The zombies are out again.
And, much like the Oscars, I hold on to no precious illusion that the sheer force of my writing skill could win any sort of contest. (Well, there was that one time, but I didn’t actually get credit for it.) I need to campaign.
So, I humbly ask beg you to vote for “How to Be a Zombie.” Right now. Tell you friends to do the same. Please. Post it on your website. You need to leave a comment in the comments section to vote, but truly it is worth it. Because, uh, it’s not emo? Because I asked? Because I want to win the Ultimate Zombie Throwdown because I will TOTALLY put it on my CV? (It will be the sole entry under “Publications.")
Vote here! Vote now! There can be only one!
You have until Tuesday at 7pm.
Thanks to all. This will surely make your undeath a little more pleasant.
I wonder if there has ever been a study about the developmental importance of nursery decor. If there is one being currently run, I wonder if I could sign up. Because we surely would have a lot to contribute.
We just found out that TheologyBaby is going to be a girl. My first instinct upon learning this was to start painting rainbow fairy princesses, flying ponies and sparkle dragon flies all over the walls.
“The bedding must be hearts and flowers and gumdrops,” I thought. “Tra la la la . . .”
But Peter would not go for such a thing. Too much pink and purple and sparkle would cause his brain to short circuit. He’s tried to work with me on this, my desire to be a sparkle rainbow princess, in our married life. He’s tried to design D & D campaigns where I can play womencreatures of power, but inevitably the characters I want to play are the pretty girls on the book covers, who are ultimate demon war lords who could vanquish any other real character in a setting. I always like this idea, but Peter can’t come up with a story that wouldn’t end in me taking over and making everyone play sparkle-demon tea party.
Another time, Peter made me my very own sparkle pony princess as a gift. This involved removing the legs from an innocent princess doll, decapitating a “My Little Pony” and then welding the two together using puff paint. It was lovely, thoughtful, and a horrifying addition to the ether’s cruel menagerie.
All of this has added up to me seeking a middle ground in terms of baby decoration. It can be cute, but not cute cute. So, I thought-sea life! Peter loves sea life. Star Fish and sea horses--the sparkle princesses of the deep! Peter agreed and promptly had a piece of artwork commissioned for the nursery. (Seriously, this is why this piece of art, now available for anyone to purchase, exists.)
Thus our nursery theme has somehow become based on H.P. Lovecraft. I think there might event be some plush Deep Ones on their way to sit on a shelf, to guard the child’s crib. My sea horses and whimsical turtles have all begun to bow before this poster and his servants already.
Maybe I should have suggested lady bugs.
In my world, it is roommate conflict season. Maybe it’s the fact that Caesar was killed a few weeks from now, maybe it’s because people are annoyed that their spring exploits are popping up on YouTube. Whatever the reason, people just don’t seem to get along this time of year. As such, I would like to offer this public service announcement, as one who has not heard it all, but has heard enough to roll her eyes.
Adrienne’s Top 5 Roommate Relations Tips
5. Do not communicate via post-it note, text message, Instant Messenger (especially if you are in fact sitting in the same room), or dry erase board. You may think, “Yo bitchz, clean up yo foulness” is an innocuous reminder to clean, written in all good fun on the bathroom mirror. Your roommate, however, will fly into a white-hot rage and seethe for a week before destroying your 60 dollar bottle of moisturizer in retaliation because of your “disrecptin” [sic]. Please, use face-to-face contact when addressing suite issues. Ambiguity of expression is not your friend in these regards.
4. If you have an issue with someone in your room, talk with them about it first. Do not tell your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your mother, the college administration, your cousin, your roommate’s cousin and your Ipod voice recorder your woes before you address it with the offending party. Because your concerns will make it back to the person and there is a healthy chance they will pull out the post-it notes. And if you give a disgruntled roommate post-it notes, she’s going to want a laser-beam trained at your head to go with it. And that will remind her of the cookie of hers that you ate . . . you get the point.
3. Do not have your parent call the school. He or she does not live in your room. (Well, they shouldn’t. If they do, that is the subject for another post.) Because if said parent calls to complain that Sally’s roommate smells like beef and that Sally can’t take it anymore, I will be forced to tell them that Sally sleeps with 12 stalks of rotting celery and her roommate collects meat to cover the smell. What was that? Sally failed to mention the celery? Oh, yes. Well then perhaps it’s best that Sally come to me for assistance herself.
2. If you need to go to the Resident Assistant or Resident Director, make sure he or she knows you actually came for help. Take for example the following exchange:
“So, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you about this issue. When did you email me?”
“Oh, I didn’t email.”
“Okay. When did you come to the office?”
“I didn’t know you had an office. I went to your apartment a few times and knocked really loudly, but you didn’t answer.”
“Well, I’m not usually home during the day. I’m usually here. In my office. Did you leave a note on my white board?”
“No.”
“And did you do any of these things with the RA?”
“No, but they’re never home either!”
See, the irony is that post-it notes would solve this issue.
1. Finally, I think 90 percent of roommate conflicts can be solved by speaking to each other. Early. Because everyone comes to me convinced that their roommate is a psychopath. However, when I ask Sally if she ever mentioned the beef problem to her roommate, Sally inevitably hasn’t. And I suppose there are some crazy roommates out there and some unreasonable people. However, I will also say that I have NEVER in my ELEVEN YEARS in residence life seen a roommate conflict where only one party was completely to blame. If you stand by and never stand up for your needs or wants, you are teaching the other person that such behavior is allowed. And passive-aggressively not doing the dishes is not speaking up. It is just leaving dirty dishes in the sink.
Thank you. And when you fail to do all of the above things, know that I am in my office. I am good at talking about these things. I demand my roommate clean all the time. I’m a pro and will lend my services of articulation to you.
Alumni and members of my esteemed current institution of higher learning (not the one where I am a hall director, but the one where I am an annoyed graduate student) have published a book. An intellectual and dry academic exercise, it is entitled “Boink: College Sex by the People Having It.”
“Boink” was, up until this point, a magazine featuring partially naked, mostly naked, oh-what-your-poor-mother-must-think-of-these-utterly-naked pictures of, I’m pretty sure, Boston University students. I am unsure because I only saw one copy once where a guy I interviewed to be a Resident Assistant had his own, uh, spread. I was traumatized, seeing this child of but 19 years of tender age unclothed in print, I immediately hid in my room reading Augustine’s City of God until I was bored enough to feel cleansed. I can’t say I’ve ever researched Boink’s pages again. Though I hear most people get it for the articles.
Anyway, Boink has a book out. And I read this review of it on another blog, and there it is described as “a beautifully produced, glossy paperback goldmine of gorgeous sexy photos, sassy erotica, and deeply truthful essays by young people . . .”
The other day I was discussing Boink’s new book with one of my undergraduate students when I stated my disbelief that “college sex” is erotic at all. Her argument was that I was a Christian, and therefore knew nothing of the ways of the erotic, and could never understand the blush of passion enjoyed by the supple youth around me. Actually, her exact words were, “Um, no offense, but I think everyone knows you haven’t got any, like, ever. You’re, like, married to God.”
This was a fascinating argument. Three separate responses came to my mind:
