Oh the noise, noise, noise, noise

Going to school in the mountains, I assumed the only noises I would be hearing would be the wind in the trees, leaves rustling on the ground, or maybe even the occasional bear. Basically, natural serenity.

Boy oh boy was I wrong.

The moment I walk out of my dorm, queue BUSES, and LEAF BLOWERS, and SERVICE VEHICLES, and BIDDIES talking on their cell phones.

Today was extraordinarily loud, however. I'm talking a symphony of pollution. Bypassing the leaf blowers in the Village, I came to the cross walk. Then I hear "DING DING...DING DING..." Huh? Is that? No...it's not... really? The Train. I can probably say I attend the only university where the train is a legit excuse for being late to class.

So this train is huffin' and puffin' and it has to be over a mile long. Ten minutes later, the train starts to slow down. It even appears to be STOPPING. It gets some momentum back and lets out a roaring boost of speed. Bye, train.

Finishing my walk to class, service vehicles (orange golf carts) are a putt-putt-putting all over the place. Hey you guys, stop!

Now, my biggest and final ailment are JMU's primary mode of transportation. The buses. Yes, I realize that this system is glorified on the weekend and takes tons of my fellow students to their respective apartments and off-campus dining and shopping. But, really, JMU? If you're going to have twenty buses driving around, get them a decent engine so it won't sound like explosions every time they try to tackle even the smallest incline.

On the bright side, I don't have to listen to the band practice endlessly like my friends in Hillside.

'Sup BlogSpot?

My blog is back in business.

Once again, Paul Sorrell has demanded I kickstart my blog again. Due to my slack college schedule, I delightfully obliged.

This time, I won't be complaning about the 900+ kiddies of Tabb High School. Oh, no. I'm in a much bigger pond now. Still a small fish, though.

I'm now in a world surrounded by buses, bicycles, dog food plants, NorthFace jackets, Ugg Boots, spandex (yeah..), and throbbing foot blisters.

Obviously, college is where I reside.

Things to look forward to:

1. Obnoxious HomeStar Runner links

2. rants about college girl fashion

3. the buses

4. rants about college girl drama

5. GCom

6. rants about college girls in general

7. my lofted bed

8. how my dorm smells like cheeseburgers

that's all for now. stay tuned, folks!

Chick-FIl-A for the Soul

On Wednesday, Steven, Britni, and I traveled to Fairfax, Va to participate in another First 100 for a Chick-Fil-A opening. Leaving at 2am, we got there in plenty of time. Arriving at 4:30 am, nearly 150 people were already there. By 6 am, the parking lot was flooded with over 300 avid chikin lovers. It was a pretty interesting crowd. Townies, college students, a group of Mexicans, Ron Weasley, and a five year old scooter gang. Standing with all of these people incredibly early in the morning did little to improve my grouchy, tired mood. Once the raffle started, we all sat on the ground...since, well, our hopes had pretty much hit rock bottom anyway. While intently waited for "Amber Sherman" to be pulled out of the bucket...a small Mexican child wandered from her pack and was running wild throughout the crowd. I ignored said child and kept listening to Mama Sue, hoping she would call atleast one of our names. Minding my own business, Dora the Explorer comes out of nowhere and hits me!!! Excuse me, JORGE, but your daughter just hit me. Que? SU HIJA GOLPEA A ME!!!!!!!!!

In response, they decided to change her diaper on the ground next to us. Lovely. Luckily, none of them were drawn in the raffle so that little girl got off easy.

Anywho, Steven and I were drawn in the raffle so we traveled over with Loser Britni and set up our tent. No, not tent. Palace. While setting up, our "neighbors" made it very clear that our tent was indeed too large for our spot.

"Hey. That's a uhh pretty big tent you got there."

"Yeah."

"It's kind of uhm crowding into our spot."

"Oh, sorry."

"How many rooms does that thing have?"

"Two."

"Yeah I can tell it's pretty big."

"Jealous."

Once our tent is set up on three spots, we can finally relax. Except Fairfax instantly transformed into the Sahara Desert and oh my sweet jaheebus I have never been so hot in my entire life. Waking up from a nap, drenched in my own sweat, is probably one of the worst feelings in the world. Our tent was more of a giant greenhouse than a safe haven from the scorching hot sun.

Fast forward to about 6pm. God must love Chick-Fil-A too because everytime I do one of these First 100's it seems the heavens open up and there's a huge rainstorm. Aside from our leaking rainguard, soaken Chuck, moist mattress, and fluffy hair...the rain was a pretty nice relief.

Around 10:30, I was exhausted and decided to go to bed. This is apparently the same time that our jealous neighbors decided to have an INCREDIBLY loud frisbee golf tournament. Let me explain. They brought a portable frisbee golf which consists of what can only be described as a 6 foot tall bird feeder with vertical chains hanging from it. So all I can hear is the CLANG CLANG CLING of the chains and good gracious is the ghost of Christmas past outside of my tent or what?? In the apex of my frustration with jealous neighbors, they miss their giant bird feeder and hit my tent with one of their frisbees. This not only causes a disruption to my slumber, but all of the sitting water to fall through the mesh on the tent. At this point it is essentially lightly raining over my mattress. I give out a loud roar, half bear half horrible child. The nerdy Liberty University guy offers up the most scared and apathetic apology I have ever heard. He was definitely feeling convicted for waking up the beast.

The next morning everything went pretty smooth except for Britni telling a Chick-Fil-A employee to "shutup lady, like what the hell."

All the Sleepy Ladies

Naturally, being a high school student, I am sleep deprived. Waking up at 6am for the past four years has really taken a toll on my sleep cycle and overall health. With no time to take naps and my incessant need to watch multiple reality shows on almost every night of the week, I can never find the time to squeeze in some extra Zzz's.
So, whenever the opportunity arrives for me to sleep in..I try to take advantage of it.
However, my family (and basic structure of my house), just never seem to get the memo.
On Friday night, Britni and I attempted to go to sleep around 1am. Relatively a pretty early and reasonable time to go to sleep on a weekend night. Our weary eyes and slurred speech both hinted at our exhaustion. Settling down in the bonus room, the house is quiet (for once) and the fan actually isn't making that annoying clicking sound.
But, there does seem to be a burglar downstairs. Or atleast Britni thinks so.
Being the same level of crazy at my Granny, Britni begins to peer out of the window down onto the driveway. For those of you who don't know, Britni is pretty blind (like myself). She had neither her contacts nor glasses so for all she knew, Steven's tiny (old), white (old), Toyota Corolla was a ginormous polar bear (what's he doing here?). Continuing to insist that somebody is robbing me, I get up an investigate. I check the other windows and overhear the television downstairs. Uhm, I don't think a robber would stop to catch his favorite late night show while trying to steal our stuff.
Convinced that it couldn't possibly be Steven coming home, Britni continues to glance out of the window. She finally calls him and he confirms that it IS him that is home. Honestly the likelihood of somebody trying to steal our 23 year old red dump truck is incredibly low.

Once the burglarly is solved, I figure I can finally get some shut eye.
Steven figured he can finally dust his room.
Brother, you're awesome and I love you, but your room squeeks like the dickens. Its worse than nails on a chalkboard, than Dad's sneezes, than Mrs. Abel, than the Italians at the pool. It is probably my biggest pet peeve. How your room got to this 200 year old haunted house state, I am not sure. One thing I am sure about is I risk suffocation by covering my head with two pillows and a quilt to try and drown it out. Unsuccessfully. Also, around this time, cue the awful fan clicking noise. What have I got myself? A hair-ripping house orchestra.
I finally fall asleep around 2:30am.


Thank goodness Mom likes to wash dishes at 7am.

I Believe in Al Gore

Al Gore, you are correct. Global Warming is a problem. For my attitude.

Britni and I decided to walk the Nolan Trail this week. It was about 6pm so we figured the sun was going down and it would probably

start to cool down by the time we got there. I have never been so wrong about anything in my life.

First entering the trail we appeared to be well-groomed, civil, and educated young women. After finished the five mile pilgrimmage, we could sufficiently be described as "natural born amazon women" or maybe Neanderthals. We managed to become completely de-humanized while walking this trail... I think we actually got to a point where we had strayed off the trail and entered the set of Twilight.

As Britni's hair expanded in the humidity, minutes turned into hours. After an hour and a half of walking this trail, we finally found civilization again. We have decided we are too old for such nonsense and will not be participating in anymore nature walks.

Anyways, the instense heat lately has put me in a somewhat zombie-like sate. Or, as Bob would say, sluggish. I do not like the hot. I get cranky. I repeatedly complain that "It's so HOT." So for the benefit of everybody who comes into contact with me, I tend to stay inside for the majority of the day. Otherwise, I'd be like the "night seeker" in the link below....sizzling and hissing when the hot hot sun scorches my skin.

ZOMBIEEE

edit: Please note that the graduation gowns are also extremely hot and
probably made of sheeps wool. It will be interesting to see how my
mood holds up at William and Mary hall on Wednesday..

Pretty Retarded and Outstanding Mania

...or PROM for short.

I have been on a blogging hiatus (sorry, Paul) so prepare yourself for some intense complaining. Let's just dive right in, shall we?

This past Saturday was Prom. My date, group, pictures, dinner, and time at the dance were outstanding. Bob looked dashing, the entire group was awesome, pictures were bearable, dinner was fun, and the dance was great, too.

Of course, the five hours of preparation was somewhat stressful but Britni helped with that.

Surprisingly, I have no complaints about the actual Prom or events leading up to it.

I do, however, have a few words about Afterprom.

It really "grinds my gears" to see people who do absolutely nothing to benefit the school win the ginormous prizes at Afterprom. People who I have never seen, get suspended, or are going to use their $100 gift card to the mall to just buy more skinny jeans and hair dye (I'm talking to you, Jonas Wanna-be). Whereas my ENTIRE group does so much stupid crap to help out that dumb high school (Most School Spirited, my eye!!) that atleast ONE of us should have gotten something (Besides Laura, whose mother I believe rigged the drawing...but that's completely acceptable because Laura single handedly puts on carwashes). Basically, I find it so incredibly retarded that all I got at Afterprom was a $10 Wal-mart gift card that I personally singled out the dumb people who won stuff and let them know they didn't deserve it.

It's actually a statistical marvel that Jeff didn't win anything. Considering he had 90% of the tickets in the TV jar (thanks to Steven, giving him 20 tickets at a time if he did a little jig or got him a taco).

So, perhaps it was karma that none of us won anything... Since we actually stole/cheated to get tickets.

And I really suck at Bingo.

And ANDDD looky looky at pictures.

Geezers

Old people do not know how to drive.

This About Sums It Up

A Year to Remember

No. The answer is No. I will not sign your yearbook. Yeah, we had a class together. Yeah, I sat next to you for nine months (and for the entire month of May, you were probably wondering where I was). Yeah, we may have shared a few laughs (but come on, I'm hilarious that's inevitable). Yeah, I copied your worksheets and jacked your notes. However, this does not necessarily mean I have something sincere and heartfelt to write to you. Yet people insist that I do.

Things I wrote in people's yearbooks over the past couple days:

• Good Job, you didn't drop out
• Your hair is pretty entertaining and so is your monotone speaking voice
• I've known you too long
• I hope you do alright when you leave
• See you in ten years
• Your sarcasm exceeds that of my own

Now, clearly none of those things are very sentimental. But I'm not Nicholas Sparks.

A Kracken From the Sea!

Last week, my "student teacher" (from here on out, known as Monster) finished it's reign of terror (I mean, educational journey) in my Marine Biology class. Readers, a moment of silence for this joyous occasion...

For the past five months it has tortured us with it's overtly masculine bouts of seizure-ish yelling, forced group discussions, activity books, and endless powerpoint slides about who knows what. This person can only be described as...well, ballsy. Not only for it's unwavering nerve to stand up against 19 angry teenagers, but also the fact that I am not quite sure what Ms. Brown is packin' down there.

According to Monster, "you have got to be the most complaining bunch of teenagers I have ever seen in my life." Thank you! I consider complaining what I do best (Duchess of Complaining, if you will). And yes, I am mere weeks from graduating, so sorry I do NOT care about crustaceans and/or estuaries...KAPEESH!?

Monster was not only mean, rude, and inconsiderate...but she (??) was INCREDIBLY butch. When asked about our thoughts about Monster, a male in my class responded, "I would make a prettier girl than Ms. Brown."

Ahh yes, how I love brutal honesty.

Other comments included:

1. She has a terrible personality

2. I hope to God she doesn't reproduce

3. Wait, she wants to teach?

4. SHE'S GONE!!!!

5. I saw her at Busch Gardens once. Touching the horses.

6. She probably dates that other butchy student teacher.

7. What was her name??

All very constructive criticism, good work Marine Biology class. You never cease to impress me.

Also, shout-out to Mr. Heiser if he actually reads this.

"Young MAN, there's no need to feel down..."

Today, Britni and I decided to go to the gym (after engorging ourselves at Moes, but all things in moderation right??!). Now this is an amazing feat in itself. The fact that we will actually stop watching True Life (you shine, girl with two moms), get off ours butts, and collectively drive to the gym is incredible.

Hearing Lady GaGa's Poker Face for the umpteenth time on the way there only intensified the frustration that was about to occur. Pulling into the parking lot, I know it was unlikely we were going to get a spot. But I was still (surprisingly) optimistic. Minutes later I give up on the YMCA parking lot and go across to the York County Public Library to try an find a spot (after somehow managing to parallel park in a space smaller than my car), but I will NOT admit defeat. I find a spot at the library (why are all of you people here, anyway?) and we walk across to the gym. Attempting to sign in my guest, we stand in line for probably fifteen minutes. After judging the Poquoson skodees, it's our turn at the desk. Here is how this conversation went:

Me: "Hi, I would like to sign in my guest."

Overly-Tan-Fire-Crotch-Employee (OTFCE): "Oh, I'm sorry but there are no guests in the evening. Only during the day."

...uhm excuse me?? You're telling me I am only ALLOWED 3 guests PER year and I have to bring them between the hours of 6 am and 4 pm??

Noticing my immediate disappointment and anger OTFCE speaks up again...

OTFCE: "Well you can pay $10 for her and sign up for a...."

Me: "Yeah, no thanks, alright bye."

Seriously lady? I am not going to give you ten dollars so Britni and I can pretend to exercise. Besides, we spent all of our money on Joey combos at Moes earlier today so, sorry, I do not have enough cash to pay YOU for ME to sweat.

Also, while I am complaining about the YMCA...does the "A" now stand for Asian? It's like walking into China Town in that place. Get real!

So, Britni and I drive over to Coventry for a run.

This run is accompanied by overly friendly eight year olds, goose poop, the Lawsons (hey, ya'll!!!), and a car accident...what??

Yeah we were witnesses to a car crash. In Coventry. Way to go.

Doing our civic duty...we stopped running, watched, and unassisted.

In an outrage, Britni started shouting the constitutional rights and that "you better get their information if you want them to pay for that!!!" (Note: Britni has been in many accidents and therefore is clearly an expert on accident protocol).

Since we decided it was best not to help, we finished our run and got back in the car.

After this entire adventure was over, Britni had a epiphany: "It must be against God's law for me to exercise, because THAT, was ridiculous."

And YMCA? There IS a need to "be un-hap-py."

*Edit: Notice Handlebar mustache in video. Sweet lawwwd!

007

Today I went with Bobby (whom, for the remainder of this post, will be referred to as 'Bond') to rent his tux for prom. Bond was measured, tried on shirt and shoes, and ordered his tux in under an hour.

Now, clearly, I am neither annoyed by Bond (hi, sweetie!) nor the tux experience. What I am a bit perturbed by, however, is the fact that all males have this whole formal wear thing SO easy. If I had the luxury of going into a dress shop, giving them my measurements, telling them exactly what I wanted and then receiving everything in a nice little package...I would be ecstatic (and my self-esteem might also be spared, but that is another post).

Bond's prom attire quest involved one store, one Men's Warehouse Employee, one tape measure, one shoe, one shirt, one book of examples, and one salad stained shirt (oh, Momma Mills!).

My prom attire quest involved four malls, nine stores, cranky dress employees, Krystle (an upside, I like her), every highway in Virginia, shattered self-image (...hmm this mirror makes me look fat. Oh, wait, no..that's thanks to Ben and Jerry), Chick-fil-A (also a contributor) and an entire day.

Although it took an entire day and probably a couple years off of Krystle's life (what? it's not like I'm impossible to please or anything...), my dress is now safely tucked away in my closet.

I guess I can finally relax...you know, until June 6th when I am flailing around (limbs freely independent of my body) with bobby pins falling out of my head and fake nails breaking off trying to get ready.

As for Bond? Well, I assume he will get ready in the same amount of time it takes me to put my shoes on and still look wicked hott.

Sucks Flags

Being in an honorary, made-up position (thanks, Mikie) in the SCA is pretty sweet. Free dance tickets, planning events, and the endless range of crap that I am able to get away with. So you might think to yourself, "Amber, that sounds wicked awesome. In fact, that seems like a rip roarin' good time." AU CONTRAR! In attempts to PUNISH the SCA, Mrs. Sassy (crazy) & Mrs. Pitchford (clinically insane) took the courtesy of giving us free tickets to Six Flags.

At the first mention of this trip, I was pumped. Awwhh yeah, a free trip, no school, and a few chill people I get to hang out with all day. But of course, as you may have guessed, this trip has been classified as ball-crushing (Ryan Cummins) with a side of the hottest effing bus oh my god dude its like 50 million degrees (Jeff Schurott).

First things first. I arrive at school at 7 am for field trip. What time did we leave? 8. THIRTY. How many times could I have gone to Starbucks and back in 90 minutes? Like, atleast, 7.

Once on the bus, I estimate that I will go completely nuts within the hour.

My calculations were wrong. It only took about 20 minutes.

After a rousing competition of Name Game and five minute tour from Jeff (your DC tour guide. Well, maybe not DC. Actually, just this bridge near where he used to live. Thoroughly enjoyed however, kudos), I fell asleep. As did my left arm. Waking up to the feeling of pins and needles was only intensified by Nicky B's rendition of Coldplay's Viva La Vida.

Stepping off of the bus, I was glad to be off the metal, muggy, moving (alliteration!) deathtrap. I then realized it was raining. And for the first time I was extremely disappointed in my choice of Northface jacket (what kind of fleece jacket doesn't have a hood? Get real Northface, I need scalp coverage!!).

A couple hours later and you can now call me Ms. Frizzle (see: Magic Schoolbus). However, Creepy Jeff Ride Operator from Ohio did not seem to mind (STOP talking to me...it's called harassment, man).

I have yet to comment on the sheer GHETTO-ness that IS Six Flags.

Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.

P.S. If you are sensitive to partial Racism, do not continue reading..

1. Ride Operator telling me: "If yas dos what imz gonna tellz yaz ta dooz then yalls be finez!" ....check.

2. Ride Operator 2 doing "The Stanky Leg" ....check.

3. Sam's comment, "There aren't any white people on that ride right now." ...check.

4. Extreme 80's-esque comic book decor ...check.

5. Overhearing Ride Operator 3 saying, "The brakes are broken again." ...check (wait, WHAT?!).

6. Overhearing fellow park-go-ers singing "HALLE BAAARRRAAYYY..halle berry.." ...check.

The bottom line here, folks, is that if you ever plan of traveling to Six Flags...reconsider. The rides are probably broken. Or "stuck". Or the park personnel will verbally violate you indefinitely. Or you will pay $15 dollars for chicken tenders.

The light at the end of the tunnel was 5:15. We get to leave.

Queue DC traffic, Amber's short temper, a 90 degree bus, and some involuntary nose picking (Chase, he didn't touch your brain).

Nearly 5 hours later and I am back home. Crankier than ever. But, really, is that such a big surprise??

Thank God for Milano Cookies (props to Jeff's Momma).

Senioritis

I have severe Senioritis. And no, it does not fall under the category of "Amber's Obscure Medical Conditions"... However, my teachers are not letting my Senioritis run it's course. Things I have to do this week? Mentorship board, 500 word paper, FRQ (GET REAL, Mr. Olivo. The AP Exam is over. And FYI, I never cared about your class anyway), and of course the never-ending, ridiculous amount of English prose I am supposed to be reading. Mr. Williams, please take note when I say, "You are so very old that you may very well have peer edited Mr. Shakespeare's greatest works."

I have waited four years for my time. My time to sit back, relax, and take endless naps in Gov't (which Mr. Levi has gladly allowed, mad props to your mad chillaxin skillz). Hearing the Freshmen, Sophomores, and Juniors squuuueeeeeee about watching Marley and Me and Slumdog Millionaire really makes me cringe. Actually, not even hearing them. Just the sight of them. Have you kids ever heard of Public Display of Affection? OH! Of course you have because you're making babies on my locker. ShooSH!! And really, do I need to push any more of you day after day before you get the point that, YOU are in my way. And everybody elses for that matter. Skedaddle!!

...Okay, despite the fact that I am rarely AT school, the time that I am there I would like to spend either a) watching a new DVD release b) shooting the breeze with the newly insane Nazi-esque librarians or c) letting my fellow classmates know just how VERY glad I will not be seeing them anymore once June 17th comes (and OH PS you guys, I do NOT CARE that you didn't receive your 1 or 2 or 3, etc. And No, I will not cut out a 7 for you because you lost yours).

Never fear fellow slackers! For there is a cure for Senioritis. What is it? Forging your father's signature to get out of school. Everyday.

Fat "Guard" In A Little Suit

So the title of this post is a little spin-off of the memorable quote from Tommy Boy. Now, not only does the title pretty much sum up my feelings of my lifeguard uniform, but also gives some introduction to a small, somewhat chubzy, blonde-haired ball of menace. To describe this child it would be best to say that he is a combination of Dennis the Menace and a young Chris Farley.

To begin the list of Chris Farley Jr.'s antics, let me tell you that I foresee this child being a frequent visitor (much to my, and every Running Man resident's, dismay). Yesterday, this child single-handedly harassed three 17 year olds out of the pool. With Crayola Water Cannon in hand, he was unstoppable. Terrorizing every other child in the pool wasn't enough for CFJ, oh no. He decided to test his luck and try to spray me. Uhm, excuse me kid, can't you see that I am completely disinterested in you (lifeguard of the year, huh?). After minutes of death stare, Tommy Boy gets the idea and splashes away. Five minutes of daydreaming later (I mean, really, I am a shoo-in for that lifeguard award) and CFJ come back to inform me that "I cannot get out of the pool as easy in the deep end because.. because.. there is a step missing." (Apparently this child thinks that I am some sort of Mason or something). Just as I am about to tell this child that he probably shouldn't even be in the deep end to begin with, his mother calls him to get out of the pool. HOORAH! ...wait, what did his mom say?

"Tommy, get out of the pool, we're going home!"

Yeah, Little Tommy Boy's name is ACTUALLY Tommy.

Welcome!!

Hi everyone! Clearly the name of this blog lends itself to posts about what I feel are the injustices, inadequacies, and annoyances in everyday life. Being (stuck) in high school, I come into contact with the most incompetent, self-centered, egotistical individuals in existence (Well, maybe not existence, but I sometimes over-exaggerate...okay, ALWAYS). Surrounded by people such as these provides not only constant entertainment, but also some pretty outrageous anecdotes. And just where will these anecdotes end up? Why on this very page!!!... hopefully for your enjoyment, relation, and maybe a little empathy.