O Canada

I’m sorry we never post. I feel like I should, though, because we’re on the links of our friend’s brilliant study abroad blog.

So this past weekend, our lovely doe-eyed friend C took us her semi-native land of Canada, and we hit up this great little town of Cornwall. First we went to a rather quaint little bar…where everyone was 30+. Not to worry, though, we had quite a resourceful group, and as we sipped our wuss rum and cokes, JZ  initiated a game of “The Eye”. Basically you try to make seductive eye contact with as many guys in the bar as you can, regardless of their age or level of unattractiveness. Besides that, we were way overdressed for the older crowd. So we decided to quit the Old Folk’s Home and go back to something a little more age-appropriate.

Next we hit up this club, Ranga-something. We had a couple of over-priced shots, but the best part was the dancing – and that’s coming from a girl who had unwisely decided to wear 4-inch stilettos. It helped that we had dragged along with us the infamous JX, who is basically the dance king of the universe. Bee found $40 Canadian on the dance floor, and we spent that on more Florida Tracksuits, which I’m officially dumping BLLs for. Yet none of us felt so much as flushed. After that we hit up Tim Horton’s – arguably Canada’s greatest contribution to Western society – determined that in fact there are Canadians that use eh? more than is healthy, and then went back to the US to play a hilarious game of kings at C’s friends’.

So it wasn’t exactly a Montreal rage fest, but it was probably one of the best nights of my entire collegiate career. Goes to show what some cool cats and a little Stephen Harper can come up with.

-L

Theme song of the night:

Org(y)anizations. And Poopsie’s future boyfriend.

Poopsie is in love. Well, she won’t say she’s in love, but we know she is. The object of her affection is a powerful golden stag by the name of Stagheart (just go with it. GO. WITH. IT.). Anyways, they are meant for each other. They complement each other’s fashion choices. They both are politically motivated and in some way Canadian (ew). They both have lovely bone structure and fabulously long, sculpted legs. Problem? They’ve never met.

So as Poopsie and I are waiting here at the organization fair, we’re devising ways to for them to meet. Fortunately I have a class with the lucky man, so we just have to “run into” him and I can start conversation over some stupid syllabus question. The poor man is in for a ride.

-L

Syllabooze Dayz

Let’s recap. I love the first two classes of a course, AKA syllabus classes. Why? This should be literally a no-brainer: little to no homework, discussion, critical thinking, note-taking or general academic functioning. But all of this comes at a price.

You see, there’s always the introductions. You stand up, say your name, your year, your major, why you’re taking the class, and a “fun fact” about yourself. Introductions are therefore vital to my assessment on how dreadful and/or zoo-worthy a class will be. I mean, you really seal the deal with how much people hate you in your introduction. Numero Uno are the girls who are Biochem-Fine Arts double majors with a minor in Government and are taking the class “because I went to Africa and this is just, like, really relevant there and I really want to, like, help Africa” and then their fun fact is some invariably stupid inside joke about their aloe plant named Allen or how they love to ski. It doesn’t help that they’re rocking hair bows and obnoxiously huge fake pearls. Who do you think you are, white girl? Michelle O?

Besides the you’ve got your standard Random Senior Who Will Smoke The Bell Curve, the Pimply Kid That Won’t Shut Up And Will Contradict The Professor, the Silent Serial Killer, the Slacking Stoners Who Don’t Give A Fuck, the Rhino Corner Guys, etcetera etcetera. Then there are the kids who really throw you for a loop. This one guy behind me in Evironmental managed to get through the basics without encouraging my scorn until he dropped this bomb: “I guess my fun fact is that I’m an alternate for the US Olympic ski jumping team.” Dude, what a bitch move. Totally blew all our fun facts out of the water. Carlie was going to tell us about her shih-tzu and you completely ruined that for her.

-L

Let’s take this for a spin.

So, since posting required me sitting down and concentrating, I just haven’t. This is me experimenting with posting from my crackberry, which will allow me to give you direct observations from the field. Woohoo! Go technology!

The annual Quad Experience was last night. In the pouring rain. The Zoo will be participating just next fall…crazy to think how time flies.

-L

I was lost, but now I am found.

To use or not to use? That is the question.

Of course, I am referring to condoms.

Of course, you should use them.

However, eventually (and especially when a fierce vixen gets on the pill) sex is experienced without a condom. And then Hell opens up and engulfs the evil sinner that you have become. Oh, and you still get pregnant and die.

Just kidding. Well, sort of.

But, really. It feels so much better without the condom. However, that really isn’t okay. Pills are great and effective, if you remember to take them, but shit happens. So what’s the solution? My favorite, trusty brand of condoms (Trojan) created the Ecstasy condom. I don’t think I could ever use any other condom again. And WHY THE HELL DID IT TAKE SO LONG TO COME UP WITH THIS CONDOM DESIGN????A tight bottom ring and then a loose spermy wormy catcher. (Bahaha. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) Now Trojan will start making condoms of that design. Hallelujah! So I suggest that the next time you’re at Wal*Mart go to the birth control section and grab a pack of Ecstasies. They come in a pack of ten for about six and a half bucks. Which is way less than the dollar fifty SLU makes you pay for a condom in the vending machines.

Next on my list: Fire and Ice condoms

I’ll let you all know how it goes.

LOVE,

Bee

P.S.

My friend told me that they make vibrating rings that can go on with a condom. Apparently they are phenomenal.

Get spiffy

So this weekend is Springfest. What is Springfest? Great weather, lots of sun, green grass, some reputedly good bands, and a shitload of beer. I can’t wait. The chocolate lab is coming this weekend, which really doesn’t mean that much except that he provides a suitably good excuse to get ridiculously crunk. If you see a super happy drunk chick with big, wild hair singing random parts of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, you’ve officially met L. Consider yourself lucky.

Tomorrow night is Club Win at Pub 56. A little different from the Winston Room, so I’m excited to check the new set-up. I missed it last time. My two day week, as it turns out, is a little more work-heavy than I had originally envisioned, which is partially why I haven’t posted at all lately. Apologies, Zoogoers. JESUS STAY ON TRACK L. ANYWAYS. I’ve got this awesome black sparkly asymmetrically-sleeved shirt picked out. Bee, being the brilliant nail artist, decided to bust out of the green-and-pinks and gave me an edgy “I’m a 90s hipster” black-gold-and-white wave pattern. Then she swiped on glitter. Class and trash. I’m fucking serious…and I’m here to party. I love it. Isn’t it crazy how your nails can set the mood for your entire weekend?

This reminds me of a vintage Madonna outfit...

Rock on, SLUzers.

-L

Off the grid

Two (three?) weekends ago, I attended a house party and had too much tequila (read: two salt-and-lime shots). It came as no surprise when my beloved cell phone slipped out of my back pocket and went for a swim in the toilet. It came as even less of a surprise when, decidely disgusted,  I washed the phone off in the sink. Despite a recuperation period in a cup of rice, courtesy of Maneater, my lovely phone did not make it. The first few phone-less days were difficult, but now I’m dreading the impending arrival of my new phone.

That’s right. Take a moment to process that.

These past few weeks have been so relaxing it’s unbelievable. I mean, I’ve had tons of work due, pulled a few all-nighters, gotten disgustingly sick, had a fight with my dad, and it still feels less crazy than usual. I don’t constantly feel the need to be checking , texting or calling. I don’t have to worry about turning off my phone every time I enter a building. If I want to hang out with someone, I have to walk across campus to find them. I have to talk to my roommates because they’ve been getting my text messages and stuff – I can’t hide stuff from them. These all sound like little things, but you know what it’s like? It’s like that phone has been chaining me to other people’s agendas. It’s almost like without the phone, I am completely my own person. I’m not privy to someone else every time it vibrates in my pocket. Not that I resent the people I usually I talk to on my phone – to the contrary, I love them. But it’s incredibly nice not to be in the network, the grid of faceless communication.

Try it…and rock on.

-L

One of the most thorough taxonomies ever produced, and possibly the single greatest contribution to Zoology as a science.

So I was trolling through the blogosphere and found this: this kid should get a free ride to Harvard, and I’m not even kidding. Also, read the comments on the post. They’re hilarious. All I’m going to say is that Types of Bitches is somewhere between Jay-Z’s 99 Problems and Martin Luther’s 95 Theses in terms of its global historical impact and sheer awesomeness.

Also, a rather well-researched response to Types of Bitches, Girl Gone East’s The Most Complete List of Guys Ever Created. I highly suggest you peruse both taxonomies and make use of them often.

Rock on.

-L

You’re on a boat

I know you’ve seen this a million times already, but it never gets old. I’m on a horse.

Basically, America is bad. Ass.

What the fuck?

Reveal yourselves and be proud of who you are, facebook stalkers of the world!

Better late than never?

Today’s Ash Wednesday. Surprisingly, I actually did remember this, so I can now comfortably refer to myself as a good Irish Catholic girl when I feel I have to. So what am I going to give up for Lent? Well, the obvious answer is beer, but that would be inconvenient. So I got to thinking…FACEBOOK! Seriously, it is the biggest timewaster for me. It’s like a drug. I’ll be sitting at my desk crushing some textbooks when I get the calling – L, coooome to meeee…seee the pictuuuurrreeess - and boom, forty minutes later, I’ve facebook stalked everyone and their mom.

Speaking of facebook stalking, what’s the big deal? At a party a few weeks ago, Y and I were talking to this little wolf. I happened to know where he was from. How did I know that? Facebook, naturally. I feel like he friended me the summer before we all actually came to SLU as freshmen, and then since I never actually met him I de-friended him. But every time I see him my brain automatically ticks off “Little Wolf, from the Natural Bridge”. So when he introduced himself, my response was “Nice to meet you, Little Wolf. I’m L. You’re from the Natural Bridge, right?”

He was a little shocked.

Y quickly tried to cover me. “Oh, she probably saw it on the Wolves’ roster,” she said quickly. But I kept going. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard it…from some people. My parents are from there, that’s why it stuck in my mind, you know. Anyways, where did you go to high school?”

The damage was done. He knew I’d made the facebook connection. Seriously, though, why is it such a big deal? Everyone facebook stalks, unless they don’t have a facebook profile. If you don’t have a facebook profile you (a.) are awesome and (b.) don’t exist, so this doesn’t apply to you. I think in this day and age we should just chill out. It’s really funny, though, when I meet someone for the first time and go through the motions of introducing myself, when I really already know the other person just broke up with his girlfriend, has a lakehouse on Lake George, has a golden retriever named Oliver, and went backpacking in Switzerland. Of course, he doesn’t know shit about me because my profile’s on private. Suckaaa!

Come on, peeps, you just can’t be creeped out anymore. Facebook has blown that out of the water. Now go check out the new photo album that girl in the gym just put up of her trip to Jamaica.

-L

(518): GO L!!!!! DO ITTTT

Use your imagination on that one ^. Let’s just say SUNY Plattsburgh…happened.

Nice catch, girlfriend.

I hate social codes of conduct. They really make  life unnecessarily uncomfortable. If you want something, you can’t just ask for it – then all your friends think you’re a freak. That’s why people get drunk all the time, so they have the excuse. It’s really quite unfortunate. Wouldn’t it be great if you could just ask for it without any reservations? Instead of the whole dance back and forth, the constant overanalyzing, the delicate gauging of interest, your typical pre-hookup convo would sound something like this:

Girl: Hey, I like your jeans.

Boy: Thanks. Aren’t you Bee’s friend?

Girl: Yeah, she’s great. Hey, I think you’re hot.

Boy: Yeah? I’d say the same thing about you.

Girl: Sweet. Do you want to have a ferocious make-out sesh with me, but not have sex? I’m thinking we’ll lose the shirts, but those fabulous jeans stay on that fabulous ass.

Boy: Sounds cool. How does my buddy’s couch sound?

Or, if Girl was feeling a little more ferocious than a make-out sesh:

Girl: Ugh. Not a fan of your jeans, man.

Boy: What?! Who the fuck are you?

Girl: Chill. I’m Bee’s friend. And all I’m saying is I’d like you better without them.

Boy:…Oh. What does that mean?

Girl: Do you want to have sex with me?

Boy: I‘m all fucking yours.

Girl: Great. I’m gonna text Bee and tell her that her mattress will be busy.

I wish people did this more often. I wish guys did this more often. Unfortunately, they’ve been told that they’re creeps if they ask like that. I don’t know why. Let’s face it. College parties are already skanky situations, and let’s be honest, we’re all there for the sexmosphere. I hate it that we all – okay, just the girls – get so damn pretentious. I mean, I don’t want dudes getting all aggressive on me, but there is such a thing as asking nicely.

That said, I’m not encouraging y’all to go get laid by a stranger every weekend. But occasionally a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do (same goes for guys). Just be smart about it. I bet we’d be a lot smarter sans alcohol, and we wouldn’t need the alcohol if we just took the dive every now and again. Think about it – you just ask for specifically what you want to do with this incredibly attractive person, instead of getting smashingly drunk and attacking the object of your desire, who may not be that gorgeous in the morning.

So here’s the looming question: what if they say no? Let’s face it. If you go for it, you have a 50-50 chance. If you chicken out, you’ve got 0% “yes”, 100% “no”. Bummmmeerrr. And so what if he says no? Yeah, it’ll sting. For five minutes. Get over your damn self. It’s a one-night stand, not you professing your undying love for the kid. The stakes aren’t exactly high.

Of course, that’s just my ideal. I have yet to be ballsy enough to pull such a stunt (sober, at least). But hey, next time you see the cutie across the room, you might just get lucky and save a few brain cells.

Happy hunting!

-L

Happy Commercialized Love Day!!!!

In honor of V-Day I’m going to share an awesome and intense video with you guys!!

Valentine’s Day Video!!

Hope you all enjoyed it!!! (Click the pink shiznat for the video!)

Love,

Bee

BE MAH BABY DADDY!!!!!

My mother is sexist. That’s right Big Momma, aka Big M for short, is sexist. Oh. Not sexist against men. Big M is sexist against women. WHAT!?!? WHY!?!?! HOW COULD THIS BE!?!?

I was fb chatting with my sixteen year old brother and he wasn’t sure what to get his pretend girlfriend. Now, you might be asking how can you have a pretend girlfriend? Well, I will fill you all in. A pretend girlfriend is someone you are basically dating, however, you don’t like labels so you keep it unofficial. Dumb, I know. And I am an expert on this. He got the theory of a pretend GF from me because I was dumb and said I didn’t like labels. So instead you’d have to introduce your pretend BF/GF as your friend to people.

“Oh, this is your friend? Why do you guys make out all the time then?”

Haha. Yeah. Been there done that. Labels make introductions easier. Therefore, they are needed. Because awkward introductions suck.

But back to my sixteen year old brother. So he was trying to figure out what he should get his PGF for Valentine’s Day. I hate Valentine’s Day so I wasn’t much help. Although, I spit out some pretty solid ideas about going out and doing something together, but he reminded me that in high school there is a February break and that is when he and my mom and dad are going to Florida. I suggested that he get his PGF a gift there. That would be cool. He went all the way to FL for a Valentine’s Day gift, kind of. What does he say to that?

Brotha- “She’ll be in Florda.”

Bee- “Wait, she’s going with you guys?”

Brotha- “Yeah, haha.”

Okay cool. WHERE IS SHE SLEEPING? They rented a one room condo. My parents in one room. Brotha on the pull out. PGF ON THE PULL OUT!?!?!

I don’t get to sleep with my REAL BF in the same bed.

Why?

Big M is sexist.

Her reasoning?

Girls can get pregnant.

I am twenty. (I know, I know, I’m old.) Did I mention how old my brother is? Yes, yes. SIXTEEN. Ugh. He could be a baby daddy.

BABY DADDY: "Is this how you hold it?"

The day that happens, I might just laugh. But not really.

I hate double standards,

Bee

The MySpace Pic.

Everyone has had one. Male, female, he-she. We all have taken a myspace pic of ourselves. And it is strictly called a myspace pic because I am convinced that this is where the picture originated. You know, amongst all the thirteen year old emo kids who were trying to look tortured and artsy-fartsy. However, this phenomenon has also infected facebook. Now do I really care if you decide to take a myspace pic of yourself? Nah. But I usually get a good laugh at it. But the fact is. Most people enjoy taking pictures of themselves. Everyone likes to think they are hot, so why not boost your ego by taking a flattering picture of yourself? Who else is gonna take a picture of you from a steep upward angle while you’re all pouty lipped and looking off to the side? Your mom? I don’t think so.

The Girl MySpace Pic

I did my own field work for this one

The girl myspace pic generally consists of a girl who is pouting her lips and sticking her chest out as far as it would go. Girls try to take pictures using abnormal angles. The pictures are usually in black and white or are edited using an online photo editor such as picnik.com. Girls also like to add graphic hearts, stars, kissy lips, or, heck, all three! Most of the time there is some love quote that says “To be your friend was all I ever wanted, to be your lover was all I ever dreamed” or “The worst thing is holding on to someone who doesn’t want to be held on to.” However, my absolute favorites are the ones where the girl in the pictures look naked. Why? Because the comments that ensue usually go something like as follows:

Jenni Star OMG, gurl! You look so purrrty!! But are you naked!?! lolz

Adam Smith baby giirl you lookin g00d wha you doin tonite?

Sammi Cakes OOoooo skaank! put sum clothes on!!!

You get the point. And then the girl is like “Hey, everyone! I had a bathing suit on! You just can’t see the strings!” or “Thanks Jenni, but you’re prettier. And no I’m not naked! I’m wearing a tube top!”

GAG. Sorry, I just almost barfed.

The Guy MySpace Pic, Yes they have one…

The identity of this tool had to be protected, hence the stash... the chin pube is legit, though.

The guy myspace pic often involves a guy who is shirtless or is in a wife beater. My favorite guy myspace pics are the ones that are just a shot of his abs. REALLY!?!? Put it away. Have someone take a picture of you outside in your bathing suit. Don’t take a self portrait of your abs. No one cares that you go to the gym three times a day and drink muscle milk for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The guy myspace picture also usually involves the guy making a “tough guy” face or the “I-could-kill-someone-if-I-wanted-to-but-then-I-would-lose-my-membership-to-the-gym-when-they-throw-me-in-prison” face. Some guy myspace pics host dudes in 59-fitty hats or a sweet pair of shades, as per above.

Now there is a new wave of myspace pics. Laptops have built in webcams/cameras, which allow people to take pictures of them selves without the pesky “camera arm.”

Happy Picture-Taking!!!!

Bee

Having returned to the Great Frozen North…

Alright, I’ve been in the Great Frozen North this whole time. Whatevs, it’s always a little more frozen in Canton than it is anywhere else. I apologize for not having written lately, but with the holidays and various activities I’m engaged in I’m super stacked. This post is a quickie because I have a shitload of Environmental to read  – I’m just tossing an idea around.

This is going to be so unfortunately true

Lately my body has been making a showing as the World’s Greatest Bioengineering Failure, and my future ability to hit the elliptical has been severely jeopardized. So, naturally, all I can think about is how much food I can eat without having to feel the urge to exercise. That, and my recent viewing of Julie and Julia has inspired me to start a dinner club. Or cooking club. Whatever.  Bee and I came up with the name Food & Sex (Everyone’s Two Favorite Things) and at every dinner we have some sexy movie or pop culture thing (or something?) or a theme and a meal that incorporates an aphrodisiac ingredient according to Cosmo. It’ll just be us and whoever we feel like inviting. I’ll finally learn to cook. It’ll be fun. If you want to come, just ask us.

Rock on  (and no making out on the table).

-L

Bitter about the cold…plus I’m bored

And now for a little poem of my own:

ahemm….

En route on a flight to the Southeast

and might I say

how ironic it is

that I’ve chosen to fly

with Northwest airlines…

poet laureate much?

-poopsie

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

I really like this poem of the week idea. I am going to share with you all a Dutch poem. My hometown was settled by the Dutch so I think it’s fitting. Although I discovered this poem when I was watching the movie Dennis the Menace. Mrs. Wilson recites this poem to Dennis before bed. The poem is by Eugene Field.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!”
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish
Never afeard are we”;
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
‘T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought ‘t was a dream they ‘d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Much love,

Bee

Quiet

So my main goal during this long drawn-out Christmas break is to read more books. Currently, I’m reading a scandalous trashy novel about a sex scandal at some boarding school called “The Restless Virgins” which by the way, I would definitely recommend if you need to jump start those hormones or are just wanting a reason to thank god you’re not in high school anymore. However, I’ve also been musing over a book of Billy Collin’s new poem’s, “Ballistics”, which is absolutely fantastic! I was reading it this morning and thought to myself, “hey, maybe the zoo should have a poem of the week!” And so, ladies and gents, today will mark the beginning of a hopefully long lasting poem posting tradition on the zoo. I’ll start with one of my personal favorites from Collin’s Ballistics:

Quiet

It occurred to me around dusk

after I had lit three candles

and was pouring myself a glass of wine

that I had not uttered a word to a soul all day.

Alone in the house,

I was busy pushing the wheel in a mill of paper

or staring down a dark well of ink—

no callers at the door, no ring of the telephone.

But as the path lights came on,

I did recall having words with a turtle

on my morning walk, a sudden greeting

that sent him off his log splashing into the lake.

I had also spoken to the goldfish

as I tossed a handful of pellets into their pond,

and I had a short chat with the dog,

who cocked her head this way and that

as I explained that dinner was hours away

and that she should lie down by the door.

I also talked to myself as I was typing

and later on while I looked around for my boots.

So I had barely set foot on the path

that leads to the great villa of silence

where men and women pace while counting beads.

In fact, I had only a single afternoon

of total silence to show for myself,

a spring day in a cell in Big Sur,

twenty or so monks also silent in their nearby cells—

a community of Cameldolites,

an order so stringent, my guide told me,

that they make the Benedictines,

whom they had broken away from in the 11^th century,

look like a bunch of Hells Angels.

Out of a lifetime of running my mouth

and leaning on the horn of the ego,

only a single afternoon of being truly quiet

on a high cliff with the Pacific spread out below,

but as I listened to the birdsong

by the window that day, I could feel my droplet of silence swelling on the faucet

then dropping into the zinc basin of their serenity.

Yet since then—

nothing but the racket of self-advertisement,

the clamor of noisy restaurants,

the classroom proclamations,

the little king of the voice having its say,

and today the pride of writing this down,

which must be the reason my pen

has turned its back on me to hide its face in its hands.

Live well my darlings,

-Poopsie

Nothin’ like a little Americana

Because I had two finals today, I decided to veg out and do non-intellectual things for the evening. I watched some pointless training dvds of stuff I already know how to do, posted a little on The Zoo, had dinner at the pub (curry turkey in a bread bowl, hell yes) and then I indulged my red-blooded American self and watched Posse. Not the western. The hour-long CMT special. About PBR cowboys. As in professional bullriders.

I hate NASCAR because it’s stupid, mindless, over-commercialized, redneck and you can’t see what happens to the drivers when they crash. So the way I see it, bull riding is automatically classier than NASCAR because you always get a sweet close-up of the damage when they eat dirt. Best part? One of the guys on this show is named Ryan Dirteater – I’m not kidding, that’s his real name. He broke his femur being crushed by a bull that fell out of the gate, was out for nine months, and on his first event back, he got his spur caught in his hand rope, dislocated his knee and completely tore three major ligaments. So he totally ate dirt. Irony is never lost on me. Mwahahah.  I was a little sad, though, he was pretty cute. I love the shots of the training room. They’re all ripped. You know what they do for training? “Lift weights, run, and ride horses bareback.” There is a God. I can take a little stupidity for a smokin’ hot bod and the whole cowboy aura. Not to mention the sweet paycheck. And I can totally put on a southern drawl.

As Y said, there is nothing more American than bull riding. The Spanish have made an art form out of being chased by bulls. They spend their whole lives learning how to be sauve, throw around a red cape, and sew sequins on their insanely tight outfits. Americans, however, decided that if we could stay on a bull for eight seconds, we’d make it into a sport. Hell yes.

I love America. Yeehaw.

-L

Brainfuck

So today I had a doublefuck of finals. There were parts in the first exam where I had to be pretty vague, but the second one literally ripped off my head. I wasn’t even halfway through it and I physically felt as if someone had a vice grip on my forehead. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the class who has read all of the texts, so I don’t know why I was having such a hard time with it. I just totally could not remember what I needed to remember, and I had studied all weekend. I thought that perhaps jamming my pencil into my thigh would make me feel better, but I felt like my blood spurting everywhere would be fairly distracting. Okay, so maybe that was a little violent. But if it wasn’t my thigh it would be the face of the guy next to me, and he totally didn’t deserve it.

It was pretty ridiculous, and I’ve got to do my Economics final tomorrow evening. So I’ll wake up tomorrow and study my butt off. I hate economics. I’ve figured out why I suck so much at econ even when it’s my favorite class – it’s the only subject that I can’t bullshit my way through. Well, I shouldn’t say that. I don’t bullshit, I critically bullshit. Basically I know how to sound like I know what I’m talking about. Economics, however, won’t let you do that. You know it or you don’t. Screw that. I prefer to wax poetic.

Rock on,

-L

AWOAD: The L word

There is no phrase in the english language that is more anticipated, feared, and/or hoped for than the L bomb. And by “L bomb” I don’t mean “L walking into your room unannounced and stripping naked”. No, I’m talking L-O-V-E. Oh, lordy, I’m a little dizzy just thinking about it. I mean, my friends and I cuss like Irish sailors or drunken rednecks, but the minute one of us mentions the L word, the room just goes dead silent.

I should say that you can scream “ZOMG MARK I FUCKING LOVE YOU!” at the top of your lungs and no one will give a shit. Even a playful response like “Oh, Jim, I love you” when a friend is fooling around is acceptable. But then there’s “I love you.”

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

I’m not saying I don’t want you to love me, but you can’t “pretend-love” me, and when you choose random-ass places to express your undying devotion, it doesn’t exactly inspire my confidence in you. For one thing, don’t leave someone hanging on an ILY. You’re kind of a coward if you drop the L bomb when you’re not going to see the girl for a week or more. And I don’t recommend saying it unless you’ve moved past basic dating into yeah-come-over-and-hang-out-whenever-you-want or, at least, you can see a general reciprocation of interest from the girl. And please, please, please, please MEAN IT.

Thanks, boys.

-L

‘Tis the season

Alrighty, so here’s the update. We have a facebook page with currently one fan, because we’re flipping AWESOME: Be a fan and rock out.  Our twitter is linked to it, so that’s why Field Observations looks like it’s gone apeshit (chickenshit, bullshit, apeshit…I’m on a roll). Also, in case you haven’t already found yourself watching cheesy christmas movies or absent-mindedly humming “Santa Baby”, it is the holiday season, so I decided to be festive and turn on the snow at The Zoo. Be amused.

Secondly, I have developed an obsession with this guy named Mike Posner overnight (AKA when I was supposed to be working on economics). I highly recommend you check out his YouTube channel for a full sampling, but you may have to look around for some of my favorites: the snarky remake of Beyonce’s Halo, the airy Speed of Sound, and the weirdly endearing Drug Dealer Girl. However, I really felt as if this song needed to grace The Zoo. Why? Because it inspires fond memories of Bee’s chocolate lab, who had the nerve to say it has “no soul” and told me to listen to that Shwayze kid. I’m hurt. But aside from that, this is a sick song to cruise around town to. Just don’t burn too much ozone, please.

Rock on – just like they do it down at Duke.

-L

Found while randomly blogsurfing.

Watch this video and don’t feel bad if you’re a little confused at first. Then watch it again and see if you can name all the different…interests!



Rock on.

-L

The Walk of Shame, Part II

I have a confession to make. I’m actually S, I was just too chickenshit to admit it two days ago. Now I have something more to write about, though, and I can’t say “Oh, S felt this way” because that’s bullshit and you would know anyways. I just used chickenshit and bullshit right after each other.  That’s a new life high.

Okay, so, we here at The Zoo are completely into the sexual liberation of females, so you probably already understand our take on the walk of shame. My ONS (one night stand) wasn’t that bad except for, you know, the messy part at the end. And I was safely passed out in my own room by 2am, so I didn’t have to march across campus the next morning with last night’s mascara smeared across my face. I’m all set, right? I can move on into finals and holiday schmoozery footloose and fancy free…but I forgot about something.

The dude.

Our campus is fairly small, about 2500 students. That’s partly the reason I picked this school, because it’s big enough that there are tons of interesting people to meet, some people you will never meet, and if there’s someone you want to meet you know where to find them (like our favorite, the Zoo, or the Watering Hole). Problem is, you can’t really avoid running into someone you don’t want to see. I think I’m on good footing because I’ve never seen this dude before, which means we’re probably very different majors on very different schedules, which means we’re not likely to see each other ever. Still, I’ve been running around with my fingers crossed and trying not to make much eye contact with anybody. I steer clear of guys looking dark and wolfish even from a distance. Today, however, I was in the mood for grape chicken salad at “Le Jockstrap”, as we like to call it, a little cafe in the athletic center. Great, L, be the little fish that swims into the shark’s mouth. As soon as I walked in it dawned on me that this is where one would find any given wolf on a weekday between 11 and 2. Positively brilliant. I slunk past a table of wolves and hunkered over the counter to grab my yogurt. Didn’t see him – probably because I was darting through the crowd and peaced the scene like a hummingbird on crack – and the chicken salad more than made up for it, but the point is I can’t live in fear.

Alright, so I’ll buck up and walk around like I own the place, just like I always do. But what happens if I come face-to-face with ONS? This could make for a very awkward but positively hilarious post. I hope there is never a Walk of Shame III, but I’ll be sure to share my humiliation if there is.

Rock on (who cares who’s looking),

-L

I don’t have a “type”.

At least, I used to think so. But, I was talking to my best friend, Killa (I’ve talked about her before), and she said something that made me want to research this whole type thing.

Killa: I just don’t understand what makes guys fall for me so hard.

We have both had three guys that were/are “in love” with us. So you might be thinking, that’s nice. What does this have to do with having a “type”, Bee?

I started to think about the three guys she was referring to. Her first love/real boyfriend is specimen #1. The second specimen is a boy that she didn’t actually date. She liked him, but not as much as he liked (well, loved) her. And the third, is her current beau. Whom, I do believe she loves back, even if she is a bit afraid to admit it. However, all three specimens were unexpected, pretty sensitive, clean shaven and love to write her poetry.

I decided to look at my own love life and see if any of the boys who have said the “L” word have had anything in common. Now my specimen #1 was also my first real boyfriend, however, I didn’t love him back. Someone actually gave me the advice to just say, “I love you” back to him so I didn’t hurt his feelings. THIS IS AWFUL ADVICE. I should have never followed it. Ladies, don’t say it unless you mean it. Anyway, the second specimen, like Killa’s, was a boy that I didn’t date, nor did I love, but who decided that he loved me. And the third? My chocolate lab. I started analyzing these three specimens. And I realize that they did all have some things in common. All three play the guitar. All three love baseball, but didn’t play in high school. All three appreciate classic rock music. And all three had some Italian blood in them.  I think those are some weird things to have in common. But they really aren’t all that similar. S1 was extremely sarcastic. And short. S2 was about six years older than me and was tall. And I am biased towards S3, because he started out as one of my best friends. His height is in the middle, AKA ideal, haha.

So ladies, perhaps you should analyze your past loves and see if they all share some odd characteristics. Because it seems that we are attracting people with oddly similar characteristics.

Confounded, but yours,

Bee

I’m just lookin’ for a good time

So we all went out Friday after the hockey game (which we narrowly tied, by the way). We all had a really, really, fabulous time pumping fists and shouting various profanities concerning our rival, Clarkson. Y and Bee scored us seats right up against the glass, so we got the full effect of sweaty male bodies slamming against the wall and up-close views of our favorite polar bears with their angry game faces. Pretty sick.

Standard protocol calls for full crunkness post-Clarkson game, especially if you did not attend pre-gaming festivities. The Zoologists, true to form, hit the booze pretty hard with a bunch of tigresses, and then we all went on the prowl at the wolves’ den. Now, there was one amongst us by the name of S, a full-blown lioness who just happened to be completely schwasted courtesy of Captain Morgan. She went into the wolves’ den beer mug in hand and “hiding” a bottle of rum under her tee-shirt. She burst into the room, jumped on a couch and started swaying/bumping to the music in no particular kind of rhythm, regardless of the music, holding her beer mug in the air and desperately trying to  not slosh its alcoholic contents on the spectators. Well, an unsuspecting wolf walked by just as S finally lost her balance. He managed to catch her and save her drink, which pretty much sealed deal for the night, if you know what I mean. In case you don’t, here’s a little musical explanation.

So there was a little dancing, a little sharing of the rum, some canoodling in a dark corner (which Y had a unfortunate eyeful of), and then there was the unanimous  decision to head back to the wolf’s room in that labryinthine fortress we call Dean-Eaton. They managed to somehow have a conversation during the trip – the exchanging of the names, the ohmigod-I-can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this babble, and the general but brief complaining about having girlfriends/boyfriends from home (they had apparently both recently terminated such relationships), and, of course, the Ultimate Lax Bro, which appeared to be a common interest. Haha. At least, this is what S remembers. It can’t be terribly clear considering her intoxication.

They ended up in his room and, according to S, had an enjoyable and safe experience. We’re hoping, anyways. He got up to leave the room afterwards and turned on the light. That’s when S noticed something. At this point, the tune changed from the wholesome fun-loving Lady Antebellum to something a little more sinister:

What do you think it was? Oh, just that thing that all women dread. You know the tampon commercials where the whiny green lady gives a pretty pink gift box to a skinny girl in a skimpy bikini? Yeah, fuck that shit. Poor S, having brothers that constantly remind her of the male aversion to processes of the female reproductive cycle, promptly flipped out. And, of course, the site of the rendezvous was a tan futon,  so the carnage was pretty obvious. S threw on her clothes, located her rum and mug, hoping that she could blast out of there and pray that he forgot her name and what she looked like. No such luck. He came back in before she could leave, so the damage was done. She “just kind of word-vomited a bunch of shit” and peaced, despite his calm and rather self-controlled reassurances that it “was really okay, no seriously, don’t freak out”.

So why I am publicly humiliating S via the internet’s global community? Because there is something to be learned here – and The Zoo is all about education. S came into our room, still schwasted and incredibly distraught. While she was bemoaning the fact that he was “going to tell the entire wolf pack! All of them! I’m so embarrassed!” and rolling around on the floor in a thoroughly drunken fashion, we tried to break down her situation. Apparently during one of her many drunk pee trips twenty minutes before the action went down, she was menses-free. She was not due to have it for a week, either. We naturally freaked out, thinking that maybe she was injured somehow and just too drunk to realize it. So we did some serious googling and found out this little tidbit: Can Having Sex During Menstruation End Your Period? If you do more googling you’ll find that S’s unfortunate situation is pretty damn common.

And the cherry on top? S was wearing a pair of fabulous jeans she had borrowed from Y. Whoops.

The more you know,

-L

Your hair looks great!!

“Thanks. It’s sex hair.” Yes. Sex hair. Awesome, right? Well, just wait for the story that goes along with it. This happening took place on November 29th, the last day of Thanksgiving Break and the day that  I had to head back to SLU. I usually drive my car, a.k.a. The Maz, to and from school. I would have done so again, but then my parents would have made me leave the car at school for winter break because The Maz doesn’t handle to well in snow. Thankfully, one of my younger brother’s best friends goes to school with me. We’ll call him Albert, Al for short. Instead of having one of my parents drive me back I would make the four hour trek with Al. Which made this journey less lonely.

Al told me in advance that we would head back to school around two on Sunday. Which sounded good. So I hung out with my boyfriend, the chocolate lab (C.L.), the night before and we said good bye and blah blah. However, I DID NOT GET TO HAVE SEX ALL WEEK BECAUSE I GOT MY DAMN PERIOD! Ah. It went away around Friday, but there was no real opportunity to do the nasty. Sunday rolls around and Al texts me saying that we were going to leave at four-thirty instead.

I had the house to myself. And a few hours to kill. Who do I text?

That’s right. C.L.

C.L. comes over, but my younger brother is hanging around the house for an hour. Finally, he leaves. C.L. and I started to get a little hot and heavy and decided to head upstairs. Mind you, it was about four-ten. Al was coming in twenty minutes. That’s a pretty good chunk of time. I didn’t really worry about it.

That is, until in the middle of it I hear, “JENAE???”

SHIT!

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

I hopped off and yelled, “I’m coming!!!!!!” I threw my clothes on, ran into the bathroom to throw my hair up in a pony tail, broke the hair tie, ran over to C.L. and said, “SORRY! BYE! Stay here for a sec!” and gave him a quick peck, as he laughed, which made me feel better, and ran down the stairs. I know, I know. AWESOME… Well, I get downstairs and run to grab my laptop and see I have a missed call from Al and that he isn’t inside. I grab my phone and a new hair tie and book it out said while screaming, “AL!?!?!” I found him by his car looking bemused.

Al: “I wasn’t going to leave without you!”

I ran inside to grab may bags and book it back outside and hurtle myself into his car.

Al: “You got everything?”

Me: “Yep, let’s go!”

He didn’t say a word, we talked about whatever, and I thought he didn’t notice anything. I thought I was in the clear.

Then one hour into the car ride he said, “So was C.L. at your house when I came to pick you up?”

I had no idea what to say and just blanched at him and said, “ummmm.”

Al: “I saw his car there.”

Me: “Oh, uh. Yeah.”

Al: (cracking up laughing) “This is between you and me I swear I won’t tell anyone! Not even your brother! You guys we’re…?”

Me: “Yeahh.”

Al: “So you guys are together now?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Al: “Well. I like C.L. I don’t know if this makes any difference, but I approve.”

Me: “Oh, it does. Thanks” Yes, I finally said something other than “yeah”.

I got to school and walked in the room.

Maneater: “Your hair looks great!”

Moral of the story? Sex hair looks good whether you finish or not. And man does it suck not to finish, my muscles felt like they were in compulsion the whole rest of the day. They were literally wigging out.

Sigh. Maybe I’ll have better luck over Christmas Break? I’ll keep you updated.

My body is still sexually frustrated,

Bee

Research Behind Enemy (Ahem, I mean Animal) Lines…

Sometimes I just really love men. I’m sure that is confusing to y’all because I hate on them so freaking much. But I have to say that I was browsing Askmen.com- its kind of like the men’s Cosmo I think… I don’t really know. But anyways I of course clicked on the first interesting link that popped up- Top 5 Dates You Can Do Naked. Ah yes. If I ever manage to date someone again these will be vital to know.

So the count down begins generic- taking artistic photos and drawing pictures of each other- who knew men appreciated Titanic so much? And continued with various cliches, from skinny dipping to giving each other massages. Not that those aren’t awesome, but I was expecting something a little less womanly and a little more daring.

But then I got to No. 1

Play Strip Chess.

Do her gloves count as one article of clothing, or two??

Yes seriously. I need to find the man who wrote this article and praise him for his awesomeness. If a guy that I had been dating for a bit proposed a night in playing chess I’d be intrigued. When it turned out to be strip chess I’d be thrilled. I don’t even play chess that well. But god the possibilities. Not to mention finally finishing the game… or not… and just pushing the board on the ground and getting dirty right on the coffee table. This sounds like the best kind of sexual torment.

In fact, now that I think of it you can make so many innocent games into stripping/naked games that can lead right into epic love-making- think strip ‘Guess Who’ and naked Twister. How about Uno? Every time you have to draw cards you have to remove clothes, or you could even have an orgy with strip Pictionary! Oh baby, I’m stoked.

So men you have redeemed yourselves. I mean not really. But the ones who play strip chess have. Keep up the good work guys, I would love to get naked with you. The only thing that could put men any more in my favor right now is if they started dating me. But hey, I shouldn’t demand too much, I need to appreciate what they actually do instead of complaining about their endless faults and issues.

So go get naked and then come back and tell me about it! Deal?

Peace out Scouts,

Maneater

Happy Birthday To Me! I lost my Mind, my Pants, and my Dignity.

Hello all you Zoolicious Zoogermeisters! Poopsie here, reporting from W.A.S.P central, CT. Today is a very special day my frisky freaks, and why you ask? Well, to be blunt, today is my 20th birthday, the big two oh, double digits part 2, my own little 2012. I can hear the walls crumbling around me as this quarter-life crisis impales me! One step closer to the golden (more like browning yellow) years, peeing through a tube and shitting through a funnel, getting gastric bypass surgery, developing osteoperosis, diabetes, cancer of all sorts or worse, WRINKLES…. its a wonder I haven’t shot myself yet today. But seriously folks, time on this earth is short, as I’ve all too quickly discovered in my 2 decades, so make sure you suck life dry of what it has to offer. I’m talking food, sex and splenda (the Godesses’ cocaine). Confused? Let me elaborate. So today, I’m awoken at 4:47 am by my two dogs, one of whom is majorly affected by separation anxiety to the point where you must be within his realm of vision at all times or he will practically piss himself and start wimpering and moaning (jesus Caliban, no wonder you don’t have a girlfriend), the other is a very sexually active female who pretty much humps everything in sight and is disobedient as the day is long. These two wake me up at the shank of the morning hoping for a brisk walk out on the field because nature is calling and I guess shitting all over mom’s used-to-be-white, now sandy yellow (TMI? oops!) carpet is just no longer quite as satisfying as rudely rousing master Poopsie in the middle of her dream about certain stags jumping over the moon….woo, anywaysss I wake up, walk them, feed them and am too awake to go back to bed so i get on my spandex and go for a run.

So I’m running down a nice nature trail just a little ways from my house, enjoying the cool breeze against my face with L’s favorite jessie james songs, “My Cowboy” and “Blue Jeans” on repeat, thinking to myself “Who cares if I’m 20? I’m still young, I’ve got time to accomplish my life goals! Besides, I’m foxy as fuck and obvi I’m in awesome shape because I run and eat well and blah blah blah” when all of a sudden, something snaps, and the cool breeze at my face quickly moves to my thighs and legs, which are suddenly BARE as my spandex have fallen down to my ankles because the elastic band on the waist has split in two, and now here I am, running down a residential rather upper class street with no pants on, turning this way and that searching for the flimsy goddamn elastic band hidden somewhere in the bushes or on the road or up my ass somewhere (it happened so fast, it’s totally possible) looking like a female John Belushi out of Animal House or a seriously disoriented cow, or even a certain Polar Bear on our floor who likes the occasional piss-out-the-window all the while and oh god my panties are exposed and here comes a car oh jesus look at that deer over there! It looked at me and said with its eyes, there is no way my herd is seeing me in the same vicinity as a pants-less loser like you. It’s social suicide.

Fuck you deer, and your ticks.

Well, the car was moving ever closer to I just jumped into a bush by the side of the road, which didn’t much help, because hellooooo it’s effing WINTER and the bushes are BARE kind of like your LEGS so you are still EXPOSED. TO. THE. WORLD. I got away luckily, with just a few dozen trucker honks and furrowed-brow double takes from the well-to-do old timers in their Acura’s or back window oggles from the youngsters and their soccer moms in family Suburbans (“Look mommy, there’s our old babysitter! And she’s NAKEY!)

More on this later…I have another story about a certain luncheon with la mia daddypoo, a former polar bear himself. Until then, woe is me!

Live well (and clothed, preferably) my darlings,

-Poopsie