Facebook is getting weird(er).

Facebook is generally pretty weird. I mean, it’s weird that I know about it every time a girl with whom I attended grade school has a hangover. It’s weird that my mom’s friends know that there’s nothing (including eternal damnation) that I wouldn’t do for Jon Hamm. It’s weird that I have to stop and think about who is reading everything that I post.

(Normally that doesn’t stop me from posting anything.)

(I’m just saying, I think about the awkward.)

Occasionally it veers into slightly uncomfortable territory. Like when it started suggesting I poke people. Like people to whom I’m related. Or separated from by a generation. Or, you know, sometimes absolve me of my sins.

That was not cool.

I don’t really mind- I still love Facebook. Now they’ve introduced a new feature- when you look a friend’s profile page, you have the option to “View you and *friend*.”

Hmm. I was intrigued. I happened to be on my sister’s page, and I clicked on it. The page that popped up was basically the old wall-to-wall page, except it showed pictures and events and common friends and all that crap.

The thing that was weird was that Facebook (unbeknownst to you) randomly selects basically a profile picture for a your relationship with that person.

And it’s unfailingly unattractive and absolutely ridiculous.

My relationship with one of my friends was apparently defined in 2002 when I was about six hundred pounds and wearing a really unattractive t-shirt. One of my other friend’s is a picture of me with a wine bottle…I was very confused until I realized that she gave me the bottle of wine and I tagged her in it. In the one for me and my cousin he’s helping me down a slide. I was eighteen months old.

I think my favorite was the first one I saw, though…the one for my relationship with my sister. It’s from Easter, and I think there may have been some alcohol involved because she’s smiling at the camera but her face is mashed into my armpit…I don’t know why.

When we were talking about it she said, “Yeah! Can you believe that? Does Facebook just pick the most ridiculous one they could find?”

“Umm…I think they picked the most emblematic of our relationship, actually.”

It’s true. It really is.

Daddy’s little girl.

My dad came home last night after reading my post about how he scraped my car and very sweetly said, “Honey, I will scrape your car as long as you’re living here. I can’t do a lot for you, but I can do that.”

Aww.

That’s adorable. I was feeling all warm and fuzzy until I realized how ridiculous a statement that actually was.

Because, yeah, he does nothing for me. Like keeping me on his insurance. Or letting me live in his house. Or letting me drive his cars through college. Or, like, giving me an education. Or the horse. Let’s not forget about the horse.

Clearly I need my car scraped too.

Then I just kind of felt like a bad daughter.

But it was so sweet that I won’t even tell you about how that warm fuzzy feeling evaporated (along with much of the moisture in my skin) when he very flippantly informed me that “Nah, we don’t need the heat on tonight. Last night was the cold night! It’s only going to be like 35 tonight!”

Oops.

There’s that bad daughter thing again.

This is me making an effort.

Okay, graduate school. You may have taken away my free time, my anything-more-than-six-hours-a-night of sleep, my ability to dress in something other than a sweatshirt unless I have to pretend to be an adult in front of freshmen, my blissful ignorance of Bosnia (Dude! Genocide! Is bad!), my self-esteem, my rational attitude towards food, my youthful glow, and indeed my faith in humanity, but you WILL NOT TAKE AWAY MY BLOG.

Do you hear me? Yeah. Good.

We’re going to blog, dammit.

So! It’s really cold now. Like, overnight. I mean, I almost wish I had blown away on Tuesday because then I wouldn’t have had to get out of bed this morning into the cold, harsh world.

(Also. The temperature was pretty low.)

I had to scrape my car this morning. I KNOW. And by “scraped” I mean “I walked outside and my dad had already scraped my car which frankly was something I thought he’d stop doing once I stopped driving his cars but I guess not my dad is awesome you guys.”

In honor of the brand new season, I have some very important information for you. Come here. I’m about to drop some knowledge.

Skanky over-the-knee boots? Are super toasty.

Okay, you risk looking like a slut if you don’t accessorize correctly, but it doesn’t matter because it’s like wearing ANOTHER PAIR OF PANTS.
I didn’t wear mine today because I was teaching and, well, I’m planning on saving the slutty look for a day I can’t control the classroom, and frankly, I’m disappointed in myself. I  am no longer wearing any outfit that cannot incorporate the Boots of Warmth and Happiness.

I mean, yeah, I have my students’ respect. But my knees are freezing.

I so want to be a wealthy old woman.

I was a Jewish Studies major. At my school, that meant that the classes were full of auditors. Either because they loved the class or *ahem* loved the professor, they were out in force. So I spent most of my undergraduate career surrounded by a haze of White Diamonds and Ben-gay.

And they’re all retired. And wealthy. And do lots of fabulous things. And wealthy. And take fabulous trips. And WEALTHY SERIOUSLY DO YOU GET IT?

Honestly. There were mornings when I hauled my living-with-my-parents-and-working-four-hours-a-weekend-at-Borders butt off the frickin’ bus to class and slumped in a chair.

Only to be greeted by three different conversations around the room all saying, “Oh! I’m so sorry I have to miss Tim’s lecture next week! I’ll be in Gstaad/Lisbon/Hong Kong! You know, I enjoy the experience but I just hate the snow/people/food there!”

Let’s break it down. A.) They’re going someplace fabulous. B.) It’s not good enough. C.) They’re comparing a lecture to a trip to Gstaad. Dude. I love you, but if someone offers me a trip to Chicago I will see you next week, sir.

That happened. A lot.

ANYWAY. Yesterday I was sitting in class* yesterday and the three ladies in front of me were discussing how one of them owns some sort of upscale clothing store.

“Oh! Let me give you my card!”

“Oh! Thank you! I’ll give you my card, but it’s not as fancy!”

*wealthy laughter*

“You should really swing by the shop sometime!”

“I will. Do you do trunk shows!”

“Absolutely!”

“I don’t like colors. Do you have grey?”

“Oh, of course. We’re like town and country, but with a little zip! *to third lady* Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

(How much money do you need to have in order to say the phrase “town and country but with a little zip”? Because I’m pretty sure my mother the attorney never even approached that.)

“What is your price point?”

(As though it matters.)

“Well, probably like Ellen Tracy…Dana Buchman before she…well!”

(You can say. WENT TO KOHL’S. You know what, lady? Those of us who are actually paying for the class LOVE Kohl’s. So screw you.)

So. Things we learned today.

1.) Rich people don’t use actual numbers. Quelle surprise.

2.) I want to be a rich old lady. So. Bad. Which graduate degree can I get to allow me to do that.

*Because I decided to audit a class this semester. I’m a masochist.

It’s not schizophrenia if the voices sound the same.

Scene: Bedroom, 7:30 AM Saturday

Get up. Seriously.

No.

We have lots to do today!

No.

Yes!

It’s the weekend. We finally have weekends. Remember what the weekend used to be like? With the crazy people and the standing at the info desk for eight hours and the crazy people and the endcaps and did I mention the crazy people? WE DON’T HAVE TO DO THAT ANYMORE. I’m going to celebrate by sleeping.

Yeah, well, instead we have tests to grade.

No.

You can have Starbucks.

N…wait. Starbucks?

Uh-huh.

Coffee? Or a latte?

Whatever you want, baby.

I need to check. You’ve gotten awfully thrifty since this whole “in-theory-an-actual-salary-but-not-really-enough-to-live-on” thing happened. Well, unless it comes to boots in which case you seem to be anticipating an inheritance coming or something.

You know what? You don’t need to hassle me about the boots. I LOVE boots and that’s really rich coming from the part of my psyche that decided a Blu-Ray player was ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY BECAUSE OMG WE’RE PAYING ALL THIS MONEY FOR NETFLIX…

You know what? Maybe we shouldn’t fight about money. That’s how most couples break up.

What about a pumpkin spice latte?

Honey, I’ll try to get you the barista if you get out of bed and shower.

Eh. I don’t think any of them would be interested. And I still don’t really want to go.

Um…shopping! We can go shopping afterwards! You love shopping.

Oooh! I do love shopping.

I know. AFTER we finish the exams.

Target? They have a Hanukkah endcap with a table runner that I’m buying for our house.

O…okay. Sure. We’ll make sure to put it up for Easter. But you have to get out of bed and maybe work out a little bit before you can go buy that table runner.

Oka…wait! You’re going too far, missy.

You think the only thing we’re going to end up buying is the table runner? Uh, no. You’ve been eyeing that argyle sweater for weeks. You’ve been trying to figure out how much of your grocery budget can disappear in order to afford it…

What does that have to do with anything?

How do you expect to fit into it if you NEVER LISTEN TO ME about the working out???

I hate you. I wish I could fail you and write “Okay, but you didn’t really answer the question,” on your exam!

Whatever. Get in the shower.

Yeah, you’re paying college tuition so that I can teach your children.

In the absence of anything to actually discuss that doesn’t involve the historiography of the religion in Bosnia (Do I really know what that means? No. Am I writing a 30-page paper on it? Hell yeah. And expecting an A.) or how being at school until ten o’clock on Thursday nights has turned me into a horrible person, neither of which you want to hear about I’m going to bet, or indeed the energy to compose a post about an appropriate topic, I feel like this blog has kind of become a collection of lists of ridiculous things I do, think, consider, etc.

(Why hello there, Run-On Sentence. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you.)

So! Why screw with it! Right?

Some silly things I’ve done lately:

1.) Stood in the back hall on my toes (to simulate heels) and used a yardstick to measure my leg.

Yeah. A yardstick. Not sewing tape, not a piece of string, not even measuring tape. A YARDSTICK. Because it was there.

And I desperately needed to see how high up an 18-inch shaft on a boot would come on my short stubby legs. Because the consensus is that most over-the-knee boots on a person who is 5′ 2″ make one look like a “not very nice girl” (My mom), “dominatrix” (me), and “slutty pirate” (Colleen).

Turns out 18″ is right above my kneecap. So we shall see, Overstock.com; we shall see.

2.) Considered exactly how much food I’d be willing to give up in order to buy those boots.

3.) Decided…A LOT.

4.) Got up. Got dressed to work out. Stood in my bedroom and decided Oh.  My. God. I. Can’t. Do. This.

And went back to sleep for two hours.

5.) Wrote this post instead of grading the 87 essay exams I still have to do.

6.) Ripped a tag off my shirt and realized it said “dry clean only”. Decided that if I hadn’t seen that tag I  totally would have thrown it in the washer. So I’m just going to ignore it.

7.) Wondered exactly how important a TA is on exam day because my students have an exam on the same day Josh Groban releases his new CD and I don’t know how to get a copy before I leave the house at 7:30…decided pretty important and while Josh Groban is lovely, he has yet to show up in Grafton offering to pay for me for the rest of my life and therefore skipping an integral part of my job in order to buy a hard copy of his CD is pretty silly.

Responsibility. I know.

(I mean, I’m going to buy a digital copy. I’m not crazy.)

In fact, this makes me think of a whole sub-list, if you will, entitled Crazy Things I’ve Done For Josh Groban Concerts:

7a.) Drove to Chicago. Twice.

7b.) Handed over an alarming number of fifties in a McDonald’s parking lot in Rockford.

7c.) Drove to St. Paul.

(Okay, my dad actually did those things. I was 16. A very pushy 16.)

7d.) Urged my entire family to drive through the worst snowstorm Chicago had seen in like three hundred years or something and got very VERY upset when they refused.

7e.) Cancelled my confirmation interview.

WHAT? I knew I wanted to be confirmed. And so did the guy with whom the interview was. It was ridiculous. And I did reschedule. Eventually.