Author: Stephanie Austin

Lean Cuisine. I am in firm belief that this is the microwavable food of the Gods. I have never before been so convinced. Each bite is like heaven, each forkful a blessing. Really though. I’ve never had such good microwavable food, and dammit, the serving size is measly! It’s as if they are meant for people going on diets. Psh.

Tonight I had Chicken Marsala, and it definitely put the mar in my sala, if you know what I’m saying. You probably don’t. I’m not even sure what I’m saying. You’d think it would taste bad, ya know? It’s microwavable chicken. Gross, right? No. Shut up. The gravy was sooo good, and the rice and peas were in this perfectly flavored sauce and I couldn’t get enough, I swear! I have yet to get a bad batch. Each one I have tried has been amazing! It’s like fine dining, except not at all. It’s like…a cuisine. HA!

I have some amazing news. No, there was no food fight in the cafeteria. This is better!

So, my dad, for my mom’s birthday, bought her a hotel room and tickets to see Jersey Boys in NYC this weekend. Not just any hotel, guys. The Double Tree in Times Square. So that’s fun. Anyway, I went home yesterday, and my mom was like “Steph, you should come to New York with us,” and I was all like, “But mom, don’t you and dad want to have hot hotel room sex?” (I actually said that, yes). And she was like, “NOOOOOO!!!!” She was like yelling NO at me. How silly of me to think that husbands and wives like to have sex? What a funny person I am thinking such a thing. So then I was like, “Okay that sounds fun.” AND NOW I’M GOING TO NYC THIS WEEKEND!!!!!!!!

The room only has one king bed, so Tyler and I will sleep on the floor while my brother sacks out with my parents. He’s 16. He’ll probably want the floor. HAHA NOPE.

Tyler has never been to the city before so I’m gonna show him around, eat some amazing pizza from a place I shalt not tell you of (don’t want any stalkers), and do NYC type things, like hit people in the back of the head and run away. That’s such a NYC thing to do. I don’t partake in such things however. (self-righteous face)

The last time I went to New York, One Direction was there, so that occupied MOST of my time. Yes, I found their hotel. No, I did not wait hours upon hours for them to come out. I only waited like an hour and a half.

Shoot, I really wanted to talk about North Korea. Next post.

While I’m writing this, I’m singing the words in my head, so if you could do the same while reading this, that would probably be a good idea. Just this sentence though. Stop singing…..NOW.

I came home today from college to visit my boyfriend Tyler. We went to Belle Isle in Richmond for the day, laid out on some rocks, acquired a touch of sun burn, and stuck our feet in the freezing water of the James River. It’s actually a really beautiful place. It was so crowded today. There were literally people everywhere, including girls wearing very skimpy bathing suits. Cuuuuuuteeeeeeeeeeee.

I was gonna post a picture of myself, but then I thought, mmmmmm better not.

I had pizza tonight. CRAZY RIGHT?

I’m also extremely tired, and I had a headache but it went away. Jesus, I don’t know what I’m blabbing about. This is the most boring post I’ve ever written.

I’ll leave you with this:

What makes us “who we are?” Does this question carry any weight at all? Why does it matter “who we are?” I was thinking last night that no one can tell us who we are, or what we are more likely or unlikely to do. What I want to do at the time, I will do. I may be a super shy person, but sometimes I want to go party, dance, and drink with random strangers. So how can we know who we are then? I have come to the conclusion that there is no “who we are”, but instead, we are what we do.

Today, I was eating in the common area of my school. Everyone was merrily chatting away, eating their curds and whey when all of a sudden someone, a guy (6 ft. tall and chunky), stood up on the table and said, “HEY. THINK FAST.”

He let the mashed potatoes fly. That’s not a metaphor. He actually threw mashed potatoes. They whizzed by me and landed on the shoulder of some girl with really straight hair, wearing a bright yellow dress. She obviously wanted to look cute today. She was also very, very pissed. Some guy beside her stood up, also looking pissed (they must be dating), grabbed his chicken nuggets, and let them fly one after the other after the other after the other.

The Instigator dodged them all, and that’s when the whole cafeteria erupted into a moshpit of screams, whimpers, shouts, laughter, impacts, and collisions. People were even running into each other. Two guys in the corner of the room were actually wrestling while their friend poured the contents of his soda all over them. They didn’t seem to notice.

I sat in my seat, innocently trying to dodge the greasy missiles. Eventually, I stood up, hurriedly gathered my things and shimmied my way to the exit. I didn’t make it out alive. Right when I was at the door, a soggy, greasy, delicately spiced and seared cut of tuna slapped itself onto my back, and plopped onto the floor below me. I turned around to yell at the culprit, but when I did, a whole wad of mashed potatoes flew into my open mouth and I nearly choked.

I love mashed potatoes, but not when they make it into my mouth by sheer force from someone who possibly infrequently washes their hands.

I spit it all out onto the floor, and ran outside, where I was once again safe, and very much humiliated.

As I walked back to my room, I thought about what a great blog post this would make, so I here I am writing it out for you. But I must confess….

None of this actually happened. My day was boring as hell.

So for class, me and a partner (John Michael) have to make a documentary on an elderly person. We were assigned to an old man by the name of Gordon Leaf. He is a retired Air Force pilot. He was born in Detroit but moved to Leeds, England when he was very young. Thus, the British accent. It’s adorable.
John Michael and I visited him today. I had my camera, and JM brought his tripod. We picked a camp outside on a patio where Mr. Leaf likes to sit on warm days like today. We asked him the usual questions about his life, and how it was to live in England, and fly in the Air Force. He told us he missed it. His wife recently died, who he said watches down on him every now and then. His mind would wander during silent moments when there wasn’t much to say.
“But I like it here. It’s so nice,” he’d say, smiling.
He said that a lot, to compensate for the lapse in conversation.
“Look at the birds,” he’d say. He kept pointing to the birds out to us. When they flew by, they monopolized his attention. I wanted to ask him why he was so interested, but I never did. Sometimes things are better left to ponder. I think when Mr. Leaf leaves this world, he’ll come back as a bird. I think they remind him of flying. He really did love to fly.
Mr. Leaf never corrects the staff when they ask if we are his grandchildren. He smiles, and makes a joke. He likes to make people laugh. He leads us around the retirement home, his walker, decorated with awards and ribbons, leading him. He calls all the elderly women “lady”, and asks them how they are holding up.
Today he walked us out to the car (I’m actually tearing up while writing this). He’s never done this before. I don’t think he wanted us to leave. He always says how much he loves our company.
When we got in the car, and sat in the parking lot, waiting to pull out onto the main road, I peered out the window to see Mr. Leaf standing on the sidewalk, waving us on. We turned right onto the street, rolled the window down and waved. He waved back, high up in the air until we were out of sight.