Portland Zine Symposium

Hello,

Have you possibly found this blog via the Portland Zine Symposium tabling list that we did NOT realize would provide a link to whatever we listed for our zine's "website"? Cool! Welcome! We're super excited to be a part of the symposium in this, our first year as a zine. This will be Children of the Stairs' second appearance at a zine event, the first being the fabulous Chicago Zine Fest, which was a stunning success.

Below is a section of pages from our second issue, HELP. It provides a small sampling of what Children of the Stairs is about. Feel free to message this blog, leave a comment, or tweet us (@starekids) because we would love to hear from someone who isn't our moms telling us what they think of the zine ("don't you have anything better to do with your time and college degree?")

On Love and Cleanliness

I'm taking a nonfiction writing class at the Attic Institute in Portland and each week we get a prompt that we use to write pieces of 500 words or less. Last week's prompt was "write about a time when you found out something about someone, and because of it you learned something about yourself." Well, I tried, but I didn't really follow the prompt. But I did like what I wrote, so I'm posting it here now.

I came into the shower with you without asking, pushing the plastic curtain aside and stepping into the spray of hot water. You made space for me as I muttered “Thanks.” I watched you bend at the waist and bring your right foot up hands so you could hold it to wash it. You grabbed your ankle and scrubbed roughly at the sole of your foot, then the top, then between the toes. Then you did the other one. I pretended to be getting my hair wet but really I was watching you, horrified, wondering how dirty my feet were. They always were: stale-smelling and tough, peeling around the edges and on the undersides and always somehow with bits of food or dirt stuck to them. They’ve always been that way, but I’d never considered it was because I didn’t wash them. I had assumed all feet were just the way they were, dirty or clean. Mine were dirty, and so when washing my focus had been on the parts of me that were seen and smelled more often. I wasn’t sure if washing my feet was a thing I could ever do, but maybe I could convince you to do it for me. You had been cleaning yourself from top to bottom, so with your feet scrubbed you were finished. “Do you always wash your feet?” I asked.

            “Yeah, why?”

            “Oh, I never wash mine.” I looked you in the eye, trying to gauge your disgust.

Two years ago, you told me how you hate it when your hair gets greasy. We were exchanging quirks. I told you I eat things off the ground sometimes—not the floor, the ground. You seemed unfazed, and I wondered if you’d heard me. Then you told me you pee outside a lot, like of course you don’t choose to go outside if you’re indoors and there’s a bathroom, but if you’re already outside and not in a crowded area then you’ll probably pee there. That was a little better than the greasy hair; that was a little more on par with the weirdness I’d been hoping for.

“Did you know that there are bugs living in your eyebrows?” I asked. You made a face like you might throw up and said “No, that’s not true. Maybe in your eyebrows, but not mine,” and that was the end of the conversation. I was referring to Demodex folliculorum—face mites—which I first learned about from reading a book of gross facts my brother had when we were kids. The book said that if your parents wouldn’t let you get a pet, then maybe having bugs in your eyebrows was some kind of consolation. I thought this was funny, but the book was right: they were a small, bizarre comfort, the bug buddies on my face. We probably shared them; our populations co-mingled. I imagined them hurtling from my eyebrows onto yours when we kissed. I imagined them jumping with glee, thrilled to be taking a vacation on a much more clean and pleasant face. 

Some Habits

2005/2006 Juneau, Alaska: I take the bus home from school and walk up Bonnie Doon Street to Marguerite Street. The road is potholed and the hill is steep enough that, at fifteen years old, I can’t ride my bike up it. But I don’t mind because I have no interest in bicycles or physical activity. I don’t like to work hard. The house where I live is the more northern side of a camel-colored duplex with a red/brown trim. From the front it looks like the house is mostly garage, extending out from the house part like a beer gut. The rhubarb that was there when my mother, brother, and I moved in is doing well, becoming more voluminous every day. On the other side of the door inside the house is a three-year-old golden retriever who needs to pee but who won’t remember that when he sees me because he’s so happy. His name, Teelo, comes from a children’s book about a cat who learns to drive a sailboat. I let him out and throw his tennis ball for him with minimal enthusiasm. His face is wide and smiling and I love him although I truly believe his brain is empty. At fifteen I am harsh and unsympathetic. Inside, I make myself an English muffin—cinnamon raisin—toasted at the highest setting, topped with velvety margarine. I am excited about the food and relieved to be home. I take it back to eat in front of the oil heater. The heater is in the dining area and my back rests against a set of wooden magazine-holders fashioned to the wall. They are uncomfortable and the wood bars across in them dig into my back. It gets almost too hot when the heater kicks on and it turns the skin on my arms pink, but it feels good. The high school I attend is the only one in town and was recently remodeled. The newly-completed atrium is admittedly impressive but also extremely drafty and somehow impersonal; the whole building, even some of the warm, small classrooms, has me craving heat throughout the day. I read my brother’s comics: not the regular, classic comic books, but the collections of comics strips from the newspaper: Foxtrot, Zits, Sherman’s Lagoon. The story arcs are more enjoyable when you don’t have to wait a full week to find out that Jeremy’s mom is actually going to be really cool and understanding about him going to a no-parents party. I read for a while, then get up and make a second English muffin. Some days I have a third, but today it’s getting dark fast. It’s November. I sigh deep and find my coat and boots, the dog’s leash and a plastic bag. The dog leaps and wiggles, whines, whaps my legs with his messy tail.

2007/2008 Juneau, Alaska: My brother is a freshman in high school now. I give him rides to school and yell at him when he won’t wear his seatbelt. NOT IN MY GODDAMN CAR I say, imitating myself as mother, because I’m the voice of reason. We don’t come home at the same time, though. He has after-school activities or friends to hang out with. I am fumbling my way through the last math class I am required to take: Algebra II/Trigonometry. To say that I am fumbling, actually, is quite generous. The darkness of the season is exhausting and I’ve taken to napping as soon as I come home, just for an hour or so. Then I pull myself out of bed feeling much worse than before. My homework station is my desk, which used to be the kitchen table before we moved and had to find a small one to fit our new small home. My room is the biggest and can accommodate the table. I have carved my initials into it as well as several designs I find charming: yin-yangs, bunny heads, spirals. I am a designer. One thing I’ve found that I do like about math is that I am able to do my homework while listening to music without it being a distraction. My jams include various mix CDs from my friends, and the soundtrack to the movie Holes. I sit and draw parabolas, not understanding what the curves mean, where the numbers live. I rub my head. My mom calls DINNER.

2009/2010 Eugene, Oregon: I live in an apartment complex which sits among other apartment complexes housing college students. Our apartment is not nice, but I do not know yet that it is not the worst place I will live. I am seeing a boy I met in my ballroom dancing class. I am a community college student and I am loving every second of it. I am only enrolled in three classes; the others are wilderness first aid and beginning drawing. I live with my friend, Erin, a Japanese major at the University of Oregon who I know from Juneau. The boy from the dancing class is a deadbeat dad from Idaho who is sloppy and inconsiderate but has good hair and a good laugh and is liked by people I think are cool. He lives in an actual house with two roommates, and I take the bus from my complex to the downtown bus station to get to his house. It’s almost always dark when I’m on the bus; usually I pack clothes with me so I can leave to go to class directly from there, or else I have to get up early and take the bus home, then back to downtown, and then to school, which is a “commuter campus” and therefore out of town by a few miles. When I’m riding the bus, I take notes. Every entry looks the same: I notice the time, the route and bus number, and a few lines of my impressions of the bus driver. The boy I am seeing does not care for the bus, but I love it. He and I smoke weed and watch movies and fuck. He eats fast food a lot and always asks if I want anything and I always say no. I steal a few of his fries and go to bed high and hungry. I feel mystical.

2012/2013 Marshall, Minnesota: I have committed myself to a gym schedule from which I will not deviate, mental health be damned. As the region’s lovely late summer has transitioned into a snap-morninged fall which has given way to biting winds pushing insubstantial whorls of snow around on the pavement like cornstarch. Daily, at 5 a.m. I pull myself out of bed and I do fifty crunches, hold a plank for one minute, do fifty bicycle crunches, do ten pushups. I am obsessed with the simple implications of musculature forming on my arms. The way I seem to be shaving layers of my body off, especially my hips and belly. I change from pajamas to shorts and a t-shirt and add fleece pants and a sweatshirt. I walk to the kitchen and make a mug of black coffee with my single-cup drip setup. No cream, although some days I do want it. I fry one egg in butter and salt the shit out of it. I take my planner out of my pack and flip to the front. I write “Black coffee and one egg cooked in butter with salt—90.” The coffee stays in the freezer for a minute or two while I go to the bathroom to pull my hair back into a low bun and stretch a hat on over it. It is nearing the low teens in the morning even without the wind chill. Every thought I have I allow to dance and ping around in my brain and work through five or six times. I wonder if this is because of all the empty space here. The coffee has been drunk and with my winter coat and mittens added to my layerings, I am out the door and on my way. I ride in the absolute dark and the streets are empty, or maybe there is one car. Red and bright white flashers and a light on the front tell me and motorists where I am. Contrary to my perceptions, they’re saying it has been a mild winter. The streets are, at least, fine to ride on. I go directly through town on my way to campus, past the main street intersection and onto the road lined with chain restaurants and a few local businesses. There is a vacuum repair shop, a coffee house, a gas station called Super America which I will forever find fitting and hilarious, although it’s not yet a fully-realized irony. Once the brick buildings of campus come into sight, I make a hard left and lock my Trek on a rack in front of a set of doors. I take in the building’s warmth as I enter, removing my hat and coat. Inside the campus fitness center, a relatively small, nubby-carpeted room, I swipe my student ID and try to force a smile at the softball player behind the desk. She is one of five different people, but always blonde, always with a school sweatshirt. On the right side of the room are mirrored walls, a rack of weights, and cushioned mats. In the middle of the room are treadmills, elliptical machines, and a few bike machines. The far left side is weight machines; the front wall is windows that look out onto what might be the campus green (the campus dirt-brown); paths cut through short hills. The back wall is a wooden thing with spaces below for backpacks and shoes, and on top are magazines: Women’s Health, Fitness, GQ, Vogue. Sometimes there are more interesting ones but usually the standard is health-related. My routine will include more floor exercises along with weight machines and exactly thirty minutes on the elliptical.

Elfin Cove, Alaska 2012: My father has graciously (his own words) fixed up the former floathouse, which now sits on pilings, for me to use as my groovy bachelorette pad (his words). It has a wood-burning stove which can only swallow kindling-sized pieces of wood at a time, electricity, running water, and a bathroom area with a toilet that doesn’t work, but what difference does that make? Just drag the bucket in there—it’s got those walls up to your waist, that’s all yah need. I sleep on springy, narrow couch and I have learned to ignore the mildew smell. Most nights I go to bed slightly stoned, writing letters to friends or making up stupid stories for myself in my head. I set the alarm on my cell phone for 4 a.m. When it goes off in the morning I rise and add another pair of pants and another sweater to my outfit. I smell like I’ve been keeping fish corpses in my pockets and maybe rubbing them on my head and the insides of my thighs. Sometimes I wonder if I don’t do this when my mind isn’t watching. I grind beans and make a thermos of coffee. I do five pushups, fifty crunches, and hold a plank position for one minute. I grab my rain gear, three sizes too big, and my coffee, and shut my floathouse door. It is technically morning although it is almost completely dark. I walk the trail around town, pushing back the wetness hanging off of blueberry and salmonberry bushes that crowd the trail. 

When I Write Blog Posts at Work I can Technically say I got Paid to Write Them

Nana gave me a hug this morning. It was right before I woke up, the last thing that happened before I opened my eyes. I think it might have happened because in the book I'm reading there is a character who is old and small and dying of cancer. Or maybe she just wanted to say hi.

She was wearing a long sundress. I must have pulled that from an old picture or a blurry memory because it doesn't seem to fit her personality as I really remember her. It was a floral-printed sundress that swept her toes, kind of teacherly, more like something my mom would have worn ten years ago--buttons in a line up the front, fluttery sleeves. Also, she was wearing transition lens glasses; for the life of me I can't remember whether she ever actually had those.

She hugged me with her tiny, bony body, and she was warm. I don't, in real life, remember thinking she looked bad, unhealthy. She'd always been petite, wiry. Short, fluffy hair and a very distinct way of speaking. Not like a regional thing, just her own way of pronouncing certain words: Er-eek. My brother's name, Erik: Er-eek.

When I was in third grade, my mom and Nana and Grandpa took my brother and me to Disneyland. We stayed in Coos Bay for a few days before leaving for California. I was, at the time, fully engulfed in the throes of a passionate obsession with Tigger, of Winny the Pooh fame. Tigger was a force, an embarrassingly prominent presence in my life, and he was just on the cusp of age-appropriateness. I had a small, silver Tigger necklace that I would hold in my mouth and chew gently until one evening at the movie theater Tigger's head broke off from his body inside my mouth. I was not crying but I was feeling upset, very I've-lost-something-that-cannot-be-replaced, as my mom asked on the drive home "what did you think was going to happen if you kept biting it like that?"

In Coos Bay, Nana had bought new polyester comforters for me and Erik, for our little twin beds in the basement where we stayed on visits. Mine was blue and featured bouncing, frolicking Tiggers in all their bright orange glory. I saw it and flipped, really had a fit and I demanded how she knew about my mania. "I just knew," she said, smiling. I was utterly dumbstruck, which is so funny to think now, as I'm sure my mom easily mentioned it over the phone to her and so she knew quite clearly who I'd like to see on my blanket. But then at the time I was blown away. My brother's blanket was decorated with the main character from a Bug's Life (an ant whose name escapes me), towards whom he was indifferent.

But I'm feeling fuzzy-brained now, and the more I think, the more I wonder if perhaps the obsession instead came on more immediately prior to our departure for Oregon by way of California. Maybe the blanket and the subsequent trip to the Happiest Place on Earth were, in fact, the beginnings of my passion, something that was just beginning to show itself. And then I still wonder, not sure of anything, really: how did she know? 

Wagon Wheel

I had wanted to write about the evolution of my feelings on the song Wagon Wheel by the Old Crow Medicine Show:

A. Erin and I live in Eugene, Oregon and we have "invested" our money in a 1996 Mazda Protege. Its glowing green-blue color won us over immediately, and we drove it around the block for an test drive with the emergency brake on. The Protege has a CD player and our friend Mallory has made us a mixed CD featuring the mellow music that is popular in her world (as well as a few mid-nineties throwbacks) and one of the songs, which we play shamelessly on repeat, sometimes on lazy, aimless drives through town or to the coast, is called Wagon Wheel. It is a sexy comfort and calls attention to our misspent youth. We love that song and wail along and feel quite rustic, although we are happy to be in our own vehicle and not hitchhiking like the free spirit in the song. I am pretty sure I have missed out on ever having anything like this singer's life because I have a Gameboy and shop at the Gap, but I can create moments that get me close enough.

B. Without really meaning to, I have stumbled into a lifestyle not entirely dissimilar to the Wagon Wheel singer's. Or at least I have a front-row seat to it. I am working for my dad on his fishing boat and eating slices of warm cheese for lunch and technically living in a "village" and the meaning of "rural" and "community" has coagulated in a pile of discordant political views and alcohol. It is approximately three years since I first heard the Wagon Wheel song and it's hard to even really hear it anymore when I do. It sounds like the noise of an oil painting. So to hear it one night at a  bonfire, coming from humans whose names I know, who are playing guitars, is abrasive and decidedly overwrought. But that's all it takes, and suddenly real people with real dirt on their chins are spilling their beers and stagger-dancing to it. I feel cynicism bubbling under my skin, but I'm just drunk enough to declare I love this song.

C. Wagon Wheel has been covered by a popular country group, and as a result it is popping up in shopping malls and on the radio when my boyfriend's mom has control of the dial. I have so few feelings about it that this new incarnation barely registers, but I still hum along out of some vague sense of duty to the myth of the trail-worn traveler who is just looking to have a good time.

The Landlord

More to come, maybe. Thoughts about these people as I leave them behind forever:

Scott was our landlord. He was the one I met when I showed up for a walk-through of the one-bedroom duplex, and he reminded me of a lot of all the other men I had met who had a goatee and a rotating collection of stained basketball shorts. He noticed the area code of my cell phone and mentioned that he used to live in Alaska, in Eagle River. “But I’ve lived all over,” which also included his favorite, California. His email address included the phrase Blues Bum. He told me he was a good judge of character. 

                But also, Kim was there when we moved in. Not exactly, but she was “around” and so were the puppies, dainty little Yorkie mixes that smelled and looked more like downy, floppy hamsters. Kim adored the puppies as well as the older, far uglier dog that had birthed them. She had a sweet face and a good recipe for coffee cake. She seemed to love Scott and doubt him in equal measure. 

Three Untitled Poems

The label on the can of Easy Cheese says that
you don't need to refrigerate it

He read it out loud and frowned

But it's still cheese...isn't it?

Later I noticed he had put it in the fridge

That doesn't tell you everything you need to know about him
but it's a good place to start

_________________________________________________________


We live here, inside our heads

And when I would repeat what she said
I would add the gesture
of tapping my index finger to my temple

And we hold onto people so tightly
out of fear
less afraid to upset them than to watch them walk away

I agreed, yes, that was the case

__________________________________________________________


My second cousins on my dad's side are all adult men

They look like cartoon goober thugs
like disgruntled suburban toys
on the brink of figuring out how little they stand to lose

One of them has a mustache
sweatsocks
and a highly ambigious chin/neck situation

He brought with him an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen
which we all ate at the table
at 3 p.m.
in Bismarck, North Dakota

After we had finished he turned to me

You look like you want to have another piece

And I promised to take care of myself
and to never be alone in a room with him

Secretarying isn't for Everyone: Wherein I Test the Definition of a "Blog Entry"

Highlights of Life, Lately (And Lowlights for Balance, Body, and Dimension)

This is the most blog-y thing I've posted so far but whatever.

1. Alaska Trip
Highlights: Saw Fairbanks, Denali (SO COOL) and Kenai/Homer/Kasilof. Saw moose, caribou, pika, sheep, huge mountains, ocean. Went river fishing. Got drunk in the airport.
Lowlight: I want to go back. There's nothing beautiful here.

2. It's definitely summer
Highlights: The weather is aaaawwwesome. I'm never cold. I want to go swimming. I want to be outside all the time. The sun makes me feel like my life is golden.
Lowlight: I live with someone who cannot handle the heat. Who cannot, in 75+ temperatures, do much but sit directly underneath the ceiling fan and drink iced water. So I lay outside in the grass by myself a lot.

3. My mom is in town
Highlights: This must be sort of what it feels like to have a friend.
Lowlight: She left yesterday.

4. Legal weed stores
Highlights: This is totally historic stuff. The shop that's closer to my house, New Vansterdam, is really really cool. The people who work there are so kind and hip. The tables and display cases are very classy.
Lowlight(s): The product is expensive and stoner-y activities lately have been leaving me anxious, paranoid, and adrift in a confusing haze of intense self-loathing. Plus the whole federal/state disharmony is a little troublesome.

5. I'm back on Twitter
Highlights: Majorly improved quality of life.
Lowlight: My productivity at work is at an all-time low.

6. I've been at my current place of work for one year
Highlights: It went fast. I wouldn't feel bad quitting now.
Lowlights: I still don't know how to do anything and I probably won't find work anywhere else

7. 1.5 months until Labor Day
Highlights: I'M GOING TO VISIT JUNEAU I CAN'T WAIT I CAN'T WAIT.
Lowlight: The time between now and then is going to drag.

8. Mildly improved budgeting skills
Highlights: Slightly more money.
Lowlight: It's really really un-fun. I want like, five new bathing suits just because I told myself I can't buy them. I also want more ice cream.  

My life in a blog post: plans & changes

Wow. Wow. Wow. Where do I begin? I’ve moved to another city. So much has changed. Sometimes I don’t recognize that girl in the mirror anymore. I bought Folgers to economize?????? Sometimes I drink beer instead of a fruity cocktail, and furthermore, I've gained more than a few (still look mostly the same, but that could be a bit of the recognition/mirror issue?) (Is that because of the beer?). I’ve met some amazing people who have changed my life, one of which was featured in its own post “They met online.” If you haven’t read it yet, you should really consider checking that out. It’s a whirlwind of emotions, so don’t forget that Kleenex. 

Not everything has panned out the way I planned. I originally planned on shouting, "Take me to the jazz!!!”  to a driver upon my airport arrival; but, things didn’t really work out the way I’d planned. Instead, the shouting was directed towards an older couple as I argued about the amount of luggage I’d packed. Didn’t they know I was moving??????!!!

They did not offer me a ride. 

I didn’t give up on the jazz though and have been to a few concert so far, one of which I haggled an 80 year old board member of a jazz club for his business card in order to email him my qualifications to be the club secretary. Simultaneously, I was also staring uncomfortably intently at one of the band members. The stare was made worse as I was also sitting uncomfortably close to him. 

I have not heard back about this position.

In other news: I just unzipped my high-waisted pants because I consumed too much butter.

Well guys, the rest of your life starts NOW, so go start livin it!!!!!

La vida loca.

I’m outy.

They met online

She’s married to an executive chef at an athletic club. They met online. 

She doesn’t understand what all the fuss is over the Kardashians. They’re only famous because of a sex tape…. and you know what?? She’s decided that O.J. Simpson was definitely guilty. Robin Thicke is so cute but it’s a shame he cheated on his wife because she's so beautiful. She’s half black, which is maybe why it seems like he’s always trying to be black? She’s not sure what she meant by that.

She’s married to a chef. They’re vacationing soon to make up for lost time. They’ve only been married 11 years. They met online.

We click through the images of Bette Midler’s billion dollar apartment in Manhattan and ooh and aah at each sofa and light fixture. 

I ask her if she’s here all day. "Are you kidding?!” She’s got a mani and pedi scheduled at two. She’s out of here at one. She’ll be cabbing back home just as she arrived. When she gets home she’ll be making a tortilla with mozzarella and tomatoes. Another woman and I express jealousy. "Well ladies, it’s not hard!!!!” she reassures us. 

Her husband is a chef and he spoils her with his cooking. They met online. 

Everyone that passes by is a sweetheart and a doll, however, the man in the IT department is none other than a real dick. 

Pardon her language. 

We won't be working together again so as one o’clock hits she says “WELL THIS IS DEPRESSING!!!” We leave and she pulls a yellow post it out of pocket that reads “COFFEE” in large print. 

She’s off to Starbucks. 

Health and Et Cetera

I don't know much about bodies and health and exercise. Currently when I go to the gym (the community center) I lift some things, push some things, eavsedrop with my headphones in, and read Better Homes and Gardens on the elliptical. I'm pleased to notice that I'm way less obsessive about what I do there (in terms of frequency and difficulty) than I was this winter, and that has been really nice, because winter was a dark hole of sweat and frustration and heaven help you if you decided you were going to pick my favorite stationary bike to use. I threw around the stink eye like it was going out of style. Yes, you, 80-year-old in the "cancer survivor" t-shirt. What the fuck are you looking at? I also wasn't eating enough. I know that for sure. Being hungry made me feel angry and I liked feeling angry at work. Despite all my rage, etc.

Anyhow, the sun is back now and I'm happier in general and I'm just as content to equate taking a walk while eating a cookie with a trip to the gym as my daily exercise. They are both movement-based activities that make me feel good. Or yoga, or riding my bike, or doing a couple situps and then watching Curb your Enthusiasm for four hours. Blah blah blah, activities and health bullshit, you get the idea. Do what makes you feel good. I'm drinking more (a good thing?!?!?!?), eating more, moving at a more reasonable pace, and feeling a whole lot better. Plus my ass is looking a little less concave. Sexxxy.

So this guy: and I'm not going to begrudge him his intentions; I assume he's motivated to some degree by an investment in community wellness as most employees at the center are (I guess). And really he got off to a bad start by actually telling me about his day when I asked how he was doing ("I didn't ask for your life story, nosehair" -Karen Walker). BUT here's the story:

Short-ish, bald-ish, guy; probably younger than he looks but he still looks kind of old. Mid/late thirties maybe, skinny but "in good shape" or whatever the fuck. As I'm leaving, he asks "so how'd it go?" (how'd what go?? My "workout" I guess?)

"Oh, good, yeah."

"Yeah? So are you like, training for something?"

"Uhhhh nope. I mean I guess I'd like to do a 5k this summer or something but I don't know."

"Oh yeah? Well I'm a runner so if you want any help or tips come ask me! You know it's all about building on your strength and adding difficulty and challenging yourself."

"Yeah okay thanks."

Now that I've typed out the transcript it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but here were my takeaways:

• When I exercise, I should have a goal in mind. Because otherwise what's the point
• I don't know what I'm doing when I exercise; I need assistance

Okay now I'm kind of thinking that I'm just way overreacting. He was annoying and I'll just leave it at that. Mostly I just don't like being talked to. And damnit Joelle had a gym experience that was a trillion times more entertaining than this. But I think if he tries to chat again I'll be sharp and shut him down with a good old-fashioned stink eye. And maybe rub some of my back sweat on him.

You know now that I think of it there's also that time the old guy asked if I want to UW because of the shorts I was wearing; I said no and then started to say something else but he cut me off and goes "OH NOT THAT I WAS STARING AT YOUR BUTT OR ANYTHING HAHAHAHAHAH" and walks away. That was magic.

Troy

Troy has a question for you:

That's not a link or anything because fuck that guy. Sorry. But not?

Hi guys, it's Thursday. What if you were watching this moderately budgeted three-part series on Netflix about two families who hate each other and it's just after the Civil War (capitalised?? Did it actually happen??) and you keep making comments about how lame all the women characters are. What if.

What if you started keeping track of everyone in the office who didn't try to engage you in conversation about the Dilbert strip on the fridge and making mental notes to like them better.

What if you bought yourself new shoes at TJ MAXX to make yourself feel better about being the kind of person who buys herself shoes at TJ MAXX to feel better.

What if your only Facebook status updates were regarding foods.

M.M.M.

Oh my god I used to have a completely unhealthy attraction to this cat. This character? Yikes. Jesus. Cats gave me lots of feelings.

Cookies and Sandwiches

Yesterday: I volunteer to cover a student senate meeting for the paper mostly because the posters advertise pizza. Fair enough. I show up and they've switched it on me--no pizza but instead an enormous sandwich with all sorts of meats. Great. Listened to bickering over women's rugby uniforms and cheesecake fundraisers for two hours, then biked home in the rain.

Today: Performed stupendously on Modern Grammar exam. Grimy redneck in the passengers side of an aging Winnebago makes a gang sign at me and hoots "Woowoowooowooo," as he goes by. I stop at the Super America for a treat. I want a cookie, and they have fresh ones. Chocolate chip. I take my cookie to the counter and the girl rings it up sixty-nine cents, declaring "I know they're really eighty-nine cents, but I think that's too much for a cookie."

There is snow in the forecast for Monday. Hyvee sells enormous bags of peanuts still in their shells for five dollars. It is a dangerous bargain and my desk is a mess as a result.

High school boys as coworkers: The entire experience summed up in one conversation

SCENE: Saturday night, 9 p.m. at the city ice arena. Sitting in the office area with Andrew, Matt and Adam, all seniors at Marshall High School. Me--sitting off in a corner reading a book. It's a slow night.

Matt: "You should have another party like the one you threw last summer, that was sweet."

Adam: "Yeah, but there were a lot of OTD that showed up. That wasn't cool."

Matt: "What's OTD?"

Andrew: "Out of town dudes."

Matt: "Oh, yeah. Yeah you should have another party though."

Andrew: "Yeah, 'cause there was lots of OTP too."

All: laughter

END SCENE

STAY TUNED

Blog-watchers: Please stay tuned for later this week, when we'll be visiting:

• The transition from winter to spring without so much as a single nod to the tradition of leg and pit shaving. I have better things to do.
• Some shameless flirting with a freshman in first-year sex seminar, still up in the air: I may or may not call him out on having a really horrible hairstyle but also better earrings than I have ever owned.
• The dramatic conclusion of whether or not I should actively pursue the impossibly lanky bespectacled boy who came to approximately one English club meeting and wrote a poem about watching people and disliking them. Height: twice mine. Weight: half mine.
• MORE DRINKING. Mix drink and beer suggestions will be taken to heart.

Love,

Kathryn

Valentine's Day

If your wallet has been running on empty for a while, the thought of Valentine’s Day probably sends you into a state of panic. Between roses, chocolates, and those little singing teddy bears, you’re forced to decide between feeding yourself this month and impressing your date. But wait—no one told you about the third option? You’re in luck, my friend. You’ve stumbled across my exhaustively-researched compilation of inventive, inexpensive V-day date ideas!

Wining and Dining

The best place to take your lover out for a treat if you’ve got a few bucks is Dairy Queen. The location on East College Drive has great service, clean bathrooms, and intimate booths. Plus, when you sign up online to be a member of the Blizzard fan club, you’ll get a buy-one-get-one-free coupon for Blizzard treats. I recommend February’s Blizzard of the month: Choco-Cherry Love. It’s widely regarded as the panty-dropper of soft-serve ice cream.

If you’re more the outdoors-y woodsman type, you should know that squirrel meat is a highly underrated delicacy. Or so I’ve heard. You could either dig out your bb gun, or just go for a walk along the side of the road—you’ll find one sooner or later. Keep your eyes peeled for something fresh, though. The weather this year hasn’t been conducive to naturally preserving roadkill. Preparing a squirrel isn’t much different than gutting a fish; just make sure you have a sharp knife. Fry that sucker up in some butter and salt and you’ve got a delicious dinner that you cooked—and caught—yourself!

If you’re really strapped for cash and time there’s always the on-campus dining experience. What can you get from the campus eateries for free? Mustard, honey, sugar, mayonnaise, half & half and cinnamon from Java City; soup crackers from the Grab & Go; fortune cookies from the librarian help desk; and microwave popcorn from the Walt Whitman room (you didn’t hear that from me). You’ll have to get creative here. I suggest a spiced mustard cracker snack.

Adventure Time

The best dates are the ones that are exciting. A situation might be uncomfortable, terrifying, or really stupid, but as long as it’s not boring it can be salvaged. For some high-adrenaline romance, it’s hard to beat a ride on the back of a Grizzly bear. Unfortunately, I don’ think there are any real grizzlies here, so you’ll have to settle for that plastic one on top of Borch’s. Bring a ladder.

One of the benefits of having a Mustang card is getting to ride the Marshall Area Transit (MAT) buses for free. Sure, they take about as much time to get anywhere as it would take to walk, but it’s about the journey, not the destination. Pick a seat near the back with your honey, split your ear buds, put on some Marvin Gaye, and enjoy the tour of Marshall.

If you’re a true daredevil, take your date for a walk around Marshall High School during lunch hour. Dangerous, yes, but highly rewarding when you consider how suave and mature you’ll look compared to the students there.

Low-key Romance

Maybe you’d prefer to use this Valentine’s Day to show your date how much you love them and enjoy being with them. For you, I suggest checking out the free art galleries in Marshall—bonding over a cultural experience is the type of thing that brings couples closer together (I assume). There’s the William Whipple Gallery on campus, the Southwest Minnesota Arts and Humanities Council gallery on East College, the Marshall Area Fine Arts Counil center downtown on North Third, and the Daily Grind downtown, which displays works from local artists.

Family Video on East College Drive has an impressive collection of movies. Browsing through the selection of independent and foreign films is a great way to explore shared interests. Then celebrate the demise of SOPA by going home and downloading the movie you pick.

If all of this seems like way more effort than you bargained for, there’s always the option of giving your date a line like “hey baby, I wrote you a song on my guitar but I don’t think I can play it for you, it’s just too emotional.” I actually had a ex-boyfriend say that to me once. Suffice to say it was not well-received; you’ll definitely have better luck with the squirrel meat.

Facebook

I GOT ANOTHER PROPOSITION ON FACEBOOK. Why the fuck do boys think it's okay to ask girls out over FACEBOOK? I'm thinking about deleting mine. Can we go back to myspace?

Penis

Sometimes in class I begin to panic that I will shout out a racist or inappropriate comment while someone else is talking. It's similar to my fear of sticking my gum on a historic painting while in an art museum except I can't spit anything out...

maybe i have turrets... or maybe i just need to exercise... only time will tell.

In other news, while doing homework at a coffee shop today the man next to me asked me what I was working on. I turned, he was wearing a nice sweater and was in the proper "older man" age range. I rambled about how it was for my gender and sexuality class and about my major and other things I didn't need to share. He was clearly working on something far more interesting that was up on his computer. I know I should have asked but when I glanced down to the next page of my textbook there was a diagram of a penis. I immediately flipped the page and pretended to be engrossed in my reading.....

so.... no progress there.