Sometimes you forget to think about the little things that just make you happy. So, here's a memory refresher.
1. Being the first person to lower the toilet seat after the bathroom's been cleaned
2. Sleeping on top of your covers so you don’t have to make the bed in the morning
3. Finding out that the last bite of your ice cream cone still has ice cream in it
4. Looking at your alarm clock and seeing that you can still sleep for another hour
5. A pancake with crispy edges
6. Being sore after a good workout
7. Having someone call you by name when they say hi
8. Little boys wearing argyle sweater vests
9. Looking good in a picture
10. Falling asleep to the sound of rain
11. Skinny days (Also: good hair days, good skin days, good makeup days, and pretty days)
12. A compliment from a stranger
13. Calling out the correct answer while watching Jeopardy
14. Finishing a book
15. Flirting
16. Completely using up the ink in a pen
17. Turning around in a line so that when you look back, it’s moved up 5 feet
18. Pulling into the driveway just as the song on the radio ends
19. Waking up or going to bed on the exact hour
20. Saying something that makes everyone laugh
21. “Likes” on a good Facebook status
22. Getting a letter in the mail
23. Paying with exact change
24. The first bite of a slice of pizza
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
"Friendship"
Abby Lewis* was weird. She came into my circle of friends one recess in fifth grade, and for three long years we had to deal with her odd habits and lack of social graces. My friends and I knew there was something “off” about Abby, but we just didn’t know what.
Abby was persistent, and stayed in our group much longer than any of my friends and I expected or wanted. Instead of shutting her out (and risking an intervention by the recess aid or teacher), we took advantage of her annoying ability to appear wherever we were during recess or lunch. Because Abby was totally clueless, we did not pass up a single opportunity to tease her. She was consistently the scapegoat in our favorite game “Four Square,” always the ball fetcher whenever our basketball rolled down the hill during “Knock-Out,” and never “It” when we played freeze tag.
Abby had become a staple in our group. However, whenever anyone outside the friend circle asked me about her, I always vehemently assured the questioner that none of us actually liked Abby, and we kept her in the group because she just wouldn’t leave.
And that was definitely true. We would lament and complain to each other about how annoying Abby was, how she gave us a bad reputation among our peers, and how difficult she was to get along with. In sixth grade, she gave a 10-minute presentation to the class about why she’s so different. I remember it to this day.
“I have Asperger’s,” she declared. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of this disorder. My father, a child psychiatrist, would come home every night and talk about all kinds of childhood disorders, including those on the Autism spectrum. I remember thinking at the time, “Great Abby. But you telling the class about this won’t make anyone pick on you less.”
Unfortunately, I was right. After her soap box lecture, Abby went right back to being Abby. And I went right back to being the girl who made disgusted faces when Abby picked off her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes when Abby tried desperately to fit in.
My friends and I dealt with Abby for three long years. Finally, at the beginning of eighth grade, we had a discussion. We were not going to let Abby be in our group anymore. That morning, my friends designated me as the one who would tell her. I didn’t want to do it, and to this day I regret being the quiet, meek pushover that I was in that group since third grade. In retrospect, I realize that part of the reason I put up with Abby for so long was that, for those three years, I had the opportunity to graduate from being the group’s scapegoat. My friends stopped making fun of me for saving my paper bags at lunch and didn’t flick grape seeds at me while their focus was directed at Abby.
Despite that three-year grace period, I was still the second-best pushover. Reluctantly, I agreed to be the bearer of bad news. When Abby sat down to lunch, I took a deep breath and cut right to the chase. I remember my exact words: “Hey Abby, we were all thinking…sometimes, friends go in separate directions—”
That was all I had to say. Clueless, imperceptive Abby somehow knew—whether from the tone of my voice or the condescending looks everyone gave her—that she was getting the boot. She picked up her tray, said, “You’re kicking me out?!” and walked away.
My friends smiled as they watched her go. I did, too—but I was ridden with guilt. I felt so guilty, that when I came home, I told my mom. Well, I only half told her; being too ashamed to admit that the words were my own, I put the blame on another friend in the group. She was appalled that anyone would be so mean, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was actually I who told Abby to leave.
That night, I called the girl I had just banished from the group. I told her I was sorry, and that she could sit with us again. She accepted my apology—something I don’t think I would have done—but never came back to our table.
Now, eight years later, I’m studying to be a child psychologist, and I will be seeing patients like Abby for the rest of my life. To this day, whenever I think about her, I experience a twinge of guilt. I hope that my efforts to treat patients like Abby will act as a kind of redemption for how mean I was back then. I used to be ashamed to be Abby’s friend. Now, I’m ashamed that I never was.
*name has been changed
Abby was persistent, and stayed in our group much longer than any of my friends and I expected or wanted. Instead of shutting her out (and risking an intervention by the recess aid or teacher), we took advantage of her annoying ability to appear wherever we were during recess or lunch. Because Abby was totally clueless, we did not pass up a single opportunity to tease her. She was consistently the scapegoat in our favorite game “Four Square,” always the ball fetcher whenever our basketball rolled down the hill during “Knock-Out,” and never “It” when we played freeze tag.
Abby had become a staple in our group. However, whenever anyone outside the friend circle asked me about her, I always vehemently assured the questioner that none of us actually liked Abby, and we kept her in the group because she just wouldn’t leave.
And that was definitely true. We would lament and complain to each other about how annoying Abby was, how she gave us a bad reputation among our peers, and how difficult she was to get along with. In sixth grade, she gave a 10-minute presentation to the class about why she’s so different. I remember it to this day.
“I have Asperger’s,” she declared. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of this disorder. My father, a child psychiatrist, would come home every night and talk about all kinds of childhood disorders, including those on the Autism spectrum. I remember thinking at the time, “Great Abby. But you telling the class about this won’t make anyone pick on you less.”
Unfortunately, I was right. After her soap box lecture, Abby went right back to being Abby. And I went right back to being the girl who made disgusted faces when Abby picked off her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes when Abby tried desperately to fit in.
My friends and I dealt with Abby for three long years. Finally, at the beginning of eighth grade, we had a discussion. We were not going to let Abby be in our group anymore. That morning, my friends designated me as the one who would tell her. I didn’t want to do it, and to this day I regret being the quiet, meek pushover that I was in that group since third grade. In retrospect, I realize that part of the reason I put up with Abby for so long was that, for those three years, I had the opportunity to graduate from being the group’s scapegoat. My friends stopped making fun of me for saving my paper bags at lunch and didn’t flick grape seeds at me while their focus was directed at Abby.
Despite that three-year grace period, I was still the second-best pushover. Reluctantly, I agreed to be the bearer of bad news. When Abby sat down to lunch, I took a deep breath and cut right to the chase. I remember my exact words: “Hey Abby, we were all thinking…sometimes, friends go in separate directions—”
That was all I had to say. Clueless, imperceptive Abby somehow knew—whether from the tone of my voice or the condescending looks everyone gave her—that she was getting the boot. She picked up her tray, said, “You’re kicking me out?!” and walked away.
My friends smiled as they watched her go. I did, too—but I was ridden with guilt. I felt so guilty, that when I came home, I told my mom. Well, I only half told her; being too ashamed to admit that the words were my own, I put the blame on another friend in the group. She was appalled that anyone would be so mean, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was actually I who told Abby to leave.
That night, I called the girl I had just banished from the group. I told her I was sorry, and that she could sit with us again. She accepted my apology—something I don’t think I would have done—but never came back to our table.
Now, eight years later, I’m studying to be a child psychologist, and I will be seeing patients like Abby for the rest of my life. To this day, whenever I think about her, I experience a twinge of guilt. I hope that my efforts to treat patients like Abby will act as a kind of redemption for how mean I was back then. I used to be ashamed to be Abby’s friend. Now, I’m ashamed that I never was.
*name has been changed
Saturday, May 29, 2010
excuse me, but your muffin top is spilling out.
I’ve gone through my fair share of unfortunate fashion choices. My junior year of high school was filled with those apron-like, empire waisted shirts that do nothing for any figure, regardless of shape or size. (Seriously, what was I thinking?!) I also went through the inevitable phase of pulling my tank top halfway down my butt, thinking that somehow the layered look was both cool and slimming (I’ve since observed that this is an age-related phase, because every girl from 7th to 9th grade has done it at least once). And then, there were just some complete misses that I am too ashamed to even discuss here (think wide patterned headbands and sparkly blue nail polish—and I’m talking BIG sparkles).
Despite all the misses, I’d like to think I’ve now redeemed myself enough to be able to discuss the poor choices in apparel I see every day. This is not an attempt to bash people who like to “express themselves” through their clothing; rather, this is an effort to change the decision-making habits of a select number of totally clueless individuals. Here is my compilation of the top six most heinous “styles” that even Good Will shouldn’t be stocking on their shelves.
1. Strapless dresses. Ladies, strapless dresses can be beautiful—BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE SMALL ON TOP. Why do you think spilling out of a dress—or having to hike it up every .03 seconds—is flattering? Also, if you have a huge chest, a strapless does absolutely nothing for support or shape (Does the term “uniboob” mean anything to you?). For your sake and ours, wear a halter top.
2. This next crime is committed by skinny boys—baggy t-shirts. Okay guys, I know you want to look a bit huskier. But wearing a size XXL t-shirt on your frame only emphasizes what you don’t have (muscle). I get that you want to look bigger, but believe it or not, people can tell that your concave pectoral muscles are not filling out that shirt. Wear a t-shirt that fits, before someone sends a lifeguard to save you from drowning in all that cotton.
3. Pint-sized sweaters. What the heck is up with “sweaters” that stop halfway down the ribcage? Is your torso really that much warmer than your arms so that you can’t wear a real sweater? It looks like you hijacked an outfit from your American Girl Doll. If you’re gonna wear a sweater, do it right and wear a sweater that doesn’t look like it was made for Bitty Baby.
4. White suits or tuxedos. There are, of course, some guys who can wear them and look amazing: Blacks, Hispanics, Latinos, Indians, Persians, etc. White guys…please, please, please stick to black. Please.
5. Ripped jeans. Huge holes in jeans don’t look good on girls OR guys. I don’t have to see your knee to know it’s there; even if it’s hidden under some fabric, I won’t doubt its existence. Guys, I don’t care what your story is—if the back pocket is ripped so that I can see your Stewie boxers (tacky), the jeans got to go. Also, what is UP with girls and wearing jeans with holes right under their butt?? Do you think you actually look good showing off the number one cellulite spot? You don’t.
6. MUFFIN TOP. I had a revelation a while ago about why girls don’t seem to notice (or care about) their muffin top. They don’t mind lying down on the floor to squeeze into their once-well-fitting jeans, as long as they can tell themselves, after buttoning, that they still fit into size 4. WAKE UP, GIRLS! How many times has someone asked you, “Gee, are those a size 4 jeans? Good thing, I definitely wouldn’t be your friend if you wore an 8.” People don’t see that you can wear a 4. All they see is that roll of fat spilling over the waistband, and all they think is ewww. Time to face the music and buy a pair of pants one (or two…or three) sizes up. Nobody will think any less of you—but they will see less of you. And that’s a good thing.
And here are the Honorable Mentions that didn’t quite make the list, but are almost just as bad:
1. Paisley. This pattern belongs on curtains and bedspreads, not your blouses.
2. Long denim skirts. To wear a jean skirt, the hem’s gotta stop at your thumbs. If your hips don’t let that happen, don’t wear it.
3. Light wash flared jeans. They’re out.
4. Shorts with slogans on the back. If you want me to know you’re a cheerleader, bring your pompons with you. Don’t make me read your butt.
5. Boot sandals. Wait, I’m sorry. Are you wearing boots or are you wearing sandals? I’m confused.
Despite all the misses, I’d like to think I’ve now redeemed myself enough to be able to discuss the poor choices in apparel I see every day. This is not an attempt to bash people who like to “express themselves” through their clothing; rather, this is an effort to change the decision-making habits of a select number of totally clueless individuals. Here is my compilation of the top six most heinous “styles” that even Good Will shouldn’t be stocking on their shelves.
1. Strapless dresses. Ladies, strapless dresses can be beautiful—BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE SMALL ON TOP. Why do you think spilling out of a dress—or having to hike it up every .03 seconds—is flattering? Also, if you have a huge chest, a strapless does absolutely nothing for support or shape (Does the term “uniboob” mean anything to you?). For your sake and ours, wear a halter top.
2. This next crime is committed by skinny boys—baggy t-shirts. Okay guys, I know you want to look a bit huskier. But wearing a size XXL t-shirt on your frame only emphasizes what you don’t have (muscle). I get that you want to look bigger, but believe it or not, people can tell that your concave pectoral muscles are not filling out that shirt. Wear a t-shirt that fits, before someone sends a lifeguard to save you from drowning in all that cotton.
3. Pint-sized sweaters. What the heck is up with “sweaters” that stop halfway down the ribcage? Is your torso really that much warmer than your arms so that you can’t wear a real sweater? It looks like you hijacked an outfit from your American Girl Doll. If you’re gonna wear a sweater, do it right and wear a sweater that doesn’t look like it was made for Bitty Baby.
4. White suits or tuxedos. There are, of course, some guys who can wear them and look amazing: Blacks, Hispanics, Latinos, Indians, Persians, etc. White guys…please, please, please stick to black. Please.
5. Ripped jeans. Huge holes in jeans don’t look good on girls OR guys. I don’t have to see your knee to know it’s there; even if it’s hidden under some fabric, I won’t doubt its existence. Guys, I don’t care what your story is—if the back pocket is ripped so that I can see your Stewie boxers (tacky), the jeans got to go. Also, what is UP with girls and wearing jeans with holes right under their butt?? Do you think you actually look good showing off the number one cellulite spot? You don’t.
6. MUFFIN TOP. I had a revelation a while ago about why girls don’t seem to notice (or care about) their muffin top. They don’t mind lying down on the floor to squeeze into their once-well-fitting jeans, as long as they can tell themselves, after buttoning, that they still fit into size 4. WAKE UP, GIRLS! How many times has someone asked you, “Gee, are those a size 4 jeans? Good thing, I definitely wouldn’t be your friend if you wore an 8.” People don’t see that you can wear a 4. All they see is that roll of fat spilling over the waistband, and all they think is ewww. Time to face the music and buy a pair of pants one (or two…or three) sizes up. Nobody will think any less of you—but they will see less of you. And that’s a good thing.
And here are the Honorable Mentions that didn’t quite make the list, but are almost just as bad:
1. Paisley. This pattern belongs on curtains and bedspreads, not your blouses.
2. Long denim skirts. To wear a jean skirt, the hem’s gotta stop at your thumbs. If your hips don’t let that happen, don’t wear it.
3. Light wash flared jeans. They’re out.
4. Shorts with slogans on the back. If you want me to know you’re a cheerleader, bring your pompons with you. Don’t make me read your butt.
5. Boot sandals. Wait, I’m sorry. Are you wearing boots or are you wearing sandals? I’m confused.
Monday, May 17, 2010
A Letter To The Nice Guys.
Dear Boys Who Complain That They Aren't Dating Anyone Because They're “too nice”:
Okay. I am getting really sick of your whining, because most of the time this isn’t true. Sure, I know there are some girls who like to date the guys who don’t respect them, compliment them, or care about them. But how many do you really know? You keep saying, “nice guys finish last,” but with that attitude, of COURSE you’re gonna finish last! And these “jerks” you keep talking about always have girls because they don’t go in with a defeated attitude.
Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on you guys. But you can’t keep up your sob story about how you’re too good to land nice girls. Or is it bad girls you want? You say girls don’t choose you because you’re not badass enough to attract a girl. But I know plenty of girls who actually want nice guys. But do you care about them? No. You want the girls who are attracted to the bad boys. But most of the time (from my experience and observation, anyway), those girls who like the tools aren’t that nice themselves.
What I don’t understand is, why are you, a nice boy, looking for a “bad” girl? Wouldn’t you want a nice girl to complement the good guy that you are? You’re complaining that the jerks get the girls, but what you fail to mention is your lack of interest in the nice girls you can get.
A little hypocritical, don’t you think?
As for me, I’m a girl who wants a nice guy. I want a guy who cares about how my day went, who remembers to ask how my bio exam was, and who is genuinely excited for me when something good happens. I don’t need him to text me every morning before I wake up, but a text asking if my job interview went well would be awesome.
Is that really too much to ask?
Nice guys, where ARE you?
Oh, that’s right. You’re sitting with your face in your hand, watching as that hot girl at the bar chats it up with the guy wearing sunglasses and a wife beater, knowing that he’s gonna get five other numbers that night, and that you are the guy she actually deserves.
But you know what, nice guys? I’m sick of your whining. I’m tired of you complaining that “all the girls go for the jerks.” Because it’s not true. If you look around, there are plenty of nice girls who want guys JUST LIKE YOU. But you don’t see them, because you’re too wrapped up in your own pity party to realize that these girls who don’t like you aren’t the girls you would like either.
WAKE UP. Do you really want to date a girl who’s attracted to bad boys? Wouldn’t you rather date a girl who loves you for your kindness, genuine interest, and excitement about life? There are so many nice girls for you, and you’re stuck in your little box of loneliness because you’re too set on dating the girls who like the jerks.
You know what? I’m done feeling bad for you. There is no reason you can’t get a girl because you’re “too nice.” It’s a defense mechanism you have created for yourself as an excuse to stop trying. Hopefully someday you’ll realize that nice guys don’t, in fact, finish last. But until you change your attitude, and start looking for nice girls that will appreciate your kind, caring personality, you will.
Love,
Ingrid
Okay. I am getting really sick of your whining, because most of the time this isn’t true. Sure, I know there are some girls who like to date the guys who don’t respect them, compliment them, or care about them. But how many do you really know? You keep saying, “nice guys finish last,” but with that attitude, of COURSE you’re gonna finish last! And these “jerks” you keep talking about always have girls because they don’t go in with a defeated attitude.
Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on you guys. But you can’t keep up your sob story about how you’re too good to land nice girls. Or is it bad girls you want? You say girls don’t choose you because you’re not badass enough to attract a girl. But I know plenty of girls who actually want nice guys. But do you care about them? No. You want the girls who are attracted to the bad boys. But most of the time (from my experience and observation, anyway), those girls who like the tools aren’t that nice themselves.
What I don’t understand is, why are you, a nice boy, looking for a “bad” girl? Wouldn’t you want a nice girl to complement the good guy that you are? You’re complaining that the jerks get the girls, but what you fail to mention is your lack of interest in the nice girls you can get.
A little hypocritical, don’t you think?
As for me, I’m a girl who wants a nice guy. I want a guy who cares about how my day went, who remembers to ask how my bio exam was, and who is genuinely excited for me when something good happens. I don’t need him to text me every morning before I wake up, but a text asking if my job interview went well would be awesome.
Is that really too much to ask?
Nice guys, where ARE you?
Oh, that’s right. You’re sitting with your face in your hand, watching as that hot girl at the bar chats it up with the guy wearing sunglasses and a wife beater, knowing that he’s gonna get five other numbers that night, and that you are the guy she actually deserves.
But you know what, nice guys? I’m sick of your whining. I’m tired of you complaining that “all the girls go for the jerks.” Because it’s not true. If you look around, there are plenty of nice girls who want guys JUST LIKE YOU. But you don’t see them, because you’re too wrapped up in your own pity party to realize that these girls who don’t like you aren’t the girls you would like either.
WAKE UP. Do you really want to date a girl who’s attracted to bad boys? Wouldn’t you rather date a girl who loves you for your kindness, genuine interest, and excitement about life? There are so many nice girls for you, and you’re stuck in your little box of loneliness because you’re too set on dating the girls who like the jerks.
You know what? I’m done feeling bad for you. There is no reason you can’t get a girl because you’re “too nice.” It’s a defense mechanism you have created for yourself as an excuse to stop trying. Hopefully someday you’ll realize that nice guys don’t, in fact, finish last. But until you change your attitude, and start looking for nice girls that will appreciate your kind, caring personality, you will.
Love,
Ingrid
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
20 things only a girl would understand
The title says it all. Here are 20 things you literally have to be a girl to understand.
1. I hate when I put my hair in a pony tail, and one hair is pulled just a bit too tight so that I have to redo the whole thing.
2. No matter what the Always commercial says, periods are NEVER happy.
3. I could easily eat more than two pieces of pizza—I just don’t want to look like a pig.
4. In order to stop myself from texting the guy I was into, I wrote “DON’T TEXT (NAME)” on a sticky note, took a picture of it with my phone, and set it as my background.
5. No matter how carefully I shave, I always, always miss the underside of my thighs.
6. If I know I’m going to wear peep-toe heels, I’ll only paint my first three toenails; what’s the point of painting the rest if nobody is going to see them?
7. I love picking off split ends—especially when the split ends have split themselves. So awesomely disgusting, yet fascinating.
8. I HATE my guy friends when they tell me they’re trying to gain weight because they’re "too skinny."
9. I love sex jokes too, but I feel like if I laugh at them around guys, they’ll think I’m slutty.
10. Even when I know nobody will see them, I wear sexy underwear just to feel good.
11. I absolutely dread the day I accidentally fart in front of a boy.
12. I have perfected the art of sucking in my belly while keeping my shoulders and face relaxed for pictures.
13. Sometimes, I’ll put on an outfit that I think looks good, and then 10 minutes later I’ll look in the mirror and feel completely fat and have to change.
14. I often plan my outfit around the shoes I want to wear.
15. You know when you can barely get newly-washed jeans on in the morning, and then by night they have stretched out to about 3 sizes too big? That’s the worst.
16. When I’m mad at someone, I don’t feel like punching her; I just want to call her fat.
17. Sometimes it’s fun to play into the typical girl role, but my love for Edward Cullen, Patrick Dempsey and Brad Pitt will never actually hinder my real romantic life.
18. I hate being the last one to say “goodbye,” and I will stay online for as long as possible to give the guy a chance to respond.
19. Don't you hate it when you put your hair in a messy bun to wash your face at night, and it turns out PERFECT? And then you try to sleep with it so you can recreate it tomorrow, but when you wake up it's not the same.
20. I'm not actually cold; sometimes I just want to see if the guy I'm with will offer his sweatshirt. But he usually doesn't.
1. I hate when I put my hair in a pony tail, and one hair is pulled just a bit too tight so that I have to redo the whole thing.
2. No matter what the Always commercial says, periods are NEVER happy.
3. I could easily eat more than two pieces of pizza—I just don’t want to look like a pig.
4. In order to stop myself from texting the guy I was into, I wrote “DON’T TEXT (NAME)” on a sticky note, took a picture of it with my phone, and set it as my background.
5. No matter how carefully I shave, I always, always miss the underside of my thighs.
6. If I know I’m going to wear peep-toe heels, I’ll only paint my first three toenails; what’s the point of painting the rest if nobody is going to see them?
7. I love picking off split ends—especially when the split ends have split themselves. So awesomely disgusting, yet fascinating.
8. I HATE my guy friends when they tell me they’re trying to gain weight because they’re "too skinny."
9. I love sex jokes too, but I feel like if I laugh at them around guys, they’ll think I’m slutty.
10. Even when I know nobody will see them, I wear sexy underwear just to feel good.
11. I absolutely dread the day I accidentally fart in front of a boy.
12. I have perfected the art of sucking in my belly while keeping my shoulders and face relaxed for pictures.
13. Sometimes, I’ll put on an outfit that I think looks good, and then 10 minutes later I’ll look in the mirror and feel completely fat and have to change.
14. I often plan my outfit around the shoes I want to wear.
15. You know when you can barely get newly-washed jeans on in the morning, and then by night they have stretched out to about 3 sizes too big? That’s the worst.
16. When I’m mad at someone, I don’t feel like punching her; I just want to call her fat.
17. Sometimes it’s fun to play into the typical girl role, but my love for Edward Cullen, Patrick Dempsey and Brad Pitt will never actually hinder my real romantic life.
18. I hate being the last one to say “goodbye,” and I will stay online for as long as possible to give the guy a chance to respond.
19. Don't you hate it when you put your hair in a messy bun to wash your face at night, and it turns out PERFECT? And then you try to sleep with it so you can recreate it tomorrow, but when you wake up it's not the same.
20. I'm not actually cold; sometimes I just want to see if the guy I'm with will offer his sweatshirt. But he usually doesn't.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Ingrid's QUITHS (Quirks, Unusual Inclinations, Tendencies, Habits and Secrets)
I talk out loud to myself when setting my alarm clock at night. For some reason, I just cannot focus unless I literally stop everything and dictate to myself in real-time my alarm process. A running monologue, transcribed, would look roughly like this:
“Okay, so let’s see…I have a 9:45 tomorrow…so, umm, I’ll wake up…aaat…8:55. Soo, snooze, um…8:55 to 8:46, 8:46 to eight thirtyyy seven. Good.”
This strange habit never really hit me until last night when I was in my bed as usual, extending my arm across my body in an awkward stretch, pushing the buttons on my iHome. Suddenly, I stopped speaking, totally weirded out by my own habit. Why do I have to talk to myself, when my brain is perfectly capable of doing everything without the help of my voice box?
I must be a weirdo.
This revelation led me to think about other strange quirks, habits and tendencies I have that, I believe, other people must understand but are too embarrassed to admit. Therefore, I will break the ice. Here is a list of my Quirks, Unusual Inclinations, Tendencies, Habits and Secrets. I call them…QUITHS
1. Whenever I witness something amusing, I will send out a mass text to all the people who I think will respond. A prime example: “I just walked past the most unfortunate case of cankles I have ever seen in my life.” (Sent to approximately 12 people.)
2. After I get ready to go out, I always look in the mirror and smile to myself. I have no idea why I do this.
3. If you say you have never peed in the shower, you’re lying to me. I do it, you do it, and everyone else does it.
4. The day before I begin a diet, I will eat as much food as I can, regardless of hunger status or fat content, with this mindset: “I’m not gonna be able to do this again for a long time, so I better get all the bad stuff in now when I still can.”
5. Corollary: When I’m on my diet, I’m perfect. But if I eat one bad thing, the whole diet is shot for the day and I end up shoving my face with mac ‘n’ cheese and ice cream, telling myself I will restart tomorrow.
6. When I was little, I was unable to stub one toe without purposefully stubbing the one on the other foot. The asymmetry would bother me.
7. I sleep with a teddy bear, not because of sentimental value (I’ve only had it for 2 years), but because I can’t sleep on my side without having it prop up my left arm.
8. When I’m at the library and notice a boy studying for the same class I am, I will hold my textbook up while reading it so he sees that we’re in the same class.
9. On that note, if a person next to me in the library is working on really difficult calculus homework, I try as hard as I can to hide the fact that my book says TRIGONOMETRY.
10. Every night, I pick out my outfit for the next day, even if it’s just shorts and a beater to go to the gym.
11. I have become so used to comments on my Facebook statuses, that if I don’t get at least a “like” within 1 hour of putting it up, I delete it and try again.
12. At least 5 or 6 times in my life, when I answered a question in a big class, my sympathetic nervous system went out of whack—I’m talking flushed face, quick breathing, thumping heart, sweaty palms. The weird thing is, it only happened AFTER I answered—and I voluntarily raised my hand.
13. If I look good one day, after a quick scan I will choose my route through the commons, library, dining hall, etc., according to how many boys I will pass on my way (and when I’m having a fat day, I avoid those routes).
14. If I’m walking behind or in front of a really intriguing conversation, I will turn off my iPod (keeping the ear buds in so they don’t know I’m eavesdropping), and listen for as long as possible. (Note: This is especially the case when a couple is arguing.)
15. I try to pick a treadmill next to a guy so I can impress him…and I get annoyed when he gets off his treadmill and a girl takes it. What’s the point then?
16. My ears have been popping more or less nonstop since 7th grade. The only way I can get them to unpop is to plug my nose and suck in. I’ve learned how to do this so quickly and suddenly, though, that it is virtually unnoticeable.
17. I whistle all the time and I usually don’t even realize I’m doing it.
18. Sometimes when I’m running, I’ll get a cramp, followed by a brief panic attack as I frantically try to remember on which side of my body my appendix is located.
19. When I brush my teeth using my right hand, I always rest my left hand against my stomach.
There you have it. 19 brutally honest, slightly embarrassing, and totally strange quirks, unusual inclinations, tendencies, habits, and secrets about me. And now it’s your turn—what are some quirky tendencies you have (or may share with me), but have never had the opportunity to tell anyone?
As Jim Morrison once said…”Where’s your will to be weird?”
“Okay, so let’s see…I have a 9:45 tomorrow…so, umm, I’ll wake up…aaat…8:55. Soo, snooze, um…8:55 to 8:46, 8:46 to eight thirtyyy seven. Good.”
This strange habit never really hit me until last night when I was in my bed as usual, extending my arm across my body in an awkward stretch, pushing the buttons on my iHome. Suddenly, I stopped speaking, totally weirded out by my own habit. Why do I have to talk to myself, when my brain is perfectly capable of doing everything without the help of my voice box?
I must be a weirdo.
This revelation led me to think about other strange quirks, habits and tendencies I have that, I believe, other people must understand but are too embarrassed to admit. Therefore, I will break the ice. Here is a list of my Quirks, Unusual Inclinations, Tendencies, Habits and Secrets. I call them…QUITHS
1. Whenever I witness something amusing, I will send out a mass text to all the people who I think will respond. A prime example: “I just walked past the most unfortunate case of cankles I have ever seen in my life.” (Sent to approximately 12 people.)
2. After I get ready to go out, I always look in the mirror and smile to myself. I have no idea why I do this.
3. If you say you have never peed in the shower, you’re lying to me. I do it, you do it, and everyone else does it.
4. The day before I begin a diet, I will eat as much food as I can, regardless of hunger status or fat content, with this mindset: “I’m not gonna be able to do this again for a long time, so I better get all the bad stuff in now when I still can.”
5. Corollary: When I’m on my diet, I’m perfect. But if I eat one bad thing, the whole diet is shot for the day and I end up shoving my face with mac ‘n’ cheese and ice cream, telling myself I will restart tomorrow.
6. When I was little, I was unable to stub one toe without purposefully stubbing the one on the other foot. The asymmetry would bother me.
7. I sleep with a teddy bear, not because of sentimental value (I’ve only had it for 2 years), but because I can’t sleep on my side without having it prop up my left arm.
8. When I’m at the library and notice a boy studying for the same class I am, I will hold my textbook up while reading it so he sees that we’re in the same class.
9. On that note, if a person next to me in the library is working on really difficult calculus homework, I try as hard as I can to hide the fact that my book says TRIGONOMETRY.
10. Every night, I pick out my outfit for the next day, even if it’s just shorts and a beater to go to the gym.
11. I have become so used to comments on my Facebook statuses, that if I don’t get at least a “like” within 1 hour of putting it up, I delete it and try again.
12. At least 5 or 6 times in my life, when I answered a question in a big class, my sympathetic nervous system went out of whack—I’m talking flushed face, quick breathing, thumping heart, sweaty palms. The weird thing is, it only happened AFTER I answered—and I voluntarily raised my hand.
13. If I look good one day, after a quick scan I will choose my route through the commons, library, dining hall, etc., according to how many boys I will pass on my way (and when I’m having a fat day, I avoid those routes).
14. If I’m walking behind or in front of a really intriguing conversation, I will turn off my iPod (keeping the ear buds in so they don’t know I’m eavesdropping), and listen for as long as possible. (Note: This is especially the case when a couple is arguing.)
15. I try to pick a treadmill next to a guy so I can impress him…and I get annoyed when he gets off his treadmill and a girl takes it. What’s the point then?
16. My ears have been popping more or less nonstop since 7th grade. The only way I can get them to unpop is to plug my nose and suck in. I’ve learned how to do this so quickly and suddenly, though, that it is virtually unnoticeable.
17. I whistle all the time and I usually don’t even realize I’m doing it.
18. Sometimes when I’m running, I’ll get a cramp, followed by a brief panic attack as I frantically try to remember on which side of my body my appendix is located.
19. When I brush my teeth using my right hand, I always rest my left hand against my stomach.
There you have it. 19 brutally honest, slightly embarrassing, and totally strange quirks, unusual inclinations, tendencies, habits, and secrets about me. And now it’s your turn—what are some quirky tendencies you have (or may share with me), but have never had the opportunity to tell anyone?
As Jim Morrison once said…”Where’s your will to be weird?”
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Kas nozīme būt Latviski? (Or, What Does It Mean To Be Latvian?)
If you were to hop on a plane and fly east, across the Atlantic Ocean, past France, Germany and Poland, you would hit one of the smallest, most ambiguous, least-understood countries in Eastern Europe: Latvia. You have never heard of this Baltic state? You’re in good company, for I cannot count how many times in my life that I have had to explain to friends where my ancestors are from, what language I speak to my dad over the phone, and why I disappear for six weeks every summer to be with kids across America and Canada and dress up in funny, multicolored woolen costumes in the blazing summer heat and dance to accordions playing upbeat, twangy foreign music.
To the few members of the elite “Of Course We Know About Latvia” group: You may roll your eyes and nod your heads in offended exasperation, but be wary. You may know Latvia was under Soviet control, that it is a Baltic state, or that the girls are pretty and blonde. While all of the above is true—especially the pretty, blonde girls part—few people understand what it actually means to be Latvian. Being Latvian isn’t about having high cheekbones and grandparents with thick accents. Latvians are proud—not of themselves as individuals, but as a whole, a people. For overcoming the rule of the Soviet Union after 50 years, we are proud of the country and the culture we struggled, succeeded, and are continuing to preserve. That Latvian pride has transferred from generation to generation, and it is what makes us the steadfast, determined group of people that we are today.
How do I meet a Latvian? Latvians are scattered throughout America and Canada, so, in order to befriend a Latvian, you simply have to know what to look for. First, you must find a surname that looks foreign, usually consisting of weird characters and ending in “-iņš” (“Kalniņš,” “Bērziņš,” and “Ozoliņš” are all strong examples). Once you have established that the last name is arguably Latvian, you approach (cautiously—a Latvian may be a proud individual, but is not always inclined for probing questions) and ask the candidate how he feels about pork, sauerkraut, and broiled potatoes. Only a true-blooded Latvian will swell with pride and exclaim, “My people invented that meal!”
What brings such a small, scattered group of people together? Latvians have an innate need to stick together. When our grandparents came over during the communist invasion, all they had were each other. They established communities all over America, from New York to California, and raised their families in cultural emersion. They founded Latvian schools, churches, and summer camps for their kids who, in turn, sought out other Latvians, married each other, and raised our generation of Latvians. We go to the same summer camps, Latvian schools, and churches built by our grandparents and forge friendships with the kids of our parents’ best childhood friends. (We often end up dating our parents’ camp sweethearts!) We have been raised to value the meaning of a community. Latvians across the U.S. and Canada travel far and wide to be together, whether it be for parties, confirmations (which end in parties), or family functions (which are parties in and of themselves). Because we are so widely dispersed, it is not unusual for Latvians to spend twice as much time traveling as actually being with each other.
What do Latvians do when they’re together? We may be a small group of people, but when you walk in on a roomful of Latvians, the crowd seems bigger than Woodstock. The Latvian pride fills the crowded room and resides among the beer bottles and pīrāgi—a strictly-Latvian snack concocted of chopped bacon and onions baked in a fluffy, golden-brown, doughy bread. Latvian women are proud of their pīrāgi and refuse to reveal their secret recipes to each other; even family members understand the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Nowhere does “until death do us part” ring truer than among the Latvian grandmothers of our generation and their pīrāgi recipes.
Although food is a central focal point at Latvian get-togethers, we bond over more than Yuengling Lagers and sauerkraut. Latvians are, were, and always will be singers. Our grandparents crossed the Atlantic with nothing more than the songs in their heads—the only part of their identity not taken away by the Soviets. These ancient, traditional folk songs (ranging in theme from wandering through one’s field with his horse to “drinking from the beer glass now, because when we’re old, water will have to do”) have been passed down through generations, and when Latvians congregate, a few hours of steadfast singing is inevitable. And everyone—from 7-year-old children to 95-year-old grandparents—proudly joins in.
After the songs are extinguished, Latvians push away the tables and chairs, grab partners, and dance. Like our folksongs, the traditional folk dances have been passed down through the generations. We can polka around in circles for hours—Latvians seem to have an unnaturally high tolerance for dizziness—and when we finally sit back down, panting and sweating, we smile, simply unable to imagine what the unfortunate, non-Latvian does for fun.
I think I have 12% Latvian in me; am I considered a Latvian? We Latvians have various standards for considering someone “One of Us.” Some believe it doesn’t matter how little maroon and white blood one has flowing through his veins, while others, especially those of the earlier generations, only consider full-blooded Latvians a part of the community. Personally, I am inclined to disagree with the latter view, as I am only half-Latvian. You are probably thinking, Only half? What does she know about all this Latvian stuff? To me, it is unimportant how much Latvian you have in you; what matters is what you do with it. Sure, you can join one of the many “Latvians Unite!” Facebook groups and attend the massive annual parties but does that make you Latvian? Some say you are only Latvian if you attended Saturday schools and speak the language fluently. While that is undeniably a major part of being Latvian, I believe it is more than that.
To be a true-blooded Latvian, you must care. You must care for your country’s history. You must care for your grandparents and parents, and appreciate the effort they made to raise you in a Latvian family. Most of all, you must care about the future. True Latvians will do anything and everything in their power to preserve their heritage. They will raise their children to speak the language and appreciate the culture, and to raise their children the same way. The Latvian population is slowly decreasing with each generation, but we are striving to brighten our future.
I have a shirt that reads: “Be kind to a Latvian—we’re an endangered species.” As our numbers decrease, our pride increases. Our Latvian pride alone is what will save us from extinction. That Latvian pride is what makes a Latvian truly a Latvian.
To the few members of the elite “Of Course We Know About Latvia” group: You may roll your eyes and nod your heads in offended exasperation, but be wary. You may know Latvia was under Soviet control, that it is a Baltic state, or that the girls are pretty and blonde. While all of the above is true—especially the pretty, blonde girls part—few people understand what it actually means to be Latvian. Being Latvian isn’t about having high cheekbones and grandparents with thick accents. Latvians are proud—not of themselves as individuals, but as a whole, a people. For overcoming the rule of the Soviet Union after 50 years, we are proud of the country and the culture we struggled, succeeded, and are continuing to preserve. That Latvian pride has transferred from generation to generation, and it is what makes us the steadfast, determined group of people that we are today.
How do I meet a Latvian? Latvians are scattered throughout America and Canada, so, in order to befriend a Latvian, you simply have to know what to look for. First, you must find a surname that looks foreign, usually consisting of weird characters and ending in “-iņš” (“Kalniņš,” “Bērziņš,” and “Ozoliņš” are all strong examples). Once you have established that the last name is arguably Latvian, you approach (cautiously—a Latvian may be a proud individual, but is not always inclined for probing questions) and ask the candidate how he feels about pork, sauerkraut, and broiled potatoes. Only a true-blooded Latvian will swell with pride and exclaim, “My people invented that meal!”
What brings such a small, scattered group of people together? Latvians have an innate need to stick together. When our grandparents came over during the communist invasion, all they had were each other. They established communities all over America, from New York to California, and raised their families in cultural emersion. They founded Latvian schools, churches, and summer camps for their kids who, in turn, sought out other Latvians, married each other, and raised our generation of Latvians. We go to the same summer camps, Latvian schools, and churches built by our grandparents and forge friendships with the kids of our parents’ best childhood friends. (We often end up dating our parents’ camp sweethearts!) We have been raised to value the meaning of a community. Latvians across the U.S. and Canada travel far and wide to be together, whether it be for parties, confirmations (which end in parties), or family functions (which are parties in and of themselves). Because we are so widely dispersed, it is not unusual for Latvians to spend twice as much time traveling as actually being with each other.
What do Latvians do when they’re together? We may be a small group of people, but when you walk in on a roomful of Latvians, the crowd seems bigger than Woodstock. The Latvian pride fills the crowded room and resides among the beer bottles and pīrāgi—a strictly-Latvian snack concocted of chopped bacon and onions baked in a fluffy, golden-brown, doughy bread. Latvian women are proud of their pīrāgi and refuse to reveal their secret recipes to each other; even family members understand the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Nowhere does “until death do us part” ring truer than among the Latvian grandmothers of our generation and their pīrāgi recipes.
Although food is a central focal point at Latvian get-togethers, we bond over more than Yuengling Lagers and sauerkraut. Latvians are, were, and always will be singers. Our grandparents crossed the Atlantic with nothing more than the songs in their heads—the only part of their identity not taken away by the Soviets. These ancient, traditional folk songs (ranging in theme from wandering through one’s field with his horse to “drinking from the beer glass now, because when we’re old, water will have to do”) have been passed down through generations, and when Latvians congregate, a few hours of steadfast singing is inevitable. And everyone—from 7-year-old children to 95-year-old grandparents—proudly joins in.
After the songs are extinguished, Latvians push away the tables and chairs, grab partners, and dance. Like our folksongs, the traditional folk dances have been passed down through the generations. We can polka around in circles for hours—Latvians seem to have an unnaturally high tolerance for dizziness—and when we finally sit back down, panting and sweating, we smile, simply unable to imagine what the unfortunate, non-Latvian does for fun.
I think I have 12% Latvian in me; am I considered a Latvian? We Latvians have various standards for considering someone “One of Us.” Some believe it doesn’t matter how little maroon and white blood one has flowing through his veins, while others, especially those of the earlier generations, only consider full-blooded Latvians a part of the community. Personally, I am inclined to disagree with the latter view, as I am only half-Latvian. You are probably thinking, Only half? What does she know about all this Latvian stuff? To me, it is unimportant how much Latvian you have in you; what matters is what you do with it. Sure, you can join one of the many “Latvians Unite!” Facebook groups and attend the massive annual parties but does that make you Latvian? Some say you are only Latvian if you attended Saturday schools and speak the language fluently. While that is undeniably a major part of being Latvian, I believe it is more than that.
To be a true-blooded Latvian, you must care. You must care for your country’s history. You must care for your grandparents and parents, and appreciate the effort they made to raise you in a Latvian family. Most of all, you must care about the future. True Latvians will do anything and everything in their power to preserve their heritage. They will raise their children to speak the language and appreciate the culture, and to raise their children the same way. The Latvian population is slowly decreasing with each generation, but we are striving to brighten our future.
I have a shirt that reads: “Be kind to a Latvian—we’re an endangered species.” As our numbers decrease, our pride increases. Our Latvian pride alone is what will save us from extinction. That Latvian pride is what makes a Latvian truly a Latvian.
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