COMMITMENT

I do not has it.

Given that, it falls upon me to inform you all that I’m moving my blog to a new URL and title. Now you can find it at http://www.harshbanter.wordpress.com

It’s essentially the same blog – in fact, I’ve transported the majority of these posts over there – it just has a shiny new name. AND the new…week’s(?) resolution: I’m planning to post EVERY thursday and sunday with MILITARY PRECISION. We’ll see how long that lasts, given my above statement about commitment. But, I’m in Venice right now, so right now I’ve only updated with really brief details (internet is a little sketch here).

On Human and Electronic Connection

Does anyone remember that time I refused to sign onto facebook for an entire week? Yeah, that was cute. Also totally out of character, because that’s how I keep track of 76 percent of my friends (hey, I move a lot.). But sometimes I just think “GROSS. I am too connected to technology. Those Amish people, they really know what’s up.” But then I remember that if I were Amish, I wouldn’t be able to use a hair dryer, AND I’d have to figure out how to sew in a straight line (am I the only one who finds this difficult?). What can I say? I can only handle so much before I fold like a cheap newspaper. Also, I once accidentally watched the end of Witness on TNT, and that guy got buried alive in a silo full of grain. So that moved WAY up on my list of ways not to die, and also led me to the conviction that I just could not hack it as an Amish person. Also, isn’t it true that some of them don’t wear bright colors? Yeah. I’d have to throw away everything I own.

Anyway. Periodically, I think I should really lay off the technology. (And yes, I do realise that it’s ridiculous to be BLOGGING about shunning technology.) I’ve started small with things. I’m starting with headphones (OOOH. Starting small – headphones. Literal AND figurative, you guys. See what I did there? It really takes very little to amuse me these days.) The Sound of Silence. Good when it’s the song. Nicht so fabulous when it’s the actual sound of nothingness. For me, at least. I sleep with a fan. Not just any fan. It’s like a wind tunnel in my bedroom. Or, as I prefer to think of it, that room in Willy Wonka’s factory where they keep the fizzy lifting drinks. (Yes, I did look for a picture and no, Google Images did not come through for me.) Now, I realise that in my room there are no bubbles, and no poor people with hearts of gold floating around, but there IS a big fan. Just like the big fan that almost killed Charlie and Uncle Joe! So the connection totally works. The point is, I like noise (controlled noise) in my life. I like the fan. And when I’m wandering around town, I like to listen to my ipod. Or at least, I used to. But then it occurred to me that St Andrews is the size of a postage stamp, and it’s physically impossible to get between two points without seeing someone you know. And you know what’s awkward? Trying to acknowledge someone, or say hi, when they’re attached to headphones. So (though this is an obvious point), it seems that when we’re connected to our various devices, we invariably distance ourselves from the people standing right next to us. And that, my friends, is cause for a Sad Trombone. Has anyone out there been totally outraged because, even though you’re standing RIGHT AT THE COUNTER waiting for some salesperson to help you, they ANSWER THE PHONE instead? Hey you! Some of us actually got out of bed and got dressed to be here. Rude.

Which reminds me: cell phones. Okay, I love my phone. I don’t like being without it, and despite the fact that I’m currently getting all hippy-dippy about severing technological connections in favor of fostering real-life ones, I DON’T LIKE IT when my friends refuse to carry their mobiles (I’m looking at YOU, Ezbo). But you know when it’s not cool to be on your phone? You DON’T? Let me break it down:

1. When you’re in a moving vehicle with someone else. I admit that this is a pet hate of mine. And I haven’t experienced it recently (unlike point 2). But come on! That’s just awkward, you guys. Brief conversation, fine. Extended conversation? En-yoy your walk, if I’m the one driving the car.

2. When you are in a coffee shop that’s smaller than your average bear. Ok, I know I swore up and down that I would never blog about the people in Taste, despite the fact that there are some pretty amazing characters in there. It just feels too Harriet the Spy. And we all know how that ended. But, since I’m in there ALL the time now, I feel okay talking about this girl, because she’s definitely not a regular. Newsflash: Taste is tiny. And, when some of us are trying to improve our connectivity to the world (ie headphone-less), it is not okay to receive not one, but TWO phone calls and have two very loud, 20+ minute conversations. VERY LOUD. I am not exactly a soft-spoken girl. I’m also not particularly violent. But I still thought (briefly) about chucking a lit candle at that girl. Just go outside! It was warm outside today and everything. Actually, I don’t care if it’s freezing. Take one for the team, or embrace the text message, or MISS THE CALL. My dad once called me on skype while I was in Taste, and I legitimately put my headphones in and typed out responses to everything he said. And fine, he said it was like talking to Helen Keller, but at least I wasn’t being totally insufferable.

So, that’s what I’m working on at the moment: not wearing my headphones in public places. UNLESS I’m working and trying to block out a particularly poor song choice in Taste. And, of course, unless some rudeface is essentially sitting in my lap and having a super loud conversation on his or her cell phone.

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P.S. In other news, I had an epiphany today, and it’s that I am in fact, quickly becoming one of the Weird People in Taste. Turns out that when I’m writing a paper, I make all kinds of faces at my computer screen. Seriously. It looks like I’m having an argument with some kind of woodland midget. Well, no one’s pointed it out, so maybe no one’s noticed. But I was sitting in the window for a while today, and the glare essentially made my computer a mirror. And I just remember catching a glimpse of myself in the screen (whilst I was recrafting a particularly annoying sentence) and thinking OH HEY CRAZYFACE.

Sorry Salads

First off, does ANYONE in this country get it when I say “sorry salad”? Because I say it all the time, and am constantly met with blank stares. And yet, do I stop saying it? False. My learning curve, you guys. It’s awesome. Anyway, watch and learn:

Wait. Is this girl going to assault us with allegedly relevant Jim Gaffigan videos until everyone she knows is fully familiar with the entire Gaffigan canon? ZING! You’re a genius. That is EXACTLY what I plan to do.

This will come as a surprise to approximately no one, but this post actually has nothing to do with salad. Or even Jim Gaffigan. I was just saying “sorry salad” because I wanted to have a quick word about books. And I’m apologizing because there is absolutely no point to this post. Also there is very little entertainment value. So if you get to the end and you’re upset about it, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

On WEDNESDAY NIGHT, I looked Dustin right in the eyeball and swore up and down that I would not buy any more books until I finished all the books currently sitting on my shelf. ON FRIDAY MORNING I went out and purchased not one, not two, but THREE more books. I lasted approximately 39 hours. I was asleep for at least 16 of those hours, too. Nice job, Tor.

I literally love secondhand books (and the stores that sell them) with every fiber of my being. Every. single. one. This is peculiar, because I would never, ever buy a book in which someone else has written. Ew, or used a highlighter. That’s the worst! Especially if the highlighter isn’t yellow. My poor little eyeballs. And I have to say, these purchasing criteria make me a HUGE hypocrite. I’ll go ahead and admit that right away, because it’s patently obvious and also because Aleksei really seems to enjoy it when I admit to hypocrisy. I will not buy a book that’s got scribbling all over it. But shoot, once I’ve got that thing in my paws I will deface the crap out of it. I’m particularly bad about this with my school books, but I’ll do it with fiction as well. A few years ago, I was traveling in Croatia with Taylor, and at the time I was reading The Last King of Scotland. We were moving around a lot, so we had a lot of confirmation codes, bus times, boat times, phone numbers, etc to keep in order, and I was openly writing all of that stuff down in the blank pages of my book. Taylor almost died. But here’s how I feel about this: in this case, my book became an artifact for our trip. Not that I kept it, because I didn’t enjoy it all that much. I think I left it in a book swap somewhere. But maybe someone read my copy, and had a little ponder about all the wandering around I was doing. And I maintain that my random trip scribblings are more interesting than someone’s reading notes. Less distracting, at any rate.

Books are so intimate. (Maybe this is more relevant to Arts students?) We develop habits, ways of handling them, rules regarding their care and the relationship we foster with a given book. I hate to see someone else’s writing in my books (if the writing’s about the narrative itself) because it makes me feel like I’m being forced into a conversation for which I’ve not yet prepared. But still, I love other indicators of previous readers. Bruised and battered books are infinitely appealing to me. Claire and Dustin both hate books with broken spines. I LOVE broken spines. Tattered covers and whimpering spines always make me think a book’s lived other lives. Or at least witnessed them. My copy of Wuthering Heights, for example, looks as if it’s been put through a washing machine at least four times. And to be perfectly honest, the look of that book was the only thing I found enjoyable. (I know. I’M SORRY. But in my humble opinion, in comparison to the amazing, Classic-because-it’s-actually-GOOD Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights is terrible. Charlotte, good job being more awesome than Emily.) Anyway, I hated Wuthering Heights, but since it’s clear that 37 other people have read my copy, I can take some comfort in the fact that at least one of them probably really enjoyed it, and possibly spent the rest of her life looking for a moody jerk to love. Ok, I’m sorry. Enough about Wuthering Heights.

Used bookstores. I love them. A friend of mine (he is not a fan) very practically pointed out that secondhand bookstores can be annoying, because there’s no guarantee that you’ll find what you want. Solid point, and I can imagine this would be a problem if I had any planning skills whatsoever. But I actually really enjoy the element of surprise. It’s like fate. The universe is conspiring to bring a certain book into my life. James called it…serendipity. I like that.

Intimidation Factor 50

The other night, Dustin told me (he was ever so slightly tipsy at the time) that he was super intimidated by me when he first saw me. And while his reasons for it were totally adorable, it got me thinking.

Pop quiz: how many times have I been told that I am SUPER INTIMIDATING? Oh, what’s that you’re saying? You’d like to phone a friend for help on this one? Wait, I’M the friend? Well, I’d love to help you out here and I do in fact know the answer: I’ve been told that exactly 487 times. Ok, that’s a lie. The number is actually WAY higher. And people, I just don’t get it. I can think of at least 12 reasons why I’m not intimidating. Here’s one of them:

(Let’s break this down. Here I am, wearing – at the same time – a big purple ruffle, a cardigan, a hat and pink wellies. How could anyone possibly be scared of someone who voluntarily wears a big purple ruffle? That’s not even a costume, you guys. This was just a regular party. In fact, some of you will recognize this as the first ever suffering bastard party.)

Now, I will accept a lot of adjectives. I’ll take “ridiculous”. I’ll take “weird” even though I prefer “quirky and vaguely entertaining”. I have even readily admitted that I’m basically a caricature of a real human being. BUT. I really do have to draw the line at “intimidating”. I could list out all the other reasons I’m not intimidating. In fact, I started to do it, but that turned out to be a long and somewhat embarrassing study. But, this has got me thinking about perspective. From my perspective, I am about as intimidating as this Care Bear:

And fine, I will concede that I have the benefit of my inner monologue. (Ha. Benefit? Consider yourselves lucky. It’s like a Dali painting in there.) What I’m wondering though is this: in the battle of perspective, who wins? On the intimidation issue, I suppose if I’m the only person who doesn’t think I’m intimidating, I lose. Because I can hardly interact with myself without being a schizophrenic. But there are OTHER battles of perspective – ones in which I seem to be grossly outnumbered – that I think are winnable with only one vote. You know, as long as the vote is mine. Example: I would self-identify as the most socially awkward person in the world. In fact, I have self-identified as such on multiple occasions, and on multiple occasions I’ve been called a big fat liar. Surely I would know better than everyone else? But then again, maybe not. Anyway, I guess what I’m wondering is this: if there’s a disparity between the person you think you are and the person everyone else thinks you are, which vision is more accurate? There’s that old saying about knowing someone “better than they know themselves”. Which implies that typically, we know ourselves best. But I also think it’s really hard to see yourself clearly. And this is part of the reason that friends and family members are so important – because they can help us see. So, friends and family: if I’m doing something to be super intimidating to the world at large, could you let me know so I can fix it please?

On Being a Hippie.

I’m a little bit afraid of hippies. And when I say I’m afraid of them, I mean I’m afraid of hippies like I’m afraid of the ebola virus: it seems not totally beyond the realms of possibility that I could bump into someone at Tesco and catch hippy-ism. Or ebola, for that matter. (Sidenote: is anyone else a little disappointed in ebola? I mean, sure, it has an impressively high fatality rate. But only 1200 people have died from it since 1976. I am pretty sure that Pink Pearl erasers have taken out more people than that. Maybe my expectations were too high. This is probably due to the fact that I definitely thought Outbreak was just a very slightly dramatised documentary about ebola. Thanks for leading me astray, DUSTIN HOFFMAN.)

Ok anyway, hippy-ism. One thing I like to do is make fun of hippies, because I know it annoys Ben. So I make huge generalizations about never showering, bob marley, quinoa, hookahs, wearing uncute clothes and carrying their garbage around with them as some kind of profound commentary on how much waste we all generate. I like to cast myself as the direct opposite of a hippie, since I 1) cannot physically stand to go a day without showering 2) am totally paranoid about smelling bad 3) have a wardrobe that is mostly pink and 4) am completely incapable of wearing an outfit that doesn’t have something sparkly. So, as an anti-hippie I feel like I’m compelled to hate everything that hippies like. Including nature, and hiking.

Hold on, is this entire blog post about hiking? And am I JUST NOW getting to the point? Fact. You all should be happy that I don’t have the attention span to write a novel, because I would definitely be one of those authors who only gets to the point RIGHT at the very end. (I’m looking at YOU, John Banville, and for the record I am not impressed with the quality of your prose. But that’s another blog post.)

Anyway, hiking. Newsflash, you guys: hiking is just WALKING. Who knew? And I like walking. So I think I’ve basically been TRICKED into liking something hippies like. Obviously this displeases me. I wonder if an identity crisis is on the horizon? But, since I’m currently wearing sparkly zebra print shoes, I’m not too worried yet.

But anyway, mum was here recently and we went on the Fife Coastal Path. First off, it was straight up the most perfect day ever. We found a BUNKER, AND a rock that looked like a baboon, AND sea glass AND the most idyllic beach in the world AND we even got in some lighthearted competition with some other pitifully slow walkers (they didn’t know about it). There were a few upsetting moments, though. First, I almost got killed by a cow. Okay, that’s a lie. When I say “I almost got killed”, what I really mean is that at one point there was a cow BIGGER THAN GOD standing directly over the path, and I was scared of it. But, I’m not actually even sure that the cow noticed I was there. Then DISASTER struck! We walked FOUR HOURS to get a beer in Kingsbarns, and was the pub open? False. Was there a sign in the pub window saying “open from noon-midnight, 7 days a week”? True. Is the owner of that pub, therefore, a dirty pirate hooker? Yes. Luckily Claire came in the car and saved the day (by taking us to Crail).

Unconnected Threads With Minimal Transitional Effort

Or, let’s be honest: Thoughts I Couldn’t Flesh Out to Full Entries.

Or, I Could Flesh These Out, But Am Skeptical that Anyone Will Want to Read Them

Here goes:

This morning, Cole told me that he checks my blog for new posts more frequently than he checks 2birds1blog. I am pretty sure that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Though I suppose it’s possible that this was a strategic move, because now I feel guilty and compelled to blog more. The only problem is that my life hasn’t been particularly hilarious of late, and this isn’t really a serious blog. But I do have some musings, so (since I was a total ace at the whole kindergarten thing) I’ll share.

First: this is trivial, but one good thing to avoid doing is eating hummus for dinner. I mean sure, there were carrots, and there were breadsticks, but my tummy is ignoring these totally legitimate dietary contributions and is still totally complaining. For some reason red wine is not helping this situation, which I think we can all agree is nothing short of bizarre. Moving on.

Second: I LOVE PHILOSOPHY. I know: surprise! But I’ve been reminded of this several times recently. First, I went to Jesse’s Friday Seminar talk, and it was awesome. Then I went to their little philosophy cocktail party afterwards (which turned into something vaguely resembling a frat party) and it was EVEN MORE AWESOME. There was this one slightly unfortunate part of the evening where I was told these two guys were in love with each other, and so I thought it’d be a great idea to talk to one of them about it (/offer my supreme wingman skills). Um, yeah. Turns out they’re not gay. Nothing says “let’s be pals!” like mistakenly classifying someone’s sexuality. Smoooooooooooth!

Anyway, more on loving philosophy: my book about the Renaissance body has some epic stuff to say about the mind-body problem, focusing mostly on this idea of the mind and body in a constant battle. The book (which is The Body Emblazoned, if anyone’s interested) also calls the body “a self-reflexive instrument of torture”. Pause. Collect yourself. HOW AWESOME IS THAT? I can happily think about phrases like that for weeks. (Cf. the last two weeks, which I spent considering Ole’s “truth is something inherent in the language” bit.) But let’s get back to the body as a self-reflexive instrument of torture. Basically, the idea is that Renaissance authors often used imagery of the body – particularly the veins and arteries – as something that restricts or chokes the fundamental life force that’s (assumably) provided by the mind (like shackles, for example). I could write gads about this, but I think it’s really interesting, the frequency with which we still talk about our bodies as things to be controlled, or things that betray us with the onset of age. Rhetoric like that seems to carry an implicit assumption that the mind and the body are separate entities. But of course, I suppose our perception of things doesn’t necessarily reveal anything about the reality of things. And now I’m going to stop talking about this, since I suspect I’m wandering toward the territory I was in this morning, when showie asked me about my plans for the day and I spent a full ten minutes discussing the merits of trawling around various renaissance documents to determine common contexts for the word “creature”.

Third: This is just a theory, but I’m wondering if making friends is a really traumatic experience for me. I mean, I don’t think it is, but I seem to be blacking out all of these experiences, so the theory still has at least a little weight. Just think about it, you guys: do you remember how you became friends with some of your closest amigos*? Because I don’t. I keep thinking of all of these really important people in my life, and I legitimately cannot remember how we became so close. I was discussing this with Dustin, and we determined that basically, we became friends because we kept seeing each other in town and thinking “there’s THAT KID again! Should I go say hi? No, that’s creepy”. Actually, considering that both dustin and I live 87 percent of our lives in our heads, our friendship is either a) a foregone conclusion OR b) a complete miracle. But seriously, this is really interesting to me. I can’t really do it, but tracing the roots of my relationships is a challenging/fascinating endeavor. Facebook is all very well and good, but what does it actually take for someone to go from “this person whose name I know” to “my friend shaniqua”? And no, I don’t have a friend called shaniqua. I think we can all agree that my life is a little sadder for it. Anyway, if anyone can remember exactly how we became friends, help a sister out and remind me, mmmkay? Thanks.

Fourth: I recently found out that there’s a farm store that has BOTH a gigantic maze (perfect for Harry Potter re-enactments) AND (are you ready for this?) a huge balloon buried in the ground. FOR BOUNCING. You are openly invited to bounce on this enormous balloon. Be still my BEATING HEART. The only bad thing about this situation is that I have not yet been there. But just knowing it exists makes me a little happier.

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(and yes, I did just use amigos there because I didn’t want to use ‘friends’ twice in the same sentence. and yes, parv, I expect that you knew why I did it before I even reveal my crackpot motivations.)

YOU’RE MOM IS DRIVING ME CRAZY*

The internet is ruining my life. And I’m not even referring to all of the useless videos I watch on YouTube. I am referring to the fact that somehow the internet has become a place where it’s socially acceptable to use the worst grammar in the history of the world. I opened up facebook a few minutes ago and I’m not sure that even one of the items on my News Feed was error-free. I’m not talking about obscure errors here. I’m talking fundamental, are-you-sure-you’re-a-native-speaker errors.

I’m sorry to be this girl. Actually, I’m just saying that. I’m not sorry at all. Citizens of the English-speaking world, please take a moment to familiarize yourself with the difference between YOUR and YOU’RE. Ready? Okay, let’s go:

YOUR is possessive. Ex: YOUR MOM must have neglected to teach you proper grammar.

YOU’RE is a contraction for YOU ARE. Ex: YOU’RE my favorite if you have a handle on this issue.

I wish facebook would come up with some sort of application for this. Maybe some magical fairy that pops up before you confirm your status message, and says something like “It looks like you’re trying (and failing) to write in proper English. Would you like some help, home slice?” If the Word Paperclip had been more like that, I would have felt a lot better about him.

Just remember: Proper grammar is sexy. Surely I’m not the only person in the world who becomes 76% more attracted to someone if he says “enamored OF” instead of “enamored WITH”. Right? Because that’s like ninja grammar. You have to really be paying attention to get that one.

(Also Missy, if you’re reading this, I’d really love another briefing on the “hopefully” issue. Because of course I forgot the proper construction of that sentiment, and now I just awkwardly rearrange conversations to avoid the issue.)

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*I am making a point with the title. I’m sure that’s obvious, but I felt so dirty when I wrote YOU’RE in that context, I just had to be absolutely clear about it.

Fortnight

A few days ago, our Senior Student (he is basically in charge of the events in hall and promoting the community) starting ominously talking about “Fortnight”.

“It’s coming…are you ready for Fortnight?”

or, “Not too long before Fortnight…”

There were posters, too. In a creepy font. So obviously I assumed that they were Up To No Good. Maybe some two week festival of drunken shenanigans, or something. But as it turns out, I was wrong. It’s not “fortnight”, but “Fort Night”. As in, a night in which they build a huge fort in front hall and play board games inside. That is so delightfully nerdy, my heart just about exploded when I saw it in action. It was a pretty impressive fort, too. Although I have to say I was expecting that some sheets/duvets would be deployed. But since Fort Night is supposed to be happening on a fortnightly basis, I’m holding out hope for the next one.

❤

CATEGORY B

I’ve been working on a theory recently, and when I invariably win worldwide fame for being TOTALLY RIGHT, I am going to thank Bryan Adams in my acceptance speeches. You know, if it turns out that you need to make speeches about being totally right about stuff.

I have always loved Bryan Adams, which is funny because I’m not even Canadian. I love him. “So Far So Good”? Why yes, it DID get me through AP US History. Thanks for asking! True confession: this is because one of the lines in “Summer of 69” is “ain’t no use in complaining/When you’ve got a job to do”. Thank you, Bryan Adams, for reminding me that those Cornell notes weren’t going to write themselves. But let me tell you, the path of a Bryan Adams fan is not an easy one. I don’t know how many times I heard “Um, ew. Don’t you mean RYAN Adams?” In fact, this is the number one reason for my general aversion to Ryan Adams (sorry Ben! Having said that, I listen to that mix cd you made me all the time, so I guess you kind of won there).

Anyway, there was another bump in the road on Friday, when my new friend Lisa asked me how I felt about “Everything I Do, I Do it For You”. She was hoping I’d settle a bet. Or at least demonstrate some degree of musical taste. Here’s what she probably wasn’t expecting to discover about me:

1. I flipping love Bryan Adams (see above).

2. I REALLY flipping love Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. I mean seriously you guys, that movie is legen…wait for it…DARY. And that song accounts for at least 37 per cent of that awesomeness. The only thing better than that song is the song that Bryan Adams did for Disney’s “The Three Musketeers”. Because Rod Stewart AND Sting attended the party also.

Let’s just say that the revelation of those facts almost resulted in a girl fight. As in, Lisa may or may not have threatened my life for calling it “a good song”. (Ok, there’s a chance I called it an AWESOME SONG. But we all know that I get enthusiastic about approximately everything, and also there were amaretto sours involved so I was in love with everything and everyone. Because HOW GOOD are amaretto sours?). Now, let me first point out that one of the reasons I like Lisa is that she happily threatened violence over something as inconsequential as music taste, and I am all about strength of conviction (cf the great polar bear vs lion debate of 2009-2010). Another thing I like about Lisa is that she didn’t actually punch me in the face. She did, however, publicize my ALLEGEDLY horrible taste in music to the entire table, at which point I had to contend with a sea of disgusted faces. And then the Category B theory was born. Because if there’s one thing I take seriously, it’s my taste in music. It’s good. I know everyone thinks that, just like everyone thinks they’re funny. But I’m serious. I have good taste in music. Also, I’m hilarious. JK!

Let me break it down for you.

There are two basic categories of music – A and (doye!) B. Here’s how we’ll define these categories:

CATEGORY A: Unquestionably “good music”. File under: innovative, reliant on voices instead of studio equipment (I’m looking at you, Taylor Swift), either somewhat unknown or better yet, likely to appear on Stuff White People Like. Category A music is good for your street cred. Examples: The Arcade Fire, Phoenix, The Helio Sequence, MGMT.

CATEGORY B: You know what you guys? Category B music is good. If by good, you mean you would never, ever turn it off if it came on the radio. Category B songs are what movie dance sequences are made of. Category B music is solely responsible for those moments in your life that are joyously similar to musicals. You ALWAYS sing along with Category B music, because you came out of the womb knowing the words. Category B music BRINGS JOY TO YOUR LIFE. Which makes it good. QED.

But, just reinforce that beautifully argued point, I present you with THE CATEGORY B MIX TAPE. And by mix tape, I mean if you follow this link, you can download it. Enjoy the massive, amazing dance party/singalong headed your way.

You. Are. Welcome.

AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME-O

I’ve never really been into Valentine’s Day. Well, okay I was kind of into it when I was a kid, but I think that was more to do with my general love of crafting (we typically handmade my valentines for school, in the Johnson house). I’m not going to go into my numerous objections to Valentine’s Day, since they are all pretty standard (and therefore boring). But I do have to say, I had the Best Day EVER on Sunday, which I guess makes it the best Valentine’s Day ever as well. And do you know WHY it was the best ever? Let me tell you. THERE WAS BINGO!

I don’t even care if it is the trashiest thing in the world, I love Bingo with every fiber of my soul. I know what you’re thinking. “But Toria, isn’t that an old lady game?” And to you I’d just like to say yes, that’s probably true. But let me also remind you that old ladies are baby geniuses with incredible taste in entertainment. There is literally no Bingo game for which I am too good. And that’s because there is literally nothing un-awesome about Bingo. Ok, the chain smoking is kind of a turn off, but it’s still totally worth it. Bingo basically involves all of my favorite things: fierce, go-for-the-jugular competition, winning, and a complete disinterest in any kind of legitimate talent. The entire point of Bingo is to sit down, stamp a piece of paper with a hot pink paint pen, and get irrationally aggressive. This game was made for me. So you can imagine my enthusiasm when I discovered that the amazing Rag Week organizers were offering Bingo at the Union. It featured all the awesomeness of Bingo, PLUS wine, PLUS there weren’t any Chavs, PLUS there was no smoking, PLUS basically no one else went because hi, it was Valentine’s Day. So we kept winning over and over and over again.

Here’s the break down of our winnings:

Between the two of us, Dustin and I won approximately everything Tunnock’s has ever made. Good news: the Caramel Log tastes like a teeny, tiny, okI’mkiddingmyself version of the Samoa. Although I maintain that “Log” is hardly an ideal descriptor for a biscuit.

We also scored some tea, a PacMan belt, and a Transformers wristband.

And you guys, we’re not even into the major prizes yet.

Dustin ended up with gift certificate to Taste (good news since he’s a hop, a skip, and a jump away from stringing up a hammock in there and staying forever) and a case of Corona. I am not joking when I say that in between games of Bingo, Dustin spent every waking moment trying to get rid of that case of Corona. Luckily for Dustin, some manly, frat boy type won the Sex and the City trivia game and this awesome coffee mug and happily traded. I’m pretty sure Dustin would have given the Corona away for a hug. Or a pile of used bingo sheets.

I ended up with a gift certificate to http://www.truffleshuffle.co.uk. At first I thought “Hmmm. Like, from that creepy, predatory movie The Goonies?” (Don’t even start you guys, the bad guy is called one-eyed Willie. How is it that THAT’S acceptable for a children’s classic, but some animators get a little creative with the castle in The Little Mermaid and the world collapses?). Anyway, back to TruffleShuffle. Then I thought “maybe it’s chocolate”. I wasn’t super enthused about this, given the recent acquisition of the Tunnock’s. But Dustin googled it on his phone and LO and BEHOLD! It’s a website that sells 80s clothing. Visions of Jem, the holograms, teenage mutant ninja turtles, and Rick Astley danced in my head. In short, I was stoked. As Dustin correctly pointed out, these people couldn’t have picked a better prize for me if they’d been stalking me for four to six months*. DID I MENTION THAT BINGO IS AWESOME?

And there you have it, folks. I had an epic Valentine’s Day, and there wasn’t even any crafting involved. Bingo for the win. I should, however, mention that british bingo is totally weird, there are all these random blank spaces and the columns don’t even correspond to the letters in BINGO. So instead of saying “B-9”, they saying totally weird little catchphrases. Examples: “28 and overweight”, and “88: Two fat ladies”. Bizarre.

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* Before anyone gets too excited about TruffleShuffle, I should point out that there wasn’t a SINGLE Jem-related item available. And they call themselves an 80s retailer. Honestly. But they do sell the Disney Couture jewelry, so I got one of the new Alice in Wonderland bracelets, and it’s super cute. So I guess I did get jewelry for Valentine’s Day. From my one true love, which is Bingo. How traditional of me!

Here’s the bracelet, in case anyone is curious: