Monday, February 20, 2012

World War III: Battle of the Breakfasts

In case some of you aren’t aware, there is a war going on.  A world war.  However, the only weapons being used are through means of facebook.  I’m referring of course, to poking.  There are only 2 sides of any poke war, Good and Evil.  I have been fighting the same battle for over 5 years now, and I’m never backing down.  You see, I’m singlehandedly the general, commander, and army of the “good” side for the Battle of the Breakfasts.

Many years ago, I was working at the KOA campground about 5 miles from my house.  It was a really fun job, and I loved my coworkers and bosses.  I worked with 2 other girls about my age Chelsey and Caitlyn.  Often, our bosses wouldn’t need to be in the store with us because we’d be able to run the day-to-day tasks without supervision.

Caitlyn, Me, and Chelsey.  The enthusiastic workers of the KOA.
On one such day, Chelsey and I were working, but it was extremely slow.  So we talked and joked, and just hung out, like any such teenager working a job would do.  Eventually, the subject came upon breakfast foods.  (It was a really slow day.)  I said, “I know there’s not even a need to say this, but waffles are like the billionaire CEOs of breakfasts, while pancakes are like the thousandaire Laundromat owners of breaksfasts.”

Chelsey laughed, and then looked at me curiously.  “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Very serious,” I said.

“No!  Pancakes are 6000 times better than waffles will ever be,” she demanded.

Needless to say, the argument ensued.  I brought up many great points, and I will list them for you.  And she brought up some really lousy points, which I will also list.


Reason 1: People get waffle irons for wedding gifts, not pancake irons.

Reason 2: Waffles embrace toppings by allocating syrup and butter into perfect inground pools

Reason 3: Waffle/ice cream sandwiches are the best things on the planet

Reason 1:  Waffle houses are the degenerate inbred cousins of IHOPs—this is the only valid point I’m accepting.

Reason 2: Pancakes can be wrapped around things – she totally meant crepes, and therefore, shitty answer

Reason 3: You can put blueberries and chocolate chips in pancakes – and you can’t in waffles, why?

I get that I'm sort of abusing the right to use Jeffrey, the hipster goldfish, but I had no idea what to draw for this one.
Soon, our argument became cyber violent.  We started writing on each other’s facebook walls.  Hurling insult after insult at each other’s preferred breakfast.  There was no getting through to this girl.  I had to send in the big guns.  I poked her.  What I didn’t expect (though I probably should have) was that she had plenty of capability to poke back.  Damn you, Zuckerburg.

We’ve been at it ever since.  I literally poked her 5 minutes ago.  Then I wrote on her wall, giving her fair warning about this article.  I doubt she’ll survive the battle.  Good always conquers evil.  And waffles are always better than pancakes.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Hair Chronicles Part 1


I have never really cared much about my hair.  I hate when it’s too long, and it’s never really been too short for my tastes… except once… and I’ll be getting to that.  As you can imagine, someone with very low esteem for their hair isn’t about to go spend $20 on a new haircut.  So, I cut my own hair.  Or, if there’s a roommate or friend around, I upgrade and bully them into doing it.

There are many stories about my hair, and I will go over them throughout time on this blog.  I dub them the Hair Chronicles.  This is Hair Chronicle Part 1.

The Friar Tuck

My freshman year in college, I lived on this really tight-knit dorm floor called Barker.  We pretty much did everything together, and participated in a lot of Iowa State’s activities together.  In the late winter of every year, Iowa State’s radio station has this really extravagant game called Kaleidoquiz.  They air questions every 7 minutes, and each team may use any and every resource to find the answer.  On top of that, every hour the radio station has an activity to achieve for extra major bonus points.

It goes on for 24 hours, so at around 3 AM, they announced that it was time for a scavenger hunt.  They needed an assortment of items, like a passport with at least 3 different countries stamped into it, and they needed an assortment of people, like “someone to swallow a goldfish” and “someone with a friar tuck haircut”.

Well, I had been thinking that my hair had been getting pretty long, and as someone who didn’t care about their hair, I thought I would be the perfect specimen to get a friar tuck haircut and earn their team some super bonus points (10!).  Plus, I could always just buzz it off.

I announced to the team that I was willing to make the ultimate follicle sacrifice, and immediately, every woman in the room tried to talk me out of it.  I ignored their rebuffs, and asked the room if they had some electric shavers available.  The only ones offered happened to be the kind you shave your face with.  I learned the hard way that these should never be used on your head.

We ended up shaving my hair in the correct pattern, and our friend John volunteered to swallow a goldfish.  The perfect combo needed to pull into the lead of Kaleidoquiz.  We got in the car and drove to walmart to buy a goldfish.  I personally picked out the fish (a mistake) and named it Jeffrey (a bigger mistake) and gave him character attributes (a fatal mistake).  You see, Jeffrey was a small town fish who traveled to the Ames Walmart to live his big/small city dreams of being a koi fish.  He saw too many of his friends settle into a life of 3 second memory spans and fish flakes, but Jeffrey knew better.

Jeffrey was going to achieve something with his life.  He was going to watch every episode of The Office.  He was going to go organic.  He was going to become a 20 something douchebag hipster, mature a little bit, and worship Zooey Deschanel from his boring desk job.  (It’s the future of all hipster men.)

Then John swallowed Jeffrey.  And I started crying.  We got the points, but that part no longer mattered.  We were monsters.  And I was the only person who saw that.

Sorry, this story is supposed to be about hair.  Obviously, I’m still having a hard time grieving over Jeffrey.  But he was a REALLY cool fish, you guys.  Anyway, my hair was officially fucked over.  The hairs that were shaved were officially 3 millimeters long and so blonde, that I looked very bald.  And the hairs that ran around my head in a halo were about 2.5 inches long, and had to be shaved off.

So, we shaved it.  And I looked very bald.  Some people pull of that look.  I’m not one of them.  I have a very large jewish nose, and I have large ears that stick out. Normally, those traits make me look young and sorta-ugly-cute.  But with no hair, I look like I’m dying from terminal cancer.  In fact, I got a lot of pity stares from people when I was walking on campus.

Oh, and believe me, I totally used it to my advantage.  I used “I have cancer” at least 3 times in freshman classes.  It scored me a B on one of the toughest chemistry tests.

Since then, I have learned my lesson.  Yes, my hair is very versatile and looks normal no matter what happens to it, but shaving it all off is just not a smart option.  And so ends the first chapter in the stupid shit I do to my hair.

Update:  We lost Kaleidoquiz.  The winners are always honor student clubs.  And assholes.

Monday, February 6, 2012

How Getting Exactly What I Wanted Ruined Christmas

Like most children, nothing appeals more than a commercial for a product that requires you to dial an 800 number.  Chia pets, Super-sharp knives, Blend-o-matics, Proactive, ANYTHING, you slap an 800 number and the order that you must be 18 or older to call, and a kid is going to want it.  My brother asked for a dirt devil for his 6th birthday.  And I wanted Magic Rocks for christmas.

I knew it would take some strategic planning to get my parents on board.  I only asked for Magic Rocks, and something that I knew my parents would NOT be ok with.

Maybe you guys need a quick refresher of what magic rocks are.  They are these little colored pellets that you simply drop in water and they dissolve and create rock formations in their little fish tank.  They are awesome and toxic, so therefore the perfect gift for a child of the 90s.  That, along with certain other treasures:

On Christmas morning, I was elated to find exactly what I had wanted right away.  This is what someone looks like when they receive their dream gift:

Obviously, I had wanted to start growing rocks right away.  Only I couldn’t.  Dad had to go in to the hospital for work, and mom was busy doing mom things.  She told me that I would have to wait a few hours and then one of them would help me.

The box started taunting me.  I could hear the rocks screaming for some water, waiting for their eventual majestic growth and stature.  It was cruel of me to listen to my mom.

I steered clear from the ugly purple one.

So, I decided to wing it.  I didn’t need parent’s supervision.  I’d seen the commercials a hundred times.  Those kids just whipped some pellets into water and ten minutes later, BAM a magic rock kingdom!  I could do it, I knew I could.

So I set to work.  I got the aquarium out of the box, filled it up with water, threw the instructions away, and grabbed the colored rocks.  I plopped the rocks in, one at a time in strategic places, so I would have beautiful formations in the perfect spots.  I watched in amazement as the rocks began to dissolve upwards and their stunning colors shoot to the top of the water.  And it kept going. And going.  And no rocks were forming.

Something had gone horribly wrong.  I ran to the garbage and dug out the instructions.  Ah, I had skipped step 2: add solution to water.  I hadn’t known there was solution involved.  I held on the the vain hope that I could fix what I had done, and grabbed my box.  Sure enough, there was a packet of liquid goo at the bottom.  I ripped it open and poured it into my toxic brown sludge.

I was devastated.  My best Christmas gift, and I ruined it before the day was over.  My mom walked into the room and saw my abortion in an aquarium.  “I told you to wait, and you didn’t, so this is your punishment.  I’m not buying you a new one,” she said.

I hadn’t expected her to buy me a new one.  I had already learned enough life lessons to chalk that up to a lost cause.  I HAD expected more of a lecture.  But it was Christmas after all.