The Spartanette

There are two types of Magic Bullets every woman should own. One in the bedroom, and one in the kitchen. I am here to write about the latter.

Like I’ve said, I really, really love cooking. Last semester, I begged Jordan and Cara to let me use their kitchen to make cupcakes for my friends’ birthdays. (On a related note, last semester, I made a video for my online journalism class project that involved me showing how to make “cruelty-free cupcakes” for a super-conscious Valentine’s Day; the project had to be multimedia, so I got to film myself fulfill my desire of being on The Food Network. Anyway, we had to put the videos on YouTube before putting them on our Web sites, and my video will get random comments from time to time that say things like, “I’d do her.” My soymilkshake brings all the boys to the yard, I suppose.) Some days I think that I could be happy in an apron and heels all day long. I love making new recipes and putting my own spin on things.

I am also an infomercial connoisseur. I love them. I want to try everything I see in them. However, even the most skeptical consumer who doesn’t think anything from a mail-order commercial will work can’t resist the Magic Bullet infomercial. You know the one. It’s like an hour long, with the husband and wife who have a bunch of friends up to their vacation house and spend the morning after what I always assume is a middle-aged bender, perhaps involving a wife swap, whipping up tasty delights with the use of this one machine for their guests.

[In case you are not familiar with this glorious infomercial or the “countertop magician” itself; this is only a minute and doesn’t even give you the whole story of the weekend these crazy people have had or all the fucking guac and soup and breakfast you can make with the machine, but it’s a start.]

I have ALWAYS wanted one, but at $60, I’ve just never really had a good reason to invest. We even talked about getting one in the sorority house this year, but no one ever just did it. A few weeks ago I found a recipe for edamame dip, and I had all the ingredients but I lacked a food processor. This led to much discussion and, long story short, my mom ended up getting me a knockoff Magic Bullet. I called it the Super Bullet. I don’t like knockoffs, but it was not expensive and I am broke and hungry.

I have never been a smoothie girl—all the dairy, ice, and sugar just grosses me out—but now I am because this thing is FABULOUS. With some silken tofu, soymilk (chocolate is best) and a variety of frozen and fresh fruits, I’ve become the mistress of the smoothie. It’s revolutionizing how I can cook and eat. No longer do I have to avoid recipes that begin with “put the first four ingredients in a food processor.” I am also eating way more fruit because I don’t have to worry about it going bad. It’s just wonderful. Or it WAS, until one night last week. I was making a chocolate berry smoothie for a bedtime snack, when all of a sudden the unit took on a mind of its own. It started blending too fast and the canister became locked to the base. After I unplugged it, the outlet sparked a few times when I plugged it back in. Then the burning smell began. Not like a regular burning smell, but one that might make our neighbors think we were manufacturing nuclear weapons or crack. I actually tasted the smoothie to see if it was salvageable, so hopefully that didn’t do lasting damage to my fertility, but the taste was gone. My Super Bullet was dead.

The next morning, I figured out what had happened. A piece had broken loose, wrapped around the blade, and started to burn. I replaced it with the same piece from the other unit (because this thing comes with 17 pieces, no joke) and it’s working once again! But once I called the company to get a replacement piece, I was told that I either had to return it to a store for a whole new unit (meaning 17 MORE pieces when I really need like 0.5 of a piece) or I need to call the company directly for new parts. Since the guy told me this piece breaks frequently, I didn’t want a new until that would just break again; I was NOT PLEASED. I told my mom and she was kind and gracious and said that she’d return it to the store after she comes out here next week and then I’d get a real Magic Bullet. Then we agreed that some times there is a reason knockoffs are frowned upon. And….I am hoping that logic sticks in her mind when I propose the idea of real designer purses. “This fake Marc Jacobs bag…could set itself on fire like that blender…and then I’ll have to buy a real one anyway!”

Oh hi there!

I know it’s been a while, so I am guessing anyone reading this are those with an RSS feed. (Does SpartanEdge work with RSS? I think it does…)

So my hiatus has gone on long enough. Part of the reason it began is because about a month ago, I sat down to eat a bowl of cereal in bed and surf and I tipped over the cereal and soy milk invaded my Mac’s keyboard. I took it to the store once the T and the space bar quit working, and they said they’d have to open it up, but it would be $250 if I just needed a new keyboard and $750 if there was damage to the logic board. Given that I had just bought an extended warranty 2 weeks prior and had locked myself out of my apartment one evening and paid $400 in cash to a locksmith to break in for me (worst night of my life), I really wasn’t in the market for a $700 computer repair. So I did the only thing I could do, the computer version of people who put a bunjee cord on the trunk of their car, and I bought a $15 keyboard, which I plug into my laptop. It’s about as ghetto as can be, so I only type for extended periods of time when I’m in the mood to double-keyboard it. But I suppose today is one of those days! After a nice breakfast of a green tea-honeydew-kiwi smoothie, I’m just raring to go.

So…New York!

Life in the city is pretty good; much better than last summer actually. It’s nice to be living in an apartment I can call my own (or at least half my own). I really feel like I am going home to it every day. It’s in the East Village and I couldn’t be happier about the location. It is small and does not have air conditioning, which has made for some long days and nights, but I’m pretty low maintenance after living in a dorm room and a sorority house for two years. We don’t have a TV yet, so I’ve been watching a lot of shows online, and there’s another source of entertainment that is better than MTV: True Life. Since people don’t have cars here, they are forced to carry out all their “way home from the bar” arguments on the streets….and the sound carries up to our apartment quite nicely. During prime time when everyone else is watching actors have dramatic encounters, we have the real thing, right outside our windows. After listening to a woman shriek “Leave me alone!” and “Leave me the fuck alone!” for 15 minutes one night (that’s literally all she said, those words, in different intonations, as the target of her rant mumbled things we couldn’t decipher), I realized TV is overrated. Except for “So You Think You Can Dance,” which Jessica has turned me onto and is worth the time spent buffering and downloading it from YouTube.

After watching that show, I’m inspired to shake my ass (which rarely happens, much to my racial dismay), so I’ve been taking cardio dance classes at Crunch. I may have never said this on my blog before, but it’s common knowledge to most of my friends. I am a terrible dancer. I don’t like it. I’m not good at it. I’m not sexy. I’m just terrible. This is really funny to everyone who expects that I can dance like black people. Unfortunately, during the gestational period, I got the hair and the ability to wear really bright colors and somehow missed out on an ass and rhythm. It’s sad that I can’t dance like Michael Jackson, but it’s even sadder that I can’t even dance like a white girl–you know, all hair bopping and shaking and lips pursed.

But now, for a few hours a week, I get to be the missing member of the Pussycat Dolls! I hope to gain the confidence and physical strength to go to pole dancing soon. They literally bring out poles in the studio and everyone wears crazy ghettofabulous stripper shoes and shimmies up and down the poles. I’m not quite there yet. I have been working out a ton, as the last two months of school did not do wonders for my physique. My nearly vegan diet (I’m at about 80% these days—how are everyone else’s New Year’s resolutions coming along by the way? It’s time for a mid-year check in!) is complementing my workouts nicely. I was going to a trainer but now I’m just going at it alone, and I feel much better. I can’t say if I look better, but I can say that the combination of spinning and go-go dancing has given me something that definitely resembles junk in my trunk. THIS IS NOT SOMETHING I AM USED TO AND IT KIND OF SCARES ME WHEN I LOOK BACK AND I HAVE…BACK.

Because I am an impoverished intern (scholarships are nice and they run out very fast, especially when you lock yourself out of your apartment at the cost of $400), I haven’t been able to live the social life I am used to, but I’m hanging in there. The best things in life are free, right? Wrong, because booze is not free! It’s approximately $9 a shot. Anyway, I’ve come up with many creative ways to spend less money, and becoming a teetotaler is one of them. The other one is becoming a master chef. After having all my meals cooked for me last year, it took me a little while to get excited about cooking for myself again. But now I am and I can’t stop! Actually when it comes to good things for free, my favorite thing is grocery shopping. I love it. I like to go every other day, so I usually shop in small increments so that I can go more often. I love going to Whole Foods because it’s just so damn attractive in there…all woodsy with gorgeous vegetables in every color of the rainbow. It’s also validating because when I see certain products, I get very, “OMG! There IS a demand for no-chicken chicken broth! I AM NOT A VEGAN FREAK!” and that’s a nice feeling. Anyway, all of this has led to me becoming the barefoot contessa of my domain once again.

I can’t believe I’ve already been here for two months. Time has flown by! I am actually flying home next week for the holiday and I couldn’t be more excited. I haven’t been in a yard for two months, and as much as I love the city, grass is something that I do like to feel under my feet. After a few days of relaxing at home (and a trip to EL where I will be the cheapest date on the planet), I will return to NYC, rested, tanner (fluorescent office lighting + no where to lay out + overwhelming pressure on women at certain magazines to, you know, NOT get skin cancer, has left me looking one shade darker than when I was seriously anemic last year—a Home Depot paint chip would probably put me at “skim latte” right now and, while I’m not looking to be “espresso,” I wouldn’t mind “toffee” at least) and with my family in tow to see the fabulous city sights!

So…I’m on my deathbed.

I never get sick, and if I do, it’s the cold-thing that everyone gets during the winter from living in collegiate quarters and playing quarters. But here I am, out of the tenement housing of MSU, living a healthy lifestyle once again, and I’ve got some sort of awful stomach virus in May. I had to call into work twice. I never get sick and I never call in. I feel quite guilty, and I’d much rather be at work or out enjoying the nice weather. Yesterday I spent the entire day laying in bed trying to find a position that didn’t make my stomach feel like it was ripping in two. Today I’m still too weak and lightheaded to move or eat, but now with enough cabin fever to burn this whole building down. The only upside is that even though I can’t work out, I can’t eat anything but saltines, so I am one stomach flu closer to my goal weight. However without reliable internet or cable or a mother to take care of me, being sick really loses much of its appeal.

Alas, I began to do something I should have done long ago–catch up on Gossip Girl! (I’m also doing lots of Facebook stalking, soul-searching, blog-reading, and Scrabulousing.) I am downloading from iTunes, which was working out well, except that when you’re stealing internet, it can take 4 hours to download an episode. But at least I’m getting caught up on the zeitgeist that the show is and will feel much more in the loop at work next week. Right now I am waiting for the last two episodes to finish, lusting after Serena’s Burberry bag, and wondering what will happen next!!

Being sick is definitely the low point of my week. You know what the high point was? Seeing Rainn Wilson, aka DWIGHT SCHRUTE, in the cafeteria at work the other day. I was in line to pay, the guy in front of me was straddling both lines, and when I waited for him before moving forward, and he turned toward me, I realized OMFG, it’s DWIGHT. I have no idea why he was there, but it was so awesome. He was wearing a hat and glasses and I just could not get over the fact that he was standing right in front of me!!! And I had been excited about seeing Samantha Bee from The Daily Show at Bed, Bath, and Beyond on Saturday, the same day I saw Jillian Michaels from The Biggest Loser (and OMFG her arms are jaccccckkkkkeddd!) Still, seeing Dwight live and in person takes the cake for coolest New York moments thus far. Hoping to stumble upon the cast of Gossip Girl on the steps of the Met next weekend….

I hope you weren’t expecting my farewell blog.

I haven’t been able to post lately because of, you know, graduation and all, but I figured it was time to drop a line. Graduation was a blast–I didn’t expect the ceremony to be so much fun! They kind of just let us do whatever the hell we wanted and it wasn’t stuffy or formal. I really liked our old man speaker and our student speaker, Alex Bahou, was great. Friday and Saturday nights were both fun, but not so much fun that I wasn’t ready to leave school.

Which is good, because I had to.

And then I had to pack up everything I have that can fit in a large van and drive across the country to New York.

Which I did, and now I’m just so happy!

Honestly, as soon as I got here, I was happy. I was walking through the city today and found myself happier and more satisfied with my place–like location–than I’ve ever been. I love MSU but I never walked down the street filled with happiness about Grand River. I like it and it’s a part of me, and I have fun there, but New York just makes me alive.

I’m no longer a student, but I am unfortch, still an intern for a few months (but I’m using my fabulous scholarship money to finance it). This time I am in the fashion closet at my favorite women’s health and fitness magazine. That’s a pretty good fit for me! Today was my first day, and this time around, the plot isn’t Devil Wears Prada, but the glamourous decor most definitely is. The offices are absolutely beautiful. (Last year the offices…not so much.) So now when people say, “Is it like The Hills?” I’ll be able to say that in one miniscule way, it is.

I am living on the Lower East Side in a great little (really little, but SO great) apartment with Jessica Daly, who is not out here yet. I can’t wait for her to get here so we can get to exploring our sweet neighborhood.

Besides interning, I now am free to have a life that doesn’t revolve around classes and parties. Currently my life revolves around interning and going to the gym. I joined Crunch and it’s pretty much my gym fantasy (yes, I am the kind of person who has gym fantasies). It has all the classes and equipment I’ve always heard about but that haven’t migrated into the Midwest yet. I can’t wait to go to my first Spinning class with 50 people–quite an improvement from Atlas Gym’s rickety 8 bikes (although my instructor was so fab it often didn’t matter that your bike was going to collapse). Today I got off the Treadclimber–which I’ve been wanting to use for, like, 5 years–and saw that the great music that was playing over the speakers was coming from the straight-up Crunch DJ who was set up in the corner. So fun! The people who work out there are just normal people though. Most are on the young side and many are in amazing shape, but it’s actually less intimidating than Fratlas back at home.

Unlike last year, I am going to post this summer. Since I’m getting my very last college credit by doing this internship, I figure I’m still Spartan enough to keep writing about it. I’ll be a bit out of the EL loop, but we’ll make it like a long distance relationship. I’ll write as much as I can and we’ll try and see each other on long weekends and holidays. And please, all commenters, begin by telling me what you’re wearing.

By this point, I think we’re all familiar with the Walk of Shame. It’s a pretty standard part of the college experience, whether you’ve done it or just driven by and laughed watching those who have. I think that by senior year, you’ve discovered how to avoid doing it; after all, we’re not freshman without cars anymore.

But even though we may be above that 15 minute walk in heels and basketball shorts, there is still an aspect to the collegiate hook-up to which we are not immune. It’s the exchange of Leftovers.

Leftovers: a prized accessory that is removed in the heat of passion and accidentally left at the site of the rendezvous.

A true Leftover is something that the wearer cannot live without. An expensive watch. A favorite belt. Nice earrings. Anything borrowed from a friend. Some things, while you may love them, cannot be a leftover, because you simply cannot ask for them back if you’re not extremely comfortable with the person. Lingerie is never a Leftover. So you couldn’t find your La Perla thong as you got dressed quickly in an attempt to make it to a Friday recitation? That’s just a casualty, and a small price to pay if it was a good night. Maybe you are in possession of the Leftover. They left it behind, and you’re not sure what the hell to do with it.

The exchange of leftovers is just terrible. First, it requires you to speak to this person again. Now, that may not be the worst thing for a lot of people. Some hoes intentionally create Leftovers so they have an excuse to talk to their booty call again. I am not one of these hoes. If I want to talk to you again, I’m not going to leave something behind, like a damsel in distress forgetting her handkerchief–I’ll just write on your Wall. The thing about a Leftover is it requires immediate conversation. If you wait too long to ask for it, it seems weird and random. But if you get home and later that day realize it’s missing, you’re left with a dilemma. You want to wear it again tonight…but you just saw the person and really don’t want to break the 3-day rule and call them right away…and they’re probably going to think it’s just a trick to see them again…but you like, really, really love this belt…and you’re going on Spring Break in three days so you want to pack it…but it will be so awkward….

Leftovers suck.

In dealing with Leftovers, in my experience, the first thing you must determine is what you want out of this. Ask yourself, do I ever want to hook up with this person again? If you do, you must play carefully. If you do not, you must be stealthy.

1. Make Contact But Protect Yourself With Technology. This is an exchange that should always happen via text message, Facebook message, or on AIM. It’s not something that is appropriate to discuss via phone. It should never, ever be brought up in person. If you march up to them two days later at the bar and ask for your watch back in front of all their friends, you don’t deserve it back. You need to give them time to respond, and decide if they want to just stick your earrings in your mailbox when you aren’t around, or invite you over to get them and stay for the party they are throwing that night.

2. If you have the item… you can easily send them a text message, “Hey I just found your watch. Let me know if you want me to drop it off to you.” This gives you total control of the situation. If you wait for them to approach you, it could play out differently, so it’s best to take action early on. Otherwise you might “accidentally” toss it when you’re “spring cleaning” after a bad Facebook binge, and when they come over a week later, you’re going to feel like a psycho.

3. If they have the item…you have to ask for the item right away. If you wait too long, it will be perceived that you are asking because you want to see them again. Reclaim it within a few hours of leaving, or as soon as you realize it’s gone.

4. When the exchange occurs…If you never want to talk to them again, it’s best to imply that you’ll do the switch on your way to do something else. Then you don’t have to stay and chat. You can leave your car running when you get it. If you’re hoping for another go-round, turn your car off. And wear a tight T-shirt,,,,

5.If Leftover Sex ensues… take all your shit with your this time! It can work sometimes, but you don’t want to make a habit of it, or you’ll just be the absentminded slut.

[So…it’s fitting that I posted this today; as everyone is packing and moving out, Leftovers are turning up all the time. Today I get to finally see a Leftover from sophomore year!! We’ll see how that goes.]

In the past two weeks, I’ve reflected a lot upon how I’ve changed since I came to MSU. I came as a sophomore, so sadly, I can’t reference freshman year, but my first year at State was filled with a lot of the typical freshman experiences. Living in a dorm will do that for you. I look back at pictures from my first semester year and just think about what a little baby I was. I was thinking about how to represent this change, and it came to me while I was editing my Facebook profile down to a more mature version (mature meaning job ready, not mature meaning NSFW). Oh, how my Facebook has changed. I started thinking about the evolution of a Facebook profile during one’s college career.

Freshman Year: First Semester

The profile has your full name—first, middle, last. The photo is a high school senior picture, probably you standing alone on a nice bridge with wildflowers. If not, it’s one from prom, summer vacation (because you still called it that), or one with you and your “peeps” or “crew” who you swear you’ll stay in touch with even though you’re all headed to different universities. The major is pre-law or pre-med. The interests are bubbly and sweet like you! TaNnInG*SuMmEr*LaUgHiNg* The music is whatever is on TRL, the books are a combination of things like Gossip Girl and something you really loved in AP English that now gives your profile some credibility. Your top friends are all from your hometown, you’re in a relationship with someone who recently joined the U of M network, and your quote is something to the effect of, “The most wasted day is one in which you did not smile.” Your only group is “Our State is a Hand.”

About Me: I am so excited to be at MSU and meet lots of new cool people to chill with! Then I’m goin to law school!

Freshman Year: Second Semester

You’ve discovered alcohol, tagged photos, and fun Facebook groups! Your picture is one of you in tailgate gear. You’re now a member of “I Drink, I Party, and Dammit I’m Awesome,” “But Why is the Rum Gone?” and “4 West Wilson Wild Biatches.” You’re now single, looking for Random Play, and your hometown friends haven’t written on your wall since before Christmas break. Your quote is now the one about Playboy rejecting MSU from its annual list of party schools “because it would be unfair to include professionals in a list of amateurs.” You’ve gone from 42 friends to a respectable 205. Your only activity is UAB.

About Me: Just lovin life at MSU and can’t wait to head home for the summer!

Sophomore Year

You now understand it is important to take pictures of yourself on every possible occasion. You have tons of photo albums and change your status and profile picture incessantly, desperately looking for one that hides the Freshman 15 and then some. Your interests have now been updated to include the types of booze you like. You’re “In an Open Relationship” with a girl friend. Your books include magazines, but also something “relevant” you read in ISS. Your music and your quotes are getting a bit more emo (even if it’s “Grey’s Anatomy” emo), because you want everyone to take you seriously. Your spring break pictures prevent that from happening. Your wall posts are mainly from your roommate while they are sitting right next to you, and your activities now include something pointless but resume-boosting that relates to your major, like PRSSA (because, yeah, you’re no longer pre-med). Your groups have upgraded to “I Don’t Call it Blacking Out, I Call it Time Travel,” “Willie the Can Man Fan Club,” “Fuck U of M” (or something that shows you are an MSU sports fanatic) and something relevant to a class you’ve taken. You have a poke every time you log in. Toward the end of the year, you’ve divorced your Facebook wife for a real and are in a “In a Relationship” union.

About Me: I make it rain on them hoes. Go Spartans!

Junior Year

You enter this year with a fab shot of yourself someplace exotic; you’re now part of the millions of MSU students who’ve studied abroad. Your interests now include wine, cheese, and famous landmarks. You’ve left some of the more ridiculous groups, and added “MSU Students Against Classless Sportsmanship.” Study abroad broke up you and your Relationship, so now you’re just “Single” and looking for “Friendship, Dating, A Relationship.” Your activities are now a series of acronyms that make sense to no one but the people in them. You’ve dramatically cut back the number of your interests in an effort to keep it simple, but you still make them seem cool by using strange punctuation: friends.sarcasm.greece.sushi. Your music, books, interests and quotes are all meant to show how culturally aware you are. But then you turn 21 and your picture is a constant variation of you plastered and being inappropriate at Rick’s. But before leaving for the summer, you put your internship under “Work Info” so everyone can see how successful you are.

About Me: (something actually cool, funny, and relevant that describes you)

Senior Year

How many albums of bar crawls can one person have? That’s the senior Facebook profile. You’ve now got 754 friends and have joined groups that shamelessly promote how shameless you are (“Hillary Clinton is a Bitch,” “I Hate Wheelchairs” or whatever). You don’t care who judges you, so all your groups say “fuck” a lot—hey you’re a big kid now. You’ve added tons of applications that make your profile complicated and annoying to view. By mid-year you’ve realized you need a job soon, so you change your name so that potential employers can’t find you. You remove alcohol types from your interests, but keep the offensive groups, and make your picture one in which you look pretty. You’ve had enough of college dating, so you’re no longer listed as “Single”—you leave that field blank—and say you want “Friendship” when you really want ass, and lots of it. After Spring Break, you’ve begun to scale it down. You go Limited Profile and take away the Wall. You get rid of Tagged Photos, your screen name, your address, even Interests. You wish you could delete all your inappropriate Bumper Stickers, but none of us will ever be that mature, because they are so goddamn funny. You have a quote that is cool, but not retarded, and that sums up your attitude toward graduating, and you’ve joined the network of the city where your first job will be. But even though you’re about to walk and move far, far away, you’re still not able to leave “Fuck U of M” and “Our State is a Hand.”

I don’t know if he had my strain of Senioritis, but lately I’ve been considering Charles Dickens a kindred spirit for his classic line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Who knew he could write something with so much meaning for a college sorority girl? Oh well. Gotta love the Dick. That line perfectly sums up the past two weeks of my life. (The line from the novel, not “gotta love the dick”…well I guess they both do…oh, forget it…)

Greek Week

Best of Times: This year, I was on Greek Week Leadership Team, and the people with whom I worked were so much fun. I got close to people in different houses and felt like I discovered a part of Greek Life that I had really been missing. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t worked with them, but we had an absolute blast. Working under that kind of pressure, I was just really lucky to have them to do it with. Also, MSU Greeks raised $209,000 for the American Cancer Society. Not. Too. Shabby.

Worst of Times: The teams were crazy competitive. Crazy. Batshit crazy. They made our lives a living hell. We had a new constitution this year with a lot more rules. We did this so that people didn’t have questions and wouldn’t break rules they didn’t know existed (which was a problem in 2007). Unfortunately, teams used the constitution to see just how far they could push things. They went through it looking for loopholes so they could gain points or get other teams in trouble. It was a nightmare. I spent hours debating things that are so absurd in hindsight. There was a showdown at Chipotle. There was a confrontation as two teams tried to paint the Rock. There was out of control shit talking on Juicy Campus. It was ridiculous. Healthy competition is great, but there comes a point when you step back and think, “It’s GREEK WEEK. It’s for CHARITY.” Had teams behaved themselves, it would have been a blast, but this took a lot of the fun out of it. It also caused a bunch of unnecessary drama between me and all the guys I swore off. Also, under all that stress, I added 10 pounds to my bod!

School

Best of Times: I had Research Week last week for two classes, meaning I didn’t have to attend them. It was a great break, because during Greek Week I could barely think about school. I also finished my feature article for magazine reporting. The article, “Dad’s Gay!” turned out pretty well.

Worst of Times: I woke up the Monday after Greek Week had ended and realized I had four papers due in the week. Two 10-15 page research papers. A 5-7 page research paper. A 2,500 word article. I hadn’t really worked on any of them. I was legitimately concerned that I wouldn’t finish them and therefore would not graduate.

Future

Best of Times: I am graduating in three weeks! With the events of Greek Week and Cedar Fest, I’m feeling pretty strongly that it’s time for me to be done with college. When I look at underclassmen now, they look like babies. When I look at the younger girls in my house, I realize that it’s their house now, and I am OK with that. It’s so strange to watch them at the beginning of their journey while I am at the end of mine.

Worst of Times: The same day I realized I had to write four papers, I also realized I had no job or future options. Naturally, I started to freak out. Every night became a job search shuffle. But at this point, I am pretty sure I am moving to New York the week after I graduate. This isn’t 100 percent certain yet, and I’ll decide for sure this week, but it looks like that is how my life is going to play out. I haven’t figured out how to feel about it yet. I don’t think it’s sunk in completely. It’s hard to think of life in the city when I am sitting here in a Moosejaw hoodie. But when I came home from New York in August, it was hard to imagine being a college student again. I transition well.

Formal

Best of Times: Well, despite having only a week to get ready, I was pretty excited for Formal. I ordered both my dress and my date off the Internet. Just kidding! The dress was from eBay and the date was from Chicago. Both were a pretty good fit. Before Formal I went to a cocktail party with all my senior friends, and it was really fun, and again, the reality of graduating and leaving my friends hit me, but I just was really happy that I have such great friends to leave.

Worst of Times: Unfortunately, the cocktail party is the last thing I remember about the evening. I was so nervous because I didn’t know my date very well so I consumed a bottle of wine and several tequila shots in record time. I stayed at the country club through dinner, when I made the smart decision to leave before I demonstrated behavior that was not befitting a young sorority woman. (OK, I probably demonstrated a little bit of that behavior before leaving, and I definitely demonstrated it in the limo on the way home, but I managed to keep a pretty low profile at the actual dance and didn’t embarrass anyone.) Problem is, once I got back to my house, where boys are not allowed upstairs, I went ahead and disregarded that rule and now have pretty strong motivation to never look our House Mom in the eye again. Ever. I guess I should have stayed at the dance; if I had, I might have more than one photograph as proof that I actually went, although I don’t really even want pictures because of the Greek Week ten I gained. The rest of the weekend was just a series of awkward, confusing, infuriating events with all the guys I’ve sworn off, as well as putting the finishing touches on all my papers.

So…that’s what I was doing when I wasn’t blogging! It was a crazy two weeks. But once I turn in all my assignments, finalize my NYC plans and figure out what to do with my little series of man dramas (I’ve un-sworn them off, obviously), it’ll be the best of times until graduation. And then…who knows!

Greek Week 2008 has very bad timing. (Or maybe it just feels like it because I’m the administrative director this year and therefore responsible for the points, attendance and rules affecting 2000 often belligerent/spoiled people!) Right now I am juggling those duties with trying to find a job/internship (things are promising, but not perfect) and trying to get my scholarship money back, which–oops–Uncle Sam took away, and, per usual this time of year, trying to over-exercise myself to an acceptable weight for formal! It’s made very important things like personal grooming (thank God we were watching a movie in HST 317 this afternoon so I could get a brow wax) and, of course, BLOGGING difficult. To make life a bit easier, I even swore off men on St. Patrick’s Day!*

Updates to come shortly on the formal date, the fab dress, the workouts, the Greek Week events, the career search, the scholarship, the waxing and all the other things that make my world go round!!!!

*I’m also thinking of starting a new feature, which I totally kind of ripped off another blog, where I post all the pathetic, crappy, desperate and poorly-written Facebook messages, text messages and e-mails guys send me! I’d remove their names of course, but I think we should all glean some entertainment from the bastards. I only have 5 more weeks as the Spartanette, so I might as well go balls-out.

OK.

I don’t have a lot of racial pet peeves. I’m a pretty assimilated gal. You’re not going to catch me throwing a fit over very many racial things. That’s just not my battle for the most part. But I have one major racial pet peeve and it’s going to flair up really badly tomorrow, so I just want to make a public statement.

Yes, you are tanner than I am. You’re also going to die from melanoma sooner than I am. You may think you’re the first person to ever compare our “tans,” but you’re not. You may think that you’re super funny/witty/cool because you spent a week in the sun and you got tanner than a person who is half black. Never mind that I could get that tan in 20 minutes. Never mind that you look gross. Never mind that your skin is damaged. You achieved some level of greatness and got your skin darker than mine!!!!!

And I wish everyone would spend two seconds considering that when you crow to the group that you’re “practically black,” I realize that my genes make me practically black too. But I have to deal with the implications of that year-round, not just when it’s a cute souvenir.

My skin fades in the winter too. It turns a pale yellow color. It make me feel kind of blah. It happens to all us ethnics. We don’t think it’s funny that white girls spend the downtime during the “sluttiest weeks of their slutty lives” (–Jordan Barnes) getting darker than we are. We don’t care. We wish you didn’t care so much either. You’re not the first person to compare our melanin, but I’m really hoping this year you’ll be the last.

I generally turn my phone off at night. I am so disoriented when someone wakes me up in the middle of the night that any drunk dialers end up thinking they are being drunk dialed. It’s led to some really embarrassing situations, and at this point I’d rather just not go there. But, as it was Spring Break this week, I figured I’d leave it on just for the hell of it. And I’m so glad I did! I got a bunch of text messages from a guy I had met about a month ago who moved out of state a week after we met. Of course, I was incredibly disoriented when my phone went off, but at least with texts, I’m better off than if I’m trying to speak to the dialer. So as we were texting, he said the greatest thing you can say to a girl. It’s something no one has ever said to me before, so I didn’t even know how badly I wanted someone to say it to me.

He admitted to knowing something about me by stalking me on Facebook.

Oh my godddddd. That’s the way to talk dirty to our generation. It is the best form of flattery, the highest compliment.

But this also raises a great point! How much do you reveal your stalking to members of the opposite sex?

With a lot of other guys, I’ve noticed how they pretend they don’t stalk me on Facebook. And maybe they don’t. I’m not much of Facebook stalker anymore. Clicking through tagged photos does nothing for me–it just leads me to make stupid decisions based on what I think happened. If I really love you and you’re on my Mini-Feed, maybe…but in general, I’ve just kind of cut myself off. However, I’m kind of a freak in this respect. Pretty much everyone else I know stalks the shit out of everyone, especially someone who they think of boning/have ever boned/almost boned/know they are going to bone soon. And that’s fine. That’s college.

Even if you’re not much of a Facebooker, I believe it doesn’t take much stalking to see something that was in several locations on Facebook. If my status says, “Rachel is GOING TO THE SHARK TONIGHT” and my Mini-Feed shows new tagged pictures of me drinking a Shark Bowl and several people have written on my Wall, “It was great seeing you at the Shark last night!” and all your friends were there, and my away message says, “Shark”….and on Monday you ask me if I went out over the weekend…I’m going to think you are totally full of shit.

But I kind of can’t blame you. If you say “So you were at the Shark this weekend?” and you’re not someone I think of boning/have ever boned/almost boned/know I am going to bone soon (and a highly unscientific study determined only 15 percent of the male population doesn’t fall into one of those categories), I am going to think you’re the biggest creeper on the planet.

So, some guidelines for what it’s appropriate to reveal.

DO admit to stalking your friends and your “friends.” If you are comfortable calling someone when you get to a party and you know they are there, it’s OK to admit to looking at their tagged photos. DON’T admit to stalking someone whose phone number you don’t even have.

DO check yourself. If you say you saw it on Facebook, but really you saw it on AIM….I’m just saying you have to be careful. DON’T pretend you didn’t glean your information off of Facebook. If I say I went to a party dressed as Wonder Woman and you respond, “Oh, yeah! I…think I heard that….somewhere…” I am going to think you have issues. DO come off as less weird/creepy by just admitting you are a little bit weird/creepy. “So I was walked home by the cops wearing a Wonder Woman costume…” “Ohh. Yeah, don’t think this is creepy but I saw pictures of that on Mini-Feed.” Easy-peasy!

DO let me catch you stalking me from time to time if you really love me. If I say I love “Fergalicious” and you say, “But, you, like, love bossy black sounding, girls don’t you?” which is pretty much quoting my Facebook directly, I am going to be so thrilled. I’ll blush and then remove several articles of clothing. If I’m not into you, I’ll still think it’s funny that you caught that.

DO stalk my groups! If someone is in a group that says, “I hate when people talk and brush their teeth in rooms other than the bathroom,” don’t walk into the living room and talk to me while you’re brushing your teeth. Then I’ll just think you don’t care.

DO send me lots of bumper stickers. They are pretty much Facebook’s most redeeming quality at this point. I just sit and read them and laugh and laugh and laugh. DON’T hesitate to send me the most inappropriate ones you can find. And if you’re into me, DO appreciate it when I send you the one that says, “Get your socks off and a condom on.”

Ultimately, I think most girls Facebook stalk a lot, so they are really flattered when they hear that someone was stalking them back. I remember one time a guy asked me, “So, I’ve been looking at your Facebook. Who is this Jordan guy who is always writing on your Wall?” and he was all up in arms over my relationship with someone who is not on Private and is clearly a homosexual, and God, I felt all warm inside. I know it’s a fine line between good stalking and creepy stalking, but if you can perfect this, I’m telling you, you’re going to get poked more than you can possibly imagine.