Wednesday, April 11, 2012

paris hated me once (paris, france, not paris hilton, you dumb).

Once upon a time I was living in Paris for a study abroad program. It looked like this:

While in Paris, I looked like this:

When in Rome, right? (And by the way, that thing on my head is a beret, NOT a cowboy hat. Thank you.)

Anyway, it was my last day in Paris before my study abroad group left to do a two-week tour of the southern parts of France. And, like any normal college student, I hadn't yet done anything to get ready for the trip (Procrastination! YEAH!) Besides, all I had to do was pack all of my clothes, and I would be set.

But then I walked into my room.

There was my laundry. And, oh shoot, NONE of it was clean.

Well. Crap.
Notice how big that pile of laundry is. (this picture is, in fact, drawn to scale).

Houston, we have a problem.

I was going to be touring around southern France, but nowhere on our list of stops did the professor put the destination "laundromat." Which meant that I needed to do my laundry. And quick!

But, dang it Houston, we had another problem.

My host family had a washer, but did not have a dryer. Bleepity bleep bleepin' bleep.

But wait. It gets better: I was supposed to take my luggage to my professor's apartment in three hours. And I was NOT about to pack my clothes wet. No way. Mold and I had been in a fight for a long time and I wasn't about to try to reconcile things.

I put on my thinking cap (a hypothetical thinking cap, of course. Thinking caps aren't in style these days, you know).

After about 42.37 seconds of intense deliberation, I hatched a plan. I would brave the scary streets of Paris (I know, twist my arm) in search of a laundromat where I could dry my clothes. It was brilliant. It was epic. It was a guaranteed success.

So I set off wandering down one street.

So I went down another street.

Well... the next street looked promising...

Shoot. Well, how about the next street?
Okay, okay. I get it.

After about a half hour of wandering around without any luck whatsoever, I decided it was time to adapt my plan so that it included asking for directions. I spotted a lady who looked promising at a pharmacy on the corner, so I ran over to her.

"Hi, do you know where I can find a laundromat?" (Imagine me saying this in impeccable French. Because that's definitely what happened.)

She was very helpful.


But... Nothing.

So I decided to try again.






I stomped down the street.





And then, rising up out of the mist like magic, there it was in all its beauty, all its glory, all its magnificence.

I could hear the Hallelujah Chorus.

I'd never been so happy in my entire life. Ever.

My brilliant plan had worked!

Proof, once again, that I was a genius. Now all I needed to do was run the forty-three blocks back home, get my laundry, run back here and dry it!

Life was just!

Life was fair!

Life was finally going my way!




Friday, April 6, 2012

yesterday it was 52 degrees. today it is 28.

Yesterday, I woke up to the beautiful sound of birds chirping in the trees.

...Okay, so I woke up to my alarm.

But there were birds chirping in the trees, so I wasn't totally lying.

It doesn't matter how I woke up. Just know that I did. And when I did, I looked out the window, and it looked like this:

It was beautiful. It was sunny. It was the kind of weather I wanted to marry for time and all eternity and then live happily ever after because a man could never compare to that kind of exquisite-ness.

Today, no birds welcomed my return to consciousness. No, the birds were all dead. Smothered. Tortured and ruined.

Well, maybe not quite. I don't know where they went.

But for all intents and purposes, the birds were not chirping.

So I looked out my window, and it looked like this:

So then I looked like this:

But I was willing to deal with it. I was willing to forgive the fates for hating me. I really was. I'm a forgiving person. I don't hate.

...Until I saw this:

Then my emotions were raging in a violent swirl of darkness.

So I decided that I was emo enough to write poetry.

Here it is:

Ode to Crappy

So sucky.
You suck worse than anything
In the world.
I hope you die.
And just so you know,
when you do
I won't even come
To your sucky funeral.
Because you suck
Too much.

The end.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

proof that i'm a ninja: i can make spaghetti

There have been rumors flying around everywhere, and I'm here to set them straight once and for all.

Yes, I am a ninja.

So stop believing those crazy people out there who say I'm not. They are lying to you. You should probably stop being friends with liars.

Want proof?

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time...

I was a ninja.

My mom had gone out for a few hours to run errands, and I was holding down the fort at home.

Then the phone rang. I, being the ninja that I am, answered it (I know, big deal).

It was my mom.

Me: Hello?

Mom: Hi, Jess, could you do me a favor and make dinner?

Me: Of course, my dearest, most wonderful mother, whom I never disrespect or disobey.

Mom: Great. Just make spaghetti. There's beef thawing on the counter.

Me: Yes ma'am!

Needless to say, not only was I a ninja, but I was also super polite. And otherwise awesome.

I hung up the phone and ran into the kitchen where, sure enough, a hunk of ground beef was thawing on a plate on the counter.

Bust out the ninja-ness.

Good thing I know how to make good spaghetti.

So I whipped out that frying pan, sauteed some onions, and cooked up that ground beef like a freaking pro. Before long, that beef was ready for some tomato gloriousness, so I dumped that in, too.

While it was all simmering and cooking into a delicious culinary masterpiece, I hunted through the cupboards for exotic spices to make this spaghetti the best spaghetti ever.

But instead of spices, I stumbled upon something even better.

Food coloring.

Food coloring is the best invention ever. True story. You can dye your food ANY COLOR OF THE RAINBOW. And if that isn't amazing, I seriously don't know what is.

So I opened the box and looked greedily at all of the colors inside. My eyes immediately latched onto the little blue bottle.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Blue was legit. Blue was suave. Blue was cool.

And we were most definitely, 100% for sure, totally having blue spaghetti for dinner. Because I'm a ninja, and ninjas own blue Italian food.

So I unscrewed the cap on that little blue bottle, and dumped half of the contents into my simmering spaghetti sauce.

My eyes lit up. My heart was beating double-time. I was so excited I couldn't even breathe.

I stirred. And stirred. And stirred.


Apparently blue food coloring + tomato sauce DOES NOT EQUAL blue tomato sauce.

Actually, it equals horrible, disgusting, nasty-looking sludge that looks like barf and tar and evil mixed together.

It was tragic.

What's a poor ninja to do?!

Mom was due home any minute...

I searched my ninja brain for an idea... any idea...

And then I thought of it.

That's it. Red food coloring.

No one would ever suspect...

About fifteen minutes later, Mom finally came home. We all gathered around the table for dinner. Proudly, I carried in my beautiful, simmering, red concoction of divinity. My siblings ooh-ed and ahh-ed over it. My mom nearly fainted at the sheer magnitude of its beauty. My dad was drooling at the heavenly scent.

I set that spaghetti sauce on the table next to a steaming bowl of noodles.

"Dig in!" I said proudly, taking my seat.

We all began to shovel noodles and beef into our mouths.

It was glorious.

It was perfect.

It was...

"Why's my fork red?" Mom asked, holding high a utensil that looked as though it had been dyed in blood.

Dad took a look at his own fork. The kids held up the prongs before their eyes. I stole a glance at the silverware in my hand.

Yep. Definitely red.


Mom looked at me with one raised eyebrow.

"What did you put in the spaghetti sauce?" she asked me.

I needed to think like a ninja. Quick!

"Um... love?" I answered sweetly.

Nobody ever knew.

And we all lived happily ever after.

The end.