Insomnia, inschnomnia

Well, since the cat's already out of the bag that I'm all kinds of cray-cray, I may as well expound.

I don't sleep well. At all. After maybe an hour of, "Come on, come on, fall asleep. Stop thinking. Stop thinking about thinking," I notice that I'm tapping out a drum pattern with my teeth or fingers or both. After maybe another hour, I play this little game with myself. I think of some random topic, like "yellow," or "grapes," or "schizophrenia," and then think of a chain through whatever first comes to mind. I go along until I ultimately get back to where I started. Here's an example:

Yellow, sun, corona, beach, sharks, drowning, swimming pool, Nanny, gold shoes, silver purse, Mum, Olive Garden, Minestrone soup, tomatoes, vegetables, Ranch dressing, coupons, finance, school, death, blue, ocean, sun, light, yellow.

Surely this isn't THAT crazy. Surely others do this sometimes, no?

Spider Incident Mark I--aka Phobic Insights

Well, it was the first spider mishap of the year. A surprise, as it's January. I was working at my desk and saw its little legs slither all over my nightstand. After that electric shock to the pit of my stomach and the physical recoil, I assess the damage. Now that I'm an "adult" and all, I can handle these kinds of things, I push out the thoughts that this is an omen and run to get the Raid. As I'm poised to assassinate this grotesque, malicious intruder, I pause to notice it's too close to my iHome, my iPod, my DS, and my chapstick to use the spray. I think quickly, sifting through my options. I could spray it anyway, possibly damaging my electronics and leave the carcass for Chris to pick up (a nice birthday surprise for him). I could try to squish it...a major mental obstacle. I only kill little ones. With far too many paper towels. And I'm proud of myself for that. Big step.

I grab Chris's old Sunday shoe, 3 large paper towels and edge in closer (I know, I know; but I can't use my shoe just in case guts are involved). Drat. It's disappeared. A far worse scenario, as I will be unable to sleep here without seeing a body. I pause again. Standing there with the shoe, the paper towels, and my eyes darting in all directions. It's like an escaped fugitive--there's a certain radius it's certain to be in, but only for a set amount of time. I have to think fast. Like Tommy Lee Jones. I kick the bottom of the nightstand, hoping it will surrender and move into a more opportune spot to be murdered.

And after another shock to the bottom of my stomach, I see its little speckled body, right under my chapstick. Speckled. Squishing it is certainly out. I back up to a distance where I can still see where it moves, but so that my eyes can't focus on clear details. Wouldn't want nightmares or anything.

I look at the time and see that there's ten minutes left until Christian gets home. He can easily dispose of it. But it could be gone in ten minutes, and then I'll be in that worse scenario again. So I make the decision. Aloud I say, "Screw it," and think to myself, "I wouldn't want that chapstick anyway now that it's nasty, diseased legs have touched it." I give it a little spray (not my usual over-dousing), avoiding the iHome as best I can, and look away. I can't watch the writhing. That stays with me too vividly.

So Chris eventually gets home and finds the carcass curled up under the iHome in a pool of the poison. I stand on the office chair to make sure there really is a body (I've been lied to before from various people who were just trying to put my mind at ease). Chris throws it away, and while I'm still standing on the chair, I say, "Well, since I'm already up here, you might as well spin me." He does, laughter ensues, and life goes on. The only casualty being my chapstick. Worth the two dollars for vengeance.

This is definitely not the most peculiar spider incident, but the timing is what bothers me. Whenever I've had a hard day or made a big decision I'm unsure about, it's hard not to interpret the big spider coincidences that happen to me so frequently as more than they are. I know, they're everywhere and sneak up on everyone. But oh, the stories I could tell of the impossible happening.

And disclaimer: I don't want any raised eye brows and thoughts of, "Wow, that there is real crazy." I'm cool. I'm fine. I've been doing this since I was six. It's gotten better. When someone is around to kill them, they're not discovered on my person, and they're not African-Man-Eating-Sized, it's not a big deal at all.

Goodbye Hideous Planners

I bought a new planner today. It was more momentous than it may seem. For the last three years, I’ve purchased the same brand of day planner, all with the same font and format week after week after week after week after week after week. I’ve probably traced and embellished the cursive words at the top of each week’s page, “Plan Ahead,” over a hundred times. Flipping through it, I see I’ve made sharp, angry doodles throughout. I have not filled these planners with good things. I’ve filled them with stressful to-do lists, looming events, and mundane tasks. I make a small box next to each task and X it out once it is accomplished. Big things, like “DEFEND THESIS PROPOSAL,” has a ridiculously large box next to it, with about 8 X’s scratched deeply into its surface.
But it’s not just the contents of these horrible, little books that get to me. It’s the font and format itself. For three years, I’ve associated the horrific day-to-day tasks of a beleaguered graduate student with this repulsive, grey font. For three years, I’ve flipped to a new week, hoping it would be less busy, less stressful, less wickedly horrendous, only to see those bland letters defiantly staring back at me.
So you might be thinking to yourself, why in the world would you keep buying the same kind of planner? You’ll see near the end of each little book, I have written, “Go buy new planner.” Whenever something isn’t accomplished that day, I cross it out (instead of an X) and write it again the next day. You’ll see “Go buy new planner” written a dozen times in each of these books. So part of the problem is that by the time I actually get to the store, (I’m not even kidding) these are the only kind left. Besides, they’re cheap. And I usually enjoy the satisfaction of cheap things. I didn’t anticipate that they would get under my skin as much as they do. And it’s almost like fate intervened. These little planners haunt me.
But this year. 2011. This is the year I finish the atrocity of my graduate program. This is the year I will emerge from the rubble in my brain. If I’ve got any left, I’ll stop neglecting friendships.
So, I went to SO many stores. And all I saw were those hideous planners. As I’d pick one up and check its innards, I would recoil and throw it back like it was a giant spider in a dirty diaper. –Pause for this image to sink in.-- And after SO many stores, I found it. It was reasonably priced. It was blue. Sky blue. It had tabs for each month. And on the inside? Oh, it warmed my own innards to see light images of an azure sky, turquoise water, and a glimmering beach on each page. It is perfect. There was no line at Wal-Mart. A sign, I’m sure. I took it home and copied this week’s to-do into it. Instead of my old bookmark (a worn envelope with more angry-looking squiggle-weapons sketched on it), I tied a crisp, clean, white ribbon to its spirals and marked my page.
I never said this would be interesting, but this year will be a better year for me. Yes, I still have unspeakable, flaming hoops of academia to jump through, but I can go to my little beach each time I schedule a meeting.

I'm Messed Up

I think this drawing I found in my old notebook says a lot about me, my fears, and my outlook on the future.. I AM going on an Alaskan cruise in June, so perhaps this is an omen.

Hey l'Halloween

If I ever come upon someone who hasn't noticed me, I take great care not to startle him/her. I may jingle my keys or back out and enter the room again, louder this time. No sudden movements.
I learned my lesson my first year of college when I stealthily and creepily crawled up to Maren (my roommate) as she got into bed. She squealed in terror and I laughed heartily. But she promised that she would get me back. I wouldn't know when or where, but it would happen with a vengeance. That whole year, I'd peak around corners, enter rooms cautiously, and jump at any small sound. My quality of living plummeted.
To this day, I live in fear of retribution. Now, she's probably forgotten the whole thing, but maybe she hasn't. Maybe she's in my house right now...
Nobody startle me, ok? I can't take it.

Burning Hair = Displeased Samie

It turns out it's not such a good idea to try to flat iron your fake hair extension.. It really brought back the traumatic memories of burning my actual hair.. There I was, innocently molding a man out of some play dough and exhorting information from him at birthday-candle-point, and as I lean over the lighted candle, my hair drapes over it...wow. I've never smelt such a smell nor done such a silly panic-dance. Panic at the disco was wrong; it's not time to dance. And, umm, admittedly this happened like two years ago...

Also, I want you to say this out loud. Go on, do it: Post-apocalyptic Pocahontas.
She's out for your blood along with the soul of the world. You shouldn't have made fun of her for thinking corn was gold.

Obama luuuvs his root beer

Getting a tax return is like
Christmas 2: The New Flat Screen


Also, I had the weirdest dream last night that Obama came over to my apartment to hang out (naturally he would want to) and I really wanted to go to the bike shop, but he ate a whole root beer bottle...like the whole glass bottle...so I had to do the Heimlich...and then the paparazzi took many pictures...Hmmm...political metaphor?

Misnomer

Real Names I'm Glad I Don't Have:

Johnny Barfuss
Billy Butts
Misty Balls (from FCHD department; no, really)
Nancy Anne Siancy
Misty Oceanspray
Joseph Stalin


So, while there may be 100,000 "Samantha Nelson"s, it could be worse. Samie Barfuss wouldn't get me any further.

*Sorry if you're reading this and you find your name on the list.

Oh Kiddles

Last week in primary, Chris taught the lesson about David and Goliath. He gave a scenario of your little brother stealing your toy from you and asked the kids, "What would be a David-like reaction to that?" One of them said, "Throw a rock at this head."

We had to give him a point cuz, come on, that's funny, even in church.

Crazy Things I Jot Down in Mid-Sleep

Here's another one I found in my notebook the next morning:
"In a way, the unintelligent, uncreative types are the luckiest, most sane of us all, lucky blokes."

This one isn't so crazy. All the amazing poets, artists, musicians, etc, were basically all stark mad...I guess you have to go crazy to be really good at something. Also, I'm noticing that the more education I get, the crazier I go...your brain starts thinking harder and harder and ideas branch off into infinitely more ideas and won't stop..Ignorance really, really is bliss as it turns out..Worth it?

Also, I need some ideas of how to make money...apparently a Master's degree isn't enough..

And here's another picture I took at Mill Hollow..Yay!

Sigh, don't read this either

Ok, ok, I know I shouldn't do it. And I know no one wants to hear another gripe, but I'm going to get this off my chest. And then maybe I can move on and leave this atrocity behind me. I'll keep it brief (HA), though it could go on for 34 pages. I'll also try to spice it up in poem format.

USU is dumb
Like, REALLY dumb.
They have dumb student teachers (excluding myself, wink) who don't know the material and tell you wrong things
And then, although this statistics class has been a relative breeze compared to other grad classes, I suppose still a lot of work,
Dumb people don't realize that the take home final they've given you will take LITERALLY ALL DAY.
I know no one cares,
and I know some people have worse stories,
but let me just say that I got to class at 9 am,
class ended at 10:30,
and I spent til until about 8 PM finishing this take home test, nonstop minus a 45 minute lunch break.
Here's the thing though.
It wasn't your normal, run of the mill, work-all-day.
No, no. This was statistics at its most foul.
Hey, if anything, I've fairly enjoyed the rest of the class,
but when I have to compile hundreds of data entries,
pick the most appropriate analysis,
whether it be a repeated measures mixed design analysis of variance or just regular ol' linear regression analysis,
know what that analysis means,
provide 24 pages of output from a statistical program,
interpret just about every single number from the table,
know what those mean and how they relate to each other,
then write about 10 pages single spaced interpreting that data in APA format,
and do several more analyses in klunky Excel,
I get a little....agitated..
Here's a lovely example from one line:
"The interaction effects of time and word type were not statistically significant, F(1,33)=53.523, p<.001, partial eta squared=.619, a medium effect size."
That went on for 10 pages aaaaaaa!!
And the worst part?
THIS IS THE CRAP I DO ALL DAY, ALL THE TIME IN THIS FORSAKEN GRADUATE PROGRAM!!!
I can't even describe my internal agony at my awful plight...mmm...slightly dramatic.

No worries. I'm going to calm down. And then forget this nonsense.
And I know, you may be thinking, "Oh wa, wa, wa, call the wambulence. Suck it up, I've had worse."
And that's true. I'm going to stop complaining in just a sec.

Just let me know if you'd be interested to see the bulk of my work files, ok?!
That's the funny thing, can you think of any psychopath who actually WOULD be interested?
How about all the professors at school...
Sickos.

Next post will be positive to counterbalance.

We Done Went Fishing

Blarg, Blogger is dumb. It will only let me upload one pic... Anyone know how to upload easier? And more than 5 at a time?

Still Not Done...

Hippo-cracy Democracy

Welp, I'm a hippo-crittter. I am, nonetheless, pleased to announce the newest member of our family, my schnazzy new bike. I loves it...except for one minor issue... There is...a certain amount...a certain degree.. of some less-than-pleasing...not-so-optimal... There's some pink on the bike, ok? Yeah. I bought a bike with some pink on it, despite my vehement vows otherwise. What's it to you? It was the best deal, the smoothest ride, way on sale, and Chris thinks it would be good for me to embrace my inner girl. I am, in fact, a girl... Although I doubt even my inner-most girl wants anything to do with that abhorred, atrocious, puke of a color...but perhaps he's right. It's really not even that much pink anyway. Plus, it's more of a purple (true, a color almost as nauseating as vomitrocious pink, but it's kind of like having Mussolini for a friend instead of Hitler).
Anywho, I just thought you'd want to hear it from me rather than finding out some other, shocking way.

Here it is... Ok, lay it on me.

Tu t'appelles?

People who claim to be "so terrible with names" = Self-centered. (I'm in this category)
People who claim to be "incredibly good with names" = Creepy.

Wanna go ride bikes?

Well, after spending the winter under a tarp that was too small, it was time to "tune up" the bike again. I rolled it into Aggie Blue Bikes, who, as it turns out, make YOU fix your own bike under their fairly lax supervision. Here's the thing though, they all figure that you know at least something about your bicycle, because they start with, "Alright, just pop that back wheel off and unscrew the axel rod." Mmmm...I said, "I promise I'm not this dumb outside of bicycle-dom...but I don't have any idea how to get that sucker off a there..." He says, "Just unhook the break pads and pull the quick release." It turns out the "quick" release is only quick if you're not dumb. In the end, I spent the better part of 2 hours screwing things in the wrong way (righty tighty, lefty loosey is hard), dropping wrenches on the poor dude's foot, and wigging out over the spiderwebs that appeared in the bike's nooks and crannies. I asked him if he figured it would explode on my way home, and I guess he didn't see it as very likely...even after I told him how it HAD in fact exploded while I was riding it one time...the tire anyway.
So here's hoping it doesn't fall apart mid-ride.

Also, anyone have any ideas on where to buy a new bike? We need another one.

IQ and Neuroticism

Am I neurotic because I walk away from satisfactory, unawkward, social interactions smiling to myself, "Yes. A satisfactory, unawkward social interaction"...?

I took an IQ test because I was reading in my statistics book about the distributions of American IQ scores... so I figure, ok, let's see how I stack up, dumb or MENSA. It turned out I'm dumb because I wasted my time on an IQ test and didn't finish reading my statistics book... How would MENSA like that.


Free-IQTest.net - IQ Test


Lastly, I may stop this blogging thing...it's feeling lonely in here.

Random things in my little notebook

I was flipping through the little notebook I keep by my bedside, and found some random things. Some of them don't make sense...Sometimes I write things in pitch darkness as I'm drifting off to sleep...

-"Stickers stick to what purpose"
I have no idea what I meant by this. Now there's some deep thinking for yeh.
-"Pros and Cons of staying in grad school: Pros: M.S. degree, no disappointment; Cons: Go crazy, can't do fun things"
Hmmm...and what did I ultimately choose? Sanity is overrated anyway..
-"Chris started freaking out last night, 'Aaa! Aaa! Keep the ogre open!' Repeated over and over"
Looks like I'm not the only one with night terrors. Subconscious fear of ogres much?
-"Baby present, Jen-Frosting, Randy-thesis timeline"
I think you got your frosting, didn't you Jen?
-"Bottle of retrospect"
Mmm...poetic.

Pick-a-Philosophy Tuesdays

I picked up the Shopko catalog I got in the mail, and unfortunately, it inspired yet another cynical bone-to-pick (yes, it's now one, hyphenated word--I was told that I'm allowed to do that now). Right on page two, I see an ad for "NEW VIEW 2 pk. Resin Wall Plaques" for only $4.88! Wow!! The first plaque suggests in beautiful cursive, "Make each day a new beginning." Awe. Just inspiring. The second one wisely advises, "Keep a dream in your heart." Let me brush this joyful tear from my cheek.

Ok, first of all, I am utterly incapable of fathoming what could possibly be going through any human being's mind that could allow them to even tolerate such pointless, life-sucking space-occupiers, let alone ACTUALLY PAYING for the mindless dribble! Never mind that four dollars and eighty-eight cents could buy you around 8 candy bars, depending on the sale; never mind that you'd be $4.88 cents richer and your wall wouldn't be polluted with putrescent nonsense; what kind of drooling idiot would buy this garbage?? You might be wondering, why is Samie so worked up about such a trivial thing? Brain-meltage is probably a factor, sure, but it's the principle of the thing. Let's say you truly believe that each day should be a new beginning [eye roll]. FINE! THAT'S FINE! But even if that's the case, why would you go buy a ridiculous WALL PLAQUE?? Where's the connect?? So you can tack it up on your wall and let everyone else know that's what you believe? Is it the pretty little butterfly that printed above the cursive? Do you think your house needs another accent? Or are you attracted to big red "sale!" signs? I don't understand!!! And besides, what are the chances that these two little adages actually represent your life philosophy?? Aaaa!

Ok. Take a deep breath. If you like little sayings on your walls and shelves, fine. Go for it. But why not make a craft out of it and make something infinitely cooler and more personal than some dumb plaque you buy at Shopko for $4.88???!!
Maybe I'm taking my school frustration out on Shopko. And the dummy who made these idiotic plaques...
If you're a person with manufactured words on your wall and you're reading this, don't get offended. I can probably assume that you have a good reason. Please enlighten me.

More Poetry for You

In my current state, I offer things I hate. And because that sounds cynical by itself, I give it to you in poetry format. That way, it's bleeding art, not griping (as with all poetry--take THAT poetry; how do you like me now?)


The Great Hater (with apologies to Rupert Brooke)

These have I hated:
The singing voices of children
(Don't judge me, it grates the ear drums)
Ambiguities in requests
The audacity of undergraduates
Entitled punks who think their time is more valuable than mine
Line butters
Uncertainty
Snow
Driving
People who think the blinker is a fun option
Any change besides furniture layout
Surprises that aren't presents for me
The color pink
Oh how I loathe pink
"I know you're super busy, but..."
That dancing game when trying to pass a stranger
but you both try to go the same way
several times.
Academia's thievery of Spring Breaks
Women who are taller than I am
Just washing my hands and then being faced
with the obligation of a handshake
with someone who may have challenged hygiene habits
Small dogs
"I had the craziest dream last night,
let me tell you about it in detail"
"Let me tell...you...this important...thing...
Sorry...I'm distracted...by this....mundane...task..."
GRAD SCHOOL
Hollywood
Poetry
But before my list gets too long,
For the sake of my soul:
I like kittens, candy, green grapes, alliterations,
Christian, when people think I'm funny,
Being right, piano, fan-damily, boots,
Teaching, finishing something, graduating,
Graduating, graduating, leisure time,
Assassin's Creed 2,Left 4 Dead 2, drawing,
The color green, wind, rain, possibly YOU.


The end.

Perhaps poetry isn't the route I should take...