The Underground Devil

SORRY WE'VE MOVED

http://undergrounddevil.wordpress.com

see ya there!

College is Turning Me into a Pretentious Snob, and I Like It

When I was but a wee 8th grader, my parents took my brother and me to Paris for Spring Break. My mother and father appreciated everything, my brother appreciated the availability of crepes at midnight, and I appreciated jack. (Sorry, Mom.) We wandered through the halls of hallowed art museums in our non-tourist, completely polite American clothes staring at walls filled with artwork. The Musee D'Orsay, The Louvre. I recall seeing the Mona Lisa. And a naked lady in a shell. A naked lady with a huge ass.

Five years after that underappreciated trip to the City of Lights, I began the new chapter of my life called "Small Liberal Arts College". My english courses built up my feeling of superiority, which was then knocked down a few pegs by my science and language courses. My college radio show then fueled the fire for my ego, as I constantly proved to myself that yes, I do have better taste in music than you. And everyone you know. But what would be the one topic that could catapault me over the bar for "Sophisticated, Pretentious, Knowledgeable College Student?" C'est simple! Art & Art History 102: Introduction to Art History.

Every other day I sat in a lecture hall kept at Arctic temperatures and endured over 600 slides of great works of art. (Why they kept the temperature quite so frigid and dry was beyond me, as there were no actual works of art to be protected. Just poor photographs of them.) I memorized dates, and periods, and names, and paintings until I dreamed of Carvaggio. I wrote a paper comparing paintings. I flipped through the exorbitantly priced textbook, breathing in its acrid scent and running my fingers over the glossy pages.

Occasionally, I paid attention in class.

My complete determination to bullshit my way through what was quite possibly the easiest class known to man paid off. With a B+ average on proud display, and a 15 lb textbook to carry home, I tossed my hair, and smirked with my superiority.

Seeing paintings in films, I could correctly identify the artist and the work of art. Even the time period. Most recently, in the horrificly written though admittedly exciting novel The Da Vinci Code, I am proud to say I pick up on the importance of the paintings far more impotant than the philistines of the world. When it was mentioned a charcter wished to purchase a Boucher for his home, I laughed aloud, knowing that only people with very little taste purchase Bouchers for anything other than collection. I understood the great horror of seeing a Carvaggio on the floor.

All these verifications of my clear superiority put a smile on my face. Deep down inside, I enjoy knowing that I am better than you.

And that painting of the lady with the posterior is Boticelli's "Birth of Venus".

And I'm really not better than you, but I like to think so, anyway.

Loathe Though I am to Quote Billy Joel I'm "Movin' Out!"

Ladies and gents, my time here with blogger has come to a close.

Farewell.

No, just kidding. I had you scared there for a second though. I am however, moving sites.
You can now find this incredibly attractive and cynical college student at
http://undergrounddevil.wordpress.com

It's a tricky switch, I know, but bare with me.

Just in case you forget, I'll be posting identical posts on both pages for a while. With a note that you really shouldn't be reading the post on blogger.

See you there, kiddies.

Physical Therapy, Early Mornings, and Jesus

For those of you better aquainted with my personal life, as of recently I've had problems with my shoulder. First, I went to my primary physician, who sent me to an orthopedist, who sent me to a physical therapist. (A word for physical therapists - they are 10 times smarter than the orthopedist.) This morning, at the lovely late hour of 7 AM, I had my second phyiscal therapy appointment.

I had a different therapist than my first visit, due to tight scheduling, and I expected her to do what the first had - force me to move my right arm in various shoulder crackingly painful positions and then say, "Oh, does that hurt?" Today, I was happily surprised. The therapist lay me out on one of the beds and placed her hand on my shoulder. Hardly any pressure. She held it there for a moment. I waited for something to happen. "Yep," she said "I can feel a lot of displacement in here." "What??" I exclaimed, surprised."You can feel displacement just from touching my shoulder? Oh man, that's so cool." She smiled. I thought for a second. "Wait," I said, "What is displacement?"

Prior appointments and doctors had not given me very definitive answers in the Seriously Guys, What the Hell is Wrong With Me category, but this lady, whoooo boy, she knew her stuff. She moved her hand around my shoulder and back, very lightly, applying slight pressure. "How does the top of your hand feel?" she'd say, and then I'd feel a tingling sensation on the top of my hand. "How do you do that??" I asked incredulously. "Well," she said "I can feel the muscle response a few seconds before you."

She explained in far more simple terms that not only do I have muscle issues, I have nerve issues. Pinched nerve issues. Loose ligament issues. And tracking issues? Apparently, my shoulder joint connection isn't in the right place. Which explains why the shoulder bone itself is pushed forward. But back to my story.

We talked, she asked me about my life, about school, and we discussed our favorite books. I divulged that I was an English major with a passion for all things literary. She continued moving her hand around my shoulder, causing tingling sensations down my arm, back, and up my neck (where all my muscle damage lies). It feels like when you hit your funny bone, only all over. And not painful, but relieving. I asked her how exactly she was able to perform such a feat, because "I'm giving you two very enthusiastic thumbs up". She asked me if I had any science background, a question I responded to with a hearty chuckle, and then went on to explain something about nerve brain connections with the spinal column and shortening things. Basically, it didn't explain anything. "So," I said, "What you're basically saying to me, is that with my English major's leaning towards the fantastic, what you're doing is magic." She smiled.

That got me to thinking. Apparently, these fantastic feats can be taught in a school. And smart people can make my boo boos feel tingly with a light pressure on a certain point. Which is kind of dissapointing if I really was one to believe in magic. Which I'm not. But anyway, like I was saying, this kind of thing is purely muscle related, and knowledge of this must date back. Waaay back. Back somewhere right after dinosaurs walked the earth but before Jesus. Because there were always healers. So if Jesus, and others, were faith healers, isn't my phsyical therapist doing the same thing? So in a really obscure way, isn't my physical therapist a bit like Jesus? Of course, this is purely blasphemous conjecture from a nonpracticing Jew, but it sure is fun to talk about Jesus.

But still. I think my phsyical therapist could give Jesus a good run for his money.

Also, if I wasn't Jewish, I'd absolutely be going to hell for this post. Thankfully, Jews have the good sense not to believe in enternal damnation and hellfire. Jewish mothers take care of that kind of suffering in life. (Dear Mom, please don't kill me. I was making a general statement.)

(An afterthought: I really need to finish reading The Da Vinci Code, the most poorly written page turner of all time, just so I can stop thinking about Jesus. Thanks Dan Brown, really, thanks. You big jerk. GET OUT OF MY HEAD)

Communications with Greatness and Spoons

I used to hear things in my Rice Krispies. You know, the commericals tell you that the snaps and crackles and pops are actually things you can hear. At least they did, back in the 90s. Now, I don't know what twisted mind sent my ear to my bowl of milky puffed rice, but down I went. And overactive imagination that I had (or was it severe psychosis?) dammit, I heard messages in my Rice Krispies. Usually it was things like "I love you, Mom!" or "Garkdarewadsfeiaackdaee" but I listened intently nonetheless. I'm sure had I been eating Alphabits my delusions could have been slightly more visual, but my special moments with my Rice Krispies were the start of a long journey of messages in my food.

As I got older, I saw shapes in the schnitzel (breaded chicken cutlets) that my mom makes oh so well. I still do. Usually, I saw whales, or rabbits, or mice, but sometimes I saw far more important animals like lions and bears. (Truth be told, I still see shapes in my schnitzel. Psychosis? Overactive imagination? Someone needs to clue me in here.)

Today, I opened a piece of chocolate at work, popped it in my mouth and saw the message "Sing Along to the Music in the Elevator". I surprised myself. I had never had such an intelligent audio/visual message in my food. And then, then I realized it was just an inspirational message written inside the wrapper. Thanks, Dove Milk Chocolate, I appreciate your support in my musical endeavors. Maybe, next time I sing along to the jazz muzak, a huge Hollywood agent will be in the elevator. Maybe, he'll be so taken by my singing he'll punch me in the face to get me to shut up. And the fellow elevator passengers would applaud him and shake his hand for ending their suffering. Seriously Dove Chocolate, are you trying to piss off innocent elevator riders? Eager for more fodder for insults, I took another piece of chocolate. Inside the wrapper was written, "Follow Your Instincts". Follow my instincts? No shit, Dove. I'm really glad you're able to come up with such amazingly original "PROM ISES Message". Following my instincts made me take that second piece of chocolate and look how amazingly dissapointing that was. Stop force feeding me my communication with my food.

And someone get me a bowl of Rice Krispies, stat.

The Older I Get the More Fun it is to Mock My Parents

This past weekend, my parents went away to Vermont, leaving me to fend for myself. This same weekend, my friend from school took a train into visit me. Today, my parents returned from Vermont and we all went out to dinner.

My dad said to me, "After we left, I realized I left you no alcohol in case you wanted to drink with your friend."

My mom said to me, "After we left, I realized I left you no money in case you needed it."

Thanks guys, really. I'm so glad I'm that forefront in your minds. Really. I love you, too.

Holy Schnikeys, How Cool am I?

The crossword clue was "A russian authors mark on his to-do list."

I thought about it for a moment.

Lightbulb moment.

Chekov's Check off = Checkovscheckoff

Will Shortz, you are the best, I love you, the NY Times crossword puzzles, being pretentions, and I can't wait to see your movie.

Tales of Great Beantown

Once upon a time, there was a young cynical college student. She spent all her money to visit another young, equally as cynical college student in Boston for her birthday. Not much can be written about the party itself, to protect all parties involved, but in going through crime scene photos, a this-describes-everything photo was discovered. And will now be shared with you, the blogging public. Enjoy.

I Hate People That _____ : Part 1

According to my mother, I have a lot of hate. I can see that, after all, I'm 18. Is this not the age at which I'm supposed to hate the world and everyone in it? I mean, if I started loving the world, there would be quite a few raised eyebrows. ("What? A teenager? Being pleasant? Quick call the Scientologists, aliens are on this planet!") And besides, I'm only 18 for a few more months, I'm going to enjoy my completely baseless and irrelevant hatred for as long as I can. Without actually harming anyone, of course.

So, seeing as I have a lot of hatred, I'm going to take this opportunity to lash out at a few individuals or groups of people who, in my humble, baseless, irrelevant opinion, should be shipped of to a remote island where I don't need to see them anymore. Of course they'll be provided for and very happy, just not near me.

Let's begin, shall we?

I hate people that say the same thing, every time you pass them in the office. Every. Single. Time. The front desk of the station is situated right next to the room in which I work every day. So, everytime I walk out of the room (which is quite frequently) I have a conversation with this woman.

When she walks in every morning...
Hi Sarah, how are you, I'm wonderful thank you and yourself, I'm fine thank you.
When she walks into my room...
Hi Sarah, how are you feeling, fine thank you, that's good, yep.
When I pass her in the hallway...
Well Hello, Sarah, how is everything, it's great, thanks and you, good good!

And that's just the first hour at work.

I had no idea there were so many different ways to say the exact same thing. I mean this woman needs a bland greetings thesaurus named after her. For the love of God, come up with something unique to say. Ask me about the weather. Ask me if I prefer Jif or Skippy peanut butter, but dammit, seeing as we surmised the first 12 times that we are both just dandy, stop asking me how I am!

Thank you.

A Short Note

The next time someone tells me I look like I'm 15 is getting punched. Hard.
Right in the face.

When I turn 21, people are going to think my legal ID is fake, I just know it.

The Trifecta of Cool that is My Mom

Some quick background information: My mom is on crutches. I'm having painful shoulder issues.

1. At the movie theater:

"Hey Sarah, do you want to go over to the handicap seats and stare at the people who don't need them?"

2. Regarding my shoulder 1:

Mom: "How's your shoulder feeling?"
Sarah: "Get me a hacksaw, it's coming off."
Mom: "I'd suggest something sharper. It would make a cleaner, easier cut, and could be re-attached more easily."

3. Regarding my shoulder 2; at the family picnic:

Sarah: "I took the painkiller and it still hurts a lot."
Mom: "Did you have a beer yet?"
Sarah: "Yes, one."
Mom: "Have another, it will make you feel better."

This is Not a Political Message

I think Ann Coulter is anorexic.

And anorexic and butt ugly is not a good combination.

Someone get that woman a bucket full of fried chicken, so when she's done eating she can cover her head.

Tales of Retail Horror: Chapter 3

When I was a little girl, I had a Barbie doll or two. I wasn’t sickly fascinated by her triangular torpedo breasts or her slim waist, or her tiny pointy feet that wouldn’t say in the miniscule molded plastic pumps. I was most fascinated with her face and hair. Ignoring my Barbie’s untimely stylistic death by kiddie scissors, wielded by an overcurious 8 year old, she was perfect. Barbie had a perfect heart shaped face, crystalline blue eyes, and bright pink lips molded perfectly into a smile over her line of white teeth. (At the time, I hadn’t realized that color was not actually found in nature.) Looking back, as a pasty pale, gray-eyed, curly-haired brunette, I suppose I can understand the appeal of Barbie. How the prettiest girls in school had the same perfect blonde hair and blue eyes and heart shaped faces. And I wanted so desperately to be like them. That need still existed to some degree, after spending 2 semesters sitting across from the most stunningly beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life.

But when I started working in a retail haven for the wealthy and bored wives of Connecticut that started to change. Every day, women over the age of 40 teeter anorexically into the store, asking do I please, please have a size 0 I can find for them? They tug their extra small halters over their shoulders, exposing faces full of icy disdain. And maybe they really are icily disdainful women, but in most cases, I think it’s because they’ve Botoxed their faces out of commission. They still fit the Barbie image, though most have enhanced it through their years of being married to their wealthy husbands. (In my defense, I have nothing against marrying wealthy. I’ve been told to marry a nice Jewish doctor for years.) Their busts are pert, and frighteningly round, their faces tanned to the exact same shades. Their blonde highlights are identical, and the flick of their wrists as they lay down their AmExes has clearly been practiced.

And I was jealous of Barbie? In a town full of women that look like Barbies who have been left in the toaster oven for a few minutes too long, my self-confidence has both dissapeared and skyrocketed. More the latter in the past few days. I am happy to share with you I am 5’0” tall. I weigh 115 pounds. I wear a size 4. When I'm happy, my nose crinkles, and when I cry, my mascara runs. I have scars and bruises all over resulting from years of klutziness. When I turn 40, I hope everyone of my wrinkles tells a story. I have pale skin, gray eyes, and brown hair.

And I am far more beautiful than any Barbie I’ve seen.

I'm Smarter Than You! (Kinda...)

I have a great many hobbies and pastimes to keep myself entertained. When it comes time to impress, I whip out a favorite pastime of mine, crossword puzzles.

“Oh, you do crossword puzzles?” the to-be-impressed party will say.

“Why yes, I do. I love doing crossword puzzles.” I’ll reply demurely.

“Not the New York Times crossword puzzles!” They’ll say, a note of being-impressed in their voices.

“Actually, I have a few NY Times crossword puzzles that I completed hanging in my cubicle!” I’ll reply, faintly boastful.

“Really! That’s great! Have you ever finished a Sunday?” They’ll ask, clearly impressed.

“I’ve never finished a Tuesday.” I’ll say, a broad smile on my face, tossing my bangs out of my eyes, hoping in vain my pearly white and theatrics will distract them from my answer.

It never does. It never does.

My Passage to Adulthood

Every culture in every country in every part of this world has some sort of tradition that brings a child into adulthood. In some countries it’s ritualistic tattooing, in others it is being bathed in corn seeds, and in others its confirmation. Technically, according to my Jewish heritage, I passed into adulthood on Friday, December 29, 2000 at my Bat Mitzvah. In my personal opinion, I passed into adulthood Monday, June 13, 2006.

This morning was marked by the acquisition through trial and error of an important life skill. This bright spring morning, I learned how to use a coffee maker.

My father was out of town, and my mother recovering from surgery, thus leaving me to forage desperately for myself, and to prepare breakfast for my grandfather. Seeing as I’d spent a full year being fed by unhappy looking people in red dining hall uniforms, fending for myself was not an idea with which I was accustomed. Still, I put on a brave face, and cheerily went to set up the table. I had prepared everything perfectly, except for one, daunting task. Making coffee. My mother had told me simply: Put in the filter, the coffee grinds, then fill the coffee pot with water to the silver line, and add that water to the coffee maker. I was thrilled that it was so simple; any more would have surpassed my capacity for understanding. So, I put in the filter. I added the coffee. I filled the pot with water. And I poured the water in.

Directly into the filter.

“[Egads]*!”, I exclaimed, as the water rapidly fell through to the bottom of the coffee maker. I was at an impasse. I held the rapidly emptying coffee pot above the coffee maker as water gushed through the filter. Finally, in all my infinite intelligence, I thought, “Cleanliness be damned!” and placed the coffee pot back into the coffee maker. But it was too late.

Brown diluted sick looking water had puddle up at the bottom of the machine and all over the counter. I looked stealthily around me, sure that my mother had seen my mistake through a secret hole in the floor, and was laughing at me. I sheepishly wiped up my mess. Tail between my legs, I crept upstairs, and said quietly, “Mom, I think I broke the coffee maker.”

She inquired as to why I believed this, and after my brief explanation, she stared at me in disbelief. “Sarah,” she said shaking her head, “Sarah, you are supposed to put the water in the well on the side of the coffee machine. The triangle. With the numbers inside it.”

In my defense, I am much too short to see that well from the proper angle, but really, the answer seemed so obvious. Had I really thought the water would magically stay in the filter until the machine had turned on? Yes, yes dear readers, I had.

In my great aversion towards coffee and tea, I have found that hot chocolate requires no more preparation that heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder and hot water. Coffee on the other hand, coffee requires a filter, and a well, and common sense.

And common sense, who uses that anymore, anyway?

*Actual phrase uttered has been replaced to preserve blogger’s dignity.

The Underground Devil

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

SORRY WE'VE MOVED

College is Turning Me into a Pretentious Snob, and I Like It

Loathe Though I am to Quote Billy Joel I'm "Movin' Out!"

Physical Therapy, Early Mornings, and Jesus

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Communications with Greatness and Spoons

Sunday, July 09, 2006

The Older I Get the More Fun it is to Mock My Parents

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Holy Schnikeys, How Cool am I?

Tales of Great Beantown

I Hate People That _____ : Part 1

A Short Note

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

The Trifecta of Cool that is My Mom

This is Not a Political Message

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Tales of Retail Horror: Chapter 3

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

I'm Smarter Than You! (Kinda...)

My Passage to Adulthood

About Me

Non University Required Reading That Mostly Rocks

Past Moments of Awkward & Awesome

Old Stuff