Lindsey Tries (Again): Going to a Bar

During one of the last weekends of the semester, I called up a friend and asked if he wanted to grab a beer. He replied that he had already planned on going to a bar later for pool and drinks, and I was welcome to join him. I don’t play pool well (true story: a guy once tried to let me win, but ultimately gave up after 40 minutes of me not getting a single ball in a hole).

Two hours of “Oh em gee I'm so excited I have plaaaaaaaaaaans!!” later, I arrived at the bar and grabbed a drink while he and a friend of his tried to lay claims on the pool table. Almost instantly, I ran out of things to talk about, and began to peoplewatch. A team of two guys playing beer pong caught my attention.

“DO YOU THINK THEY’RE GAY?” I tried to whisper-yell to my friend over the bar noise, nodding to the two guys. They were obviously close, and both were attractive. If they were together, they were adorable.

Minutes passed, and my friend had now begun to play pool, but my eyes stayed on the cute male couple, trying to decipher their body language. I like to think I’m quite good at reading situations, but those skills vanish when the person’s had a few. I kept watching them, and decided they probably weren’t gay—they hadn’t shown any affection other than typical “bro” fist bumps, and they were playing against two very pretty girls.

When I had finished my drink and my friend began another game of pool, I strutted past the beer pong guys, who had just finished their game. One of them leaned over and asked if I wanted to play them next. I’m terrible at bar games, so I said no, and we began to talk about bar games we were good at. A few minutes later it was me and the beer pong guy talking at a table, while his friend sat with us too drunk to make conversation. We must have been sitting there for a while, because my friend came over no less than twice to subtly try and see if I needed to be rescued. I declined both times—these guys were super attractive. And nice. And the one was wearing this captivating shirt with pineapples on it.

Through my conversations with the lesser drunk Beer Pong Guy, I found out that he was not gay, and worked as a DJ at the same bar where my parents met. “NO WAY!” I yelled. “MY PARENTS MET THERE. MY DAD WAS THE DJ. NO. WAY.” (I get a little repetitive when I drink.)

Considering my parents met in the bar where he works, I was pretty much the 2015 version of My Mom, and my #1 goal instantly became to learn everything about this guy, who was basically the 21st century version of my dad. I mean, can you imagine if we dated? We would be a damn near carbon copy of my parents 25 years ago. I tried to focus my energy on listening rather than on his pineapple shirt's hypnotic powers.

A little while later, he decided he needed to take his beer pong partner home, and we exchanged numbers. We started texting nearly immediately, and kept on through the night. When I left town for a music festival the next morning, the hourlong drive felt much longer without the constant back and forth of Office references and random banter. It made my day every time I checked my phone to see one (or often two!) unread messages from him. Since I was constantly running from venue to venue or enjoying a concert, it was almost effortless to play that I-have-to-wait-a-certain-amount-of-time-to-text-back-or-I'll-seem-desperate-and-he'll-lose-interest-but-not-TOO-long-or-he'll-think-I'm-not-interested-at-all game we all play when texting someone new.

“Can we be Facebook friends?” he texted the last night of the festival. I knew this conversation was coming—I’ve been facebook free for 3-ish years but forget that literallyeveryotherpersonontheplanet is still on Facebook. I told him I wasn’t on Facebook, and explained why.

He replied saying, “Really? I can’t imagine not being on Facebook.” and I could feel something shift. After I replied saying "Yeah, I miss it sometimes but not enough to go back," he didn't immediately reply like usual. I wondered if something was up.

And something was up, because that was the last text I got from him. After three unreplied-to texts and three viewed-but-unreturned Snapchats, I stopped trying. This guy may be the 2015 version of my dad, but it looks like the 2015 version of my mom needs to be on Facebook.

Lindsey Tries: Making Friends at Work

I recently got a new job. Instead of working at a drugstore, listening to old people tell me their medical problems all day, I now work at a casino, cashing out people’s poker chips and slot machine tickets. I consider it a massive upgrade, considering I get paid a lot more and get yelled at by customers a lot less.

Anyway, I’ve been trying to make friends at this new job. I would guess about 70% of people that work there are married with kids, or they’re closer to my parents’ age than mine—i.e. I can’t picture being friends with them. 

The other 30%, however, leave me very hopeful. There’s at least two groups of employees that hang out outside of work, and I am determined to make it into at least one of those groups. 

In the past, I’ve made friends easily by using these steps:

Step 1: Start dating someone.

Step 2: Make friends with their friends. (Since you’re dating their friend, they kind of HAVE to be nice to you.)
Step 3: Friends!

I decided to follow that same pattern at this job, except there was one slight problem: it appeared nearly everyone was already in a relationship. Through some pretty heavy internet research, I was able to uncover one person that was single and seemed like someone I may like hanging out with. I took note of his work schedule and started trying to make myself extra cute on the days I was going to see him.

Something weird kept happening though: I kept seeing him working at times he wasn’t scheduled, and when I would mention a past conversation, he would have no idea what I was referencing. Despite multiple conversations over several days, he would jump from being friend-level friendly to just-met-you-niceties. 

Then I found out why.

Since I was far more concerned with learning how to do my job than studying faces and names, I didn’t realize that this one guy was in fact two entirely separate people. To my credit, they look vaguely similar, but I should have taken more notice. It only became clear when I noticed the nametag had changed. I thought people calling them different names was merely an inside joke that no one had explained to me yet*.

So instead of having one good friend at work, I now have two people and no idea where I stand with either of them. I have no idea which conversations I’ve had with whom, and I don’t want to be constantly asking, “Hey, was it you that I talked about this with? Or that other guy that looks vaguely like you?”

And of course now that I know they’re two separate people, I can’t believe I mixed them up. They’re around the same height and have similar hair color, but THAT’S IT. That’s all they have in common. And now, I have to make friends with both of them to figure out which one I wanted to be friends with in the first place. 

* One employee looks like Tom Hanks in the movie “Big,” so we call him Tom sometimes. I thought this was along the same lines.

Lindsey Tries: Being a Vegetarian

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey Tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old who first attempted vegetarianism merely to see how long she could do it. (She lasted until she went to Buffalo Wild Wings.) This is the story of her second attempt.]

When the semester started, I told myself I was going vegetarian. I was always jealous of the natural cool vibe vegetarians give off (or I imagine they give off, anyway), and helping save cute little piggies from slaughter is never a bad thing. Since being a vegetarian would be too hard at home (my mom cooks and every meal centers around chicken), I figured being a vegetarian during the week would be easy. I go home most weekends, so I figured I could be a vegetarian when I’m at school, and on the weekends I would go back to eating meat. I was, what the internet refers to as, a “weekday vegetarian.” I didn’t know it existed either.

At first, being a vegetarian was working out great. I had two servings of vegetables with every meal, I had more energy, and I felt proud of my reduced carbon footprint. As the weeks went on, my determination started to dwindle. The black bean burgers I religiously wolfed down weren’t curbing my cravings for chicken nuggets or cheeseburgers, so by the time I came home on the weekends, they were all I asked for.

I got lazy about the nutrition I was getting (just because you’re not eating meat doesn’t mean you’re eating healthy), and was slowly beginning to reside on a diet of energy bars and black bean burgers. It was then that I started to feel weak all the time, and had constant headaches.

I Googled my symptoms one day, and there it was, on WebMD and the Mayo Clinic: I had an iron deficiency. I hit almost all the signs, which is five more than I was hitting before I started this vegetarian diet. My hypochondriac nature thinks I was lucky to have noticed it so early.

I looked at the list of iron-rich foods they recommended, and noticed I hadn’t been eating any of them. As luck would have it—red meat is the #1 recommendation. That night, I got a real burger and decided I wasn’t cut out to be a vegetarian. Not until I find a good chicken nugget alternative, at least. 

Lindsey Tries: Working Retail

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old who’s main career goal is to have a job that doesn’t involve asking “And would you like to join our rewards program?” a million times a day.]

Like many of you, I have a job outside of being a student. During breaks, summers, and some weekends, I slave away to The Man. And not just The Man: the Drugstore Retail Man. Which is like 30% worse.

Now before I get too whiney, let me tell you that it’s not as bad as everyone makes it out to be (most of the time). I would venture to guess that roughly eighty percent of my day is spent doing one of the following: hitting buttons on a touchscreen; getting a full unsolicited run-down of some old person’s medical problems; and talking about the weather. I’m really good at two of these (list-them-on-your-résumé level of good) and I’ve slowly been getting better at not gagging when an old lady asks where the anti-fungal cream for “under the bras” is.

Just kidding, I’ll always gag when someone asks me that.

One of the nerdier things about my job is I’m on the safety committee. I didn’t ask for it, my boss just assigned me. I guess my “question authority” vibes weren’t very strong, and I came off as my true rule-follower self. I ultimately agreed under the condition that I could bring food to the meetings.

I may actually be a good fit for a safety committee, because I have only been injured in the workplace once when I got a job at a deli. On my second day of work there, they showed me how to use the meat slicer, and on my third day, I took a visit to the ER. I wasn’t invited back to work after that. 

But anyway. Here I am, a safety committee member, lifting a box of product over my head when my hand accidentally breaks through a thin lightbox. I remove my now-bloodied fist, wondering how in the hell I’m going to explain to my boss that we need to order a new “Wet N Wild” makeup sign, and oh yeah, I need some band-aids too. I headed to the bathroom to rinse off my hand, only to be greeted by the most foul smell when I open the door—and a giant poop sitting on the restroom floor!

So there I am, bloody fist, looking at a human (I’m assuming) poop on the tiled floor of the bathroom. I gagged, went “Nope!” and immediately ran to tell my boss everything because I sure as hell was not dealing with that.

Luckily, my boss thought my mishap was hilarious (albeit gross), and didn’t fire me like the deli people—although I don’t think I’m on the safety committee anymore. And I suppose while “expert frozen pizza maker” will stay on my résumé, anything mentioning “safety” will not be. 

Lindsey Tries: Delaying the Inevitable (Or, Acknowledging her Wisdom Teeth Exist)

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey Tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year old who is a total hypochondriac and big ol’ baby when it comes to pain.]

I’ve been having some sporadic and short-lived jaw/teeth/gum pain for about a year now. The past week, however, it’s been an every day occurrence, and on Tuesday, after I was just about ready to pull my molars out with a wrench, I called my dentist. (Full disclosure: I don’t have a wrench, so this was pretty much my only option to begin with.)

When I lived in Illinois, my dentist would ask me if I wanted to schedule my wisdom teeth removal, and I would brush it off, saying “Oh, I’ll get it done over spring break.” When spring break came, it was “Oh, I’ll get it done over winter break.” I kind of knew that eventually, they would have to get removed, but I just didn’t want to deal with it all. I mean, every story I’ve heard about wisdom teeth removal is awful. It hurts really bad, you have chipmunk cheeks for days, you can’t eat anything hot, can’t use a straw, the list goes on.

I was mostly hoping that all of my x-rays were wrong and I never actually grew wisdom teeth (a friend of mine doesn’t have any), or that I would fall into a vat of toxic waste, a la makings-of-a-superhero style, that would rid me of my wisdom teeth. Problem is, neither of those happened. My x-rays were most definitely correct, and I still don’t know where to find a vat of toxic waste, nevertheless one that would only hurt my wisdom teeth without hurting the important parts of me.

So on Tuesday afternoon, my years of hopeful denial and procrastination had me by the jaw. I had wisdom teeth that needed to be removed. At that point, I didn’t even care about scary anesthesia or not being able to use a straw. I wanted my teeth out ASAP.

I now have five weeks until my wisdom teeth are removed, giving me plenty of time to consider the upsides to the surgery. After trying to make a list, though, it even seemed like my upsides had downsides.

Upside: Hilarious coming-off-of-anesthesia video. Downside: Will likely be super embarrassing. Upside: 3 days of nothing but Netflix. Downside: Will probably run out of things to watch on day 2. Upside: Unlimited mashed potatoes! Downside: They have to be room temperature. Upside: Might get to keep them. Downside: Do I even want to keep them?

The biggest upside, though, remains: No more pain!

Lindsey Tries: Going to a Bar

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey tries” documents the misadventures of a now 22-year-old who, despite having Wisconsin-born parents, has little to no alcohol tolerance.]

I rarely go to bars. I like staying in and watching Netflix. I always have trouble getting a bartender’s attention, and I’m awful at talking with strangers. (Sidenote: How have I ever made friends?)

One night, however, after a particularly rough day of retail life, I wanted a drink and was craving social interaction outside of the normal checkout line conversations. Still in my work uniform, I sat down at a local Minnesota bar and ordered a beer.

Starving and then-newly 21, I had no idea how bar kitchens work. I figured that as long as the bar was open, the kitchen would be too. Looking around the bar, I noticed the only thing people were eating was popcorn. Craving a burger, I leaned to the guy sitting two seats down, yelling “DO YOU KNOW IF THE KITCHEN’S OPEN?” He shrugged his shoulders and called the bartender over for a refill.

I stayed in my seat, people-watching and super secretly checking out an attractive guy sitting across the bar. A few minutes later, the bartender comes over with not one, not two, but three paper boats of waffle fries. He sat them down in front of me, my eyes more wide and bug-eyed than a Chihuahua. The guy two seats down leaned over, said “Those are for you” and promptly got up and left.

I was stunned. What kind of a guy orders a random stranger three orders of waffle fries and then leaves? And how can I get that to happen on a regular basis? I took one and had the bartender give away the other two.

After finishing my waffle fries and taking my last few sips of beer, the bartender put another bottle in front of me. “From him,” he said, pointing to the cute guy across the bar. I politely waved and mouthed “thank you” while silently cursing the three extra hours I would now have to stay before I’d be okay to drive home.

Literally not a minute later, the beer-buying stranger got up and left the bar. I quickly whipped out my phone and texted nearly everyone I had ever met, “AT BAR. TWO GUYS BOUGHT ME THINGS AND LEFT. WHAT KIND OF VIBE AM I GIVING OFF. PLEASE ADVISE.” I had no idea what was going on. Is this normal? I’m new to bars, is this just how they are? People buy you things and leave? Aren’t they supposed to talk to you? I mean, I came here for conversation, dammit! Not free waffle fries!

Eventually, the beer-buying guy came back and we had a conversation. I still don’t know why he initially left, but hey: I got free waffle fries and beer–can’t complain too much.

Lindsey Tries: Picking a Seat

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

["Lindsey Tries” documents the thought process of a 22-year-old transfer student who spent more time choosing her seats in class this semester than she did choosing her entire class schedule.]

With the start of every semester, I am mainly worried about two things: one, are my professors nice, and two, where am I going to sit? For the first day of classes, it seems as if everyone shows up 25 minutes early, which means I need to show up 26 minutes early if I want any hope of what I consider to be a “good seat.”

Since I basically have the eyes of a sixty-year-old man, I generally need a seat towards the front of the classroom. I wear contacts, but still squint a lot (I’ve been to the eye doctor, and they repeatedly say I don’t need stronger contacts and my eyes are fine. I really think they’re the ones that need new contacts, because I know from their giggles the Q, A, S, and T I just read off were not even close).

I’ve also heard the first two rows do statistically better in class (I have no idea if this is true, but finding out that it’s false now would be like my mom saying “Just kidding! Vegetables aren’t healthy. We just fed them to you all these years because your facial expressions while eating them are hilarious,” so I still follow it). I know from popular culture that the first row is for nerds, though, so I aim for the second row. I still get those possible-statistical-benefits, without the stigma of being a nerd.

I also have to consider whether there are any cute guys in the class, because cute guys can be a trump card in the seat-choosing lottery. Yes, I’m here to get a BFA, but if I can get an MRS degree while I’m at it, why not? Cute guys generally sit in the back of the room, though, so this rarely happens.

Now within that second row, I try to sit by whoever looks the coolest. They may think I’m weird at the beginning of the semester, but I hope they’ll eventually learn to love my vast facial expressions and weird sense of humor, and we’ll be BFFs in no time. I’m basically aiming for some sort of friendship-style Stockholm Syndrome.

So far, I’ve gotten mixed results. But it’s still pretty early in the semester.

Lindsey Tries: Grocery Shopping

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

["Lindsey Tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old transfer student who spends too much time thinking about food.]

I love grocery shopping. Or, more correctly, I love looking at rows and rows of food. I love walking around carefully selecting items that strike my fancy. I love seeing what new, limited-edition items have been released. I love everything about it.

Last week, I had managed to squeeze every last goop out of my toothpaste tube. I have incredible wringing and twisting skills, so to the average person this would be pretty incredible. Yes, that’s a humble brag.

I always make a list of things I need before grocery shopping to make sure I don’t forget anything, so I added “toothpaste” to my list, stuck the sticky note in my pocket, and headed off to the store. The entire list only had four things on it, so you would think that I could leave the list behind, but I forget everything if it’s not written down—and with toothpaste being such a necessary item, I had to play it safe.

Once I walked in, I headed towards the toothpaste aisle, and spotted a display rack of giant bread loaves marked $1. “What a deal!” I thought.

I couldn’t believe more people weren’t taking advantage. I debated swapping out my shopping basket for a cart when the weird looks from people deterred me enough to turn away after deciding on two loaves.

I then started craving cookies. They weren’t on my list either, but almond milk was, and the cookie aisle was basically on the way. I couldn’t decide between my three top choices of cookies, so I dropped them in my basket, while my spaghetti arms used every last bit of strength to hold up the basket rather than drag it on the ground.

After grabbing three items on my list—juice boxes, almond milk, and PopTarts—I realized I had lost my sticky note! I racked my brain, trying to remember what the last item was. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t remember what it was. I decided to check out, thinking that whatever it was couldn’t be that important—I mean, if it was, surely I’d remember it.

Well, I was wrong, because that night while getting ready for bed, I finally remembered what the last item on my list was: toothpaste.

Lindsey Tries: Really Hard

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old that’s still learning time-management skills.]

Let me make one thing clear: the University of Wisconsin–Stout is the hardest university I have ever attended. That’s saying a lot, considering Stout is actually the fourth university I’ve attended. Public, private, doesn’t matter. I’ve done them all and Stout takes the cake.

Perhaps part of the reason it is so hard is because all of my gen-eds are done save one science class, so all I have left is the notoriously time-consuming art and design classes. Or maybe it’s because I am not a conventionally organized person. I say “conventionally organized” because I do not have one centralized location where I write everything, like a planner. Oh no, that would be far too easy.

(Sidenote: I’ve actually tried that, even picked up a fancy $7 one from Target and everything. I adored that planner. Until I started forgetting it in my backpack when I needed it in my purse, and vice versa. The entire ordeal lasted about three weeks.)

Instead, I keep track of everything via several different ways: my Gmail drafts folder, the “notes” and calendar sections on my non-smartphone, the margins of notebooks, several sticky note legal pads and on occasion, the backs of my hands (sorry, mom; yes, I know I’m going to get ink poisoning).

The upside to this is, normally, my chaotic system works. The downside is, well, everything. This past week, I realized that I had an art exam the next day, rather than next week, like I originally thought. This resulted in me, through every fault of my own, having to pull an all-nighter.

Around 4 a.m., I remembered an experience at my first university, where after neglecting an online class until finals week, I stayed awake for a horrifying 76 hours in order to finish everything. I remembered the hallucinations that occurred during my “micro-naps” and my screams that woke up my roommate when I thought I saw a jungle cat on our futon.

(Another sidenote: I am not sure if micro-naps are actually a thing. The 2010 iteration of “Nightmare on Elm Street” tells me they are, but I’m too lazy/scared to research and find out.)

I also remembered a promise I made myself that semester–I would never get that far behind again. And while I’m not necessarily behind, I am worried about having another surprise exam–which is why I’ve decided to try (again) and get organized. Hopefully, this time around will last longer than three weeks.

Lindsey Tries: Transporting a Cat

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

["Lindsey Tries" documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old who always considered herself a cat person until her family actually got a cat.]

Over the summer, I decided to head back to my home state of Illinois for a week, which meant taking the family cat with, since she’d never forgive me for leaving her alone for that long.

Full disclosure: I like cats. I just don’t like this cat.

I figured putting her in the backseat in a cardboard box with some air holes would be the safest option for the four-hour drive. She’d have some room to move around and I wouldn’t have to worry about her distracting me while I’m driving. I cut a bunch of holes in an old air mattress box, threw a towel in the bottom, and began the near-impossible task of getting her into the box.

After I realized the box wasn’t secure and spent the next twenty minutes chasing her around the apartment complex, I buckled the now taped-shut box into the back-seat and started to drive. Before I had even left town, I hear the box rustling around in the backseat. Turns out the air holes I had made were big enough for her to gradually chew on, until they were big enough for her to escape the box completely.

She climbed over the armrest to the passenger seat. I was in the middle of the highway with nowhere to stop, and even if there was, I had nowhere to put her where she’d be contained. The box was history, chewed to bits with holes now big enough for a golden retriever to stick its head through. I had no choice but to let her roam around the car, and eventually fall asleep on the dashboard (sidenote: typical cat, not abiding by the laws of nature.)

Approximately an hour into the drive, there were several stoplights and every time I had to stop, she would roll off the dash roaring MEAOWWWWWWWWWW. I slowed as gradually as I could and would stick my hand out to save her, only to hear MEAOWWWWWWWWWW and have my arm scratched to bits.

The last three hours were more of the same, with some added scratches when I wouldn’t share my drive-thru food with her. She fixed that by shoving her face into the bag, getting her cat hair all over my French fries. I fixed that by throwing the whole fry container in the backseat, entertaining her for the remainder of the drive.

That’s going to be the last time I drive four and a half hours with a cat.

Lindsey Tries: Attending "Free Pen Day" (a.k.a. the Career Conference)

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey Tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old who gets overly excited about free stuff.]

Ah, the career conference. So many resumes, so many ironed shirts, so many free pens!  At my previous university, I would attend every semester’s career fair just to score free stuff. Whether it was pens, pizza cutters, I didn’t care! I threw it all into my Career Fair swag bag. In fact, my friends and I didn’t even think of it as the career fair, we thought of it as “Free Pen Day.”

This year, I was faced with the realization that with a new school comes new standards for their career fair, starting with a new name. Here, they call it a “Career Conference,” and one professor of mine even made it required to attend! Required! He also said we had to talk to two employers! I couldn’t believe it. I have spent semesters mastering the art of blending in with people actually interested in the company, grabbing a free item and then scampering off like a spooked deer. This year, things were going to have to change.

After looking at the list of employers going to be there, I had a plan in mind.  Since no employer is going to say, “Oh, you graduate in two and a half years? Cool, let’s keep talking!” I figured my best plan of attack was to ask a few simple questions, grab a pen and get the hell out of there. I also decided that the two companies I would talk to would be food companies. Maybe they’d have free samples!

Once at the Career Conference, I became even more of a deer in the headlights when I realized just how big of a deal this conference really was. I thought I was being fancy by wearing a solid-colored cardigan, but boy was I wrong! Seeing guys with ties and ladies in blazers, my 20/20 hindsight kicked in: this is not the place for your cat-print Vans shoes.

After making a fool of myself in front of several businesses (what do you mean, MCD doesn’t mean McDonald’s? Why don’t they realize how hilarious their invention of scented glue is?), I decided to call it quits. I left with a few pens, a can koozie, and a little less of my dignity.

Even though this semester’s Career Conference was a fail on the free stuff front, there is a silver lining: there’s another conference in the spring. And I am fully prepared to blend and scamper.

Lindsey Tries: An Earlier Bedtime

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey Tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old with unwavering night owl tendencies.]

Remember when you were little and hated nap time, and now you debate on a weekly basis if you should start an online petition to legally mandate nap time for college students? No, just me? Oh.

This week, I decided to change all of that. Between 8 a.m. classes and unwavering night owl tendencies, I was tired of being tired. My course schedule doesn’t allow for a nap, so I decided to hit the hay a few hours earlier.

Crawling into bed, I was so convinced that getting more sleep would leave me completely refreshed and maybe not even be in need of coffee—and I was right! I woke up feeling great. But that’s where it all started to go downhill.

Waking up without hitting the snooze button left me with so much time that I ended up changing my outfit four times and making two cups of coffee to have a side-by-side comparison of brew strength, just for fun.

I arrived at my art history class approximately 11 minutes early, a record for me. So few students had arrived that I almost started getting anxiety. What do the other kids do with all this extra time? Are they looking at me? Is my hair okay? Should I have chosen another shirt?

Once class ended, I decided to reward myself with a fancy fast food breakfast. Burger King has better iced coffee but McDonald’s has awesome biscuits, so I decided on both places (I’m a fatty, okay?). Since I was not about to bring a BK cup into a McDonald’s, I chugged it on the way and started thinking that drinking a large iced coffee on an empty stomach wasn’t the smartest idea. I dizzily ordered two hash browns and one sausage biscuit, because it was the cheapest biscuit-themed item and in my overactive mental state I thought asking, “Can I get one plain biscuit, please?” was too much work.

Hearing an employee holler “Two sausage biscuits!” had me flailing towards the counter so fast my brain hadn’t realized my mistake until I was outside: That was not my order. Going back inside seemed far too embarrassing—really, who grabs someone else’s food? I ended up skulking in the driver’s seat and mourning my orphaned hash browns.

After an intensive internal debate about going to bed earlier (Pro: enough time to get ready. Con: accidental food theft), I decided it’s just not for me. You’re welcome, McDonald’s customers.

Lindsey Tries: Coping with Hard Water

The following originally appeared in University of Wisconsin - Stout's student newspaper, Stoutonia. 

[“Lindsey Tries” documents the misadventures of a 22-year-old transfer student.]

One thing you should know about me: I’m high-maintenance. I will vehemently deny it, but ask me to grab dinner and I’ll say, “Okay! Just let me brush my teeth, fix my hair, check my makeup…” and ten to fifteen minutes later, I’ll be ready. Probably.

Part of being high-maintenance means keeping a strict beauty routine, which has been completely annihilated with the hard water in Red Cedar Hall. After asking Dr. Google how hard water affects skin and hair (in between even more hours of Netflix and Twitter), I felt pretty knowledgeable. Hard water contains a bunch of minerals that leave skin dry, hair dull and frizzy and the mind full of insecurities about how you look. Soft water doesn’t.

The night before classes began, I decided to try a coconut oil hair mask, which would supposedly leave it moisturized and with a natural shine. I shampooed, applied some coconut oil, waited three minutes and spent the next ten minutes rinsing it out. I went to bed and woke up with hair so shiny, it looked like I hadn’t washed it in months. Apparently coconut oil doesn’t care if you rinsed for ten minutes. It’s harder to get rid of than your grandma’s perfume smell.

Already pressed for time, I couldn’t bear going to class with that hair, so I hopped in the shower. After shampooing six times (yes, six), I felt somewhat confident that people might actually come within ten feet of me.  I decided to try an apple cider vinegar rinse—another internet-recommended solution. I grabbed my bottle of vinegar and lightly doused my head with it. Suddenly, my eyes stung more than the time I unintentionally sprayed Windex in them (another long story). So here I am, a half hour before class, hurling water at my eyes with more fury than my cat when I try to hug her—key word: try.

After another ten minutes of rinsing, I cursed the coconut-cure-all trend and my own personal rationale for thinking this would work. And then, I decided Idea #3 would surely end better. Probably.