Friday, February 16, 2007

Dear Blog, I can't forget....

I am a forgetful girl. I forget things. I could regale you with tales of my forgetfulness that make my mother want to throttle me.

I once managed to leave the house and return to my mother hollering "How can you leave this house with sandals ON your feet, and return with sandals NOT ON your feet!?!"

Looking back, I suppose it was a legitimate question.

I've done the same thing with wallets, coats, purses, most recently a paycheck, t-shirts, sweatshirts, favorite hats, mittens, gloves, a pair of snow pants, and once, my car.

The car was only once. And I found it twenty minutes later. When the girls I was with suggested that it had been stolen, they looked at me like I had lost my mind when I told them that it wasn't stolen: I'd lost it. Because losing and forgetting is what I do.

When I graduate school this year, my family is going to put a photo in our local newspaper. I'm not sure what the caption is going to say. It will probably be a run-of-the mill announcement that says "It is with great pride and an enormous sense of relief that our daughter has finally graduated from the Most Satanic University in the Free World with a degree in Social Sciences, Concentration Sociology. It was a long and windy road, littered with sedatives and alcohol around the bends, but you did it! We're proud of you, honey! Love, SuperNan and SuperDad."

Now, in order to put this in the paper, they are going to need a picture of me. And while I think that the picture of me drinking beer straight from the pitcher and giving the thumbs up would be best, I'm sure my mother thinks not.

I'm going to need a graduation photo.

A friend had hers done yesterday and she told me that she just went on the day that her faculty told her to go. Her faculty told her when to go. That led me to believe that my faculty should have given me directions on where to go and when.

But oh, no. See, I can't stand the constant influx of emails I get in a language I don't understand. These emails make my heart race and the color of my face turn. If I could find a man with the same effect on me my school has, I'd be set.

I digress. Thus far in my carreer as a student, I've just deleted everything with a subject line that I can't decipher. Because the subject lines need to be in two languages, there is never enough space for the language I do understand, and thus, every email my school ever sends me gets deleted. That probably includes the email that told me about my grad photo op.

Today I had errands to run and so after I got my student loan I ran frantically to the photo place set up on campus and began pleading for a chance to have my grad photos done. Because after the journey I've taken to get this damn degree? The mementos are damn well going to include a picture of me in a cap and gown, so help you all GOD.

The girl just looked at me like I was crazy and said "Yeah, sign-up sheet's right there. Any day that's good for you."


I felt like cackling maniacally, but instead I just wrote down my name and left.

So, someone write it down. I'm thinking of scribbling it across the walls of my bedroom, seeing as how I won't have to look at it once I'm gone.

Next Friday. Ten thirty a.m. Momma needs a pit'chure of her girl lookin' awll fancied up after bein' in the big city 'n' all.


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