I am so not morally above being judgmental. If I was, I would have had no excuse to openly mock the fans that came about after the release of Stephanie Meyer’s “Twilight” series. No, I didn’t know who this Edward guy was, but I had no reservations when it came to labeling the college aged Edward Cullen obsessers as a pack of idiots.

Now, I didn’t read the books because I didn’t want anyone to confuse me for one of these girls when they saw me wielding a Ms. Meyer novel around campus. And because I’m not 14. And because I’m lazy. And because it’s a hell of a lot easier to wait for the movie. A couple weeks after the first movie came out, I secretly watched it. Seeing it armed me with enough ammo to keep up the mocking until “New Moon,” which, as I’m SURE you’re aware, comes out this week. The first movie was fabulous…for making fun of. I mean, REALLY. The vampire baseball game? The sparkle skin? The painfully awkward scenes of silent eye contact? The high speed piggy-back ride? Someone on set HAD to have been laughing, or at least battling a smirk.

Far too many 20-somethings are lining up for the “New Moon” midnight show. It’s a preteen tale, plain and simple. Did I mention the glittery skin thing yet? This is like My Little Pony stuff.

But to be truly honest, I didn’t hate the first flick. I hate myself for that. I can easily see it’s faults, but I have a hard time completely despising it. Much like a sappy pop ballad or those anti-animal abuse commercials, all it takes is a corny, sentimental premise and, BAM, you got yourself an audience of tearful young women (not to underline the stereotype of overly emotional females; I feel I can speak for women being that I am one).

I don’t care if Edward was a donkey-armadillo hybrid with a squirrel tail, given the storyline, the ladies are going to fall for him. I’m not exempt; I’m by no means immune to a love tale.

No, I’m not going to adorn my facebook statuses with a countdown to “New Moon,” <3s, and lines about how I long to be Mrs. Cullen (there is still no excusing that). I’m healthily aware that I, like many, have a small weakness for love stories. But with all that being said, it’s safe to say that I’ll probably end up with a ticket to “New Moon.”

See you there.

Dearest roommates,

Listen. I’m really worried about you guys. By the amount of repulsive, dirty dishes that is eternally stacked in our kitchen sink, I can tell something is wrong. The fact that I’m the only one out of the four girls that live here who has the time to scrub clean the grimey forks and greasy, Ramen-stained pans makes me think that you are seriously overwhelmed. You’re too preoccupied with homework to clean one single dish, and that is excruciatingly concerning.

By the look of the leaning tower of post pizza-eating plates, you guys are well over-booked. You know you have too much on your plate (metaphorically; I’m talking about schoolwork, not the aforementioned serving of Giordano’s) when you aboslutely cannot take 5 seconds out of your day to clean your cereal bowl. Really, 5 seconds. I timed it. It takes a person 5 seconds to clean a bowl.

Now, I totally understand. The dishes make it clear that you are swamped with feverishly writing, proofeading, and editing carefully constructed papers, e-mailing your questions and concerns to your professors, contacting fellow classmates and teacher’s assistants to discuss course materials, utilizing professors’ office hours and every other available class resource AND calling your parents nightly to discuss your daily struggles in coursework as well as to seek advice on how to resist peer pressure at social gatherings. You’re not alone. But even with all that, I can still find those couple seconds in my day to sponge the remnants of my Lean Cuisine off of my eating utensils.

John, Anthony, Nick, Frank, Michael, and Robbie’s frequent late night visits make it obvious that you are up well into the night frantically collaborating on group projects. Also, seeing that you guys don’t emerge from your rooms until the mid-afternoon definitely relays the message that you spend all of your waking morning hours affixed to your laptops typing up lab reports and critical analyses of literature. And for those reasons, I respect you, but your dedication is downright scary.

As long as I consistently see the signs that you are overwhelmed and over-working, I am more than willing to do the dishes. I will help you out in any ways that I can. Garbage? Sure. I’ll continue taking that out too; that’s fine. Anything. I just want you guys to try to take a break; you’re going to burn yourselves out. Try to put the pencils down for just a minute; you’re frightening me. Please.

Love, Joanie

p.s. If you guys ever need to talk, I’m here for you.

Like many roads in Chicago, the one outside my apartment is getting redone, and like many streets, it did not appear to need it much. Luckily enough it is a side street and construction is passing (at least by Chicago standards) quickly and painlessly. On Friday they reached the stage of laying down the new asphalt featuring a road crew of about ten men and two trucks. The typical large gray truck resembling a gravel truck, complete with a raising cargo load, had the job of pouring the black cement while the steam roller followed behind smoothing the tar over the road and flatting the road.

My experience with road construction was always primarily as a motorist, so when the opportunity arose to watch from my living room window I took it. And luckily for me, it took only two minutes before comedy ultimately ensued.

At this point in the paving process the gray truck had elevated its load to pour more cement, but too much poured out. For a solid minute the foreman shouted indistinguishable words but shortly after I’m able to make out his rant. He is in the middle of a particularly well executed tongue-lashing against the driver. Apparently the overflow resulted in the driver having been on a cell phone, earning him many shouts of, “you’re killing me” from the foreman and my personal favorite, “No telephones! Lay off the phone and drive the truck!”

At this point I was laughing as well as taking cover and Lando, (my kitten) sat on the window sill, transfixed though with the hair standing up on her back. I’ve noticed that every time something like this happens I have the same response; first, primarily I’m afraid that something will shoot through my window injuring me, and secondly I am eager to know how the story will progress. Now luckily I have never had anything thrown near or at me, but I am still convinced that whenever an argument on the street occurs that it will escalate like an episode of Law & Order and I’ll have to call the police. And yes, I do watch copious amounts of TV and it does not help that I study psychology and memorize all the good studies about how horrible people can be, but I am unable to sit at my window with a bowl of popcorn laughing hysterically at the small scene bellow. Lando is even on edge at this though I think she doesn’t like road construction more then anything else. After a surly, “Get a move on!” and other equally charming instructions the trucks moved down the street and I no longer feared a stray rock or power tool coming through my window. I still wonder though what he was talking on the phone with and whether or not I’ll see this as a Jimmy Johns commercial soon.

Sharing your sleeping space with strangers is one thing, especially when those strangers like to heat up curried Indian food at 3 a.m. and incessantly hum Paramore painfully off key through the night (I mean, REALLY. I thought you were a Music major?!). But sharing your showering space? Forget disgusting; the thought itself is legitimately gag-worthy. I may or may not have just regurgitated in my mouth a little.

Believe me when I tell you that it is not hard to die from the horrible things you’re forcefully exposed to in a communal bathroom. Lucky for you, I’m great at not contracting diseases that swim around in public shower stalls. And even luckier for you, I’m willing to share my survival tips. Take my advice and you might not die from a communal bathroom (I offer no guarantees).

1. Wear shower shoes. These are vital in not dying. Your standard Old Navy flip-flops will do, although the green ones are especially effective in preventing infection. Ditching the sandals is essentially a death wish; your bare feet will actually be able to feel the H1N1 creeping under your toenails. Not a fun event.

2. Don’t let anything touch the ground. A communal bathroom floor gets mopped in vomit several times every weekend; do you really want to risk trusting the 5 second rule on your toothbrush under these circumstances? No is generally the acceptable answer to this.

3. Use your foot to flush the toilet. Hopefully this is not a foreign concept. There’s really not much more I wish to elaborate on for this one. Just please don’t use your fingers to jiggle the handle. Your leprosy-free palms will thank you later.

4. Make it snappy. In and out; this is not the place to discuss with the girls down the hall which boys from philosophy class you’d prefer getting with this weekend. The more time spent in the shared restroom, the more time airborne viruses have to manifest themselves in your orifices.

5. Avoid them at all costs. Communal bathrooms should only be used for their intended purposes and only in extreme emergencies. Hair and makeup can easily be taken care of in your room. When you do need to use a toilet/shower, the public restroom should be a last resort. A good example: if you have to pee before you go out to dinner, hold it until the restaurant. Chances are good that the facilities there have a much lower death rate.

6. For the over achiever: Don’t use them at all. Making your own makeshift dorm room toilet is a great way to avoid contracting the bacterial infections populating communal washrooms. This alternative is far more sanitary than public bathroom stalls. Skipping showering altogether will also keep you cleaner than any community shower stall ever could. Just compare my roommate and I; you’ll smell the difference.

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College costs over $100,000 in many cases–and sometimes final college costs hover near the $200,000 mark. So, most people apply for financial aid via FAFSA and/or the CSS Profile. Anyone who has gone through this process will tell you it’s frustrating, and some will tell you it’s not fair. Kiplinger’s had an article about “11 Student-Aid Traps to Avoid.” If you’ve never filled one of these babies out, then this article is a must-read. You shouldn’t LIE, per se, on your financial aid apps, but be aware that your answers will affect the aid decision. And your financial aid decision will affect you for potentially the next 20 years… Just sayin’.

One thing you should know is that you might feel screwed if you’re a member of the middle class. You’ll get over it after the 5 stages of grief have passed. What will frustrate many of you is that you’re considered a dependent of your parents until you’re 24.

Let’s take a look at a hypothetical example of how this can make you resentful for the first few years of your adult life. Let’s say that your parents make $200,000+ per year, own all sorts of real estate, and–for all intents and purposes–are shoveling money. You still apply for financial aid because you’re trying to be a good son, and you don’t get a dime of aid in the process. You still work throughout college, because you feel bad about your rich parents paying $50,000 per year for college. Then after 4 years you decide you no longer want to go to medical school and you completely change majors, because you realize you have a passion for Psychology (Read: saving lives, helping others, etc.). Mom and Dad get pissed off, say they won’t “waste” any money on a Psychology degree, and you’re stuck footing the bill for the last year of school, which is still $50,000, because you’re a dependent according to the Department of Education. Yup yup, I would HATE to be in that person’s shoes. Wait a sec… oh crap. Time to go pawn my watch so I can pay for the first 15 minutes of Psych 345 next quarter.