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The College Experience: Pies Pintados
Apr. 19th, 2006 01:43 pmJohn Parker Day
Patriot's Day (Fla)
This Week is …
UO International Week
So I somehow got corralled into more ISA volunteering, making posters of food and killing Sharpies in the most hellish way imaginable. I was sitting in the spatially constrained ISA office, my sandals in the corner to make myself more comfortable, and in front of me were Liz, who was using her considerable skills to paint food on posters, and Emily, who was using her considerable talent* to make various multiethnic people posters look good.
Or, rather, she was supposed to.
Instead, she was industriously painting my foot bright red.
“I’m doing henna!” she explained when I asked what she was up to, reminding me that I had real henna and we should play with it. But at the moment, I was sitting there with acrylic all over my foot, and I wasn’t sure what to do next.
I finished my lettering, and then I rolled up my pant leg and went barefoot to the huge custodial sink to splash my foot. But there wasn’t anything to wipe it off, so I went upstairs toward the bathroom. In the hall outside there were two women studying something or other, and one barely glanced at me and my rolled up pant leg and red, glistening foot before I went in.
I used a toilet, and someone else came into the bathroom while I was in there. Upon exiting, I met one of the women from outside, who was doing those ostensible sorts of things you do at the sink when you’re trying to look like you’re not there for the reason you’re there.
“Hi,” I said, washing my hands and pulling out a few extra paper towels.
“Hi.” She hesistated, then said, “Is your foot … bleeding? Or is that just paint?”
“Just paint,” I said, wiping at it. “But thanks for worrying.”
“Oh, good,” she said.
I cleaned it off, went back downstairs, and put my sandals back on, just in case Emily’s aim suddenly got sidetracked again.
You gotta be careful in places like this. You never know if it’s a mad stabber or a crazed college kid with a paintbrush assaulting people’s feet. It’s a 50-50 chance around here.
Also, Liz is not having a happy week. She is having a getting-run-ragged week. Anybody who feels like sending her tea and chocolate, or perhaps certain movie stars, is more than welcome to.
*Emily is the one who drew my userpic, and who also did the best illustration ever of “That’s Amore.” (I’m afraid these clowns have a long and complicated backstory written by her friend who I only know through Emily’s mentions of her, but the writing isn’t bad.) I can’t stress enough how much fun her drawings are.
Patriot's Day (Fla)
This Week is …
UO International Week
So I somehow got corralled into more ISA volunteering, making posters of food and killing Sharpies in the most hellish way imaginable. I was sitting in the spatially constrained ISA office, my sandals in the corner to make myself more comfortable, and in front of me were Liz, who was using her considerable skills to paint food on posters, and Emily, who was using her considerable talent* to make various multiethnic people posters look good.
Or, rather, she was supposed to.
Instead, she was industriously painting my foot bright red.
“I’m doing henna!” she explained when I asked what she was up to, reminding me that I had real henna and we should play with it. But at the moment, I was sitting there with acrylic all over my foot, and I wasn’t sure what to do next.
I finished my lettering, and then I rolled up my pant leg and went barefoot to the huge custodial sink to splash my foot. But there wasn’t anything to wipe it off, so I went upstairs toward the bathroom. In the hall outside there were two women studying something or other, and one barely glanced at me and my rolled up pant leg and red, glistening foot before I went in.
I used a toilet, and someone else came into the bathroom while I was in there. Upon exiting, I met one of the women from outside, who was doing those ostensible sorts of things you do at the sink when you’re trying to look like you’re not there for the reason you’re there.
“Hi,” I said, washing my hands and pulling out a few extra paper towels.
“Hi.” She hesistated, then said, “Is your foot … bleeding? Or is that just paint?”
“Just paint,” I said, wiping at it. “But thanks for worrying.”
“Oh, good,” she said.
I cleaned it off, went back downstairs, and put my sandals back on, just in case Emily’s aim suddenly got sidetracked again.
You gotta be careful in places like this. You never know if it’s a mad stabber or a crazed college kid with a paintbrush assaulting people’s feet. It’s a 50-50 chance around here.
Also, Liz is not having a happy week. She is having a getting-run-ragged week. Anybody who feels like sending her tea and chocolate, or perhaps certain movie stars, is more than welcome to.
*Emily is the one who drew my userpic, and who also did the best illustration ever of “That’s Amore.” (I’m afraid these clowns have a long and complicated backstory written by her friend who I only know through Emily’s mentions of her, but the writing isn’t bad.) I can’t stress enough how much fun her drawings are.
