Florida Sucks

It's official: My parents are moving to Florida.

The festering shitfuck that is God's waiting room will gain three new residents (Younger Brother is going, too) sometime within the next six months. They showed me a picture of their new neighborhood. It has some cute little name, like Palm Village, and comes complete with a golf course and two country clubs. You also get a welcome mat when you move in:



"But Ariella, the new house has a pool!" I don't swim. I can count the number of times I have been swimming in the past decade on one hand. The idea of being submerged in water reminds me too much of the womb (and those days are long gone).

"But Ariella, there is a very active Jewish social scene!" Fantastic! Maybe now I can relive the horror that was BBYO and all of the other assorted Jew groups I was forced to join. The first time around wasn't nearly painful enough.

"But Ariella, the walls have cherry baseboards!" Alright, you got me there, Mom and Dad. I have always wanted cherry baseboards. Maybe Florida won't be so bad after all!

Dicks.

Pajama Misery

I wear embarrassing things to bed.

Year after year, I plead with my mother, begging her not to buy me clothing. I like muted colors (and by muted, I mean black or white). She prefers looking like a bag of Skittles. Nevertheless, come Hanukkah, there is always the tell-tale rectangular box, the contents of which I know I am bound to despise. Finally, after years of her calling me an "ungrateful bitch" for disliking the sweaters she bought me, she finally gave up...and moved on to pajama pants. I don't know where she finds these pants, but I am running out of places to put all of these "gifts." Three years ago, it was a flannel nightie. I asked her if the nightie also came with a colostomy bag. Two years ago, she bought me a matching top-and-bottom set decorated in a Southwestern motif. There were cacti and dogs wearing bandanas all over the turquoise pants. I looked like an overgrown 8 year-old. Last year was my favorite. I tore open my gift to find a pair of pants decorated with Grumpy the Dwarf and blueberry gumballs. What? Since when do Grumpy and gumballs go together? "I thought they suited you," my mom said. "You know, since you are so mean in the mornings."

This brings me to 5:30 a.m. today. The fire alarm in my building went off, and protocol mandates that we evacuate the building (well, that and I don't really want to be burned alive). I was, of course, fast asleep, dreaming about inventing calorie-free cheesecake. Waking up to the alarm, I jumped out of bed and discovered two problems: I was wearing a pair of tiny shorts with bright pink poodles on the butt (another "gift" from Mom), and the top to the Southwestern ensemble. Realizing that I was not particularly keen on hauling outside dressed in this manner, I quickly changed clothes. Off came the poodles and the howling dogs. On came the brown and yellow pants, green and red shirt, and orange and blue jacket. Throw my retainers and super-cool (super-thick) glasses into the mix, and I was ready to roll. It wasn't until I was outside that I realized that should the building actually go up in flames, I would be stuck looking like a parrot, while the rest of my clothes were reduced to ash. Such poor wardrobe choices. My amazing, technicolor, dream outfit was just as mortifying as the dog get-up, defeating the entire purpose behind changing and stalling my escape from the building that was potentially en fuego. My plan backfired, and I was left to stand in shame in a crowd of my peers.

I suppose things could have been worse. I could have been wearing the Grumpy gumball pants.

**UPDATE**

Taken from an email from Mom sent at 11:04 p.m.-

"Dear Ariella, What do you want for Hanukkah this year? Please tell me so you don't wind up with the default gift=sweaters. Need new underwear? Let me know. Love, Mom"

It was awkward for everyone.

Happy Election Day!

Nothing says "I am an American" quite like waiting in line at the polls for hours, only to be turned away before voting due to machine malfunctions. I do so enjoy the novelty of democracy.

Today was my first appointment with the school shrink. I'm not going to lie-he kind of weirds me out. First of all, his office is stuffed in the basement office of a residence hall, accessible only by way of a maze of hallways. Once I finally found his fluorescent talk-box, waiting for me was a man with one of the most oddly-shaped heads I have ever seen. It had strange divits, similar in both size and shape to a golf ball. I tried to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth, but I could not help but spend our session staring at his head.

Shrinky: "Social issues blah blah mother doesn't love you blah blah..."
Me: (stares at head in awkward silence)

Speaking of heads, perched on his shelf was the most extensive bobblehead collection I have ever laid eyes on.* Baseball players, basketball players, all arranged in neat little rows (next to an unframed diploma I'm pretty sure he received from www.getyourdegree.com). I must say, it is quite difficult to discuss depression and anxiety with Derek Jeter just nodding away.

I told the head doc (get it?!) I would visit again next week, and boy, I can't wait. Maybe A-Rod will nod in agreement next time. I'd hate to think Derek is the only one listening.

*Man with the weird head has a bobblehead collection?

Study break

I consider myself to be a mature person. I generally find things seventh-grade boys would find funny to be banal and unamusing. The last few days, though, have been a total exception.

Example 1: I was at a party and my friend told me about a computer program that blows up images and makes them look as if they are products of Roy Liechtenstein. It's called the "Rasterbator." Hence, the pictures are rasterbated. Hilarious.

Example 2: I am studying about cities as a part of one of my worthless degrees (a smaller part of my ultimate plan for being unemployed and broke broke broke). I am reading a book about Sao Paulo, Brazil, and the author keeps quoting a survey called "PNADs." I laughed so hard I snorted. The sound ricocheted off of the walls of the "quiet zone" at the library.

Example 3: A guy grabbed one of those exercise balls and set it down next to my machine. He was going to do sit-ups. He sat on the ball, which promptly shot out from under him, sending his ankles over his head and leaving me fighting the urge to point and laugh. I did laugh, but there was no pointing. He just popped up and gave the room the "I-hope-no-one-saw-me" onceover, put the ball back (after chasing it down, of course) and left.

Now, back to studying PNADs, which coincidentally have a sister study: GNADs.

Will Smith. What an asshole.

Rats used to be the biggest nuisance in Washington Square Park. However, this title has recently been stripped from the rodents and passed on to the people filming the new Will Smith movie (which, rumor has it, is about post-apocalyptic zombies...sweeeeet).


Like any good New Yorker, I am completely bothered by their presence...on the outside. Being the social leper that I am, I raise my voice along with the rest of my trust-fund, H&M-wearing, liberal arts peers in boisterous contempt for the filming around the park.

"Don't you realize I am going to be late for my social analysis class? NOW how am I going to tell everyone about my theories of postmodernism and metropolitan jurisdictional equality? This is total BULLSHIT!"

On the inside, though, I am excited at the idea that i may be able to catch a glimpse of the Fresh Prince (maybe a little too excited). This man was a part of my childhood! Like any good parent, my mom left my brother and I alone a lot with nothing but the warm glow of the television to provide us with moral guidance and love. So what did we watch? "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air," of course. I liked the first Men in Black. And the second one. I own "Willenium." I want to see Will Smith, damnit!

So, if you hear me yelling about how inconvenienced I am, humor me and play along. And then tell me if you have seen Will Smith around and where I might be able to get an autograph.

Wikiventures

I am currently in a very serious relationship...

With my computer.

I spend hours on end with it, because, well...it's my job. I get paid to sit in front of my computer and push buttons. A chimp could do what I do (and would probably do a better job). But alas, the responsibility is all mine. I don't even have to wear pants!* Anyway, I always keep a window open on my desktop for aimless browsing. Lately, said browsing has been enabled by the "Random Article" link on Wikipedia. Did you know that Smokie Norful won a Grammy for "Best Contemporary Soul Gospel" album in 2005? Neither did I. My point is, you can learn a lot through random browsing, and I highly encourage you to take these little adventures. I learned all about macaroni and cheese ("mak and cheese" in Germany) just by clicking "Random Article." Do it! You won't be disappointed!


*They are constricting. Plus, my favorite pair is completely worn out in the pockets, crotch, and butt, so I try to limit their on-leg time.