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.