It didn't really occur to me just how outdated my phone was until my mom decided I was now an "adult" and would be paying for my own cell phone bill. I had had the pink Motorola Razr since I was a senior in high school, a solid 5+ years. Now, if anything, I'd say it was a testament to the Razr's strength and durability that it held up as long as it did. It went with me to college, lived with me in Scotland, and even started my first real job with me. I'd become attached to my little pink flip phone. It could text, it never dropped calls, and it refused to break upon being repeatedly dropped (even in a puddle outside Nordstrom Rack during a pre-Holiday shopping frenzy). It was my little rosy confidante.
Or so I believed.
About a month ago I was invited to a global 5C happy hour in the city. At this point in my post-Pomona life, turning down a social invitation was (and is) not an option. No matter how far, I was without a doubt hauling ass to the city for the chance to mingle with people my own age. If I was lucky, maybe I'd be able to reminisce with someone about the glory that is Pub and the joy only fellow Pomona-ians could know when they check mymail and know they've received an email security alert warning them of flashers or flying tortillas.
The trip to the city was simple enough. I got turned around walking from the train to the bar but only overshot it by a block. And the happy hour was pleasant and worth the $4.50 L fare. I saw some old friends I hadn't seen since May and the beer only cost me $2.00. Overall, I'd say I was coming out ahead.
Now before we get any further, let me fill you in on a not-so-secret secret of mine: I love taking the "L". Where other people may have thought it exciting and grown up half a decade ago, the novelty still hasn't worn off for me. Perhaps this is where things took a turn for the worse. Over-eager to get back on the gritty train, taking Chicago's public transit by storm, heading north towards Suburbia, I got on the Red Line around 8 PM, which should have taken me North and back home in under an hour.
I chose a seat towards the back of one of the cars and pulled out the latest issue of Cosmo, scrolled through my iTunes to Willow Smith, and waited for the train to leave. I glanced up a few times in between articles and noticed that the train was traveling along the highway. To anyone else even remotely aware of the geography of the city of Chicago or of the CTA's routes, this should have been wholly alarming. I, on the other hand, chocked it up to a change of routine. I figured we had to be going North (though on what basis I believed that, I couldn't tell you), and went back to reading. It was only after about twenty more minutes and the lack of white, underaged hipster-looking Northwestern students on the train did I realize that I was horribly, horribly mistaken. At that moment, the train came to a stop and four college-aged guys entered all wearing Sox gear. Oh, sh*t.
I was at Comiskey.
For those of you who don't know, or who are not from Chicago, instead of heading North I was heading very, very Southwest and to not the friendliest of areas. While silently panicking, I gathered up my things and bolted through the doors before they could close. There I found myself standing, in what I now decided had been poorly-chosen bright pink high heels, on a raised platform in the middle of a four lane highway. All of the stranger danger lessons I had been taught in the first grade came rushing through my mind: don't get into strange cars with tinted windows, only go to houses with the happy McGruff dog in the window, don't eat the homemade Halloween candy! Crap, clearly my knowledge would be a waste here.
Then I realized I had my phone. Whipping out (and flipping open) my pink Razr I was immediately filled with a sense of impending doom. In my time of desperation, my phone could provide me with literally nothing. The most it could do was call 911, but with my obscenely poor sense of direction, how would I even be able to tell them where I was? And that's when I realized: I had been abandoned. Left in the cold to fend for myself, my phone was no asset to me. Texting my college roommate wasn't going to save me from my inevitable kidnapping that would occur if I stayed on this platform much longer. I looked down at my pink Razr, the phone that had been with me through so much, the phone I had refused to believe was useless when everyone was telling me to upgrade, and I whispered,
"You little bitch."
This past weekend, I got the new iPhone. And it has Google Maps.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Top 5 Reasons Why Fall is My Fav Season
1. aka Autumn
It has a formal alter-ego, how bada** is that? In my book Fall (or Autumn..) runs along the lines of James Bond or other things that society has deemed "cool" and I'll go along with but don't really know all that much about.
2. Football
Now, there are few sports I know less about than football. To me, football seems like just a bunch of huge men pushing against each other and not really ever getting anything done. Terms like "3rd down" and "1st and 8" mean absolutely nothing to me, so it might seem strange that football is in my top 5 list. The very simple explanation? Football jerseys. They're cute, on guys too, but especially on girls. And let's be real, I'm 23, so trying to look cute is like the second thing I think of when I wake up in the morning... Though I have yet to buy myself a jersey.
Go bears.
3. Pumpkins
And here is where I begin to let on just how far my obsession goes. Pumpkins are great. I love them. If someone said to me, there's this vegetable that we carve funny faces into and then make into delicious pies, of course i'd be smitten. This is why it continues to be very important to me to obtain a pumpkin every Fall in one way or another. Since this year I was home for October for the first time in four years, I thought it a great opportunity to spend some quality time with my mother at a pumpkin patch. The suggestion went something like this:
"Mom, don't make plans for this Sunday... We're going pumpkin picking!" I waited for her response, what I assumed would be elation, an exclamation of joy, laughter, glee..
Instead I received nothing less than a blank stare. Was she even listening?
"Mom... did you hear me? Can we go to a pumpkin patch this weekend?" At this point I think my mother realized she was no longer dealing with a sane almost-adult, but rather an 8 year old trapped in a 23 year old's body.
''... Okay honey, we can do that.''
"Mom, get ready to MAKE SOME FAMILY MEMORIES!!" I shouted, fist pumped, and skipped off to my room.
Sunday couldn't come soon enough. When we arrived, I could hardly contain myself. Every time I looked around I saw something better: Cows! Roosters! Gourds! A HAY MAZE!!!!!!!!!! I almost wet myself. After 20 minutes of going in, out, and back in the hay maze again, my mother suggested we move to the pumpkin patch and away from the hay. Was it worry I heard in her voice?
And there it was, in all its glory: The Pumpkin Patch. It didn't even phase me that this "pumpkin patch" consisted of only about five dozen already-picked pumpkins in three piles, which were located in what seemed to be a gravel driveway. No, I didn't care. there was no longer anything standing between me and those orange orbs of love (....). Well, actually, there were - there were others as ruthless as myself and as deadset on getting the perfect pumpkin.
...Yeah, I was a bit out of place. And yeah, I may have beat the jealous looking biddy to the right to the best pumpkin of the bunch. But at the end of the day it was mine, and that's all that matters... to me.
4. Things that are scary
One summer when I was going into sixth grade I decided that it would be my goal to watch every horror movie in Blockbuster (dream big, kids). That said, it's no surprise that I like things that are (or try to be) scary. Really, any attempt is appreciated. I'll be first in line at a haunted house (if they weren't so GD expensive) and Stephen King may or may not be one of my favorite authors. It's a little ridiculous, this obsession. But I have fond memories of the first time I saw the heartwarming slasher-thriller... Scream.
5. Halloween
The final and most obvious of all is Halloween. Second only to Christmas, Halloween is the one day a year when you can dress up as whatever you want. Traditionally, the costumes are supposed to be "scary" creatures: witches, ghosts, zombies. And no, I'm not going to say Halloween is an excuse for me and my friends to skank it up (though I secretly have always kind of wanted to buy one of those "adult" costumes in a bag - how conveniently slutty!) On the contrary... there's a tremendous amount of pressure to have, all at the same time, an original, cute, funny (and girls can never REALLY be funny... think about it), charming costume.
For years, the pressure has proved to be too much. I've been part of group costumes since high school, and although we have high hopes of choosing the perfect group theme and outfit, it almost always looks - for lack of a better word - disgusting. Let's take my senior year of high school, for instance. Now, I have no idea how we got this idea in our heads but we definitely did NOT want to be slutty but we NEEDED to be ... manly. Assuming we could wear boy-ish clothes and look cute, we decided to be the characters from the Sandlot. Really an adorable idea, right?
Wrong.
In our baseball tees and denim hats (of which mine seems to be incredibly too small) we resembled moreso an offensive word for stereotypical female field hockey players than the endearing boys of The Sandlot. Other years have proved to be even less successful: construction workers, "fighters", robots... But the magical thing about Halloween is that there's always great anticipation and hope. Hope that your undoubtedly unflattering costume doesn't make you look as masculine as the year before.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Not Another Teen Blog
Okay, I admit. It is – although I’m no longer a teen (and haven’t been for four years) and I am new to this whole “blogging” idea. I tried it briefly when I studied abroad during college but it got tedious and boring. So the idea for this blog is to do just the opposite: not be tedious and boring.
As a post-grad myself, living at my mother’s house, moments after eating a meal she prepared for me and sitting in my childhood bed, I’ll keep you updated as I try to make sense of this thing I’m apparently living in… better known as “the real world.”
As a post-grad myself, living at my mother’s house, moments after eating a meal she prepared for me and sitting in my childhood bed, I’ll keep you updated as I try to make sense of this thing I’m apparently living in… better known as “the real world.”
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