Blogiatus Over!
There’s a 98.7 percent chance that everyone (all three of you) has given up on me ever returning.
But hey! Would I renege on a promise? Answer: no, not usually. Unless that promise was made under duress, like, I don’t know, torture. Advanced interrogation techniques. Or, as I like to call it, peer pressure.
(Wait, I’m hearing that waterboarding is significantly more painful than peer pressure. But when was the last time THEY were teenagers?).
The point is: I am here now! My blogging for Barnard is over! I’ll be honest–it was not nearly as fun as might have been expected. Unless one expected that it wouldn’t be fun at all. Then you’d be just about right. I’ve also realized that I was helping to recruit a class that I don’t want to come. No offense, 2013s, but your arrival means my senior year. Aaaah! Also, you have to be the class of unlucky ‘13, so like, do you even really want that?
No, I take that back. Class year is entirely insignificant. The class behind me in high school referred to themselves as the double-oh-sevens. Infinitely cooler than double-oh-six. So: class year, schmlass year.
(I’m realizing how much music I have on my iTunes that I hate, and that I skip every time it comes up in shuffle. Yes, Usher, Confessions, I’m talking about you.)
Speaking of high school, speaking of my childhood–I was talking to Abby last week and she told me how she’d talked to our mom and mentioned her Tide (tm!) pen, and M-Dog said, “Abby! You’re the neat one! You don’t need to carry that around!”
To which I responded, “Has she met you?”
Isn’t it weird how in your family (or at least my family), you get a reputation at like age 3, and then you can NEVER EVER shake that? For example, in addition to being the neat one, Abby is:
*the cautious one (there was a whole theory that Abby and I downhill-skied in ways to match our personalities. I’d go straight down, never turn, going as fast as possible. Abby would plan ahead, pick out the perfect route, and wend and weave her way down the hill, always going a perfectly safe speed and never accidentally finding herself on double-black-diamond hills)
*the picky one
*the pukey-in-the-car one
*the singing one–the one for whom the no-singing-at-the-table statute was established. Eensy Weensy Spider just had too many hand gestures.
I, on the other hand, am supposed to be:
*reckless or impulsive (see: skiing theory)
*iron stomachy (because I’d read in the car when I was little. This one is especially awful now because I do get naseous–nauseated?–in the car, and my mother will not believe me). Not to be confused with iron lungy.
*The eat-anything one, since I ate my aunt’s notoriously bad cooking EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO.
*The messy-as-all-hell one
Ok, that last one has some merit, and necessitates that I, too, carry around a Tide pen (tm!). I brought it to the seder I went to (I’ve been on blogiatus so long that I missed Passover and my chance to pass on my newfound knowledge of the scientific explanations for all the miracles and plagues), and was mocked for it. BUT: guess who got the last laugh? ME. Because it turns out, no one can eat brisket neatly and EVERYONE needs some good Tidings (tm!). Get it?
Wow. Maybe all of us would have been better off if I’d just continued this blogiatus.
May 4, 2009 at 1:26 pm
YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY you’re back.
We’ve probably talked about this before, but I love that we both had to have no singing at the table rules as children.