simple.

Losing their sunglasses
What sunglasses? What is this? LA? Italy in every Hollywood movie? Does the whole effing world wear sunglasses?

Polluted water
Well, gee, yeah. I do hate it. You got me. I'm amazed and totally convinced. But doesn't EVERYONE? Oh no wait, I heard the sign Sagittarius is really into polluted water. This definitely won't be on their list. (The only reason this is here is because Pisces is a water sign - nice try trying to give this some credibility/believability jack ass.)

People who laugh too loud
Depends. What do we mean by "people"? Do we mean the people sitting at the table next to me in the restaurant having a private conversation way too loudly? Are they, at the same time, slurping down bowl after bowl of Miso soup and eating plate after plate of sushi (bastards. I could never afford that much sushi)? Because I do hate them. Or do you mean my room mate Ellen, whose loud boisterous laugh brings me eons of joy? Even at 1am I love to hear it wake me from my slumber.

People who walk away from arguments
That's just because they're PUSSSIES and know that I WILL WIN IF THEY STAY.

Alcoholics
Alright, problems with this statement:
1) I would be a hypocrite (half kidding).
2) I would hate all my friends (3/4 kidding).
3) I would hate almost everyone my age (not kidding).
4) We all have our vices and obsessions. Who am I to judge?

Being denied access to grandchildren
Oh God. Oh. My. God. Ever since my daughter put them in private school and moved out to the suburbs, I never get to see them. I miss them. I sent them checks for their birthday and never got a thank you letter. It is killing me inside. No but really...that would suck. If I had any.

Having to wear prescription glasses
Yo, what UP, reppin' 20/20 vision RIGHT HERE BITCHEZZZZZ.

Cars that waste energy
Once again...most. people. do. And if they don't, it's not because they're a Virgo or something. It's because they're from the Midwest. Just kidding. Sorry Karina.

Slow drivers
Well I don't drive, but I hate slow walkers. Does that count? When I have somewhere to be and the person in front of me is taking their sweet time, I want to punch them in the back of the head. Tourists make this especially hard for me. Actually, even when I don't have anywhere to be, I still get pissed off. I hate being in transit. In the words of Tom Wolfe, "The intrepid traveler takes one step and he is there!"

Why I write lists

I write a lot of lists. Lists of foreign countries I have been to, long books I’ve read, bands I’ve seen, and famous people I’ve met. They make me look like an asshole.

But I don’t write these lists to be an asshole. It definitely appears to be that way to the uneducated eye, but if you knew me, if you understood how my brain works and how it thinks, you would understand the lists.

Let’s take the concert lists for an example, as I recently updated one. Keeping track of every concert I attend and then laying them all out in numerous fashions is not me bragging to the world of my achievements. I don’t mean to say “Look how many indie bands I have seen!” The pages of concert listings are for me and me only, and if I happen to bring it up in conversation, it is to reassure myself that they are important in some way, or helpful. After I’ve written that first list, I can’t help but continue the list, number it out, add to it, rearrange it. I keep changing it.

More lists have appeared from the first two official lists (“concerts I’ve been to” and “total bands seen live”). Now I list all the bands I’ve seen individually, so I now have an exact figure of bands I have seen (147). I also broke down the number of concerts I have seen by year, then by each month within the year. It’s obsessive and sick in a way. And I know this. But if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t know that the two months in which I have seen the most concerts so far have been April of 2008 and June of 2009. I also wouldn’t know that from 2005 to 2006, my yearly concert attendance jumped from 8 to 15. And that in 2008 it went up to 18. I wouldn’t know that I attended the exact same number of concerts in 2007 that I did in 2006. Also, the time when I saw the most concerts in a row (8) was April and May of 2008, which was, coincidentally, just before my French Baccalaureate exams.

But what’s the use for all of this? Who cares? Do I care? I don’t even know. The more lists I make about this, the more I fascinate myself. After they’re written, all I do with them is add on and occasionally open them to scroll through 13 or 14 times in one sitting. Scrolling through the lists is a wonderful feeling for me. But what the hell? Is that all they do?

This brings me to my point.

I have a habit of counting things down. Even if I am enjoying myself immensely, I count down to the minute at which something will end. I check the time and estimate how much longer I have in a moment or event. I check the calendar for how many more days in a trip, in a month. I keep a countdown on my Google home page to whatever big event I can latch onto. I am always asking the duration of something, which makes me sound rude. I am not trying to be rude. I just need to know so my brain can start the countdown. No matter what I do, I am counting down. When I was depressed, I used to countdown the hours till 11pm (when I would go to sleep) so I would know how much longer till I had gotten through another day.

And the thing is, I have always hated math. But I do not hate numbers. The only time I hate numbers is when I am using them against me; like I do with, yes, counting down. I wish I could stop counting down completely. I wish I cold enjoy time without wondering when something is going to end. Why do I wonder at all when I am having so much fun? It’s not that I am wishing for it to end. I’m just wondering when it will end. And this distracts me and pulls me out of the moment and I can’t reenter it for a while.

Then people think I’m getting upset. I am not. I am trying to stop counting.

These lists I make, whether they be for concerts I’ve attended, museums I’ve been to, airlines I’ve traveled on, or movies I have hated…they are my way of trying to satiate my craving for numbers. If I make enough lists, and reread them often enough, I don’t count time down. But when I stop the lists, the counting down begins.

Just a month ago I was on a trip with two close friends. I found myself counting the hours down till we had to go back to school. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends of my life and they were two of my favorite people on earth and we were in one of my favorite cities in the world and all I could do was count hours. One night, in my friend’s attic bedroom we were staying in, I tried writing a list of the things we had done that weekend so far, but it did not satisfy my brain.

To this day I remember that weekend with extreme fondness and I had an amazing time. I definitely had fun, don’t doubt that. But I was counting.

And that’s why I need the lists.
I really need them.
I don’t care if you know I’ve been to 12 different countries or not. Yeah, I would love to talk about my time there, but the number isn’t what matters. Remember this: if I say it, I am trying to validate myself with numbers.

It has gotten to the point that next term at school, I will be hanging a list on my wall by my bed. Any list, I just need one to look at. Then I will be going to the school pysch. I have fucking had it with missing the moment because of a clock.

Eating chores

I don’t remember when eating big meals became a chore for me.

It suddenly occurred to me one day that I didn’t exactly enjoy eating large portions of food anymore. I used to look forward to meals and certain foods or dinners out, but suddenly I realized this meant I would have to order some huge plate of food. The plate usually ends up three quarters full, while everyone else at the table has cleared theirs. The waiter comes around and looks at me, my plate, and then back at me. “Are you finished?” they ask. “Yes.” I say. “You sure?” they respond almost instantly. I want to scream, “Yes, I am fucking done! I’m sorry, I am so sorry. I know there are starving children all over the world. God, I am sorry.” But usually I just say “Could I get a box for this?” instead. At least that way they think I might finish it. This is why when a restaurant offers half salads or “smaller plates” I am ecstatic and dedicate myself to that part of the menu for the evening like it’s Jesus’ second coming.

Not that I like how people look at me when I order half a sandwich or just two chicken strips. I am already very skinny, and when an extremely thin girl with no fat or muscles whatsoever looks up and says “I’ll have half a salad”, the waiter usually thinks the worst. For once I wish I could gain some weight, just enough so that the person thinks “Oh yeah that’s fine she’s okay.” I feel funny when they’ve included “For those on a diet!” as part of the description of the smaller plates menu.

But let’s get this straight: I love food. I think it’s delicious and I have my favorites, like sushi and pasta. Food tastes amazing and for anyone to deny their human right to eat food is beyond me. I guess I mostly enjoy snacks here and there: coffee in a café, something in a bakery, a small appetizer. This is because these are easy to consume and small, and, having practically no appetite, it’s hard for me to eat a monstrous plate of salad. I like sitting and chatting and eating little bites of food here and there. It gives me something to do while I talk, almost like when a person who smokes only likes the motion and fashion of holding the cig for conversational purposes.

I like the social aspect of dining out. I like to be with people, to talk, to laugh. The eating part is a job I have to complete to make it to the enjoyable part. My burrito is a mountain to be scaled. If I can get through a good chunk, it will look like I tried my hardest. If I shove my salad around it will look more eaten.

I would love to eat out and order a salad, soup, an entrée, and then a great dessert. If my stomach would let me, I really would. The problem is, I get tired of dishes quickly and wish I could switch to something else in the middle of it. Life, unfortunately, does not work like that. Ever. Once you start something, you finish it. Only problem is, I never finish the food I order. Dining out I constantly wish I could switch my entrée platter halfway through eating because I am sick of the taste and how it looks and it’s smell. I become repulsed by the food. Then I get criticized for not finishing it. What can I do when each bite I take after it becomes boring to me makes me want to regurgitate everything?

Some times I’m sick of eating, but I can’t stop. When I’m bored, I eat. In class when I don’t want to work, I take constant sips from my iced tea or water bottle. At home, I snack here and there so big meals aren’t as hard to get through and I only take the minimum on my plate to eat.

Big portions scare me.
They’re intimidating.

When I do manage to get through almost an entire plate of food (this usually only happens when I am deciding my own portions), I cannot take the last bite. I always have to leave something on my plate. A few of my friends find this really annoying and kind of petty, but they have no idea what is going through my head. I cannot take that last bite or everything will end. How can they not see the balance of the world is left in that piece of tortilla or baby carrot? My god, people’s lives are at stake!

I suppose I don’t discuss this with people because, looking back, it sounds like I have some obscure eating disorder. This has been a topic of controversy in my circle for some time and I generally hate it when people think they are helping me with some intervention. I am not anorexic. Absolutely not. I just said I love food, didn’t I? I don’t hate food, I hate the amounts in which it is presented to me. In mountainous volumes, food makes me sick. I will push it away. I cannot understand how people finish the food restaurants serve these days.

I’d really prefer a half salad. Don’t look at me like that. I really do like salad.

5 very embarassing things

Once again, I open my innermost secrets to all of you. Okay, so they're not life changing, scarring, or ruining, and you probably couldn't blackmail me with them, but they're pretty bad. Somehow though, sharing them makes me a little more self aware and happy. I guess in a way I am proud of the terrible things I love/do. Which sounds a lot more insinuating than I mean it to be. Whatever. Just read on. I hate introductions.

1) I have cried during a lot of Ugly Betty episodes

Fact. A sad, but true, fact. Maybe it's because I seem to watch them all during some pivotal turning point in my life, snuggled up in bed at 1am. Circumstances have a lot to do with emotions. But really, if I am alone and it's quiet, I probably will cry at something in an episode. They just know how to tug on your heartstrings! Betty misses her dad's birthday because of work, and he at it he has a heart attack, and she IGNORES HER SISTER'S CALLS as their father is rushed to the hospital. Then Elliott Smith starts playing as the montage of sad faces begins. Oh god, here it goes. And her old flame Henry is back for the 17th time and it's all "ooh emotions I thought I'd forgotten" etc etc. And they kiss it's messy, and "I miss you", and "No we can't!" It goes on and on until I can barely contain myself.

2) I enjoy Enya's music

And what are you going to do about it? I practically grew up on Enya (along with a lot of Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, and classical msuic), so she is imbedded in my brain whether I like it or not (especially the "Sail away!" part of one of her songs). Luckily, I do like it. When I am stressed out, too tired to move, or just feeling depressed, a good round of "Watermark" or "A Day Without Rain" really puts me in a good place. It's soothing, it's quiet, and her voice is very beautiful. Hate all you want; bitch has got TALENT. Now inventing her own language, that's a whole 'nother Enya I'd rather not go into...

3) Some of my favorite books are the "Shopaholic" series

I started reading the first one after going "Junky Book Shopping" with my mom for our summer road trip to Palm Springs. When you're sitting by a pool in 110 degree weather, the last thing you want to do is think too hard over a huge volume of Descartes' theorems on space and time. Anyway, I picked this one out. The description hooked me: "Becky has a fabulous flat in London's trendiest neighborhood, a troupe of glamorous socialite friends, and a closet brimming with the season's must-haves. The only trouble is that she can't actually afford it–not any of it." Oh hell yes. Independent girl facing life issues in a big city. That's intriguing. I bought it, read it, and suddenly...I needed more. I read the entire series and even bought the new one when it came out. I found myself actually growing attached to Becky, her friends, her life...what can I say? She's adorable. And I like having something easy to read now and then; we can't all be the next scholar of French philosophers! Although I do love me some Voltaire and Rousseau...

4) When it comes to Rupert Grint, it's like I'm 13 all over again

Not even joking. I think some of my friends are starting to get a little ashamed of going to see the Harry Potter movies with me because I fawn over him like a teenage girl. And there is a very deep buried part of me that still believes we would be great together; if we met, and bychance got to spend some time together, I swear to god it would go very well. And I am a sucker for that red hair. Who isn't? Look at him! Even his onscreen character, Ron Weasley, is appealing to me. But I guess it's time to snap back to reality. I have to approach things from a serious standpoint. Which means I should start using that scientifically proven correct six degrees of seperation test to see how I can meet him...

5) I used to run about 5 or 6 fansites
And believe me, they were all for very embarrassing, stupid things. One was for Ron Weasley, another for Pippin from Lord of the Rings, and a third for Joel Madden from Good Charlotte. I swear to God, if you laugh, I will haunt you. I am opening up my soul to you by telling you these things. I loved making websites and would use basically any excuse to make one. Fansites seemed perfect! I put up loads of useless information that didn't do anything to advance humanity or create a better world at all! Their birthdays, favorite colors, and pets. I created galleries of images just of them! What better way to fill up the internet than with pictures of a little Hobbit and wizard boy? I can't think of any. Unless it's for pictures of a tattooed pop punk band lead singer with a whiney voice. Oh god, kill me.

Add to the list the fact that I rant on here to basically no one. No one that I'm aware of anyway. Until next time, keep it real like I just did. The world doesn't need any more lies.

urban outfitters needs to be taken down. now.

Before I say anything else in this piece, let me just start off by saying: I am underweight. Gasp! No! Yes. I am. And it's how I have been my whole life. I naturally have a very thin figure and I don't carry a lot of weight. So I have always looked very skinny. It's led to some awkward comparisons and a few nasty rumors at summer camp, but overall I have always been happy to be like this. I am proud of my body (daily affirmation: check).

In addition to this, I am often asked if I am a model because of my physique (I'm assuming, because it's certainly not because of my face), and even used to be a fit model when I was younger. I almost never have problems buying clothes because everything seems to fall on me pretty perfectly. While this is great, I do feel bad because I know it's those skinny ass jeans and tight shirts that lead to eating disorders and a general feeling of self loathing in America. But they do fit me! Gah! What am I gonna do? I know I am not an average girl, that I am much thinner, and probably look like a bit of a freak some times. They shouldn't be catering to people my size at all! I am the minority! Me! The size 2! Make more size 6 and 8 pants! For God's sake, that's what normal people wear.

Now bear all that incessant rambling in mind as I state the following: I have never worn anything that makes me look or feel fat. Obviously. I am tiny. How could this be possible. Well, reader, yesterday I put on a skirt and it made my thighs look huge.

Yes. My size 2 (or 4 depending on the store) thighs looked huge.

The store? Urban Outfitters. Those motherfuckers.

I'll admit I am a sucker for Urban Outfitter's clothes: they are adorable and trendy. However, because of their monstrous prices, my art student budget, and the general hipster attitude they perpetrate that I kind of try to veer away from, I usually find myself crossing the street to Forever 21 and buying something exactly the same for 30 bucks less. As a result of this, I rarely shop at Urban at all. But yesterday they were having a sale! Half off sale items! So freaking cheap. I had to go in. I found a few things: some skirts, two tops, and a tanktop. And I proceeded into the dressing rooms.

Obviously all the sizes I had picked were smalls. So imagine my utter terror when I put on the frst skirt and I can barely pull it over my underweight butt. What the hell is going on here? I thought in anger. This would never happen at Forever 21! Ashamed and hating myself, I pulled it off, threw it on the ground, lit it on fire, and burned the whole fucking store down.

Nah I'm kidding. I just took it off and kicked it to the side unhappily. But it was a deep passionate kick of hatred! Imagine how my mood decreased when I tried on the next skirt and got the same result. Istarted to convince myself that I had gotten fatter in the butt (oh, college, how I love you) but this is impossible because I am still wearing the same jeans from 11th grade. I started to feel horrible. Not only for myself, but for everyone who shops at this store. I mean, what the living hell?! Here I am, an underweight, tall, skinny, size 2 (or 4), model-body girl and I cannot fit into a size small at Urban Outfitters.

I find this outrageous on so many levels. What do they want girls to do to themselves, starve? Work out till they drop dead? Do the master cleanse once a month? Apparently. I want to take UO down, people. You should have seen how mad I was. I even Tweeted about it and called my friend Karina to yell.

On top of all this crap, I tried on one of the tops in a small and my boobs were showing because they couldn't fill the top. So...now they want us to have extremely small waists but huge boobs? Who runs this company, Playboy Magazine? Womanizers Inc?

Oh yeah, sidenote: they also price all their lomography cameras way too high. You're paying too much for a toy that you can find on Ebay for much less. So much less.

Fuck you, UO.

the process of getting up

Waking up is a very ritualistic process for me. It has several steps and there are patterns I follow each morning. But I'm sure I am not exception to this rule; we all have our little quirks and mannerisms to waking up. Maybe you need a banana on your cereal to really start the day. Or you do 100 push ups. Or maybe you need to blast "One Week" by the Barenaked Ladies and strut around your room with no clothes on. Whatever that special something is, you feel required to stand by it for your day to operate correctly.

For me, waking up isn't so much what I do, but in what sequence I do it. I start work at the museum at 10am every day, and I set my alarm for 7:45. Not because I want to be up and at 'em at 8:00, but simply because I know it's going to take me some time to wake the hell up. And that it where it all begins...

7:45 A.M.
Alarm goes off. I roll over and turn it off, glance at it to make sure all is well, then snuggle back under my covers.

8:00 A.M.
My internal clock rouses me and I glance at the clock once more just to make sure all is going well. I fall back into a shallow sleep.

8:25 A.M.
I wake up again and this time I start to move around a little bit more to get myself up. I open my eyes slightly more than the two times before and even stretch my arms out. Serious morning stuff. I still get back under the covers though, not ready to face the cold hardwood floor. So cold on my feet, argh...

8:35 A.M.
One last opening of the eyes, and I am pretty much awake. Satisfied that I have spent almost an hour getting out of bed, I sit up, and take a moment to recollect myself so I don't run down the ladder from my loft bed and, in a dizzy fit, hurl all over my floor. Once I am down the ladder, there is no going back. I know it is time for me to face the day ahead of me. I turn on my computer, open the blinds, curse whatever the weather is for that day (foggy, it's too cold; sunny, it's too warm) and start to walk downstairs.

8:45 A.M.
Still in my pajamas (THIS IS CRUCIAL), I get a bowl of granola, a banana, and some unhealthy pastry like breakfast item (nutella on english muffins or cinnamon bread...whatever). I'll also either make tea or coffee, depending on my degree of laziness. Very lazy = coffee (we have a machine that does it all for you) Kinda lazy = probably still coffee. Not lazy, feeling good = tea. The only thing is, I drink decaf coffee, so this adds another degree of WAKE THE FUCK UP ON YOUR OWN to my day, except for the mountain of sugar I pour in, which probably is just enough to get me to work and to my desk.

9:00 A.M.
Back up in my room, I grab an outfit (one I probably thought of the night before; I've been getting into outfits lately). I'll probably convince myself it's not good enough to be seen, that I'm not good enough to be seen, and that I shouldn't even try any more.

9:06 A.M.
I check the train times online, check my email, check my tumblr maybe a little. I run to the bathroom and put on the necessary jewerly for the day. But, basically wishing I were a man half the time, I usually settle for one necklace and some earrings. I brush my teeth and floss as my dentist's voice rings in my head, and finally spray on maybe something to make me smell remotely like the lady I should be by now. Sorry, Mom. I don't even wear makeup, so this rapidly decreases my bathroom preparation time. Awesome.

9:10 A.M.
I check the train times once more and realize I have to get going like, right effing now. I run downstairs and pile an unholy amount of random snacks into my bag. I run back upstairs in a frenzy and turn off my computer, give myself one last look-over in the mirror (usually followed by a "Could be worse" kind of reaction), and pile my iPod, notebook, planner, and wallett into the bag with snacks. Usually, I forget a book to read. Which is annoying cause eating alone is already depressing enough. Eating alone and just staring into space is way worse.

9:15 A.M.
I am out the door and down four or five blocks to the train station by my house. I get on the train slightly sweaty and gross already, and try not to feel like not everyone is staring at me (I always feel this way on trains! I think they're all engrossed with my obvious sweatiness and music that is too loud through my headphones). I ride the train 6 stops, and the whole way I am a vulture for a seat.

9:45 A.M.
I get off the train, walk extremely quickly down the street (THIS ISN'T A CHOICE - I don't know why I can't slow the hell down now and then. I'm a monster). I go in the employee entrance, sign in, race upstairs, and plop down at my desk. It is 10 AM. Fuck yeah.

And here I am.

clean the toilet seat. just clean it.

For this past week and all of next week, I have been/will be working at a museum for their exhibtions department. I've had this job twice before and it's a blast. I love it. I'm currently pursuing a career in working in modern art museums, so any kind of experience and/or knowledge is a plus for me. Plus, the work they give me here is petty yes, but somehow extremely fascinating to me. It would seem my love for all kinds of modern and contemporary art has rendered me totally blind to the intern bitch work. I just love being here, surrounded by art. What more do I want in my young, starving art student life?

I work in an office seperate from the main room of cubicles. I share the office with the Exhibitions Designer (who is kind enough to let some little intern sit by him every day and ogle all the design plans he has laid out for upcoming exhibits). Since I'm in this office seperated from the main throng of desks, I use the public restroom that is available to all the museum patrons.

Now, this is a museum, so it's fancy, right? Yes. It's clean, right? Yes. And it seems like everything is maintained to the utmost perfection, right? Absolutely. This museum is a miracle worker in lighting, presentation, smell, whatever. I love it. However yesterday, I proceeded to the restroom with my normal degree of excitement/involvement ("Okay, going to pee, I've ignored the urge for too long..."). There was one stall open, and yet people were waiting in a line. I asked if I could use it and they shrugged and said sure. So I went in.

And I saw why they had all been avoiding it: there was a sprinkle of pee all alongside the seat.

Okay, first of all, I never understand how this happens in women's restrooms. The only thing I can think of is someone brought their little son in to help pee. But if that's case, you are TOTALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING THAT SHIT UP. Furthermore, even if it was a woman, not a little boy, you are STILL RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING THAT SHIT UP. And you are also responsible for figuring out what could be wrong with your vagina so that it does that.

And what makes me even more mad is that all these people were avoiding that stall just because there was some pee on the seat. Hell, anyone could clean that up! You grab some toilet paper, wipe it, and then you do your stuff. If you don't clean it, some poor underpaid union worker is going to have to do it anyway. So maybe you should suck it up for once! Why is it so hard?

I can undersatnd the clogged toilets thing. That's a broken toilet. Plus, poo is on a totally different level than pee. But man, if I could show you this one toilet I had to pee in in a Berlin art house...
Oh wait. I can.
Here it is (click that man, click it)

Yeah. Gross. But I did it. I fucking did it.

So, if I can pee into that, I think you can take three minutes to wipe up some pee in a posh metropolitan modern art museum bathroom.

If you'll excuse me, I am an all important intern with duties to attend to. Like cleaning restrooms, apparently.

frequently asked questions/statements about my name that annoy me

Just, as a precursor: if you didn’t know already, my name is India. Why yes, it is quite odd. So yes, it does prompt dumb questions/statements. I don't know why some people seem to get really nervous/stupid around me when they learn my name. Is it really that off putting? There are girls named Jordan and Darcy these days. There are boys named Phoenix, and babies named Apple. It's time to step into the next century! Hell, I was here before all of that crap. So maybe I'm the original.

In any case, my name has always been a great conversation starter. I like to talk about it, I really do. And most of the time, people say some really nice things and have very interesting observations. And I say that without a hint of sarcasm. At dinner parties and social gatherings, everyone seems genuinely interested in my name, which I find flattering and humbling at the same time. There are things you can totally ask me. Where my name comes from is suitable, yes. So is the story behind my name. It's just some times, people can be so oblivious! I get a lot of annoying questions and statements in response to a simple introduction. Here are my least favorites. And yes, they are all taken from real life situations.

1) “Are you named after the country?”
Why…why yes! Yes, I am. My parents love it more than me. Just the other day they were saying "Thank God we could take our only daughter in the whole world and dedicate her to a country we have never been to nor have any ties to at all! You are a shrine, India." "Thanks Mom and Dad! Looks like I am nothing more than a symbol to a people I have nothing to do with."

2) “Oh, are you Indian?”
Was it my white skin and obvious caucasianness that gave it away? Or just that my name is India? Because I hear people have been naming their kids after the place they're from A LOT lately. Like that friend I have named North Carolina. And that guy in my painting class named Ontario. Oh, and you can't forget Ireland! He's a champ! Except I AM KIDDING. Come on, really? Gimme a break.

3) “Where’s the jewel on your forehead? HAHAHA.”
Hilarious. And racist. Perfect. You people have really reached a new low with this one. What do you want me to do, laugh along with your stereotyping joke? Do I think it's funny that I don't have a jewel on my forehead but I'm named India? No. I don't. I think it makes sense. Why? Reread number 2, above. Some day I'm going to end up just saying something like "It fell off on the bus ride here. Damn it. Gotta order another pack tonight, I'm almost out." and then walk away. Then I'll get someone to describe the expression on the poor sucker's face to me because I don't want to turn around in fear I'll burst out laughing.

4) “Did your parents honeymoon in India?”
Thanks for putting scarring ideas and thoughts into my head. Also, isn't this a cocktail party? What kind of evening conversation starter is that?

5) “OHAI LOLZ, what’s your name again? China? Israel? LOLOLZERSS!!!!11”
I'm going to punch you.

6) “What’s up, Pakistan? Ha. Get it? It’s a country.”
Pakistan can be replaced with just about any country in the world, but believe me: I’ve heard them ALL. Yes, even The Democratic Republic of the Congo. You will not be original or funny or witty. Unless you are an extremely cute boy who is flirting with me, I will not find this charming or hilarious in the slightest. Go ahead. You can try. But I will probably smile bitterly, excuse myself, and then go cry in the bathroom. Plus I don't know what kind of social statement you're trying to make with replacing India with another country anyway...are we going to be talking about political parties? The cast system in Asian countries? Lemme just get out my notes.

7) “You must get this a lot, but…”
Then just don’t. Thanks.

8) “I bet you LOVE Indian food!”
What kind of fucked up logic is that? No. I do not. In fact, I don’t like it all. It's spicy and it burns and that hurts me and all I can eat is naan bread because I have a geographic tongue which makes me very susceptible to spices and citruses of all kinds (true condition - it's here). And now that you've made me feel like a close minded white Canadian-American who doesn't appreciate other cultures' foods, may I go? I'm craving some good old American cheddar cheese on Wonder bread.

That’s all I could come up with on the spot.
Isn’t that enough?
PS I do love my name though. A lot. And I love India. I want to go there so badly…

things that really tick me off #2

It's another installment of "Things That Really Tick Me Off!" What useless object/opinion/horrible Creed-like band will I be bashing this time?

Flat soda

Yes, it's simple and stupid, but this really gets me mad. I can barely contain my anger when I open a bottle to a totally non-satisfying silence. Fuck you, I wanted this so badly to fizz with delight! This rarely happens with cans, which is really nice, and I always thought soda tasted better in cans anyway. But if you go to Bennington College (which I do) you know that we don't sell cans here (cause we're too good for them? too rich? too haughty? Who friggin knows). So I always get the bottle. And a lot of the time, my bottles open silently. Silence = bad.

This also seems to happen in the dining hall a whole lot. I'm already angry enough going to get my soda because they don't have Dr. Pepper, which is, and feel free to take me up on this debate, the best soda there is out there. No doubt. I adore it and think it tastes delicious. It's just a complex palette of flavor, something Coke doesn't do for me (and we're not even going to talk about Pepsi because I hate it's stupid face). But then I get even angrier after getting my Coke because I walk all the way back the table and it's flat And I swear to God it is always flat when I get it from the fountain. Or it was this last term. What's wrong with our soda fountain? How complex a piece of machinery is it to work? Everyone has one. I hear people have even been installing them in their homes (I might have made that up for argument's sake.)

So in the end, it just tastes like syrup water. I do NOT want to be reminded of what I'm drinking, thank you. Yes I know it's just sugar water. So sue me! I love it! I drink it a lot.

Now you all know of my unhealthy eating habits too. Whatever. I can never seem to get over 125 lbs. anyway. But a girl can dream, right? Gotta keep drinking that straight up Coca Cola syrup! Thanks Bennington!

PS Wait, wait...maybe I didn't make up that part about people putting soda fountain's in their homes! Look how easy it is to buy one ebay! And notice they call it a "Home" one! Plus there's this one all pro with logos and everything. Mm tasty. A sub-par yet filling meal was never so easy.