Why “ironic lady”?

The term “iron lady,” though famously attributed to Margaret Thatcher, has actually come to refer to any woman in a position of power with a take-no-shit kind of attitude (like Hillary Clinton, Golda Meir, or Park Geun-hye). I aspire to be a take-no-shit type of person but I’m afraid I’ll only ever be a “whoops I just shot myself in the foot with this airsoft gun while explaining to my mother how safe it is” type of person.



Last week I was bitching about a tornado. This week I’m bitching about snow.

Over the weekend, Tara came to visit. I woke up on Saturday morning, but it was cold and I didn’t think Tara was awake yet, so I just stayed in bed wrapped in my blankets like a burrito and stared out the window. It started to snow lightly, which then turned, right before my eyes, into a fully fledged whiteout snowstorm. It was at this point that I sprang out of bed, ran into the hallway, and collided with Tara, who was gesturing at the window and going, “Holy shit! I mean… wow. I think I’m going to be trapped here forever. Holy SHIT.”

My mom called last night and asked if there’s anything she needs to bring to my grandparents’ house when we meet there for Thanksgiving. I told her I need my winter coat, because after twenty years of living in a place that is prone to snow, I’m still an idiot. I’m literally walking around campus while it is fifteen degrees out wearing three jackets on top of each other.

“Okay,” she said. “So I’ll bring your white North Face jacket.”

“Mother,” I said, “we are WAY PAST the white North Face jacket. I need the gigantic black coat that makes it look like I’m walking around in a SLEEPING BAG.”

I’m wearing sunglasses everywhere even though it isn’t sunny, just to keep the wind off my face. My car door handle was frozen shut this morning. I got frostbite walking back from class because I forgot my gloves. I know this certainly sounds like bitching, but I’m actually just getting excited. Wind and snow and frostbite means WINTER IS HERE. CHRISTMAS IS COMING. I need to make some Pillsbury cookies or something!

If I never post again after this, you can all assume that I did something stupid

Tara is coming to visit this weekend. We’re planning on seeing Thor 2 and Catching Fire, then marathoning our TV shows and playing Mario Kart. This does, however, mean that I am going to have to be responsible for the well-being of someone other than myself. Looking despairingly at my food supply, which consisted of roughly half a jar of peanut butter and a box of macaroni, I decided to go to the grocery store and stock up.

It was at that point that this happened:


That’s just what I get for being responsible.

As it turns out, it wasn’t quite the close call I thought it was. By “stuck at Meijer,” I meant I was stuck in line behind two people who seemed to have amassed half the store in their cart while the two people behind me were loudly and frantically wondering if they had time to get home and take cover. But by the time I had paid, sprinted out to my car, and raced home, the tornado still hadn’t hit.

And it still hasn’t. Maybe it won’t. I hope it doesn’t, because I’ve never been solely responsible for my own safety in a tornado before. I prefer having people in charge tell me where to hide.

And it wasn’t even one of the earlier, less heavy ones. It was freaking GOBLET OF FIRE.

Last weekend, when I was heading back to school with Allison, we had barely embarked on our road trip when Allison’s car began to 1) smoke under the hood, 2) flash the check engine light, 3) make an ominous puttering sound, 4) leak fluids, 5) cause the temperature gauge to start flying towards the red zone, and finally 6) smell like gas, all of which culminated in me shouting, “ALLISON WE NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS CAR RIGHT NOW,” as we came to an abrupt halt and then dove into a ditch.

I thought this weekend would be a little less action-packed, and it has been, except for the fact that I somehow managed to break my pinky toe. It’s true that I don’t know this for sure, because I haven’t gone to a doctor, but my brother Alex did break my toe once in Canada when we were kids, so I’m comparing the sensations and making a guesstimate. I say I “somehow managed” to do this like maybe there’s a funny story in here somewhere, but there isn’t. I was walking out of my bedroom and my foot got caught on my dresser. My thought process went exactly like this:

  1. “MOTHERFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—” which was followed by
  2. “Well there goes that toe, good thing it’s not one of the important ones,” followed by
  3. “I guess this means I don’t have to go to that party tonight.”

And if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like dropping a Harry Potter book on a broken toe, well, wonder no more, because it feels like every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.

I’m a mess. There, it’s official.

My roommate and I are already at that point in the school year where we’re leaving to go to class at the last possible second. Three weeks ago, we were leaving half an hour early, ear buds in, bags fully packed with folders, writing utensils, and the assigned reading. Nowadays, however, you’re more likely to see one of us sprinting out the door when we should’ve left five minutes before, holding crumpled papers and a piece of toast and screaming, “I’M LATE, BYE.” No ear buds; there’s no time to untangle that shitstorm. We frequently don’t grab the right books and have to run back, screwing ourselves over even further. And when I use the royal “we,” of course, I really just mean me. I say we to make myself feel better. I think I saw her sprinting out the door, like, once. And even then she was wearing this really cute dress. I usually wear whatever’s on my floor because it’s within reach. I’m a perpetual life mess.

When microwaves are aflame, we figure out what I truly value in life.

Last night some of my hall mates accidentally set their microwave on fire. I could tell it was them because I heard variations of the phrase “OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE WE DONE” right before the alarm started blaring and a disembodied voice instructed us to evacuate immediately.

I would not be the right person for any sort of disaster. I was looking around frantically, thinking, “ChapStick—Fig Newtons—retainer case,” instead of, I don’t know, “Sweatshirt—cell phone—purse containing money and other vital necessities.” I at least had the presence of mind to grab my room key, but my most pressing worry (which I shouted at anyone who would listen as we congregated out in the street) was “I WAS WATCHING THE BIG BANG THEORY AND I LEFT MEGAVIDEO RUNNING AND NOW I’M GONNA HIT THE 72-MINUTE LIMIT, OH DEAR GOD NO!”

I put two dollars in the No Christmas Carols Before Thanksgiving Jar, because a) I watched this really catchy Kohl’s Christmas advertisement online, and it was so catchy I played it again, and b) I listened to Justin Bieber’s “Mistletoe,” which I don’t really consider a Christmas carol per se, but I had to penalize myself for enjoying it.

Twenty-one days until December!

I got locked out of my dorm room the other night

I knew just as I was closing the door that something was missing, but it wasn’t until I heard that little click of finality and had half-turned to go to the bathroom that I thought, OH GOD NO. I was standing there in my Happy Bunny pajamas and dollar store flip-flops. I had nothing but my pink toothbrush and Spongebob toothpaste. My hair was doing things I didn’t even know it was capable of. And I was locked out.

I thought it over. My roommate was out somewhere. I had no way to contact her, because my phone was in the room. I was going to have to find the resident advisor on duty. So I jogged down to my RA’s room, where they have this cute little chart with Velcro markers that tell you who’s on duty that night. There were two. One was my sort-of crush Calvin’s RA. I could just picture Calvin finding me wandering confusedly around his hall with my Spongebob toothpaste and Happy Bunny PJs.

Needless to say, this story ends with me going to the other RA and knocking on the door of a person who was not actually an RA at all.

P.S. In keeping up with my “No Christmas Carols Until After Thanksgiving” pledge, I have created the No Christmas Carols Jar. If I listen to even one line of “Frosty the Snowman,” I have to put in a dollar. This is a whole new level of self-discipline.