Wasps. AGAIN.

Ordinarily I'm a girl who hates winter. I don't like the cold; I don't like playing in the snow; I don't even like sledding, which has most of my friends baffled. I just hate it. I hate things feeling all cold and wet and dead, and I hate not seeing the sun for weeks on end. But most of all I just hate being cold.

So naturally, once spring hits I go into this sun-induced state of euphoria. My friends accuse me of being part cat because all I want to do is find a nice patch of sun and sprawl in it. And for about a week of spring, that's all I do.

Until the wasps come out.

(If you haven't read my post Vespula Flavopilosa, now would be an excellent time.)

I'm apiphobic. I won't deny it. Teeth-gnashingly, hair-pullingly TERRIFIED of anything that stings. There are only two reactions if I see a wasp: either every joint in my body freezes up in petrified shock, or my limbs start inexplicably flailing and I cry like a baby. For serious. It's bad.

This is the reason I don't get a whole lot of sun and remain ivory-skinned despite my Hispanic heritage. The second I see a bee/wasp/hornet/spawnofSatan I run back inside. Because usually, inside is safe.

(key word: usually.)

Except when your dorm doesn't turn the air conditioning on and you live on the fourth floor where all the heat collects and you can't even breathe without propping open the window and the door and running five thousand fans. It's unbearable up there. But the window being open means that bugs can get in.

Yesterday I came back from the shower (wrapped in a towel and nothing else) and spotted a wasp chilling on the blinds. Cue freak-out. But hey, I needed to get dressed and ready and go to lunch, so I gritted my teeth and got ready as fast as humanly possible and ran out the door. That was around eleven-ish. Then I didn't go back to my room the WHOLE DAY, thinking Normal (the roomie) would kill it or it would fly out the window or be struck down by an act of God before I got back. And sure enough, when I walked back in at midnight, there was no sign of it. So I slept well.

This morning? It was back. Or maybe one of it's friends. Or maybe (eeeeeek!) it had really been there the whole time and could have crawled on my face or laid eggs (do wasps lay eggs?) in my food or called a whole bunch of its friends and held a poker tournament in my bed and I WOULDN'T EVEN HAVE KNOWN.

So I'm writing this from the library, which is thankfully wasp-free (I hope) and I WILL NOT GO BACK until Normal kills the damn thing or assures me the coast is clear. (Hey, at least she's not phobic too.)

Why The South Is A Different Country!

(The title of this post was going to be 'Ten Reasons,' but somewhere between me planning it and me actually writing it, I forgot a few. Don't judge.)

So this past week was my spring break. A little early in the year for break, if you ask me, considering that it's not even early enough to be warm. (Really, EKU. I mean, I know it falls nicely at midterm, but come on.) And the family and I had been discussing that I was the only one who hadn't been down to Georgia yet, so I decided... why not take break to do it?

So Joelle went down to Georgia, she was lookin' for a soul to steal...

But I digress. While in Georgia (which was sunny and warm and awesome, by the way) I discovered that the South is really its own little country. I mean, really, that whole secession thing would've been totally justified, considering how different things are down there. Not bad-different - I'm not dogging the South - but just different.

And so:

10 Reasons Why The South Is A Different Country!

1) They speak a different language. Seriously. I mean, even forgetting the accent, phrases like 'fixin' to' and 'right quick' and 'purt darn near' are commonplace. Highly amusing. (Not that people up North don't say things like that. We've caught Anne using 'right quick' more than once.)

2) The climate, man, the climate! At one point Mom texts us and it's friggin SNOWING home in Indy - and meanwhile, all the Georgians are putting on winter coats because it's 58 degrees. Oy.

3) Apparently, Southerners don't believe in big cities. I mean yeah, there's Atlanta and stuff, but pick any highway and drive down it for about an hour, and you'll pass somewhere between five and TWENTY tiny little towns. They're adorable.

4) On the subject of towns, I've concluded that Southerners must live in churches and go to church in houses. Really. The ratio of churches to houses is INSANE. Most are Baptist, but we saw our share of Methodist and Seventh-Day Adventist churches too.

5) Street names. We found Dug Down Road, Booger Hollow, Hog Liver Road, and Santa Claus Road (NOT Lane, despite what my father tells you) to name a few.

6) Southerners are an altogether more friendly breed of people than most up here. They're not kidding when they boast about Southern hospitality. Everyone I met was so friendly and welcoming (with the exception of George, a coworker of Dad's that he assures me is ALWAYS grumpy). From our hotel desk worker (who is Wanda Sykes' long lost twin) to the waiters at the tiny little restaurants to Virginia, Dad's awesome secretary - I mean really, a girl could get used to all that attention.

7) ...I forgot what the last four are.

Anyway, now that I've actually seen it for myself, I'm pretty okay with the idea of my family moving to Atlanta. (Not that I don't love my Indy posse.) But really, Georgia was pretty awesome. Despite the fact that I didn't ACTUALLY get any sun and remain as pasty-white as ever. I'm even fixin' to go back. :)