I can't say I didn't try

Y'all, I really tried to love UAB. I mean, I remember all too well being late to take my former Resident Manager to lunch my last day in Auburn because I was sitting in my apartment with my mother bawling my eyes out, screaming I really did want to stay in Auburn. (Oh, the days, when that was considered major drama.)

I should have taken that as a sign that I shouldn't move, but I didn't. I just picked myself up, washed off my face, and had a good lunch, then I stayed one more night and had a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm and I moved. I made my bed, and slept in it well enough. (No double entendres intended.)

There would be other Margarita Parties. (No there wouldn't.) There would be other football games. (Yes.) I could always move back some day. (Yes, but it isn't the same.) I just wouldn't have the Auburn degree. (But I would have a degree.)

So, I was sad, but optimistic. College is fun, y'all. Right? As long as you're in Auburn, it's fun.

I almost immediately began a list of things noting the differences between Auburn and UAB.

At UAB, all pedestrian crosswalks I have come across have signals. And even then, it's walk at your own risk. Whereas, at Auburn, there are quite a few pedestrian crosswalks where pedestrians have the right of way at all times. Students would politely wait their turn at crosswalks that had signals. (Of course, now, in both places, the students have taken to illegally crossing and it makes driving rather difficult.)

At UAB you can take classes with your bartender(s). That's a major plus, right?

At UAB, if you assume someone will be polite enough to hold the door open for you, when you are just a foot or so behind that person, you will likely end up with, at minimum, a broken nose. Whereas, at Auburn, and this is still true (some things never change), if you are a good, strong, Southern man, you will risk a broken leg and neck injury when you realize that a girl is walking 100 feet behind you and you forgot to wait on her and hold the door open, even if you miss your coveted appointment with your advisor, waiting on her to take her sweet time getting to the door, since Southern ladies avoid breaking a "glisten" at all times whenever possible. (Yes, a slight exaggeration, but only slight. Trust me if you've never witnessed this.)

At UAB, there is a Chick-fil-A on campus, and nearby students hang out at Al's, The Purple Onion, and Fat Sam's. At Auburn, Chick-fil-A is on campus, as well as a few other, diverse, options, and nearby, well, let's not go there, since it would take me 10 years to write it all out. (You wouldn't think that since Birmingham is SO big, but it's true. There is never a boring time to be had in Auburn.)

What else is there? At UAB, it is not okay to wear an Auburn or Alabama shirt, when Memphis is really the big rival. At Auburn, you occasionally see other team shirts, but if someone is wearing an Alabama shirt, you just look at them funny and whisper behind their back. (Not to be mean, just to express confusion. And compliment someone's cajones for doing so, even if you don't agree with them.)

At UAB, you basically have to plan the event yourself to know what's going on around campus, whereas at Auburn, you can't go to or leave class without a fistfull of flyers being stuffed into your hands as you navigate the concourse.

At UAB, "sororities are SO not Auburn or Alabama, so it's okay to rush when you're a senior, since they are trying to expand their Greek community anyway," (no, they really just want your money and they'll be a bitch to you during their "parties") and you actually go for it because you are desperate to love your college . Whereas at Auburn, you just don't feel the need to go out for Rush once your not a freshman, maybe a sophomore, because people at Auburn are nice and welcoming and you know too much that is going on, so you have plenty of options to help you find your "place" at your college.

Another reason I have been hesitant to date guys my own age

All this blogging has triggered my memories.

One of my neighbors was a party girl and she always had lots of people at her place. Since she lived below me, it was really convenient for her parties to spill outside, and up the stairs, to outside my place.

There was this one guy that came over to her apartment a lot, and he took a liking to me.

He would watch Georgia games on my TV.

He would call his friends (and not leave messages) from my phone. His friends would then call me at 7:00 AM on Sunday mornings during football season wanting to know who called and why. The Julia Sugarbaker in me came out and they sincerely apologized.

He would ask for me to make him a Scarlett O'Hara - in a big cup - and only drink a few sips.

He would knock on my door, wanting to know if I had any of that "Rocky beer."

It got to the point I started hiding my liquor and beer when he came around. And I kept the big, thick, complicated books lying around as a constant excuse not to hang out. (According to him, it would only take me, like, 15 minutes to read The Prince.)

And he always asked me when I was going to let him take me out.

I finally had to say something to my neighbor when I had to cash in some change to buy ANOTHER bottle of Southern Comfort.

"I'm tired of wasting my alcohol on this guy and he's annoying me," I told her one evening.

"Aww. Why?"

"Well, see, I don't mind sharing my alcohol with him, it's just that he never drinks it. And then Rolling Rock is expensive."

"I think he has a crush on you."

"And that's another thing. He keeps asking when I will let him take me out."

"So? Are you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"He's a bum. I would end up driving us to the drive through at Wendy's and I would have to pay. That's not him taking me out."

"I get your point. And it's probably true."

Dude quit coming around soon after that, and my Scarlett O'Hara habit was back in full force.

Hang on, there's a creat-chter in the cabinet

Y'all, I totally forgot this story! It's a quickie, but a goodie.

Years ago, while I was still living with my mother, she mentioned to me she had been hearing something in the kitchen cabinets lately. (Don't worry, y'all, it was in the so-high kitchen cabinets that we don't even put things up there.)

I blew it off, thinking she was just hearing things. You know how you hear tree limbs scraping the roof and you think it's an animal? Or you hear an animal on the roof and think it's in the attic? Well, I figured it was something on the roof.

Well, one evening, I was chit-chatting with my Yankee friend, and all of a sudden, I hear it. It sounded about the size of a raccoon, running and scratching in the cabinets.

"Stay on the phone with me for a minute."

"Why?"

"I hear a creat-chter in the cabinets."

"A what?" He sounded very disgusted.

"A creat-chter. You know, something living that is not human, but you don't kow what it is." I didn't think he would be so put-off by this. It's not like I said ain't.

"I don't think I can ever talk to you again."

Moral of the story, y'all: you can take the Southern out of a voice, but you can't take the Southern out of a vocabulary.

P.S. We never figured out what the creat-chter was.

The time I discovered drinking during class was appropriate

It's a good thing I use an alias for this stuff, or I might get in big trouble.

There was this one time, when I was at Auburn, during my last semester there, when I was taking a class that was a HUGE waste of time.

It was called Public Personnel Administration. In a nutshell, it was Office Politics (for the public sector, mind you). You know, the stuff about sexual harassment (quid pro quo vs. hostile work environment), hiring (merit vs. spoils system), evaluating performance, maximizing performance, and that's about all I can remember. I can't even remember what I did for my presentation and paper. I just remember the class lasted 2 1/2 hours and the teacher was not an effective communicator. I also remember I wore a pink sweater for my presentation, there was a girl from Wadley, Alabama, some guy having a job waiting on him because of the spoils system, sexual harassment, something about unions, leaving class early once because I thought my sinuses were giving me problems, only I realized my jaw was hurting because I was clenching my teeth so hard, and, of course, the time I drank during class.

I had been having a rough day. I don't remember what started it, but when I couldn't find a pair of shoes to buy ('cause, duh!, there's not a lot of problems a new pair of shoes can't cure) and then something else happened, my nerves were shot and I began praying class would get cancelled that night. I grabbed a veggie pita from McAlister's (back when veggie pitas were cheap and came with parmesan peppercorn and they didn't have all that extra stuff on them that took away from the basic tastiness) and a big old cup of unsweet tea (another un-Southern thing about me).

I got home, still sipping on my tea when my neighbor came up to visit (the one who could have her own book I have so many stories about her). I told her about my yucky day and we decided the next best thing to new shoes is new clothes.

I don't think that worked either.

When I got back home again, to get ready to go to the class that never got cancelled, I saw my McAllister's cup sitting next to my Southern Comfort and the world began to make sense, once again.

I made myself one of my famous Scarlett O'Hara's (drink recipe to follow) in the McAllister's cup and I was off to class.

I think the class had to do with women in the workplace because there was a lot of debate about whether or not women should work and how women who work are perceived.

Others would say it was the Southern Comfort broadening my horizons, but I know what really happened was another raw nerve was struck that evening and the Scarlett O'Hara kept me from totally losing it. I remember the only time I participated in class was to announce how disgusted I was that women who are open about wanting to work end up getting called feminists and sometimes even femi-nazis, both in the derogatory sense. What's up with that?

My fan club, watching to see how I handled my liquor, burst out laughing.

I quit drinking at break so I could be sober for the drive home.

I may have been crazy enough to drink during class (that one time), but I knew my body. I knew just how much to drink to keep me from losing it, but not get me in trouble.

Scarlett O'Hara (a.k.a. SoCo and Cran)

Ingredients:
Southern Comfort
Cranberry Juice
Ice
Lime (optional)

Directions:
Fill a stadium cup with ice

Pour about 1/4 to 1/3 full with SoCo

Fill with cranberry juice

Blend by transferring mixture into an empty stadium cup a couple of times.

Drink with a straw to keep red from getting on your mouth and teeth!

Garnish with a lime (optional)

Sometimes my deep down isn't very deep

I always thought it would be cool to be a Philosophy major.

In high school, I took Miss J's Philosophy and Human Behavior class my senior year. College philosophy and high school philosophy are two different things. BC, before college, the myth of philosophy still existed.

The myth of philosophy is more about image than philosophy. Bohemians sit around contemplating history and current events, and when that gets boring, bring on the theoretical. That's essentially what Philosophy and Human Behavior was all about. Everyday, I bugged the guy who sat behind me, and everyday we would listen to Miss J for 15 or 20 minutes, and everyday we would get in about 10 minutes of content. Or not. Or maybe that's what really happened. It just depends on if you are me or the guy who sat behind me. Likely, it's a combination of the two.

In college, philosophy is much different. First, you have these theories that guide you in creating your argument. Many times I heard, "It's the [blah blah blah] conductor [blah] train [blah] people [blah]. And do you save the people on the train or the people [not on the train]?"

I kind of just sat back in Philosophy classes at Auburn. Not because I was bored to tears, but because it was taking all of me to comprehend what was going on.

When the socially awkward guy catty-corner from me started in on Star Trek, I lost all concentration.

I completed my first Philosophy class at Auburn, and my second attempt ended in a W.

Philosophy of War and Terror was very similar to Philosophy of the [blah blah blah], for this purpose it will be known as Medical Philosophy. I felt like I was drowning in Philosophy of War and Terror. My free time was spent reading these big books over and over to try to understand (we had to submit discussion questions to prove we had read) and I kept hearing things about trains and people and which one do you save. I did have a friend in the class and the other people were pretty nice, but a few weeks into the semester, when I heard someone on the other side of the room say, "It's like this one time. On Star Trek," it was over. (BTW, this was the same semester my Great Books class ended up being a Philosophy class, as well. Only more enjoyed. I was also taking a statistics class disguised as "Research Methods". Also, much enjoyed, but a lot of work. Oh! And how could I forget Public Personnel Administration. I'll have to tell you about that later.)

Philosophy at UAB was a whole different story. My two attempts at actual Philosophy classes there both ended in W's as well. I think one was Philosophy of Law (or something like that) and it was just too legal for me. History of Philosophy, where we study Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, that is a whole different story. It wasn't too deep, it wasn't too boring, it wasn't too new to me. Seeing as how all of my non-Philosophy Philosphy classes (Great Books II, Intro to Political Thought, Classical Political Thought, as well as any chance a miscellaneous teacher had to throw in some Plato and Aristotle or Machiavelli), I figured this class would be my fun class. After all, I rocked Classical Political Thought and I rocked History. There was no way I could mess this up. My last fun class of undergrad years. I figured it would be a freebie, and I would love it at the same time.

I sat in between buddies from Classical Political Thought, who were both Philosophy majors. I read my Plato with joy, looking even deeper into it for the umpteenth time. And when I got my test back and the teacher bared down so hard with her red pen while marking through an answer and writing "NO!" across it she put a whole in my paper, that was the final straw. I kind of wanted to cry. Not because I failed a test, but because a teacher, who comes to class seemingly stoned, and doesn't have any logical flow to her "teaching", failed me, a seasoned Plato scholar, a senior in college, who was taking this class for fun because I liked the subject matter.

Ouch!

I guess I was too logical for her.

(In my defense, in all other academic Plato encounters, I passed, with at least a B, in all classes. And I never made below a C on any test.)

A year or so ago, when I was a bartender, one of my regulars would come in to read and smoke cigarettes and drink Diet Coke. We would talk about what all he was reading. At one point, I decided I would read The Republic with him and we could have a book club of sorts.

Fail.

And then I discovered Celia Rivenbark. Philosophy for the people who would rather laugh at all the wack-o people of the world (I'm talking to you, Star Trek guy ... and History of Philosophy Professor) than make themselves miserable contemplating the end of the world (ahem, Philosophy of War and Terror). And the bright side of it, you don't have to dig very deep to bust a gut (as opposed to History of Philosophy).

Rumor has it

All those parties at Christmas really got me back into the spirit of entertaining.

I've done so well, the clean up is a breeze. Non leftover food in the left sink and down the disposal, dishes in the right and in the dishwasher. Trash in the can. Leftovers in the ziplocs, then into the fridge.

I've been thinking about birthday parties. I've been thinking about limes and coconuts. And I've been thinking about being 22 again (and in some cases 19, 20, and 21).

And I got on Oriental Trading's website today, and I couldn't resist the parrots.

The Margarita Party may rise from the dead. Back and better than ever.

Why adulthood sucks

1. Taxes

2. When you're single and decide to move back to your college home, you constantly have to struggle with "Am I looking like the loser who wants to relive past glories of the college days?" Yes. I probably do.

3. When you get old enough so that your body starts getting and feeling old in some ways, it's not fun. Especially when you have to go to the doctor often and take phenergan on a daily basis and have ga-zillions of medical tests, and, eventually, surgery, which kind of made it worse more than it made it better. You just can't be fun like you were in college, ergo, you are that loser who can't live in the present.

4. Household responsibilities. Cat-proofing the house, making the bed, running the dishwasher, doing the laundry, trying to stay warm, paying all the bills, keeping everything clean.

5. Dressing appropriately. I'm a girly-girl. I like dressing up. But I don't like dressing conservatively. But then, I can't dress trendy because that is too young looking and I'm too old to dress young. Not fun. And I can no longer get away with wearing sweatpants and t-shirts. It looks schlumpy.

6. Cars. I have to have a car to get to work (and sometimes to do my job). But when some high school girl without a driver's license and insurance and a car of her own totals your trusty Accord, the last car your parents said they would buy for you, and you loved that Accord because it was so reliable and you were counting on driving it for a couple more years, and you have to get another car, which ends up being a piece of crap, and you have to get another new car, which is a grown up car that symbolizes everything you don't want to be at the moment, it's just not fair.

7. Make up. I used to wear it for fun and to look nice. Now I have to wear it so people don't think I'm older than I am. (Not that I wear it as much as I should, but I am wearing it more than I used to.) I've probably bought more make up in the past year than I have in the past four years (the up-side of having a boyfriend who just doesn't care).

8. Going from having a boyfriend that just doesn't care how I look to realizing I can't get very far looking schlumpy.

9. Other responsibilities. I volunteer, I work, I am trying to establish a career, and my family always seems to need me. How do get things done? I don't.

10. Career. How do I pick just one? It would be much simpler if I could get paid to do my volunteer work. I enjoy it. I'm good at it. Too bad the economy is in flux and federally funded organizations have to cut back. It also doesn't help that I have a political science degree and the volunteer work I do is in the health field. So, what's my next step. Real estate school? I'm there, but I'm not motivated. Massage therapy school? I would love to, but I have three options: Go to Southern Union (where I have to wear black and white scrubs, give up a year of Monday-Thursday nights, not have the flexibility to work in Birmingham, and I would have to take my anatomy classes online), go to Birmingham School of Massage (where I would give up six months of my life, which includes Summer and most of football season), or go to Virginia College (where I have to wear KHAKI scrubs, pay an arm and a leg for tuition, and give up the flexibility I have for two years). Open a store? Yes, please. But then, I would have to deal with even more grown up things and I wouldn't make instant profit. (Unless I get really lucky by some fluke of economics.)

Now that I'm all grown up

I decided to get ready for my housecleaning today by going through an old journal. (Read: I purposefully distracted myself.) I started keeping a journal my senior year of high school and basically quit my second year of college. I mostly wrote about the boys I wanted to date and all the ills that go along with being old enough and mature enough to do certain things, but not being allowed to do them. Or not having enough money to do them. I would also write some rough poetry.

I found this line, dated July 2, 2002.

Sometimes I wonder if college is worse than high school ... but then adulthood can be stupid too.

Priceless.

High school was HORRIBLE for me, aside from the last couple of months. I just did not want to be there. And I don't really want to go back there in memories right now because, as I have said, it was HORRIBLE. I remember begging my mother to let me be home schooled my senior year. Most of my friends were already in college. I didn't feel like I had a place. Don't get me wrong: I had friends. I had some really good friends. And I had some really good times with those really good friends. I just felt like I could make better use of my time not having two free periods and taking a couple of other classes I didn't need to graduate. (Which equaled half the school day in total.)

College was awesome. Eventually. It started off pretty rough. Although I had some more really good times living in the dorm, I now realize (eight years later) that having my own private living space was absolutely necessary. At the time I committed that quote to paper (with ink, of course), I was living at my parent's house, going to community college. I blossomed at community college, but I learned, although I didn't realize it, the early college years are not much different from high school. You have slightly more freedom, but you aren't really old enough to do the REALLY fun things.

I have written about some of my favorite college memories, and there are plenty more to be written, so I won't go into that now.

But adulthood - that's not much fun either. At least, right now it isn't.

The great cornbread disaster of 2009 (or how I got my Ph.D. in Cornbread)

As y'all know, life has been a bit hectic for me lately, but I think I had it under control pretty well, all things considered. (Except for the tree never getting put up.)

I made my grocery list the day after I got back from Knoxville, and The Boyfriend and I went off to Publix. That was the smoothest major grocery trip experience ever. I got most everything on my list and the searching was minimal.

A few days later, Christmas Eve, I woke up and got that vegetable soup on to start cooking. I had been looking forward to this all year.

Vegetable soup + cornbread = Perfect Christmas Eve.

About 5:00, I started the cornbread. Batter looked good, finished product looked PERFECT. Around 6:00, I began serving the dinner. I cut into the cornbread and it seemed a little different, but I just chalked it up to maybe putting too many eggs into it. (Cornbread quiche, perhaps?)

I couldn't resist how yummy the cornbread LOOKED, so I snuck a bite. (A cook has to make sure the finished product is edible.)

And it's a good thing I did.

I warned my guests that it didn't taste bad, it just didn't taste. Gamma asked if I added salt. No. You only add buttermilk, eggs, and hot oil. The Boyfriend insisted it was because I did not use a cast iron skillet. (Oops! I left them in Auburn.) No. The skillet would not affect the taste that much. And then Granny asked the million dollar question.

"Did you use plain cornmeal?"

"Duh! I just wanted plain cornbread."

"You didn't buy self rising?"

Turns out, Publix played a nasty trick on us young Southerners this Christmas. Their cornbread shelves were full, but they were mostly full of plain cornmeal.

I thought I was a cornbread expert, since I know how to make it perfectly and without a recipe and measuring tools. Turns out, I had one more lesson to learn.

I'd leave y'all with a recipe, but the thing is, there is no recipe. My only secret is, if you are following the direction on the White Lily bag, add an extra egg. It makes a world of difference. (P.S. If you don't have an iron skillet to pre-heat with oil in the oven, heat up some oil in a skillet on the stove, then add to the mixture before baking. It adds a little crisp you wouldn't get with a plain old pan.)