RazzyBlog

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Yes, there really is nothing that screams awesome college experience more than seeing these self-righteous snatches come home from "sharing volunteer work at the Hampshire County Interfaith Homeless Shelter and responsibilities for the student global AIDS campaign" than a porch you can decorate with lights to "add a festive touch", drink chamomile tea, and have deep discussions about boob mashing with those cuh-RAZY girls of Haven-Wesley house. I know, I know. You're saying, they can't hang out on that porch ALL the time with their PACE pride flag (BTW, not sure what PACE stands for, that was after my time). Don't worry, because "they enjoy the porch at all times and weathers: using sunglasses at lunch, and a lamp at night." THANK YOU. I'm so glad to see the SAQ adequately describes the true value of a Smith education. It is that type of decisive thinking that makes all of us Smith graduates look really, uh, decisive. It's definitely worth $30+K a year for such a sharply honed intellect. For example, if you are outside and the sun is shining (as it is wont to do during the day when there's no clouds), then put on some shades. Conversely, if you're outside and it's dark, plugging in a lamp may just alleviate that. I know that if my parents would actually swallow their sense of dignity and moral worth long enough to read my website, they would be incredibly proud that their $120K was so well spent. Of course, that's just how you roll if you're the most popular uptight punani on the Chapin (not the Cutter-Z) side of Elm Street based on your kickass room: "At lunch time, as students leave Chapin with their grab'n'go lunches in hand, Katie and Tej (as they're known)"--since those are these uber-Smithies' names--"keep a lookout for their friends." God, that makes me want to give money to Smith. There's nothing that inspires me to open my wallet like seeing a couple of studious Scarlett Johansson fans try to look smart and serious, with just a dash of haunted determination fresh off an Ani DiFranco album cover:

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Way to color coordinate those tabs on your copy of The Second Sex, Tej. In particular, I like the way it complements your anal retentively-folded quilt. Why Smith chooses to showcase the lamest bitches as a reminder of how much I miss life at Smith (and therefore would want to give them money), I will never know. But I have to say one thing for the folks at Smith: they have an unbelievably efficient means of tracking people down. I don't know what that means is, but they always get their alumna. They have found me everywhere I've gone without so much as a word, a forwarding address, or a single dollar from me to encourage them or give them anything to go on. In my experience, the fact that I have received this brokeass issue of SAQ indicates that Smith is about to commence a shock-and-awe bombardment campaign of anger-inducing junk mail.

After an elevator ride leafing through the SAQ and becoming increasingly pissed, I arrived at my apartment door. I should have known that Smith's finding me was a harbinger of doom. At some point after I left for work earlier, Caesar ripped off his wife-beater bandage despite my admirable Florence Nightingale-esque battle field dressing skills, and had completely licked the wound clean of clotted blood and Neosporin. The result was absolutely horrible. I had made a terrible mistake earlier when I concluded that the injury was superficial. A superficial injury would at worse breach the dermal layer (the pink underlayer of skin), but on Caesar's leg I could clearly see not only exposed muscle, but a tendon as well. Not only did this provide a high risk conduit for infection, but without stitches I wasn't sure this wound would heal. A number of appalling Caesar-related morbidity scenarios were playing out in my mind: Caesar succumbs to bacterial sepsis, Caesar gets gangrene and loses a leg, Caesar has permanent muscle and tendon damage which prevents him from ever experiencing his greatest joy (chasing things). Obviously my veterinary trauma-diagnosing abilities are lacking, and my poor, sweet Caesar dog was paying the price. I replaced the bandage with sterile gauze and tape that I snagged from the first aid kit at work, and called the vet, who was closed, but whose machine recommended a vet clinic all the way downtown that, without a car and at this time of night, would cost $70 to get to. Due to severe financial constraints, I prayed that my second, slightly less ghetto bandage would hold until the next morning. I cuddled up with Caese on my bed and tried to communicate my deepest sympathy for his pain, and make him as comfortable as possible in exchange for my lacking a car and funds to go to the 24-hour emergency vet.

I tried to relax with my old tried-and-true opiate, television. Alas, it was to no avail. Thursday night TV sucks now that "Survivor" is not on anymore: "The O.C." is about as exciting and unpredictable as an Amish quilting bee, "CSI" is unequivocally the worst show on television (which is probably why it's the most watched), and "The Apprentice" finale was an anticlimactic snorefest. I slept fitfully, dreaming of horrible dog maladies and even more horrible veterinary bills.

This morning, the vet nearby wasn't open on account of the transit workers' strike that didn't happen. So I had to saddle Caesar and Chingy! up and WALK THEM TO THE SOUTH FUCKING BRONX. Yes, we had to cross the Harlem River on foot. It was not fun, especially on account of Caesar's condition (not that he seemed to mind, but he wanted to dip his injured leg in every homeless-guy's-urine-filled puddle of melting sludge), and the fact that Chingy! wanted to take a shit in the middle of Grand Concourse, a very major street in the aforementioned South Bronx. Once we finally arrived at the vet, things went from bad to worse.

There was a dog in the waiting room who Chingy! would not leave alone. Her owner communicated to me in broken English that she was "up the period." I took that to mean she was in heat, which she certainly seemed to be, as she was just barking and running around and inflaming my male dogs like a hooker on a Navy pier. Chingy! was trying desperately to get off his leash and fuck her like they were the last dogs on earth. Caesar, on the other hand, knew we were at the vet and there seemed to be a rectal thermometer in his future (which there was), so he started whining like the a teakettle. Just when the lady with the fertile dog was called into the office and I thought at least that Chingy! would calm down, a family brought their cats in. Caesar and Chingy! both forgot about their immediate issues (the vet and fucking the period dog, respectively) and started trying to get across the waiting room to literally chase some pussy. The owners castigated me in South Bronx Spanish. It was not fun, and the term "pendejo" was actually used to describe Chingy!. At that point, I made a phone call, and then the vet mercifully called me into his office and away from the menage of cat lovers.

After examining him, the vet told me that Caesar partially severed a tendon, and therefore required expensive dog surgery to the tune of $700. There is no question that Caesar is my son, even though he is another species, so therefore I did what any rational parent would do: I called my parents and borrowed $700. So now, Caesar is recovering in the hospital (and probably whining his face off), and I am trying to deal with both the expense and the concern that my darling, handsome, sweet baby is spending the night in an outer borough, recovering from surgery alone and without any Beneful (or people food).

Because of our morning trip to the Bronx, I got a very late start at work. Then we had seminar, and lab meeting, and I was finally able to start working around 3. Needless to say, I had a long night at work. I then went and had a beer with a friend, but I was terrified that without Caesar's tempering influence, Chingy! would be shredding my apartment into fine pieces. So I went home, expecting to chide Chingy!, then clean up whatever mayhem he caused and relax with some "Law and Order" reruns and some Heinekens that I stole from Free Friday (grad student happy hour).

Alas, it was not to be. Just a day after Smith sent the SAQ to subtly indicate their solicitous intentions, I received a winter postcard from them, informing me that "IT'S NOT TOO LATE!" to donate and get a tax deduction this year. In fact, they offer me the "opportunity" to "take advantage of a charitable donation." Well, thanks a lot. I love getting postcards with fat, androgynous cunts making snow angels on the front that offer me the "opportunity" to give you free money. Because it's almost as charitable as Mother Theresa to charge people for the privilege of having a cool dorm room for their stupid friends to hang out in and NOT DRINK. That sounds like my kind of cause. Especially when I've occupied my day in an orgy of spending to keep my stinky animal alive, I'm definitely eager to help all the white-bread blueblood American Studies majors hang out on their porch and discuss important issues with my rapidly disappearing (thank you, Bush, for allocating NIH training grant funds to Halliburton contracts) graduate stipend. Also, thanks for letting me "take advantage" of the fact that the tax year is almost over and I might be able to join the "President's Circle," which would allow me to spend 50 grand for the added privilege of MEETING this fugly bitch:

Yes, that's Carol Christ (and that's pronounced "CHRIS-T", not "Christ" like Jesus), President of Smith College. And I don't know why anyone wouldn't take out a second mortgage on their house for the privilege of contributing to the boring life of Tej and Katie (as they're known) or hanging out with Carol Christ's stupid ass. If Smith really wants some goddamned money from me, they'd better pretend that they have a fucked up dog. Because that's the ONLY way I'm going to remotely consider "taking advantage" of their offer to just give them money.

Seriously, fuck you, Smith Alumnae Fund. Fuck you every which way. So long as it's degrading.

# posted by Razzy @ 9:11 PM