The Almost Crisis

I don't have a parking pass that allows me to park on campus during the day. I was running late and did not have time to wait on my school's transit system before class started this past Friday. So I parked across the street from campus on a one-way street right beside one of the local bars. I paid the meter for an hour and a half and walked the short distance to my classroom.

After class, I nonchalantly walked back to my car. It had been a wonderful day thus far, and I had little to worry about... until I approached the car.

There is was: little, covered in pollen... with a huge dent and yellow paint scraped all over the black paint on the left side. I just stopped in my tracks, visibly stunned. It was awful. Someone had scraped up the car and then left without so much as leaving a note! After regaining my composure (somewhat), I approached the vehicle. In my panic, I didn't remember what to do since the person who had hit the car had left the scene. I decided to just get in the car and cry and call my mommy, like any rational adult would do.

As I get to the driver's side, I reach down to open the door. That's when I realized that this door was missing it's handles. The handles on the doors of the vehicle were gone. As in, I could not find a way into the car. There was nothing for me to open the door with. After standing there for a good minute or so without coming to a rational conclusion of what to do, I start to cry a little bit. That's when I noticed that through the back window, there were books and bags that I don't own sitting in the back seat. I go look at the vehicle's tag. It's not my tag.

It's not my car. I looked around, and sure enough, my car was sitting a few cars down from this poor vehicle. I happily walked down to my beautiful car and there's not any (new) damage on it! I still feel really terrible for that person who owned that other car, though. It was really not funny at the time.

I'm going to tell a little tale about my childhood... and how traumatic it was.

Do you remember how as a child it was so cool to talk about your parents' age? Yeah, so do I. And so when I was in Kindergarten I went home and asked my mother how old she was. And because she is a sweet mommy, she told me that she was 99 years of age.

So the next time when my peers began discussing the age of their parents, on the van ride to our after school care, I volunteered the information that my mother was 99. I thought I had won the prize - I had the oldest parent. I was so cool. And so happy.

But then this girl turned around and said something along the lines of, "your mom is going to die when she turns 100." I suppose that is how a young one's logic functions. 100 is the limit - there is nothing after 100.

So I took this new information presented to me as the absolute truth. I believed this with my entire being, and I was sad. I seriously thought my mother was going to die on her next birthday.

When I got home that evening, I threw myself onto my parents' bed and became hysterical. I was sobbing and inconsolable, and my mother was trying to figure out why. She finally figured out that I was sad because I thought she was going to die on her next birthday. Which was apparently hilarious to her. And my father.

It was finally explained to me that my mother wasn't 99 years old,  and even if she had been she probably wouldn't have died on her 100th birthday. Didn't matter to me then; I was quite distraught.

Moral of this story: don't lie to your kids, unless you want something really funny to happen.

Pink Babies

I realized the identity of Smelly Guy today. I was just sitting in class and he walked past me to his seat and his stench just hit me like a wall. And the grossest part is, he doesn't even sit directly beside me. He sits like three seats away from me. Gross. I feel bad about the poor people sitting beside him.

On a totally different note, I've decided to describe how awesomely literal I was as a small child. My practicality was showcased by my names for my dog, blanket, and stuffed animals.

I got my dog when I was one or two years old. She was a black labrador retriever, and I LOVED her. I played with her and played with her, and oh! the joy that was my dog. So what is a perfectly creative and intelligent little child to name her beloved dog? Girl. Yes, my dog's name was Girl. She was a girl, so no other name made more sense. Girl has since gone away to Puppy Dog Heaven, but she will always be remembered.

My childhood blanket was absolutely perfect. It was yellow and square, and not too big and not too little. It was perfect for holding at night when I went to sleep when I was a little girl. And, you know, um, well, maybe when I was like, uh, um, well eighteen years old, too. But anyways, what's a girl to call her beloved blanket? Yellow Blanket. Duh. It was a blanket, and it was yellow. It makes sense, okay.

So I think you might be catching onto the idea. Well, I'm about to throw you for a loop!

Not really.

I had three more stuffed animals that may or may not still reside in my room at my parents' house: Hard-face Pink Baby, Mushy-face Pink Baby, and Pink Bear. Guess what color they are! If you guessed pink, then you're a genius.

Hard-face Pink Baby and Mushy-face Pink Baby were once both the same. They had soft stuffed bodies and a soft stuffed head, but their faces were like a soft rubbery-plastic material. One day, my family went on vacation to somewhere. As we got out of our car at the hotel, I unknowingly dropped one of my pink babies onto the parking lot and walked off without it. That was one of the most traumatic nights of my young childhood. When I was a little girl I loved my pink babies more than I loved my life, I think.

Well, my parents were about sick of hearing me sob about my lost pink baby, so gave a last-ditch effort to rescue their precious baby's babydoll. They went to the front desk of the hotel, and that perfect lady at the desk told them she had found it the night before and took it home to her daughter or granddaughter (I can't remember which one, and at the time I did not care one bit. No one was gonna take my pink baby). Anyway, that blessed saint returned my doll to me the next day.

But the doll had been run over in the parking lot, and had tire treadmarks on her. And her face was mushy. Thus, the difference between Hard-face Pink Baby and Mushy-face Pink Baby. I secretly loved Mushy-face more than Hard-face, but I would have never told Hard-face that.

I also had Pink Bear, who may or may not have come to college with me my freshman year. But even though it may or may not have lived in my dorm room freshman year, it is important to remember that it was only freshman year. Just clarifying.

Smelly Guy

In one of my classes there is a guy who stinks. I mean, he is smelly. And I can't figure out who it is, because the stench seems to hit me from all directions. It could be a girl, I suppose. But there's mostly guys who sit around me in this class, which is why I think it's a guy. So I wrote a poem especially for him:

Hey Smelly Guy, who sits next to me in class

Your total stench makes me need a gas mask

I understand that you smoke, and that's okay

But maybe you should cut back from 20,000 cigarettes a day

I'm not asking you to smell like delightful flowers

I just wish you would take showers

Because my nose is not but a few feet from your disgusting body

And trust me, no girl's gonna think you're a hottie

As long as you smell like rotten beans

Please, oh please, get clean

My speech anatomy test got moved to next Tuesday, which is a great! My week just got ten billion times better when I found that out! Since my paper and language acquisition became deleted off of my to-do list yesterday, I have slept approximately ten much-needed hours.And I did laundry. Bonus points to Carolyn for productivity!

When reviewing my former posts, I realized that I have used excessive punctuation. I always feel the need to use excessive punctuation when relating things on this blog. However, when I go back to review it I feel like it looks a little ridiculous.

As though I talk like this: "OH. MY. WORD. UR LIKE SOOOOO CRAZYYYYYYY!!!!!1!!!1!!! LIKE WHY WONT U TALK TO MEEEEEEEEEEEE??!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!?!?!???!!???"

Which I don't (unless provoked).

Here is a pretty picture:

I HAVE RECENTLY EXPERIENCED A FEW PROBLEMS

Let me just relate to you the problems I have experienced.

It all started last week on Tuesday. I was required to write a short paper for my Critical Theory of Literature class. So I write one on Plato and turn it in, because that is what I thought my syllabus told me to do. It turns out that I was quite wrong. My synopsis was supposed to be on Aristotle, which I realized much too late. And when I got my paper back, it was practically screaming at me, "CAROLYN, THIS IS EMBARRASSING! I AM ASHAMED TO BE YOUR PAPER!!"

However, my professor was very kind and allowed me to rewrite the paper and still get a grade on it, even though points would be deducted from its grade for being late. I probably would have rewritten it anyway and turned it in, even if it didn't count for a grade, because I don't want to look like the class idiot. It was only a page or so, and not worth very much of my grade.

Anyway, the point of the matter is that he allowed me to rewrite the dang synopsis and email it ASAP. So on Wednesday, I wake up and write this synopsis prior to going to class. However, I don't have time to proofread it, and I decide I will just do that later. So I go to school, I see some friends, I have some fun, and then later that night I start proofreading the paper and when I get ready to email it, MY COMPUTER DECIDES THAT WORKING PROPERLY IS STUPID.

After some tears and frustrations, I do get my paper turned in, and after like a week of not having a computer, it finally returns to me. I didn't know what to do with my spare time without my computer. What is a 20 year old to do?? Color? Play card games? Rescue hundreds of puppies and kittens from shelters, like I have the money for that??? I swear I am not an animal hoarder.

Anyway, those are not real problems. They were embarrassing and annoying, however.

On a happier note, my tests for this week are over. On a less happy note, I have two tests and a paper due next week.

Allow Me to Clarify

I believe that the title of this blog needs to be clarified.

"Werecows" does not, in fact, mean that we are all cows. Instead, it refers to a variation of the traditional werewolf. I'm not sure what inspired my parents to invent the werecow, but I do know that it was a genius move when it came to Little Sister.

My family resides in rural Alabama, and our home is in the woods. Little Sister and I grew up hearing about wampus cats and other scary creatures who lived in the woods, so hearing about werecows really didn't seem that far-fetched to Little Sister. By this point I was old enough to question the legitimacy of werecows, but honestly, I can't remember if I believed my parents or not.

However, werecows roaming the forest in search of people to destroy seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to Little Sister. Sometimes, when she was in bed and my dad got home late from work, he would knock on her window and "MooOOooOOOOooooOOoooOooo". Isn't that funny? Maybe I'm the only one who thinks that's funny, but I doubt it.

I suppose that it was an ideal way of my parents had of insuring Little Sister didn't wander off into the woods. More than likely, however, they just thought it was funny. And thus, the title of this blog was born.