Loreal being Loreal. I cannot even believe the things that come out of this girl's mouth (vague crassness intended).

I unleashed months of pent-up rage on a post about stingy tippers on Ask Metafilter, and seven people marked it as a fantastic comment!!! (scroll down to Answers, it's the first one on the list).

I'm so proud of myself I could spit!!!

I'll update tonight about the horrors of Fundamentals exams - after I, you know, finish them. *dry heave*

It's obvious I'm going through old e-mails and documents again. I'm supposed to be rereading old essays I've written on my Fundamentals texts but I keep getting distracted. I found something I'd written when I was temping as a receptionist three years ago but that I didn't post, probably because I thought it was too long. It is long, but it made me laugh, so I decided to put it up anyway. Read it here.

In Other News

I freaking love my passport picture. I think I look like a total thug.

The Odd Couple...and other ramblings

Yesterday when I was walking home from the Co-Op, there were two guys in front of me that were ten thousand times as strange together as they would have been separately. One was white, short and skinny, with a baggy white t-shirt and rumpled khakis. He had a goatee, glasses, and longish hair gathered into a little ponytail. Basically your typical socially oblivious math major. The other was black, with a shaved head, dapperly dressed with good posture and a big expensive backpack. He seemed like a student in a more practical field, maybe econ.

I couldn't tell if they were together or not. Math was on rollerblades, which is what caught my attention in the first place. He was really into his rollerblades. He'd spin around, skate around behind me, and then zoom back past me, half-crouched-down. Then he'd brake for a second before zigzagging down the sidewalk again. The terrible thought crossed my mind that he was performing some strange mating dance for me. Backpack was walking far enough to the side of Math that it almost seemed like he was trying to make it obvious that they didn't know each other. But soon it became apparent that when Math skidded to a stop at every corner, he was waiting for Backpack to catch up.

Finally they made their way to the bus stop, and as I was standing there waiting to cross the street, I heard, "Hey girl, how you doing?" I ignored it, hoping it wasn't directed at me. But then I heard, "Oh, okay, fine. I get it. I was just saying hi. Hey, hey! Hey miss lady thing. How you doing?" and I turned around and it was Backpack. I said, "Are you talking to me?" and he said, "Yeah, I'm talking to you!" and I said, "Oh, well...I'm good, thanks," and crossed the street.

On that note, even after over eleven years of it, I still can't stand being addressed by strange guys on the street. I get a knot of fear in my stomach and a caged-animal-like urge to fight or flee. A couple of months ago I was walking down 55th Street, and I heard behind me, "Hey, excuse me! Excuse me, miss!" and when I whipped around the look on my face was so murderous that the guy put his hands up and cowered and said, "I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was just wondering if you had any change for the bus."

It used to happen nearly every I walked down 53rd street in anything less than a winter coat - some guy, or group of guys, would call out, "Daaaamn, girl! You lookin' good!" I just can't understand it, and still more can't understand my reaction to it. Ashamed, enraged, yet flattered. I wish it would go one way or the other.

My second year, I decided to take a different tactic than feigned deafness, an eye-roll, or the occasional middle finger. One guy yelled at me from a van in the Co-Op Express Parking Lot, "Hey honey, you looking real nice today!" and I marched up to him and said, "Do you think women really like to hear that? Don't you think we'd like to walk down the street without being called at? It's really disrespectful and you should be ashamed of yourself." The guy looked soooooooo embarrassed and said, "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll think about that. I will think about that." And then, of course, I felt awful, because that's just how I am.

So now I just ignore it. One time, when I was still working at Leona's, I asked my co-worker Mike why black guys catcall at women like that. In retrospect, obviously, it was a stupid question insofar as 1. Not only black guys do it, and not all black guys do it, and 2. Me asking Mike why some "black guys" do something just because he is a black guy is like a black person asking me why white people in Bakersfield go cow-tipping. But anyway, he said, "Because they're ignorant. But also...they probably think you look nice." It's that exact dichotomy that makes determining an appropriate reaction so difficult for me. I'm not scared to confront guys who say shit to me but at the same time I don't think throwing a hissy fit over something that to them is not a big deal would do any good. Or maybe it would - I don't know.

And it's not that I don't like being complimented - one thing I loved about Leona's was that it was filled with guys, especially my coworkers, who'd tell me how beautiful and perfect I was all shift long. It was nice to have one place where I and my body type felt appreciated since the rest of the time I go to a school where, well, the guys don't exactly go for "girls like me," to quote the customer in my previous post.

Maybe it's just the burden of being a woman - extreme vanity coupled with crippling insecurity coupled with the constant underlying fear of men.

Or maybe it's just me - I'm the first to admit I'm not exactly well-adjusted in my attitudes about or dealings with guys.

When I was eleven, a family moved in across the street. A stringy long-haired dad, and two boys, one around my age and one a little younger. Whenever I'd walk out of the house, the boys would call, "Hey sexy! Hey baby! You're looking real sexy today!"

It was humiliating. I was already getting shit from my classmates for being an, er, early developer, and now...I was afraid to leave the house. I didn't tell my mom what was happening, but I wouldn't go outside unless someone was with me. When it happened I'd scurry into the house with tears of shame and rage in my eyes.

Then the dad died, and they moved. Rumor had it that he'd accidentally left some bleach in his heroin needle when cleaning it, and when he shot up next...ugh. (No, I did not live on 21 Jump Street, it was a pretty nice neighborhood for Oxnard.)

I'm not sure what this means, I'm just thinking about it now.

Genesis of a Weblog

I was going through old e-mails and found an AIM conversation with Loreal that I'd saved, from January 2002, when we were both first years. First, an excerpt that cracked me up:

Quandarical: The other day I was waiting at the bus stop and this lady starts walking through the ice all penguiny because she's afraid she's gonna trip
Quandarical: and she manages to hold herself in balance right up until she was a foot away from me
Quandarical: and then she begins to slip
Quandarical: and obviously the logical thing for her to do would be to grab the nearest semi-sturdy thing, which happened to be my arm
LorealMarisse: LOL
LorealMarisse: What happened??
Quandarical: unfortunately I was holding a steaming cup of tea
LorealMarisse: SHIT
LorealMarisse: LOLOL
Quandarical: which flew out of my hand and landed everywhere
Quandarical: luckily not on either of us
LorealMarisse: This sounds like something from a movie!
Quandarical: it was kinda sad
LorealMarisse: LOL
Quandarical: she was really embarrassed
Quandarical: it would be from a movie if she was a hot guy and we got married
LorealMarisse: LOL
LorealMarisse: true
LorealMarisse: true

And here's a little piece of history:
LorealMarisse: you should start a freaking weblog, danielle
LorealMarisse: it would be HILARIOUS
LorealMarisse: do it, now
Quandarical: I don't have the presence of mind to start a weblog
Quandarical: I'd like start it and then write several posts in one day and then not do it ever again and feel really guilty
LorealMarisse: danielle, just do it
LorealMarisse: yeah, that's what I did
LorealMarisse: lol
LorealMarisse: I want my website to be a weblog, too
LorealMarisse: I gues it could be....if i just went everyday and put a new entry on the front page
Quandarical: you should sign up at blogger and link to it from your main website
LorealMarisse: hmm....good idea
LorealMarisse: but with blogger, you like, need to know html
LorealMarisse: or atleast, you do if you want it to look cool
Quandarical: I'm hungry

Later:

LorealMarisse: go to coolnerd.blogspot.com
LorealMarisse: and tell me what you think
LorealMarisse: funny or stupid?
Quandarical: well, you posted the same thing twice, first of all
LorealMarisse: i know, i just noticed that
LorealMarisse: damn
LorealMarisse: i must have clicked it twice
Quandarical: I think it's really funny
LorealMarisse: it's stupid, right?
LorealMarisse: I'm deleting it
Quandarical: ass
LorealMarisse: no, seriously
Quandarical: I like it
LorealMarisse: start one
Quandarical: OK
LorealMarisse: are you doing it?
Quandarical: maybe
LorealMarisse: lol
LorealMarisse: tell me the address when you're done
LorealMarisse: Alright....
Quandarical: granted.blogspot.com
LorealMarisse: go to www.geocities.com/lorealesque
Quandarical: AWESOME!!
Quandarical: there
LorealMarisse: have you posted anything on yours yet?
Quandarical: yeah
LorealMarisse: it's not showi--OOH
LorealMarisse: ROFL
LorealMarisse: nice.
LorealMarisse: i like it
LorealMarisse: Should I link it to my page?
Quandarical: not yet
Quandarical: let me put something substantial on there
LorealMarisse: ok
Quandarical: hang on
Quandarical: brb
LorealMarisse: k
Quandarical: OK
LorealMarisse: where'd you go?
Quandarical: I was writing another post

And an era begins...

Lament

I don't get acne. My skin is as clear and pure as a lily petal. But if I did get acne, then I would never get those big painful red bumps that burrow under your skin and that you can't squeeze because they just get redder and kind of distorted-looking. But if I did, I would never hover in front of the mirror for ten minutes trying to squeeze it anyway. And if I did I would never stubbornly get a needle and try to stab it open. And if I ever did that once in my life, I would immediately learn that doing so is a bad idea and never try it again, or at least certainly not every single time I got the aforementioned painful red unsqueezeable bumps. And if I did, I would not try and squeeze more out of it every time I passed by the mirror. I would not try to annihilate it with a combination of hydrogen peroxide, 2.5 benzoyl peroxide cream, a needle, a tweezerman whitehead squeezer, fingernails, and moisturizer because the skin in the immediate surrounding area has started to peel. And if I did, I would stop pawing at it once it became a bright red scab. And if I didn't, I would not contemplate scraping off all the skin around my chin so I could blame the resulting disfigurement on a bar brawl. But I don't get acne, so this is all neither here nor there.

ANYWAY...

Random Leona's Memory:

Customer: Hey, you got a black boyfriend?
Me: ....No.
Customer: Then you got an Italian boyfriend?
Me: ...............yes.
Customer: I knew it! Black guys and Italian guys, they like girls like you!
Me: Yeah, he's like...really italian.
Customer: What you mean "really italian"?
Me: Oh, um, you know how some italian guys are like, really into their italian-ness, like really proud of it and stuff...he's all into being italian.
Customer: Ohhhh, I get you. Ha ha.

WAAAAAHHHHH

I just called my mom and freaked her out by crying "Mommmmmmmmmmmy, I'm at DEATH'S DOOR!!!" She convinced me to go to the Student Care Center. I kind of don't want to because right now I feel like I have strep throat on top of pneumonia on top of Zombie Disease, and they'll probably be like, "Ms. Hubbard, what you have is a bad cold. Quit being such a baby."