Act your age, not your shoe size.

I am 26 years old.  This means that, legally speaking, I've been an adult for the past 8 years.  Occasionally, I'll be driving to work munching on my Cocoa Puffs from a ziploc bag (what?) and this fact dawns on me, out of the blue.  See, sometimes it's a little weird to think that I'm rapidly flying through adulthood while in many ways I feel like a 9 year old who happens to spend a lot of time in a cubicle, with limited recess breaks. 

As I sat at my desk today, chomping on some Bubble Tape and enjoying an introspective/slacker moment, I realized that there are many facets of my life that are decidedly un-adult-like.  I thought I'd see how many of you blog readers sometimes feel like you act your shoe size instead of your age.  So, grab yourself a Fruit Roll-Up and get commenting. 

1.) Domestic adventures:

(Attention: Martha Stewart, Mom and/or you sassy British ladies from "Clean House": Several topics on this list may be too much for you to handle.  Please just skip ahead to the section on Greek yogurt). 

(a) Vacuuming:
Sometimes I don't feel like dragging the vacuum up the stairs. By this, I mean that I NEVER feel like doing that. Most times, I reason that you can't really see the particles on my floor because I have dark carpet in my room. Or, I just take my glasses off and everything looks pretty fantastic. If we're really being honest, I will admit that (in one rare case) I did spruce up a small patch of carpet with a lint roller. I shouldn't have been proud of this.  But I was.

(b) Dishes:
You may think it's really badass to pretend you're Wolverine while you're pulling clean plates out of the dishwasher, placing them between your fingers and busting out a few ninja moves in your kitchen. This is a bad idea; I really can't stress that enough.

(c) Laundry:
Much to my mother's horror, I do not separate my laundry with regard to color, temperature, or fabric type. I have a sophisticated system termed the "sniff test" which allows me to discriminate between dirty and clean laundry, then proceed to wash those articles that do not pass said sniff test.  Plus, I've seen enough "Friends" reruns to know that you can't mix a red shirt with all your white underwear and wash in hot water (unless you want all of your whites to look like they were dipped in Pepto Bismol, and/or you want Ross Gellar to kiss you in a laundromat). Other than the sniff test and the Rachel Green rule, there's really not much more to doing laundry.  Don't let those fools at Tide tell you any differently. 

2.) Personal finances

(Suze Orman, avert thine eyes, girlfriend). 

Most (fine, all) of financial jargon goes completely over my head.  I blame a lot of the confusion on the constant use of complicated acronyms.  ARM, FDIC, IRA, WTF.  And, because it's frustrating for me to feel constantly out of the loop, I just make up my own translations.  Why should APR stand for "Annual Percentage Rate" when "Awkward Portuguese Relatives" is so much funnier? 

3.) Greek yogurt

Every morning I start my day with a protein-packed Chobani sprinkled with organic wheat germ. No, I don't. But every couple of months, I find myself in the dairy section of Stop & Shop, having an intense inner conflict over which Limited Edition Edy's ice cream to buy (I mean, seriously - I don't want to have regrets in my life). And I think to myself, "Lauren - it's time to (wo)man up and get serious about your protein intake." I pick up a half dozen Chobani yogurts, and even let out an "Opa!" to celebrate my healthy choices. 

The next day, I'm at my desk at work and reality hits. This is not yogurt. It does not taste like yogurt. It tastes like your Aunt Doris' sour cream chip dip mixed with brownish strawberries. And let me tell you something else: it doesn't matter what you mix into this shit (Cinnamon Toast Crunch, sugar packets, Hershey's syrup). It won't taste like yogurt or any type of delicious breakfast treat. The remaining 5 cups of Greek dip will remain in your refrigerator for the next 12 to 14 weeks, until it expires or you find an alternative use for it (ie: facial moisturizer, denture adhesive, spackle). 

4.) Doing my taxes

Seriously, TurboTax - stop likening your software to a GPS unit. It's NOT that easy, because I've tried 5 times to do my taxes on my own and every time it goes something like this:

Step 1: In which state do you work?
Me: "Oh, awesome - this is easy! Massachusetts!"

Step 2: Great. In which state do you live?
Me: "Damn, I am a tax-filing goddess. Rhode Island!"

Step 3: Ok. If your state of employment and state of residence both have an odd number of letters, please refer to section US-01-86410 for information on how to obtain state and federal regulatory exemptions for each of your dependents, provided they live in your household a minimum of 10 months of the year. 

Me: "Do I count the space between Rhode and Island as a character?  Is my dog a dependant?  Can someone get me a bottle of tequila?" 

You see, dear readers and fellow children-at-heart, perhaps the best solution is to embrace our inner kiddo and accept the sobering fact that (at least some of us) will never fully "grow up".  We will never buy a $900 Dyson vacuum cleaner.  We will never know for sure that our taxes will not result in a soul-crushing audit by the IRS.  We will never start the day by casually munching our Greek yogurt, while reading the WSJ and trading tips about how to wash spaghetti sauce out of an off-white blouse.  Suddenly, we realize that maybe Woody Harrelson was right when he said "A grown up is just a child with layers on." 

Team Santos: We want to pump YOU up!

From kindergarten to the last day of high school, if you asked which class was my least favorite, I always had the same answer: gym.  I would have voluntarily taken a dose of obscure Russian literature in the 2nd grade, rather than suffer through 45 minutes of Red Rover with my classmates. 


Why?  It wasn't that I was a lazy kid, or even that I didn't like to be active.  My sister and I spent all of our childhood summers riding our bikes, running around the neighborhood (fine, we were chasing the ice cream truck), and choreographing some pretty sassy routines on our roller skates to several Mariah Carey hits.  But taking physical education was not about staying active.  Gym class meant throwing on a pair of city-issued mesh shorts and running around with your peers, all while trying to pretend you weren't profusely sweating in front of that cute boy from English class.  Gym class meant learning the rules to needlessly complicated team sports  (Ultimate Frisbee?  This game was created by Satan).  And, while I attempted to use several hundred excuses to get myself out of gym class ("I sprained my finger overusing my graphing calculator"; "My poor circulation makes my legs look purple in these gym shorts"; "I'm allergic to spherical objects"), I still showed up for every class.  Because my parents had this thing about me graduating high school. 

So, I even surprised myself when I decided to join a gym last year as an adult.  I mean, this was voluntary and (what's worse) I was now forking over money to have the privilege of going back to gym class.  My search for the "right" gym included several key requirements: it had to be cheap; it couldn't be in Cranston (for fear of constant interaction with former high school classmates) and it had to include a free t-shirt upon registration.  My search led me to a Planet Fitness in Warwick, where I am now a (surprisingly) active member. 

My gym experience last year was marked by several highlights:
1.) I bent down to scratch my ankle while using an elliptical machine and hit myself in the face with the moving handle. 
2.) I found the fishbowl full of Tootsie Rolls on the registration desk.  I re-fuel every ten minutes or so, to avoid low blood sugar. 
3.) I winked at the handsome personal trainer.  This man now assumes I have a facial twitch. 

Just when I started wondering how I could possibly spice up my workout routine in 2011, I was joined by my first workout buddy: my Dad.  For those readers who have not met Pops Santos, let me paint a brief picture.  My Dad is a Portuguese version of Jack Byrne (Robert DeNiro's character on "Meet the Parents").  Though he's got a heart of gold and is an awfully likable guy, he's got a very firm "don't f*%@ with me" outer shell that constantly catches new boyfriends and telemarketers by surprise.  In his 20's, Dad used to move pianos for work.  Now, despite the fact that he's over 50 and has had both of his knees replaced, he could still pick up a refrigerator and toss it (with relative accuracy).  He casually throws this fact into conversation when meeting any potential boyfriends. 

Naturally, I was thrilled to have a new gym pal for 2011.  In fact, I may have gone a little overboard (how atypical for me).  I had "Team Santos" jerseys made.  I figured we should look sharp in case Nike is looking for a couple of intergenerational spokespeople, now that Tiger has blown his chances at the "family friendly" angle.  I kept envisioning our first Nike commercial:

There are folks working out, as normal.  You can hear the occasional clang of a dumbbell, some shuffling on a treadmill.  Then, out of nowhere, "Eye of the Tiger" starts to jam over the speakers and (BOOM!) the doors open with a bang.  Fog and neon lights fill the room.  In slow motion, "Team Santos" walks into the door in perfect step: a hauntingly beautiful 20-something girl with perfectly non-frizzy curls blowing in the wind, joined by her tough-as-nails Pops with silver (don't call it grey) hair.  They high five without looking at each other and flash their badges to the front desk.  Then, they each go run a 4 minute mile and bench press 600 lb. 

Just do it.  

While I was jogging and rehearsing this scene in my mind, Dad was getting his bearings and learning the ropes in his new gym.  Wanting to keep my gym pal motivated, I provided lots of verbal encouragement ("NO PAIN, NO GAIN, Pops!") and inspirational gestures (I attempted to do the wave by myself while running - not a good idea).  I guess he couldn't hear me because most of my motivational comments went unacknowledged, despite several dirty looks by the folks on the stationary bikes. 

Although Nike has not yet drawn up our official contracts, I am happy to report that we have been getting to the gym several times per week since the beginning of the year.  I can now run a 42 minute mile and my nose has healed quite well after the elliptical machine incident.  Dad is doing great as well: he is biking several miles each workout and lifting weights.  I figure that, by the time the personal trainer realizes my winking is not a spasm and winks back, Pops Santos should be strong enough to throw a treadmill at him, using only his pinky. 

2011: Year of the Chiacchierone

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once said, “What is not started today is never finished tomorrow.”

With the arrival of a new decade, this wise German playwright's words remind us that it's important to have solid, achievable goals - and to get started on them right away. Then again, I also read (by this I mean, I "read") Faust in college and recall thinking, "Wow, Goethe is on some serious crack."

Aside from this profound literary analysis, his quote makes me think a lot about my own personal goals (ex: stop wearing those sweatpants with the obvious holes...in public...weekly). So, without further ado, I present my faithful blog followers (Hi, Mom) with my list of 2011 resolutions:

1.) Write more:
Just as I'm sure "all" of you enjoy reading my blog o' nonsense (Ma, you still there?) I really love to write. Whether it's a blog post, a love letter to my boyfriend Fabio (yes, the Italian supermodel with the Christy Brinkley hair), or the first page of the next great American novel (sorry, Steinbeck) - writing is my favorite way to go on a mental vacation from my real life. For this year, I'd like to keep the writing going - and to make Goethe happy, I'll make it concrete: I will blog once a week*.

*Restrictions apply: This goal is likely too lofty. See, right now, it's cold out and there's nothing better to do - there's no Monday Night Football anymore, Netflix hasn't sent anything worth watching, and I'm too comfy under three blankets to get up and go to the gym. Also, I'm all swept up in this early January season of self-improvement which may pass by January 10. The blog posts may return to a sporadic sprinkling by Valentines' Day. Or Martin Luther King Jr Day.

2.) Floss. Well, keep flossing:
This is more of a continuation of a current good habit that has become routine. I'm not trying to ride the moral high horse here. I floss daily (sometimes twice daily) because my fillings from the past three years have provided my dentist with a couple of Mercedes, diamond cufflinks, a twelve-bedroom vacation villa in southern Spain and an upgraded, better looking trophy wife. And, if I don't continue to neurotically floss, I will literally run out of teeth to develop cavities. Plus, I know that smug bastard is thinking he can buy his own private island if I get 5 more cavities, and I won't give him the satisfaction.

3.) Cut the road rage:
Sure, it depends who you ask. But I can say with reasonable confidence that if you ask around, most people would say I'm a nice girl. I have a strict WWFHD policy (What would Florence Henderson do?). This typically steers me toward buying polyester pantsuits and baking cookies. But, although I never intend for it to happen, my work commute brings me from WWFHD to WWF in about 2.5 seconds. There's just something about a 93 year old lady in the passing lane, doing 47 mph, during rush hour, with her left blinker on that completely sends me into a road rage spiral. To make matters worse, I am a genetic perfect storm when it comes to road rage - I've got an Irish temper and a not-so-shy Portuguese mouth. Before I know it, I've amassed enough money in my imaginary swear jar to buy Boardwalk and Park Place (with hotels) and I've pulled a muscle in my middle finger. But this year, I vow that Florence will win. I will toss homemade cookies out of the windows of my Focus at those who cut me off (to later drive 10 under the speed limit). I will blow kisses and wave like the Queen at those that don't use their blinkers or mirrors. All while rocking a Carol Brady lady-mullet.

4.) Get better at dating.
I suck at dating. You might think you understand what I'm saying, or even think you can sympathize with me. But you can't, unless you are my fictional counterpart, Liz Lemon. For those who do not watch 30 Rock, shame on you. Many times, when I'm watching the show, I get a creepy feeling that Tina Fey is following me around, watching me embarrass my way through adulthood and then writing it into the show. An example:

Liz Lemon and her friend Jenna are out at a bar.
Dude: "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Liz: "Really, dude? There are like, 4 other seats down there - can't you be cool?"
Jenna: "Liz, that guy wanted to buy you a drink."
Liz: "Really? I already have a drink. You think he'll buy me mozzarella sticks?"

Oh, Liz - how could you have known that this was a pick up line? I too am continually thrown by the often-confusing musings of dudes and my constant need for a snack. But not this year. This year I plan to miraculously transform my accident-prone awkwardness into super smooth sex appeal that will have all the eligible bachelors in the 401 weak at the knees. That's right - look out, Rhody. Cause I'm coming - and I'm wearing a Florence Henderson pantsuit that's snug in all the right places.

From the desk of...

...that girl who needs more time-consuming hobbies. Or a shorter commute. Or a quieter inner-monologue.

In the interest of keeping the art of letter-writing alive, I've penned a few myself. Please imagine all of these letters voiced-over by Susan Sarandon (you know, Wonder Years-style). I think that her voice might possibly convince everyone that what I'm saying has a shred of substance.

Dear teenagers of America,
Stop calling everything "random", as in:
"Ohmygod, that's SOOOO totally random."
If you call everything and everyone random, nothing is random. Think about it.

Dear every episode of "How I Met your Mother," banana pancakes, Stevie Wonder, Christmas Eve, my 10 year old pair of Levi's, Red Sox, the smell of sun block, my passport, ice cold beer, and irregular Italian verbs,
Dang, you are awesome. All of you.

Dear native-speakers-of-English-who-should-know-better,
You are misusing the word ironic. I think we all remember Alanis' ode to the topic (sure, I was rocking it in a pair of overalls and pink jellies). But what we failed to grasp while singing along (and checking our braces for pieces of food) was that the "ironic" situations in her song aren't ironic. She actually makes a long list of shitty things that could happen to you. Rain on your wedding day? Traffic jam when you're already late? That's just a crap day. Just for good measure, I'm providing some examples of actual irony:
Exhibit A: The fact that nobody in my office thinks "The Office" is funny.
Exhibit B: Getting cut off and flipped off by a Prius with a "Coexist" bumper sticker.

Dear Always,
Your slogan is, "Have a happy period." Seriously? There must be a lot of dudes in your marketing department.

Dear Kanye,
Thanks for providing me with thematic one-liners for my everyday life:
On the road: "So I parallel, double-parked that mother-$@^#&! sideways...."
At the office: "You should be honored by my lateness...that I would even show up to this fake shit."
On personal style: "So if the devil wear Prada, Adam Eve wear nada, I'm in between but way more fresher. With way less effort."

Dear Boston,
Thank you for the city, the band, the cream pie and the baked beans. You really rule. I could do without your lettuce though...it's kind of lame.

Dear Eminem,
Shut up.

Dear autumn,
Your changing leaves are breath-taking. The cool, crisp air makes me excited for the upcoming holidays. But you took away the beautiful, bronzed tan I took all summer to acquire. My skin is now the color of a peeled potato and I'm wondering if apple pie was an even trade.

Dear late-20's,
Please rock. Big time.

It's time to come clean.

St. Augustine wrote his "Confessions" in 398 AD. A few years later, so did Usher. Today I'm joining the club. Yup, it's about to get real up in here.

1.) What I say: I try to eat healthy foods and exercise regularly.

Confession:
I only buy rice cakes so I can cover them in Nutella. I started jogging because I like buying colorful shorts in Target. And I can eat more Reese's peanut butter cups in one sitting than anybody I know. Try me.

2.) What I say: I have a funky, varied taste in music - all different eras, languages, styles. I enjoy the fact that a lot of bands on my iPod aren't very well known and that most have not graced the cover of Tiger Beat.

Confession:
I cannot get enough of Sean Kingston. And while we're on the topic, I have Frankie J's entire debut album in Spanish, a dance mix of a Justin Bieber song and a track by Jazzy Jeff. Basically, my greatest fear is that I will misplace my iPod and someone will actually return it, and I will have to face them. I'm also beginning to understand the need for the Witness Protection program.

3.) What I say: I am a mature, professional young woman.

Confession:
My finest professional skills include:
- Breaking it down and rocking out to Phil Collins while I'm on hold
- Accurately tossing peppermint patties over the cubicle wall at Maria
- Bending the dress code to include my chucks

4.) What I say: I'm a sociable gal who loves the spontaneity of a random encounter with all sorts of acquaintances from my past.

Confession:
I avoid running into people because most of the time when I do, they fall in to one of these categories:
(a) Someone from high school that doesn't remember my name. Alternatively, they may recall that I am "one of the twins."
(b) My ex-boyfriend's parents. Score.
(c) Someone I actually do want to speak to. In these cases, I am usually coming from the gym and covered in sweat. Or I'm running out to grab a loaf of bread and wearing my glasses and a t-shirt from 1991 with a Troll on it.

5.) What I say: I am a really responsible car owner. I own lots of Armor All products and vacuum the carpets during my lunch break. And I always schedule regular maintenance when needed.

Confession:
I am a horribly negligent mother to Frank the Ford Focus. Poor Frank has not been vacuumed more than two times in two years. His cup holders contain a horrifying array of Dunkin' straw wrappers, loose change, bobby pins, and even a can of aerosol hairspray. (What? I'm from Cranston.) I have more pairs of shoes in the back seat than I do in my closet. And I have situation-specific amnesia when it comes to oil changes. Despite the fact that I spend 2+ hours every day staring right at the little sticker that indicates the mileage for my next oil change, I routinely forget to bring it to the mechanic until it's 200* miles over the mark.

*200 miles is a total lie. If I put the real mileage in here, I would lose friends.

Confessions concluded for tonight. Damn, I feel better.

Sometimes, talking to yourself just gets old...

...which is why I thought it might be fun to revive my old blog-o-nonsense from yesteryear. In addition to this lingering blog from college, that hasn't been updated since I was legitimately using my student ID (and not scamming cheap deals as a young looking 20-something), I have another more recent (and now abandoned) blog dedicated to keeping tabs on my progress (or lack thereof) of making pastry in my free time. So, much like Octomom, I have no business bringing new blog posts into this crazy cyber-universe. But I'm doing it anyway, mostly so you can all witness me crash and burn on the cover of US Weekly. (Seriously, can somebody get me on US Weekly? That would be pretty sweet if I could make that happen without having to be a guest on MTV's Teen Mom).

My last post (dated June 9, 2006), was written days before I started my first full-time job as a college grad. This first big job was at a worker's compensation insurance firm in downtown Boston where I basically did two things: I used a letter opener to open about 300 envelopes per day and I spoke to injured Spanish-speaking claimants on the phone. I learned lots of special Spanish words and phrases during my three-month stint at this job, including:

1.) I have shot myself in the leg with a pneumatic nail gun.
2.) Where the f*@% is my money?
3.) Do you have a private investigator checking in on me? Because there's been a guy in a black 1980 Buick parked outside my house for three days with a big camera. And I'm pretty sure he's not a wedding photographer.
4.) I hate you.

With some luck (and a lot of monster.com searches on my laptop during lunch breaks), I was able to find a fantastic job working as a European travel coordinator. And, contrary to the generally sarcastic tone of this entire blog, I will say honestly and sincerely that it was a wonderful experience. In three short years, I collected a heck of a lot of passport stamps, learned more than I could ever have imagined about parts of the world I adore, and (most importantly) met some of the most terrific people around, many of whom I consider very dear friends to this day.

And, best of all, I did learn a lot about how to professionally handle some pretty ridiculous situations. Some of the highlights include:

1.) Answering the "emergency" cell phone on the weekend, and speaking to a hysterical honeymooning bride complain about the "offensive" shade of purple in her seaside hotel room.

2.) Painfully planning, but never actually selling, the intricate and ever-changing 5* vacation of a has-been 80's star. Yes, I'm talking about Rick Springfield. And yes, I still have a very adverse physical reaction when I hear "Jessie's Girl". I have an EPI pen.

3.) Figuring out Daylight Savings Time for the United States, Italy, Spain, Greece and Turkey, all of whom decided to choose different days during the fall to turn their clocks back. This proved especially entertaining when clients missed their flights and called the fabled emergency cell phone in the middle of the night.

Alas, as they say, "all good things come to an end" - for many reasons, it was time to part with my position as Rick Springfield's personal vacation bitch. And, to continue the "dolce vita" of a recently graduated Italian major, I accepted my current position at an Italian food importing company.

There are lots of things I can say about working with tomatoes instead of travelers. Perhaps most interestingly, I have learned a slew of new Italian words: citric acid, palletization, label adhesive. And several phrases as well, such as: "Antonio, why would you increase the sodium in this soup by 300% and fail to mention this to me, you conniving little so-and-so?" It really has been a linguistic adventure.

At this point, I spend a lot of time alone - mostly in my car during my commute (which is bordering on ridiculous), or at my desk (when the phone is quiet and I can't focus on the tomatoes). And since it's not 100% acceptable to carry a portable tape recorder to catch my passing thoughts (think Michael Keaton in Night Shift - I'm serious, YouTube that), I think a blog is a very 2010 way to record these disjointed and non-academic musings. Perhaps some entries will have specific topics, and others will not. Some will be so epically long you'll never finish reading them; others will have as much text as a coupon. The only thing I'm being especially careful about is not making any promises - because going all "Julie and Julia" is what is currently causing the dessert blog to go...sour. Pun (as always) intended.

And with that, I wish all my readers* a wonderful start to the week ahead!

*Footnote: by "all my readers" I really mean my mom and a few internet hackers who will post comments on this blog posing as Nigerian princes in need of my bank account number.

Jury duty: your civic nightmare

I won't pretend I'm the only one of my peers who has fallen victim to the Massachusetts Jury Duty plague that's been going around like a four year cold. So, today, June 9th, when i took my sorry ass to the Suffolk Superior Courthouse, I had a feeling like I was going through some unwanted rite of passage. Yes, many of my friends and classmates have also done the same, so today was my turn. Having already used my one postpone excuse (for studying abroad), there was no more passing Go, no more collecting $200: time to suck it up and be summoned.

I was delightfully reminded of this duty when I received my Juror's Questionnaire paper in the mail this past week. Among the various information fields, there were a couple of disclaimers:
1.) There is no number for you to reach the Jury Commission should you feel unable to perform your civic obligation on your scheduled day. JUST APPEAR. (Read: we don't care if you're puking blood, missing organs, or on Saturn. You get your sorry civilian ass to our courtroom....or else.)
2.) Parking is not provided for you at the courthouse and is extremely limited and obscenely expensive. We suggest public transportation. (Read: we don't know or care how the hell you're going to get here, cause if you bring your piddly car, we're gonna tow your ass and make you pay. Depend on the T, ya lousy bums.)

The day started at 5 AM when my alarm didn't go off and Dad came upstairs to wake me up, with his signature move. This involved grabbing my ankle and shaking me until I showed signs of being awake. My dream of riding on the back of Matthew McConaughey's Vespa throughout Rome suddenly became a nightmare in which the street trembled with an earthquake and I awoke in Cranston, in rainy weather, on jury duty day, without Matthew. I rolled out of bed. Civic obligation my ass. I don't even live in the freaking state of MA.

Making it through the train ride was pretty easy with a fun new book, and after grabbing a little pastry and some much needed coffee in South Station, my day of government duty was looking up. I emerged from the Bowdoin T station with my rain hat, umbrella and a fuzzy map on the summons paper I had received in the mail. I sang the Law and Order song in my head, and strode through the intersection like a flashy lawyer. Then I stepped in a puddle with my flip flops.

I trekked it up Somerset Street, a fairly steep city street, following the ace directions that the Jury Commission provided (a map the size of a stamp which had been printed and re-copied from a 1950's document...the rain drop in the center of it didn't help either). I saw an enormous building that I assumed was the courthouse. Looking for the proper entrance, I glance at the sign over the giant glass doors: "John Adams Courthouse" WTF? I'm not even going to that courthouse....and how the hell many courthouses are even on this street? How can there be THAT many crimes in the state of Massachusetts? Wait, nevermind, I've seen how they drive...point taken. I backtracked down the hill, gingerly stepping around and cursing my idiotic shoe choice until I turned a corner to see some arrows directing jurors. I hadn't seen it from across the street since it was written on a Post-It. Thanks guys. (*thumbs up)

After clearing the metal detectors, I was into the elevator, heading for the second floor. As I emerged at my destination, I was "greeted" by dozens of other happy campers: all eager folks ready to get their civic adventures on. I handed in my questionnaire to three uniformed jury officers and took my seat among the hundred or so people already seated in the swanky juror pool area. Having been told to report at 8 AM sharp, I glanced at the clock. 7:55. Great, I thought, we'll start in five minutes and be out of here by lunch time. 8 came...so did 8:30, 8:45 and 9:00. At 9, a squat, middle aged woman approached the podium. The jurors' already hushed silence became even more hushed. The woman stopped at the podium, looked at the enormous room and took a long blinking pause. We stared back: it was like an awkward date. "Arright." she said, in the craziest Boston accent I ever heard, "We heah at the Suffick Sup-ey-ree-ah Cawt Howse wanna welcome yas tah jury doody." At least her accent was true to the local flavor. She continued the rehearsed speech: that the Court System was happy we were present for our civic obligations and that we were doing a service in keeping America's legal system in the works....which would have been slightly more moving had it not been said in the tone of a busy signal. But I digress. The real treat at the end of the speech was that we got to watch a 17 minute film about our upcoming experience at jury duty. It's funny that when you're in a class, and the person at the podium announces you're about to watch a movie, everybody in the room is thinking the same thing: score. In high school, there's the occasional "Yes!" whispered; in college, people jump up and down and there's an occasional tear of joy. It does not matter if it's a documentary about paint drying: movie= freedom from class, and that always rocks. In this case, my "classmates" were less than thrilled. In fact, there were several slightly audible groans and a bunch of shifting around and loud hissing. Whatever, I thought....at least there's a movie. "Oh yeah...." our fearless leader added as she set up the AV equipment, "this front TV heah's busted....yous guys in da front row bettah move back ah some'in..." The first 8 rows of people hissed louder, and moved back to the other rows just as the feature film got rolling.

Excited 80's synthesizer noises chimed together like the tune from an archaic biology film strip. A large clip art of a scale came to the screen with big yellow letters reading: "Your Day at Jury Duty". The next scene was a judge posing next to the bench. Dressed in her traditional black gowns, she addressed the camera. This is when I lost it. The woman speaking, who I'm sure is an intelligent, morally sound and experienced judge of the law, had a voice like Elmer Fudd. I am not lying: the woman was incapable of saying the letter "r" and instead used "w". This produced a speech that began: "Welcome to yow fiwst day of juwy duty. We at Suffolk Supewiow Cawt want to thank you juwows fow yow sewvice to the cawt system of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.....you cwazy wabbit." I snorted a laugh. Pull it together, girl! Nobody else in the room noticed this ever-more-obvious speech pattern, or at least they were ALL too mature to ignore it, unlike me. I summoned all my powers to hold in the laughter, biting my lip, covering my mouth....I was hopeless. After a few minutes of what I assume consisted of the basic juror information, Elmer turned it over to two lawyers to continue specific explanations about what our day as jurors would be like. Change the scene to a Jane Fonda look alike in an 80's power suit and a portly version of Orville Redenbacher in a tweed jacket.
Jane: "Welcome jurors! Today you are performing an extremely important civic duty! You are helping to keep our legal system intact."
Orville: "That's right! And now, we're going to outline a few procedures and common things you may encounter during your day of service here at jury duty!"
Jane: "Let's start off with who can be called to jury duty. Jurors come from ALL walks of life: doctors, lawyers, teachers, nurses, hairdressers, truck drivers, carpenters, engineers, dental hygenists, cobblers, chefs, florists, ministers, rabbis, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, interior decorators, jewelers, partially unemployed bums living in their mothers' basements, seamstresses and corn farmers. (Jane falls on the ground from lack of oxygen.)
Orville, stepping over Jane: "That's right! Now let's discuss the various types of trials that can be heard: civil and criminal...."
The tape rolled on for another excruciating 16 minutes, outlining different procedures and protocol, complete with extras decked out in some hot styles from 1981. The synthesizer came back on, providing an inspirational soundtrack to our legal adventures to come. Except, instead of being inspired, the lights came on to find a group of half-sleeping, half-sneering and all around disgusted jurors looking around for the next indication of what to do. We glanced around as the original officer approached the podium. "Yous guys can take a break til 10..." A break? From what? I sat in a chair for an hour, watched a 17 minute movie, and now I'm going to mill around a courthouse lobby with a bunch of strangers eating government pastry? No way. I looked around as people scattered around excitedly, as if the officer had signed them all up for adult summer camp and the last one to the bus was a rotten egg.

10:00 comes around...so does 10:30, 10:45, and 11:00. I started thinking that the officer's lecture about our "curfew" was just a bluff: BE BACK HERE AT 10 SHARP. Here we were, reading through the free Metro for the 28th time, and it was 11:00....11:15: she ambles forward, calling those in Panel 1. My panel. I rise and follow my jurors to an 8th floor courtroom. This is when jury duty stopped getting boring and started scaring the shit out of me. It was a murder trial, the defendant of which was sitting five feet away from me, unhandcuffed in his chair. The judge spent the next hour and a half going through excruciatingly long witness lists, questions and procedural stuff, all of which I listened to in between cautious sideways glances to the defendant. Next, all the lawyers, the defendant and his interpreter crowded around the bench, where each juror had to approach the pack and justify their answers to the previous questions. I stepped forward for my turn, joining what resembled the weirdest football huddle I have ever seen: picture a 60 year old judge looking down on three middle aged lawyers, a four and a half foot tall translator and a defendant with a frizzy ponytail. Oh yeah, and me in the middle, whispering my answers because apparently the windows cave in if you speak over a hushed tone. In the end, I was excused for my NOT living in Massachusetts: a revolutionary concept that was my original and only problem with being summoned in the first place.

Though, admittedly, it was a waste of a perfectly good sleeping in day, a waste of $12.50 in transportation fees, and a general nuisance sitting around for the sake of people who can't obey the law, it WAS a good glimpse into what really happens in a trial, and more importantly in a courthouse. My day in the MA jury pool showed me the true skill of a gifted juror: being able to sit in one chair for 6 hours, pretending to enjoy an informative film made before you were born, and reading the same newspaper cover to cover, 87 times.

Victoria's Secret Service

BU Senior Week meant many things, not the least of which included the famous Senior Ball. A night of formalwear, cocktails, swanky hotel ballrooms...and the inevitable fear of panty lines. Thus, the day before the big event, I found myself with Mellie and Heather in the Copley Mall's Victoria's Secret. The excursion was precursured by my past experiences in VS (look at me, using the abbreviation like me and Victoria are old gal pals).

I have a flash back to high school, when Heath and I needed strapless bras for prom gowns. I was 17, had previously only shopped for underwear at Target, but really just needed a G.D. strapless: not a revamped personality or an image change. None-the-less, Heath and I walk our high school selves into the Garden City Vickie's (what? sometimes I call her Vickie...) and ask the black suit-clad sales girl. "Hi, we need some strapless bras, please." She dramatically pulled at the measuring tape draped around her neck and pursed her super glossed lips. "Well ladiessss" she started, hissing her "s" for a full 15 seconds, "how about we jusssst take a trip to the VERY SSSSEXY ssssection?" I looked at Heath, and it was over. We stood in the store and cracked up like a couple of idiots. And I'm pretty sure I wore a Target bra to the prom.

Flash forward: I am a mature, soon to be college grad. I am cosmopolitan, chic, and still the biggest freaking goofball in this hemisphere. So, as I walked into the Boston store, I had a sinking fear that I would repeat my cackle-fest of '02. I walk in, biting my lip and repeating my "be mature" mantra in my head. Of course, as soon as I put my right toenail into the door, there are 3 black suits approaching me to ask if I need help with anything. They move in with incredible speed, especially considering they're all wearing five inch stilettos, and all of them are speaking into their headsets. It is then that I realize: I am in the presence of Victoria's Secret Service. I put on an obviously awkward face as I contemplate the practical necessity of needing a headset to sell people underwear. The first one to reach me is an eager looking brunette. She casually asks if I need help, as if she happened to coincidentally run into me at the front of the store (even though I just witnessed her snap her associate in the face with the strap of an Ipex push up to get to me first). "Hi, yes, I would like a pair of seamless underwear." I say, partially whispering because I'm still embarrassed to talk about underwear, even though there are provocative life sized manequins wearing underwear all around me. She purses her lips and takes off, leading me to a long white table full of panties that are apparently different styles, but look exactly the same to me. She shows me the "seamless" pair and I eye them, knowing damn well my ass is not going to squeeze into them any easier than you can parallel park a Hummer on Comm Ave (blindfolded). I take a few seconds to contemplate the purchase, and look up when I see my tour guide adjust her headset and listen to the latest APB. "Excuse me," she urgently says, a look of panic passing over her face, "just let me know if I can help you-- TARA! PLEASE COME TO THE VERY SEXY SECTION IMMEDIATELY!!" I see the country's terror alert go from magenta to explosive red- this is a serious issue, people. I can't say what actually happened since I could only hear one end of the conversation, but I imagined it was something HUGE: a revolutionary uprising among the thongs, a rebel faction of Very Sexy bras invading the hoisery...I could only think of the worst, and hope that the black suits were on task.

Realizing my own salesperson had to defend Victoria and could not assist me with my growing confusion over what actually constituted a seam, I decided to wander. I weaved in and out of countless tables full of $12 underwear until I realized I was in a new section. New to this store is their cooperation with the Italian lingere line "Intimissimi" and being a language nerd, I decide to check out that half of the store. I am met, appropriately, by a stick think blonde with a European accent. I present Svetlana with my predicament: I am clueless, larger than a size 2 and need seamless underwear for a formal--tomorrow. She briskly walks to a small drawer and pulls out cloth made of bright orange silk. She brandishes what looks like a handkerchief colored to resemble a roadside caution cone. "Ah-K...vell, zis is ze only color ve haaave in ze seamless pah-nties." I blink to adjust my retinas to the glaring color. I decide my dress is dark enough to handle them, but ask her if there is another size. "Ahh...yes...zis is ze European medium...you vill need at least... large?" She yanks a larger, but still equally bright piece of cloth from the drawer. I take my new purchase, reasoning that they can always double as a light source in case we lose power, and make my way to the checkout in the Republic of Victoria section.

As I hand over my last $7, I glance over the store, watching as the black suits patrol the area like worker ants. A feeling of tranquility rushes over me: the uprising in the Very Sexy section has calmed. Peace is restored among the warring thongs and briefs. They realized that they are all just overpriced panties, and that they should unite in their similarities, being both Victoria dwellers. And at least for the moment, there is calm: for this we have the Victoria's Secret Service to thank. Without their black suited, headset-clad, ever-presence, this would be absolute anarchy...allowing people to just independently chose their underwear...I mean, it would be like, well, Target.

Huh?

Puzzling questions that have plagued my mind...or just stuff I find a little weird...

1.) Bubble tea from Lollicup: It looks like Mylanta with marbles in it. I don’t understand the appeal of sipping an ambiguously colored creamy beverage, then BAM! catching a black pebble the size of a chickpea right in the back of your throat. Also puzzling is the straw which is roughly the size of a garden hose…I guess you don’t want to skip a minute of your creamy treat.

2.) Rockettes in Boston? What’s going on with people walking on sidewalks lately? I feel like I’ve been constantly avoiding getting caught in the middle of a troupe of 9 girls walking next to one another. Ladies: kick lines are great in Radio City Music Hall; on Comm Ave, it’s like I’m playing Red Rover.

3.) Keane: Love the band, just not sure why I fall asleep whenever I hear them. It’s like a musical narcotic: two minutes and I’m out. I’m just afraid of hearing them in a store-- I’ll drop to the floor and start snoozing.

4.) Sailboats: I’m just not sure why sailing is such a popular sport. I mean, there isn’t much more of a primitive way to travel on water, short of nailing a bunch of logs together. There are easier ways to go down the Charles that don’t involve goofing around with a triangular bed sheet: namely, a speedboat, a row boat…or a paddle boat.

5.) If there is a bee at a barbeque, a mosquito on a summer night, or an unidentifiable creepy-crawler in the shower, it’s always going to find ME. I’m that wacko at picnics swatting around because while there are a dozen people around, I’m the one that the little buzzing bastard is after. I seem unusually talented in attracting insects…ah yes, as well as uniquely embarrassing situations and mentally unstable individuals on the street…I’m a fun gal.

Speaking of embarrassing situations and bugs...
A few Saturdays ago, I was hosting my little sis for a weekend of fun. We get back to the room late and she wants to take a shower. So, I open the shower curtain to show her how to turn on the water. There on the bottom of the tub is the most gigantic, multi-legged monstrosity I have ever seen. And nobody is home except me and Carolyn...who is spazzing as much as I am. I grab my winter boot and run into the bathroom, attempting to beat the little thing, but I chicken out, irrationally reasoning that it can think fast enough to climb up my arm and into my shirt. I'm flipping out, running around with one boot in a panic. I decide to open the door and see who's around on my floor. Outside my door is an innocent bystander, knocking for the guys across the hall.
Me: "Hi! Umm...I know I don't know you....uh...my name is Lauren." (extends hand)
Innocent bystander, shaking my hand: "Hey, I'm Danny."
Me: "Oh, hi Danny...got a favor to ask."
Danny: "Uh..."
Me: "If I give you this winter boot, can you beat the living shit out of a bug in my bathtub?"
At this point, my neighbor Cho comes out of his room, waiting to greet his friend, who now wants to run for the hills. I re-explain the situation to Cho as Danny watches, waiting to see if Cho has any idea how to handle his psycho neighbor. The boys take the boot and head into the bathroom, and valiantly smash the little shit to bits.
Now that I've embarrassed myself to the point of no return, I continuously run into both fellows all over the building. I try to make light conversation about the bug incident, and they usually laugh....probably simultaneously speed-dialing the Twinkie Truck to pick me up on Bay State.
Alas, in one entertaining little diddy, my uncanny ability to attract bugs and embarrassment is fairly obvious. Danny or Cho, if you're reading this: Thanks a million, again...and sorry I'm such a spazz-a-roni. And also, sorry I didn't create a better damsel in distress situation...it was pretty lame to ask you to smash a bug with a snow boot in a bathtub. Next time I'll try something that involves towers and dragons.

Welcome to the wonderful world of debt.

Thus began my Wednesday morning student loan exit counseling.
I sat with a few dozen other sleepy seniors in a secret auditorium in the back of the GSU, which fittingly had no windows, and one door guarded by a Student Loan Department worker. Sure, she was a 5 foot tall, 50 year old woman in a cardigan...but I imagined she would morph into some sort of Financial Aid Transformer if someone tried leaving. "SIT DOWN and PAY US BACK!" she would holler in a robotic, rage-filled voice, "You belong to us now, you debt incurring minion!" Needless to say, I stayed in my chair.
The first part of the presentation covered the history of the Perkins Loan Program, which I'm really glad I heard. Now, and for the next 109 times I make payments on these loans, I will thank Mr. Perkins, and the BU employee who told me about him. We then received all sorts of deliciously fun information about payments, deferments, cancellations and debt, all of which I tried to compute with the few hours of sleep I had salvaged the night before. What did, and still does, remain clear to me after attending this is the following:
1.) I am in debt. This sounds a lot more romantically tragic in Charles Dickens novels...in 2006 Boston, it's just a sucky feeling and a remarkably bad way to start a Wednesday.
2.) I need a job. Badly...and now. This makes me think of Tuesday night (also the reason I was so tired at this meeting). Tuesday was 50 days til graduation, and because of it, we partied hearty at Avalon. The bunch of us said we'd stay til "12:30, tops." We left at 1:30, after a night of dancin' like fools. At the beginning of the night, almost prophetically, a bass-filled, trance-like song came on, in which a woman's voice repeated the words, "She's homeless." I don't really understand why you'd want to repeat that through an entire song, unless you're going for a whole Zoolander-Derelict thing. Then I realized, holy crap, this is like my anthem. I'm going to be a tri-lingual college graduate, living in a box under a bridge along the Charles and look back to that night and the "She's homeless" song...how art imitates life...well, hopefully not.
3.) The BU student loan department wants to know everything...I mean EVERYTHING...about you. I fully expected to turn a page and see the following:
Blood type:
Favorite color:
Boxers or briefs:
Coke or Pepsi:
How many sugars do you put in your coffee?
Are you a vegetarian?
Who is your favorite Beatle?

I left around 9:45 with a sore hand from filling out these epically long forms, the shocking realization that college life is over, and the opportunity to see the GSU with nobody in the bagel line. Still, it really could have been a lot worse, and while it did snap me into the reality of paying back my college education, I have no regrets. BU has been an amazing ride, and thanks to Mr. Perkins, I've been able to enjoy it a lot.
Oh, and the obvious answer to that last question is Ringo...anybody who picks John, Paul or George is clearly missing the cool factor involved with being a British drummer with a bowl cut.

An evening at the THEATER!

With the close of the final scene of Phantom of the Opera, though moved to clap for the rousing musical finale, I turned around to my mom and said, "I don't get it."
I'm not totally sure why, but I was seriously confused at the end, and I started flipping through my program (wishing I hadn't used part of it for gum disposal) looking for an explanation. Christine is kissing all sorts of dudes, singing in between and managing to jump around in a corseted dress with a train the size of a midsized sedan. I just didn't understand who she was supposed to end up with: Raul, the handsome chap-- who tended to overdo it on the high notes (making me wonder if Christine realized the implications of dating a guy who can sing as high as she can) OR the Phantom, the disfigured fella with the face mask and all the drama. Tough choice for poor Chris, but what's a gal to do? I gotta say though, if I dated a guy named "the Phantom" I'd be pretty excited to bring him around the family barbecues: "Aunt Kathy, I'd like you to meet my new boyfriend, the Phantom....Phantom, this is my Aunt Ka--Phantom?? Where are you? STOP disappearing like this!" I would turn and my partially masked beau would be lurking on the pool shed roof, trying to sack one of my relatives with the skimmer. Hmm...maybe dating "the Phantom" isn't worth the dramatic introductions after all...
But really, I had some problems processing the end of the play. This could be for a number of reasons. First, I was in a seat that is more properly fitting for an Oompa Loompa. That is, if you're over 4' 5'', your knees were pushed against the seat in front of you. It's times like these I wish I were a yoga master, and could have just thrown my ankles behind my head and chilled out for 2 and a half hours. But alas, my interests lie more in the competitive snacking arena, and the yoga mastery was never meant to be.
Another reason I didn't quite get it could be due to my theatrical family history:
Dad: In the car ride home, Dad asks, "Hey, when was the half-time?" Us: "Dad, it's called intermission."
Mom: From our view in the extreme nosebleed section: "Wow girls, I just love it up here! This is our very own VIP suite!"
And so, though ending with a bit of temporary confusion (Mom and the girls clarified in the car) my evening at the theater (said in a British accent) was an all around fun time! It was fun to get snazzy and a little dressy (OK, fine the clothes weren't mine...they were Carolyn's) and spend some time with the sisters and Mom. Also making this evening all the more classier were the ziploc bags of jelly beans I brought along...cause no trip to the theater is complete without a sugary treat! Then again, what do I know? I didn't even get the ending...

2006...What? I have to be an adult?

Wow...I can’t believe I ever cursed the college life.

Well, there WAS one Saturday when that Italian paper was due. It was December, during study period, I waited until the last minute to finish my final paper, and it got so bad that the professor said, “Lauren, bring it to my house before 4PM on Saturday, and you’re clear.” I winked, gave her a nudge and said, “Thanks, doll” (insert mutual chuckle) We toasted with our Pinot Grigio and shared some laughs about the good ol’ times in class. Just kidding...I kissed her feet and ran out of her office before she changed her mind, or realized what type of major extension she had given me.
Even with the extension, there I was, Saturday morning. Jumped in the shower to “refresh” before tackling the job of finishing up...it turned out to be more refreshing when the shower water came out freezing cold. I figured, I’d have hours to take a shower before heading home later in the day. I also figured I’d have time to grab something to eat. Neither happened: 3:30 comes and I’m running to the Kenmore station and catching a train to Brookline to sprint to the professor’s mailbox. When I collapsed in the seat on the train, I reviewed my personal hygiene regimen that day: wake up, throw on jeans from Friday, and brush teeth. Look at the cold water running in the shower, turn off shower and plop it at the desk. Write about Carlo Levi until 3:30, put hair into ponytail and grab four quarters on the way to Kenmore.
I caught a reflection of myself in the window of the T as it emerged above ground on Beacon Street. My look was what we’ll call 5th grade retro: ponytail with a halo of frizz in the front and crooked glasses. People outside waiting to board my car scurried forward to get on the other car.
So, maybe I did curse college living once or twice....
But seriously, the concept of becoming an adult is one that lately has made me want to go back to kindergarten. Ride a school bus with Heath, wear saddle shoes, bring a snack to school in a My Little Pony lunch box, color for a few hours, and head home. I miss the good ol’ days where all I had to worry about was whether to play hopscotch or jump rope, or when I was going to lose a tooth. I thought about the tooth fairy the other day...it’s a shame we don’t lose teeth in our twenties—I could really use those quarters for the T.
I suppose the whole realization of becoming an adult was reinforced when I received an email about the 100 days to graduation party. 100 days? That’s not much, especially when you have a dentist appointment and seven doctors to go to before you’re off your dad’s insurance. That reminds me I should go see a podiatrist, a chiropractor and a shaman...just in case. I wonder if Blue Cross covers medicine men....
Anyway, Sparks and I decide that the 100 days bash sounds like a good time. Have a few drinks, dance a bit and see some old faces from all four years at BU. We got snazzed up in our best Thursday duds (that means I had to borrow a “club-ish” shirt from my YOUNGER sister to pass as a hip soon-to-be college grad). I threw the shirt on, tried to invent some cleavage, and applied some make up (taking the lesson also given to me from my younger sister, who has informed me that chapstick is not appropriate evening makeup).
We got to the Big Easy, got in line with our fellow seniors and waited to get into the club. I looked around. This was the moment where I wanted to run into the folks I’ve met along my college career. Give hugs, remember the good times in Warren, goof on a few professors. Alas, it was not the red carpet moment I was looking for. Not only did I know hardly anyone, but it seemed like everybody else was making connections all around me. I felt like I was an audience member on a reunion Ricki Lake show: “I haven’t seen my momma for 35 years and I want to surprise her on a UPN daytime sleaze show....PS I am also sleeping with my best friend’s boyfriend and we might throw a paternity test in there for good measure.”
In any case, we went into the club, reunited with some old gal pals and got a few drinks. I was also careful to stop by the snack table and score some cheese...cause what better to celebrate your impending graduation than with a cube of sharp cheddar?
I looked over the dance floor from my spot on the second floor balcony and made a discovery. I am graduating with a bunch of hoochies. I know- it sounds awful, but it’s true. The thing is, this isn’t your average sleazy girl. No no...this is college, so naturally it’s got to have a twist. In this case, the twist was that all the really slutty girls were all decked out in what appeared to be tube tops made out of burlap and hemp. What I mean is, they sort of combined the whole “I’m easy” look with the “I recycle” look and came out with this warped and unappealing Mother Earth gets down and dirty thing. It’s like, they’re the girls you see on the street corner....but they’re workin’ it in front of Whole Foods.
In any case, the night was a pretty good time, I managed to keep my sister’s shirt clean and was able to get up for Roman Civ at 9AM.
Ahh...classes. Where to begin?
I guess my most amusing class would be Roman Civilization. First off, this is my first class in a long time that’s in English and has more than 9 people in it ...AND has more than 2 guys in the class (I don’t know what it is about Italian Renaissance Literature that doesn’t draw the guys in...) First off, it meets at 9 in the morning, which makes things interesting to get from Kenmore to the GCB on a few hours of senioritis sleep. Never the less, Sparks and I usually manage to arrive just as our esteemed professor is arriving. I can’t say I dislike our professor...in fact, I have to say I admire her passion for classical studies...I can also envy this passion, especially because I am starting to lose interest in analyzing what an inscription on a pottery shard means in terms of Roman civil code. Yeah, that never actually was a part of class...I just haven’t done much reading and made that up...
Maybe part of the reason I don’t really do much reading (besides my supreme ability to slack with the best of them) is because I’ve been applying for a few jobs. This means, making a resume, a daunting task for any first-timer, especially people like me, who I will refer to as “concise-challenged” AKA, a chatterbox who has never been able to keep it to 250 words or less. With this problem, as well as being new to the world of resume writing, I started wondering what to put on this resume. I got to thinking, wouldn’t it be great to make a resume of yourself that was non-work related? Instead of writing professional qualities, education and past employment, you could just write the fun stuff?
Following is one such resume, for yours truly:
Objective: to obtain a position as a tri-lingual slacker/ice-cream taste tester, preferably in Rome. Desired salary is 1,000,000 US dollars per year, but will settle for less if you throw in a pink Vespa.
Qualifications:
Personal Qualities: This candidate is goofy, laughs easily and often overdoes it. Can be organized, but not in her sock drawer, so don’t go looking there. Or her closet, or under her bed...or in her desk drawers. Better to not ask at all...
She also does an excellent impression of the North American beaver, as well as a spitting good one of the 39th president of the United States, Jimmy Carter, complete with patriotic dance. (Live demonstrations are available upon request).

Relevant course work:
DA 170: Beginning Tap: This course gave me a great background in the all-important “shuffle-step,” and I am now able to bust an organized tap move on command.

PE 142: Epee Fencing: This course will be of particular interest to you if you are a nerd with an Anime obsession/anger problem and wish to apply those skills in a painful sport, complete with small circular bruises on your right leg. For me, it helped me eliminate one thing off the “What I want to do with my life” list: professional fencer. Thus, I was able to see my true calling as a gelato taste tester.

CS 103: Computer Science: This course really helped me with....wait, this course was a total waste of time....nevermind.

Additional skills:
Excellent at making banana bread and pumpkin squares: I would be a hit in the break room.
I’m particularly skilled in the macarena, and the electric slide. I also come from a long family line of expert chicken dancers.
I can recite all the lines to PeeWee’s Big Adventure, the definitive cinematic classic of our generation.

Conclusion:
In conclusion, I am an excellent asset to any company, and I am sure my slacker skills and discerning palette for ice cream will make me your ideal employee.
Thank you for your time and consideration.

To my blog readers: leave your thoughts for any additions to this stellar resume. I’ll definitely take them into consideration! Well, for now, that’s what is going on with me. Any senior can tell you that this last semester is nerve-wracking and full of questions...maybe the best we can do is to goof on the whole thing, and dance around like a beaver doing the electric slide. (Boogie woogie woogie!)