12 midnight, checking my bank acc...

...and its payday, payday!
Gotta get down on payday.
Everyone is looking forward to the payday!

Who would have thunk that having to pay monthly bills would make me the next Rebecca Black?

Most evenings...

Most evenings, you will find me and the roommate on our arses, feet propped up, laptops in lap with a stack of nerdy nursing books next to us. It is a fact of life. I have accepted it.

Of Parsley and Plumbing

Which girl doesn't like a guy that cooks? Really, who in their right mind would want to join the throngs of stary eyed lovers fighting over parking spaces and dinner reservations every February the 14th? Nobody.

No. Every girl's secret desire is to have their guy flopping around the kitchen strapped up in an apron sweating over hors d'oeuvres too delicate for their banana projections called fingers. Of course a bout of food poisoning might change the average girl's mind. But for the most part, I believe that girls find be-apron-ed guys faintly amusing.

Well, all that is true until you meet a guy who shares a plumbing line with you. Then you pray to the Guardians of the Kitchen Disposal that that guy was a frozen pizza kinda guy. Because it seems that the guy who shares my plumbing line loves to cook on Saturday nights. I know this because of the poor plumber who is under my kitchen sink trying to save my kitchen from a dirty dish water flood for the second Saturday night in a row.

Did I mention that he loves parsley? For I see and smell plenty of that in my dirty dish water flood.

Now I consider myself to be a reasonable person. And my neighbours - guys and gals, cooks and frozen pizza eaters - are free to use their kitchen whenever they desire to do so. But when I have to haul 4 bucket loads of parsley infused dirty dishwater to my WC to prevent my kitchen sink from overflowing, I believe I have the right to be the teeniest bit of a grouch. And of course it is way more fun to write about the cook upstairs than to write about the clogged up plumbing system in my dinky little apartment complex.

The Banh Mi Lady.

I am going to ignore the fact that I was silent for an entire summer because I can. Now I could be ornary and continue to be lazy, but some stories need to be told, and this is one of them. Let me introduce you to The Banh Mi Lady.

Banh Mi is a Vietnamese sub sandwich that is like waaay yummier than subway and like waaay cheaper. And so is this college student's choice of food 3 hours past lunch time and after a long morning at work.

So this college student took herself to The Banh Mi Lady to order herself a nice Banh Mi to take home to eat in peace. She goes to The Banh Mi Lady and asks for a "number 3" sandwich...

College Student: Number 3 please.
Banh Mi Lady: One?
College Student: No, number 3.
Banh Mi Lady: Three?
College Student: Yes, number 3.
Banh Mi Lady: OK, go to cashier, pay and collect later.

So this college student goes to the cashier pays and comes back to the counter. And to her horror, The Banh Mi Lady hands her three "number 3's". Good job, college student, you must have looked very hungry.

I guess I should be thankful that I did not order the "number 10" sandwich. Now that would have been a little too much.

Finals baby.

Nursing Diagnosis (as defined by me): Inability to express self related to lack of facebook account as evidenced by trying to hack fb password that was reset by a friend and resorting to blogging.

Of late, I've been coming up with really awesome facebook statuses that I am unable to post. I'm pretty sure that this has a lot to do with the vast amounts of caffeine i'm ingesting. I'm sure that the awful-lame-middle-aged-men jokes I've been cracking is related as well. I am my father's daughter, after all.

Junioritist?

And now that the words "COMPREHENSIVE FINALS" loom up in the horizon, I find that

I

DO

NOT

CARE.

*gasps*

Lord help me.

Amen.

Mirror mirror on the wall...

On getting sunburnt -

Roommate: Have you been outside?

Me: Yeah, I've been working on my tan.

Roommate: You don't need a tan, you are one.

I've never been too worried about hiding from the sun or turning 'dark'. Maybe its because I'm already on the pale side, or maybe its because I'm too lazy to carry and umbrella or slap on icky sunscreen lotion. Or maybe I just couldn't care less. Which is a good thing, I guess...because over on this side of the world, tans are pretty cool. Pun intended, thank you very much. =) And thank you to 4 hours in the sun, I am not the fairest of them all.