Long Overdue Update!

So . . . I haven't posted on here for nearly a year. I know. I know. I'm really sorry. It's just that I have been busy. Between school and work and developing a social life, I haven't had time for Blogger. However, I am free for the summer and I hope to post some until I return to school again. Until then, a quick update:

Things That Stayed The Same:

* I still work in the library and the writing center.

* I still have the same delightfully quirky computer science major roommate. Hard to believe someone would agree to live with me for four semesters in a row, but who am I to question that?

* Um, that's really all I can think of that's relevant. . . .

Things That Have Changed:

* I now only have one more year before I earn my bachelor's in history and English with a minor in rhetoric (glorified minor in writing.) Yay, I think? Actually, I am only 1 class away from my English degree and 1 away from the minor. It's the history classes I am way behind on. I need at least 4 more. That and I lack 1 more gen ed class.

* On that note, I had an interesting assortment of classes last year, including 2 semesters of German (Sprechen Sie deutsche? Nicht so gut.), creative writing classes (Oh my you meet strange people in those classes. No, not always good strange though you get those too), 19th Century American Lit (best class ever even though the reading list was weak), Romantic and Victorian class (good reading list but better class discussions), American Civil War (history geekiness!), American Civil Rights Movement (awesome class!), Literary Criticism (geeky funny), Russian history (more geeky fun), Nazi Germany (Most disturbing class ever. It gave me nightmares. No, I'm not kidding. We all had nightmares, prof included. *shudder*)

* I'm looking forward to my classes next semester: Brit Lit I (the last one I need for my English degree!), Irish Literature (so looking forward to the reading list), Shakespeare's Tragedies (ditto for the reading list), French Revolution (supposed to be hard but good), Colonial America (should be good), and a directed readings class in 20th Century European history. I got to write the syllabus, so I structured it to focus on fascism and communism.

* I'm starting that whole grad school application process thing. Well, that's an exaggeration. I'm thinking about the whole grad school application process thing, but that's on hiatus until I take the GRE so that I have scores for the applications (More on that next.) As of right now, I'm applying to a few M.A. programs in literature, hoping to study modernist and postmodernist literature. *fingers crossed*

* I'm studying for the GRE, which I take in less than two weeks. I hate the GRE. I hate the GRE. I hate the GRE. Did I mention I hate the GRE? In fairness to the GRE, I most specifically hate the math section of the GRE. Go die in a hole, you foul thing!

So. . . . how are you guys doing? I've missed all of you! Catch me up! :)

Lightning, Lightning--Very, Very Frightening

Last night, the relatives and I were channel-surfing before we finally landed on a PBS documentary about Soviet Russia in World War II. Those of you who know me well know that I have an unhealthy fascination with all things Russian and anything remotely related to World War II, so I was pretty stoked. And this documentary was a nerd's dream come true. The re-enactment scenes were all in Russian, German, or Polish, and the actors actually looked like the historical figures they were playing. Stalin looked like Stalin! Little nerdy Zella was so happy that, instead of getting on the internet last night as she always does, she decided to stay up until the wee hours of the morning--or however long it would be on--watching the documentary.

The rest of the family slowly trickled off to bed, leaving just me, my trusty Chihuahua, and my grandmother to watch the documentary. Outside, a thunderstorm raged, but it was the first rain we've had since late June, so it could storm as much as it wanted. I know a reasonably safety-minded person would, you know, turn off the TV during a storm, but it wasn't a raging storm and--darn it--I wanted to watch my documentary about Soviet Russia. *glares at any naysayers*

At about 10:25 pm, right as I was riveted by the discussion of Stalin's uneasy alliance with the Polish government in exile, a dramatic clap of thunder and a brief flash of lightning accompanied a seconds-long power outage. I know a reasonably safety-minded person would have given up and gone to bed, but the power was only out a couple of seconds and--darn it!--I was watching my Soviet documentary.

Around 10:37 pm, just as the documentary began to delve into American aid to the U.S.S.R. during the war, a second clap of thunder accompanied a power outage. I didn't see the lightning bolt that was responsible. I waited for the power to inevitably turn back on--just as it had ten minutes earlier. I mean, it came on before. The TV did not explode in the process--obviously the power is just out. Why wasn't it coming back on?

Alas, as I sat in pitch-darkness, anxiously awaiting the TV to magically power back on, I realized that it wasn't coming back on, and I wasn't getting on the computer, either. As I had sat on the couch delusionally expecting that my documentary would reappear at any moment, my far more practical grandmother had already acquired a flashlight, which she handed to me. I shined the light around to locate my darling Chihuahua and saw him huddled up in a corner with an extraordinarily lugubrious look of self-pity on his face. His eyes were wide and pleading, his ears askew atop his dainty head. He hates storms; oh, how he hates them. He had been sitting with me, but I guess after the power went out, he jumped down on the floor in a temporary fit of lightning-induced fright. I balanced him alongside the flashlight in my arms, reassured him that he was okay, and headed off to bed.

By the time I picked my way to my room, I noticed that Mr. Chihuahua was no longer frightened but was extraordinarily pissed off. I could tell because now his eyes were sullen, his lips were pursed in a disdainful grimace, and his ears were pinned back. It does not pay to irk Mr. Chihuahua--as sweet as he is, I have learned in the past ten years of owning him that his feelings are not to be trifled with. And I had trifled with them big time.

Horrible Chihuahua owner that I am, I had forgotten his bone. He has developed a liking for peanut-flavored bones that borders on addiction, and there were none in my room. How thoughtless of me! Never mind that in the pitch-blackness he couldn't even see to eat the bone. It's our nightly tradition for me to tuck him in with a bone--or two--and he would not go to sleep until he got a bone.

I trekked back to the living room, was successful in my bone hunt, and returned to my room. By this point, Mr. Chihuahua was overwhelmed with joy. He had his bone, and that was all that mattered. He danced around on my bed and wagged his tail as a show of gratitude, then snatched said bone out of my hand and perched on the foot of the bed, his usual resting place.

I tried to fall asleep, but--as someone who routinely goes to bed at 1 am--I was not the slightest bit tired. I would have read, but the only source of light was my grandma's flashlight. I thought it would be slightly ungrateful of me to run out the battery reading. Instead, I tried to sleep as my mind wandered to topics that ranged from my upcoming college semester to true crime to Russian history to how I'm going to arrange stuff in my dorm room this semester to my Chihuahua's frantic mulling around as he tried to sleep. Apparently, the insomnia is contagious.

Suddenly, a faint noise intruded upon my restless mind. It sounded like--yes--I think the electricity came back. Thank you, God! Let there be light! I turned on the lamp beside my bed, expecting to see the faint, warm glow of the lamp's lowest setting. Instead, I saw darkness. Lots and lots of darkness. Fine. I suppose the power didn't come back on. My ninja senses were fooled. . . . The lamp has three light settings, so I turned the knob a couple of more times to turn the lamp off, in the event the power ever came back on.

I tried to sleep again, only to have my mind invaded by more thoughts: Chinese food, the documentary I had watched, stuff I need to remember for work on Monday, *cough* what to blog about this week *cough*, stuff I need to remember when I go back to work at my other job this weekend. Slowly, sleep started to overtake me. It snuck up on me just as I was formulating a blog post, and it gently lulled me into a pleasant slumber. Oh, sleep, how I love you! The rain continued to patter outside and lightning continued to flash occasionally outside my window, but I was just on the cusp of sleep, and I could not care less.

Just as I dozed off, a bright light flashed before my eyes. I jumped awake--staring around my room for the creepy person who was shining a flashlight in my face. Come out, come out wherever you are, bearer of the flashlight! Instead, I saw my Chihuahua staring at me from the foot of the bed. Wait! I could see my Chihuahua! I couldn't see unless there was light. There wouldn't be light unless the power was back on! At this point, I turned to my side and noticed my lamp, on its highest setting.

Hmm . . . I must not be smart enough to guess how many times I have to turn the knob before I turn the lamp off. I eventually drifted off to sleep . . . about 1 am, as usual.

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

Do any of you put any stock in dreams? I'm not much of a dreamer. In fact, it's rather rare for me to dream. Well, according to some research I once read, we all dream constantly in our sleep--it's only the ones that are going on when we wake up that we remember. Regardless of the science behind it, I kind of like not having dreams invade my sleep. Most of my dreams fall into two types: strange dreams involving me running from various adversaries or strange dreams where I spend the whole time complaining about the logic of said dream. I kid not!

In the former type of dreams, my pursuers have included my mom, axe murderers, aliens, Robert Mitchum as The Preacher in The Night of the Hunter, angry pigs, and Nazis. The dream featuring the Nazis was set in WWII-era Holland. I know because I asked someone else who was running away from the Nazis with me. I shouted at him "Where are we?" which was a stupid question. I mean, come on, most normal people, when being chased by unknown assailants, want to know who is chasing them. Not me. I wanted to know where I was. The guy's exact answer was "World War II-era Holland." He may have lied to me, though. He soon disappeared, and I was trapped not long after. I think Mr. World War II-era Holland may have sold me out. In fact, I seriously doubt we were even in Holland. . . .

The latter type of dream usually has me seeing something impossible take place, such as people flying without wings, and me arguing, "But that can't happen! This has to be a dream!" while everybody ignores my protests. Apparently, I'm an obnoxious skeptic even in my sleep.

As much as I dislike dreaming, I have become comfortable with my routine dreams. If I start running in a dream or whining about logical fallacies, I feel safe because it's, well, normal. Thus, you can see why I was so startled by a dream that I had a couple of nights ago--a dream that I still haven't quite recovered from.

This summer I had my wisdom teeth removed. Overall, the experience wasn't too awful, though I wouldn't exactly jump up and volunteer to do it again. I had my teeth pulled in two different phases, about three to four weeks apart, and each time I spent a few days gumming pudding before I was back to normal. Though I physically got back to normal within a week each time and I've been wisdom tooth free for at least three weeks, I can't quite shake the fear that my remaining teeth are loose. I know, I know--My teeth are not loose. The dentist never mentioned anything about it when my teeth were examined afterwards. I can even think up a couple of psychologically-based theories that would make Freud proud concerning why I think my teeth are loose. Nevertheless, just because I can rationalize why my teeth are not loose does not mean they don't feel loose. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean people are not following me!

This fear has just been a slight little paranoia for the past several weeks, but a couple of nights ago it became a very scary reality. On the day in question, I had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning reading about Jack the Ripper. (Long story.) I figured I'd have nightmares about ol' Jack, presumably involving my being chased by him and my shouting, "Hey! We're not running through the East End! This setting is all wrong! This must be a dream" in the process. Alas, if only I had dreamed that.

Instead, that night I dreamed I was in a peaceful meadow. It was sunny and lovely and all that jazz. I was sitting there, admiring the meadowy view when I suddenly felt like something was in my mouth. Perplexed, I tried spitting whatever it was out--to no avail. After several more aborted attempts to get whatever it was out, I finally reached my hand in there to remove the offending item. I proceeded to then yank out an entire string of my teeth. Yes, my dream set of teeth are on a string. They're also large, mis-shapen, and unevenly spaced from each other. They look like hideous hillbilly teeth beads. I was so horrified that I could not resist reaching into my mouth and pulling out another string of teeth. If I had been in my normal dream state of mind, I would have got up and ran from the teeth or at least shouted, "Hey! There's no way that that many teeth fit in my head" or "Hey, my teeth look nothing like that!" Alas, no such return to normalcy awaited me. Instead, I pulled out more strings of teeth and stared dumbfoundeded at my teeth until my alarm clock blared. I awoke frantically clawing at my face. I couldn't calm down until I had ascertained that a) my teeth were in my head and b) my teeth were, for the moment, not loose.

Oh, for the days when I dreamed of running away and yelling at my dreams. It seems that they have risen up in revolt. And what brutal opponents they make. . . .

Promontory

So . . . I totally stole this post idea from Lola. Thank you, Lola! :D The basic idea, which you are free to steal from me, is to put your Ipod/MP3 player on shuffle and answer the following questions with the song titles that appear. With the aid of my trusty MP3 player, Percy, I did just that. I also included links to all of the songs, though I must warn you that #3 and #11 have profanity in the lyrics, if that sort of thing bothers you.

1. What do you like in a guy?
"Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Parts 6-9" (Pink Floyd). Is it really a surprise to anyone who knows me that I like crazy people? I mean, really?

2. What is your life's purpose?
"Bela Legosi's Dead" (Bauhaus). None of you are supposed to know this, but I'm a nerd by day and a vampire hunter by night. I cannot rest until Dracula is dead.

3. What is your motto?
"Full Circle" (Drowning Pool). I suppose this one means I believe in karma? Or vengeance. ^^

4. What do your friends think of you?
"Soul Sucker" (Ozzy Osbourne). Ouch. Actually, if you listen to the song and ignore the title, maybe YOU guys are the soulsuckers. I don't want to contemplate that.

5. What do you think about very often?
"Burning Bright" (Shinedown). I'm an arsonist? Or I just feel a bit like a self-destructive outcast? The first, not so much. The latter? Yeah.

6. What does 2+2 equal?
"After The Storm" (Mumford and Sons). That answer is either the most profound or the most nonsensical solution to a math problem I've ever encountered.

7. What do you think of your best friends?
The Complete History of The Soviet Union, Arranged To The Melody Of Tetris (Pig With The Face Of A Boy). Because, you know, everyone needs friends that remind them of Soviet history set to the theme of a classic arcade game.

8. What do you think of the person you like?
"The Night Santa Went Crazy" (Weird Al Yankovic). Um, look, there's a difference between crazy and crazy. This one is pushing the limits of the crazy I'll tolerate.

9. What is your life story?
"I Shot The Sheriff" (Eric Clapton). For the record, I want it noted that I did not shoot the deputy.

10. What do you want to be when you grow up?
"Another Brick In The Wall, Part 3" (Pink Floyd). But I don't want to be another brick in the wall! I want to be free of the wall! And if I must be another brick, I don't want to be the third one. *stamps feet* Lies! All lies!

11. What do you think when you see the person you like?
"Jeremy" (Pearl Jam). A song about suicide? Come on! Even I am not that morbid. :(

12. What do your parents think of you?
"Hell's Bells" (AC/DC). Bahahaha

13. What will you dance to at your wedding?
"Another One Bites The Dust" (Queen). In some weird way, this one makes sense.

14. What will they play at your funeral?
"Engel" (Rammstein). This one sounds sweet at first, but, considering that the English translation of the chorus includes the refrain about not wanting to be an angel, I have decided that some mean people are picking the music for my funeral.

15. What is your hobby?
"Turn The Page" (Bob Seger). I couldn't have picked a more appropriate answer based on title. But not content. My hobby is not being on stage. I'm too cowardly.

16. What is your biggest secret?
"Daisy Dead Petals" (Tori Amos). Well, now that you know the alias I use as a vampire hunter, there goes that line of work. . . .

17. What do you think of your friends?
"The Song Remains The Same" (Led Zeppelin). Does this mean my friends never change? Or that they are all alike? Or that I'm like all of them? I don't understand!

18. What's the worst thing that could happen?
"Riders On The Storm" (The Doors). Did you not just hear the man?! Jim Morrison said that there's a killer on the road! What could be worse?

19. How will you die?
"Carnival of Rust" (Poets of the Fall). I should have gotten a tetanus shot after all.

20. What is the one thing you regret?
"Lithium" (Evanescence) Would someone at least tell me how I ended up on meds to begin with?

21. What makes you laugh?
"Seven Nation Army" (The White Stripes). I want to know what is so funny about facing off with such a numerous foe.

22. What makes you cry?
"Marvelous Things" (Eisley). I have actually never been much of one to cry for joy.

23. Will you ever get married?
"Song of Joy" (Nick Cave and The Bad Seed). Don't let the title fool you. According to the song, I will get married. I'll just end up murdered by my husband. Oh. Joy.

24. What scares you the most?
"Run Through The Jungle" (Creedance Clearwater Revival). One must be fleet of foot to outwit the frightening beasties of the forest. I fear I am not quite that fleet.

25. Does anyone like you?
"Gimme Shelter" (Rolling Stones). I'll take that as a negative.

26. If you could go back in time, what would you change?
"Werewolves of London" (Warren Zevon). If it were up to me, the little old lady would not be mutilated and Jim would keep his lungs.

27. What hurts right now?
"Pinball Wizard." (The Who). What? I suck at pinball, and the wizard is prone to gloating.

28. What will you post this as?
"Promontory" (Last of The Mohicans soundtrack). ???????

What have I learned from this exercise? I have a lot of old-school music. That and I need to get some less depressing tunes if I don't want to end up as a murdered vampire hunter killed with tetanus by a psychopathic husband.

Quiz Me!

I am a complete sucker for online quizzes--the crazier, the better. I'm not sure what is the motivation for this compulsion--if there were a quiz to determine it, I would take it--but my quiz-taking has increased substantially this summer. Maybe it's my own innate sense of procrastination or just having some spare time on my hands, but this summer has found me staring idly at my computer, answering pointless quizzes.

At first, my quiz-taking was somewhat analytical and self-reflective. I've had several people ask me what Enneagram number I am. I wasn't sure, so I took a couple of Enneagram quizzes online. My score each time was 5--Investigator, Observer, or Thinker. I'm okay with this result, or so I thought I was. According to the personality blurbs, 5s are curious, independent, and introverted but also prone to, and I quote, "eccentricity, nihilism, and isolation." I'm not sure what the world has against eccentric nihilistic loners, but there you go. Scanning a list of famous 5s, I spotted Samuel Beckett, Tim Burton, Albert Einstein, T.S. Eliot, and Franz Kafka, which made me feel pretty good about myself, until I also noticed Howard Hughes, Tim McVeigh, and the Unabomber, as well. I've had several people tell me I'll meet a bad end. It must be because I'm a 5. . . .

Inspired by the Enneagram results, I also retook my Sparknotes personality quiz and got the same results I did last time: Submissive Introverted Abstract Feeler. I would argue that I'm not submissive, but my boss told me the same thing last semester, and my totally assertive response was "Yeah, I guess you're probably right." Oh, Zella, your assertiveness overwhelms us all. I felt somewhat enlightened by these results, though my inner nerd revolts against the idea of being pigeon-holed by a number or a label or both.

Nevertheless, I continued on my quest for enlightenment by taking some of the quizzes on The Oatmeal. (Just FYI: Some of the quizzes are a bit more vulgar than you may care to experience. Just trying to give you a head's up.) I learned that, if faced with a swarm of Justin Biebers, I could fight 22 of them single-handedly, and that my corpse would feed 48 starving weasels, and that I would survive 58 seconds chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor, and that I would last 1 hour and 10 minutes before becoming infected by a zombie bite. All important things to know about one's self that I gained on this quest for self-awareness.

I think the most important bit I picked up, though, was when I clicked on a link from The Oatmeal to another website that promised to tell me what I would taste like to a cannibal. I answered several routine, matter-of-fact questions, regarding things like weight, ethnicity, and eating habits. I waited with great anticipation as the little cursor promised me that my results were coming. When I read them, I recoiled with horror. According to this highly scientific quiz, I would taste like mesquite chicken to a cannibal.

I was flabbergasted--a cannibal would find me tasty? My mind tried to rationalize what this would mean--I'm not sure if that's the 5 or the submissive introverted abstract feeler coming out in me--and I realized the most disturbing thing about this quiz was the fact that the questions in it were so matter-of-fact. If the quiz had asked me weird questions, the results would have seemed funny. As they were, they were just disturbing. Why did I taste like mesquite chicken? Is it because I'm a little overweight or because I don't exercize constantly? The results and their implications drove me to the brink of despair.

I told my brother about my pain. He thought it was hilarious. Then he wanted to take the quiz. I found it for him and let him answer all of the questions. We waited in rapt silence for his results to be generated. I assumed that since we were siblings, we would probably belong to the same food group. Heck, we might even both taste like chicken. Then I heard a little whimper at my side; Brother Dearest was staring at the screen, with a look of profound disturbance upon his brow. His results? Undercooked tofu. Ewww. . . .

I tried to console him the best I could as I also attempted to stifle my laughter.

"Hey, at least you're not something anyone would want to eat. *snicker*"

"But . . . but . . . you're at least tasty. I'm not."

"I don't think that's a good thing when confronted with a cannibal."

"Well, no, but . . . you're at least not undercooked tofu."

Brother Dearest doesn't eat tofu, regardless of how well it is cooked.

My one consolation is that, according to The Oatmeal, I only have a 58% chance of being eaten by my relatives. Good to know. Good to know, indeed.

Zella Kate, Library Detective: The Case of The Missing Book

Hello, friends, Romans, countrymen, and enemies! I apologize for my entirely inexcusable absence from the world of Blogger. I have just been so darned busy this past year that I just haven't had time to update regularly. I hope to remedy that, even if only temporarily, with what I have left of the summer. That's the theory, anyway. Oh, lookie! A new blogpost awaits you! *hopes everyone is suitably distracted and does not notice my wallowing for forgiveness*

~~~~~~
As most of you know, I have spent the past four summers--and the first two years of college--working part-time at my local public library. In my position as a library employee, my actual duties are technically limited to general office tasks, checking books in and out, and shelving. However, because I work in a small library, I often find myself doing tasks, such as reference, that usually would fall to a librarian who possesses, ahem, actual library credentials. However, that's not quite how things work. I'd be shelving books and some poor soul would come to me, asking for help finding a specific book or for help with a research project. Technically, I should have turned such a case over to my superiors, but they are often contending with other people asking them the exact same questions and they are firm believers in serving the public and not nitpicking over petty rules; thus, they have always been more than supportive of my taking on tasks that a larger library would deem me unfit to perform.

I suppose these privileges have sort of gone to my head in the past few years that I have worked there--I have become a bit smug in my belief that I can ruthlessly hunt down sources and books for our patrons even if I do not possess a black belt in the book ninja arts. I have become somewhat convinced of my abilities as a book ninja, capable of ferreting out AWOL books and procuring items based on vague clues that consist of "I think it has a dog on the cover? Maybe. I really don't know. It is red, though--the cover, not the animal that's on it." I have even begun to believe that, as a book ninja, I am invincible. Alas, this sort of belief has been the downfall of many an expert book ninja, including those far more skilled than I could ever wish to be. It was only a matter of time before I was most righly put in my place, which is exactly what happened this week.

The time was approximately 9:30 a.m. The day, a Friday. You can call me Joe Friday if you wish-- *cough* Wait, where was I? Oh, yes.

I had just taken a stack of books off of the handcart my library uses as a repository for books that have been checked-in but need to be reshelved and returned them to their rightful places in large type fiction when I overheard my boss and a patron looking for a book, James Patterson's 3rd Degree, to be precise. The book was nowhere to be seen, so my boss, who is quite a book ninja in her own right, asked me if I would check the shelf one more time, in case she missed the pesky volume. In our library, this is standard book ninja procedure. Any book ninja may overlook a text while scanning the shelves, so it always helps to bring in an extra set of eyes. We must be vigilant in tending our sheep to protect them from the wolves.

I checked our fiction section for the two shelves that hold Patterson's books. The volume in question was indeed missing. If there is one thing I have learned in my book ninja apprencticeship it is the fact that a book is not where it is supposed to be does not mean that the book is not in the library. Thus, I scanned the shelves below and above the Pattersons, hoping to spy my target there. No such luck. I turned next to the mystery section, which is often the resting place of misplaced fiction books. Alas, no Patterson was to be found among the section's ranks. I then advanced to large type, another place where one often finds runaway books. Again, no luck. I proceeded to our paperback section, which we have segregated from other books simply because we have very little space, and we're trying to put as many new books as we can on our fiction shelves. The paperback section often, but not always, does not include major authors, like Patterson, simply because they have so many paperback volumes there is no point in keeping those separated from their fellows. Nevertheless, occasionally, we just don't have any room for these books on the regular shelves, and they are banished to the paperback section. I scanned the fiction paperback racks, but again had no luck.

Until this point, I had been fairly professional and had remained calm. I mean, books get misplaced all the time. People grab them off the shelves, consider checking them out, opt not to, and then don't know where to put the book, so they shove back on some shelf where it doesn't belong. It infuriates us librarians--Honestly, can they not perform basic alphabetizing?!--but we have come to expect it. However, this little escapade frustrated me. I don't like to have books elude me. I am a book ninja! It is my mission to find books, even pesky runaways. I do not like being defeated! Although I knew my boss had already reserved another branch's copy of the book, I could not stand the thought of returning to our handcart and finding more books to sort. A book ninja does not surrender! We had a book casualty on our hands, and its position had to be ascertained pronto.

I marched back to the fiction section, determined to hunt 3rd Degree down. I rescanned the Patterson shelves, to no avail. I searched behind the Patterson books and on the bottom shelf underneath them, just in case my target had fallen behind its comrades and been trapped. I envisioned this poor tome calling out, "Help! Help! I've fallen and can't get up!" To which I would respond in a most heroic voice, "I'm coming, helpless trapped book! Do not fear. Zella is here!" I could just hear the Mission Impossible theme song blaring in my ears as my hands and eyes rappelled down the shelves to rescue the wounded, frightened book. Nevertheless, my search turned up fruitless. This book was not a poor helpless victim. It was a rogue element, pure and simple.

I retraced the steps of my first search: mysteries, large type, and paperbacks. In the midst of my path, I ran into my boss, who had also returned to the hunt. She wasn't about to surrender, either. She asked me if I had checked the mystery section of paperbacks. I had not, so I promptly remedied that oversight. Alas, the book was not there. I even braved the dangers of the romance section of paperback, venturing into the jungle known as Harlequin to search for the wayward Patterson. It was not there, either.

By now, I was thoroughly flummoxed. I had checked every corner of the library. There was a slight chance that the poor book had been kidnapped and hidden in nonfiction or the children's section, but this was unlikely, seeing as a fiction book sticks out rather prominently in both cases. There was also the horrifying possibility that the book had been kidnapped and taken out of the library, in which case we would not likely see it again. There was also the possibility that the book had simply outwitted me and was residing in one of the sections I had already checked, laughing maniacally and twirling its nefarious moustache.

Regardless of where the book was, I had to admit defeat. I walked up to my boss, my head down, my shoulders slumped. I felt like a failed general, returning to my emperor to report that my troops had been overrun by the enemy due to a strategic mistake on my part. I asked if I should go ahead and change the book's status in our database from "in" to "missing." She had already retraced her own search for the book and found nothing, leaving her no choice but to sadly agreed.

After changing the status, I decided that the best way to shake off the depression I was feeling was to return to work. You can't win every battle, no matter how skilled of a book ninja you may be. There would always be another skirmish that I could test my skills in. I walked over to the handcart, snatched another set of books to shelve, and glanced at the titles. A gardening book, some miscellaneous large types, and a Patterson. Lovely--one of the missing book's cousins, placed there to taunt me, but then I realized that we had probably just not had time to shelve the Patterson book the woman who was looking for 3rd Degree had just finished. Which part of the series was she on? I assumed it was #2 since she was looking for #3.

My eyes dully scanned the title, but what I saw made me do a doubletake. The title was 3rd Degree. What the hey? The book I had spent 15 minutes scouring the library for was sitting at the front desk the entire time? What sort of practical joke from library hell was this? Had we not understood the woman when she asked for this title? Did she not know which book she had just read? Did she not know that she could renew the book without returning it? Or was this book a mission to test my book ninja skills? If it were, I had failed miserably. I sheepishly walked into my boss's office.

"I found the Patterson book."

"Where?!"

"On the handtruck. It was waiting to be shelved."

"Oh dear."

The Fair Dinkum Award

Liz Davis over at Novel Moments was kind enough to tag me with the Fair Dinkum (aka Good Buddies award) with the instructions to tell five things about myself and then pass the award on to five other bloggers. Thanks so much, Liz! :)

So, without further adieu, here are five things you may not know about me:

1. My favorite punctuation mark is the apostrophe. I'm a punctuation nerd, so I think all punctuation marks are worthy souls deserving of our friendship, but there's something about the apostrophe that I especially appreciate. Maybe it's the fact that the poor darling is sometimes so maliciously abused. *hugs apostrophes*

2. I am currently obsessed with the English folk rock band Mumford and Sons. *looks at Scott, who started this whole obsession* My favorite song is a tie between "Thistles and Weed" and "Dustbowl Dance," which has Steinbeck references. How can I not love a band that features Steinbeck references in their lyrics?!

3. I am studying English and history at college and considering adding a minor in writing. (I already have to take three of the classes required for said minor to be an English major, so why not just take three more classes and get a nifty minor out of it?) The two historical periods I am most fascinated with are the Russian Revolution of 1917 and Nazi Germany. However, I can't make up my mind whether my favorite literary period is 19th century Gothic or 20th century modernism. I need to make up my mind before graduate school, though I am leaning a bit more toward modernism just because it fits my historical period of interest.

4. I am severely obsessive compulsive. I am one of those people who walks back to make sure her car or home door is locked several times before being satisfied, though I recognize that if it was locked the first time, it will not magically unlock itself. My mind can be a silly thing. :P

5. I don't have a favorite book or movie. I know that not having a favorite book sounds terrible for an English major, but I just can't pick one. Maybe if we went by author or genre, I could start a list of favorites. But picking an absolute favorite? That's nigh impossible. Oddly, I don't have that problem with music. Pink Floyd is favorite band, hands-down. *is a fickle child*

My nominees:

Feathery Snidget

Jourdie

Math is a Plentiful Harvest

Penguins Quack

Rebel_of_Nowhere

Sky Squirrel

Congratulations! :)

Update

*peers around blog, looking for any visitors*

Greetings, dearest blog followers! My apologies for deserting you. *sniffle* I missed all of you, but the last couple of months were quite busy as I fought off ninjas, dragons, and flying monkeys. What? You don't believe my battle stories? Be that way. We'll see who comes to your rescue when a horde of ninjas, dragons, and flying monkeys beset you. I was also battling finals and essays. All in the day's work of a nerd ninja. *flexes nerd muscles*

Anywho, I intend to resume blogging regularly, at least the best that I can, and I decided the best return would be to update you guys on what's been going on lately.

Soooo . . . on the news front:
1. After this week, I will no longer be employed in the cafeteria. I am transferring to the college writing center in which I will read other students' essays and help them revise their work. This was the job I wanted and I was shocked when I ended up getting it after only one semester. Anyway, I will miss my friends in the cafeteria, but I am looking forward to working with fellow nerds in the writing center.

2. I have a new roommate. You know how movies about college always portray new roommates as being best friends forever or as mortal enemies? Well, they leave out a third category of roommate: the one in which both of you have nothing in common and ignore each other the whole semester. This happened with my last roommate. It was nothing personal--we never fought or anything--but we just did not click. My new roommate is my former next door neighbor, soon-to-be-former cafeteria coworker, and current nerdy friend. We're not nerd twins like dear Feathery and I are--my roommate's a computer science major--but we're both quirky, socially awkward introverts who have a lot in common plus our own individual interests, and I think that's why we get along so well. I have a feeling that Elizabeth, my new roomie, will be figuring into a lot of my subsequent blog posts because we have a tendency to have nerdy adventures together. I figured I'd go ahead and introduce her. :D

3. Next semester I am taking five English classes and one general ed class. I hope this courseload does not kill me. At least I will have lots of reading material . . . :D

4. I am now an official member of Sigma Tau Delta, the English honors society. *nerd dance* I also heard rumors that I might be the club secretary next semester, but I haven't heard anything official. ^^

So . . . What have you guys been up to lately? :D

Who Is The Worst Blogger In The World?

I am. I have not blogged in over 6 weeks. I abandoned my beloved followers the entire month of October and most of September. Nevertheless, I have a valid excuse. This being a double major in two reading and writing intensive fields--English and history--means one gets an ample serving of homework. The homework itself does not bother me. In fact, nerdy me rather enjoys the homework. Nerdy me does not enjoy how much it has cut into my online time. *sniffle*

Therefore, I apologize for my prolonged absence, both from blogging and the internet in general. I have neglected crits, personal messages, blog posts, and a whole slew of other things that I have truly hated missing, and I am so sorry about that! Forgive me! :( I am trying to catch up, but it’s going to be awhile.

To give a quick update about myself:

• I have been reading a lot. And at some point, not sure when, I will update you with reviews of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Things Fall Apart, The Dead, Death of a Salesman, A Streetcar Named Desire, a slew of short stories, and a certain book entitled Mockingjay.
• I have been writing a lot. So far this semester, I have written a poetry explication on Robert Frost's "Home Burial," an analysis of Charlotte Perkins Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper," an essay on plagiarism, and a ton of in class assignments and am currently working on an analysis of A Streetcar Named Desire, a rhetorical analysis of my own writing, a research proposal on the Russian Revolution, a research paper on the history of Nigeria, and an explication of The Picture of Dorian Gray. In other words, it may be awhile before you get another update from me . . .
• Before I moved away to college, I didn't go to bed before midnight because I was a night owl. Now I wish I could go to bed before midnight but never have a chance.
• The cafeteria is still going well. I have become a master of crafting pizzas *ninja pose* and dismantling the salad bar *special ninja pose* and scanning student ID cards *extra special ninja pose* and sometimes making correct change *extra special ninja pose with a cherry on top*. I am also slowly mastering the art of being a cook's help, though that's a bit more tricky *occasionally extra special super ninja pose with a cherry on top mixed with the more regular epic ninja fail sulk pose*.
• I have joined Sigma Tau Delta, the English honors society. Basically, this means I meet with fellow bookworms a couple of times a month to plan extra nerdy events. My personal favorite was our celebration of Frodo and Bilbo's birthdays, complete with cake. ^^
• I have learned that as much as I love history and still intend to major in it, my true passion is in English and that’s probably what I am going to go to grad school for.
• Since I have been forced off of the internet and don't have time to read anything but what I am mandated to read by fear of failing grades, I have been listening to a lot of music lately. I find it soothing to listen to music as I type. So . . . I have been rediscovering my love for Evanescence and classical music and The Doors and Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd. I used to prefer the darker Roger Waters-era stuff--and still love it with a passion--but I need to find a mental happy place and not a mental not-so-happy place, so the more whimsical Barrett stuff works for me right now. Besides, who doesn't love poor Syd, The Crazy Diamond?! Don't argue with me. I will hurt you. *psychedelic ninja pose*
• My first homecoming is this week. As someone who hates dancing and is a social recluse, I am somewhat relieved that I will be working through most of it. Haha Not that anyone has asked me to any of the events anyway . . .
• If you never leave your dorm except to go to class, work, or eat, people will think you’re a little odd. Who me?
• I have become an even bigger grammar geek than I was. Just warning any of you poor souls who are expecting a crit from me whenever I get a chance. I'm sorry. Blame my grammar class. I will say, in my own defense, that my grammar geekiness has taken on a less malicious tone and is now just a general infatuation with the structure of grammar. So . . . I am less likely to notice only when something is wrong and more likely to stop reading an email and happily exclaim, “That’s a past participial phrase!” In case you’re wondering, you’re right--I have no life.
• My infatuation with Oreos has gotten worse. I snack on them almost nightly. I have five packages of Oreos in my room right now.
• My already idiosyncratic eating habits have gotten crazier. Eating in a cafeteria--even a good one, which our college has--means that sometimes you're reduced to eating Cheerios for lunch. Yes, I have done this. Yes, I have done it more than once. Yes, it was good. Don't claim you wouldn't do the same thing.
• As hard as it may be to believe, I have lost weight at college. So much for the freshman fifteen. Okay, okay, I am technically a junior, but I’m still new here.
• I have become a connoisseur of microwavable meals. There was one brand that had excellent alfredo, so I bought all of their other pasta meals. I have thrown out all of their other pasta meals because they were inedible.
• I just learned my spell check does not recognize alfredo as a word. What a sad life you live, Mr. Spell Check.
• I went to a Career Day my college hosted to gather info on potential grad schools and ended up freaking out the recruiters for the State Department.
• I stayed up to nearly one in the morning sitting on a sidewalk with two fellow nerds and freaked out security. Apparently, their first assumption is that three college students sitting on the sidewalk late at night are intoxicated or high . . . We were only talking and plotting nerdy mischief and were stone cold sober! Thus, we became determined to stay out later than the security guy’s shift. We won. :D
• I am good at freaking people out.
• I really have to go, but I want to say that I shall post again as soon as possible, but that probably will not be until my Thanksgiving break. Until then, have fun! :)

So . . . how is life? Update me! :)

Blogging a Drive Home From College

In one of my literature classes, we were discussing how difficult it is to write in second person. In my grammar class, we were toying with present tense. I have decided to combine the both of them in a story that is not the slightest bit autobiographical. No, really, it isn't. *shifty eyes* Okay, maybe it is just a little bit autobiographical . . .

You are going to drive home tonight, despite the fact that you've only driven the road once before, it's pitch-black, and you have no sense of direction.

You don't change out of your work uniform because you're in a hurry to get home. You think your uniform makes you look like a ninja, a Russian anarchist ninja from the early 20th century. You think you take Russian history a little too seriously. You even think that you may read too much. You decide you don't read enough. You make a resolution to read as much as you did before you moved away to college. You know this will not happen.

You turn on your car's interior light to find your favorite Pink Floyd CD before pulling out of the dorm parking lot. You didn't get to celebrate going back to school with your annual tradition of listening to "Another Brick in the Wall." You feel like a substandard Pink Floyd fan. You quote to yourself Roger Waters' sarcastic line about feelings from "The Trial" and feel like a slightly more functioning Pink Floyd fan.

You drive along, not paying attention to the music, convinced you will take a wrong turn and end up stranded at night in the middle of nowhere in a somewhat malfunctioning car. You tell yourself you're being paranoid. You count the prepositional phrases in your inner thoughts because that's what you covered in grammar class. You are obsessed with prepositional phrases. You distract yourself by reviewing your day. You analyze each social interaction you had and decide that your true calling in life is to be a hermit.

You wonder why your car seems so bright. You think it is perhaps the moonlight. You see there is no moon. You realize you drove for nearly thirty minutes with your car's interior light on and was totally oblivious to it. You ponder how you have managed to stay alive for 21 years.

You get distracted when you hear Pink Floyd's "Pigs (Three Different Ones)" come on. You sing along. You tap your foot along to it, as well. You get so engrossed in it that you look up and realize you have no idea where you are. You look around for road signs. You see no road signs. You think about how very dark it is. You think about how despite the fact you're on a major road, it is pitch black because there are no other vehicles on the road. You lock the doors on your car repeatedly. You hear a clunk in your car and jump. You tell yourself you're being foolish. You re-lock the car again, just in case. You relax and sing another line. You re-lock the car one more time because you're obsessive like that. You re-lock it another time because that noise distracts you from the unidentifiable noise. You start to re-lock it again when you see your exit is up ahead. You didn't miss it. You just have no idea where it is because you've only driven this road once before. You re-lock the car once more because it's now a nervous tic.

You're finally on a road that you drove every day for two years. You think that you should be able to find your way home with no problem. You forget that you only drove the road at night a few times in that two years. You forget how terrible your eye-sight is. You underestimate how different the landscape looks at night. You shrug off the fact that more than anything else you want to pull over and take a nap.

You see a cop car's lights flashing on the side of the road. You become alarmed and automatically slam on your brakes, though you're not speeding. You grip the steering wheel tightly and hope you're not violating any traffic laws, none of which you can think of because you're too terrified of being pulled over at night in the middle of nowhere. You realize what you thought were cop car lights are actually random light reflections off of a mailbox. You feel somewhat stupid. You wonder why you're so scared of cops. You think that growing up in an area with a nasty reputation for police vigilantism may have something to do with it. You remind yourself that your severe anxiety disorder means you're slightly paranoid of everyone. You feel like Wade Duck from Garfield and Friends--you're scared of everything. You think that driving home from college by yourself at night might help you become less paranoid. You reflect on your journey, which is bringing you closer and closer to home, and decide that view is giving yourself too much credit. You realize you really miss reading Garfield everyday. You decide to get a newspaper subscription at college. You don't really check your mail enough to justify buying a newspaper subscription.

You pull onto the dirt road your family lives on. You know that home is only ten minutes away. You decide that since you've listened to the Floyd CD twice already, you'll turn it off and listen to the radio. You turn the radio on to a classic rock station that barely gets reception. You hear commercial after commercial but no classic rock. You get annoyed at the radio. You shout "Shut up!" at the radio after listening to 9.5 minutes worth of commercials and a truly obnoxious dee-jay. You calm down as the station then segues into a song. You become irritated as you realize the singer is Tom Petty. You do not like Tom Petty. You suffer through the Petty song anyway because you're pulling into your family's driveway and will turn off the car as soon as you park. You made it home it home in one piece. You think this is a cause for celebration. You try to ignore how silly that sounds as you walk into the house.

My apologies for my absence! My homework has been quite unmerciful lately. I have realized that my school schedule is meddling with my blogging. I have decided to start rotating between weekly posts on this blog and my book blog. So . . . next week I'll post a book review, but the next week, I'll post something here. I'll still be posting weekly, just not for each blog. :)

The Art of Making Eye Contact

Most of you who know me know that I am a somewhat backwards person when it comes to being social. Since I now have to walk everywhere I go, I have discovered a new social conundrum that vexes me: When passing someone on the sidewalk, what is the correct procedure? Should one look at the person and smile? Look at the person and nod? Look at the person and say, "Hello," and walk on? Look at the person and say, "Howdy! My name is Zella! I am a junior history and English major, but I am new here. My friends think I will be unemployed after I graduate, but that's only because they're jealous of all of the homework I am assigned. So nice to meet you. I deduce you are heading to the cafeteria, seeing as that's the only thing on campus at this location. I have read every Sherlock Holmes story ever printed; hence, my profound skills in deduction. I am sure nobody else besides Sherlock--we're on a first name basis, Sherlock and I are--and myself would have guessed that you were going to the cafeteria. Did you know Sherlock is still alive? Are you hungry? I recommend the quesadillas. Did I mention I work at the cafeteria? While at work the other day, I slightly burnt my hand on a pizza the other day. See? Isn't that a great scar to have for life on my left index finger? I have a lot of scars. I have always been clumsy and prone to trip on flat surfaces, though tripping isn't what caused me to burn myself. I like your shirt, and that's saying something because I don't usually notice other people's clothing. What did you say your name was? Hey, why are you running away!"

This is driving me crazy! I don't feel compelled to talk to someone I pass on the sidewalk because it's not the same as standing in line with someone, but since passing someone on the sidewalk means you often do make eye contact, I think it's rude to not do anything!

My old strategy of combating this was to look at my shoes or look on the other side of the pavement to avoid making eye contact, primarily because eye contact makes me nervous. I don't like people looking into the windows of my souls. I am afraid of what they will see . . .

But the other day I was walking along the sidewalk, watching other people, when I noticed them doing the same thing as me and it was so obvious that they were not trying to make eye contact! I may not want to look at someone, but I don't want them to know that I don't want to look at them. Therefore, for the past couple of days, I have tried to devise a less obvious way of not looking at people when I walk by them. This has proven tricky, primarily because I never know how the other person will react. There seems to be no one-size-fits-all tactic for meeting people on the sidewalk.

Some people make a point of not looking at me. I am not sure if they are fellow socially awkward souls or if I just look that hideous, but I like these people. I can either look at them and not have to fear making eye contact or I can look away from them and not feel bad for my cowardice. Either way, what little self-esteem I possess emerges intact.

Other people, however, are not as cooperative and insist on looking at me. These people unnerve me. I can't look away because that means I am essentially admitting that I am an asocial moron who has a weird phobia about my soul windows. However, I am never sure what to do when I look at them. At first, I was inspired by watching other people's take on this and thought I had a good solution to the problem. I noticed some random passers-by take care of the problem by nodding at me slightly as I pass by. I think this is a useful non-committal greeting, so I tried using it. Sometimes people return the nod, and we go our happy individual ways. But my nod sometimes gets stared at. I am not sure if these people want me to be more friendly or less friendly or if I just look ridiculous while nodding--a distinct possibility--and have confused them.

So . . . what do I do if they don't want me to nod at them? Maybe the nod is too non-committal. I have tried smiling at people. Usually this nets me a smile in return. Sometimes I get a glare in return. If I could figure out who was going to glare at me, I'd glare at them first, but life doesn't work that way.

I don't feel right glaring at someone without provocation, so sometimes I just settle for a slight smile, so it's not quite so happy but is still not unfriendly. This seems to work, most of the time, but, again, you always encounter the glaring types who are apparently not pleased with this.

Smiles can have several meanings, so maybe these people are just unsure of what I am smiling about. Do they not know I am smiling at them? Do they think I am snickering at them? Do they think I am going to mug them? I decided that I should announce my intentions, so they would know that I am just being friendly. But . . . I am not out-going enough to greet someone I don't know verbally, and I have been on the receiving end of this one and have mixed-feelings about it. A "Hello!" or even a "Nice day, isn't it?" are more than okay with me, but I feel trapped when someone thinks that because I happen to be at the same intersection as them entitles me to hear his or her's life story. I only say "Hi!" to someone if they initiate it by acknowledging my smile or nod with a smile or nod in turn. Yet this strikes me as overkill because I have already greeted them and greeting them again makes me feel intrusive.

I really don't think I have any other recourse besides these meager options listed above, so for now I have settled on waiting for the other person to see me and then seeing what they do before I respond in turn. If they don't look at me, I don't look at them. If they smile or nod at me, I smile or nod at them. If they say "hello!" to me, I say "hello" to them. If they glare at me, I look away and pretend to not see them. If they run up to me and decide that we're going to be the bestest of friends because I am going to lunch at the same time they are leaving the cafeteria, I run like a track star in the opposite direction. *sigh* The perils of social engagements . . .

What's your method for making eye contact? Or avoiding eye contact, for that matter?

The Life of a Dorm Rat

I suppose many of you remember my little series from last semester in which I wrote a couple of blog posts about my daily life. I was recently thinking about how much my schedule as a sophomore commuter to a community college differs from being a junior English/history major at a residential college, so I decided to blog about it. I won't torment you with two posts about my schedule like last time. I'll just torment you by cramming it all in one post. ^^

Monday/Wednesday/Friday:

7:30 am: My two alarm clocks go off, so I drag myself out of bed at some point shortly thereafter to get dressed and brush my hair. If I am good and have time, I check my e-mail. If not, I schlep out of my dorm and hurry to the cafeteria, calling my grandmother en route to say hello and assure her that I am still alive.

8:05am: I am at the cafeteria. My breakfast always ends up being one of three things: pancakes or French toast with chocolate milk, biscuit and gravy with eggs smothered in gravy because I can't eat the eggs without the gravy and chocolate milk, or biscuit and gravy and chocolate milk with some form of pastry when I can't bring myself to face the eggs.

8:30am: By this point, I have finished eating and am either back in my dorm checking my e-mail if I didn't do it earlier and grabbing my extremely heavy bag of books--Note to self: Being an English major means you get to carry an obscene number of heavy books--or I am on my way to my first class. I like to be early, and that gives me time to review our assignments.

9:00am: Introduction to Grammar: This is my grammar class. Those of you who know me well know I am a grammar nazi. As you can imagine, I adore this class. I'm not going to say it's an easy class, per se, because you have to learn a lot of terms and rules, but the daily homework assignments are often done in class and my professor is great. She explains things well and has a lively sense of humor, so it's always a fun time.

9:50am: I don't have any classes at this time, so sometimes I run errands, sometimes I go back to my dorm, and sometimes I just work on my homework for the next class while sitting in the hallway.

11am: Foundations of Literary Studies: This is a class required for all English majors at my school. I think of it as being English Comp 2 on steroids. We cover all of the basic and not-so basic literary terms and concepts that are needed to take higher-level English classes. I enjoy this class because we have read a lot of poetry that I either already loved or that I have never read before and enjoyed very much. The syllabus promises some of my favorite short stories and The Picture of Dorian Gray. Yayayay! I really like my professor in this class--she is also my academic advisor and the sponsor of Sigma Tau Delta. We also always have lively, if not heated, discussions in here. We don't have a murderous reading load, but there are a lot of projects in this class (3 essays, 3 exams, 1 presentation, and 1 list of about 70 literary terms) that keeps me busy.

12pm: Survey of American Lit. 2: I have to run like a maniac from my last class to this one in a neighboring building. As with all of my other English classes, I just love this one! We're currently reading Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. We only have 13 students in here and the professor is hilarious. We always have a daily quiz on what we read, so we're all always shouting random questions at each other based on what we think our professor is going to ask before he comes in. The homework isn't brutal in here, either, but the quizzes are definitely an incentive to keep up with the reading.

1pm: Lunch. I walk up to the cafeteria and find something edible to eat.

At this point, my schedule depends on what day it is. On Monday and Friday, I have nothing scheduled whatsoever after this, so I usually work on homework, take a dinner break around 5:30pm, and then return to homework. So far, the campus clubs I am interested in joining have meetings on these days, so I attend those when they are scheduled, and go to bed around 10:30pm. On Friday, however, I am scheduled to work in the cafeteria. So . . . I get to work by 4pm and stay until 8pm, with a fifteen minute break at 4:30pm to eat. This is my jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none day. I work wherever I am needed, which means one day I'll be serving food, the next week, I'll be making pizzas. (Note to self: Cutting pizzas is more scientific than you'd believe.) Then I go home and play on my computer until the wee hours of the morning.

Tuesday/Thursday:

7:30pm: I wake up at the same time, but I'm usually lazier about getting out of bed at this time because my roommate is getting ready to leave for an early class. When I do get out of bed, my morning schedule is pretty much the same as the previous day as far as breakfast and pre-class activities.

9:30pm: History of Africa: This is an upper-division history elective I am taking. I have little knowledge of African history and my professor is very good and is just an all-around nice person who also double majored in history and English, so I look forward to this one. There are also only 6 of us in this class. Please don't cancel us. We have to do a presentation on an African country of our choice in November, so I'll be doing research for that soon. Until then, I just have reading assignments, so the homework load is reasonable.

11am: I wander back to my dorm to check my email and wait for the cafeteria to open at 11:15 pm, in which I walk over to eat lunch. I spend the next couple of hours doing homework or research in the library for my next class.

1pm: Introduction to Historical Research: This is a required course for all history majors and is one I just relish, though it is very time-consuming. Basically, we're learning the ins and outs of conducting historical research with the library as our laboratory. (My professor's own words.) This professor has a wonderful sense of humor and a biting sense of sarcasm, so his lectures are always amusing. But there is a ton of homework, including maintaining a daily journal of assignments, extensive reading, and a semester-long research project. Mine is on the Russian Revolution, which is one of favorite historical periods. So . . . I enjoy this class very much, but it sure does take up a lot of my time.

2:20pm: What happens after I get out of my last class depends on what is day it is. On Tuesday, I have some time to do homework or crash in my dorm until I go to work at 4pm. On that day, I am a cook's help, which means I get to take very hot stuff out of its pan and take it to the serving line and clean the kitchen. On Thursday, I have to run like a crazy woman from my class all the way across campus to the cafeteria because my shift starts at 2:30pm. I work on salads on those days, so I usually spend an hour chopping up vegetables before setting up the salad bar and running it and putting all of it away solo. It's not too bad of a job, but I don't eat salad and there is a ton of stuff to set up and put up. Woe is me.

7:30pm: I am finished with work on both days, so I go home to take a shower to get rid of the grease or ranch dressing that is covering me and my uniform. (I must say, if my roommate were not in the room, I would so lick my uniform when it has ranch dressing on it. Ahem.) I am usually too tired to do much homework, so I usually just review my assignments for the next day and call it a night at 10pm. (Though one time I was so exhausted I came home, collapsed on my bed, and woke up two hours later to find that I was asleep at the foot of my bed. I changed positions and promptly fell back asleep until the next morning. Talking to my coworkers, I have learned that we "caf kids," as the cafeteria workers are called, are quite prone to this. My next-door neighbor and coworker and newly acquired friend told me she crashed for eighteen hours last weekend.

So . . . there's my weekly schedule. I have to work every other weekend, like this one, so I spend those days chilling out or doing homework and work from 4:00-7:30pm both days as a cashier for the cafeteria. (The great part of this is I get to open the cafeteria doors with a fascinating tool that looks like a cat burglar's tool and an instrument to perform a lobotomy. I rambled about this on Twitter yesterday. Anyway, as soon as I saw it, those are the two things that ran through my head. Unfortunately, since I am insane, I immediately blurted out those thoughts to my boss who was showing me the tools. Fortunately, my boss is slightly insane, too, so instead of glaring at me, he started nodding his head and agreed. Yay for meeting like-minded people! Erm, yeah.) On the other weekends, I usually go home for a day or two to say hello to my family and apologize to my Chihuahua for abandoning him.

And that's that.

I'm BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

Hey, y'all! After my self-imposed exile from blogging, I am back in action! At least, for now, I am back in action. In the time I have been gone, I have moved into my dorm, underwent a one week orientation, and finished my first week of classes. A lot has happened--more than will fit in a blog post--so I have condensed this into a greatest hits-type collection of random things I've learned this past couple of weeks:


1. When you move into your dorm, unpack your own stuff so you know where it is: I unpacked most of my stuff, but I had to go register my vehicle and log into the college's network, so my grandma finished putting things up for me. She is a very organized person, so she put everything in a logical place. Alas, I am not logical, could not figure out where anything was, and had to call her at 7:30 am one morning to ask where my laundry detergent was. I have since discovered where everything is, but this taught me a valuable lesson in unpacking.

2. Get there early on the move-in date: This advice is courtesy of my aunt. She called me my last day home to tell me this. Both of her kids went to big universities and she said it was utter mayhem on move-in days, so being early is essential. I'm going to a pretty small private college, so move-in day wasn't totally chaotic, but I did get good parking and since I was the first in the room, I got to claim the bottom bunk--We shorties find this essential--and move all of my stuff in before my roommate moved her stuff in. Yeehaw!

3. Getting out of your comfort zone is part of college and that can be awesome: My college does a program during orientation in which several of the groups get together and put on skits. I haven't done anything like this since I was in elementary school and I am so shy, so I was dreading this. It ended up being one of the most fun things I've done in a long time. And even though I worked on sets and backstage and never had to be on stage, it did jar me out of my comfort zone and made me realize how much I enjoy theater. At least, the being backstage and collaborating part. So . . . getting out of your comfort zone is a good thing!

4. However, there is such a thing as getting too far out of your comfort zone: Don't worry. I didn't do anything crazy or illegal. But I did go to my first rave-type dance during my orientation. It was all right. I slightly danced for all of like one minute, but that is just not me! I am a nerd. I do not dance. Thus, I sat down and drank Powerade and had way more fun watching everyone else who could not dance dance. But I at least gave it the old college try first. (Did you note the terrible pun? Please say yes. I thought of that for a couple of seconds before writing it down. Please acknowledge my terrible pun or I will torture you with more.) ^^

5. The whole "You'll escape your reputation at college" saying is only true if you don't really deserve your reputation: If you're still being labeled as the kid who ate mud in third grade when you're in high school--I do know someone who did this--yes, you probably will escape your reputation at college. However, if you deserve your reputation, everyone will soon come to that conclusion about you on their own. In my case, I have always been perceived as a neurotic nerdbag. This reputation has followed me ever since elementary school. It has followed me to my new college because, well, I am a neurotic nerdbag. I realized this the day my orientation group was sitting around a table and someone dissed 1970s music. Someone else objected, insisting that some good music was produced then. Me being me, I indignantly blurted out, "Pink Floyd!" The girl sitting next to me told me, "Oh, Zella, you would say that."

6. Working in the cafeteria is not too bad: My college requires work-study, so I was assigned to the cafeteria. I work as a cook's help, server, cashier, cleaner, and general "Hey, do this!" person. To be honest, it's a physically demanding job--way different from the library--but I actually enjoy it. Most of my coworkers are pretty cool, and we get first dibs on meals. Also, on the closing shift, if we finish early, we sit around eating ice cream until time's up. It's called fringe benefits. ^^

7. Upper-division classes in your major are delightfully nerdy: At my community college, I took general ed classes and though I liked most of my professors, most of my classmates complained about everything. Thus, I got dirty looks for getting excited about reading Lord of the Flies. What heathens. Now I am taking only history and English classes--no more general ed!--with fellow English and history majors. The result is we actually have great class discussions, as opposed to everyone sitting in silence because most of them didn't read the assignment and everyone else is too self-conscious to speak up, and my classmates share my nerdy delight in reading Mark Twain and Robert Frost and historical textbooks. This is also the only time that my telling people I am double majoring in history and English is not greeted with stupefied expressions or sad looks that indicate I will be unemployed for a vast period of time. Instead, I get "Oh, those majors complement each other so well!" Note to readers: If you ever take an English class with all English majors, mention the detestable scenario in which Twilight is assigned academic reading. The horrified expressions that uniformly form around the room are priceless. ^^

8. Eating in a cafeteria takes some getting used to: I had not eaten in a cafeteria since I was ten--am now twenty one--so this was a bit of a culture shock for me. In fact, the first few days, I couldn't really eat anything. It took me four days to eat a small full meal and a good week to eat anywhere near normal. It's not that the food is bad--it's pretty good for cafeteria food--but I was a bit overwhelmed by the whole atmosphere and it took some getting used to. Now that I am in classes and walking everywhere, I've actually been eating more than normal--yet I have still managed to lose weight--so it's not an issue, but all of that food is so tempting! As much as I love junk food, I have made an effort to actually eat better. I avoid drinking soda--they serve lemonade and chocolate milk in the cafeteria!--and I try to stay away from burgers and pizza and stick with more healthy options. If I don't like the looks of the more healthy stuff, I will get a burger, but I try not to do it more than once a week. I also try to schedule that for when one of my friends is working the grill. We worked on the skit together and got our worker training together, but we're not scheduled to work with each other--an outrage!!!--so this the only time we see each other. This time-honored ritual involves both of us standing on our tiptoes (the food stations have a top that is at our eye level. The designers did not have short people in mind when they made it), and shout the following conversation at each other over the noisy cafeteria:
"Hey, how are you?!"
"Fine! How's the grill?"
"Not bad. How's salad?"
"Good. Classes going well?"
*nod*
*wave*
It's the little things that count. :D

9. Cramming a fridge and microwave in your dorm is worth the space they take up: All of you know my well-documented obsession with Oreos and milk. I can partake in this nightly ritual because my fridge houses a half a gallon of milk to accompany my cookies. Ditto for the popcorn that is cooked in my microwave. I can munch to my heart's content!

10. Attending 26 policy presentations in a week is not too bad if you get good speakers and a mix of funny skits and videos.

11. Your ID card is your friend: Seriously. At my college, you need your ID card with you for pretty much anytime you go to an office or eat in the cafeteria or clock into work. On the flip side, this ID card has netted me free admission to the campus museum and over 30% discounts at the campus's restaurant. Befriend your ID card and never leave home without it.

12. Communal bathrooms are strange at first, but you eventually get used to them.
Am I saying that I do not want to transfer to one of the dorms that has personal bathrooms? God, no! But after a few days, you get over it. Ditto with dorm rooms. I have read horror stories of students waiting for nearly an hour to use the showers, but so far I have never had to contend with that for any longer than a minute.

13. Having a roommate can be awkward at first, but it's not necessarily totally horrible: My roommate and I were complete strangers and we don't have a ton in common, but we get along and try not to get on the other one's nerves. Also, our schedules are not the same and she goes home as often as she can, so we're not getting cabin fever and going psycho on each other. I have learned to look up in the top bunk before turning on the lights and talking to myself aloud and slamming drawers. I did that once for an extended amount of time before realizing my roommate was asleep in her bed. She never said anything about it, but I felt terrible. And foolish. And crazy. Oh, wait. That's me everyday. :D

14. Always have your dorm keys with you: Otherwise, you'll lock yourself out at 7am and have to wait half an hour whilst wearing a bathrobe for the RA to get back from breakfast to let you back into your room.

15. Likewise, make sure you have everything before you leave your dorm: That is, unless you like walking halfway across campus and then having to run back to your dorm and then bolt up 2 flights of stairs to get things . . . more than once in the same hour.

16. 14 college students can fit around a table for 8: My orientation group did this all of the time. Some of you just have to be willing to eat with your plate on your lap--I was always one of these people. No, I was not raised in a barn.

17. If you and 8 of your new college friends decide to go to Wal-Mart together in multiple vehicles, make sure everyone has each other's numbers: Not doing this means someone named Zella will spend the whole time walking around the store looking for everyone else.


18. Living at a college in a tourist town means there's always something to do off campus, but it also means you'll be a tourist attraction, too: This is usually positive--boredom never strikes--but this can suck on occasion. Specifically the being a tourist attraction part. Here at my college, we have a lot of tourists, most of whom are very nice. But we also have a service called Ride the Ducks. And people will use those to tour the campus. It makes us feel like zoo specimens, especially when they quack at us with artificial quackers. (I am not making this up. I hide every time I see the Ducks coming.) Ah, but revenge is sweet. And when we all got to do this ride for free--again that student ID has its perks--we quacked at random tourists with a vengeance. Then again, we also quacked along to "Who Let The Dogs Out?". ("Who let the dogs out? Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!" Try it sometime. It's catchy.)

19. My campus has a strict no-alcohol policy, so I don't have to worry about crazy parties, which is one reason I wanted to come here. Parties annoy me. A delightful side effect of this policy is that, in addition to the school sponsoring constant events to keep us occupied, we students devise all sorts of eccentric randomness to amuse ourselves. One of my personal favorites of these was a snipe hunt that I participated in.

And now I am going to tell you a story. If you have never been on a snipe hunt and would like to eventually go on one, you are not allowed to read any further! Sorry! It will spoil all of your fun.

For the rest of you, that being those of you who have been on snipe hunts or those of you who have not and are determined to read this post anyway, a snipe hunt is a traditional rite of passage in rural areas in which you're taken into the woods to hunt a small bird called a snipe. You will be given bags to capture the snipes and various instruments to murder the little buggers. You will then be left in the woods to wait for the snipes for several hours, or at least until those who are taking you snipe hunting have decided that they've had enough fun at your expense because, um, it's just a huge practical joke. You will not capture a snipe--which are notoriously difficult to hunt--and you certainly won't do it standing out in the woods in the middle of the night holding a plastic Wal-Mart bag.

I was heading back to my dorm one night at about ten o clock when I heard one of the orientation leaders was hosting a snipe hunt. I couldn't resist showing up because a) I am from a rural area and know exactly what a snipe hunt is, b) I am mean and enjoy practical jokes, and c) I know the guy who was leading the snipe hunt has an outrageous sense of humor--and is quite easy on the eyes, if I may say so *cough*--so I knew it would be a fun way to spend a couple of hours.

We--there were nearly twenty of us--all met at the edge of campus, which is basically a huge tract of woods. Those of us who were "experienced" snipe hunters offered to flush the birds out for the newbies. The newbies were given bags, baseball bats, turkey calls, and plenty of ludicrous instructions on how to hunt snipes. We told them we'd put them in a flat area at the bottom of the hill and chase the snipes to them because snipes can't run uphill. We also warned them to be quiet because snipes have excellent hearing but poor eyesight.

We abandoned them and took the hills above them, wherein we made weird noises--ahem, they were snipe calls--and threw rocks into the woods to sound like we were flushing the prey toward them. After about twenty minutes, we discussed whether we should leave our poor friends in the woods, which is how a proper snipe hunt is conducted. But though we were mean enough to trick them, we were not quite that mean. (Also, my college has a weekday curfew we have to observe.) It was decided that we would conclude the snipe hunt early by scaring them. See, ain't we friendly and considerate?

After several minutes in which we all laughed hysterically--but silently--and plotted our next move, we sent one guy running down to where our snipe hunters were stationed, screaming that the snipes were overrunning us and that our fearless hunters needed to escape! "There are too many of them! RUN!" The rest of us, shortly after that, went running back up the hill--in front of our comrades--screaming bloody murder and shouting, "RUN!" " and "They're biting me! Get them off me!" and "OWWWWWWW!" and--in a tribute to Monty Python--"Run away!"

We stood at the top of the hill, trying our best not to laugh, when we saw our hunters running up the hill away from the vicious snipe. When they got to us, we asked them if they saw any snipe and after being told that they hadn't, we regaled them with tales of how we were viciously attacked by snipe--"They bit my ankles!"--and some of us, including yours truly, complained that back home we go snipe hunting all the time and have never had this problem. What is the world coming to when snipe attack you?

As you can imagine, we had more fun with this than the poor snipe hunters did. But . . . they'll get to be in on it next time. ^^

20. I am really enjoying my new college and I'm glad that my anxiety about transferring has so far been proven totally unfounded.

All righty, guys. I am definitely back to blogging here regularly--probably on the weekends--but it may be a few days before I resume doing book reviews on my other blog. I have been too busy to read for pleasure and I still need to write a review for the book I have read. Good to be back! I missed all of you. :)

Brain Vomit

Okay, I am going to start by apologizing to any and everyone who is subjected to this post! I was going to blog on a new addition to my nerd collection. However, doing a proper post like that takes me a few drafts and a couple of days and I just now sat down to type up my blog post. So you poor souls are going to be subjected to Zella's projectile brain vomit. You poor things. *shakes head in a grandmotherly fashion*

To start off this subconscious ramble, I am going to attend to two matters that I have forgotten in my last posts--and one of them was triggered by my use of the word "grandmotherly". I'm sure you guys remember my blog that detailed my transformation from a pathetic nerd to an angry granny at the sight of Bratz dolls. My good friend Sana has drawn a quite accurate and very scary portrait of this scene on her own blog. I encourage you to have a look at it. ^^

Also, remember my guessing contest a couple of weeks ago where I had you guys guess what movie I took the name of my dog, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, from? I had someone get the answer right and totally forgot all about it! Argggghhhhhh! I am an idiot! Sky correctly stated that I got the name from the classic spaghetti western The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Tuco is a rather colorful bandit played by the great Eli Wallach. During a hanging scene, Tuco has all of his crimes read to him and his full name is stated then. If you have never watched that movie, you simply must see it. Sergio Leone directing Clint Eastwood and Eli Wallach and Lee Van Cleef in a tale of three bad outlaws in a search for gold. Can it get any better than this? NOOOOOO! See it now! *attempts to stop being hyper*

I promised to mention Sky's name because she did know the answer--and is a fellow fan of the movie--and I neglected to do so. I am terribly sorry about that, but I am rectifying that as of now! SKY WON MY GUESSING CONTEST!!!!!!!!!!! And Penguins garners an honorable mention for posting the initials but not giving away the movie's title.

I usually am not quite that forgetful, but I have been extremely scatter-brained lately. That always happens when I am stressed out. I go completely bonkers. Just yesterday, I was at work and I had a handful of movies to file away. Just then a long time patron who always checks out books--and never movies--came up to the desk to check her latest reads out. Idiot me scanned the movies I had just checked in and checked them out to her! She stared at me with a highly alarmed expression until I realized what I had done. Then I apologized profusely and took the movies off of her account and checked her books out to her. After that I went to the bank I have had an account at for thirteen years and forgot my account number when I withdrew money. I have never once forgotten my bank account number! I felt like such a world class goober. Afterwards, I sat in my car and stared into outer space for a long, long time.

That did not help because I kept having horrifying flashbacks of my drive to work in which the large selection of library books I was returning turned on me and attacked me! I have never ever in all of my years of reading been attacked by a book! But it happened Tuesday morning on what seemed like a perfectly normal morning. I sat my stack of about 14 books on my seat next to me and backed out of my driveway. As I was doing so, without provocation and with absolutely no warning, the books began jumping out of the seat and hurling themselves in a highly threatening manner. Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy flung itself at me and landed just centimeters away from a very terrified Zella. Jim Thompson's The Killer Inside Me launched a vicious assault on my gear shifter and was aided with shocking bloodthirstiness by Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian and Deborah Blum's The Poisoner's Handbook. Not all of my soon to be returned books attacked. Laurie Halse Anderson's Fever, 1793 must have been on the sluggish side--no doubt due to the yellow fever--for it chose to slide to the other side of the seat and fall, wedging it between the seat and my passenger door. Several other innocent books followed its lead and took shelter. Meanwhile, I screamed like a little girl and swerved, narrowly avoiding driving off of the road. It was an outrage! Imagine a world where one is attacked by books! Unthinkable. But it happened to me yesterday. *backs into corner, wary of the next literary barrage*

Today has been much more quiet. I have been packing clothes to take to college with me and dividing them into various piles: take with me so I look like a functioning person at school and work, take with me so I can have something to wear when I feel like being a slob, take with me so I will not look like a complete fashion disaster for halfway formal occasions, not take with me but still keep because I just loved that shirt when I was fifteen, didn't know I had but will take with me because I like it, didn't know I had and not taking but not bad enough to give away--I need something to wear when I am home!, relatively nice stuff I need to give away so someone will wear it, and stuff that I am not in any way taking with me and never will wear but cannot bring myself to give to someone else--either due to sentimental attachment or the fact that I would never ever torture another person with said garment. One such item is a denim dress that looks like something a 1960s era Russian cosmonaut would wear in a sadly misguided attempt to re-enact a Western. Weirdly enough, the couple of times I wore it, everyone told me it was lovely. I don't think so! That is not going to school with me. I deny all knowledge of that dress. So will you. *glare*

~~~~

Okay, I think you guys have suffered through all of the brain vomit you can handle at the moment. As many of you who also follow my book blog already know, I am going to be taking a vacation from blogger for the next few weeks. I intend to resume blogging in early September, but I have to leave for a one week long college orientation in exactly 31.5 hours and my internet time will be limited. After that, I will be at a new college, with a new job, living in a dorm, which is a first for me. I am excited--for the most part--but I think it's best that I get adjusted without having to worry about posting two blog posts a week. Unfortunately, because I will have very limited online time, you probably will not be seeing me much of anywhere for at least the next week. Not on Blogger or Sparklife or Critique Circle or Facebook or Twitter or any other website I frequent. I will try to keep up with PMs and email, but I may be a little delayed in getting to those. Sorry! I am going to miss all of you, but I look forward to coming back ASAP! :)