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Posts Tagged ‘crazy

Things Girls Do in Libraries

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It’s a month away from finals, which at CCU means crunch time!  Our last papers are coming due, our last tests are on the horizon, and our less-organized professors are scrambling to get through the rest of the material before they have to examine our knowledge of it.  So I’m sorry I haven’t been around.  I’ll try to write once a week, but probably no more often until the first week of May.

Crunch time at CCU also means library time, if you’re not me.  I go to the library when I have leisure time, because they have a great selection of books and magazines, and plenty of comfy chairs in which to read them.  The chairs are even next to big, floor-to-ceiling windows, so you can get your Vitamin Sunshine in the winter and don’t shrivel up and die of SAD, even though you haven’t been outdoors properly in 42 days.  Last but not least, libraries are one of the few public places in which you can be near other people without having to interact with them, and that is awesome.

Part of the reason I went to CCU was their library.  I think it’s like #18 on the Princeton Review’s list of bestest college libraries evahr. If they served food in the basement, I’d spend all day there.  If they had a dormitory in the attic, I’d spend all night there, too.  But sending me to a library to study is a little like sending a football player onto the field in the middle of a game to study.  I do my homework in my dorm, because I’ve already read everything in there.  So I haven’t been to the library lately.

When I do hunker down for a marathon library session, it’s like embarking on a wilderness expedition.  I make sure I have everything I need to sustain life:  food, Diet Coke, lip balm, layers of clothing…sometimes I even grab a clean pair of socks.  I only get up to go to the bathroom.  And when I do, believe you me, it is with great reluctance.  If I were a guy, I’d probably just pee out a window.

I don’t know if you’ve gathered as much, but CCU is uptight, type-A, anal retentive yuppie central.  Emphasis on the anal-retentive.  And not in the figurative sense, either.

I know most girls are kind of shy about pooping.  But I swear to you, I have never met so many girls who were so neurotic about pooping in my entire life.  The brave ones skitter out of the stalls like ashamed mice, scrubbing their hands at lightspeed while avoiding eye contact with anyone.  Some people won’t go at all if there’s the remotest chance they may not be the only person in the bathroom.  Then there are the people who pick up their feet when they go, because someone might recognize them by their shoes.  And heaven forbid someone else know that they, like everyone else on earth except colostomy patients, poop!

Okay, I know that it smells bad, and it’s kind of embarrassing when it’s loud, but guys?  Come on.  Everybody poops.  As my mother said to me when I was very young, even Cinderella poops.

This concept had a lasting impact on my life.

For some reason, the CCU female hive mind has collectively decided that the only place any of the ~1500 of them can poop is the library.  I can understand the privacy-seeking and the shoe-hiding and even the refusal to exit the stall if another person’s presence is detected, but I do not get the library-pooping thing.  I’m beginning to suspect it’s a ritual they learn at sorority initiation.

I can’t imagine what the situation was like before the library was renovated.  It’s got something like nine stalls in it now, by far the biggest bathroom on campus, and it still smells like something died in it.  If it shrank by two thirds, to the size of all the other bathrooms, it’d have to be designated a Superfund site.

Or maybe the pooping came after the renovation.  This seems more likely, given that the campus was built in the 1950s, when everyone smoked everywhere all the time.  To the best of my knowledge, the CCU library has never exploded.

I know I am a liberal arts major, but I think it’s time for a little cross-disciplinary science experimentin’.  So let’s pretend I know what I’m talking about, and look at this empirically.

There is one other bathroom on campus that is almost as big as the library bathroom.  It does seem to be a little funkier than the other ones, which would suggest that CCU girls like to poop in big bathrooms.  I, too, have often felt that larger bathrooms provide greater anonymity:  I can blend into the crowd of poopers, instead of being the lone pooper in a bathroom where the other two people present are just fixing their makeup, and inexplicably judging me.

But I wouldn’t say the odor in this second-biggest bathroom corresponds proportionally to the odor in the library.  The library bathroom is about a third bigger, but it’s probably twice as stinky.  Hmmm.  Problem.

But wait!  This second-biggest bathroom is upstairs in the CCU dining hall!  And nobody remotely sane poops where they eat!

Conclusion:  There is poop safety in numbers.

Conclusion #2:  The CIA should begin recruiting its agents from the female population at CCU, because they are a superlatively sneaky bunch.

For another insider’s report on female college poopers, see PoopReport.com.


Written by Estie

April 10, 2010 at 11:02 pm

Surviving History

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My friend Caroline is brilliant.  She is brilliant because her mind works differently from anyone else’s in the world, and the things that come out of it on a daily basis are the types of things that are so preposterous you laugh until you get a cramp in your side, and you have to stop laughing or you will die.  Only then, as you sit clutching your side and wheezing, do you realize how true and serious that silly thing Caroline said is.

Caroline is terribly sensitive.  She thinks the courtship montage at the beginning of The Swan Princess is bittersweet and affecting, and loves Anne of Green Gables with every fiber of her being. She also loves Arrested Development, although she is preoccupied with worry for Michael and George Michael.  She once clutched my arm and asked me seriously if I thought they were going to be okay someday.  Yet she endured a full two years of our writing teachers’ ceaseless teasing about her (incredibly strong) Southern accent—and she did it with a smile, because she thought it was funny, too.

Caroline is hilarious.  Though I can’t vouch for it firsthand, I’m inclined to think she’s always been that way.  When she was very young, she says, she dreaded going to a restaurant that was apparently one of her parents’ favorites.  There was, you see, a gravel road in front of the restaurant.  No matter the circumstances, every time her family went to the restaurant, Caroline was punished for being out in the middle of the road.  The way she tells the story, it’s as if she teleported into the middle of the road; as if going there was a thing inevitable and entirely out of her control, a switch flipped.  Caroline’s family arrived at the restaurant, therefore Caroline arrived in the road.

When Caroline writes her autobiography, I will laugh until I wet my pants, and then I will cry until my tears have rinsed away my urine.

But I digress.  Today at dinner, Caroline said, “Sometimes I think I would like to have lived in Jane Austen’s time.  But that would have been terribly unfortunate.  I would have been fat, pimply, and snaggle-toothed.”

“And blind,” I said, helpfully.

(Caroline is, in fact, legally blind without vision correction.)

This, as we say in the South, got me to thinkin’.  How on earth did anyone manage to survive before the advent of modern medicine?  Humans, as a species, have far too many ailments even in this age of compulsive hygiene and technological wizardry.  We die every day, zillions of us, accidentally or on purpose, expectedly or unexpectedly, and always too soon.  (Except for my great-grandmother, who died at age 99, thirteen years after she was ready.)

What the hell did we do before?

Case in point:  without modern medicine, I would probably not exist.  My father was born so prematurely that his fingernails were still soft.  My mother was born with two clubfeet and a hemangioma on her neck so large it looked like a bullfrog’s throat sac.  She is allergic to everything, with the unfortunate exception of the sound of her own voice.

Even if my parents had managed to make it, my brother and I would probably be kaput.  We were born fat and healthy, but had pneumonia several times when we were children.

And even if that hadn’t killed us, we’d be squinty, zitty, and supremely snaggle-toothed now.  So we probably wouldn’t be reproducing any time soon, unless they’d already invented paper bags in the Middle Ages.

Written by Estie

March 31, 2010 at 3:13 am