Oh, I’m sorry. That was my lungs greeting you good afternoon. ‘Tis a lovely day for a run, no? There’s never really a great day to pick up running after neglecting it for… an entire season… so I bit the bullet and figured why not today. Well, I’ll tell you why not today. Or at least why not an hour and a half after lunch. There’s a reason I prefer running first thing in the morning– there’s not pita and hummus sitting in my stomach that about a mile in creeps up and talks hold of my esophagus screaming, “You idiot! You idiot!” and slamming on my insides to let it back out the way it came. No, I didn’t puke, but holy poor digestion, it didn’t feel great. I suppose I could say it felt kinda nice to get back out there, though more seems to jiggle and my form is for shit. (You’ve seen Phoebe on “Friends” run, right? No?)
I didn’t exactly share her enthusiasm, but that was generally how graceful it went down. Overall, I pounded out about 2.5 miles– you may save your standing ovation for later– and I’m thinking about registering for the campus 5K on Sunday. (There’s also a 10K, but after taking a look at the course, I believe I had what you might call a “hell no” moment.) Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready to go hear Michele Bachmann (yes, that one) speak on campus later. I’m all about being open to opposing points of view, and I’m genuinely interested in what she could possibly have planned to say to a group that is mostly turning out in hopes they’ll witness her burst into flame onstage.
22 of the 95 people I graduated high school with are either married, engaged, pregnant, or have children four years post-graduation. And those are just the ones I’m friends with on Facebook. I suppose that’s less than 25%, but it seems like a huge number to those of us who are still in the majority.
I spent a lot of time sitting in the grass next to exit 16 on I-380 yesterday while my friend Emma, Fergus and I waited for AAA to come get her car (the bumper fell off and then other scary things started dragging on the ground.) NPH came and rescued us, but it was quite the experience. We went to Cedar Rapids to watch the UI club team play baseball, but the universe apparently had other plans. I will now put up photos taken during said down time because 1.) Fergus was being ridiculously well behaved and adorable during the whole ordeal and 2.) taking photos of him passed the time and got our minds off the fact that there may have possibly been snakes in the grass where we were sitting.
Ugh.
Hey Fergus, why the long face?
He was not at all concerned & thought we were there for him to hang out and eat sticks.
...and then he did this for the rest of the evening.
My deep-seeded longing to return to Germany has reached fever pitch. I can’t watch spring happen here without remembering how crazy amazing spring over there was, and I MISS IT, DAMMIT. Donations are now being accepted to the Brittney Takes Germany Part II fund. If you need me today, I’ll be researching ticket prices and brushing up on mein Deutsch which is sehr schlecht.
NPH and I are getting fat. I suppose the ladies’ magazine term is “love chub,” though let’s just call it what it is here and deem it “beer and pizza.” The winter months were not kind to us, nor were we particularly kind to ourselves during that very long period of hibernation. We’ve reached the point where we’re no longer trying to impress each other (at age 21, wow– this bodes well for the rest of my life) and the most chivalrous thing he could now do for me is take Fergus out without being asked. (My ploy as of late has been speaking to Fergus loudly enough for Neil to hear, “Oh what’s that, Fergs? You have to go outside? Gee, I took you for that long walk today. Hopefully Neil can get his shoes on before you pee all over the carpet.”) Passive aggression is really my strong suit.
Luckily, we both recognize that we aren’t exactly the sylphs we once were and are completely cognizant of the lifestyle changes that would be necessary to reverse this plumping trend. However, as Neil pointed out last night, we have about five weeks left before the real world bitch slaps us good and proper across the face, thus we’re going to continue riding this wave of unhealthy living while we can. Perhaps you’re all familiar with one of Facebook’s more useless features where they recommend old photo albums of yours to peruse through when you should instead be doing a myriad of other actually productive things? Yesterday the ol’ Book wanted me to look at my prom pictures from junior year which were hilarious and frightening and sad all at once. Apparently back in the day my collarbone could poke your eye out (I’m not making this up– I would put up a photo but it’s a group of ten of us, and I assure you at least eight of those people don’t want themselves associated with this diatribe of self indulgence.) Somehow in five years, my collarbone has gotten lost in a sea of cheese fries and booze calories, leaving it debatable as to whether I have a skeletal structure or am merely being held up by pudding and mashed potatoes.
As per one of my New Year’s Resolutions, I’ve been getting more culinary as of late. Time spent in the kitchen is oddly fun to me, and it’s also a way I can sneak less saturated fats and more veggies into NPH’s life a la one of those sneaky moms in the Manwich commercials. I suppose the homemade beer-battered onion rings weren’t exactly a step in the right direction, but I made burgers out of ground turkey instead of dead cow, so they kind of balance each other out, no? An unforeseen consequence of this Emeril-esque adventure was that my hands will now forever smell like onions, and everying I own reeks of stale frying oil. The kids in class this morning definitely stared. After a meeting at work, I informed a co-worker that I was going home to shower, and she laughed like I was joking even though one look at my general appearance could have told her I was not. And my hands still smell like onions.
There is a medium amount of blood on the sidewalk outside our apartment. There’s not a trail of it off into the bushes, so I can’t muster up much concern, but there are also broken bottles strewn everywhere. If there’s one thing Mamie from “The Wild & Wonderful Whites of West Virginia” (it’s on Netflix Instant and an absolute must watch) taught me, it’s that you should always drink beer from a bottle because it can instantly become a weapon in case of crisis or drunken brawl. Due to my passive nature and general happy state when under the influence, I’ve yet to put that little nugget of wisdom into practice.
I need to stop eating Jimmy John’s due to my current broke as a joke status, but that bitch Natalie (she’s currently on a cruise to Honduras, so the offensive adjective is completely justified) introduced me to the #5 and my life hasn’t really been the same since.
Even though it seems winter is just going to last until September, we pretended it was spring yesterday afternoon and had a good ol’ fashioned grill out. Some may also call it a garden party, but half of the attendees used cinderblocks as seats, so I’m not really sure it qualifies. We had mignon burgers because they’re on sale at Hy-Vee {insert here something about how I feel like a very boring housewife for even typing that} and now I’m not sure I’ll ever want regular ol’ ground beef ones again. Holy yum. T-Bone, put those on the menu for my graduation barbecue.
I’m going to spend the rest of the day finding ways to get back to Germany in the coming months. My wanderlust has been kicked into hyper-drive hearing all the super cool places my co-workers are going to this summer (Costa Rica! Greece!) And, after spending 50,000 hours road-tripping over spring break, a seven hour flight now seems like cake.
Insert here: observation about how it’s almost April yet still freezing.
Insert here: recap about weekend that involved lots of friends, little productivity, a puppy, and a random rugby game.
Insert here: something about lack of motivation/ not that much to do school-wise anymore/ still looking for a job.
Insert link here to my latest TNGG article about said job hunt/ impending graduating doom. (No really, you should actually click that. Not just because of the money I may or may not receive if we all collectively click it six million times.)
Insert here: my slight sadness, or perhaps just general eerie feelings, over the news that one of my former co-workers from a job before I went to Germany passed away a week or so ago. He was 23. We weren’t super good buds or anything, but I liked working with him a lot because he let me get away with anything and he had no problem making fun of my love for all things Guns n Roses. I gave him rides sometimes so yeah, we were friends. That’s what falling out of touch will do to ya– you gotta find out through Facebook.
Dearest Family & Friends,
Below is a link to my most recent TNGG article. It was hard to write, but a lot of fun because I got to meet both the creators of Pongr, and they’re both incredibly cool guys. Anywhoodle, beyond wanting to read it just because it’s awesome, the more traffic my article gets, the more chances I’ll get monetarily compensated at the end of the month! (It’s a sort of incentive thing for the site’s contributors.)
So click here, get to reading, and then keep a-clickin’ and sending to everyone you know. Thanks in advance!
I suppose you’re looking for a Vegas recap, eh? (That question was posed mostly for my grandparents– all of my Facebook friends were subjected to updates and cell phone pics the entire week. Gotta love them smart phones.) In short, it was awesome, obviously. For a bit more depth, I suppose I could go into how I refuse to ever get in a car again if I’ll be traveling more than four hours away. I could tell you how great– kinda awkward at first, but great– it was to see Darin (best friend from my study abroad program who lives in Colorado, remember?) again and how amazing the pizza was at the local place he took us to. If you were wondering, it’s called Home Slice in Durango, CO. I could tell you how fabulous Thunder from Down Under was, but I feel that’s one of those “What happens in Vegas…” things. Having the roomies there was surprisingly fun– I don’t mean that in a bitchy way, I mean there are few people I could go on vacation with and not completely despise afterward, and thankfully they made the list. (So did NPH, but if nothing else, 50+ hours in a car with him only more solidified his awesomeness.) I’m also surprisingly sane for sitting alone in my apartment– sleeping, recently bathed basset sleeping on the couch behind me not included– on the last night of my very last Spring Break ever, catching up on homework, brushing up for an internship interview tomorrow, not all that concerned that there are only eight weeks before BLAM-O real life. Oh, speaking of aforementioned hound, apparently he was an absolute shithead (sorry, but that’s really the only way to describe it) for my parents when they watched him all week. An adorable one, but pretty misbehaved nonetheless. I do have to give them props, he seems to have taken some disciplinary lessons to heart, though he may still just be exhausted from having 12 acres to himself for six days. I shall leave you now with some photos since my brilliant literary descriptions could never be enough.
There was a LOT of this.
Glorious. The weather was absolutely perfect the entire time.
You can take the girl outta Germany...
Yes, after that much time spent together, we're still speaking to each other.
And finally, perhaps the most important part of the whole trip! DID YOU KNOW YOU CAN GET PICKLES ON YOUR IN-N-OUT BURGER?! I've died.
Having survived the 27 hour drive to Vegas, I’ve now had the chance to enjoy my Spring Break destination for three nights (because in Sin City no one’s awake during the day anyway, right?) and learn a few things about myself along the way.
-I am a morning person. Ok, so this realization has been brewing for several weeks & the two hour time difference probably helps, but I have been up with the sun every day since leaving home. This also means staying up until even midnight is a challenge, much to the chagrin of my travel companions.
-I’m not a sit by the pool and relax type of vacationer. I prefer to be doing something, even when I am sitting poolside. I may have brought my laptop outside with me to search for wireless to send something to my editor. Yes, I felt like a tool and was being far too self important, but even on Spring Break there’s deadlines and jobs to search for (anxiety much? Perhaps.)
-You can get pickles on In-n-Out burgers, upping the already insane delicious factor. Also, their fries really aren’t that great and should be skipped so as to not detract from the cheeseburger-y awesomeness.
-Vegas is different when you’re the one paying
for it. Shout out to my father, he’s always taken great care of all of us on vacation. Traveling as a group of college students facing the brink of unemployment is a whole different ballgame, however, making me more thankful for the nicer vacations I’ve had and weary about my financial future when paired with my wanderlust.
-Flats are better than heels when you gotta do anything besides sit around and look pretty. Or perhaps this post could be titled “Brittney Goes to Vegas and Realizes She’s Become an Old Person.” I promise my next bullet point will not be how I’ve discovered the joys of eating dinner before 5 pm.
That’s actually gonna be it due to fear of hand cancer from holding my Droid for so long. If this post is rife with spelling errors or errant punctuation, blame it on big thumbs typing on a tiny touchscreen.
I suppose it had to happen sometime. Honestly, I was expecting it long before this, but it still blindsided me nonetheless: the graduation freak out. I completely blame Spring Break for this (and the fact that the shorts I wore often in Vegas in June won’t, um, be packed for this trip) because I finally did some math and realized that when we return from the magical land of neon, In-n-Out, and yard-a margaritas, there will be only eight weeks left until the end of the semester. To be fair, our lease isn’t up until the first of August and the job I have will gladly keep me until then, but still. To prove your grown up-ness, you’re really supposed to have a job waiting to greet you on the other side of the stage. Well, the proverbial stage. I will not be walking across the literal one for a bevy of reasons, only one of those being that we have to be at the ceremony at 8:15 a.m. Oh and that they’ll be reading like 4,000 names. After some speeches. And a lot of picture taking. Yikes.
ANYWAY– back to my life revelations– I was in my room, throwing WAY too many clothes and shoes for a one week trip (no, I won’t tell you how many pairs I’m taking) into a giant suitcase, listening to some Kanye, then Gaga, then slowing it down with some Coldplay and Smashing Pumpkins. All irrelevant, but scene-setting, go with it. I don’t know what sparked this pity party, but all of a sudden I start thinking of good-byes and one of Neil’s roommates going to San Francisco for the summer and wait, I won’t be in ‘Frisco for the summer, which means we’ll be apart, which means none of us will know what to do because if there’s a walking definition of “codependent,” it’s me and them 713ers. Well, some of ‘em. My brain is a terribly anxious place to live. What are NPH and I to do when we both get fabulous job offers in two very different places? Fergus likes me far better, though I’m much less patient with him than Neil. Is there some sort of canine custody agreement we’ll have to enter into since ever living anywhere but Iowa City didn’t seem to cross our minds when making quite a snap puppy decision in Petland?! (Actually, Neil did think of that before we got him. I’m taking the dog. Cat’s, er, puppy’s outta the bag.) Yeah, yeah, I realize everything will be fine and this stuff happens to everyone all the time and that a public blog is probably the last place I need to be airing these very self-centered grievances, but alas, here I am. It’s probably not going to get much better from here and will in fact get much worse. Probably tears will be involved, yikes. Thankfully boot camp will be over so I can resume my Thursday night drinking. And Tuesday and Sunday. That was a joke, Mother.
