nostalgia

I am a hoarder of nostalgia.  It's true.  I don't hoard garbage or old magazines, I hoard nostalgia.  Chatchkies.  Remembrances of things that happened a long ass time ago.

The other night, my sister made up a game on the spot in my room.  Find a piece of my hoarded nostalgia (it's all pretty much in plain sight, except for my "ex boxes") and ask the meaning.  What did I discover during this?  I have a lot of useless crap in my room.

Valerie, where did those keys come from? An APO dinner.  What are they keys to? They're not keys to anything, they were just decorations.  GARBAGE.

Valerie, why are you still displaying your APO Paddle?  You're a college graduate now.  Fine. When I get my diploma, I'll take the paddle down and put the diploma up.

Valerie, where did that dusty old bear come from?  Valentine's day... twelve years ago.  GARBAGE.

Valerie, most of these people in the pictures on your shelves... you don't even talk to them anymore.  Yeah, I know.  I REALLY need to redo those (I've been saying that for probably about five years now.)

Valerie, where did that airline-sized bottle of tequila come from, and why are you saving it?  It was a birthday present... I have no idea why I'm saving it.  It's trash.

Valerie, why do you have the Resident Assistant sign from when you were in college?  Because I stole it.

Valerie, you're still displaying your Irish Blessing from Expressions.  Yeah... I don't know.

I hoard nostalgia.  It's a serious problem.

recovery.

As we get older, our bodies don't exactly react to things the way they used to.  It takes longer to recover from a multitude of things.  Trips to the gym.  Sickness.  Eating something you shouldn't have.  Drinking too much.  That's what I'm here to talk about today, friends.  Drinking too much.  Something my poor 28 year old body has never really done well, and does even poorly now that I'm 28 and not 21, 22, or 23.

Usually, I'm the one with a hangover, and my boyfriend, who can drink far more than I can without so much as a buzz, is the one who is up the next morning, going strong.  After Saturday, we were both hurting pretty bad.

Saturday morning, we got up early to head down to Wrigley for a co-ed bachelor party (yes, you read that right.)  The organizer reserved a suite that cost a pretty penny per person, and included unlimited food and some alcohol.  To be brutally honest, we started drinking at 10am.  The game started at noon.  You get he picture.

I ate my breakfast of champions (three chicken wings and a hot dog) around 10:30, and then conveniently forgot to eat for the rest of the day (not on purpose.)  There was a lot of drinking to be done.  And done it was.

After the game, we made our way to Red Ivy, and eventually, Uberstein.  Members of our party were lost and then found.  Too much alcohol and not enough food was consumed by all.  There were fights, makeups, and hookups.  Blame it on the a-a-a-alcohol.

Sunday morning was rough.  We got up, and both realized we hadn't eaten in about 24 hours, but had drank way too much.  We went to breakfast.  Carbs and grease were our friends.  Our plan to go to the movies backfired when we both ended up with stomachaches from the carbs and grease.  We laid in bed for a couple of hours.  Finally, we got up, and moved from his house to my house, where my mom was promising pasta for dinner.  More carbs to soak up whatever was left in our stomachs.  We laid on the couch at my house and spent Sunday being all kinds of lazy.  

My boyfriend, in his cute hungover state, said to me (since we had just purchased The Hunger Games on BluRay) "Lovie... can we watch Katniss Everdeen?"  And watch Katniss Everdeen we did.  And the cooking channel (despite our slight hangover nausea.)

I'm still recovering.  I'm getting to old for this stuff.

college

Monday night, I finished college.  I wrote my last paper and turned it in.  This morning, I applied for my diploma.  In 4-6 weeks, I'll be displaying a diploma.  It only took 10 years (almost exactly.)

I don't remember what the date was when I moved down to Illinois State in 2002, but it was August.  I think it was a Friday?  I think?  I'd have to say it was probably the 16th.  So, assuming it was, It took me 10 years and 4 days to finish college.  Of course, I didn't Van Wilder this shiz... I was on and off.  The point is, I'm finished.  I'm a college graduate.  It's official.  Or will it be official once I have the diploma in hand?

At any rate, I was thinking last night, as I was sitting and NOT doing homework for the first time in a long time, about my college experience.  My Illinois State college experience.  Man, I wish the digital camera wasn't just coming into wide-spread use when I was in college.  I have TONS of pictures of my junior year, some from my sophomore year... basically nothing from my freshman year.  Who wanted to spend the money developing film when you could get a bottle of Boone's Farm for cheaper?

The building I lived in my freshman year has since been torn down.  Walker Hall, the smallest, dingiest, residence hall on campus, was where I called home.  My roommate was a small, skinny, peppy girl who became one of my best friends.  We never got on each other's nerves, we ate meals together, we shared secrets together, we laughed together and cried together.  We went through the trials of not having ethernet or air conditioning.  We had to use the internet one at a time, and we survived.  My favorite memories include eating almost the same meal every night for dinner, taking all day trips to Walmart (we had to take the bus) and keeping the most ridiculous things in our fridge, like cheese cubes and pepperoni slices.

You know, I don't think I ever returned to that building after I lived there.

My sophomore and junior year I lived in Watterson Towers, which was a departure from little Walker Hall, that's for certain.  For one thing, it was at least three times the size, and housed 2200 students.  Some kids who were living there, the building had more students than their town.  The layout was weird.  The elevator only stopped ever 5 floors.  But, it was my home, and I loved it.  I loved it more than Walker Hall (don't tell anybody.)  I made even more best friends there.  I worked at the front desk and was a resident assistant.  I met my college boyfriend in Watterson Towers.  I rarely ventured out, except for when I had to (class, the mall, you know.)

My junior year I joined Alpha Phi Omega, which was amazing all in itself.  I met even more amazing people. I solidified some friendships as a result.  I volunteered a lot around campus and the community.  It was fun.  I finally started going to parties.  I gained the freshman 15, as a junior.

I went back recently, and a lot is different, but a lot is the same.  I'm planning on going for homecoming, and taking my current boyfriend with me.  I want to show him the quad, and where I lived, and ate, even though I hear it's all been remodeled.

That's college in a nutshell... but I have plenty more stories to share.

I'm flying...

Today’s post is brought to you by an interesting Yelp! Chicago talk thread I’ve been watching so far this morning.  The original post details “shrinking legroom” in coach and on some economy airlines, such as Spirit and JetBlue.

I commented that I try not to fly those airlines if I can avoid it, because they nickel and dime you for everything, and the next thing you know, we’ll be charged for a seat that reclines.  Another commented mentioned that reclining should be eliminated all together, because it is an “asshole move.”

Am I in the minority here?  Am I an asshole because I recline my seat on an airplane?  99% of the seats on an airplane recline, save the exit row, which has more legroom.  Personally, I’d rather have less legroom and a seat that reclines.  It isn’t like the person behind you is suffering because you recline.  If they recline, it’s all good.  If you want to be behind a seat that doesn’t recline, choose a bulkhead seat or a seat behind the exit row.  Problem solved.  If they didn’t want you reclining, they wouldn’t have seats that reclined.  It is a “luxury” on planes where they are already trying to cram people in like sardines.  Being crammed in with a couple hundred strangers is uncomfortable enough as it is, with all of their sounds and smells.  Why not recline?

I have a system when I fly, because I don’t fly well.  I’m not afraid to fly, it is just one of the things in life that makes me anxious.  I board when it is my time to do so.  I take my iPod and noise-cancelling headphones out of my carryon and stow the rest.  I sit down, and make sure that there is a puke bag in the seat pocket (this hasn’t happened in years, but, just in case.)  I fasten my seatbelt and prepare my iPod and headphones.  Once the doors close and the plane starts to move, I close my eyes. Once we’re in the air and allowed, I listen to music.  I don’t move.  I don’t talk.  I don’t want to move or talk.  The end.  Sometimes, I’ll be on a flight where they don’t make me take off my headphones for landing, and that’s the best, because that’s when I’m most anxious, and the music is calming.

The first time I flew with my boyfriend, he didn’t believe me when I told him about my system, and how I don’t talk, read, eat, drink, look out the window, or socialize on an airplane.  My sister and mother both tried to warn him as well.  I told him, once we start to move, don’t touch me, don’t talk to me.  It’s nothing personal, it’s just one of my weird things that I need to do my way.  The poor man tried to test this theory.  He kept tapping me to ask me questions.  He wanted me to play cards with him.  He kept trying to show me things out the window.

I almost took his head off. 

well adjusted?

My mom told me last night that I'm well adjusted.  I started to laugh at her, but then I thought, considering everything I've been through in life, maybe I didn't come out so bad?

My ish?  There's a lot of it.  My dad lost his guaranteed family business job when I was twelve, which strained my relationship with my paternal grandparents beyond repair.  Their only attempts at a way to "make it better" were monetary gifts.  The problem was, they always favored me over my sisters, which made me feel lousy.  What else?  I went through a junior high phase where I didn't do my homework.  Ever. I wasn't a bad student, I just didn't do it.  As a result, I was constantly grounded.  I think I spent the better part of my junior high life, grounded.  Talk about socially awkward.

I've been through breakups.  Of course, each one is the worst thing that ever happened to me, ever.  I've gained weight.  I've lost weight.  I've gained weight again.  I've had friends and relatives die.  I've lost friends, and made new friends.  I've learned who to trust and who not.

It took me 10 years (on and off) to finish college.  I work full-time.

I've been through my parents separation.  That's been the most trying.  I haven't spoken with a therapist, just my close friends.

To go through this stuff, and then some, and to come out the other side and have my mom say I'm well adjusted... yeah, I'll take that as a compliment.

apologies.

At many junctures in our lives, we give and receive apologies.  Some are heartfelt and sincere, while others are, to put it delicately, less than that.

Insincere apologies are one of my least favorite things in the world.  They're almost like a slap in the face.  However, that's not what this post is about.

My car, having been purchased by me from my father, is still in his name (not for very much longer.)  A few weeks back, he got a notice in the mail that I had gotten a red-light ticket.  At first, he was almost comedic about it, saying "oop, they gotcha!"  It wasn't funny or long though, when fears of our car insurance going up surfaced (which doesn't really happen with red light tickets, but I digress.)  I paid the $100 fine, send him the receipt, and carried on my merry way.

This morning, as I groggily dragged myself down the stairs to the kitchen to say goodbye to mom and head to work, she's waiting in the kitchen for me, with an envelope.  Fuck.  She looks at me, stone faced, and says, "do you want to tell your father about this, or do you want me to?"  She flashes the envelope at me, making sure that I note the writing on the back, something about five violations can result in something (probably license suspension or something.)

I take the envelope.  Fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.  I open it.  Fuck.fuck.fuck.  I unfold the contents...

The picture inside is NOT my car!  It's my dad's!  HE'S the one who got the red light ticket this time!  RELIEF!  I tell my mom, and show her.  We're both laughing, pretty heartily, for 7am.  I tell her she owes me a big, fat, huge apology, because she accused and assumed, and I didn't even do anything wrong!

Bottom line, my mom gives the best apologies.  She even offered to legitimately kiss my ass.

Ryan Lochte: Douchebag.

Yeah... I said it.  Just because he's an olympic gold medalist doesn't mean he isn't a bag of douche.  Having a hot bod doesn't exempt him, either.

Wearing a *grill* on the medal podium?  Yeah, that's a great representation of our country, especially to the rest of the world that basically already hates us.

Having your mother tell the today show you can't commit to a relationship, so you only have one night stands?  Classy, Lochte.  And classy, Mrs. Lochte.  

All in all, he's a doucher.  Phelps is too.  Do I admire them for being olympic athletes?  Hell freakin' yeah, I couldn't do it.  Not in a zillion years.  But if I could... I'd represent our country a lot better than shackin' up, smokin' up, and making a fool of myself on the medal podium.

Besides, "grillz" are soooo 2003.

Really?