Typ.

At chapter, the panhellenic delegate was trying to encourage us to go to a blood drive they're holding.

To convince us, she used the fact that you burn 600 calories every time you give blood.

The life of a sorostitute.

Like Bob, like daughter

This is a story about an apple that fell from a tree. Not far, might I add.

Tomorrow Mom and Bob are coming to Athens for the annual Parents' Weekend, where my fellow sorostitutes and I will go to a dinner we couldn't otherwise afford and then burn off the calories by laughing at our parents' dance moves.

When discussing with Bob what he should wear to said event, I explained, "Maybe a suit if you want but slacks and a jacket would be fine too."

At which point he responded, "I could wear my tux. If you want to see what 10 pounds of shit looks like in a 5 pound bag, I could wear that for you."


Do we all see now where I get it from?

Cruisin'

I apologize for not writing in a while, I've been extremely busy doing this:



In places like this:



With these wonderful people:









My life is so tough.



Some photo cred to Locher.

Home Alone

I came home to Alpharetta this weekend. And it is very evident that I'm home. So I decided to make a list of things that describe my visits home from college:


- My parents seem to like me a lot more than they ever did when I was in grade school.
- We do whatever I want, and Bob even lets me pick the movie rentals.
- We get to eat my fave foods.
- I get to experience the frequent symphony of Bob and dogs snoring together.
- My mom breaks out the Easter candy early for me.
- My parents refuse to let me sleep until I wake up on my own, insisting that I've been sleeping "foreveerrrrrr" and then list everything they want us to do that day before I've opened my eyes.
- My dogs are happy to see me, and forget that I am home every time I'm out of view so I get greeted with the same enthusiasm every time they see me again.


None of these are bad things, by the way. I feel quite loved when I come home.


Disclaimer: Bob is my biological father. If you've met us in person, this is quite evident. I am most definitely my father's daughter. I called him Dad until about my freshman year of college. I started calling him Bob on the common occasion that he was a pain in the neck. I'd say, with all the respect of a loving, obedient daughter, "Bob. Quit it," or more affectionately, "Bob. You're being a pain in the [neck]." Since his episodes of being a smartass are decently frequent, I began to call him "Bob" more often than "Dad," and now only resort to "Dad" when I have car trouble and need to pull the damsel-in-distress card. It has come up before that calling him "Bob" might come across as him being a step-father, but in fact I'm convinced that I'm about 80% Bob and 20% Mom. There is zero suspicion of the milkman.

Happiness Just Because.

Here are some things that are making me happy these days. In no particular order or genre.

This article. Some things are way out of my lifestyle and some things hit home. I wonder what I will have wanted to tell my now-self in 20 years.

This video. After watching this, I have this song in my head constantly. You can skip the first 1:45. The jist is that the woman and man are battling to see who can sing higher.



This game. It calms me and makes me think of my wonderful friend AK who, while she no longer lives here, I can still picture her sitting next to me on the couch playing it.

This song. It's been said that this song is going to be the anthem of our generation. A generation that accepts all and bullies none. High hopes, but Gaga did her part. And I like this little girl's version better than the actual Lady Gaga one.



This picture. I've had a girl crush on this girl for almost four years now and I'm glad it's one friendship I haven't let fizzle out.



This quote. From my favorite Sufi Muslim woman who I traveled through Morocco with and who recently came to my feminist spirituality class to speak.

"There are as many religions as there are people on this earth."

This bathing suit. 1-It reminds me that spring break is TWO weeks away. 2- It makes me think I could look like her if I wore it. 3- It's coral. As close as I'll get to ever buying anything pink and one of my darling sister Ashley's favorite colors.

This memory. When the world seems like a wonderful place and I'm happy to be living in it.

Employment before Engagement

Our school newspaper is the Red & Black. I've tried to send in articles in hopes of being published but had no luck.

This semester I'm in a class with the new editor-in-chief, a friend of mine that I've had about four classes with. One day before class, I jokingly said, "I like your paper, Mimi, but I found some mistakes."

At which point she responded, "Really? Where?"

I said I was just teasing her but still showed her the two places I found mistakes. At which point she said, "Well, wanna come be a copy editor for us?"

Which is when I realized that maybe it pays to be a wiseass.

So at least once a week I head up to the old R&B and check out the paper before it heads to print. It's a very cool atmosphere and I'm excited about the experience I'm getting.

Anyways, it a moment of giddiness, I checked out the "Our Staff" section at the bottom of page 4 and came across this gem:



See that name after "Copy Editors"? Tis mine.

You can also see it here on the online site.

I'm proud. Can you tell?

So, in my pride, I sent the link to my family. And got this video from Lisa in return.

I can see myself instilling that in my kids. Guess I'm marriage ready? Oh haaayyyyllllll naw.

Hell or Higher Power

My roommate Meagan doesn't think I'm going to hell.

Now, this may seem like a normal thing for friends to think about each other, but Meagan was born, raised and schooled pretty conservatively Christian.

As I've learned and grown in my beliefs, it's very clear that I don't recognize with any one organized religion. One of my favorite quotes of all time is C.K. Chesterton: "Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair." And that's what it is to me.

Point being, a large majority of my friends are strong Christians, many of whom even went to Christian high schools. And I love to discuss religion with them, hence my major. I'll talk to anyone about it.

But I learned early on that not everyone is receptive to non-traditional beliefs. I've been called a heathen, told I'm going to hell, asked if I was kidding when I said I wasn't Christian, and even received a 12-page letter from a good friend of mine explaining why God disapproves of my beliefs and choices.

Now for the SparkNotes version, I believe in God. God and I hang out. We're besties. I think pretty much everything can be contributed to God so the details don't really concern me.

That being said, I talk to my roommates and some friends about God openly, and it's evident to them that God and I have a relationship.

Meagan and I had a long talk the other day. After being taught her whole life that Jesus is the only way to heaven, she's confused as to what's going to happen to me. I've never been too concerned about it, I'll trust that God knows what he's doing.

Plus, there's no point worrying about the afterlife cause we're not going to know if we're right til we die. And then we're dead. Or in hell. Or heaven. Or purgatory. Or swimming around in a giant midnight truffle blizzard from DQ.

Anyways, Meagan (and a lot of my friends) aren't used to questioning the beliefs they grew up with.

If there is one thing that I have constantly been taught and put into practice, it's to question. Question everything. My parents always taught me that sometimes the teacher ISN'T right. And that no one actually knows all the answers. Yes, even them. This was never an excuse to be rude to anyone, but I was always pushed to question.

In my mind, there is nothing more important to question than religion. It is the core of billions of people, shapes cultures and is used as a scapegoat for war. It is a huge part of the reason homosexuality has such a stigma, and it causes unnecessary rifts between people that could otherwise learn from each other.

I've learned that many people don't understand the texts they're taught to live by and that many people haven't actually studied any other religion but their own.

Now, this isn't meant to be a rap on religion in general. If someone has studied and thought deeply about everything they've been taught, and at the end of the day honestly believes in the truth of it, then more power to them. I'm not saying I'm right and I'm not saying anyone else is wrong. Because, quite frankly, how are we gonna prove it?

All I know, is I believe what I believe because I've questioned every aspect of it, and what I'm left with is what I can't shake. Things that I haven't lost faith in after four years of religion classes.

I believe my God wants me to question everything. He wants me to get angry, ask why, feel lost, and at the end of the day, come back to him and say, "Yea, you were right."

Now I'm in no way an expert on anything religion. Not sure anyone really is. But if I have one piece of advice that I can offer, it's to question. If anything, it'll make you stronger in the things you really believe, and I promise you won't be left empty handed.

Love Lotion #9

I have the mother of all papers due on Friday.

As I sit here, pouring over New York Times articles and deciphering my own notes from interviews, I realize that I have been neglecting the most important journalistic endeavor of all time.

Duffluff.

Last year around this time I wrote about a great quote from a great woman.

"Being in love is being late to work."

Said by my much loved, three time religion/women studies professor, mentor, and grad school recommender, Wanda Wilcox.

This follow up post will be two fold.

One: a story about this wonderful professor.

It is my last semester in college and quite naturally my advisor misadvised me, so that while I thought I was done with all religion classes last May, I actually have to take three this semester to fulfill the major.

It is rare in this major that the majority of a class is the seminary-bound, Christian type. May seem contradictory, but it's just not how religion majors are.

The typical religion major can be found with unwashed, longer hair, worn jeans with one leg rolled up (cause he rode his bike to class...obvi), thick rimmed glasses, and a cigarette outside of Peabody Hall. Most likely chatting up and challenging one of his professors, who is also indulging in a cigarette.

I, on the other hand, wear sorority t-shirts, a long pony tail, and the Nike shorts that solidify my position as a white girl from Alpharetta. This is neither here nor there.

Point of that was- I'm in TWO classes this semester that are majority Christians. This is rare, people. Very rare. The classes happened to be titled "Gospel of John" and "Modern Christian Theology." Interesting that they wouldn't want to learn about other religions to expand their knowledge and open their minds, but I digress.

My other class, with my favorite teacher? "Feminist Spirituality."

Can you guess what people are like in that class?

Anyway, we didn't have class last week because Wilcox was sick. Yesterday in class, there was an accident.

As Wilcox taught, she took a step towards her podium. Picture a "where I place my music while I attempt to play notes on my trumpet in 4th grade" podium, not a sturdy podium, made of wood or any other reliable substance.

In a moment of expression, Wilcox went to lean her elbows on the podium, sending the thing crashing to the ground, scattering books, binders, and pride. It remained on the ground, in two pieces, for a moment until Wilcox sighed and said, "Y'all are gonna have to excuse me, I'm high on cough syrup today. It said no heavy machinery but I guess they should have included podiums."

Thus solidifying her as STILL my favorite.


Two: rewriting the Wilcox quote.

My wonderful, beautiful, successful sisters traveled down from North Carolina this past weekend to visit with me and see where I've been living for four years.





Ashley is highly allergic to poison ivy. She is the girl who somehow got it in her eye in the 5th grade and came down the stairs the next morning with her eyes swollen shut.

Well, wouldn't you know it, she got it again. As smart as that woman is, she isn't always the quickest learner. A week after the actual contact with the ivy, Ashley rolled into Athens with arms and legs covered in welts and calamine lotion.

Luckily the lotion was clear, so it didn't look like dried Pepto Bismol, but when it dried it did look like her skin was flaking off. Unfortunately, her sisters aren't the most compassionate or medically inclined people ever, so she did all the rubbing and such while we gave disapproving looks and told her it smelled.

During the week prior that she was home, however, her husband helped. While my sister was in pain, itching and squirming, darling Hunter took care of her. Now normal "taking care" coming from me would include a pat on the back and an offer to go get ice cream together.

Hunter went above and beyond.

Truly encompassing "in sickness and in health," Hunter not only lotioned and then hairdryer-ed Ashley, he also gave her an oatmeal bath to soothe her.

And so, in honor of my favorite brother-in-law on this Valentine's Day, I am rewriting Wanda Wilcox's quote.

"Being in love is giving them an oatmeal bath."

You can call me Tyra

My dear friend Elizabeth (my traveling partner through Morocco, France, Cambodia, Malaysia and Thailand) has a blog. It's a photo-a-day blog to help her practice her photography. Yesterday I was recruited to be the subject of a photo shoot and consequently, I have finally made it in the photo of the day.

Check out her blog, she keeps getting better and better!

Buds at the Beach

After a week of snow and practically no school, some friends of mine and I decided to go to Destin to meet up with the much loved and missed Ann-Katherine at her remarkable beach house. Her and her boyfriend both invited people down and there ended up being over 20 people there for the weekend.

The weekend was filled with frisbee, volleyball, board games, cooking, bocce ball, and watching basketball. The weather was perfect and everyone had a great time.

As much fun as meeting new people is, I was most excited to spend time with three of the best friends a girl could ask for. One guy had a great camera so we recruited him for a photo shoot. Here are some gems that attempt to materialize our friendship.








Mad props and thanks to Ian Prester.

Loving life with these regrets

Over the break I introduced my parents to some wonderful websites. Bored? Enjoy these little gems:

People of Walmart - America's finest
When Parents Text - when old people get ahold of technology
Lamebook - making fun of Facebook even more than I do
You Drive What? - for mobile "art"
White Trash Repairs - because the Foxworthys get creative

My newest favorite, however. Is called Regretsy.

Now Etsy is a website where people can sell handmade items. Art, mostly, but anything really. Handmade clothes, toys, bags, etc.

Regretsy makes fun of some of the ridiculous/hilarious/disturbing things people try to sell. You absolutely must check it out.

My personal favorite categories are "Annoying Descriptions", "Not Remotely Handmade" and "Dead Things."

Here is a gem that is sold under "Dead Things."



Now unfortunately, my birthday just passed. But I'm sure you can buy this for any friend or family member and they will be delighted. Great for Valentine's Day, PETA members, and nurseries.

Talented and Gifted

I've never been spectacular at anything.

I always got good grades, but never first in the class. I was decent at soccer but never the best. Same at tennis and volleyball. I go to a good school, but not Ivy League. Same thing again with my grades.

Point being, I recognize the phrase, "Jack of all trades, master of none."

About 14 months ago, boyfriend took me skeet shooting. We only shot one round, I had no idea what I was doing, but I beat him. I didn't think much about it, but I really enjoyed it.

So for my birthday this year, I asked to go back.

Me, homeboy, and two of our other guy friends went and shot three rounds. And I beat them all. And two other men who shot with us.


Not only that, but before we ever shot skeet, I could hit 10 out of 10 with a pistol at a golf-ball sized target from about 10 yards.

This all goes back to when I shot my first gun, a BB gun, in my Pop-pop's back yard when I was eight. I made every shot that day.

The point is, that in all the talents that people have, all the gifts that I could have been blessed with... I'm a good shot.

When on earth am I going to use that, except to embarrass my guy friends?

Can I cook? No. Can I sing? No. Can I dance? HAAAIILLLLL no.

Do I have a knack for accounting or business or medicine? No, no I don't.



My talent is useless. It will make me no money and I can't perform it on stage at all those pageants I do. But hey, can't complain that I have one. Hopefully there's another, more useful talent just waiting to burst out of the woodwork.