Rain, rain.

Whelp,* here I am, talking about the weather again.  There is a distinct chance that I am so awkward that the only social interactions I can survive, even with the interwebs, consist of small-talk.  Seriously.  Half of my walking-to-dinner conversations with my roommate are about the weather, and we live together.

Anyway, it is actually getting pretty interesting up in here.  Last night there were thunderstorms that washed away most of the snow (woo!) and tornado warnings (woo...) and flash flood warnings (whew).  And the other day I read an article about some Amish children who were swept away by a flood while they were on their way to make a phone call.  Just the headline made me so sad that I couldn't even look at the actual article.

But it also sort of made me laugh. 

Am I terrible?!!

I think I am terrible.

To sum up:  Rain.  It's scary.  And also sometimes a little bit funny.

*Totally unnecessary side note:  I almost took the H out of "whelp," but then I left it in because whelp is actually a real word.  This is the definition, according to Word's handy dictionary:

whelp [welp, hwelp]
n (plural whelps)
1.  young animal: a young animal, especially the young of carnivorous mammals such as wolves, lions, bears, and dogs 
2.  child: a child or young person 
3.  rude young man: a boy or young man regarded as showing inappropriate boldness or lack of deference (insult) 
4.  nautical ridge on capstan or windlass: a projection on the barrel of a capstan or windlass 
5.  mechanical engineering tooth on wheel: a tooth on a sprocket wheel 

vti (past and past participle whelped, present participle whelp·ing, 3rd person present singular whelps)
 bear young: to give birth to young, especially baby carnivores 

I don't even know what my favorite part of this definition is, except that I'm pretty sure it's the verb definition part.  I also like that you can pronounce it hwelp.  Just like Coo' Hwip.

Image via Under the Gables.


le sigh.

Today, I had a group presentation, leading discussion in an hour-and-a-half class.  Have I ever mentioned how much I hate presentations?*  Every time I get up to give a presentation, I break out into panic mode: my palms get sweaty, my hands shake, my heart pounds right out of my t-shirt, and I blush the whole time I'm speaking - oh, excuse me - the whole time I'm stuttering foolishly.  People watch me and first they think, Oh my god, is she having a seizure?!  And then they think, Oh, honey.  That is so sad.

Somehow, though, when other people get all nervous during public presentations, it comes off as endearing.  Par exemple, the young gentleman who spoke right after me during our presentation (and who sits right next to me in class) was just as awkward and jittery as I was; yet as he spoke about cinema in the 1930s, I heard a chatty, blonde girl in the second row whisper to her friend, "He's so cute!"  And then she proceeded to give him a look like this:

I am almost entirely serious.
(From here)

I wanted to tell him, but I didn't think we were good enough friends for me to tip him off about old Bedroom Eyes in the second row.

Moral of the story: Sometimes being awkward gets you chicks.  Other times it gets you a stronger deodorant.

*I hate them a lot.**
**And by a lot, I mean SO MUCH I WANT TO DIE.


Good Mornin'!

My wonderful, darling, innocent roommate has a lot of products that keep her looking all kinds of pretty.  One of these is a facial cleanser called "Morning Burst: In-Shower Facial."  It makes me giggle every time I take a shower.

...And it's times like this when I'm certain that I really am a twelve-year-old boy trapped in a grown woman's body.

Image via Clean & Clear's website.


Cabin Fever

This weekend I spent a lot of time with some really good friends, and we talked and laughed and generally had a grand old time.

One unexpected consequence of the weekend, however: I just want to run everywhere now, all the time.  I think it started because of the fake spring.*  On Friday, two friends and I drove down to West Virginia where we were meeting another friend to see a fourth friend in a play.  Because we picked up a pizza on the way, we were a little behind schedule, so we had to run across a large field from the parking lot in order to make it to the theater before they gave our tickets away.  And the wind was blowing and my friends were shouting and even though the pizza box almost flew away, the air was warm and I was running toward some of my favorite people and the most comforting weekend I've had in a long time.

That was a lot of and's in that one sentence.

Anyway, now, after that short little sprint across the grass, I just want to run everywhere I go. 

Like a wild stallion on the shore.

However, that's a little difficult (not to mention much more tiring) now that the snow is back and up to my knees.  So instead of running to classes and the student center and back home again,** I've taken to running in circles around the room whenever my roommate isn't here.  This does lead to some interesting questions, though, when she comes back in the room unexpectedly.   

Why're y'all red-faced and sweaty there, Trace?*** 

Sometimes I tell her I'm just SO EXCITED TO SEE HER; sometimes I say I've been hula-hooping.  Because that's less embarrassing than I'VE BEEN SPRINTING AROUND OUR 12-FOOT-SQUARE ROOM ALL AFTERNOON BECAUSE I'M GOING INSANE.  I JUST WANT TO RUN, YOU KNOW?

Whatever excuse I give, she, like a good roommate, just gives me a little half-smile and tells me I should take a shower before I see people.

*Yes, I am going to harp on about The Winter again.  My wimpy cynicism knows no bounds.
**Because let's be real.  These are the only places I go.  I lead a very small life.
***My roommate does not actually talk like this in reality.  Also she is a very nice lady.

Image via Murray Mitchell.


Writer's Lament: Part 4


There are precisely thirty-four days until my senior thesis is due.

Notice how calmly I say that.  If one didn't know any better, one might think that I were more concerned about the explosion of snow that came tearing out of the sky this afternoon, right after the weather lulled us into a false sense of security with those toasty warm days. But you know better than that, right?  I bet you can just tell, intuitively, how the stress is bubbling up; I bet that some subtle sign is giving away just how panicked I really am - like a written eye twitch.  I mean, realistically, thirty-four days is not a long time to finish proofreading, revising, formatting, and polishing a hundred and sixty pages of creative and analytical writing.  But then again, my advisor keeps telling me that as long as I get a grip on my perfectionist tendencies, I should be able to finish by mid-March.

On the other hand, if I finish too soon (read: before Spring Break), I will be here at school for two weeks by myself, with nothing to do, no one to talk to, and no car.  IN ALL THE SNOW.  St. Patrick's Day will find me trudging down to the drugstore to buy a six-pack of Guinness before plopping down in front of my roommate's TV and shouting out the lyrics to all the drinking songs I know until "Luck of the Irish" inevitably comes on the Disney channel.  Having some stress to occupy my time might be a welcome distraction.

I wish I had this shiny hat.

However, on the other other hand (or perhaps the foot?), two weeks to meself with nothing to do means I can stay in the library all day long for funsies, play my music way too loud, and hang out in my room naked for two weeks straight!  Except, of course, when I walk down to the drug store for the aforementioned Guinness.  Then I'll just throw on a trench coat and run there.

Image via Smirkdirk.