brother gets mad at me for talking during commercials.

My father is in the television advertising business. This means I have grown up understanding things like Nielsen ratings and target audiences. I saw Michael's role with Hanes to be just as relevant as his place on the Bulls. It means I've gotten to reap benefits of free tickets and promotional stuffed animal Pillsbury doughboys and bobble head Lucky the Leprechauns. It even means I've gotten to be in a handful of local commercials myself. Unfortunately though, because of this, I can no longer enjoy television.

Since age 4, watching TV with my family means analyzing the balls off of every piece of sponsorship, product placement, and 30-second-spot on this Green™ earth. Since preschool, I could vomit out slogans and jingles on cue, and car trips involved games like making up cheesy jingles for local billboards we'd pass on the interstate. Someone tell me this is all normal.

Every morning I'd decide if I wanted Reese's for breakfast or one of Champions and my parents would drink their coffee that was good til the last drop. I remember At school, conversations were often initiated with something about "did you see the commercial where...?" and they'd go nowhere because (unless it was the morning after the Super Bowl) nobody else cared to the least about what was advertised. While some kids were busy answering questions that didn't matter like when Columbus sailed the ocean blue, I was pondering over how many licks it took to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop and What I would do for a Klondike Bar. Hell, I could keep going and going and going...

In my family of four, I am in the 3rd place spot for best remote user (though subject to change as my mother, 4th place, slowly but surely begins to understand the DVR), and I'm in first place for most talkative during a program. This latter ranking was not my fault, but my brother's.

In addition to the above two bullshit rankings, my brother has given me the superlative of "worst question answerer in the world."

I might have to plead guilty on that one. Look, I'm not the kind of person to beat around the bush in conversation. So to save time, I'll sometimes imply the true question one was intending to ask me and answer that, leaving the question-asker 1. confused and 2. not even receiving the information that they initially wanted. Here's an example: Last weekend, my parents went camping (sidenote: when you're going in an RV, and you have running water and electricity and mirrors and beds and a refrigerator, it really isn't camping anymore.) My brother was going to meet them at the campground later that night and texted me while I was at work when I'd be coming home. What I assumed is that he was wondering if I was also interested in meeting our parents at the campsite, so I replied that I was not going camping. In reality he just wanted to know when I was getting home.

My brother has an entire catalogue of examples similar to this one, and he seems to believe I should be getting 25 to life for them too.

So I've got this going against me. Tack on the fact that I'm too talkative to watch TV, I'm nearly blind and deaf and can't read any of the guide information, and that my remote control skills are wishy-washy if existent at all, and you've got yourself one hell of a person to watch TV with.

So after a long day at the office (aka my summer nannying job), I come home exhausted and hungry, and I begin to ask my brother a question. Actually, the question I was attempting to ask was inquiring what it was that he was watching. Apparently though, he was on his third attempt at rewinding a commercial to show my mom, and as if that's not weird in itself -the whole Mom!Get dooooowwn here!you've gotta see this commercial!thing- the next five minutes get even more irrational, from both parties. I get yelled at for talking while he's watching something, and out come the torches and pitchforks.

Tell me I'm not in the wrong for getting upset after a long day of work and wanting to ask my brother a question only to be punched in the stomach for it. Of course, I may have had a few too many words for him.

The funny thing is that arguing in my family is rare, and when it does happen it becomes a big joke (just like everything else). So after our thirty seconds of shouting at each other we realized how ridiculous we were being and just started laughing and making fun of ourselves.

I guess either I need to work on my question-answering skills and just learn to answer a question as it's asked, or I need to work on my future-telling skills because most of the time I'm wrong with my attempts at being helpful. I guess I just have a gift at talking and answering questions at the most inconvenient times. Maybe I'm born with it, maybe it's Maybelline.

*meanness of brother subject to overdramatization.

people observation #18: too cocky for his caliber.

First I'm going to clarify that being cocky is never cool. I don't care if you just graduated from the first grade. I don't care if you just graduated first in your class at Harvard law after winning the Nobel Prize for your finding a solution to world hunger all while (very much so) enjoying your first season with the Boston Bruins. It is never justified. It's just annoying.

That being said, I'm going to begin with a little background.

I come from a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. It is a great place to grow up: very safe, education is important, we're healthy, we're cute, it's the midwest.

I had an awesome childhood where our parents would let us maniacally jaunt the neighborhood all day. The scariest person we would ever come in contact with was the ice cream man, and he was giving us ice cream for gods sake (he'd yell at you if you didn't put your buck-fifty into his scraped-up knuckley hands).

Somewhere around middle school though, the words of our first grade guidance counselor begin to snowball in our minds.

"You are special. You are unique. You are special. special special SPECIAL!"

and just like that my hometown became a breeding ground for all things douche.

I have no animosity towards the methodology of the parents and teachers in my hometown; most of us go to college, most of us don't end up working a corner. That being said there is a trend among my classmates that I've never neglected to notice, a sort of cocky way of carrying oneself like he or she is the most beautiful, brilliant, and brawny thing on the planet- but here's the catch- he or she is not.

And that's where my observation comes into play, too cocky for his caliber.

The irony is that I believe cockiness comes from insecurity. Whether it is the understanding of our own mediocrity, the fear that other people will realize our humanity, or a combination of the two, I find the tooting of one's horn to be an echo of such emotion.

Fear.

The "I'm going to intimidate this person with my puffed out chest before they can intimidate me" philosophy.

The only thing I have to say about this is that it's stupid. There is no other word to describe it. It is stupid.

Nothing is accomplished, nothing is better in this world because of one's cockiness.

And I'm not saying don't hold your head high. Because confidence can and will be the difference between your success and failure. But do it in humility. And be willing to listen to others. Because everyone is smarter than you or better at you or more experienced than you in

something.

And I'm not saying don't be proud of your accomplishments, it's okay to take a step back when you're finished with a project and just admire your hard work. But again, do it in humility.

So I came to college from a town where people seemed to be put into the arrogance machine and popping out at record speeds. But then I realized that every town seemed to have an arrogance machine. And there were citizens of the too-cocky-for-his-caliber nation everywhere. And I realize there always will be.

So what am I to do?

Sure, I can take advice of my first grade guidance counselor's purple puppet and don't forget that I'm special. (Finding your unique qualities is what is going to make you stand out in whatever competitive field you're working with.)

But I can also not let myself be intimidated or felt small by another's presumptuousness. They are too cocky for their caliber. They are the manager at a business in Columbus, Ohio.

They were the captain of the Division 3 high school baseball team. They got an A once. I'm over it. The cocky individual hasn't anything to even back up his or her self-love, yet he or she wants everyone to kiss their ass. And I'm not puckering.

PROJECT C: get on and vote!

I wanted to let you guys know about an awesome project in Athens, Clicking Creates Change, or Project C. For the next seven days, you have the opportunity to vote two times a day for one of four nonprofits in Southeast Ohio you want to to support. These include Habitat for Humanity, Good Works, the Jethro Project, or Community Food Initiatives. At the end of the voting period, funds will be divided and given to each organization accordingly.

and check out Project C on:

people observation #17: GET A LIFE!

It's week nine, and I am starting to catch my breathe after the marathon of a spring quarter I have had. Seriously. My day: wake up. run to breakfast. run to class. run to, well, to run. quick shower. quick meal. run to meeting. run to next meeting. work on a paper. run to work. read achapter. collapse in my bed. have a weird dream about running to so many places. wake up. do the whole thing all over again. Why do I involve myself in so much stuff? Well, the truth is, that I actually enjoy doing what I do, Imagine that.

So I'm sitting here trying to think about a time, even before college, that I was not so busy, that running from place to place was not my life. What does that feel like?

I find myself in my memories of the sixth grade. This was the year I decided I was going to save the world. I was dancing for two hours a day, four days a week, and spending my nights I had off in metropolitan Columbus for doubleheaders on my travel softball team. Because I was going to save the world, however, this meant that it was necessary to run for a position as a sixth

grade student council representative. Oh, the things I would do, the changes I would make!

I ran with the campaign slogan a breath of fresh Erin (get it?) and taped little slips of paper with my witty words to Lifesavers and star mints. We were suppose to give special speeches to the class at lunch one day, and instead of coming with a long list of why the students should elect me, I stood in front of them, took a good hard look at their big twelve-year-old eyes and said, "Erin McCarthy. Remember the name."

I think back to long before that, and find myself still a busy beaver. When I was in second grade, my parents had to have a long conference with my teacher because I was too crazy. I was hiding in the fire truck on the playground when everyone else went inside. I didn't want to sit in the classroom and learn about why it was wrong to call Emily a teacher's pet (she totally was). I didn't want to sit in the classroom at all. I didn't want to get yelled at for "yawning too loudly." People weren't meant to sit still. I wanted to do. So they put me in classrooms where I filled out those logic puzzles where you used process of elimination to figure out what sibling played on which team with what color uniform, tell me you guys know what

I'm talking about. This still wasn't enough. I wanted to do.

And there's my point. Long before I knew what a resume was, I wanted to do. I have always been a DOER.

It's important to not let ourselves be comfortable with things the way they are. There's always a change that can be made for the better. One of my favorite quotations by Howard Thurman says, "Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do it because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

My parents always encouraged me in whatever I wanted to do with my life, and I thank them for that. Building my resume wasn't the reason they showed up to my field hockey games to watch me chew my mouth guard on the bench, and it wasn't the reason they helped me make campaign posters for my election at 11o'clock on a school night (back when being up at eleven was an abomination). What they were doing was helping me figure out the things that I was passionate about. When it turned out that I wasn't willing to sacrifice my love of music for field hockey, they supported me when I stopped playing.

I find my passion in a number of things, and I realize that everyone's is a different thing. I find that beautiful. In sixth grade, when I won the sixth grade spot on the Student Council, I found myself getting to be involved in a part of my school that I wouldn't have otherwise, and it's all because I went out and looked.

When I'm running from place to place, I get to know some pretty cool people with a variety of stories. And I get to learn about all different kinds of things. Sometimes people tell me, "Erin you need to take some time off! You need to get a life!"

My response to them is this is my life. This is what I love. This is what makes me come alive.

people observation #16: Drinking my coffee black does not make me more cultured or intelligent or cowboy. It makes me a snob.

I drank too much coffee this morning. I really do feel like I am high and every attempt to remotely sit still is a struggle. Thanks Dunkin Donuts. Your hazelnut indulgence has turned me into an aholic.

I didn't drink coffee until I got to college (something about sleeping four hours a night that makes you want to unnaturally stimulate your energy level). Before college, I enjoyed it, but only if it was in some 300 calorie concoction involving chocolate and whipped cream.

But now, after simply two years of my taking part in this American daily ritual, I have become a coffee snob. I drink it straight up: hot and black, brewed to perfection, preferably fair-trade (gotta protect da workers).

[Sidenote: when I was little my mom got me into unsweetened hot/iced teas so that I didn't have to be the a-hole always need sweet'n'low or honey or lemon or milk or laxatives or whatever said a-hole requires for the enjoyment of their beverage. I guess my cut-out-the-middleman drink philosophy I've inherited from my mother carried over to my coffee principles as well That being said, my mom puts milk in her coffee. Ha, what a peasant. End sidenote. ]

I like to think that I have a little bit more of a liking from the baristas who I order coffee from. (I mean, they're not just college journalism majors with nothing to do with their degrees so they got a job at Starbucks right? I mean, they're baristas for god's sake!) They ask "room for cream?" and I say "puhhhllleeeeeez, and waste an extra six ounces of that Columbian goodness?"

[Sidenote: If you read that quote out of context you'd probably assume I was referring to another main Columbian export. Please don't think that. Sidenotewithinasidenote: I've never actually said that to a barista.]

I like to think we black drinkers have a greater respect in the coffee community. Something that the lesser people I am going to call creamies aspire to be like. As if they stare with twinkling eyes saying to each other, "wow, I want to be like her one day," while I intentionally walk by the cream and sugar table with my nose in the air. "I am just a lowly creamie," they exclaim, disappointment blanketing their faces. Soon enough creamie, soon enough.

But the truth is, not everyone cares for their coffee to be black. What I feel to be insipid, the creamie might find to be rainbows in his mouth. And what I find to be a radical reflection of my savvy time-management skills, the creamie might find to be a reflection of the never-stop attitude I call my life.

I drank my coffee this morning with a little bit of cream. It was pretty good.

things i like.

It's raining today, and if I don't write about something positive bad things will happen. Here is a list of eleven things that I like:

1. Leaving my phone behind. Sometimes I overwhelm myself with people to call, emails to reply to, texts to respond to, appointments to make. I enjoy just forgetting about that crap for a while. I see my relationship with my phone as a love-hate relationship. Like yeah, I love the thing when it's helped me meet up with people, or call 411, or stay in contact with some of my weirdo friends who don't have facebooks, but then there's that "why-do-I-need-to-bring-this-with-me?" resentment factor towards the thing.
2. Getting high on Running. I love it so much. I love the feeling after a run. I love that there can be professionals and amateurs competing in one race. I love that I am competing against myself.

3. Sauce. It's awesome how you can change the taste of something by adding a different kind of sauce to it. nuff said.

4. Sitting. Most of my days are spent running from one place to the next. In class I'm not focused on just sitting somewhere. But at the end of a day, somewhere around 11p.m. when all my crap is complete, I like to do nothing but sit. I try not to think about much. I try to not have any tasks at hand, not even the TV on. Just sit.

5. Progress. I enjoy keeping a journal of where I am in most everything. I have one for my workouts; it's fun to go back six months ago and see how I've progressed. I have a journal for my daily life; it's even more fun to go back and look all of the

mountains I was making out of mole hills and where I've come since then. My liking of progress also applies to society, and while I take time everyday to make sure I've made a difference in this matter, I have lately found myself somewhat pessimistic.

6. Pretending I'm asleep. Every time my roommate walks into the room I pretend I'm asleep. Okay, half of the time my roommate walks into the room I pretend I'm asleep. The other half of the time I actually am asleep. But it's funny. Most of the time I will be at my desk doing something unproductive and I'll hear her key in the door then just pretend like I fell asleep doing work. When I went to my parents' a few weekends ago we had decided to start eating our dinner before my brother because we weren't sure when he'd be arriving. While eating our meals we heard the garage door going up and my parents joined in on my game. Brother walked in the door to his family face down on the table; I think I may have made a heavy breathing sound for an even more realistic effect.

7. Pop culture references. I have a family that values a knowledge of what is currently going on in the world-politically, socially, in literature, in sports, in entertainment- as well as the history of these things. I guess when you're in a family of television producers and writers, as well as educated sports watchers, something is bound to rub off on you.
8. Waking up early. It is amazing the amount of work accomplished when I actually work up the balls to drag myself out of bed. It is quite gratifying.

9. Direct deposit. What a great feeling to check your bank account and there was money magically placed there over night. Don't tell me how it works. You can't. It's just magic.

10. Screaming out my window and hiding. A phenomenon begun last October. It started when OU's unnecessarily legitimate game of Humans vs. Zombies (grown up Nerf wars) began to bother me when I'd get cut off by a paranoid Human running to class. I'm not sure how the game works exactly, but I am sure that I don't like it. Sorry readers who play. Anyways, the Human would walk passed by my window like a dweeb and it took no thought for me to scream ZOMBIE! out at the top of my lungs, only to see their hilarious reaction of assuming the position to shoot. I enjoyed this individual's reaction so much, I proceeded to scream out my window on any old day, crouch down and peek out to see who would try to figure out the source of the noise. Who's the dweeb now, I guess.

11. Dogs. What is not to like? hair? drool? Screw it. Those things are worth the undeniable friendship and impact that my dogs have had on my personality and well-being, even if it means coming home to a couple surprises every one in a while. The feeling of coming home to someone who is authentically excited to see you everyday is one that pwns any drink out of the toilet or chewed up left Sperry.

people observation #15: sometimes we just need to vent.

the other day, I was asked how I feel about the rich being taxed to pay for the poor. How I feel about the rich giving to the poor. I don't know why this is even an issue? I was outraged. I know my writing this will strike one of two things in you: a sort of excitement and HELLYEAHism that causes you to take some sort of action or a case of mumblingunderyourbreathe-ivitis and cynicism. And I know that the odds of one's opinion changing because of this piece are itsy-bitsy. This is more of a refute to an argument I am tired of hearing.

1st off, I don't get how a person could even begin to justify that poor people are poor by their own fault. How it is someone's fault that they are born into a situation with so many strikes against them and no means to lift them up? I had absolutely no control over the world I was born into. I didn't get to go life shopping while I was in the womb. And I realize that had I got a damn lucky hand dealt to me. That means it's my OBLIGATION to provide to those who didn't get to be born into the educated, loving, healthy, white-collar world I showed up in.

2nd of all, even if they were in these situations by their fault, I am a Christian. I am suppose to GIVE GIVE GIVE GIVE GIVE, and when I'm done doing that? Well, regardless of that person's circumstance or deservedness or family history or sins or life choices or affiliations or work ethic or location or religion or situation or wealth or well-being or health or weight or sexual orientation or level of education or level of graditude or anger or past or future or present or personality type I am suppose to GIVE. Period.

You don't get it. I don't care if they aren't grateful. I don't care if they don't say thank you. I don't care if they won't accept it. I don't care if they're big fat liars and cheat the system. Because as long as I keep giving, I will keep loving, and as long as I keep loving they will keep learning, and one day, just maybe one person will be changed. One person will see that we Christians will get a new perception, and the world could be turned upside-down.

avoid the tray now; your thighs will thank you later.

This post is targeted mostly to those who frequent the college dining hall. It's short, but sweet, like that after dinner ice cream you've grown so very fond of.

We all know the drill: Swipe in. Smell the stench. Ponder for a minute whether or not the line at the wok bar is worth the wait. Decide that it isn't. Pick up at that blue tray and get in line for some fine cuisine.

That blue tray.

My advice to you is to skip this step- to forget the tray. Why? This hunk of flattened plastic is psychologically messing with you, making you think for some reason you need to fill it up. Although we know that if we were anywhere else, one plate of food would make a sufficient meal.

Kelley McArthur is one who has embraced the single-plate lifestyle. "I'm not gonna

ostracize you if you get a bunch of food," she said, "but the truth is you can always go back up and get more if you really want it."

Now, I more than anyone understand that sometimes the components of a dining hall meal are made up of several dishes coming from many locations. You've got your vegetables from the salad bar, fruit from the fruit bar, maybe some soup, maybe a sandwich. It's nice to be able to pick and choose a dish from each area. I see where the tray can be a helpful tool, and I know that it is important to look at quality of food over the quantity. My advice would still be to grab one plate and most of what you need to be eating can fit on that one dish. If there is any

thing extra you'd like to get you can make a second trip.

Conclusion: that damn blue tray. Refrain.