Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Name of the day: Briella Krueger. It's been a while since I've posted a name. This name makes me think of Cruella Deville, and I really wish that mothers would take a step back and really think hard about the possible teasing their child is going to receive because they picked a horrendously ugly name to go with an equally ugly last name. Someone didn't really want this name posted, but guess what. I. DON'T. CARE.

Dear mothers of the world,

Please refrain from naming your children while still under the influence of birthing drugs.

Karinka Y. Dink

My body didn't have as strong an urge "to make babies" with every guy in my chemistry class today as it did yesterday...probably because I didn't have chemistry today (Don't worry. I have nice, normal, classic names chosen for the babies made with chemistry boys 1-3). I had my aerobics class which has no men in it, and I had my microbiology class which does have men. But since I sit on the front row in that class, I don't see the men, except for my professor. I thought about my professor today, but not to the extent that I thought of chemistry boys 1-3 yesterday because that would be gross in more ways than one.

Monday, September 27, 2004

Kink was a little horndog today. It all started when I walked into the the room where I have my chemistry lecture. This hot guy who sits diagonally from me (so I can look at his butt all class long) was lying on the floor with his feet propped up in a chair. So when I sat down in my chair, I had a full-on view of his butt and area and his belly because his shirt was up. I can't even describe how hard I was checking him out. All I know is that at some point, in my peripheral vision, I saw two eyes looking back at me. He had busted me so hard. He was smiling, and I just blushed and texted some friends. I was so embarrassed, but did that stop me? NO! It didn't. I complimented him on his choice of jeans, and I KEPT ON STARIN'! All class long. I wanted to see underneath the jeans because I bet he has a pair of great legs. I shiver thinking about it.

The best thing about chemistry is that he's not the only one I check out. That class is full of eye candy. There is a guy who sits right in front of me. He's a freshman, for crying out loud, and you know what? I don't even care because he's hot. He's also in my chemistry lab, and this afternoon at lab, I was walking behind him, when he stopped suddenly to make me bump into him. I had to touch him. I had to. And then I gave an impromptu shoulder rub for a few seconds. They felt good.

And in lecture, down the row from guy #2 is guy #3. He is also a freshman. He is beautiful. He has black hair, tanned skin, the perfect nose, and totally desirable lips. I'm so lucky to be surrounded by beautiful men. Now if only they could be mine! All would be right in the world.

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Over at the Chubby Girl Brigade website there is a sort of contest going on. Sometimes I ask y'all to do stuff for me, like post on my map over there, and y'all don't do it, but I need you to do something for me. Click on the link, and post a comment saying "karinka at 'from the hip' sent me." Whoever sends the most readers wins a t-shirt. Please do this for me. I need more clothes.

I realise that every so often everyone makes speaking mistakes; our tongues get tied, we have bad grammar, we don't tawk good, we're George W., whatever. Sometimes people make huge mistakes that are forever recorded on tape or a hard drive somewhere, and it's those times when I'm glad someone else is making the mistake.

Tonight on the news we had a great, beautiful, glorious mistake made. The story was about a 40-year-old dorm building on campus that was imploded earlier this morning. Our university is trying to enter this kindergarten-aged millenium (depending on when the millenium started for you) by updating buildings, constructing more lavish dormitories, and basically making the campus easier to look at. After explaining the manner in which the old building was taken down, the reporter concluded the bit by saying, "This endeavor is all part of a $70 million beatification project." That's right...beatification. Apparently beatification can be bought for a cool $70 million these days. What comes after beatification? If OUR football team wins a game this year, is that the miracle that would put us on the path to sainthood? How much does that go for, I wonder? Would ULM get it's own saint candle? Would it talk with God? Who would do the talking? Put me down for 3 of those candles. I'll make a shrine and pray we win a game.

Saturday, September 25, 2004

For the people who bought a Crest Spinbrush Pro on my recommendation, I need to tell you something that I didn't say when I first posted about it. Well, I'll let this little story tell you:

GPCreamypuff: oh, by the way, here's a funny story
GPCreamypuff: I was using my Crest Spin Brush yesterday and the batteries died
GPCreamypuff: and my first thought was "KARINKA DIDN"T TELL ME THE BATTERIES WOULD DIE"
GPCreamypuff: and my second thought was "I"M AN IDIOT"

So there you go. The batteries eventually run out of power. FYI.

Friday, September 24, 2004

Finally, after a year or so of shameless flirting, I have gotten my own trading card over at Llew's place. I think it is so funny. I really do need to get another picture over to her because that African glamour shot isn't doing a whole lot for me. It's so far away. I'm like, "Am I the hut or the tree? Oh, that red speck is my shirt. I must be by that bit of red."

Wednesday, we had a lunch/office meeting where we took Dianne and Paula out in public. It was horrible. I'm not even going to take the time to discribe all of the bitching, moaning, and complaining they did throughout the entire lunch. It mostly has to do with tea and hamburgers. Anyway, so we were discussing office business. Before I went to the lunch, I was at my parents' house, and my mom told me to tell the sisters that they ARE NOT TO PHONE THE HOUSE at 8:02 and 8:05 in the morning if my dad isn't there at 8:00. So I brought that up. I said, "My mom is sleeping, and my dad knows when he's supposed to be there. You calling her is pointless because a) she doesn't know if he's gone, b) she's not going to get out of bed to check, c) she's not going to pick up the phone anyway, and d) she's going to start deducting from your bonus everytime you call within minutes of 8:00. Just don't do it. I know you're going to be itching to pick up the phone and call, but resist or you'll have a smaller bonus." It gave me great pleasure to make these statements.

After I finished saying that, Paula started, "Well..." I stopped her by saying, "Just don't. It's that easy. Just don't do it." That pleased me, too.

I went to the office this morning after class to wish Connie and Jamie (I quit that fake name crap) a happy and fun weekend. Those two are to me what Caroline and George are to Donald Trump on "The Apprentice": my eyes and ears. Jamie told me that yesterday after lunch, my mom called the office wanting to talk to DD. Paula went back to tell her my mom was on the line, and Dianne said, "I can't pick up the phone right now. It's 2:02. I'll call her back when I can." Jamie said she then got up from her desk and went into her bathroom.

That just makes me laugh so hard. I told my mom about it and then I told her that I'm writing a letter to Dianne to tell her exactly how I feel about her. My mom is leary. She says, "It's better to be kind than right." I said, "I've been kind long enough. I'm gonna make that bitch's eyes burn." I would love to tell her to her face what I think, but I don't want to forget anything and I don't want to swear. I at least want to be better than her in that respect. I want to write out a well thought-out letter with all of the points I want to bring up. Then I'm going to mail it to her. Then I'm going to post it here. Then I'm going to email it to a couple of other people. And everyone who reads it, except for Dianne can laugh with me. I don't know when I'll do this, though. My mom will probably tell my dad that I'm writing a letter. He will probably ask me not to do it. And that's when leverage will come in. I'm going to tell my dad that if he doesn't tell her to 1) mind her own business, 2) stop talking badly about my family, 3) cut out her superiority complex, 4) quit telling all of Monroe who makes how much, 5) treating Connie, Jamie, AND Paula like dogs, 6) treating all patients like thieving retards, 7) do her job during office hours and side-projects on her own time, 8) stop bullying anybody she encounters, especially in the office, 9) act civilised when we go out together as an office, 10) stop burping and coughing in people's faces, 11) get some meds or psychological therapy for that damned hacking cough, 12) take a course on basic etiquette, 13) I can go on all day, I WILL write and send a letter telling her that she needs to do them. She disgusts me in every way, and she angers me. I'm a tense person when it comes to that woman. God, I can't stand her!

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Last night in microbiology, some girl all but yelled, "I have no tact," when she was commenting on certain principles that the professor was discussing. The professor was teaching about glycolysis, the Krebs cycle, and the Electron Transport Chain, and as an FYI sort of thing he told us that during these cycles, prokaryotes (cells without a nucleus) produce 38 units of ATP (energy) while eukaryotes (cells with a nucleus) only produce 36. He said, "For our purposes, you don't need to know why that is." This is where tactless chimed in, "Dr. F taught us that in 120 (introductory biology)." He was impressed that she, Dr. F, would teach such a thing in 120, but then she's a different kind of biologist than he. He carried on with the lecture, but still stunned, I guess, that she taught this thing, he said, "Wow! I still can't believe she teaches that." And tactless proclaimed, "Yeah, her class was harder than this one."

Holy crap! You don't just say that to the professor in front of everybody like that! Where did this girl learn her manners? She is obviously not from these parts because we know better than that. Our professor laughed it off, but I know he went home and sucked his thumb. I guess I ought to buckle my seatbelt because if I were the professor, I'd really turn up the heat in that class. Who does she think she is?! I hope she doesn't make a great grade on the next exam.

I don't think I've commented on this guy before, but I'll call him Frat Loser because he's almost always buzzed when he comes to class (This is not the former crush, by the way.), he's always talking about the previous night's party, and he looks dirty, greasy, and scruffy. He came to class this morning bragging about the fact that he was in the library for a whole hour last night. "Dude, I was in the library for a whole hour last night! I didn't open a book or nothin', but I was there! Progress! Then I left and went to watch championship poker."

"Hey, dude! You're going to fail. Go take a shower."

Friday, September 17, 2004

Whatever happened to grocery baggers who knew what they were doing? I remember when they knew how to "build walls" with the groceries in the bags; when they knew that the cold stuff gets bagged together unless that cold stuff is raw meat; when bread and chips got their own bag so they wouldn't be crushed by things like cat litter; when heavy bags were double-bagged to prevent the bag tearing, thus keeping the contents from catastrophic kitchen calamity; when baggers were high school students with whiteheads, glasses, and greasy hair, but boy did they have manners. But those were then, however long ago that was. The years escape me, like a drunken hillbilly from a "Cops" camera crew.

Today's bagger is just that: a bagger. That's their job: bagging. They put stuff in bags indiscriminately. The put my lettuce in with the roast that was poorly wrapped to begin with. I got blood on my hands when picking it out, so I had to buy sani-wipes because I was so grossed out that I had to run to that aisle and bust open a package of wipes. My frozen peas were in with the canned catfood, which was with the laundry detergent. The flour, sugar, powdered sugar, oil, and baking soda were bagged together, which seems smart, but do you know how heavy that bag was? In one plastic bag? That tore? And almost caused the aforementioned catastrophic kitchen calamity?

I need to give the bagger credit where it's due. He put my bread in the same bag with the marshmallows...that he proceeded to heave ONTO the cart rail like it was a bag of flour. So the bread was destroyed after I had carefully chosen the freshest loaf and laid it gingerly on top of other soft, flat stuff in my cart. He just threw it back on there like he was throwing back a small fish. It made me angry. I glared at him and told him, "Okay, now go to the bread aisle and find another loaf that is good until September 25 or thereafter that hasn't been squashed, and bring it back here carrying it as though you are carrying food on a platinum platter to go serve dinner to God."

The full-service gas station is another institution that disappoints me now. I only visit a full-service station now because I was going to fill up my g-ma's card, and the only gas card she has is for Fina. The only Fina I know of is full-service. If someone is going to pay and extra 10 cents per gallon to have someone fill up their car, that someone should expect a clean windshield and an oil check. These are just normal full-service things. It's also how full-service gas stations that don't have quicky-marts make money. You check oil, and "Ma'am, you are about a quart low on oil. Would you like me to top that off?" "These windshield wipers are tearing. Would you like me to replace them for you?" The same questions could be asked about any fluid that should be checked by a full-service station.

I don't like to think of myself as old-fashioned mostly because it contains the word, "old", but I am a little old-fashioned. I know that jobs like grocery bagger and full-service grease monkey aren't the most prominent jobs to hold, but they are jobs. They provide an income, which affords a life. But more importantly, it should encourage self-respect, it should teach respect for others, it should promote pleasure and positivity. But because these jobs are "crappy", the people holding them have a crappy attitude. They definitely aren't bettering their job or their position. They are prohibiting themselves from getting promotions or recommendations. The 30-something husband and father who was bagging my groceries is a bagger because he has a dumpy attitude.

I could go on about fastfood employees, but we all know about that.

I love saying "catastrophic kitchen calamity!" CATASTROPHIC KITCHEN CALAMITY!!! HA!

The end of the affair has arrived. I no longer have to worry about what I'm going to say to the crush when he makes small talk. I'm SO over him. I have a very low tolerance for drunk people. They are obnoxious and irresponsible. I mean, I don't care if you drink on your own time holed up in your house or a bar. Just don't drink or be drunk in front of me, unless I'm over at your house. By all means...I am a guest. Drink until you explode if you want to. Whatever.

Anyway, the crush... We had a test in calculus today, on which I got 100%, and he came rumbling into class with a goofy grin on his face. I admit, it was a cute one. But it wasn't just a goofy grin that he came with. The grin was dragging an alcohol soaked body with it. He smelled so bad. My infatuation was over within a split second of him walking into class. All of my nervousness was gone. The thing that made me mad was that some of the other guys in there were laughing and saying stuff like, "Right on!" and "Dude, you the man!" I think public drunkeness should be looked on scornfully, but the people in class were all but buying the man his next drink. Ugh!

Monday, September 13, 2004

Good grief! I'm in one of the computer labs on campus right now surrounded by a bunch of hoes, bitches, and hoochies. (Three of the differences between here and BYU: hoes, bitches, and hoochies.) I don't even know why some people get dressed at all.

When I was in Senegal last year, the study group I was with consisted of all white people except for my girl, Yoyo. A bunch of us wanted to have boubous (what the people over there wear) made for us. Usually the women wear these scarves that they wrap around their head like their head is a present or a cake or something. These scarves are called "foulards". Well, we learned really quickly that white people looked stupid in foulards. Which story brings me to my current observance here in the computer lab. White people shouldn't wear cornrows. Who does this white boy think he is?

I felt like such an idiot this morning. I have a crush in my math class, and after class he started making small talk with me. I didn't know what to do. I started freaking out inside. "Oh my god! He's talking to me! I don't know what to do. Must. study. chemistry." I bolted. I'm a dork, I know. I still have plenty of time to work out my neuroses, I guess.

I learned a new word the other day. "Crunk". This guy and this girl were talking about a frat party, and he asked, "Did it get crunk?" She said, "Not while I was there, but it got crunk later on." I guess it's sort of like "crazy" or "wild".

There was something else that I was going to write about, but I don't remember what it was. Hmm...

Saturday, September 11, 2004

Three years ago today, I was sitting in the BYU library early in the morning reading about death and destruction and shattering glass and fire in "Notre Dame de Paris" only to find out minutes later that death and destruction and shattering glass and fire were really happening at the other end of the country.

I was reminded of a funny story this morning.

One year while at BYU, my calling in my church congregation was that of "Relief Society teacher". (For those not in the know, all LDS women belong to the Relief Society, which is also one of the classes most women go to on Sundays if those women don't work with the little children or teens. It's sort of like another Sunday School class, except the lessons for this class don't come straight from the scriptures. They're usually topical lessons.) One Saturday night, a friend of mine, Janessa, was coming to Provo for the rest of the weekend. We congregated over at her brother's mother-in-law's house, a usual hang-out for me, with Rikki (daughter of Joanne, the mother-in-law). We were playing some game and eating Reese's pieces, and at some point Reese's pieces became airborn in a childish war. Joanne was in on the war, as well.

The next morning Janessa and Rikki showed up for my lesson, and they brought a Reese's piece and offered it as good luck. So I ate it, and they laughed. I asked them what was so funny, and Rikki said that her mom had found it earlier that morning in her bellybutton. I was a) grossed out and b) laughing the whole way through my lesson. I love that story.

Friday, September 10, 2004

I forgot to add that when the stupid S.I. entered the room last night, and there were 10 of us in there, he grunted "Hrrumph!" her-umf! Do people really say that? Anyway, I knew the session was going to go south when he said "Hrrumph!"

Thursday, September 09, 2004

I have a chemistry test tomorrow, and I had a question about one of the review problems. We have a "supplemental instructor" (teaching assistant), who holds several review sessions during the week, and tonight was one of them. I figured I'd go there to get the answer to my question. I found out that the S.I., Jesse, is a moron, and I really want to know how he got the job. I wrote an email to our professor to complain. Our professor likes to be called "Rick".

Hello, Rick.

I’m going to try to be polite about this. Don’t stress; my concern is not about you but about the new S.I., Jesse. He’s not a good instructor. I went to the S.I. session on Thursday evening with a question like (about) 10 other students. All I wanted him to do was help me clear up where I had gone wrong on question 1.74c, and I made it clear that all of my information before some point in part c was correct. However, he wanted to “instruct”, so he decided to go through the entire problem. Now the problems I have are as follows:

I. It took him 40 minutes to do the whole problem.
A. He told several unnecessary and lengthy “anecdotes”.
1. He recently took the MCAT and blah, blah, blah…
2. His calculator has such and such button that zzzzz…
3. “One time I had this professor who yada, yada, I love talking…”
B. His explanations were confusing, so we were the ones telling him how to do the problem.
II. He teaches us like we’ve never heard of chemistry before.
A. My question wasn’t “How do you do this problem?” but “I’ve made a mistake in some
part of part c. Will you help me find it?”
B. We had already heard the “write down all units; it’s very important” lecture. Writing
down units wasn’t the problem.
III. He needs to familiarize himself with the textbook so he knows how to instruct us on our level. We haven’t taken nuclear chemistry, so we don’t care whether or not the proton number ever changes. It’s not our concern at this level. Also, our book tells us in several places that certain conversion factors are exact, but he wanted to tell us that 1 inch really isn’t exactly 2.54 centimeters. I had to tell him, “That may be, but our book and Rick say it’s exact, so please don’t confuse us.”

IV. He likes to look at the board more than at the class. I find that off-putting and self-centered. He needs to open up.

Another student in the group gave me a tip about 1.74c that took all of 10 seconds to say, and my problem was solved. I think that our S.I. session would have been more productive without Jesse. At least one person always had the right solution and procedure to whatever question.

So, to summarize, Jesse is no good and no one cares that he just took the MCAT or that his calculator has special powers. Where did "Gordy" go?

Thank you for reading!
Jesse is what some would call a dork. I see him at least 4 days a week, and he's always wearing the same dingy blue shirt and blue jogging pants. These are not Adidas warmups. They are lounge-around-the-house-in-my-Wal-Mart-sweats sweats. He's fancies himself a chem guru, but he proved tonight that he's anything but. He's a poser, but no one has told him that yet. He's also in his upper 30s.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Happiness is discovering that there is a Chick-fil-A on campus. I don't ever have to leave campus again.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Well, I was thinking that today was going to be a great day until I decided to run by the Financial Aid office to find out why I hadn't yet been awarded my pell grant. It turns out that this time in between meeting with the f. a. (financial aid, not fat ass) counselor and now, I was termed "pell ineligible". I guess that if you already have a bachelors degree that was paid for with your own money, the government will not give you its money to further your education. I think that is a shload of hooey, but I guess that's the way it goes. I am disheartened. I was so excited that I was getting this grant and relieving myself of the stress that comes with asking dad if I can have c. $2000 for a semester of school. Now I have this new stress: do I get a student loan, or do I ask dad for c. $2000 for each semester of school? I called my mom and told her the crappy news, and she said to talk to my dad and that I shouldn't under any circumstances take out a student loan. I really hate this position I'm in now. Oh well. I'll figure it out.

On to funnier news...

Last week in the newspaper was a funny/sick/disturbing story of a man and his sister's pig. This poor pig's name is P-pie. Isn't that sweet? Austin Gullette of the hick city in the Twin Cities thought it was sweet...really sweet...almost beautiful...like men think women are beautiful...and they get turned on by women...and then nature takes its course... But P-pie is not a beautiful woman, and Austin should not have been turned on by not-a-woman. Austin was busted by his sister committing "a crime against nature" with her beloved pet, P-pie.

That. is. disgusting! And by the way, Hickville is NOT the same city as Haughty City. We are called "the twin cities", but I really think it's more like we were two brand new cities born at the same time, but it was to different parents. We're not even cousins, you see, because we just don't grease up to pork pigs (HA! not so clever...) around Haughty City. We shoot pigs. We shoot people. We loot. We beat each other up. We go gangster all up in this place, but we do not "love" pigs...or any animal, for that matter. West Monroe is inhabited by red-necked pigmolesters...except if that person is Muffy or Prudence. They are okay. They just live there to promote balance. Ursula and Pushy live over there, too, but they "love" pigs and dogs.

I apologize for the offensive language. I didn't make this shirt up, but I just think that it is apropos. And this was the shirt of the week the same week as the Austin/P-pie affair. Also, this t-shirt in no way reflects my politcal convictions. You don't have to love pigs to vote for Bush, although, some would argue that if you were a pig-lover, then you'd obviously have an excuse voting for him due to your insanity. That's what some would argue.