Thursday, June 24, 2010

The Experiment


I made pizza tonight. With pasta. On top. As in my pizza was topped with pasta. And not just any pasta—that would be boring. I put Thai curry noodles on top, all spicy and gooey and great. I also chopped up a jalapeƱo and pulled it all together with a scattering of cheddar cheese on top. That makes me all original and adventurous, right? And maybe just a tad disgusting.
Sometimes I think I’m pregnant.

But it was pretty good. The pizza itself was a thin crust chicken alfredo one, and then my kung pao noodles. Please note that this entire experiment was done in secret.
Like I need my roommates to judge me.

I casually cooked the noodles first, nodding and laughing nervously as they assured me it smelled good. Then I pulled out the pizza, moving my workspace to the smallest corner which I could then stand in front of, keeping curious eyes away. I hastily unwrapped the pizza, dubiously dumping the noodles on top. I ate a few to keep up appearances. Finally, I threw it in the oven, shutting the door quickly and pretending nothing was going on. I guarded that oven like it was my life. I didn’t want anyone sneaking a peek. When it was time, I pulled it out and quickly cut it, not willing to let it cool. Because then it would be there for everyone to see. So I sliced it, stored half of it, and then carried the rest to my bedroom where I ate in silent shame. Still, it was good. Unnatural, and with some contradictory flavors, but good. And rather spicy.

I guess my fears of being found out as a pasta-pizza eater are gone. 
After all, here I am, bearing my perhaps-disturbing confession to the entire world. Now I will assuredly be judged. 
In my opinion, you are all just jealous

Friday, June 11, 2010

Near Death

I hate EFY.

Yesterday, as I left Creative Writing (Last day, too, so yay!), eager to get home, I ran into this river of EFY kids. They were choking the path, a never-ending line of children coming from somewhere and heading everywhere. And, you know how they have to link arms and huddle together in their little companies? Yes, well, it makes passing through very hard. I decide to walk through the library to try and pass them--embarrassing enough, having to go in one door, say hello to the guard, then straight out the other, ignoring the other guard's quizzical stare. Turns out it did me no good. There were just more of them on the other side. I have to walk with them. Gross. But it gets worse.

I finally get into the WILK only to be faced by a large group of them, crying and holding each other as music plays. I suddenly remembered: it was their testimony night. So I quietly get around them, trying not to giggle at the sniffling and handholding. Then there was another group. I have to scurry past them. I think I am finally free. But another group, still linking arms and marching, decide to turn down the very hall I have escaped to. They cut in front of me, pinning me against the wall. Suddenly I knew exactly what it was like to be caught between a rock and a hard place. They were my hard place. I was literally walking alongside them, beside a couple who looked at me all funny. They were checking to see if I had an EFY badge. No, I most certainly did not. But I felt like I was an EFY kid. The leader told us--me--to keep moving. It was mortifying. Finally, I see the stairs, shining like a light at the end of a dark, terrifying tunnel. I wait for a break--a few oblivious couples march past, squeezing against me--and then I make a break for it. I practically skipped down the stairs, I was so happy to be free. I felt like a football player, making it through all those X's and O's.

I just--I can't stand EFY. They take over campus like maggots to a corpse. Gross, I know. But true. I have had to dodge way too many frisbees, ignore too many cat calls, and tune out all the EFY chants and claps and cheers.

I think I am an efyianphobic. There should be a group or something to help me work through this before I lose all control and just start strangling them. 

Monday, June 7, 2010

The Attack of, Well, I Don't Even Know

MELISSA and I were leaving Centerville again (what is it--the fourth week in a row?) in the late morning hours of Sunday. We were just getting onto the freeway, happily discussing cheetos. Melissa flipped her head back, glancing upward and away as she prepared to make an educated comment. Instead, she screamed--squealed--shattering my eardrums. My flight response kicked in, but I had nowhere to go so I just hunched forward, pulling my legs up and falling into a panicked ball that would make a possum proud.

"What is it?" I shouted, while she hyperventilated in a high-pitched way.

"Don't look!" She shouted, pulling over with a suddenness that scared a passing car. I was cringing, not moving, imagining a killer rat or a poisonous snake wrapping around my headrest. She shouts at me to get out of the car. I do. She curses, rummaging through things. I do not see a rat. She pulls out my laundry bin, screaming and letting it fall quickly so she can jump back.

"My pillow case!" I complain. She laughs nervously.

Finally, I dare ask what it is. She says she saw a spider. Such a scream surely meant a tarantula or a black widow. But she described it as smaller than a quarter. Sure, it was nasty and I was not getting back in that car till it was destroyed, but I didn't understand the need for such a scream.

After fifteen minutes--yes, fifteen minutes parked on the side of the freeway, unpacking what we had just packed and finding nothing--I asked if it was possible that she was just insane. She didn't think so. But, after those fifteen minutes, she admitted that we had to go. I told her I would not get back in the car with the laundry right by my head (where she had seen the spider). So she packed everything in on her side. Such a nice sister. I sat with my feet curled under me and my purse on the dash. For a long while, it was qiuet, the air tight as Melissa kept looking back and forth, shuddering. I thought of how easily I could scare her--just a quick scream and pointed finger. But then I thought about her already-terrifying driving skills and how such an act would surely whip us to our deaths. So I refrained.

When we got home, I made her carry my laundry up to my apartment and go through each article of clothing until she was sure no spider was there, busy laying babies. We never found that spider. In anything. And I have never unpacked so meticulously, or nervously. When I was left to fend for myself concerning my suitcase, I uttered so many under-the-breath "omigosh" that my roommate stopped to ask if I was okay.

It was pretty crazy, and a bit embarrassing. But at least it was memorable. And, hey, I can always use it as proof of Melissa's questionable sanity. :)