Adventure Dating

The last month or so I have been engaging in activities with Frank that we have so creatively dubbed adventure dating. These activities may include anything that is not your typical going to the movies, going out to eat, moonlight walks on the beach with a rose in your teeth guiding a white stallion (which may very well be confused for a unicorn) by his reigns kind of date.

Trying to stay away form the typical date doldrums can be hard, but Frank and I are trying to break out of the norm. Stuffy formal dates are just weird for everyone, so why not do something when you could potentially make an ass out of yourself right off the bat? Instead of sitting at a table praying that you don’t have something on your face, you worry about potentially busting your ass while running away from a haunted house, which was my initial fear when we went on our first adventure date to a haunted house outside of Falun. He said he had been here before, so I followed his lead as we parked and walked up through the trees. The decrepit, well hidden old house still had a little fence around it, clothes line up, etc. and as we walked into the house there were a few clothing items strewn across the floor. It was really pretty scary, so using that as an excuse to hold Frank’s hand, I did, and we walked into the house together. After exploring a bit, looking at the 50’s era wallpaper and trying to avoid falling through the cracks of the floor, we thought about going upstairs, but, as I looked up the stairs and saw the dark rooms, I lost my balls and we decided to leave. It was a little too Amityville horror for my taste. After leaving, devoid of any ghostly encounters, we headed back to my house, and proceeded to pursue more ghostly encounters. I had a really good time, and I can truly appreciate how the whole I’m-trying-to-be-cool-and-look-interested-but-not-too-interested-thing doesn’t really apply when you’re afraid that one of the gates of hell will open up and swallow you. Adventure dating is awesome.

The next of our adventure dates followed an evening that we spent at a wedding in Winfield. The wedding was pleasant enough, and the reception was similar to many other wedding receptions, full of awkward conversation and even more awkward dancing. For me, just dancing within itself is an adventure enough, especially when I haven’t had enough to drink. Nothing gets my adrenaline going more than being the white chick with the poofy hair trying to look like I’m not convulsively seizing on the dance floor. At any rate, after shotgunning a beer and hitting the sack, we made it back to central Kansas and had quite the adventure date the next day.
When I talked to Frank on the phone on date day, we were deciding what to do- were we going to fish at my pond or his? Finally, he said, “Wanna go snorkeling?” Thinking he was joking, assuming that we would indeed be fishing, I said in my normal fashion, “Why, I would love nothing more!” Little did I know that he was serious. So we met up, went to his pond, strapped on some goggles, stripped down, and slipped into the moss covered mucky mess that was our snorkeling destination. After swimming for awhile, we got out and went to another pond where we did much of the same, however spending more time outside of the water than inside, getting more freckles and trying not to get stripey tan lines.

The most recent of our adventures was a camping and fishing trip to another one of Frank’s ponds. After simultaneously watching an episode of Rivermonsters while 100 miles apart and discussing what occurred during commercial breaks, we were inspired to try and catch catfish using a bar of soap. With that in mind, alcohol in the trunk, a giant kitchen knife sheathed in duct tape (to defend us from the Prairie Bears, of course), and a can of chew, we were on our way. When we reached his pasture, we set up my awesome tent (or more or less, Frank set up my awesome tent while I was standing in his way and occasionally copping a feel to make things more difficult), and Frank got a fire started. Being the extreme campers that we were, we brought an air mattress along to sleep on for the night, but the pump needed to be charged for 12 hours before using it, which of course we didn’t do. So, after airing up the mattress with an air compressor at his grandparent’s house and strapping it on the top of my car with duct tape we rode off into the night to meet up with our friends at the campfire.
While we were standing by the campfire, Frank took a dip. Since I had never tried chew, Frank took it upon himself to show me how to take one. After watching the proper technique and wanting to get on Frank’s “level”, I took a dip. At first, it was just a tingly sensation with a lot of grit and a lot of spit. In the first 5 minutes, it gave me the pleasant sensation of just being tipsy without the excessive volume of alcohol. However after about 10 minutes, it went straight from the fun tipsy phase to the, “Oh shit. I don’t want to go to sleep because the room is spinning” phase. Not so fun. Taking out the dip and rinsing my mouth out with beer, Frank and I laid beside the fire on the mattress, talked childhoods, looked at the stars, and let the buzz wear off. Perfect evening.

Really, this delve into Adventure Dating has been exciting. It allows the superficial first impression stage to lay by the wayside and your true personality to come out…plus, it gives you an excuse to stay in a tent.



A rare breed- Prairie Bear or, Prairieus Ursus maritimus, was discovered in 1666 by Coronado himself.

Angst

So once again I had to perform travesty that calls itself RA duty weekend. My first weekend, although lonely and without food, wasn’t unbearable, so I expected the same, or better, from this weekend. However, I was sorely mistaken. I was really excited because my friend Frank was coming to see me and I probably spent the 48 hours prior to his arrival making ready my place of residence so as to not shock and appall the lovely creature. Although, the effing gigantic bag of trash, with two decorative side trash bags was not taken out, but was hiding behind our door for nearly a week even after Frank had left. Something about walking that extra 40 feet to put them in the dumpster struck the roommate and myself as something undesirable, and we left it until the moment right before they started smelling like a zombie corpse to take it out. Anywho, in my excitement for my visitor, I neglected to see if there were any conferences checking into the residence halls this weekend, but even so, I figured it’d be about 50 people max, and I might get a few calls here and there. Mmm. Wrongo. Little did I know that 300 people were going to check into this bitch for a Methodist conference, and I was the babysitter for them all.

Checking people in to the residence halls always comes with a few calls from the desk personnel and randomly forgotten keys, but nothing like the apocalypse that was 6/18/10. Oh no. From 5 o’clock that Friday evening until noon that Sunday I was playing maid for these people, and not the cool French kind, like the “you’re going to be my bitch because I can make you, and you can’t do shit about it” kind. Between the appallingly incompetent (did I say incompetent? Because I think absolutely retarded would be a nice accessory to that descriptor) desk worker who happened to be working that whole weekend and the, “Hey you, I locked my keys in my room” I’m certain I received at least 40 calls. I don’t think I get 40 calls in a month. I’m just throwing this out there, the week before, we had 100 handicapped kids in here, all with keys of their own, and you want to know how many calls I got on my regular duty night? Zero. Some of these kids were blind, mentally retarded, paraplegic, etc., and they could handle their freaking keys. Why couldn’t these people attending the so-called Methodist “conference” (I’d like to know where the conference part came into play, because I just think all 300 were in the fucking lobby the whole time, plucking keys on the piano and talking way too loud so I couldn’t get anything done) handle themselves? I don’t know. I don’t think God knows. Perhaps Lady Gaga does.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind unlocking doors for people. That’s my job. But this was a constant issue. I had consistent calls, one or 2 an hour on average, from 5 p.m. that Friday until 2:30 Saturday morning, and then again at 6:30 Saturday morning until about 9 p.m. Saturday evening. I wouldn’t normally be so angsty about the situation, but this became a bit of a joke for the people staying here. By the end of the weekend, they were saying that they didn’t recognize me because it “wasn’t 2 in the morning,” and amongst the various cat calls of “Hey girl!” I had people telling me how tired I looked. Screw you all. I mean, it’s super safe walking around campus at 1 in the morning by yourself in your pajamas; in fact, the real possibility of getting raped is a real gas!

When I thought everything had calmed down, and the Christian campers had finally mastered the novel thought that is “Keys” (first introduced by Plato in 301 BC), I once again hear the subtle tones resonating from the RA duty phone at about 2:30 a.m. It was the Asshat who lives in the basement of the dorms. He lost his key. Joy. But, alas, I did make my way back up to the LLC, clad in my Batman boxers, Birkenstocks, and half shirt to let him in with little hatred in my heart, passing little judgment as I saw he was adorned in a wife beater and plaid plants standing in the pouring rain.

That following Sunday morning, Incompetard was yet again working at the front desk, and was supposed to be there at 6:45 a.m. for campers to begin checking out. Of course, my superiors had failed to inform me that it was my responsibility to unlock the desk at that time, and during that same time frame, the RA phone had also decided to stop ringing. So, whilst I was enjoying my first hours of slumber in awhile, Smarty McSmart Pants was desperately trying to get a hold of me to unlock the desk so he could begin checkout. I did not receive a call until 7:45. He was trying to call me for an hour on that phone. Apparently it didn’t register to him that the 35 times he had talked to me the 2 previous days of the weekend that I was still the RA on duty. He didn’t try my cell phone. He sat like the complete clueless chump that he is on the outside of the desk area, waiting until the RA phone magicked itself back to life, for me to unlock the desk area. Funny thing is, you can jump over the desk, turn on the lights, and have access to everything you need for checkout without the RA unlocking anything. Did Incompetard do this? Of course not. He sat on the other side of the desk on a bench. For an hour. Waiting for me to hold his hand. Even funnier, he was using the phone from the front desk to call me. He was literally sitting on the desk, not climbing over and using the company phone. I hate stupid people.

Anyways, after the whole checking out thing was over, Tardman stopped working, and everything calmed down…until midnight. When lightning struck my building, my room precisely, and the power went out and fried lots of electronics. Officer Farva came to investigate, and we were reunited once again. <3 I can hardly wait until my next duty weekend arrives.

Home Time

I feel as if I’ve been a Debby Downer in my first posts- a bit of a Negative Nancy if you will, (and I think you will), so I thought this would be a bit lighter. I have had the great fortune, as of late, to spend lots of time around the homeland. I do so enjoy spending time with my family, which includes: my mom, who totally kicks ass (by the way), my older brother who is a bit of a superhero/freak of nature, and I mean that in the best of ways, my little brother who is getting cooler by the day and never ceases to amaze me on how well he can snake his way out of physical activity, my sister, the fashionista and mini-me, and my father, the random blues listening, gun toting, carpenter of a dentist. It is quite the adventure each time I traverse back home, and I never know what I’ll be up to. Sometimes it’s something like mowing the grass, other times it’s shooting guns. Life in the boondocks isn’t as boring as you’d think.

I’ve also been lucky enough to spend ample time around my hilarious and wonderful friend Cooper. We try to take it upon ourselves to do the whitest things imaginable whenever possible, and I would say that he is the utmost authority on white things in which to participate. Last weekend, we spent his birthday in rubber boots fishing on a boat in the middle of a pond. Yesterday, in traditional, Midwestern white folk fashion, we made peanut butter balls, walked around my house (because he hadn’t been back there before), found mulberry trees, rode four wheelers to get them, made a mulberry pie (It's safe to say that Cooper's new name will be Betty Crocker), and played catch outside with a baseball. I really don’t know why we played catch, because neither of us played baseball/softball, nor are we any good, however it seemed appropriate at the time. He was using a right handed glove when he is left handed, so the throws that were exchanged were exquisite, to say the least. Or, as he so eloquently described it with a lilt in his voice, "I look like like I'm a homo waving goodbye to a boyfriend in the distance!" When the time came for us to part, we took the pie out of the oven (I made sure that he took a piece of our delicious pie to his fox of a dad,) and he traveled off into the horizon that is Little Sweden, USA. I will miss him, but I will see him sooner than a 35-year-old virgin says “Oops! I swear that’s never happened before. This is way better than anime.” on a first date.

I also have been fortunate enough to have made a new friend who I very much enjoy spending time with. We spent lots of the weekend and previous week together, and it has just been quite the adventure filled with various fits of narcolepsy and ghost hunting. It’s nice getting to know someone new who hasn’t heard all of my stories (yet) and can feign interest in what I’m up to. I look forward to spending more time together soon. Also, my other best friend returns back to the United States, and I couldn’t be more excited. I have missed her so much. It will be good to get some dudey girl talk on again. She is like my other weird half, who I would never go a little gay for, despite our open affection. To be reunited will be so wonderful.

What can I say? In a nutshell, life is good.

Country Music

There are few things in life that I despise as much as country music. Those things being tomatoes, feet, and stupid people. That being said, when you’re from central Kansas, it’s impossible to avoid those terrible sound abominations that never fail to float my way via musical waves that make me want to stab my ear drums, and then stab others’ in case they were not able to “save themselves” from the blasphemy that calls itself music. (That was quite the run on sentence, if I do say so myself). I suppose my hatred comes from having to listen to the same mind-numbing 4 chord songs about ’Merica and gettin’ druunk in the local saloon. Who calls it a saloon anymore anyways? Funny thing, I thought they were called bars now. Anyhoo, I also find it terribly annoying that the people doing the singing often don’t practice what they are so soulfully droning about. The hilarity of watching a 5’6” Kenny Chesney singing about his down home way of life while wearing puka shells and standing on a beach gets me every time.

Another aspect of country music that drives me batty, besides the annoying guitar and self imposed artificial southern drawl, of course, is the constant whining. Although the whining vocals do compliment the whiny guitar, I really don’t want to spend my time listening to people bitching about how their lives are horrible. Really, if your life is that bad, stop complaining about everything, quit singing, and get shit done, because apparently this whole country music career isn’t making you happy. I also find it hard to believe, that Toby Keith or some other asshole wearing a cowboy hat has been working overtime at the plant. Seriously. You know he’s sitting in his mansion writing another hit song about cows, and only dons the Canadian tuxedo when it’s concert time. I really feel like there’s more to life than beer, dogs, trucks, hunting, and that whore of a wife who took everything in the divorce. Let’s get original, people.

Perhaps I don’t like it because I grew up with it or I’ve been trying to be original. All I know is that that music is worse than listening to a 2 hour commencement speech by Fran Drescher. Maybe it stems from my years of working at the pool. As if it didn’t suck enough to be stewing in my own sweat, screaming at little kids, and ensuring that I will eventually get skin cancer, I was forced to listen to it all day long- sometimes for 11 hours. Delicious. Who really knows? Now whatever is an overly opinionated girl to do when she makes the trip back to the central Kansas homeland full of twang and drawl? Continue to boycott country music, thank sweet baby Jesus for iPods, and move on with life are the only things I can think of.

RA duties

Basically, this was inspired by friends and fueled by the absolute stagnation that is being the summer RA. When one is on RA duty, their duties consist of, but are not limited to: unlocking doors when residents lock themselves out, nightly rounds for security, locking up residence halls, and being on call all night for the disposal of drunken noisy residents when they just can’t fit the key in the hole. You would think the key itself was some sort of mysterious trinket with dark magic that they have not mastered, and only the RA possesses at 3 am. I am the Lord of the Keys- perhaps a Jedi of sorts. What all of that really means is sitting on your ass waiting to be called for something to do. You aren’t allowed to leave campus, nay, you aren’t allowed to leave residential living complexes whilst on duty, so you’re left counting ceiling tiles until you’re needed. Good God, what am I to do all summer? I’ve only been on duty 4 nights and I’m about to succumb to the darkness that RA life can offer. To pass the time I’ve been alternating doing lunges, pushups, etc. in my room, with reading my dragon book, and repeatedly slamming my head into the wall because it “feels so good when I stop.” There are only so many episodes of Law and Order one can watch without being tempted to replicate one of the crimes with vicious regard out of sheer boredom and excess pent up energy from sitting with my thumb up my ass all weekend. The doldrums of this weekend were not helped by the total lack of food in my apartment. Being the lady and scholar that I am, I bought groceries like milk, lunch meat, and butter, forgot that I had tucked them away into a bag while I was moving in, and left them out all night. That being said, I had nothing to eat all weekend but frozen vegetables, potatoes, peanut butter, and dry cereal. My old roommate jacked my cooking pot, so I wasn’t even able to make Ramen noodles. Clearly, I lived the life of a champion.

Nightly rounds while on RA duty are another topic entirely. The majority of Residential Living staffers at any one time are female. This is all fine and dandy, as females are generally more excited about bulletin boards and cookie parties than men- excluding the gay ones, of course. I think gay men would make FABULOUS (Insert effeminate token gay voice) RAs. However, the 11 pm and 1 am rounds are a bit much. We are to patrol all of the residence facilities in great detail, shutting off the lights, and making sure there are no bad guys out to get residents. Now you tell me, what sounds good about a freckly, blond, former Swedish Dancer walking around a dark campus by herself in Topeka, Kansas? We are given a 3 ring binder, set of 2 keys on a lanyard, and a cell phone. What in the hell can I do about security issues? Am I to text the homeless rapist to death, perhaps Frisbee his head off by flinging my notebook at his jugular? Or maybe the sheer authority that I command in my duck pajama shorts and flip flops sends them running in a cold sweat with fear in their hearts. I can only imagine it’s the latter. My unease is not helped by one of the police officers telling me that crime on campus goes up during the summer because criminals off campus run on campus to hide from the real police. What does that say about our campus cops? We were told we could call the campus police to escort us around at night, but honestly, what is 5’4” bike cop lady going to do that I can’t? Perhaps the infamous Officer Farva from Super Troopers look-alike will come to my aid, thinking that if he saves me, he will finally get that piece of college ass that he has been working toward for so long. Oh well, a guy can dream, I suppose.

This is Officer Farva. You may have seen him around campus. Or maybe not, because he usually reserves his time for creeping on female desk assistants at 2 a.m.