Heads up: an un-funny post

Not so much has changed after all. My dad scrambles stiffly down the thin path to the water; hunting for agates. My mom waits at a safe distance, worried not that she would fall, but that one of us would. I pull off my shoes and socks and scramble after him, never one to be left behind. My instep recoils on the rocky beach, my toes turn red in the cold water. We wave at mom, look at the sea, look at each other and back at the sea, neither of us sure how old we really are on this cool, autumn day.

Year 1, Week 5: It's raining. Shocker.

Good afternoon, you reprobates! I greet you from the rainy city of Nirvana and Doc Martens where I have discovered that just as there are those trying to bring back grunge, there are those trying to bring back ROLLER BLADING. (Stink, you may need to pack yours when you visit). And these folks are not roller blading ironically, they are doing it seriously, smoothly, effortlessly, and last but not least, FUCKING RIDICULOUSLY. Men and women alike, young and old. This abomination of wheeled locomotion extends to many demographics. But I digress...

I don't have any specific theme or announcement for today's post. But I do have this modern marvel of pop culture and advertising, the world's most beautiful twins separated at birth:


Pit Bull + Bud Light = My own version of heaven. I could not be happier. The two things in life that ostensibly give me more joy than anything else. Well, that's hyperbole, but you get what I'm saying.

Lately I have been seeing lots of nasty things going on with ladies' hair. Gross weaves (girl in stats class who smells like a hangover), gross bumpits (girl on the bus who pulled her sleeve over her hand to hold onto the handle...yeah, lady, cuz you're A LOT cleaner than the rest of us). The trick is to capture these on film without being a complete a**hole. Perhaps I need my own bumpit that I could hide a camera in.

And a moment of unabashed pride: I AM IN FIRST PLACE IN MY FANTASY FOOTBALL LEAGUE. I wouldn't be so absolutely thrilled about this, except for the number of male misogynists who are also in the league. There are at least four of them (no Big Easy, not you). And I am beating all of them. And everyone else for that matter! I fear my reign will come to an end with week 9, but whatever, I'm amazing and so is Fast Freddie Jackson.

Year 1, Week 4, Thursday: Not for the faint of heart

It's all fun and games until somebody stubs a toe! And this was on the way to stats class, where I stubbed my brain on the concept of n-1. I'm not sure which hurts more.

It is a gray, rainy Thursday here in the land of professional sports teams that suck but are just so darn cute (I'm talking to you, Ackley). My neighbors continue uninterrupted in their oblivion. I'm actually starting to wonder if they even know that they have a neighbor. Or, as a friend pointed out, they might just not be as quiet and considerate as I am. A well-honed skill developed after a decade of roommates. Several of you can attest to my less-considerate moments (you know who you are, and I am sorry), but I think I'm entering that phase of my life where I'm going to look up knitting patterns on the internet while you young'uns turn your music up really loud.

And in a brilliant "thanks, mom, for reminding me how old and unsuccessful at relationships I am" moment, my dear mother left a message about how she saw my ex at the pancake restaurant with a "beautiful woman and a shiny wedding band on his finger." Um, mom, he was an asshole, remember? But thanks for the reminder that assholes can get married and I cannot. Cheers.

So I'm off to do some reading. Thanks to the reader that chimed in with the costume suggestion of the Pioneer Mother. I think that depending on the weather, I will reprise my kentucky derby outfit and make Mary dress like Richard Gere, or I will wear my coveralls and ask people if they want me to look under their hood. Oh man, I just creeped myself out!

Year 1, Week 4, blah blah.

Good afternoon, diligent blog followers. Today I have only a report on my neighbor's singing. She appears to be TOTALLY oblivious to the fact that her front door is two inches from my front door and that our apartments share a wall. I can hear very mundane, ordinary things like talking, sneezing, coffee grinding, and I assume that they can hear the same. Which is why (for decency's sake)I close my living room door when watching CSI: Miami. Anyway, apparently Tuesday at noon is singing time, and today was Fleetwood Mac "Dreams" Day. It was an inspired rendition, and I can only hope that my dear neighbor stumbles upon this blog when she googles something like "Ballard" and "balloon" and discovers that anyone with the Internet can read about her singing. Which is not bad, per se, it is just loud, and if you're going to sing that loudly, you may as well just ask if you can come and sing in my apartment. That is all.

Two more things: one, I need help with a costume idea for an MBA costume/mixer/dance party that I will be attending on Friday. Two, a picture of my stately, plastic crown:

This post speaks for itself.

Year 1, Week 3, Day 2: Hey Y'all!

Today's post is a special shout out to anyone that I know who hails from the south. As I'm walking across campus this morning in my oh-so-trendy little faux-leather jacket, skinny jeans, v-neck and flats, I reach into the pocket of said jacket which I haven't worn for a couple of years to discover.....A PAULA DEEN KOOZIE!!! Nothing says "I'm a PhD student on my way to stats class" like pulling a bright green koozie out of your pocket at 9:30am. Also, the above detail surrounding my wardrobe is only important because approximately two hours after the koozie discovery I'm headed back to the bus stop in a torrential downpour. My cute outfit was not water-resistant and the weather here is decidedly indecisive. Enough about my wardrobe, I'm going to puke.

What else do I got for you today...let's see. A lot of my adventures occur on the bus. The other day I made the mistake of talking to a woman, Barbara, at the bus stop. Barbara then wanted to sit next to me (and sort of on me) for the rest of the bus ride. She then proceeded to rant about her bout with pancreatic cancer, how spicy food causes high blood pressure, how immigrants are stealing our jobs, how doctors are evil...She smelled like beer and urine. But I picked up what is now my favorite phrase EVER: "Bullshit that shit." This is apparently what she tells her doctor when he gives her advice (which is no doubt related to the whole urine/beer situation).

School is good. Seattle is good. The Seahawks are not good, but they did defy odds and win over the NY Giants last weekend which somehow justified a full 4.5 pages in the sports section. If the Seahawks are to the NFL what the Beavers are to the Pac-12, then here's an analogy for all of you gearing up for the SATs...

Losing to the Beavers: Firing Stoops as Losing to the Seahawks: Firing Coughlin. Just a thought.

Here's the offending koozie and the view from my window:

Year 1, Week 2, Day 2: Bear Snatch

Good afternoon, my dear readers. I have an odd assortment of thoughts and observations to enlighten you with today.

1) You may have noticed that there was not posting for Year 1, Week 2, Day 1. That is because I'm a grad student and I don't give a sh**.

2) My favorite reader, Ndamukong, asked about my World Series predictions. Many people seem inclined towards the Phillies. That's a safe bet. But what would be more rad would be the Detroit Tigers, so that Doug Fister in all of his pitching glory could be in the national spotlight. For obvious reasons.

3) Urban observation du jour (aka, crazy shit I see on the bus): Every time I take the bus from my neighborhood to downtown there are either people that are visible drunk or visibly drinking. Every time. Giving new meaning to the term "party bus."

4) Undergrad observation du hour (aka, crazy shit I observe the undergrads doing): Dear scantily clad women- We are in Seattle. You are dressed like you are in Barbados. This leads me to wonder what you wear when it is ACTUALLY WARM outside. Jesus, ladies.

5) Today whilst attempting to send an email to someone instead of typing "theirname@blah.com" I typed "their name at blah dot com" without realizing it. WEIRD.

6) I was dismayed to find that my stats class may just be the Navy Seals training of my program. Take every concept I've learned previously in statistics, and now call it something else. Take data for example. We don't call that data, we call it the 'score.' Which is especially rad when your 'score' involves scores. SHOOT ME. And I bet you thought that the population was the set of individuals of interest in a particular study. WRONG. KILL YOURSELF. The population is the 'score' (data) that you would like to generalize from a group of subjects. You know how some things make more sense when you're drunk? Like driving? This might be one of those things.

7) I was joking about the plug for drunk driving.


8) Here is a picture of my favorite flavor of granny soda: Pamplemousse. That's French for "I'm better than you."