College

Chemistry Lab Embarrassment

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

The autumn rain fell soaking the colorful discarded leaves. This made rollerblading difficult (if you didn’t read the story yesterday, my primary mode of transportation in college was rollerblading). An attempt to push hard would lead to a pulled groin. Or worse, humiliation in front of strangers.

On this day I would make it to Chemistry Lab without injury or embarrassment (sorry to disappoint).

I climbed down from the bunk bed in my dorm. Threw on jeans and the first hooded sweatshirt I saw. I got a quick whiff of a fruity scent.

My girlfriend had visited the previous weekend. I realized that I had unknowingly put on the sweatshirt she “borrowed” months ago. Continue reading →

Rollerblading in College

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

In college, I got around campus using rollerblades.

I know, I have a hard time believing it too. But, it is true.

Luckily, I had spent the previous winter playing pond hockey. I was able to stand up and move around a little (looking uncoordinated and awkward, of course).

By the end of my college career, I was comfortable getting around on roller blades. Yet, I did manage to get myself into trouble a couple of times.

All in all, I found rollerblading to be an enjoyable activity and an efficient means of transportation. Thanks for reading.

What?

Oh, you wanted to laugh at my expense again?

Fine. Jerk… Continue reading →

An Abnormal Chain of Fools

/ Tim Severson / 3 Comments

I know, it has been over a week since my last post… I could tell you that I have been busy but you probably wouldn’t buy it. I could tell you that I am trying to create demand and that people are constantly asking for a new post, but that isn’t happening (apparently you all think you have better things to do than read what I write…) However, I am surprised every time someone new tells me they have read some of these things. It’s really cool that people are actually taking some time to read, so thank you.

I have been trying to come up with some fictional stuff to throw in but it is not quite there yet so I will tell another true story. Sorry mom…

April 2005. I was nearing the end of my sophomore year of college. I had officially declared my major would be Psychology and was taking primarily psych courses. One course specifically was giving me a tough time, Abnormal Psychology. This was not because I found the material to be difficult but it was because I had chosen to take it once a week every Wednesday for 2 & 1/2 hours from 6:30 – 9. This was a horrible decision, because missing one class was like missing an entire week. I had an exam coming up and was a little nervous about it because a bad grade would put a lot of pressure on the last month of the class and I don’t deal well with stress.

I was on the phone with my mom for my semi-wee, semi-mon, ummm, my guilt relieving call to check in (ask for money) and she could sense that something was on my mind. I told her about the exam and that I was nervous about it. She, of course, said all of the right things calming me down and telling me to study hard. That is exactly what I did.

After I took the exam, I left doing what I usually did… second guessing and convincing myself that I had failed the test (I dare anyone to walk a mile in my shoes of worry and self-doubt). It was a long week waiting to find out exactly how bad my test had gone. Finally, Wednesday came and I walked into the lecture hall.

The class was taught by a younger grad student who did a very good job and actually helped to make this course one of my favorite that I took during my college career. He was a laid back guy who made everything relatable and interesting for me. On that day something was different…

He was pacing back and forth at the front of the lecture hall that held about 250 people who was less than 1/3 full. As we all took our seats students were exchanging nervous glances about what was going on, then, at 6:30 on the nose he yelled, “take your seats!”

This was definitely out of character… Oh, shit, I thought. This was not good, it had to be because of the test results and since I was usually not a curve setter I knew this was going to be a long Wednesday night in Abnormal Psych.

I remember this next part so vividly as it is frequently replayed in my re-occurring nightmares about school.

“I don’t know what to say” he said after we all had promptly taken our seats, “what did I do wrong? Was I not clear about what would be covered on the exam? I have never seen such a horrible collective group of test scores… now, not all of you performed badly but the only thing I can think of is to have you all take a new test tonight so that I can be sure that the scores were not due to me wording questions poorly.”

There were some groans in the room (nerds, like they wouldn’t get the same or better score tonight as they did on the first test). For me this was a second chance, I still had no clue what I got on the first test but I could only assume it was a failing grade. Then it hit me, I hadn’t been studying for this exam and

whatever I had studied prior to the last class had been erased by a massive weekend of binge drinking (damn you Busch Light! … Just kidding, I can’t stay mad at you). My chest tightened as he walked up the aisles passing out my latest death sentence and I could swear he looked a little happy about it… my hands were sweating and I could feel the lump rising up in my throat (NO, I didn’t cry… I just wanted to).

I could barely hold on to my pencil as I started on the first question… this was going to be bad. As I was guessing on the 4th or 5th question I was interrupted…

“Put down your pencils” he said, “I want all of you to think carefully about what you are feeling physically and mentally” he paused as we looked at him confused, then he went on, “this is how people with anxiety disorders feel all the time.”

No shit, I thought, not understanding what was going on. Then I realized (a little late) that it was all part of his joke. He explained that the test results were actually quite good and passed out our results. I did, well. I think I got a B, but at this point a passing grade would have felt like an A+.

After the lecture I was walking home, I picked up my phone to call my mom to tell her about what had just happened and the test results when something stopped me… Friday was April Fools Day and I had an idea… I was about to apply something I learned in school to my real life, this was exciting.

I spent all day Thursday thinking about what I should say and what would really fool my mom. Then it all made sense, I had the perfect plan because the set up had already been done. You see, I get my worry, um, gene from my mother and knowing this meant that she had been worrying about that test since our conversation (probably more than I was). It was almost to easy…

April 1st – D-Day. The plan was perfect, I had decided that I would call my mom after my last class Friday once I got home. When I walked into my house I went up to my room and overheard some roommates who had already started their weekend. I went in, got a beer and told them about my plan. They agreed that it was genius and insisted that I remained in the room while I made the call.

My parents were in Florida at the time for a conference that my dad was attending which meant that it was early enough in the day that my mom would be someplace warm (in the shade) reading her latest novel. Perfect time to call… (what I didn’t know is that she had actually been sick and I fairly bad cold).

I dialed with my speaker phone turned on… “Hey!” she said as her phone told her that I was calling.

“H-Hi…” I said with my voice shaking in a way that I knew would lead her to determine that something was wrong.

Immediately she responded, “What’s wrong?”

“Well… I don’t know exactly how to say it…” I said as my roommates worked to stifle their laughter.

“Just tell me” she said sternly, “what’s wrong?” I could tell the anxiety was building.

“Well, y-you know the test we tal…”

“What about it?” she interrupted.

“It didn’t go very well.”

“Did you fail?”

“Not exactly…”

“Just tell me what happened” she said.

I was working on keeping my laughter under control when I said, “I got caught cheating…”

Silence.

“Mom?”

“Ugh, why? What happens now?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly but it sounds like I will be suspended for the rest of the semester since it is a first offense… I’m sorry.”

“Why were you cheating?”

“I didn’t want to fail! I was nervous.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph… what were you thinking?” she was getting mad now.

“I wasn’t I guess, I’m sorry.”

“You have been doing this all along haven’t you? This isn’t the first time is it?”

(This prank was so good that it made her questions her gifted, talented baby’s integrity… I was actually really surprised when she said that, but I guess I deserved it)

“What? NO!”

“I don’t know what I am going to tell your father…” she thought out loud then continued, “what do you do now?”

“I don’t know…”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” now she was really mad… it was time to end it.

“Mom?”

“What?!”

“Mom?”

“WHAT?!”

“April Fools!” I said through laughter as the other 3 or 4 roommates in the room all crowded around the phone as we all laughed together. I took the phone off speaker and put it up to my ear. “Mom?” I said still laughing. I couldn’t hear anything over the laughter so I walked out of the room, “Mom?”

Finally she responded, “G-good job, you really g-got (gasp, gasp) me!”

“Mom, don’t cr…” I tried to say before she hung up. Oops, I thought. The joke was a little too perfect I guess… I was still laughing, though (come one you were laughing too, it was perfect!).

I quickly called her back and she answered by saying, “that wasn’t very nice!” she was starting to laugh it off. I told her that truth about what had happened and then she explained that she had been sick which made me feel worse for making her worry and cry, but in the end we hung up on good terms.

A couple of hours went by and I had a couple more beers when my phone rang, the caller ID said Dad.

Hmmm, I thought, am I in trouble?

“Hey Dad!” I said in a cheery voice trying not to sound too drunk in the middle of the afternoon as I had participating in my favorite activity… day drinking.

“Quite the April Fools joke!” he said.

See, it turns out that after I had gotten off the phone with my mom she had slowly realized the genius of the joke and decided that it was good enough to use on my dad when he got out of his meeting, she is much more brave than I am, even though they were in Florida… I didn’t think for a second that the 1,700 miles gave me a big enough head start to play this joke on my dad and here my mom using the joke on him in the same room!

The joke reduced my dad to tears (I get the worrying from my mom and the crying from my dad) after he had accused me of cheating all along (writing this makes me wonder why my parents had so little faith in me… I blame my siblings).

Growing up I was never good with practical jokes, my older brother got that gene. But this one, this one was a gift from the heavens perfectly wrapped and it would have been a crime against humanity NOT to use it. I haven’t pulled a real April Fools joke since, I am waiting for the next perfect situation to present itself… Mom, I can’t promise you won’t be in the receiving end of the next one…

Cheers.

Baby Boy

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

Since it is Saturday I will continue to keep this light-hearted for the weekend. Just a fair warning here, this story will contain vulgar language and adult situations. You have been warned.

Winter 2003. My first semester of college was definitely an interesting one. I went to college thinking I only knew a couple of people and I quickly realized that there were more familiar faces than I realized. One of the houses where I spent the majority of my time drinking was on 16th and Como. This is where I met the eleven roommates I would live with the following year… although I didn’t start hanging out with those guys until late in the first semester. The group that lived there was divided into people I knew from high school and people they had met in the dorms the previous year (I was the baby of the group, a role a play very well). This allowed me to meet a lot of new people and form some new friendships.

It was an early winter night and after I finished pre-gaming the party in my dorm with my roommate (who rarely left the Playstation and even less left our dorm room) I set off by myself on the 12 block journey to 16th and Como.

Let me extend a little bit on yesterday’s post regarding Drunk Tim. Drunk Tim likes to dance, a lot. Now, I don’t remember this being the case prior to college. At some point early in my college career the switch was flipped (it has yet to be turned off).

As I am sure we all remember there was a popular television show on MTV called “The Wade Robson Dance Project” (well it was popular in my dorm room at least). If you didn’t watch it (loser) then I will give you a brief synopsis. People who could dance went on to the show to compete with other dancers… Wade Robson was a choreographer and back up dancer who would mentor the dancers and judge the competition. He was Drunk Tim’s hero.

As I arrived to the party everyone was gathered in the same place they do at every college party, the basement. Basement space in dinkytown is more valuable than shore front property in Malibu. Now, in the afternoon the basement was dingy, cramped and smelled like an alcoholics bathroom or at least what I imagine one to smell like. At night, it was a Vegas dance club mixed with the best pub you’ve ever been to (at least that’s what it was like to an insecure drunk freshman).

Now, as with most of these stories there are some fuzzy gaps so I can’t tell you exactly how I found myself in this position but, somehow, I found myself dancing with a small group of girls. One of them I knew from high school but the rest of them were strangers to me at this point. I know we had been discussing the Wade Robson show earlier in the night and at some point a song came on and the rhythm got a hold of me and in that moment, I was Wade Robson (minus the dancing skill, training, good looks and body). So, mentally, I was Wade Robson. I started teaching these girls choreography – steps, head bobs, back rolls (they were following along like I knew what the fuck I was talking about). After I felt they knew the routine, I let them dance on their own. And fell into my Wade Robson critiquing impression in which he would strut back and forth behind the dancer monitoring their performance. This video will illustrate how he behaves in the background…

This went on for a while and I ended up becoming friends with all of these girls, they were good sports. But, this is not where the story ends. When we were finished with dancing and I was sweating like I just ran the Boston marathon, I went to the keg for some much-needed hydration. And as I am filling up my cup someone walks up behind me, leans in and whispers in my ear, “you’re a fucking unbelievable dancer.”

I looked at her long enough to realize that she was serious and thought, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Now, this is the first time in my 18 years of existence that I have actually been hit on, so I had to see where this could go… Jenni was back at high school and I had no intention of doing anything that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop this short.

So, we sat down at the bar in the basement, which if I remember correctly had a wrestling mat as the counter, and we got to talking. Simple stuff.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“New York” I answered. Oh yeah, I should have also mentioned that Drunk Tim is from NY and Sober Tim is from Brainerd. NY sounds better and it is technically true.

The reason Drunk Tim always says NY is because drunk girls like this one assume I mean the city… if pressed I will tell the truth that I am closer to Canadian than I am to being a New Yorker, but usually it is assumed that you are from the Manhattan. So, in this girls eyes I am an amazing dancer from NYC. All the time I am thinking, what the fuck is going on?

We continue to talk for a while and she is laughing to hard at my poorly constructed drunk jokes. She even waited in the same spot like four separate times while I went to the bathroom over the course of 45 minutes. While I was in the bathroom I can remember talking to myself in the mirror and starting to believe that I was the desirable guy… Why wouldn’t she be hanging around me? (see: douche) This was getting serious.

When I returned from my bathroom break she finally asked, “where do you live?”

“Comstock Hall” I said confidently.

“You’re a freshman?!” she screamed in laughter and I thought to myself, well it had to end sometime.

Turns out that she was a senior. In that instant she transformed into an adult and I felt small and immature. She asked where my room was and I explained that I was on the first floor with window looking out onto the small hallway where people would cut through on there way to the cafeteria, she knew where it was. Suddenly, I felt like I was talking to someone who went to the U years ago and was helping lead them down memory lane. She had taking a liking to calling me “baby boy” since I was nothing but a young freshman. I was ready to end the conversation and I was just about ready to get up when she said…

“Baby  boy, tonight I see you taking me to your dorm, I will be wearing nothing but high heels and you bending me over and fucking me in the window so that everyone going to the cafeteria can see.”

To which I suavely responded, “w-what?”

She said, “you heard me.” And of course I did, but I now was in over my head and I quickly said, “I gotta take another piss.”

I sprinted up the stairs and took my time coming back down to the basement. By the time I made it back down she had found another guy and had no further interest in her baby boy (aaawwww).

I learned that night that my dance moves are powerful and with great power comes great responsibility… The next week as I was walking through the mall to my next class, I vaguely recognized one of the girls from the dance group I was mentoring in the basement (we are still friends to this day). As she passed she said, “Hi Wade” with a smirk. I didn’t know if she thought that was my name or if she was joking and that didn’t matter to me.

Punch Drunk

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

Hopefully yesterdays post wasn’t to dark or long and you have come back for more. I will try to lighten things up a bit today. I am really just going with things that strike me on a daily basis, there really isn’t a plan as I look ahead. I will try not to make it sound like random babbling from the uni-bomber or something…

If you know me, you know that I am not a fighter. You know I am not tough. You know I cry more than a grown boy (I was going to say man but that didn’t seem to fit, agreed?) should. This does not stop me from slinging insults or talking tough if a situation arises and I have had some cocktails. So, before we start this little story, let’s briefly discuss drunk Tim…

If you have met him, drunk Tim is a very nice guy. He lip syncs to pop songs by female artists (mainly Christina Aguilera or Miley Cyrus… stay tuned for more on this down the road), he will talk and ask questions to figure out your life story and hang on every word as if it is the most interesting thing he has ever heard, he has even been known to engage in public displays of affection with his wife (sober Tim does NOT do this). Drunk Tim likes to party. He used to be a little boisterous back in college however, but mostly stayed out of trouble… Until one night it all caught up with him…

Fall of 2004. I was a Sophomore in college at the U of M. I was living in a house with 10 young, umm, gentlemen (yes, you read that right ten). This particular evening is a little hazy but I am sure it started out like most nights beer from the kegerator and 20-30 friendly games of Foosball. Although, as I recall, I was in my “fancy” attire at the time (sweater from 10th grade and khakis) so I must have gone someplace with my parents for a much-needed meal and money for food (beer), school supplies (beer), and a little fun (lots of beer). Whatever the case, I had managed to get myself hammered drunk and Drunk Tim was ready to party.

Our neighbors at the time were having a get together on this crisp fall evening which meant that the corner of 14th and 7th in dinkytown was rather busy as people bounced back and forth between the two houses. At some point I found myself in the basement of the neighbor’s house enjoying some of their famous blue drink that tasted like it had no alcohol but, in fact, had a high alcohol content (I researched this as a personal project during my college years). As a couple of buddies and myself were drinking and talking it became apparent that another one of the parties attendants was your textbook bad apple. The way he lurked in the corner just screamed that he was looking for trouble. There had been no incidents when I decided to leave the apartment and go back to his house (probably because the blue drink had been known to cause serious heart burn, this was discovered through the research project previously mentioned).

When I left the basement and made it outside the attendants of both parties were converging on the front lawns, worlds were colliding. As I made my way up the front walk to the porch of his house there was a young lad, er, relieving himself on the finely kept (not really) front lawn. He looked like a mix of Eminem and Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. As I passed I overheard him blabbing to his friend (who was standing far to close to him) about people, “disrespectin’ him.” He sounded like someone you might see on the Maury Povich show finding out whether or not he is the father.

I decided that the irony of this situation could not go unmentioned and in a drunken slur I said, “why you be disrespectin’ me by pissin’ on our lawn?” (I’m sure it sounded like a guy who would have been cast in an all white version of “Boyz in da Hood”) and continued on my way to the front porch of the house. Now, hindsight being 20/20, I should have recognized that respect (or lack there of) was a hot button issue for this guy. As I reached the top step, not knowing he had finished his business, he grabbed my left shoulder turned me around and nailed me with a cross to the right eye.

Now, I had never been punched in the face prior to this nor have I been since. It was flash, then a few seconds of numb while my brain tried to process what the hell just happened, surprisingly, no pain. I looked to a roommate who was standing on the porch for a clue as to what just happened… he was laughing, thus confirming that I had just been punched in the face. I heard my assailant, who had since retreated to the sidewalk, screaming in my direction… “yeah, bitch!” and “what up now?!”, I was starting to think that this guy was not in fact a student enrolled at the U of M, though I never got a chance to confirm this.

As previously stated, I am not a fighter and I am not tough. I decided that I would just retire for the evening and cut my losses. What’s more, is that my eye wouldn’t start watering (no, I wasn’t crying… I know what you’re thinking) so I thought I would go assess the damage. As I walked to the entry way I was met by a couple of roommates who looked at me and immediately asked/yelled, “who did it?!”, that is when I realized my eye was not watering but bleeding. That made me mad. I promptly pointed at the douche bag that hit me and the house of 11 drunk guys was mobilized like bees whose hive was under attack.

My original point to who had done it was not completely accurate and a smaller guy who was a spectator and not involved was shoved to the ground… At this point I was angry and kicked this guy when he was down, this is not something I am proud of and would gladly give this guy an opportunity to get me back if I were to ever encounter him. I am not a fighter and I am not tough.

What ensued from there was a stand-off and to my surprise my assailant had acquired his group of friends, including the guy I had seen in the basement earlier and he was holding a bottle that he broke over the curb (I knew he was bad news). The stand-off looked like something out of a bad reenactment of West Side Story or Michael Jackson’s “Bad” video. A few minutes into the stand-off one of my roommates was punched and knocked to the ground. He quickly got up and said, “I’m done” as he turned on his heel and retreated home.

At this point we were on the other side of the block from our house when the dreaded spot light hit our faces. Someone yelled “cops!” and I can’t swear it but I am pretty sure someone yelled “scatter!”

As we made our way through a driveway, I encountered a 5ft fence (uh oh, I know what you’re thinking). I watched a few of my roommates hop right over but as I attempted to do the same and got my left foot on top of the fence, I froze. The fence wobbled back and forth under my foot as I tried to figure out how to complete the task of getting to the other side. This thought was interrupted by my impatient roommate who gave me a helpful shove. As I went face first over the fence my khakis (remember I was wearing fancy clothes) caught on one of the rusty spires on the fence ripping the pants and digging into my mid-thigh and cutting me down past my knee. I got up and hobbled the rest of the way back home to evade the dreaded campus police.

The next day I was greeted with an eye swollen shut and a nasty cut, oddly enough we didn’t have a first aid kit in the house (we rarely had toilet paper). The next couple of weeks I was forced to walk around with the reminder on my face that… I am not a fighter and I am not tough.