A Love Story: Lynne and Sex Camp

There was once a little doggie named Lynne. She happened to be my doggie. Now if you haven't met Lynne, you should. Here are a few facts about her: She is a tiny little munchkin dog who has a lesbian haircut, doesn't move all day long, and dances on when she has to go outside. To know her is to love her. When she sleeps she snores more than Jessi Schumacher. It is a soothing, melodic sound and I love to drift off to sleep spooning with Lynne, listening to her beautiful snoring noises. 

Who couldn't love sleeping with this?

Now, like any little dog trying to make it in this big, lonely word, Lynne was looking for love. She looked up and down Dorsett Drive, but every dog was either too big, or not man enough for her. She was becoming more and more disappointed as days went by and she still had no dog to love her like she deserved. The Dybevik family was getting progressively frustrated as well because we wanted the best for our little Lynne, and we also wanted some little puppies for her (we knew she would make a great mother). As time went by, the family and Lynne were at our wits end... What could we do to find Lynne a soulmate (and get some little pups out of the endeavor)? Then we heard about this glorious place where little doggies like Lynne to go to find love. One might consider the place to be a weekend love retreat... or better yet, "Sex Camp."

So Lynne packed her bag, and with her heart filled with optimism and a thirst for romance, she bounded off to Sex Camp. She spent the weekend at a Shih Tzu Love Guru's palace (aka a breeder) filled with tiny little romantic prospects running amuck, all seeking the same thing: love. Now on the first day, Lynne mingled with the other doggies, drank doggie cosmos and made small talk about her interests and goals in life. However she went to bed disappointed because she just couldn't seem to make a doggie connection with anyone at camp. "Was she destined to be alone forever?" she wondered. She maintained her tiny heart full of optimism though, telling herself tomorrow was a new day, and her soul mate could be right around the corner. But the next day went the same way... meaningless small talk, empty flirting, and no true love connection. Lynne was packing up her doggie bags and trying to hold back tears when a manly little black-and-white spotted Shih Tzu sauntered up to her, exuding the confidence and charisma of a pure bred German Shepard. His name was Buster, and he was perfect. Needless to say they fell in love and did what little doggies do at Sex Camp. When my mother came to pick Lynne up from her romantic weekend, she gave Buster a tearful goodbye and made her way back Dorsett Drive with no tail wagging in site. Would she ever see him again?

Lynne was so depressed after having to leave Buster that she slept for days and days and didn't move from the couch.

She ate pints of Ben & Jerry's and watched movies like "The Notebook" and "Sleepless in Seattle." This went on for days until Lynne got some wonderful news. She was going to have babies! She was so ecstatic at the thought of starting a tiny family that she smiled for days. Just like this: 

Was she sad about having to leave Buster? Yes. But these puppies were going to fill that void and mend that broken heart. After a few long and excitement filled months, two beautiful boys were brought into this world: Sam and Gabe. They came out like tiny little balls of fur, and I bonded with them over little naps and cuddle sessions.

As time went on, Lynne's heart healed and Sam and Gabe brought joy and meaning into her little doggy life. They grew into a beautiful furry family and now spend all day, every day together; sleeping, napping, taking walks, and eating my clothes. And thus ends a story of romance, adventure, and most of all, love. The story of Lynne and Sex Camp is one that claims the title of "Happily Ever After."

What's a girl to do with no Band-Aid?

I made a very silly mistake today. As I was walking to class I realized I was wearing the skinny jeans that chafe my cute little achilles tendon as I walk. I really should have remembered this and rolled them up before putting my boots on because this whole problem could have been easily prevented. The chafing got consequently worse as I walked the long, cold walk from Nora to class. By the time I got to class I was gimping in the room and quite sure of the fact that the skin on my ankle was torn to pieces. So I skiddadled off to the bathroom to check on it, and sure enough, there was a nice little piece of skin hanging off the back of my ankle. Sad lyfe. I decided to tough it out and go back to class and deal with it later (mainly because I was so excited to peer edit my Mesa Redonda Number Uno and couldn't stand to miss one second of my riveting Spanish Class).

After class I ducked back into the bathroom to see if they had a Band-Aid dispenser, but there were none in site. Then I noticed something on the counter that might suffice... A box of maxipads! If you think about it, I guess a pad is like a giant Band-Aid... It's like a big piece of gauze right? So I decided to try it out. I rolled up my jeans, stuck the pad on my ankle to cover up my gaping, chafed-up wound, and put my boot back on. It didn't occur to me until I'm walking up the stairs out of the building that applying the sticky strip directly to my wound wasn't the brightest idea, because now it's pulling it in all directions with every step I take. I thought about readjusting, but then realized my entire Spanish class was walking behind me and if they saw me pull a maxipad out of my boot, they might never want to me partners with me again (then who would edit my Mesa Redonda?!). So I gimped on over to the closest safe haven: Walter Library. This brings me to the present: I am now sitting here with a maxipad stuck to my ankle, hidden in my boot, surrounded my a room of judgmental AZNs. So what am I supposed to do? I could go to the bathroom to take it off, but then I'd be stuck with the original problem of the ankle/skinny jean chafing (combined with the fact that I don't trust any of these people to watch my computer as I scurry off).

So that's my daily dilemma. A seemingly brilliant idea turned sour when put into action. In short, a maxipad Band-Aid that didn't work out as well as I'd originally hoped.

Diary of a Hive-Filled Life

I have recently come to the conclusion that God, in his infinite wisdom and humor, finds it hilarious to plague me with unusual body abnormalities. Within the past year, I have been struck down with a debilitating case of swine flu (this included the embarrassing experience of having to go to urgent care wearing a surgical mask), pink eye - not once, but twice (and considering when you get a case of pink eye you're forced to throw out all of your makeup, this is one extremely expensive - not to mention disgusting - virus), and now, the most recent case of my unusual health hiccups: hives. For the past two weeks or so, my body has been covered with red little bumps, vaguely resembling blotchy patches of acne (hot). As if the fact that I look like a sunburnt leper wasn't bad enough, I'm the itchiest girl to ever walk the face of the planet. I itch in the morning when I wake up, I itch while I drink my coffee, I itch while I lie in bed and watch continuous hours of Netflix, I itch while I eat dinner, and I itch while I fall asleep. Now some people may be thinking "Suck it up, Robin." Well to those people: YOU suck it up! It may not seem that bad, but to constantly be scratching yourself trying to sooth an incessant itch is obnoxious, never-ending, and not exactly deemed socially acceptable. Right now I'm sitting in Coffman Union scratching at my collar bone,  hoping the creepy boy in the bright yellow hat seated across from me doesn't glance over at me while sipping his exceedingly feminine-looking drink (next time skip the cookies and cream frappucino and settle for a coffee, sir).

Now, the obvious solution to this problem is to go to the doctor. Well I tried that. The trip resulted in the doctor taking the time to spell out "HI" on my back by scratching it into my skin with a toothpick and watching the hives magically appear. Then she told me to wait it out. Well thanks m'am, I'm glad that you're able to use me as a human hive-filled magic erase board, but that answer is a little disconcerting considering my fantasies have shifted from cuddling with Clay Matthews to cuddling with a cactus as I fall asleep.

Not only are these little buggers all over my chest, back, stomach, arms and legs, but they have invaded my lovely little dome. In other words, the skin on my face is awkwardly blotchy and bumpy, and my scalp is constantly burning. I don't think I'm going to make any friends in my new classes because I'm sure I'm known as the girl who sits in the back scratching at her noggin all hour, while awkwardly fidgeting in her chair. Not only has it affected my new life in academia, it has affected my life at home. My roommates are now used to me walking around shirtless, tearing at my skin. Bethany's love-filled reaction is "Aw! Can I get you anything???" While my sweet, sweet, sweet-hearted roommate Maggie's response is, "Ohmygod stop doing that." ("What a sweetheart!").

Luckily since it's so cold in this blustery city, I can cover it up like this:

...without being mistaken for the unibomber. It's also lucky that I'm off the market romantically because I know every red-blooded male who sees this picture is going to want to snatch me up, and I'm too busy scratching my hives to start dating right now. Sorry boys. When it gets to be less cold out and this look would be frowned upon, perhaps I'll start wearing polos and popping my collar. This raises yet another problem that 1) I don't own a polo and 2) I'm not a douchebag. Though I'm pretty sure Sam Kubek would let me borrow his Carlson polo if I'm extra nice to him, hoorah.

I'm going to go home now, dose up on my new best friend, Benadryl (and Pinot Noir), and pray that God finds it in his heart to be kind to my fragile body... knowing that bearded fellow however, I'll probably end up with a case of the Tree-Man disease next month.

TWNS1101

With everyone registering for classes these days (except for this girl, who doesn't register until the 23rd, and will therefore probably not get any of the classes I need to take, and therefore have my graduation delayed, and therefore get sick of college, and therefore drop out), I thought I'd save all of you the trouble of signing up for one class that you all need to take before you graduate.

TWNS1101: Introduction to Differences Between Samantha and Jessica Schumacher

Meet your professor,Robin Clare Dybevik. My background includes spending every waking hour with said twins in the school year of 2009-10, and continuing my twin experience by choosing to reside with them throughout the school year of 2010-2011. Needless to say I am an expert in TWNS (aside from when they're in the shower, that's the only time I have difficulty telling them apart. But that's a story for another time). I also share an extensive wardrobe with aforementioned twins... except for last winter when I blew up like Regina George on Kalteen bars (thanks a lot dining hall soft-serve ice cream machines...) and had to give half of my jeans to the twins until they fit me again. Don't worry. They do. Applaud me at any time. 

Now before I begin this rigorous class, I must start with a short tale. Many moons ago, I was fiddling around in my brand new dorm room with my brand new roommate, Claire Anderson, trying to figure out how to set up our brand new cable. Being not so technologically savvy, and having no success thus far, I decided to venture out of my comfort zone of the very soon to be "Red Flagged" room #401 (Four-Oh-Fun or Four-Oh-Write-Up or Four-Oh-IhopeIdon'tgetkickedoutofherebeforetheschoolyearends) and look for help. I stumbled into the room a few doors down, where I found a cute looking blond girl, and another cute looking blond girl. I explained my problem, and they enthusiastically agreed to help. Looking back, this is vaguely hilarious, because neither Sammi nor Jessi knows anything about wires and cables, and are certainly not able to set up a cable box, even if they did combine their two little blond brains. Anyway, this was how I met Jessica and Samantha Schumacher; wondering aimlessly around the 4th floor of Territorial Hall, trying to piece together my brand new college life. 

Fast forward 15 months later: Class time.

Let's go one by one here. We'll start with Jessi.

Jessi Schumacher

1. Hair: Jessi = Short Hair. Sammi = Long Hair. If they had discussed hair cuts together and decided to be considerate of everyone else, they would have had SAMMI get the haircut, so that people could associate the two S's (Sammi Short). But they're selfish, so they picked Jessi to have short hair, which allows the brain to maintain to correlation. 
2. Scar: Jessi happens to have a big beautiful scar on her cheek. I gave it to her when she kept making fun of me for having pink eye... in both of my eyes... twice. She wouldn't shut that adorable little mouth of hers, so I socked her. Just kidding, she got bit in the face by a Great Dane. Another selfish move on the twins' part however, because you could also correlate the two S's in this case (Sammi Scar). Once again, selfish.

 

3. Spelling: Now I realize this isn't a physical characteristic but it is worth explaining. If you should ever communicate with Jessi via email, text or Facebook chat you will know it is her. When she tells you she defiantly wants to go out tonight, or she totally nos what you're going through, that she is righting a paper right now, or that of coarse she's excited for the weekend, you will know it's Jessi. 

Now, let's move on to Sammi.

Sammi Schumacher

(Yes, she still looks like this after this week's fiasco)

Now we've already been over the fact that she has longer hair, and is lacking a lovely scar on her face, so let's continue in some other distinguishing factors.

1. Cheeks: Sammi has these chubby little cheeks. They're fatter than Jessi's, and they just make you want to squeeze her face. Some say she just has a wider face... nope, she's got some fat little cheeks.
2. Eyes: Sammi's eyes are a little greener than Jessi's, and a little droopier. Especially along the outside corners. Her eyes are her drunk detectors. You know Sammi is drunk when her eyes are so droopy that they look like they are just about to melt off of her face. 

3. Feisty: Not exactly a characteristic you can pick out if you see her in a crowd, but important nonetheless. Sometimes Sammi forgets to use her words. This usually only happens after a very long, late night. I've been punched (deserved it), Jessi's gotten a kick or two to the dome, and I've seen her kill baby bunnies. Just kidding about that last part. This one does infact have some letter correlation though: Sassy Sammi!

Of course there are many other smaller characteristics between the two which makes it possible to tell them apart: Sammi has more of a knack for avoiding Police than Jessi does, Jessi works out more than Sammi, Sammi has more junk in the trunk, Sammi likes to make comments like "When I weigh myself, I subtract 12 lbs, because that's how much your brain weighs. Actually, I subtract 14, because I like to think my brain is just bigger than most people's," and last but not least, the most important difference in my mind, Jessi really loves to rub my feet, and Sammi doesn't. 

In conclusion to this lovely course, these two little ladies are different people, and you should treat them as such. However, they are the same in many ways... they both laugh in sync, and it's rather creepy when it happens. They both like to surprise me with early morning cuddle seshes, they both have a disturbing obsession with both Britney Spears and Perez Hilton, and neither of them like to be pantsed :/. 

Oh, one last difference that is quite key: Jessi is about 8 months pregnant. 

The Danger of Christmas Spirit

This morning started off like any other morning for me... I woke up naturally around 10, snuggled up in my bed, engulfed in my comforter, fully dressed in my footie pajamas. I watched an episode of Law & Order: SVU, then was surprised by a cuddle sesh from each of the twins. I sleepily dragged myself out of bed around 11, made some coffee, decided on oatmeal for breakfast, and plopped down on the couch to watch some HGTV.

Before I continue this tale, I must mention that my roommates and I have recently been overtaken by the Christmas spirit in our estrogen-filled apartment, lovingly nicknamed "Nora." Ever since the first snowfall on Saturday morning, there has been talk of where to place our Christmas tree, how to hang our stockings, and of course, Nora has been filled with every kind of Christmas music, whether it be Maggie's personal favorite, Clay Aiken, the twins' obvious favorite, Britney Spears, or my preference, N*Sync.

Anyway, back to my story: Around 11:30, Maggie waltzes in the door, with her usual goofy smile and unusually bouncy walk, in an oddly good mood after not doing so well on a chem midterm (wommp wommmp....). When I ask why she is so smiley, she explains that she's been listening to Christmas music all morning (of course).

She has been listening to my favorite song, "Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays" by N*Sync (good taste Marge). If you haven't heard it, check it out; lyrically genius and so melodious. I told her how whenever I listened to that song I found myself dancing down the sidewalk on my way to class if nobody was around. She excitedly explained she had the exact same vision, and we immediately decided that all of our roommates should make up a choreographed dance to the song. Perfection, we were on the same page.

We then decided to start practicing that moment. We got up and started busting out possible moves (me, still in my footies, hair a crazy Mufasa mess, picture it...), getting more and more excited by the minute. I hadn't been this excited since my parents bought me an SVU t-shirt on a trip to NYC. Anyway, erroneous. This is where it gets exciting. Maggie decided that in the dance, she wanted cartwheels, flips, the whole shebang. She then came up with the idea that throughout the dance this move should be incorporated (some of you may remember this from elementary or middle school): Two people stand back to back, link elbows and one bends at the waste, flipping the other over their back to land on their feet. This worked when we were seven or eight because our tiny little bodies had no problem curling and tucking.  She asked me to try it out with her... I immediately refused. Unfortunately, this is where Sammi walks out of her room and is ambushed by Maggie's request to help her out in this move.

After a little persuading, poor little Sammi agreed, unaware of the eminent consequences of her decisions. Her and Maggie cautiously link arms, back to back and prepare for the move. Maggie bends at the waste, resting Sammi on her back, but can't seem to flip her completely over her head. They start over, and Maggie asks me to flip Sammi's legs by hand. This is where Sammi becomes anxious. I tell her, "Sammi obviously I wouldn't let you fall!" By hearing my kind words of encouragement and by laying her safety in my trustworthy hands, she agrees to continue.

This is where it happened. Maggie bends, Sammi flips. I grab her legs, immediately push them towards the floor, over head, but somewhere along the line we all failed. In a flurry, Maggie's knees buckled, Sammi flew forward, they both hit the ground, Sammi upsidedown, headfirst onto the concrete floor, with her knee slamming into her face.

I shouldn't be trusted as a spotter. But who could be mad at a girl in penguin footie pajamas?

So there Sammi is, lying on the floor, clutching her head in one hand and her eye in the other, with the tiniest hint of tears welling up in her cute green eyes, yet all three of us can't stop laughing. She is able to drag herself up off the ground, already sporting a goose egg under her eye. Poor little Sam. I, being the wonderful friend that I am (better friend than spotter), got her an ice pack and instructed her to take some ibprofun.

Don't fret though, we shall continue to choreograph this N*Sync spectacle, after Sammi's injuries have healed. The show must go on. Perhaps though, we won't give Maggie creative reign. It's just a shame that now Sammi looks like this: