2500 lbs of Hustle

Alright I know it's been awhile. It's finals time and I actually hope to do well, whether this will happen or not, is up in the air. Oh well.

Recent announcements have made my life brighter, however. I know, I know let's go down the list of what it is not:
- I have found a boyfriend
- I have gotten a big time job
-I have done something other than work part-time selling relishes and fruit, researching, writing, hating my current hairstyle and reading Perez.

I did however, see the ad for the new American Galdiators. I am sure you all know about this wonderful show that aired in the late 80's into the 90's. As a child confused about my own gender (obviously) and with an inappropriate definiton of "entertainment". I watched athlete after average joe get beaten by the pinnacle of physical fitness in such games as "Get the Ball in the tumbler thing" and "Try not and get hit by a tennis ball that is shot out of this very small cannon". I can't wait to see how the show improves, I am not sure it can.

One of my favorite Gladiators was a guy named "Malibu". While other gladiators were strong and brutish, apparently Malibu's only talent was his superhuman California accent. He was wounded in one episode and was knocked off a column of some sort. He soon got back to the Champion Stadium enough to fight once more. Genius.
While watching these promos for the new show, somthing stirred within me and I was inspired yet again by these people with muscles and nothing better to do. I am going to forget my career as a teacher and become an American Gladiator.

Cloris Leachman ain't got shit on me.

I try to be hip. There are times where the 10 year old Mallory shines because she is so proud of her 22 year old metropolitan counterpart who frequents cafes and has a Latin boyfriend (note: I am still working on this). There are times though, that I feel my 63 year old counterpart is taking hold and I am not liking the results. There are things in this life that one must hold true and one of these things is identity. I often do things that feel cool without questioning them and then after abotu 10 minutes there is a bit of heavy guilt where I ask myself "Now's the time to figure out exactly what I would do with an Elvis statue complete with 5 foot phallace. This Christmas my parents are going to get a face full of Pelvis." As of late, these decisions have followed a frightening pattern.

I was visiting the mall with my family yesterday and I noticed an odd new trend. Apparently it's really awesome to wear clothing that is not weather appropriate. My hometown is in the snowbelt region of New York (Remember last year when the central part of the state had so much snow the Governor called a state of emergency? Thats the place!) and I first saw a girl enter the mall with a long sleeve shirt and Adidas sandals! At least her friend was wearing socks with them. It got worse as I entered. I saw a girl in flip flops. T-shirts were everywhere. Then the advent of the end: A girl with capris, a t-shirt and sandals; I mean sweet sassy molassy! It was 26 degrees outside. I was wearing jeans, a long sleeve shirt and a sweater, in addition to the fleece jacket, hat and scarf I had on. Also ragwool socks because my feet get cold and I am a lumberjack. As I was complaining, I happened to mention the phrase "kids these days..." totally legitimately, I was not using this phraseology to be ironic. It does not end there.

I was perusing the goods at H&M and I made a purchase that I thought would make my sweaters and hats cuter. I bought a broach. It has sparkly things and I attached to my lavendar hat, which also makes me look like an old woman. Thank You. My parents are not kind about it, my father tried to order me a prune juice at the resturaunt yesterday.

So I need to stop this, I think. I mean being sensible is cool, but I have feeling that I am going to get Depends for Christmas.

An Open Letter to the girl in my Poetics Class

Dear Girl in my Poetics Class,

You are smart. I get it. You are from Korea and have a great grasp on the English language and you know more than I do. Undoubtedly. Your academic prowess is far more advanced and the doctorate program you are a part of far dwarfs my tiny masters program with only 30 graduate credits. Honestly this is my first graduate English course.

However, I would be greatly obliged if you would stop citing Lacan. We all love him; swear to God, or whatever psychological propping device Jacques would have us use. I know he might seem like a good figure, all knowledgeable and such, but just leave it. I actually don't care what he says anymore, Lacan is LaWorst; and I don't ever use that word.

I am sure we can get by this small roadblock, you have done so well already. I think you can overcome this, much like Lacan helped thousands get over whatever notable thing that Lacan helped with. I don't know.

Sincerley,

Mallory

Meta-blogging

So as a result of having a blog several things have come to my attention.

The first is that yoiu can't tell people that you have one. Here's an example of a conversation that will occur.

Blogger: So I started writing in a blog.
Friend: Really?
Blogger: Yes
Friend:.....
---end----
Awkward silence then ensues for several minutes until Rip Taylor sprays a confetti gun in your face.

Here's another great conversation:
Blogger: So I started writing in a blog
Mom/Dad: Oh really?
Blogger: Yes, do you want to read it?
Mom/Dad: (After reading) So is it supposed to be funny or are you sad? Did I raise a socially disfunctional child?
---end---
Awkward Silence until Rip Taylor enters and conducts a family therapy session.

And yet one more conversation:
Blogger: So I started writing in a blog
Rip Taylor: One time Mickey Rooney and I rode a circus pony through Idaho! On a Rainbow!
---end---
Awkward Silence ensues until my mother shows up and sprays in the face with confetti

So there apparently no way to let your friends and family know that you write; because what you are saying is really: "I am HIIIILARIOUS" and things that happen to me are equivalent to an episode of "Laugh-In"

While I have considered hiring Joanne Worley to hang out with me all the time and laugh with me when these things happen, I know that that bitch is a D-I-V-A. So my solution is to record them and then adorn my body with flowers and a bikini and dance.

My addiction

I don't have many vices. I don't smoke. I don't drink (everyday). I don't hit the sticky icky and I am relatively man trouble free. There is only one thing, aside from the occasional cheesecake that gets me. I consider myself generally an intelligent woman, with a career on the rise, kind of like a Capital Area "That Girl", except that I am not her at all. Whatever.

So the one thing that I do give into is celebrity gossip. I know. It's bad.
It started at a young age. I remember reading People Magazine. My mom was my enabler allowing me to leaf through numerous issues in her waiting room. It is here that my addiciton became increasingly worse.

In college I was given Internet Access unbridled and I went crazy. At first I was into the Entertainment News on Cnn and found People.com. Soon that was not enough. About a year and a half ago I was googling for the latest pictures of some celebrity doing something that was very earth changing which is obviously why I was looking for it in the first place. Anyway I stumble on the greatest and smutties of finds ever: Perez Hilton.

I believe that this man's face in the Hellmouth. I am almost positve. In addition to dishing the latest in celebrity gossip, he also doctors the picture with tiny penis and semen dribbles. Brillant. Everyday I visit this site at least twice a day, which is pathetic but it's my addiction and I haven't hit rock bottom yet, damnit. It will be a bad rock bottom too. Real bad. Complete with misinformation on my relatives, my outting people and eventually grabbing a white sharpie and drawing penises on the people I love.

As a result of Perez Hilton I have compiled a list of celebrities that I hate and for posterity purposes I will put them here and my reasons for hating them:

-Rachel Evan Wood: for breaking up Marilyn Manson and Dita Von Teese. I hate him, but she is the shit.
-Sienna Miller: I am not sure what she did, but we (Perez and I) call her Sluttyienna
-Rumer Willis: Her face looks weird. Two pretty parents do not equal beautiful children.
-Rachel Zoe: She looks like a Zombie
-Dina Lohan: She has done nothing and plus Perez calls her White Oprah. HIiiiiiilarious.


thats it for now. But I am sure I will add more. This is far from over.

Halloween?

I was sitting with my friend Clint today and we were talking about the levels of excitement about Halloween vs. age. We made an imaginary chart. That's how serious it was. Charts in the air. As infants we are put in whatever cute outfit Baby Gap/Gymboree/KMart had. Many of the results were: vegetables, bugs, animals, other babies. In elementary school, halloween becomes a sport. Everyone works so hard to be the best plastic Barbie face they can be. As you get older, it becomes a little dumb. But a new costume fad is on the rise: that of the slutty costume. More on that later. In High School and college it then rises to uproarious levels of costumery (and sluttery). Then I think we get too tired or lazy or our boobs sag to much to be slutty. Even the men.

Soon I will need to get back to my own Halloweening ways. I will be meeting up with friends and yet again I will need to regail them with my talent in costumery. This is becoming a difficult endeavor. I have had a small crisis of sorts in the thought of this. Causing me to reach back into the vault of past costumes:
-Age 3--> My parents put me in pajamas that my Uncle got from China and then gave me
pigtails. Making me "Chinese Girl"
-Age 4---> Juggler. I fake juggled stuff. And I had pointy shoes.
-Age 7---> The most disturbing by far. Old Lady. I later found out that this "homeade"
costume was actually clothing left over from the lady we bought the house from. She was dead. My parents put me in a dead lady's clothing.
-Age 9--> Peter Pan. My mother made me a felt hat. And a baby sister. Thats why it was lackluster
-Age 12--> A girl with the poodle skirt. Notice the immense decline in awesomeness.
-Age 20--> Velma from Scooby Doo. I cut my own wig and went shopping at Goodwill for the entire costume.
-Age 21--> One of the best. It was a two night endeavor with the first one being my friend Andrew (I was able to attain his clothing and affinity for glow sticks) and the next night I was "future Andrew"which I interpreted as "Drag Queen" This mean that I was a woman being a man being a woman. The single best Drag Costume ever.
--> Bjork. I made my Swan Dress from White Stockings and my roommates white skirt. I didn't even need a name tag.

As you can see, I have a reputation to uphold. I usually get an idea within a week of the event. Here are the rules:
-Must be funny. No cute. Those are for losers.
-No Sluts. The only thing scary about this is the amount of VD this woman might have.
- No Tongue and Cheek type costumes. Douches wear these. (See below)
*Note this man in holding up his "guns".
IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE HER VAGINA IS THE LOCK.
If you have an ideas let me know. That will in turn tell me what you would want to be and I will steer clear of that.

Pictures of You

I am on campus right now. While I probably should be researching or getting a paper together, I am writing. What a fine mode of procrastination. I was walking to the lab that I like to plant myself in and a photographer was shooting some pictures of students in a very large and very expensive atrium they have here on campus. After being at Geneseo and seeing how much they touted the "Integrated Science Facility Bonanza Circus" or whatever they built in the middle there, it was actually hilarious to see it dwarfed by Albany's big "Dome O' Glass" that looks really fancy and most likely costs double.

What is important is that this particular photographer was posing these students for his shot. This shouldn't surprise me, nor does it. I have seen enough brochures and websites to know that photographers aren't waiting in the wings for Student A to point at Student B's particularly interesting tidbit of information on their computer screen. SO interesting, that he had to point (even though pointing is rude). Or that when "group of students" is having a great time at the campus center's cafe, they all throw their heads back and laugh with big smiles, because Center of attention student has said something both smart and funny, also know as smunny. I like those poses and even in my own experiences at college, I finally got over freezing for sustained amounts of time with a book when I was in the quad, making sure that the campus photographer got a good one.

I am not a photography master, but this shot was lousy. These three students (two women and a man) were just talking. No pointing, no really smunny phrases being said. Just conversation. A conversation taking place in an atrium that is so echoy you might want to cease any breathing just because it someone might ask you how your congestion is doing. Who in the world would do that? No one, its rediculous.

It inspired my own desire to be the face of collegiate life once more. I was looking very graduate with my Land's End monogramed bag and my cup of coffee (Green Mountain, not Starbucks. First, it's expensive, I should be getting a belly rub in addition to delicious coffee for that price. Secondly, it's cliche and college photos shouldn't be cliches). I walked slower so that the photographer could stop whatever mindless conversation was going on and ask me to be the face of SUNY Albany's graduate program, but sadly I think I was just in the background for one of the frames. Which is very metaphorical, and I guess will be the bigger statement after all. When I am on the cover for "College: You Should Go Here."

Gym Ettiquette

Lately, in an attempt have some sort of life and to prevent myself from getting up at 10 am every day, I have been going to the gym. Comrade Tina has been a fine partner indeed and usually accompanies me on these trips.

The Fitness Center at Albany is rarely crowded and usually I spend time on the elipticals (I'm not sure how to spell/ avoid spelling that). They face the rest of the gym, creating a perch from which to spy on the rest of the gym-goers. Here is where my problem exists.

I have this horrible habit where I am make eye-contact with lots of people. (It is at this time that I should probably let you know that I am not autistic. Or at least I think so, but it still is awful.) I am elipticizing on the machines and listening to wonderful music; where are my eyes supposed to go?

Here's the usual breakdown at the gym, leaving myself and Tina out:
-tattooed biceps man (Tina notes that a mjority of the ink is tribal in nature)
-Athletes trying to amp up or something. They are usually wearing Underarmor and that means they are serious.
-Men who aren't atheletes and sweat a lot. They usually hang by the machines and take a long time between reps.
-Girls who don't really need to be there, they often have at least one article of clothing from the Victoria's Secret "Pink" line.
-Random girls who are all about staying in relative shape.
-Old people who use the stationary bikes and rowing machines.

Now the category we are looking at are the Men Who Sweat a Lot. Note that time between reps where they make funny faces is highly increased. This leaves me a lot of time to stare at them and think about who they might be. This also increases the amount of time that they catch eye contact with me too and then, to make matters just a little more awful, I then dart my eyes away, making me look even more creepy. On average this may happen with just one Man Who Sweats A Lot 8-9 times. I know. It's bad.
I may need some help with gym ettiquette, or soon I will be asked to leave. Then, where am I going to think about why Tribal Tattoo Man is pulling up his shirt to reveal rock hard abs for 5 minutes. More on this is the future.

The beginning of a wonderful relationship

Its a sad day when blogging about stuff in my life is a suggestion from my mother. However, I don't thinks it's too bad an idea. I enjoy writing, enough. In the interest of business, I have come to several agreements that, as a reader, you may depend on.

1) I will not devulge the following personal information:
- my weight and it's ascent or descent (Bridget Jones was a mega-bitch anyway)
2) I will not discuss dumb women stuff. However, I will not define what this is because I may want to some day. Whatever.
3)I am not gay, I am not a man, and no one famous lives in Albany. Get over it.
4)Don't be dumb. Wait, sorry.

Okay, so an experiment. An open forum for me to establish myself in this new city, I guess.