Say hello to Brittney “Journalism & Mass Communication major, International Studies minor.” It feels pretty good, not gonna lie, mostly because I get to drop my dreaded linguistics class. Cue the parting of the clouds and the Hallelujah chorus. In order to make up for some of those lost credit hours, I’ve added an online money management course and some as-yet-to-be-determined one hour fitness class that will start in mid-October, but really anything is so, so much better than subjunctive clauses. In other news, I fly to D.C. in two weeks. I most definitely thought this was at least three weeks away, but at least I still have time to rummage Target’s racks for multiple super-professional outfits before departure. There are plenty of things to look forward to until then, namely Roomie Rachael’s 22nd birthday on Sunday. Luckily for our livers, she’ll be out of town for most of the weekend doing a Buddy Walk with her adorable nephew, but she’ll grace us with her presence just in time on the actual day to enjoy Happy Sunday sushi and perhaps a viewing of The Social Network. Apparently this movie is just beyond off the chain (does anyone still use that phrase anymore? No?) though I have a feeling I’m going to get supremely creeped out by it. (Also, Wordpress is telling me that “creeped” is not actually a word. They are so, catastrophically mistaken.) I apologize this wasn’t a riveting, gut-busting post (yes, I’m still under the assumption there a few of these on here) but I wanted everyone updated on the fact that I was not on a bridge somewhere and have gotten my academic life under control, for now at least. In the meantime, I get to hand in that glorious drop slip and then perhaps literally skip to work. Happy-it’s-essentially-the-weekend!

“Well it’s over,” I told Kayla about five minutes post-first midterm of the semester. “And by that I mean my academic career.”

Ok, so it wasn’t that bad (though I guess we won’t know til I get the score) but it was pretty bad. So bad in fact, that one of my short answers literally included “…clearly I’m drawing a blank. Sorry.” The question, or rather given phrase we had to elaborate one was “Conciliation Committee.” The course is on the European Union, so I knew it was part of one of three legislative bodies. I started to write that it was part of the council– crossed it out– put down that it was part of the European Parliament (the correct answer, though to get full points it would have needed a lot of back-up information that was most likely in the assigned readings that I chose to think were optional) then crossed even THAT out and wrote, “The conciliation committee is part of the commission… clearly I’m drawing a blank. Sorry.” My other four short answers weren’t leagues better, and my essay answer was possibly worse, especially since I referenced how “the leader of Luxembourg was probably a nice guy” in the early 1950s. For the record, the course does not at all cover or care about the demeanors of EU member state leaders.

My professor bid everyone a cheery “See you Thursday!” when turning in their exam since he’s the same masochist who sent us a good luck email about two hours prior to the exam. After glancing at mine though, he added, “Wow, you have nice penmanship.” Duh, sir– I’ve been writing for pleasure since the age of five. I thought of bidding him a sarcastic, “At least you’ll enjoy the handwriting while you read those shit answers!” or telling him up front that my oft-practiced print/cursive combo was the only semi-decent thing he’d have to say about my test. Perhaps later I will get the opportunity to explain myself: “My handwriting’s so pretty because I’m a journalism major who’s never taken a political science course before, but apparently thought I could run with the big dogs in your upper-level, nearly graduate school level course just because I needed some credits for my second major and this was the only class that didn’t meet on Fridays.” Hopefully if that opportunity does present itself, I’ll learn how to breathe through the run-on and smile charmingly.

“Brittney, can you get married soon so I can wear this dress?”
“No. Never. Not for a very long time.”
Roomie Lauren holds up a photo of some floor-length, navy blue bridesmaids gown.
I was not a fan. “Ehhh, I look better in warm colors.”
“You’d be wearing white, you idiot. I look really good in dark blue, just saying.”
A beat later: “Ooh, ooh or do black so I can wear this one!”
Roomie Rachael then enters the room, Lauren poses the same question to her.
“Yeah, but I don’t know if I want you guys to wear long dresses.”
“Maybe I’ll just wear it for mine as a sign I’m not a classic bride.”
Now that our minds have switched to bridal mode, not a far stretch for us 20-something females, Rachael takes the time to ask us, “What are your thoughts on long bridesmaids dresses? Do you prefer long or short?”
“Short.” Lauren and I answer in unison– we’ve formed our opinions of all ceremony attire long before this night.
“I want a short wedding dress,” I inform them, just so they can be prepared for the eventual casualness of it all.
“Ooh, that could be cute.”
And this is why I love my roommates.

…please let me know how you feel about the bold/italic/regular font when involving a conversation of three. Not sure I’m feeling the bold, though it breaks up a lot of text. Ohhh, the things I give far too much thought.

“Ich liebe dich, Kaffee!”

I was overhead speaking German directly to my morning coffee by Roomie Rachael today. She and I have class together on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so the getting ready process is always a bit more livened up than my usual ritual of waiting until the last possible moment to make myself look halfway decent.

“Ohhh, to live in your mind, Brittney,” she laughed. She later tweeted about how entertaining the exchange apparently was. In addition to bilingual conversations with my caffeine, I often play morning YouTube DJ– mostly Gaga, a lot of boy bands, and of course, my favorite song of the moment, “One Night in Bangkok.” Today I even introduced the apartment to “Disco Pogo,” the most ridiculous song in the history of time, and one that Germans go ca-RAY-zay over at 4 a.m. when packed on each other like sweaty, beer-soaked sardines under seizure-inducing strobe lights on a Saturday night. It’s damn catchy, beware.

Around 9:00, when Rachael’s aesthetically put together and patiently waiting at the front door while I scramble about to throw some concealer on my zits and shove errant notebooks and folders into my bag, we leave– usually with a “WAAAIIIT!!” while I run back into the apartment to grab my forgotten cell phone– and walk to class. Our conversations range from inappropriate to offensive, though never dull, and stop right as we enter the journalism building because we need all available lung capacity to climb the six flights of stairs to the top. Ok, so it’s really like three long flights and two little connecting ones– either way, we’re horribly out of shape and arrive for two hours of news release writing all sweaty and winded. No wonder nobody talks to us.

“Whether you think you can or or you can’t, you’re right.” –Henry Ford.

Well I can’t do it. I was apparently being optimistic when I ballparked my inevitable mid-semester breakdown to come sometime during October. It’s happening now, and it makes my brain throb, and it makes me want to hurt people and kick things and scream and cry and stay in my room forever. It’s not my job or my internship, those are currently existing in a wonderful symbiosis under the category of Thing I Care About. Things I do not care about however, things I just can’t care about are my classes. Specifically my international studies ones, which cover topics I have zero interest, that my brain simply can’t and won’t wrap itself around. I’ve given far too much of myself academically in the last seven years to keep trying in these last two semesters over things that will 100% not matter once I enter the job market (no seriously, I’ve been told that by multiple people in my job market.) I originally wanted to minor in International Studies, but my passive, doormat self let my advisor upgrade it to a major. Looking back and at my schedule currently, my college life would be a hell of a lot different if I’d stuck with my original plan. Granted, I wouldn’t have gone to Germany (because I wouldn’t have needed to for my language requirement) and it’s not too late to just take the minor, which I already have. I’m just burnt out. There are more important things in my life right now that don’t deserve me having to split their needed attention with Languages of the freakin’ World aka “What kind of embedded/ subjunctive clause do we find in this little-spoken language recently discovered in a small South Pacific island?”

I realize I’m complaining and wallowing and could definitely do it, but I don’t want to.

For absolutely despising mayonnaise and being generally afraid of everything that’s completely based on saturated fats, I love chicken salad. I realize you can make it sans mayo and instead with Greek yogurt or low fat sour cream, but I’ve never gone as far as making chicken salad myself. If I did, I’m afraid I’d then be destined for a profile on TLC’s “Freaky Eaters”. The more stuff slammed (my favorite verb) into a chicken salad, the better. I’m talking celery, walnuts, cranberries– today I tried some curried chicken salad on my regular bed of greens at the River Room. I’ve never been able to take a definitive stance on curry, whether I love it or loathe it. I realize the IMU isn’t really the best indicator of Iowa City’s curry options, just like how I hope no one judges if they like sushi or not by what they’re serving up in those plastic packages here. I prefer Takanami, though you can’t beat Happy Sundays at Three Samurai in Coralville.
…completely random tangent on food is now concluded. Back to procrastinating on my 3-4 page literature review, due in an hour and a half, yet to be started.

Day Nine: Two smileys that describe your life right now
…are you kidding me. I refuse to do this one, mostly because I’m not sure they’ve invented an emoticon with the gun-to-head motion (it’s been that kind of week.) Thus, hold onto your pants, readers because YOU are getting to the END of this damn thing one day early (rejoicing, dancing in the streets, tears of unadulterated happiness– I get it.)

Day Ten: One confession
…this could be dangerous ground, though. I feel I don’t have much to confess seeing as this is a forum for my stream of consciousness anyway. The things I do have to confess have remained secret for good reason and thus I will now confess something mostly for accountability’s sake:
I haven’t run for like a month. And it’s not like I’ve taken up cycling or Zumba instead. Basically, I am an unmotivated lazy ass who has taken up far too much beer drinking and fried food-consumption all in the name of Hawkeye football. I don’t exactly have the metabolism of a 15-year-old boy, thus am getting– and I’m just gonna put it bluntly– kinda chunky. Or chunkier. Either way, it’s high time I get my act in gear because, quite frankly, it’s just not attractive.

For those of you who haven’t the slightest clue what I’m doing (include me in that) you can click here to read the rest of the 10 Day Posting Topics Thingy I’ve been doing. Don’t worry, it’s almost over.
Day Eight: three turn ons
…hahahahahahahahahahahaha awkward. First of all, how is this much different than the list of ways to my heart? Second of all, if this list were that different, I’m not sure I’d be answering with three sincere answers since the majority of my readers are the parents of my parents. Well, here goes nothin’:
3. Be larger than me. Huge props to you if you can lift me. I suppose you could do this if you were some freakishly strong scrawny kid (I’m looking at you, D-Bag) but generally, if I can eat more than you, it’s not exactly a turn on.
2. Have a drug addiction. Ok, maybe not a debilitating habit to the point where you need to constantly wear sweaters to hide your track marks, but who ISN’T turned on by the whole bad boy thing? So you’ve done some time for possession with intent to sell– I can dig it.
1. Smell like laundry detergent. Wear aviator sunglasses. Make lots of money and buy me things. Sigh a girl can dream.

Holy pseudoephedrine, Batman– it’s Kleenex pocket pack stockin’ up time! Methinks my allergies are in hyperdrive, or else I’ve just been sick in one side of my nose for the past couple days. I actually (full disclosure: this is kinda gross, but also mildly hilarious and embarrassing) woke up and was blowing my nose into my sheet in my sleep. No, seriously. Apparently my subconscious couldn’t remember there are tissues right next to my bed. Yes, a load of laundry is on my to-do list. I’ve had a ridiculously productive 24-ish hours since we last spoke including, here we go– applying for my first REAL job. I’m not quite sure how it happened, I was just stumbling around on this company’s employment page and got a bit overzealous with the Apply Now button, I guess. While this is quite a shot in the dark, the people I talked to at the job fair yesterday encouraged me to do so since they don’t limit their hiring to specific times of the year. Even though I don’t have class on Fridays (or Wednesdays, and soon to be Mondays) I have three standing meetings every Friday morning, all of which went swimmingly, or as swimmingly as they could go when you require college students to be up before noon on a Friday (seriously, how can Brother’s make money with Mug Night? Everything is a DOLLAR!) Tonight is date night for me and NPH– no, we are not a stuck-in-the-rut married couple, rather I saw a commercial for Outback Steakhouse during the game last week and apparently told Neil I’d be taking him there on Friday. Not one to back out on my word or a restaurant that serves loaves of bread fo’ free on the table, to Outback we shall go. We won’t go into how many times he’s mentioned ordering a Bloomin’ Onion over the course of this week, but it’s a weird amount. Of course last time I went to Outback, this happened, but that wasn’t their fault. Also, you best believe I’ve been speaking in an annoyingly bad Australian dialect for most of the day, as well as saying “Add some ‘roo to your ‘do!” from those damn Aussie hair product commercials for really no reason at all. When an Australian student from Iowa State stayed at my apartment two weekends ago, he was pretty abhorred at my attempt to match his way of speaking, and instead said I sounded British with a small mix of North Texas. Don’t even get me started on the whole Oprah taking everyone she knows to Australia thing that she did for her final season premiere. My favorite was when John Travolta stepped out of the plane and Roomie Rachael proclaimed that under no circumstance would she get into a plane flown by Danny Zuko. OOOH OOOOH six degrees of separation time: John Travolta starred in Grease with Olivia Newton-John who is from Australia! We are now most definitely ordering a Bloomin’ Onion.

Day Seven: Four turn offs
…I will treat this as turn offs toward all people, not just those I might be otherwise romantically inclined toward.
4. “I’m from Chicago… ok, really a suburb of Chicago that may or may not be more than an hour away depending on traffic.” So you’re actually from Downer’s Grove/Oakbrook/ Evanston/ Naperville/ Wilmette. Just say so. I don’t say I’m from Des Moines– I say I’m from Adel and then usually have to clarify with “it’s by Des Moines.” Totally different. ….
3. That hand motion, and you know the one I’m talking about. With the two fingers… and the mouth? Yeah, NO. Disgusting.
2. “You don’t like waiting.” –NPH. “What?! Why? What makes you think this?” “The fact that you are impatient? …maybe you don’t take enough naps.” Way to switch the subject. I am not dropping this, Ledford. …ok, so making me wait– be it at a restaurant or for some amazing Christmas gift (November is a completely acceptable gift-giving month) is a large turn-off.
1. Guys wearing jewelry. This will never be acceptable to me.