Why I hate Springfield, MO: A treatise, Part the First.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I had the bright idea to go away for college.  I had just finished my first year at the local community college and I decided I needed the full college experience.  I had my eyes set on Drury University.  I even tried out for a choir scholarship (sadly, my repertoire consisted only of Disney songs, thanks to my hippie-esque voice teacher)...I did not get it...my neighbor did.  True story.  That did not deter me, however, and I soon got enrolled at SMSU in Springfield.

It was going to be AWESOME!  My grandma took me shopping for dorm decorating supplies and I bought the brightest, LOUDEST comforter set EVAR!

I did not have the best taste at 18.  Also, I swear my hair just gets bigger in these pictures...

 My friend Ashley bought me a hamper filled with snacks and cleaning supplies.  My parents started making plans to convert my bedroom into a bomb shelter.  And BEST OF ALL, because of the incoming student overflow, instead of a traditional dorm, I was going to be staying in the international student apartments, deceivingly named Sunvilla Tower.

I knew things were not going to go as well as I suspected when we pulled up to unload my things and instead of being greeted by a gleaming tower, the building was more reminiscent of the apartment complex down the street from us when I was growing up in the projects.  It was a serious letdown.  But bigger blows were to come.

 Firstly, the apartment was only made for two people...and there were three of us.  I had a very sweet roommate from China and a roommate from Brazil that I never really saw except for when she and her boyfriend were making out in her bed while we were trying to sleep.  Yeah, that's right, all three of us had to share a bedroom.  Not only that, but my clothes had to go in the living room closet b/c there wasn't enough room in the bedroom. And since I got there late, I did not get a drawer in the dresser we all had to share.  Which was, unsurprisingly, in the living room.

I'm seriously considering a career in drafting...

My roommate from Brazil was really intense and there to study dance.  She had an American boyfriend who was pseudo-buddhist and would come over and declare everyone in the apartment had to use absolute silence so he could meditate.  Why he had to meditate in our apartment, I'll never know.  They seemed to only ever be in the apartment when he wanted to meditate, or at night (as previously mentioned) while I was trying to sleep. They were there so scarcely that to this day, I'm not sure what her name was.

You can't help it when you're a loud typer!

My roommate from China was very very sweet.  Her name was Yei Lei, but she went by her "American" name of Aviva.  Unfortunately, we had some culture clashes.

Word to the wise:  Dawn is not dishwasher safe...

Everything in that god-forsaken apartment was bubble gum pink.  Thanks for that, 1970s.

Honestly, it was the smell.

I was also very very poor while going to school here.  I had two work study jobs, which paid approximately nothing.   At one of my jobs, I was required to go through about 50 years of collected research and throw away things "that didn't look important"...(to a sophomore undergrad, everything looks important.)  It was the single most terrifying job I have ever had.  I'm pretty sure I somehow derailed a professor's stem cell research.

And yet, I could have endured all of this if it hadn't been for my trip home for Thanksgiving.  I came back and the trash had not been taken out.  There were little baby maggots happily munching away on left over boiled cabbage in the sink.  And some sort of green goop leaking across the kitchen floor from a pile of trash bags.  I sat down on the floor and cried.  Then I called my mom and cried some more.  Then I went to the store and bought a truck load of cleaning supplies and a hazmat suit.

I almost suffocated from trying to fit my hair in that suit...

Approximately three weeks later, after the semester finals were through (which I mostly failed), I moved home.


 But leaky garbage and terrible roommates were not the only horror stories I have from Springfield.  Stay tuned for Part Deux or How I Ended up in Class With One Shoe.

Paw Paw: The Man Behind The Legend

Last week, I went to Louisiana to visit my dad's family.   I love all of my family, but my Paw Paw (grandpa to you non-creole speaking peeps) always steals the show.  He is one of those "larger than life" personalities.  He kept his pompadour from the 50s.  When I was little and he still smoked, he kept his pack of cigarettes in a rolled up sleeve.  He still uses Royal Crown on his hair.  He has a tattoo of a naked woman on his forearm.  He says he spent more time in the brig for fighting than actually being a Marine.  He once broke my grandma out of a leper colony.  And under his vaguely racist exterior, he has a big heart.  Case in point:   He once went AWOL b/c he wanted to go home and visit his mom. 

So on this trip, I decided to write down some of Paw Paw's sayings for posterity and future reference.  I posted them on Facebook, but I've collected them here for easy access (there is also a bonus quote from Maw Maw):

Fungi Are Not Fun Guys

I love chicken spaghetti, but I hate cream of mushroom soup.  I hate those tiny little mushrooms.  They sneak around in your food hiding and then you eat one on accident and you're all WHAT???  GROSS!!! And then you whine about it for a bit and your mom is all "Well then you make the food!" and you're all "Fine! I will."

So, I did.  And it was delicious.  And now I will show you my recipe and some fuzzy iPhone pictures.

Behold! The ingredients:

As you can see, I'm pretty lazy and use a store bought rotisserie chicken.

Looks like we've got 1 rotisserie chicken,  1 can of pimentos, 1 jar of artichoke hearts, 1 green bell pepper, 1 red bell pepper, 2 cans of cream of chicken, 1 can of chicken broth, 1 pound of cheese, and some thin spaghetti noodles.

First, grab a large mixing bowl and start tearing that chicken apart into little chunks.  I'm not gonna lie, fingers will get burnt in this process.  But don't worry, you'll have your revenge when you start slurping it down your gullet.  I only used the white meat.  Because dark meat is for losers.  But you can use the dark meat too, if you want.  Loser.

While you're molesting the chicken, you should have your lovely assistant cut up the bell peppers.  If you have a lovely assistant.  You might not, if you are using the dark meat.  Losers don't get lovely assistants.  It's in the rules or something.

My lovely assistant.  Kinda.  Well, her hands at any rate.

Next, you're going to mix the pulled chicken, the pimentos (drained), the artichoke hearts (drained), half the cheese, both cans of cream of chicken, and about 1/4 of the chicken broth in your bowl.  It is going to look and sound disgusting while you mix it.  Seriously.  Also, if it's hard to mix, add some more broth.  But don't make it too liquidy or it'll be soup when it gets out of the oven.

Glorious.

Now you'll stir in the cooked noodles.  Wait....I didn't tell you to boil the noodles already?  Well common sense should have told you to start them a while ago.  I mean, seriously.  Pull it together!

You want the noodles al dente, because they're going to cook more in the oven.

Pour all that gloopy mess into a casserole dish and cover it with more cheese.  I used ALL THE CHEESE because I am awesome.  You can use SOME of the cheese if you are a ninny.  Ninny.

Put some foil on that bad boy and put it in the oven at about 350F for 30-45 minutes, or until it starts to bubble.  Then pull the foil off and cook it until the cheese gets nice and yummy brown.

NOW EAT THAT SHIZ!  Seriously.  Don't wait for it to cool.  Burnt tongues are for winners!

You know you want this.

An Apology of Sorts

Hidy ho, neighbors!

I know, I know...it's been quite some time since I've updated.  But listen, the holidays were ca-ray-zeeee.  And then I've been super sick with this sinusy thing since New Years.  And I've been on several rounds of antibiotic and then they tried steroids and then I got hemorrhagic cystitis (which is just as much fun as it sounds), and well, I just didn't feel like updating with all of that crap going on.  But, I'm back now!  And I have a brand new mouse for my laptop, which means I should have not one, but TWO updates by the end of the week.  One is a recipe for my AMAZING chicken spaghetti, and the other is one of those fun filled tales of woe you come here for because you're a terrible human being.

Stay tuned!

Bonus picture of my cat being squeezed into a tiny sweater.

EDIT:  Ok, I didn't post till a month later.  But still...

Our Christmas Tree Came Already Decorated.

Once, I had a roommate.  We'll call her Ashley, because that is her name.  We lived in a tiny apartment with our dog and cat.  We had absolutely no money, but we still REALLY REALLY REALLY wanted a Christmas Tree.

Ashley is very fashionable.  You can tell because I drew her with boots AND a dress.  Tres chic.

But it turns out artificial trees are stinkin' expensive, and I'm deathly allergic to pine sap.  Ashley's parents had an old artificial tree that had been hanging out in their attic for several years, and they offered it to us.  We were so excited!  We loaded it up in the back of my car and drove it home, fa-la-la-la-la-ing all the way.  When we got it home, though, and opened the box, we realized we had a problem.  Let's see if you can spot it:

See it?

What about now?

As soon as we saw the nests, we did what any adult would do in that situation... We ran and hid behind the kitchen counter.

That smell?  It's fear.  And maybe urine.

After hyperventilating behind the counter for several minutes, I got brave enough to poke the box with a stick to see if it moved.

I don't feel this picture does my cat's always-vacant-expression justice really.

Nothing happened.  We briefly considered throwing it out.  But the lure of a free Christmas tree was just too strong.  Especially one that came with these awesome lights:

Pictured: Fire hazard.

So, in a thirty minute montage set to Eye of the Tiger, we ran around the house putting on anything that could remotely qualify as a bee-keeping outfit.

Armed with potholders and pillows, we were ready to kick some wasp thorax.

We took turns grabbing the vacuum hose, running up to the box, sucking up a nest or two and then running away screaming like little girls.  We counted about 20 of them, and it took us over two hours, but in the end we got them all...except one or two...those branches we threw outside in the yard, where they remained until we moved out.  Their fate is currently unknown.

It looks like one of those clay ornaments I had to make in elementary school.  It adds some rustic flair to the tree, no?