Rawr.

So I lost my Ikea virginity over the weekend.

I was so unprepared. 

I was under the impression that it was a Swedish version of Bed, Bath, and Beyond. It was not.

Sara: I--what do I do?

Casey: This is the showroom. Here, take a big yellow bag. We'll wander through the rooms and you can look at everything and design an imaginary apartment while we pick sheets.

S: What's happened to my senses? Why do they feel like Disneyland?

C: That's called sensory overload. It's to be expected.

S: I LOVE IT HERE. I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE IT.

C: Petal, this is only your first time. Let's not get carried away.

S: WE SHOULD DO THIS EVERY WEEKEND. 

C: Sara--

S: LOOK. A RESTAURANT.

C: Oh, Sara.

This came on the heels of a mini-carnival in which there were bouncy houses shaped like ships. With SLIDES inside. 

It was a weekend of much joy.

And now it's finals week.

Never has there been such a cruel trick played on my mind. Except for when I was little and Jurassic Park came out, and I thought it was a documentary, and that dinosaurs were alive again. And then they weren't. That was pretty mean, too.

This must be how sugar cookies feel all the time.

My energy level is through the roof today. And I live on the bottom floor of a three-story building. It has to go a long way to get to the roof. The reasons for this, I believe, are two-fold:

Fold One: Following my erratic, ADD post yesterday about INTENSITY and LITERATURE and ACCIDENTALLY HARMING PEOPLE, my English class this morning had a class-long discussion about what makes literature valuable or worthy of anthologizing, and why do we read the things we read, and why do we enjoy them or dismiss them, and why is it easier to say why a piece is bad than to explain what makes it good, and if our civilization ended, and a new species found our planet and exactly one piece of literature remained here, would we rather they find Paradise Lost, or Harry Potter? And it reminded me, yet again, why I love this major, and why it's okay if I fail math. And now I am ALIVE with PASSION that needs CAPS.

Fold Two: I had coffee for breakfast.

I have been very productive since I replaced my blood with caffeine (and PASSION). I caught up on all my correspondences (facebook wall posts), I went on a walk, I did my Italian homework, and ate some white bean and basil hummus with naan bread and watched an episode of House. When that was done, and Casey was busy, I had to find something else to do. So I went on a quest to find the answer to a question I've had for weeks.

What are the lyrics to Erika Jo's "I Break Things"?

First of all, if you haven't heard this song, go listen to it now. I don't care how you manage it. But this song is a work of genius, and I would be doing you a disservice if I didn't tell you so.

Second of all, WHAT ARE THE LYRICS? Casey and I have been singing it for weeks, very loudly, while driving on our various Errands of Importance to find ice cream, or hummus, or grilled cheese(s), or french fries. The lyrics are very straightforward and awesome until one indiscernible line.

Casey: What is a nanvil?

Sara: I don't know. It sounds like a prescription medicine for headaches.

C: Why is it in this song?

S: Nanvils are in this song?

C: Yeah. She goes, "You say I'm nothing you can't handle. You're tougher than a nanvil."

S:...I think she's saying, "an anvil."

C: Oh. Yeah. That makes more sense.

Except then we stopped to think about it, and being tougher than an anvil actually doesn't make sense. Heavier than an anvil? Sure. More likely to fall on a cartoon character's head than an anvil? Okay. But tougher? We think not. 

We started rewinding the song so we could listen to that line over and over again.

C: Enamel? Is it saying enamel? That would make sense!

S: But I hear a "v" sound! Listen. *rewinds*

C: I hear it, too. But...what would a "v" be doing there? *rewinds*

S: Canville? Is she saying Canville? Is that like a really tough city? That would make sense, too. *rewinds*

C: Is "inanvil" a word? Maybe that whole phrase is just one word. *rewinds*

S: Ganvil?

C: That sounds like Gandalf.

S: THAT WOULD MAKE SENSE! HE'S TOUGH!

C: Except that it wouldn't.

S: Right, except for that. *rewinds*

I know country songs don't always really care about the sense thing so much, but seriously. What is this line? I've been trying to figure it out for, like, half an hour. It's nearly pathetic.

And maybe Nanvil is an extra-strength medicine, and E.Jo is tougher on headaches than they are.

Help me. Or tell me you've horribly misheard songs, too.

It's personal story day here at Pinking

So most people I know who major in English have a very unique take on why they've chosen that particular educational path. They are not good at anything else. Today, in fact, I got a four-page email from a high school senior who's thinking of coming to my college and majoring in English, and she had oodles and bundles of questions about the English classes here, the professors, and my personal opinion on whether or not the program has fulfilled my interests. And I was like, "Shit, are you not good at anything else either? Trust me, you have found your people. All our interest(s) are very fulfilled. I like how you stretched one thing into four pages, though. You will write wonderful essays." 

You hear an author or a student or something go, "Yeah, I had to do this, I'm not good at anything else," and every other literarily-minded person laughs. But that's totally a joke. The thing is, we're just obsessed. English is a very broad thing, and we've decided to major in all of it and then also really study Medieval Literature or Creative Writing or Women Writers in Renaissance Italy. We don't have time to be good at other things. We usually don't really care about other things. We're totally weird people.

So in high school, I realized this about myself. I was one of those weird people. And I decided to become a writer and also either an editor or a literary agent. Something with books. Anything with books. I started interning for a literary agency last summer, and I'm interning with a publishing house in New York this summer. I get hate mail from authors when I give them notes on a full we requested and then passed on. I read them out loud, and usually in an accent. It's fantastic.

When I was interviewing for this internship in New York, I realized I had an actual problem.

Interviewer: Well, it seems like you'd be a great fit for our company, but we can't hire you without meeting you. How do you feel about coming to New York?

Sara: I feel great about it. I shall board a plane at once.

I: Really? It's a long way. And we can't pay for your flight.

S: That's fine. I have student loans already. I don't think a few hundred extra dollars makes a difference at this point.

I: Um. Well, I'd feel really badly if you came down here and it didn't work out for some reason. You know, we've had people who sound great over the phone, but then in person we--

S: Shut up. I'm perfect. I'll be there next Friday.

I:...Okay.

It occurred to me the day before I left that this was not the wisest choice I could have made, and that I should tone things down for the actual interview. "DON'T TONE THEM DOWN," a man selling me interview heels told me while I explained the situation that had brought me to his store. "Keep them at this exact intensity level. RAISE THE INTENSITY LEVEL." I'm easily impressed by loud, passionate statements. "OKAY," I said. 

I still don't know how I got that job, really.

Anyway. None of that is really the point. The point is I successfully talked Casey into ditching a class today for the first time ever, and while we were eating ice cream in the eight billion degree weather, she was explaining to me why she hadn't ever ditched a class and how she felt dedicated to them and then, somehow, how she wished she could Google stuff for a living because she's really good at it, and I was like, "I think I only get along this well with people who are as weirdly intense about crap as I am."

Victoria is, too. You should have seen her in high school. There is a blog post floating around somewhere on the internet about watching her check to see if she'd gotten into her top choice college. She and I spend days and days having panic attacks over our careers (which haven't started), and obsessively winding and unwinding plots (for books, not world domination).

But my intense love of intensity was driven home when, after explaining to Casey how I had once accidentally dropped a billiard ball on a girl's head and how badly I felt about it and how the girl hadn't graduated from high school and I always wondered if I was responsible for that, she went:

C: I once gave a girl stitches.

S: How?

C: I hit her. 

There was a whole story, of course. But that sentence was magical.

So what are you passionate about? I think everyone is secretly super intense about something. What's that thing for you?

I've reached new heights of laziness

On Friday, Casey and I decided to take the weekend off from work. Since neither of us have weekend jobs, we had to find a new way to do that. We packed our bags and made extravagant plans to go blob at my house and do as little homework as possible.

I was impatiently sitting with my suitcase in my room, sending her Skype messages.

Sara: Are you ready?

Casey: Almost.

S: How almost?

C: Five minutes.

S: That seems like an unreasonable amount of time.

C: To pack a suitcase?

S: If I come help, it'll be two and a half.

C: If you come help, we'll be here another hour.

S: I'm coming over. I'll show you how to stuff everything into your bag without folding it and still be able to zip it without sitting on it. You'll have to carry all your toiletries, though.

C: Can you distract yourself for three minutes please?

S:...I--I can try. I have a funny taste in my mouth. Should I brush my teeth?

C: Yes. Definitely.

I got my toothbrush and my toothpaste, walked out the door, and thought, "I feel so weird walking out of my room without a purse. I wonder why I always bring it with me." I had just pulled the door shut with an echoing click when I remembered, "Oh, right. Because I keep my keys in there."

"NOOO," I said, clinging to my door. But it had locked behind me.

Casey came upon me a few minutes later, plastered between the doorframe.

C:...Sara?

S: Yep.

C: What are you doing?

S: Nothing.

C: Did you lock yourself out?

S: Perhaps.

C: And how many times have you done this now?

S: *holds up four fingers*

C: Yeah. No more. Start locking your door yourself.

See, when this first happened, I complained bitterly that my door locked behind me in an unfixable way, and I was victim to its evil design. Then Casey found the button on the side of the door that lets me lock it myself when I get outside. But this takes an extra four to six seconds of effort on my part. Which is just too much.

Apparently, I'd rather wait for half an hour while a campus security officer finds the keys and lets me in.

People Who've Agreed to Be Friends With Me

When I started this blog last month, I spent three hours trying to figure out how to get that picture of the "BORK" cupcakes up there a size I liked. Computers. My thing they are not. But as I'm intelligent person who can use Google, and frequently finds that other people have her same problems and have already asked for their solution on Yahoo!Questions, I figured it out. 

I have never been able to take victory with good grace. I am hardly able to take it without screaming.

Sara: YOU. FRIENDS.

Friends: That's an awfully strong word. We prefer, "Oh, it's you. We know each others' names, I think."

S: I HAVE DONE SOMETHING WONDERFUL AND AMAZING.

F: Have you? Why, you dear old friend of ours! What have you done? Won the lottery? Inherited a bakery? Figured out a way to call your keys when you lose them so you can finally find both them AND your cell phone?

S: I HAVE STARTED A BLOG FEATURING A PICTURE OF CUPCAKES.

F: We have just had a meeting, and would like to downgrade our relationship to, "I'm sorry, have we been introduced?"

They're such jokers.

I really do have a hard time keeping good things to myself. My friends from home frequently wonder why I'm insisting they come to know and love my friends from college. I can't help it. They're too wonderful; they should know each other. Good things should be shared. So of course I can't help but tell stories about them here, too. Because you should definitely also know them.

So I've decided to do Profiles. Very professional. They'll pop up from time to time, usually with no discernible reason. Just forewarning you. You'll notice I've included fun facts, like how I'd fare in a fight with them, and what country they would be if they were a landmass. 

PROFILE UNO:

Name: Casey

Age: 20's

Why I Know Her: We transferred to the same college in 2007 and were placed into the same suite of six. Thank. God.

If She Had a Catchphrase, It Would Be: "Let's race!" Or maybe, "I'm winning! You didn't even know we were competing, but we are, and I'm winning! YES!"

Why I Love Her (nutshell version): Casey is a mix of fun, thoughtful, and brilliant that I could never have imagined existed. She is like that creepy song, "I Knew I Loved You Before I Met You," except instead, "I Had No Idea I Would Someday Be Making 11p.m. Grilled Cheese Runs With Someone as Awesome as You." She manages to be calming, reassuring, and loving while also being hysterical, tons of fun, and passionate.

Physical Description: Blonde, tall, freckled (a.k.a. effing gorgeous), and very in touch with her Nordic roots. She sunburns faster than anyone else I've ever met.

Two Words/Phrases That First Come to Mind to Describe Her: joy, to-do lists

Thing I'm Most Jealous Of: Casey has the rare ability to have conversations, with every person she runs into, that seem actually thoughtful and interested. Everyone she's met adores her for her attention and patience. This is occasionally hysterical, as it sometimes happens with people she doesn't care for.

Fun Fact: When Casey was little, she wanted to be God's personal assistant when she grew up; she thought He could use help organizing things a bit better. There are not enough words to express how good she would be at this job. Also, I hear she once tackled a man into a small pool of salad. Long story.

Outlook if I Challenged Her to a Fight: Dismal.

Our Current Relationship: We live down the hall from each other, but I've more or less moved into her room. I spend 30% of my nights there, and 60% of my waking time there. I don't really know why I have my own room, actually.

If She Were a Literary Character, She Would Be: Nancy Drew, but twelve times more likely to take you down if you in anyway threatened her or the organization of her mission.

If She Were a Country, She Would Be: Italy. Lots of peaceful countryside, and lots of fabulous cities.

Casey has a very cool photo blog at caseylane.tumblr.com if you feel you should know more about her. And you should.

Perfect Moments

When I was six, I learned to skate at a roller rink. It was a disgusting place. It smelled like old grease, it was unusually chilly, the music was too loud to hear anything else, and the main source of light was a disco ball. I loved it. You could pretend to not hear anyone screaming at you to go slower or to stop running headlong into walls as a way of braking. The rink completed its excellence by selling pizza slices and slurpees. I used to wake up some Saturdays determined to get there. And occasionally, I succeeded. Perhaps three times a year, my brothers and I were able to talk our mom into driving the half hour there, sitting on a bench covered in scratchy carpet for an hour while we skated in ovals, and then driving us back home. I'm sure she looks back at these times with as much fondness as I do.

As much fun as I had there, and as bouncy and chatty as I got about going there, I was usually paralyzed with a gripping fear the moment I got my skates on and had to venture out onto the scuffed wood floor. There was only one way in and out. The older kids skated at perhaps eight billion miles an hour. You were practically risking your life. 

I had been very brave the first four or five times I'd done it; I'd taken a breath and slid smoothly out to grip the railing. But one Saturday, I was just scared. I don't know why. It was just a scared kind of day. I spent ten minutes watching the other skaters whiz past from a three foot gap in the wall, feeling my heart race, wondering how I had done this before.

"Come on," Taylor, my older brother, said as he passed me for the third time. "It's not that scary. Give me your hands." He's always been a good guy, but he was a little impatient as a kid.

And for some reason, offers of help have always had the reverse effect on me that they're intended to have. We weren't a great duo in times of duress.

"No," I said. 

"Just do it!" 

"No!"

"NOW."

"NEVER."

"Fine. Stay there, then."

"Fine. I will. I like it here."

And he huffed and skated off. I was properly motivated now that he had gone. I would step out just as he was passing again, and show him I could do it on my own, and didn't need any of his help thank-you-very-much.

As he skated around the bottom of oval, and started the straight shot toward me again, I moved out onto the floor. Brave. Determined. And with no sense of balance. I fell down at once. It was more slippery than I'd expected, and a tad embarrassing. I pushed myself up, tried to take another step, and fell down a second time. What had they done, greased it with butter? It was very uncool. Totally ruined my entrance.

I looked back to see where Taylor was, and if he'd noticed. He was coming toward me still, looking vaguely concerned. Which annoyed me. This was my big moment to show him how awesome I was (and it had clearly been going perfectly up until that point). In front of him though, was a teenage girl, and she was skating backwards. 

Backwards. Unless she happened to have a rearview mirror handy, she couldn't see me at all. I tried to get up again, but failed again; I screamed at her to stop, but she couldn't hear me. I turned away and closed my eyes tight as I recognized the inevitable. She was going to run into me. 

Or, as it turns out, trip over me. I hadn't expected that. I was thinking she'd run into my back and maybe fall over, and then yell at me to get off the rink. Instead, she hit my back at a pretty good speed, and flipped right over me so her butt landed just beyond my feet. I can still remember the exact screech she made as she went down. It was brief, and very surprised. I don't remember anything else after that. I assume that as focused as she was on catching herself with her arms, she didn't pay much attention to controlling her weighted feet, which came down hard. On my head.

I woke up sometime later laying on the skate rental counter. It was playing the part of Exam Table for the doctor who'd watched it all happened and helped my mom snatch me out of the rink. I was playing the part of Concussed Child. Not my best role.

It hurt, but I wasn't so much bothered by the pain as I was by the mere fact that I'd been clonked over the head with roller skates. I mean, who could've seen that coming? The teenage girl was crying and apologizing nearby, which I thought was stupid at the time because it was obviously Taylor's fault (him and his offers of help. Pah.) The doctor man had a small light that he was shining in my eyes. My mom was intermittently comforting the teenager and rubbing my arm. 

"I'm fine," I told them all when I decided I could speak. 

"You're going to have a sizable bump," the doctor said. "We should find you some ice."

"Can I have a slurpee instead?"

"...No. You don't feel like you're going to throw up?"

"No," I said. "I really want to go home."

Nothing sounded better than my couch made up in sheets, and the TV on at a low volume while I ate Wheat Thins. It's what I always did when I was sick. 

It hurt like a mother, actually. But I couldn't even think about it. In retrospect, that probably had something to do with the concussion. But at the time, all I could think was, "Roller skates? Seriously? Concussion? What?" It made just as much sense then.

Fortunately, there was ice and Tylenol and some tests I can't quite remember anymore, and I came out of it fine. It was, at that point, the most physically painful thing that had happened to me, and I thought that nothing could hurt worse than the surprise of it happening, and the shock of pain.

I didn't know there were ways to shock and pain a person where ice and Tylenol and a day on the couch didn't help. And what can you do then besides sit and stew and feel the hollow ache in your chest get a little more helpless? 

I hate helpless. So in my head, I've collected a series of perfect moments in my life to use as a shield against the roller skate times. Even as the moment is happening, I know that someday, I will coax it close and hold tight to it. Someday, I will need it. This is my latest Perfect Moment, for anyone who needs to borrow one today:

Casey and I were driving in the first truly hot day of the year yesterday. We needed swimsuits and sandals all of a sudden, and had decided to go find them at Victoria Gardens. We were zipping down Route 66, and listening to country music that made us want to have boys to dance with or have shotgun weddings or keep driving until we came to end of the road in Chicago. Casey was drinking a Diet Coke and wishing it still came in glass bottles like it did when her grandparents were our age. I was rolling an orange cough drop between my teeth. The windows were down, and the air smelled like gasoline, and my hair was getting uncomfortably warm in the sun. Soon, it was going to be the same temperature as the seats in the car, and I would bake. 

"I'm not going to do homework today," Casey said, reaching for the Diet Coke as we stopped at our third red light. 

"Good," I said. "Me neither."

And Saturday afternoon was ours.