Judge Me.

My last Google search is "which cultures eat the placenta."

Apparently, Hawaii, Mexico and China. Delish.

I am starving and it's 2:40 am.

I've slowly and startlingly realized that I have eaten more fried eggs in the past month than ever in my life. Always two fried eggs with the yolks broken and American cheese, shredded cheddar in a pinch. The Evil Egg Man in the Vassar dining hall doesn't wear gloves or ever give you what you order*, but it's really hard to fuck up fried eggs. They're a low-risk, low-return kind of breakfast.

Eggs are a tricky food group**, because when they're hot they are the most savory and satisfying food on this sweet earth. When they are the slightest bit lukewarm, however, they are slimy and disgusting and I can barely stand to look at them. The time that elapses between these stages is never more than a few minutes, so I always eat my eggs like I'm about to go fight a fire (albeit not a particularly life-threatening or worrisome fire).

I will go make some fried eggs right now. There is something to be said for not living in a dorm right now, AKA having a kitchen and groceries at my disposal minus suspicious scum all over everything. I don't think I will wear pants, either.

It's something, but it's not much of a trade for not being at Vassar, with my sarcastic and beautiful friends and my mind-blowing classes and my wonderful boyfriend. I'm in minor-to-severe withdrawal, and all I really feel like doing is curling up with NPR and my humidifier and knitting an ugly scarf. I'm secretly 82.

My room at home remains a battlefield of stinky, not-yet-unpacked clothes.

* Common Scenario:
You: Good morning! Can I get a three-egg omelette with cheese, ham, and no tomatoes or spinach?
Evil Egg Man (EEM): Okay.
EEM takes large handful of tomatoes and ham, dumps into mushy eggish substance sans cheese and ham, hands whole mess to you.
You:...........thanks.
EEM: Yes.

**Major Food Groups According to Me: Bread (challah/ wheat/ French), Meat (red only), Coffee (black only), Eggs, Chinese Food, Chocolate. Sometimes I get a salad in the dining hall, just for show.

iCe Cream (you're welcome, Steve Jobs)

My mom likes to boycott places. Individual stores, mostly, like the shoe store where the salesguy was rude to my little sister after she tried on twenty pairs of shoes and hated them all, but sometimes entire companies, like Walmart. So far, none of her boycottees have seemed especially crippled by the loss of her patronage.

Tonight, my first real night back home since college and Memorial Day weekend in Rhode Island*, she took my sister and my brother and I for ice cream. We went to Truly Yogurt, which is located in a fancy Jewish town (Wellesley, aka Swellesley) directly to the west of the fancy Jewish town (Needham, aka Weedham) I live in.

While my mom parked, my sister and I sauntered over to Truly's (Trulys'? Actually, who cares) entrance. We weren't in any particular hurry as the store allegedly closes at nine, and it was only ten to nine. On top of that, there were still hordes of preteen girls impatiently waiting to be served fat-free mocha chip with extra sprinkles, hold the whipped cream.

I started to push the door open.

"YOU CAN'T COME IN!" half-shrieked a remarkably obese father on the other side of the glass. "WE'RE THE LAST CUSTOMERS! THEY'RE CLOSING!"

"But-" my sister began, clearly about to point out the phenomenon of the ten-minute time difference that appeared to have elapsed inside the ice cream store.

"NO MORE CUSTOMERS!" the father yelled again, his jowls quivering. His similarly chubby daughter stared at my sister and I with big owly eyes. The poor thing obviously just wanted to get her family-sized brownie sundae and hit the road before her father had a heart attack.

I considered pushing through the door anyway and simply cutting in front of the self-appointed bouncer. I would be doing him a favor, really, since his belt didn't seem like it could handle any more notches before explosion. But my rational, level-headed sister dragged me back to where our mother was parked, and suggested to the disgruntled lot of us that we go back to the (more mediocre, more friendly) ice cream store in our own town. So we did.

On the way back, the idea of a boycott was suggested from somewhere in the vicinity of the drivers' seat. Only in fancy-shmancy Wellesley, my mother reasoned unreasonably, could a shop need so little business that it would turn away customers well before closing time. Our rejection was a result of the unnecessary wealth and privelige that Wellesley likes to flaunt on a regular basis.

Although I was extremely pissed, I didn't quite take my anger to the level of righteous indignation that my mother reaches effortlessly. That said, I predict Truly's will be begging for my family's business within weeks, with apologetic tubs of mint chocolate chip delivered to our doorstep every Saturday.

At the quaint, dimly-lit Junction ice cream store, ten minutes after closing time in pokey little Needham, I got a twist in a cone dipped in chocolate sprinkles. It was delicious.


*Rhode Island is still irrelevant, for all who are interested. Which is nobody.

Summertime. I hate titles.

Summer To-Do List:
1. Drunken picnics in the sun with strawberries and chunks of cheddar. Minus bugs, plus friends.
2. Read books I kind of pretend I've read when they come up in conversation but actually haven't whatsoever (i.e. Pride and Prejudice, Atlas Shrugged, the Road).
3. Not get fired for being completely incompetent. I'm working at an arts day camp, and I hope the fact that I can't actually dance doesn't prevent me from teaching children how to do chorus lines and jazz hands.
4. Get more comfortable/ less psychotic about driving. I routinely tear up on the highway (as in crying, not as in making the road my bitch), and I would like to be able to make it from Point A to Point B without fear of dying. Especially if Point A is my house and Point B is the bagel store down the street.
5. Not wallow too much in homesickness, aka Vassarlessness. I predict some difficulty.

Summer looks long from where I sit.

Harumph

It has come to my attention that my sister only pretends to like the things I knit for her. When I go back to school she goes to Urban Outfitters and buys better versions of the hats and legwarmers I slave over. And still I keep making them for her because I know that anyone not related to me would most likely burst out laughing the moment I presented them with a nubby scarf or undersized pair of mittens. Besides, you can only reasonably knit so many individual socks for yourself.

The birds are chirping stupidly in Rhode Island- who knew that birds even liked to come here? Clearly a family trip to the beach isn't the most torturous way to begin a summer, but I wish my parents had picked a house whose only commercial neighbor wasn't a bait-and-tackle store.

My dad is already waking up to go fishing. He's an accountant in real life, but he likes to flex his hunter-gatherer instinct from time to time.

I forgot to pack a toothbrush. I can't sleep.