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Monday, February 28, 2005

Rodent Update #3

I woke up this morning to the sounds of two building maintenance guys combing through my living room for mouse evidence.
Maintenance Guy #1: I found a nice-sized mouse hole over here!
Maintenance Guy #2: I got one here, too.
Maintenance Guy #1: But this one has their mailbox out front.

That was comforting. But, at least their mailbox isn't right under my bed. Actually, it might be, because one of the maintenance guys said that the carpeting around our beds is raised and they need to remove the radiator to look into this situation. In the meantime, they gave me glue traps, and a gooey death awaits any mouse that might dare venture near my laundry hamper again.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Die, evil rodents

Ok, I was totally ready to accept sharing my room with mice. They're small, they're cute, they don't take up much space or require much food. They make irritating shuffling sounds in the evenings, but I can deal. But then, today, as I was folding my laundry, I discovered that the filthy vermin had eaten half my underwear. That was so not cool. I need my underwear. They are not an optional fashion accessory.

We had an agreement here, furries. I would mind my business if you minded yours. You were even free to chomp on the trash, since I certainly wasn't about to eat it. You were NOT free to chomp on my undergarments. Since you've now violated your side of this agreement, you've lost perhaps the most accomodating human hostess you'll ever encounter. And I'm not even a member of PETA. But now, we are officially at war. I have filed a work order requesting your destruction. So enjoy your last days, evil, bewhiskered, beady-eyed rodents. You're going down. My underwear shall be avenged.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Rodent Update

So, unless Roommate Carolyn has shrunk into a three-inch midget that makes shuffling sounds around our trash can, we definitely have mice. I'm not so much disgusted by co-habiting with cute, furry rodents as I am annoyed that they won't respect quiet hours with their incessant shuffling and let me write my essay in peace.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

I'm so smart that I read in my sleep

I keep falling asleep in the Reg, but I dream that I'm getting all this work done, so I have no incentive to wake up because I've convinced myself that I'm being totally productive as it is...and so warm and comfortable.

Mitch Hedberg tonight. Then more homework. When are timeschedules coming up for next quarter? I'm so bored of this one.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Side effects of grade inflation

So I got a B on a sosc paper this afternoon. And I looked at the grade, and then I looked at my professor, and I looked at the grade, and I was like, "Excuse me??? I am Rita! You do not give me B's!" And then, I immediately couldn't believe that I would even have such a thought. It's not just my grades that are being inflated here; I think my already excessive ego is falling victim too.

Julia: It's the hookah of life.
Me: No, it's the hookah of love.
Julia: Why?
Me: Well, actually, it's probably the hookah of lung cancer, but also the hookah of love.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Greek mice

This morning, I got up at 4 am to the novel thwonking of Roommate Carolyn throwing stuffed animals at my head. I'd been up until 3 am anyway studying in futility for my Greek midterm, and then proceeded to fall into one of those sleeps of the neurotic that consist of watching noun declensions and verb conjugations whiz by in your dreams. These are fragile sleeps--at any moment, you might awaken and start compulsively reciting the paradigm for imperfect verb endings (ov, es, e, omen, ete, on, omehn, ou, eto, ometha, osthe, onto--in case you were wondering). So I awoke after a very large stuffed chicken thing landed on me, and immediately launched into silent article paradigms. Roommate Carolyn informed me that she had seen a mouse in our room. I thought, "Mouse. It's kind of like tous, which is the accusative plural masculine article." Then I thought, "Mouse? Do I care if there is a mouse in my room at 4 am so long as it's not eating my face? I think not." Then I thought, "Sleep. Greek. Sleep." Then Roommate Carolyn asked that I return her stuffed animals, which were now nesting comfortably in my covers. I think I must have thrown them somewhere, since they weren't in my bed when I woke up again this morning. And I have yet to see the mouse. But, if I do, I'll see to it that we have a new pet.

But, whatever, I failed my Greek midterm anyway.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Etiquette lessons

When I was in junior high, I had this teacher who was like seriously out to get me. I know that lots of kids say this to justify the disciplinary action taken against them, and to lay the blame on some creepy psychosis of the teacher rather than their own innate assholeness. But I'm not like them. I'll admit that I was a huge asshole. But this woman was also totally out to get me. I've mentioned her briefly before in a couple of essays, but allow me to return to the topic because it bears some relevance on my current dilemma.

So this woman--who was like totally out to get me--would seize upon any excuse she could muster to drag me out of class and into the hallway, where she could lecture me about my many personal failings and paint me very vivid pictures of my life's trajectory, which usually started out at something like frequent tardiness to homeroom and invariably ended in poverty, misery, and death as a friendless alcoholic in a gutter. She would actually go to the office and calculate the number of tardies and absences I had racked up to make her point all the more authoritative. Aside from my various failings in the arena of regular and prompt school attendence, she enjoyed harping on my lack of "basic etiquette." If I passed her in the hall without saying hello, I would immediately be taken aside and chastised for my gross transgression against the fundamental laws of human decency, of which all the other students seemed to be in perfect possession (like the boys who would compulsively scratch their balls in public, for example). If I failed to say thank you when she handed me back a paper, it was out in the hall for me. And so on. It never occurred to her that the reason I ignored her in hallway and failed to thank her in class was because I HATED HER. Eventually, however, she devised a plan so brilliant that it surpassed all other forms of torture that had come before it--the rack, thumbscrews, a bed of nails--nothing even came close to her cruel plan: she was going to give me etiquette lessons. After school. One-on-one.

It was all I could do not to piss myself on the spot. Except, I had by this time become quite familiar with the legal aspects of what teachers could and could not do with us fragile young twigs. In fact, by the age of 10, I was fluent in the meanings of the term, "unpedagogical," and regularly conveyed this knowledge to my teacher. I only later learned that "unpedagogical" was not actually a word. But I think she got my point. Regardless, I knew that she could not keep me after school involuntarily, especially not to teach me how to curtsy. So, in my sophisticated and mature 12-year-old way, I responded, "Nuh-uh. You can't make me stay after if I don't wanna. That's illegal and unpedagogical."

She knew I was pretty much right, but this hardly dampened her enthusiasm at invoking the threat during every one of our subsequent hallway lectures. Even Anus and Dale took a cue from her, and apparently schemed to put forged notes in my locker informing me that a time and place had been set for my etiquette lessons, and reminding me to attend. I had such good friends in junior high. Thanks, guys.

Ultimately, nothing ever came of the etiquette lessons, and, as far as I can tell, I am not yet headed for a life of poverty, misery, and friendless alcoholism (though I understand that these all may result from a liberal arts degree, so I should not jump to any premature conclusions). However, the problem of my disastrous lack of tact remains. It was one thing to be mean to teachers I hated, but it also happens that I am frequently accidentally mean to those I like. And then I have to apologize, tactfully, which is just another opportunity to accidentally be rude. And it's like a cycle in which I keep kicking myself in the ass until it hurts to sit down.

So now I'm thinking that maybe I should get back in touch with my spawn of Satan teacher and take her up on her offer.