No Sticker, No Love

I was not one of those girls that collected the Lisa Frank sparkly sticker packs. I did not scrapbook and I have never been to Creative Memories. I now know that one small sticker, or lack there of, can ruin my day.

I will admit that I arrived at the voting polls on Tuesday a little late, around 5:15 p.m., but am I not entitled to my "I Voted" sticker? I waited all day for that sticky piece of paper and I was slightly wounded when informed that they had run out and I was turned away without one.

I walked back out into the cold and to my car, still steaming about my missing sticker. When I arrived at my 6 p.m. Women's Health class, I noticed that my teacher had one of the coveted stickers on the tip of her sneaker. It was almost as if she had tried to throw it away and it had stuck around as a painful reminder that I was stickerless and pissed off about it.

So Obama won. Woot...but where the hell is my sticker?!

A rant about my stressful week to come

There are so many things happening this week, that I feel the need to list them off somewhere. Yes, it may just be a rant about how stressful life can be, but I'll take it.

Sunday: Work on internship applications, study for test, finish a paper due on Tuesday, work on a project due Thursday.
Monday: English test, work, upload half the newspaper, study for test #2.
Tuesday: Sociology test (a.k.a. test #2), class, paper due, work, class, work, class, upload the rest of The Orion.
Wednesday: possible test, deliver The Orion, class, The Orion critique, editorial board, maybe sleep.
Thursday: Communication Design test, class, work, class, work, get internship applications ready.
Friday: Mail internship applications, class, try to find flights to Washington D.C., finish Halloween costume.

There are the big events in my week. It may be a horrifying week, but I'll live. If nothing else, this list will remind me of things to do this week. What's your week looking like?

Stressful happiness

So, it seems to be that time of year where the end of the semester isn't yet close, but preparing for the following semester, summer and even my career have landed right in the midst of my current responsibilities. My planner has never been so full of pertinent events and obligations.

My house is back to being messy as I try to clean up my scattered datebook and prioritize. Everyday a new revised to-do list seems to not get smaller, but grows daily as my procrastination is finally taking its toll.

It seems that I was born to write on deadlines, since I can never seem to do anything before I absolutely need to -- but Katy and I think this means we were born to be reporters :) Grants, interviews, homework, essays, blogs, debates, voting and internships -- all demand attention and I'm beginning to wear a little thin.

But you know what? I'd rather be stretched far than wallowing in blissful ignorance and apathy. So, much is going on and while it is all consuming, it is just as rewarding. As I move through life my decisions are more distintly shaping my life and currently I'm on the brink of life altering milestones -- life is happily crazy.

Can anyone else relate?

We all have a role to play

At least according to my very unusually dream last night.

I tend to have dreams that make little to no sense and jump all over the place. I rarely can piece together what any of it means. But when I awoke this morning, I vividly remembered the part of last night's dream that included all of us Orionites.

I was in my house (which is always two stories for some reason - I have never lived in a two story house, so go figure) and Katy appears at my door. She starts telling me, "You're so late!" over and over again.
"You are supposed to be shooting your scene and you're holding everyone up!" she screams. Utterly confused, I throw some clothes on (because I was naked as always in my dreams) and follow her out the door.

We appear at the set of a movie where everyone is waiting to shoot our final scene. We are doing a remake of "Mean Girls" (I attribute this to Walter telling at ed board me he can relate anything in his life to this film) and we have to film the final song/dance. Genny, Katy and I are all lip synching to "Jingle Bell Rock" and I keep making up my own dance moves. Every editor, including Dave and Lewis, are watching us and it's kinda creepy.

We break for lunch and I see Donald Trump standing in the Kraft Food Services line. I tell him that he should buy real estate and turn them into high schools. I find this hilarious.

When I told Katy this today in the basement, she thought it made sense since the O is kind of clique-y, but I think I should just stop dropping acid before bedtime( jk...I'm very much anti-drug).

My friend, Genevra McLaren

My friend Genevra McLaren is the only Genevra McLaren in the world.

I thought she was lying when she told me this, but I searched Google, which contains the names of every human being who has ever lived, and sure enough, all of the results took me to my friend.

My friend, Genny McLaren.

Genny is a tea connoisseur. She has excellent taste in spiced teas, which she shares with me sometimes.

The first time I hung out with Genny, I played the hand game “slide” with her.

In the above sentence, Genny would know whether or not the phrase should be “hanged out,” because she is good with grammar.

In the above sentence, Genny would know that “whether or not” should be shortened to just “whether.”

My friend Genny likes to watch silly videos with me sometimes.

One time, Genny punched me in the face, and only because I spat on her. I immediately forgave her though, because I’m sure the punch was somehow linked to a valuable lesson in copy editing.

Genny doesn’t like it when people say, “Such and such a team had a 2-1 win over such and such another team.” She would rather have the word “over” be “against.”

Genny was born in Caribou, Maine.

Sometimes I pronounce the word “program” as “progrum.” I don’t think Genny likes this at all.

Sometimes I call Genny “Genevris.” I’m not sure how she feels about this so I’ll keep doing it.

I don’t know a lot of things about Genny, but I do know enough about Genny to know that she is my good friend, so I’m not worried about becoming more acquainted with her.

Also, I stole her diary and have lots of free time tonight.

My political blogging

I just wanted to share with everyone the blogs that I wrote for The New York Times on the presidential and vice presidential debates.

Here are the links:
Here's my intro
Blog on the first presidential debate
Blog on vice presidential debate
Blog on final presidential debate


Also, check out The Orion political blog!

Fight for your right to...riot?

I decided long ago that I would not be participating in the Chico party scene any longer. Telling from this weekend's event, I'd say that was a good choice. I may have been at home playing housewife to my boyfriend, but I have had my fair share of wild, drunken Chico nights and I'm glad to have that out of my system.

Gone are the days of polishing off a fifth of tequila and running down the streets like a maniac, only to crawl home a disheveled mess and wake up to a terrible hangover and half-sober memories of the night before. College is not an excuse to go crazy and have zero respect for yourself and your surroundings. How can we digress so much while under the influence when we spend thousands of dollars here to mature into educated adults.

I for one am happy that I have one more semester at Chico, and that I will be leaving without ever getting arrested, drugged at a frat party or setting a couch on fire. I wonder what kind of publicity clean-up Chico State will do to distract the town from this disaster...extra coverage of "Up Til Dawn," maybe?

P.S. To respond to our original blog topic, I yell and curse in my sleep. Last night, I told my boyfriend, "Get the fuck away from me! They're coming!" He shook me and I said, "I love you," and fell back to sleep peacefully. I have done this my whole life and probably scared the shit out of some girls at sleepovers.

Riot night makes late night for me

OK, I just have to blog about the riot that happened over the weekend. For complete information, please visit TheOrion.com. I'm really disappointing that I wasn't able to be there for the not-riot riot (because some newspaper don't consider it a riot). I was there for the post-show with cops patrolling up and down the streets, but I missed the fires and arrests. I wanted to take pictures for my photojournalism class.

People got arrested, some were hurts, many hours of sleep were lost and many people will not forget the night. I got the call at about 2 a.m. from the managing editor who told me there was a riot and that we had video and photos and a story to come soon. Unfortunantely the AC adapter on my laptop has been broken for a couple of weeks, so my only access to a computer is at school. So I treked to school at 2 a.m., but before going down to The Orion, I visited the riot site. I was really dissapointed to find no rioters still going, but I shot some pictures and headed down to the basement.

While many people were sleeping away at home, I hung out at The Orion until 4 a.m. when the story was ready to go. Applause goes out to those who spent all of their sleeping hours combining their brains together to put out the story. Then I got ahold of it, proofread a little and got ready to work on the slideshow and videos. That took another hour, but I was finally able to go home at 5 a.m. Yay!

That's how I spent my night of the riot. How about you?

A not-snoring snorer

Sleeping is supposed to be restful and rejuvenating. This is not true for people that are around me when I'm sleeping. I don't shift around, I don't flail, but I snore. At least that's what I've been told.

I don't trust any of those people who have told me that I snore. They're all just jealous that I don't kick people in my sleep, right?

Whenever I fall asleep at The Orion (which is more than I like to, especially at 4 a.m.) I don't snore. I don't snore when I'm fall asleep on my couch. It has to be some convenient lie that my sister told me.

I know, I don't have really fun stories about sleep-walking or sleep-talking or sleep-disco-dancing, but I am what I am...a not-snoring snorer.

Being an only child

Only children are weird. There is no getting around that. When I was a kid, I would talk to myself all the time. Even when my friends would come over, I would still kind of mumble and joke to myself.

The weirdest thing I ever did was read books in different accents and record them on my Lil' tape recorder. My favorites were the Peter Cottontail stories. I wish I could find those tapes. I bet they'd be a good laugh, and maybe a little sad. I also would line up my 45 stuffed animals and have conversations with them...I would do all the talking, though.

I still talk to myself, especially in my sleep. A lot of the time it seems like thought bubbles that float to the surface of my mind and just pop out of my mouth. Still an only child and still a weirdo.

I loved Elvis

When I was about 9-years-old, I had a crush on Elvis Presley. My parents never signed up for cable, so I suppose in the absence of MTV I picked a dead heartthrob that would have been older than my dad — weird. 

To be clear, I wasn't infatuated enough to watch his terrible movies. No thanks. But I did have a light switch cover with his black and white image on it. His hips were swinging and his arm was in the air a la "Jailhouse Rock."

I listened to a CD of his greatest hits enough to impersonate his "huh, huh huh," while I did the lip curl. 

"Hound Dog" made me sad because Elvis sang to me "you ain't no friend of mine" because I "ain't never caught a rabbit." Rabbits are so cute and fuzzy, why would I want to hurt one?

Growing up playing in the dirt, I couldn't understand why he got so upset about someone stepping on his blue suede shoes. Get over it, I thought, be a man and put on some boots. 

I guess I didn't agree with what Elvis said, I just liked the way he shook his butt and seduced the camera. Mmmmm. 

Some tips.

Growing up a home-schooled Quaker raised by the daughter of a former nun, I often had to rely on my imagination and squirrel-like hyperness to fend off boredom day by day.

My brothers and I had no video game consoles, couldn’t watch PG-13 movies until we were actually 13 (what the hell?) and we were fed lots of spinach and rice with no dessert.

We often had to find creative ways to keep ourselves entertained, and I feel an obligation to help the youth of today by giving away some of my secrets. I would like to present a fine piece of coffee table literature that can be passed on to younger brothers, cousins and nephews. Here is an excerpt from “The Deprived Boy’s Guide to Staying Amused”:

1. Your mother may not let you have cool toys because she’s convinced “G.I. Joe” is an evil government plot to brainwash children to grow up as killing machines, but with a little imagination, a banana makes for a pretty good handgun during recreation time.

2. Want to pretend you’re a scuba diver? Take a belt and strap two rolls of paper towels to your back vertically, then put rubber gloves on your feet. It might not sound like much fun without trying it, but I once spent an entire action-packed weekend slithering across the living room floor with those babies. Good times.

3. It will probably be a while before you get to see an actual boobie, but Mad Magazine has plenty of drawings, as do many anatomy books.

4. Make friends with an only child. His parents will spoil him rotten with video games, action figures and lots of candy. Spoiledness increases 50 percent if his parents are divorced yuppies, and you will be allowed to cuss in front of them.

5. “Ren & Stimpy” is too highbrow for your mom. Ask dad if you can watch it.

6. A fork is basically just a miniature pitchfork and a teddy bear is basically just a miniature Satan. And an avocado is basically just a miniature Godzilla. Make ’em fight. That’s hours of entertainment, right there.

Tiger Beat teeny bopper

Oh, Megan... You are not alone.

Backstreet Boys, Nick Lachey, *Nsync, Leo (even before Titanic-- Romeo, oh Romeo), Marky Mark in Guess tighty whities, Brad Pitt and JTT are just a few of the many men that have been scotch taped to my walls, ceiling and bedroom door.

Boys, boys, boys!! Some people say it's natural to be a little boy (or girl) crazy in your youth, but I think I popped out looking for love! It started off innocently enough by chasing boys around the playground, but I hadn't even made it to first grade before my elementary school teachers had to conjure up a previously unneeded, no-kissing policy when they caught me smooching my boyfriend at recess.

My preteens were spent cutting out pictures of the latest shiny-chested and stubble-free heart throbs from pages of magazines like Tiger Beat and Seventeen, which seemed to exist for the sole purpose of fueling my pubescent hunk obsession. Honestly, I wish I could say this was weird behavior, but I think Megan can vouch when I say, "We were definitely not alone."

After all, I wasn't the only one who bawled my eyes out all SEVEN of the times I saw Titanic in the movie theaters... or was I?

Even when I was a kid...

I have a problem.
Bad spelling and grammar really really bother me.
One might think it's because I am a copy editor, and it's my job. But I didn't even know what copy editing was when I came to Chico State. It started much before journalism or college.
In elementary school we had spelling tests each week that consisted of 10 words and three sentences. We would get the words on Mondays and be tested on them on Fridays. I don't mean to brag, but I was a totally awesome speller, even back then -- OK I totally do mean to brag. I never missed a spelling word, not one. Until one day in third grade.
I don't even remember what the word was, but I remember I saw that red mark on my paper and I started crying. Not just a tear or two, I mean a full-out, ugly, red-faced sobbing session.
I don't even know why I cried. My parents never pressured me to do well in school, I just always did.
When I was in high school, kids that went to elementary school with me would bring it up.
"Hey, Genny, remember that one time...?"
Of course I remembered, it was the only word I missed in my entire elementary school career. I look back on it now and laugh. It's so ridiculous.

From Legos to Lincoln Logs

My best friend since I was 2 1/2, James, would always want to play with his latest action figure or tag in the back yard, while I would always argue to play with the Legos.

I loved getting to build little houses out of the white, brown and green blocks. And yes, I would color coordinate it all. The house was white with yellow windows and doors. The roof was brown and the grass was green.

I would never make any of the complicated designs, like spaceships or cars, even though James had all of the kits. I would always make my white little houses.

Eventually James and I grew apart, and I lost all my Legos, but sometimes I like to just think back on those day.

The Orion has offered up a solution to my occasional Lego-withdrawls. There's a set of Lincoln Logs in the basement that were at some point used to make a section cover, but now are just up for grabs to play with.

I get to relive my childhoood and make little log houses with orange windows and doors and white grass. Though the idea colors are off, the idea is the same. Yay Lincoln Logs.

Everybody (Backstreet's back), Alright.

The Backstreet Boys taught me how to love.

I was that girl that everybody hated. That fanatic that screamed -- the way a person might scream if their arm were being sawed off -- at the mere glimpse of five oversexed men called the Backstreet Boys. I was the girl frantically calling the radio contests to be the 107th caller. And once, I even won.

It was 1998 when boybands began ruling the world, and none of my peers seemed to care, because they were just as engrossed. Though the boys at school called them "gay," I've found out in more recent years that even they couldn't escape the trend -- they sort of liked them, too.

But I didn't "sort of" like them. I watched every TV spot, owned every movie, memorized every dance move and attended three concerts (two of which, I was in the front row). I even suckered my parents into driving to Reno, NV one year -- because the 'Boys weren't coming to Sacramento. I let all the other girls believe that they were singing to them, but knew that they were actually singing to me. It was totally obvious.

I knew their birthdays, favorite colors, speech patterns. I could complete their sentences while watching interviews. My dad once quipped that I knew more about them than they did; I did.

Every time I played a song or watched a contrived music video (they dropped $1 mil for the "Larger Than Life" music video, by the way), my heart would flutter and my pulse would rise. It was my first (unrealistic) taste of unrequited orgy love.

Before them had been Leonardo DiCaprio, of course, but he never sang to me. I suppose that was his fatal mistake. It would have never worked between us.

Embarrassing as it is to admit my tragic obsession, music has a remarkable effect on people. It only helps that I was an adolescent; which is their target market. Music can heal wounds, and in some cases, the cheeky lyrics that blared through my headphones did just that.

During the summer of 2002, I met Nick Carter backstage at a local concert. It was a moment I'd dreamed of for years. Walking out of the room, looked at me and blew me a kiss. At age 15, I could die happy at that very moment. It was the culmination of my obsessive tendencies -- the closure that I needed to begin letting go of my "non-existent relationship" relationship. It was the beginning of the end.

We had some good times and some bad times, but I don't think I'll ever get the useless Backstreet Boy trivia out of my head. Once that shit is burned into your psyche, it stays there forever. Overall, years have passed and my obsession has gradually faded. But they'll always have a special place in my heart, where all my guilty pleasures are stored.

After all, they did teach me how to love. And for the record, Kelly Clarkson taught me how to feel. But that's another story.

America's Next Top Patriot

"I'm the most patriotic," said the politician.
"No, I am," asserted the other politician.
"But, seriously... I am," responded the first.
"Fuck you! I'm the most fucking patriotic," the second shot back.

At 5:58 p.m., I had the television tuned into the debates. There might as well have been nachos and buffalo wings on the coffee table in front of me; the debates are usually my favorite sporting event. I yell at the television and -- depending on who I assert has won -- start riots around the city.

However, the first presidential showdown proved to be anti-climatic. There were hardly any "Oh, snap!" moments. It remained relatively placid and mediocre. Even worse, the two candidates both behaved like that friend who everybody hates because he always tries to one-up everybody else.

This is a debate, not the Dr. Phil show.

What were you thinkin'?

But as Sen. John McCain and Sen. Barack Obama went back and forth about, "He did this, and I did that." and "I got a bracelet from a solder, and I wear it with pride" retorted by: "Well, so did I. And I wear mine with even more pride," all I could think about was the petty arguments of our youth.

I almost expected to hear one of them say, "Well, you're not invited to my birthday party anymore."

As per playground style, flashy words and phrases were thrown out, regardless of their validity. This morning, the Associated Press released a fact check sheet about some arguments used in the debates. Most of the subjects McCain urged viewers to "look up," turned out to be completely erroneous. Although Obama isn't totally innocent in his assertions, McCain seems totally oblivious about that new fangledy square object, filled with a "series of tubes" -- able to uncover facts at the touch of a button. Or maybe he just forgot.

Let's hope that each candidate abandons playground politics before the next debate -- and gets real fierce.

You wanna be on top?

Can't touch this. (Dun-na-na-na)

The loud squeals reverberate off the ear drums of every person in a five mile radius. Within 20, dogs yelp in pain.

The beings doing the squealing reek of a mixture of Chanel No. 5, hairspray and minty bubblegum. They are females. And they haven't seen each other for at least 15 minutes. They exchange hugs, bounce up and down and emit a sound that can only be described as "pure elation."

It is a momentous occasion.

The embrace is used for casual and serious occasions alike. It is utilized when humans greet each other as well as depart. Urgency to perpetuate the close bond between loved ones, friends and strangers alike have been passed along through messages in advertising (I'm looking at you, Abercrombie & Fitch) and commercial television (Rock of Love didn't appear out of nowhere).

The illusion that outward physical affection should be spread to everyone within any given vicinity -- after the age of, say, 10 -- is completely ridiculous. There are places in the United States (as well as globally) where a person can be severely beaten for even considering given someone a hug. Then again, even gangsters embrace each other upon greeting each other, but not before a really tough-looking handshake.

It's an epidemic. Nay, pandemic.

The lesson to be learned: Don't prance around like Richard Simmons assuming that you can spread hugs to everyone. You can't. And you shouldn't. Practicing over-hugging abstinence improves a hug's positive effects. It's science.

Start a trend. You just might save a life. Or a dog's ears.

No tongue = bad kiss!

Australia- the land of beautiful people.
I was lucky enough to spend a year among tan, buff and super sexy men who all had accents that gave me the chills. As a California girl, the infatuation was mutual and it didn’t take me long to land a date with — you guessed it — an Aussie lifeguard!
I couldn’t really tell if he was the funniest guy I’d ever met, or if his accent added a charm that just wasn’t there, but he definitely wined and dined me and by the end of the evening it was time for our first kiss.
With the warm, gentle breeze making my skirt dance ever so slightly and the smell of the ocean tickling my nose, we leaned in, opened our mouths and wamp, wamp waaaaaamp! Expecting a passionate, romantic Hollywood moment, I was left with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, literally.
Apparently, it isn’t customary to pash (Aussie for making out) with tongue! Well, without the French, what good does kissing do! I found myself trying to wipe the disappointment off my face, and was determined to get the kiss that had been building up in my imagination all night. It took a little coaxing, but eventually we were lip locked and he was lovin’ tongue action.
I thought that this was perhaps a one-time fluke, but when I moved on the next hunky bloke I was met with the same dilemma. Aussies don’t French and I’m sorry to say it leads to a not-so-hot make out sesh. Without the swapping of spit, American style, a kiss is just lips, annoying smacking and more lips.
Being the giving person that I am, I did my best to infiltrate these Aussie pashing practices by introducing the art of French kissing to as many blokes (and a few Sheilas) I could squeeze in before I departed the land down under.
Conclusion: kissing no fun without the tongue.

The best kiss that comes to mind

No, I wasn’t in love. One of the best kisses I’ve ever had was with a guy I had met that night at Hannigan & Sons, an Irish pub in Granada, Spain.
I think his name was Andrea — fruity right. He was Italian and had dreads but he didn’t smell bad. “Benissimo” wasn’t much taller than my 5 foot 5 inch frame, which I think makes surprise tongue attacks easier. He had a lip ring, played the guitar and was a dick.
I don’t know what it was that made the kiss so great.
Maybe it was the adventure of kissing an actual Italian while studying abroad. People are usually a bit more randy when they’re out of the country, no?
It could have been that the kiss was naughty. After Hannigans we went to Camborio, a discoteca up the hill. He had been hitting on me — and my friends — all night. I went from dancing in a group with my friends to dancing nearby alone with him. All of a sudden, I turned toward him and the bandit kissed me. My immediate reaction was to push him away. But it was so good. I kissed him back.
It may have been the lip ring, in contrast to his sweet, soft, juicy lips.
Maybe I just like bad guys.
Even though my friends hassled me for weeks, the worst guy I’ve kissed was also the best.

Make Out Queen

Since the awkward 7th grade dance where I pinned my 8th grade beau against the gym wall and crammed my tongue down his throat for the first time, I have been addicting to middle school make out sessions.

I have run into numerous bad kissers, and that is pretty much the telltale sign of whether I'm going to get more physical or kick the poorly trained pucker boy to the curb. I have taken a few guys under my wing and taught them the tricks of a good smooch, but most resort back to their old ways on sloppering all over my face or choking me with their Corn Nut-flavored tongue.

Here are a few free tips from the master:

1) Be soft but firm. Weak-lipped kisses suck and the pouty-er the kiss the better.

2) Don't be afraid to suck and bite the lip, just don't go into Dracula mode. Although I have drawn blood a couple times, no one wants to taste their own blood after a kiss.

3) Breath mints were made for a reason - bad breath equals vomit city, so pick up some Listerine strips before a date night. Stale beer and cigarettes don't taste like candy.

4) Try to kiss the way the other person is kissing you. If they like to dart their tongue, do it back. If you don't like what they're doing then just grab their face and control the situation. Nothing is sexier than domination...at least in my opinion.

P.S. A la Katy Perry, I kissed a girl and I liked it, too.

I spy on couples in the movie theater, but in the good way.

I’m trying to understand why some people are so repulsed by public displays of affection.

What if the couple is attractive, which the PDA-type usually are, doesn’t that offer more reason to spy on them? It’s not so voyeuristic and creepy if the make-outers are already making spectacles of themselves, so we all win in the end.

Maybe people are only grossed out when the make-outers are not attractive. But is it really that disgusting that two unattractive people’s lips touch? I mean, one would have to be pretty stuck-up to avert their eyes and shout, “Get a room!” to a person who was just sitting there, being unattractive. But all of a sudden, the unattractive person's lips find another unattractive person’s lips and their tongues caress each other and it becomes unbearable for some.

Perhaps there is a surplus of love in the world, and these people who don’t smile when they see face sucking are just balancing the love-to-hate ratio. What nice people. I wonder if they also get excited and yell, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” every time two people get in scuffle at a party. Not that I’m against watching consenting adults beat the snot out of each other for fun, it just seems we don’t witness as much lust, passion and love as we should in this world. To stifle the few examples we get is a shame.

Suckerfish, what?

Believe it or not, in the days before my life was consumed with The Orion, I had a social life. I had enough free time to go out, have fun and make out with boys. Those times are long gone, but at least I have the memories.

Now, I wouldn't call myself promiscuous by any means, but I have kissed my fair share of guys. And, let's face it, some people are just not good kissers. Period. The most shocking aspect of it all is the variety of beso blunders

Here are some of my least favorite types.

The Sloppy Slobberer
In my experience this is the most common smooching sin. You go in for the kill, and you come away from it with a face covered in spit. The Sloppy Slobberer needs to get the saliva under control -- it's just gross, and it can't be healthy to lose so much fluid at once. To control the spit sitch, I'd recommend pulling back once in awhile and swallowing, and perhaps keeping a towel nearby would be helpful.

The Lizard Tongue
This kisser darts his or her tongue into their partner's mouth repeatedly, in a way that reminds me of a lizard. The lucky person on the end of this kiss should guard their tonsils, because they are surely to be speared by the pointy tip of the tongue. Now, no one wants to swap spit with a reptile. It's creepy. Please Lizard Tongue, slow down and relax. It will be a more enjoyable experience for all parties involved.

The Ashtray
No one can escape bad breath all the time, but kissing The Ashtray is the worst. Planting a smacker on a smoker makes me feel as if I just licked tar. Sexy? No. Please, if you smoke, carry breath mints or gum or, better yet, just quit.

The Biter
I am all about a little nibbling during a playful makeout session, but The Biter goes overboard. I was once kissing a guy, I guess he got really into it, and he bit me -- OUCH! I pulled away from his hunting-trap jaws and tasted blood. It was not a turn on. If you can't control the strength of your bites, you're better off not attempting them.

Kissing is fun, but everyone has different likes and dislikes, some prefer gentle pecks while others like deep and passionate smooches. My favorite kissers are the ones who play it by tongue -- and go with the flow. Don't be afraid to experiment, be sensual, and allow us to come up for air every once in awhile.

"Where were you" by Allen Jackson

It wasn't until my third period drama class that I actually found out what was going on. I had heard from my dad that morning that a plane had crashed into a building, and my second period teacher mentioned it. However, it wasn't until Mr. Dias brought out the TV that we actually got to see the crashes and understand that it wasn't just a plane into a building. It was the collapse of the tallest building in the U.S. and the death of thousands.

Since then, it hasn't really touched my life. I didn't know anyone in there, and I didn't know anyone who knew anyone there (at least that they told me). It was more the fact that it can still bring silence to a room, and it can still bring people to tears.

"Where were you" by Allen Jackson seems to typify what this weeks set of blogs are about. "Where were you when the world stopped turning, that September day?"

I was a freshman who didn't know anything about the world, but even I could understand the impact of the day.

9.11

In eighth grade I had no idea what The Twin Towers were. 

Yes, admitting this probably makes me look stupid but this is the truth.

I remember going to my science class early in the morning like I did every day of the week. Nothing seemed different except for when I walked into the classroom. There was complete silence. My teacher had one of the most depressing faces I had ever seen.

My teacher started to explain what had happened and honestly I had no idea what she was talking about. Obviously I knew what had happened was not good, but that was about it. Then we decided to turn on the news. Seeing live video of those towers burning was such an unearthly feeling. I will never forget that feeling.  The thing that I will always remember about this day is it's amazing how a tragedy can unite a country. I was fortunate enough to not have any family members or loved ones lost on that day. I can only imagine how it affects those people. Today I will try to think about how many people were affected on September 11th and how it has shaped our country.

I was running when I found out

My Sept. 11 experience was something that will always stay with me. It was a surreal day that seemed neither long nor short.

Everything started normally. I had to be at school at 7:30 a.m., so my alarm rang at 6, telling me it was time to run. I grabbed my shoes, my hand-held radio, put the ear buds in and took off running around the block.

As the sports geek I am, I wasn’t listening to music, I was tuned into KNBR 680, a sports station. It’s how I received the scores to games in high school, but on this day, it was different. As I took my first corner on the streets of Tracy, a somber voice came on.

Gary Radnich spoke slowly and confused.

“We are just getting word, a plane has hit the World Trade Center in New York,” Radnich said.

Almost instantly, the question was asked if it was on purpose. And for the next few minutes of my run that’s all what was said. No sports.

As the second tower was struck, I went spiriting home; I had to tell my parents. See, I had family by the Towers.

My cousin Kristen was a schoolteacher at the steps of the Towers. I knew she would be there, and I was worried. Luckily she was O.K.

As I arrived home, my parents were already gathered around the TV, I guess my uncle called. My mom and dad had their eyes glued to the TV as their mouths slowly drooped down. They were worried just as much as I was. But that wasn’t the worst.

I saw the Towers fall live. I was horrified, confused and any other horrible thing you can think of. I was just there, in that building a year earlier. I touched the globe out in front of the two majestic towers. It affected me more than I realized.

The rest of the day was somber and quiet. None of my freshman classmates knew what to say-- neither did my teachers, the faculty and my parents.

Instead, we just gathered around in silence, staring at the TV. In my 21 years I have never spent a day as quiet as that day, and I don’t ever expect to.

Anger boils down to sadness

On the morning of Sept. 11 I was angry.
I remember watching the news in the dark living room with my mom and dad. I can’t remember where my older brother was — he might have been sleeping. My dad sat stone cold in his chair. My mom cried.
Anger built up inside me — toward my mom — I couldn’t understand why she cried. Yet I know now and knew then that my mother is the type or person who cries during commercials. So I took comfort sitting next to my dad and being quiet.
I got mad at radio talk show hosts, anchors and the media in general for their coverage. I wasn’t a journalist at the time.
My best friend, who graduated from Chico State, called me and asked if I could stay home with her. My parents said no.
I walked into my first period junior English class to find the teacher and all the students sitting on the floor watching the news. It was a relief that I didn’t have to pretend Sept. 11 was just a normal day. However, our teacher made us write in our journal about how we felt. Later I read my entry, only to find rants of how our government brought on the attack.
At my second period “Algebra Two” class the teacher wouldn’t let us watch the news and made us do math. I was pissed.
That whole day I was putting the blame in the wrong place. I was 16. I was angry about a lot of things. Sept. 11 was so horrible I didn’t know how to show how upset I was, so I got angry.
Now I’m not so angry. I’m sad. I’m sad that thousands of Americans died that day, changing the lives of their families and friends. I’m sad that we started a war against Afghanistan, killing innocent people. I’m sad that we started a war against Iraq using false information and reasoning, killing even more innocent people. I’m sad that thousands of U.S. troops died in those wars.
I’m sad the U.S. governments and other countries didn’t learn as quickly as I did that they were pointing their fingers in the wrong direction.
Up to now I’ve been lucky — none of my family or close friends have gone to war in Afghanistan or Iraq nor have they died in terrorist attacks.
My cousin is scheduled to leave for Iraq, most likely before I’ll see him again.
I don’t support the government’s decision to start or continue the Iraq war, and I don’t support my cousin’s decision to join the Army during the war. But I still love him.
Now I’m just sad —and a bit angry — the government has taken Sept. 11 and used it to attack more buildings, more innocent people and create more grief.

9/11 Birthdays

I remember all the kids in high school who would get balloons and flowers on their birthdays. Walking into freshman history class, I remember feeling sorry for the girl who was moping in the corner because her birthday would now and forever be linked with the most tragic day in the history of our generation.

My birthday is on Sept. 13, two days after the event, and I remember it being very surreal those first couple of years, thinking that after such a life-impacting incident I would want to focus all the attention on myself. I think I actually cried the first year because I was so emotionally torn about whether to cancel my birthday party to pay respect for those who suffered so greatly.

No one in any of my classes today said anything about it being the 7th anniversary, and I think that we've become so used to the idea of "Patriot's Day" as just another mark on the calender. I can only wonder what it's like for all those who lost their loved ones in the Twin Towers and on those doomed planes.

Where is our sense of American unity and patriotism? Where's the moment of silence to honor the fallen? I can only hope that each Sept. 11 brings us closer as citizens of a united country than drives us deeper into the role as victims of terrorism

Seven years ago, I was taking the bus to school and a kid whom I had played baseball with stepped on and told the bus driver and me that the Twin Towers fell down. My first reaction was, “Huh, that’s weird.” I think that’s what the kid and bus driver were thinking, as neither seemed very shocked.

I had seen and heard about the towers before, but didn’t know what they were for or that they were the World Trade Center. It didn’t occur to me that there were so many people in the buildings because I assumed it happened before work hours.

Then, everyone at school was talking about it, but no one really knew what was going on. There was talk of bombs, war and hijackings, but no one had a radio, TV or newspaper so we just pieced together the little bits of information we collectively had.

In my third period English class, my teacher had us arrange our chairs in a circle and he explained what had happened and introduced us to the words “jihad” and “Islamic extremist.” The atmosphere grew dark, even though none of us knew what he was talking about.

By lunchtime, a few friends were certain that the country was going to war. By the time I got home, the name Osama bin Laden had started popping up, and my visiting grandparents were watching the news and told me the estimate of deaths. My grandmother, whom I had previously experienced only as a sweet old lady, began angrily telling me how much she hoped someone would kill bin Laden. The atmosphere was now very disturbing, and the rest of the day was a bit surreal.

It still doesn't feel like 2,800 miles

My brother Chris enlisted in the Army so he could support his family. The United States was not involved in any major "conflicts." I told him he was stupid for signing up. I was mad and frustrated because he was putting himself in danger. He promised me he would be OK.

He went to boot camp and did his basic training on the East Coast. He flew back to California in a fuel-loaded plane Sept. 10, 2001. It could have been him. He could have been in the plane that crashed. He was asleep with his wife when the attacks took place.

I stared at the television in horror as I saw smoke pouring from one of the towers. At that point only one had been hit, and they weren't sure if it had been done by accident or on purpose. Then a plane flew into the second tower.

It wasn't an accident.

I burst into tears. I was scared and I refused to go to school that day. I sat on the couch in horror. The news didn't get better. More planes crashed, and buildings tumbled to the ground. News stations kept playing the footage over and over again. No one could really believe this was happening to the most powerful country in the world.

I have lived on the West Coast for my entire life and even though the Sept. 11 attacks didn't happen physically near to me — in fact, the attacks happened more than 2,800 miles away — they certainly hit home hard.

People all across the U.S., and even the world, felt the pain. The hurt the nation felt unified it.

The nationalism we experienced drove the country to approve of a war it would not have approved under normal circumstances. We were angry, and we were looking for someone to blame. Patriotism, American flags and yellow ribbons plastered the country.

President George W. Bush declared war March 19, 2003. My brother was sent to Iraq later that month, and he was there for more than a year. He left his pregnant wife and 3-year-old twin sons behind to fight an unjust war. It's a war that is still being fought, and one that is still killing.

Sept. 11 was horrific, I don't think anyone can dispute that. But which is a greater tragedy, thousands of Americans getting killed in a terrorist attack or the government using the event as an excuse to invade a country that had nothing to do with the attacks?

Thousand of innocent Iraqis have been killed, along with American soldiers, and it all seems to be for nothing. Iraq is still in disarray and most Americans no longer support the war.

Is it going to take another tragedy to unify this country again?