think you know what makes nerds hot?

Big announcement today, after a prolonged absence from the SadOrAwesome crew! (Let's just blame that on the swine flu outbreak or the John & Kate Plus 8 scandal, shall we? Good.) But first, allow me to set the stage:

As Maya has said, the three of us are a match made in Internet-heaven. We share a dark, biting sense of humor, zombie survivalist mentalities and a penchant for geekdom. Add to the recipe the oh-too-common 20-something's lack of funds and the fact that Maya and I aren't the most hideous people on the planet. Got it? Good, because I'm about to get to a point here.

These observations sloshed around in my head for a while, and it hit me like Greg had swung a severed light pole at my head (note: this has not happened, but I imagine it would have quite an impact.) Nerdgirls get a bad rap for wearing comfortable shoes and T-shirts with jokes about binary code. You can be nerdy and hot. Nerdy can be hot. We needed to do something about this.

And thus it was decided to create the Nerd Pinup Calendar, featuring two real-life nerdgirls: Maya and me. And here's where we need your help. There's only 12 nerd scenarios we can feature (uh, because it's a calendar, and there's 12 months in the year), and we want to highlight the best of the best of being nerds.

So, submit your ideas here. Love WoW? Tell us why we should show how hot it can be. Have an obsession with robots? Convince us that other people would enjoy it as much. Our goal is to create a calendar of two nerds for all of geekdom to savor, so your input is utterly crucial. (Please keep it SFW, we may be hot but we aren't that kind of cewebrity.)

Now please, stop reading and start geeking out. We're counting on you.

Great Expectations (and Accompanying Failures)

Okay... I'm frustrated.

I know being hopeful is better than the alternative, even if it amounts to nothing. I know nothing in life would be good if it wasn't for all the bad stuff in between. I know optimism should make things happen to my advantage. AND YET, I don't think there's any worse feeling than false hope.

I just met two women who work for a prominent publication, in advertising for entertainment and fashion. They asked me about my favorite movies and tv shows, so of course I had plenty of strong opinions and I'm sure they noticed my sparkly eyes (it happens when I talk passionately about something). It's the only explanation for what happened next. One of them asked suddenly, "How tall are you?" "Um... five-six," I answered, confused by what this had to do with the latest Matthew McConaughey disaster we'd been discussing. "Have you ever modeled?" I searched her face for signs that she was mocking me, but found none. "Um, no," I replied, as my reddening cheeks erased the freckles on my nose. "Honey, you have the perfect body for modeling," she declared. "Especially for Ralph Lauren. He would love you. I can picture you on the back of a horse in a polo shirt." "Oh yeah? I used to ride horses!" I giggled, already imagining meeting Gaspard Ulliel in a photo shoot and then maybe in a hot tub later and then taking family photos with our four children - Wait, I'll have to steal him from his boyfriend first probably, I reminded myself, before snapping back to reality and a ringing phone, declaring that my visitors should be let upstairs.

They were gone for an hour, giving me plenty of time to plot the perfect escape from receptionisting (receiving? recepting? answering phones). I had already told my saviors that this was a temporary position, but I felt like I hadn't made myself seem eager or available enough. Could I slip them my email address? Jokingly ask if they could put in a good word to Ralph? BEG FOR JUST A TINY SPECK OF HUMANITY IN THIS GOD DAMN ECONOMY? My stomach was fluttering; my heart pounding every time I heard the elevator start to move.

Finally, they stepped out. The phone wouldn't stop ringing, but luckily they had to put on their jackets and get their things together. I basically hung up on three people. "Maya!" they yelled, "it was so lovely to meet you!" "Oh, it was great to meet you guys too!" I yelled right back. "Honey, do you like living in New York?" my biggest fan inquired. I had mentioned my college career in California, shamelessly bragging about the two majors and subsequent honors I'd acquired there. "Well, it's taken some getting used to," I grinned, "but it's really not so bad." "Well, you have a lovely face. Come back to LA." She started walking towards the door. "WHY?" I screamed in desperation. "Do you know of anything in LA?" "No," she laughed, "but good luck, darling!"

Just like that, they were gone. I know I should be excited just that someone thinks I COULD hypothetically be successful in such a career, but I guess I just wish someone would help me through it. Everyone knows you can't just walk into Ralph Lauren's office and demand to speak with him. CONTACTS! It's all about contacts. And shit, I just lost my only one.

This is like when that cute boy approached me at the Apple Store last week, hung around even after his iPod was retrieved from the Genius Bar, told me I was cute, and then left abruptly and inexplicably without asking for a name or number or anything. Fine, maybe that's how some people do it, just harmless meaningless flirting, but dammit I fall in love with every boy that talks to me. And it's hard to find a cute, funny mac geek who can rock khaki pants and give me compliments without seeming desperate or condescending.

In conclusion: I don't have a boyfriend or a modeling career (TWICE over, since I just this weekend failed to follow through on ANTM), so I guess... suicide, then? Who's with me? Greg, I know you're in.

Midwestern misconceptions

Living in Nebraska for more than the past decade has provided me with ample opportunities to be mistaken for a backwoods hick, something that honestly couldn't be farther from the truth. What Mr. New Jersey? Am I from a farm? No. I've never even been on a farm. Hell, the closest I've been to farm life is a petting zoo.

Why is it that residents of either coast, mountain regions and the South assume that Midwestern residents are all rural dwellers who know how to butcher a cow, watch NASCAR and haven't hear of T.I.? Ugh. Count me completely over it.

I see how the mystery of an unknown region of our pretty large country leaves sufficient room to full the absence of information with assumptions and stereotypes. But don't be shocked when those presumptions are inaccurate. Ask me what I do, where I grew up and how I feel about Larry the Cable Guy (verdict: 837 thumbs down).

In fact, this girl from the Heartland of America has never: hunted, gone cow tipping, partied in a field, had a class of less than 450 or owned a pair of Wrangler jeans. I'm better suited to barter with a street vendor, cruise down an expressway, know which flatware to use and carry armfuls of grocery bags several flights up to my walkup...all in four-inch stilettos.

In simplest terms, jiust being from the Midwest doesn't make me a country girl. Sometimes I wish it did; I'm as fascinated by the idea of open spaces, fresh air and hot farm boys as anyone else. But at the end of the day, when I fall asleep to the sounds of sirens and people yelling as they drunkenly stumble home from the bars, I'm still (and always will be) a city girl.

Loves,

Kt

I'm not crying, it's just been raining. On my face.

Let's review. I'm sitting here, shivering in the glass-covered passenger seat of my beloved Volkswagen Bug, huddling away from the rain pouring through the permanently open window, taking inventory of the Things Which Are Lost Forever. This list includes my GPS, so I'm trying to figure out how to get home on my god damn original iPhone which can't find my current location (I dropped and broke my 3G two days ago. That's right. This week is bullshit). Home is a New York town I hate, where I sleep on a pull-out couch in a space so tiny there's no room for anything else. There's a boy driving me home and sneaking pitying glances at me, but we don't know each other well enough to feel comfortable in this ridiculous situation so I almost wish I was alone. How the fuck did I end up here? I'm supposed to be winning the ANTM auditions right now, dammit.

Things I understand have value, and therefore can't be mad were stolen:

1. My GPS
2. My gorgeous black pea coat
3. My zebra print shoes
4. iPod charger
   

Things that definitely do NOT have street value, and therefore I'm furious about being stolen:

1. ALL MY GOD DAMN FAVORITE SHIRTS, which I brought into the city to have options to wear to remind Tyra that I'm indispensable. They're not expensive, but I loved them. My pretty black flutter-sleeved shirt from H&M. All the tank tops that make me look thinner. My brand new cardigan, which makes me look 10 years older. Fuck.
2. My favorite skinny jeans.
3. My brand new Victoria's Secret lotion, blow-drying hairbrush, and magic hair products.

Things that for some reason were left behind:

1. My Juicy sunglasses (thank God).
2. My John Varley library book.
3. My 15-page ANTM application.
4. 1/2 of my iPod adapter (they ripped out the cord and took that with them).
5. The fucking brick that was thrown through my window, breaking my gear shifter in the process.
6. The picture of me and my friends from 2 years ago. I wonder if the fucker looked at it, saw what a nice girl I am, and felt a tiny bit guilty.

Seriously, you know what pisses me off the most? My car's a piece of shit. It's scratched up beyond belief (I'm a woman driver, nuff said), the front bumper's falling off, there's dents all over the place. Someone, years ago, was enough of a dick to scratch up my "World Peace" bumper sticker, leaving only a dismal reminder of my naivety. Why the FUCK would anyone break into this car, of all the cars on that godforsaken East Village street? Why would they be like "Oh, here's a girl who doesn't have enough money to reattach her bumper, let's see if she's got anything of value"? And who the hell are these people, who do this? Okay, crackheads, probably. But god dammit. Go break into a BMW, you fucker. LEAVE THE POOR VW DRIVERS ALONE.

Disputes in English Grammar

English is a spiteful, hateful bitch. She'll text you romantic things one day and then change her locks on you the next. I know there are a lot of ridiculous languages out there (French, I'm talking to you. Just change your damn spelling already, or start pronouncing those superfluous vowels. I'm warning you.), but I'm pretty sure English is the only one that even native speakers don't know how the hell to use. Like, what's the past perfect tense of drink? "I had drank? drunk? dranken? drunken?!" Don't feel bad, no one knows. I'm a linguist, and I just don't use the past perfect. I suggest you do the same.

Linguists are a funny group of people because they can spend 10 years arguing about the construction of a simple sentence, and still not reach a conclusion. (Pro tip: if you have to go to a party full of them, stay away from the theoretical linguists. Don't say you weren't warned.) During one of my many hours of downtime at work, after a twitter debate about stranding prepositions (I'm a loser, okay, get over it), I found a fantastic wikipedia article about all the disputes in the English language. Here's my favorites, with my completely unbiased and 100% official decisions on how you should deal with them.

Preposition stranding. Fun fact: someone who hated humanity decided this was wrong. Every linguist says it's okay. Sentences like this should hold all the proof you need: This is the sort of English up with which I will not put. Winston Churchill said that. Do you think you're smarter than Winston Churchill? He and I agree you should just say This is the sort of English I will not put up with. Yeah, sounds like a sentence now doesn't it?

Double negatives. I just like how wikipedia's example is "I don't want no scrubs." Take that, TLC.
Double modals. This is phrases like "You might could use it." It's clearly ridiculous, but I think anything people say with a Southern accent is cute, so carry on. Also, interestingly, wikipedia points out that phrases like "I might be able to" which are more commonly considered grammatically correct, are secret double modals (be able to functions as a modal here, since it means the same thing as could). So there.

Dangling modifiers. That's what she said.

Usage of hopefully. I find the concept of a feud over a single adverb a little ridiculous, but this was one of my favorite examples in college. In English, in a sentence like "Hopefully, the train will arrive on time" the adverb is generally used to describe the speaker's state of mind. However, it's actually a disjunct (meaning, since you're not the subject of the sentence, it's not syntactically connected to you), and if you look at the construction of the sentence the only thing it can logically modify is the manner in which the train will arrive. So you're really talking about a hopeful little train peeking around the corner, and linguists don't like this problem. But they do like talking about it.

Who vs Whom. You guys, it's really easy. Do you know when to use he vs him? It's EXACTLY THE SAME. "I'm fond of him" = "Of whom are you fond?" "He's my friend" = "Who is your friend?" "He is in charge" = "Who ever is in charge?" "I'm going to marry him" = "Whomever will you marry?" Okay? Stop arguing about it.

OH BY THE WAY I had too much coffee this morning and when that happens apparently I lecture people about linguistics. Consider yourself DOUBLY warned.

Tell us how you feel about: Unicorns

In a bold move for our collective blog, I'm throwing a new thread out there for everyone's (hopefully) enjoyment and to expand our growing "trust circle". I mean, Maya shared her quasi-rational death fears and Greg has shared his anger with, well, pretty much everything. So without much more fanfare, I present Tell Us How You Feel About.

It's self-explanatory. We give the topic and our individual stance and you just read and follow suit. And to kick it off, what better topic is there than those mythical beasts of wonder and fascination: unicorns.

How do I feel about unicorns? I hate them. It's not about whether or not they exist or have ever existed. I couldn't care less. I just think they're stupid. Let me break it down for you.

1. Wow, a horse with a horn. Oooooh, big deal. Not impressed.
2. They remind me of Lisa Frank erasers and folders, which reminds me of the girls who owned said Lisa Frank paraphenalia in grade school, which reminds me of mean cliquey girls who thought they were super cool but ended up living in the suburbs with their high school "sweetheart", snotty Gap kids babies and "luxury" SUVs. No thanks.
3. I doubt unicorns would be friendly. In fact, I bet they'd be ill-tempered and quick to use their "magical" horn to impale you into a fencepost at the slightest insult.
4. In a fight with a lion, a unicorn would always lose. Hands down. I can't respect that.
5. After centuries of unadultered adoration, unicorns probably have gigantic, undeserved egos. They most likely think their unicorn droppings smell like rainbows and glitter. News flash: unicorns are a kind of horse. they don't smell nice at all.

Your turn. How do you feel about unicorns?

Unusual Deaths

I worry about dying, a lot. But not from something lame like a serial killer or lung cancer. I only worry about things that are unlikely to happen to me. I figure with my luck, I'll be the one person to have a plane land exactly on my face (none of the passengers will be harmed). Since most of you maybe aren't crazy (or SMART) enough to bother researching the danger of unlikely events, I've compiled this convenient chronological list of The Best of Wikipedia's List of Unusual Deaths. I've also included a helpful number, on a scale of 1-10, of how concerned you should be about each one, and how to avoid these situations if applicable.

892 (AD): Sigurd the Mighty of Orkney strapped the head of a defeated foe to his leg, the tooth of which grazed against him as he rode his horse, causing the infection which killed him.
Level of concern? 0. We have a little something called Neosporin 1200 years in the future. Enjoy all the necrophilic activities you'd like with your defeated enemies. Also I know I said the scale was from 1-10. It was a test. You passed!
1410: Martin I of Aragon died from a lethal combination of indigestion and uncontrollable laughing.
Level of concern? 8. Holy crap, I worry about this one all the time. I don't know how much indigestion played into his death (that's another thing about me: I don't perform very diligent research), but uncontrollable laughter can be terrifying. Did you hear about that girl who died because she couldn't stop hiccuping, or sneezing or something? It's like that.
1601: Tycho Brahe, according to legend, died of complications resulting from a strained bladder at a banquet. It would have been extremely bad etiquette to leave the table before the meal was finished, so he stayed until he became fatally ill.
Level of concern? 10. Okay, maybe we don't have banquets anymore (or... none that I'm invited to), but this issue should really be your foremost thought the next time you don't want to get up from your window seat to go to the bathroom on a plane. Or when you think you can get just one more thing done at work before you go. Or when you REALLY don't want to miss 7 Lost plot twists by leaving for 30 seconds.
1814: In the London Beer Flood, 9 people were killed when 323,000 imperial gallons of beer in the Meux and Company Brewery burst out of their vats and gushed into the streets.
Level of concern? 2. Although drowning is never fun, I'd say this is probably the ideal way to go, horrible accident-wise (okay, it's a tie with the Boston Molasses Disaster).
1927: Isadora Duncan, dancer, died of a broken neck when one of the long scarves she was known for caught on the wheel of a car in which she was a passenger.
Level of concern? 9. It didn't help that every time I left the house with a scarf on my mother told me this story. Note the past tense. I don't wear scarves.
1979: Robert Williams, a worker at a Ford Motor Co. plant, was the first known human to be killed by a robot, after the arm of a one-ton factory robot hit him in the head.
Level of concern? Malicious robots: Non-existent. Design them with an OFF BUTTON, duh. Robot accidents: 7. They're just as prone to malfunction as we are! Watch your back.
1994: Gloria Ramirez was admitted to Riverside General Hospital for complications of advanced cervical cancer. Before she died, her body mysteriously emitted toxic fumes that made several emergency room workers very ill.
Level of concern? 4. Being toxic could be kind of awesome, or it could be related to your cervical cancer and make everyone around you sick in one final fuck-you to the world before you die. Which would be kind of awesome.
1998: Every player on the visiting soccer team at a game in the Democratic Republic of the Congo was struck by a fork bolt of lightning, killing them all instantly.
Level of concern? 1. It's not like it's gonna happen twice... OR IS IT?
2003: Dr. Hitoshi Nikaidoh, a surgical doctor, in Houston,Texas, was decapitated as he stepped on to an elevator and the elevator malfunctioned, pinning his shoulders. His head was severed when the elevator car moved upward.
Level of concern? OH MY GOD 11. Take the damn stairs.