Television shows like Toddlers and Tiaras make the world of pageants and crowns look like an explosion of attitudes, fake tans, and tulle.  Thankfully, running for Homecoming Queen at UNC Charlotte isn’t anything like the tornado of toddlers and stage moms seen on television.

Becoming 49er royalty is number three on my super senior year bucket list, and one of the most elaborate items I’ve undertaken.  Running for queen involves a fundraising competition, interviews, the all-important student vote and conquering my fear of rejection. Nothing stings quite like being denied by 25,000 of your closest friends and classmates.

Despite the risk of feeling a little embarrassed by putting myself out there, running for queen has been a lot of fun. I’m meeting new people and doing new things on campus.

Candidates are required to attend things like the annual comedy show, a day of service at a UNC Charlotte Governor’s Village school and the Green and Gold Affair.

Running for queen also gives me the excuse to splurge on a dress that I probably don’t need, involves sparkles and the phrase “I can’t live without it”.

Voting begins Feb. 6 and goes through Feb 8.  You can vote by visiting the Homecoming site on those dates.

Watch out for my posters, look for my interview on Niner TV’s show, Listen Up!, like my Facebook page and spread the word.

I can condemn Natty Light because I’ve become a beer connoisseur along my journey to earn a plate at the Flying Saucer, number 19 on my super senior year bucket list.

Earning a plate is no easy task.  I have to consume 200 different brews before I’ll see my name mounted among the beer stars that have come before me.

My journey to stardom began in June when I committed my summer to making major progress before the school year hit.  I paid the $18 membership fee, donned my Beerknurd shirt with pride and never missed a free Sunday brunch.

Flanked by my fellow plate hopeful, Erika, I could be found at the Saucer every Sunday for brunch, Monday for pint night and Tuesday for trivia.  People weren’t sure if they should start sending mail to my booth at the Saucer (it’s the second one after the U.F.O. machine in case you were wondering), that’s how seriously committed I was to my goal.

Despite my over-enthusiastic attendance during the summer, progress has been slow.  I wanted to be halfway done by Christmas break, but I’m only at 56.  A hectic semester has kept me from pint night and trivia.  In fact, I usually only make it to the Saucer around 2 p.m. once a week and grab a beer while doing homework on the couches.  Don’t judge; it’s surprisingly productive.

To end my progress report, I will include my three favorite beers so far.  Spoiler alert: not a single one of them ends in any form of the word “light”.  I will also include one beer to avoid at all costs.  Save yourself $7 bucks and don’t even try it.

The best of the brews:

1. Blanche De Bruxelles
   If you ever feel like splurging, this is the beer to do it on.  Erika and I affectionately nicknamed it “Heaven Beer”.  There really is no other way to describe it.  Heaven.
2. Uinta Punk’n
   This beer tastes like Thanksgiving.  The flavors of cinnamon, pumpkin and nutmeg weave through the brew to create a heavenly, seasonal favorite.
3. RJ Rockers Son of Peach
   I discovered this beer over the summer and it was hard not to order it every single time. Despite its name it’s not too sweet.  I would go so far as to say this is the perfect summer draft.

The worst of the bunch:

Southern Tier Crème Brulee – Don’t be fooled by its name and deliciously sweet aroma, this beer is disgusting.  It smells exactly like crème brulee and at first the tastes matches the name, but it has an extremely bitter finish that made this one difficult to finish.

I will continue to pick away at the monstrous beer list until I reach 200.  In the meantime, remember, friends don’t let friends fly drunk.

Photo courtesy of the Flying Saucer

Photo/MCT Campus

Visiting a psychic has been on my life bucket list since I first saw Teen Witch at eight years old.  I was convinced that when I eventually had my reading the psychic would tell me I possessed magical powers just like Louise from the movie.

From that moment on, the assumption that I was destined for greatness and a magical lifestyle followed me through a slew of fantasy themed movies and books, including the entire Harry Potter series (I’m still convinced the owl carrying my Hogwarts letter got hit by a car).

I’ve tried to visit a psychic twice before.  My first attempt ended with the fortuneteller quoting North Carolina state law as an eerie, annoying warning.  She informed me that 17 was too young to know the evil that may befall me and North Carolina forbade her to look into my uncertain future until I had become a woman.

The second try is barely worth mentioning.  I returned to the same psychic a year older, wiser and officially legal, only to find that she was on vacation.  If my future doesn’t take a vacation, neither should psychics.

The most recent psychic adventure happened a few weeks ago when I set out to complete number six on my super senior year bucket list.

If I’ve learned anything from Teen Witch and Harry Potter, it’s that everyone associated with mystical work wears too many bracelets, creates outfits made exclusively of gauzy scarves and have names like Esmeralda or Nadya.

My mystical knowledge came crashing down around me when I arrived at Carolina Astrology to find the resident psychic dressed in a velour track suit from Target and holding a tiny dog that should belong to Paris Hilton, not a gypsy fortuneteller.  She introduced herself as Victoria and successfully destroyed my idealized picture of mystical beings.

She hurt herself with the outfit and tiny socialite dog (she should clearly have a black cat), but the name was the last straw.  Next time I will Google psychics named Esmeralda, or at least ones that throw a Madame in front of their regular name to sound mystical.

Despite my better judgment, I followed her into the shady family home turned mystic den and tried to ignore the yapping of the tiny dog coming from behind the door connected to the reading room.

She pulled out a deck of oversized cards covered in cryptic images rather than the four suits I’ve become familiar with through endless college drinking games.  I chose eight of the foreign cards and kept my fingers crossed that she wouldn’t reveal one of them to be the dreaded death card.

The reading started out fairly well, she told me basic information about myself regarding my personality that all seemed pretty on track.  My downfall came when she told me that I had always been lucky in life and would continue to be.

Yes!  I had always felt like things just magically worked out for me and now here was a psychic confirming it.  I started to think that maybe Victoria wasn’t so bad.  After all, she did have a crystal ball and that almost made up for the dog.

One right answer and I turned to putty in her hands.  I foolishly began to guide her with incessant babble about everything from my career ambitions to my love life.  I could see her shaping the reading about my confessions, but I just couldn’t seem to stop talking.

I finally snapped out of her tricky spell when I accidentally blurted out, “that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

Victoria made the fatal female mistake of assuming I wanted to mend my heart and live happily ever after with the last person who dumped me.  She was very wrong.

Suddenly, the manipulation tactics were crystal clear.  I should have recognized them earlier, I’m pretty sure she was following a checklist that was in my Intro to Psychology textbook.

She quickly backtracked and changed my love life from a heartwarming reconciliation to a three-year long path of solitude that ended with my soul mate.  Despite her best efforts, the spell was broken.

My visit didn’t last much longer; I think we both knew I wasn’t interested in listening to her lies about the future.  I left with my pockets $60 lighter and my spirit feeling heavy.

I’m still disappointed in my visit three weeks later.  Victoria did not go into an intense trance upon touching my hand and tell me I was destined for magical greatness.  More importantly, she didn’t provide any reassurance about my future.

My hopes were high because the clock is ticking and I’m about to be thrust into the real world.  Other seniors can relate.  It’s a scary time and reassurance that everything will work out is something we can’t get enough of right now.

I guess I’ll have to continue to look for answers elsewhere.  The Yahoo! horoscope gypsies seem eerily in-tune with my life, I’ll just stick with them.

Photo / Corbin Peters

It was close to midnight on my last ever night living in a dorm room. I had just closed on my new condo and I knew I would never live on campus again.

I had to do something memorable, something I’d only ever be able to do easily as an on campus resident. I had to go streaking.

I lived in Martin Village in the Spring of 2010. Martin isn’t close to anything of note on campus except for the gardens.

Most nights I rushed through the gardens on my way home, nervous of who or what could be hiding in the thick brush on either side of the path. The last night of the semester was different; the Susie Harwood Gardens seemed whimsical and magical instead of creepy and menacing.

As a sentimental girl, I envisioned a romantic experience of running naked through the new blooms in the gardens while being caressed by the warm May air. I think I confused myself for a wood nymph. Spoiler alert: I’m not a mythical creature.

I headed into the gardens at the entrance near the waterfall pond. I wanted to be off the main path, but not so far away I couldn’t reach a blue light in case the gardens really did house the creepy things I always worried about.

I decided to treat streaking like pulling off a Band-aid, the faster the better. As soon as I was out of sight of the main path I ripped off my t-shirt and shorts in record time. I had the foresight to keep them clutched in my hands as I began to sprint through the gardens.

Needless to say, I did not feel or look like a wood nymph. A nymph would be giggling and running a hand along the bushes leaving a trail of delicate blooms down the path. I would say I was more like King Kong. I was sprinting in the dark, crashing through bushes and leaving a wake of terrified destruction.

I was not kept in naked misery for long, less than a minute into my “liberating jog” I ran smack into a guy lurking behind a pine tree. I screamed and immediately dropped to the ground to hug my knees and keep as much covered as possible. I think the poor garden stoner was more afraid than I was. He was just looking to relieve stress in peace and instead he got accosted by a naked King Kong.

He stumbled off down a nearby path and I took off in the other direction trying to get my clothes back on and not fall or run into someone else. It was the most exhilarating and humiliating moment of my life up to that point.

I don’t know what laws there are against streaking or public nudity so I am not going to give any advice on how to accomplish this feat if its on your bucket list but I can tell you ways that I wouldn’t streak.

One includes running stark naked through a ceremony to honor the military ECU streaker style.  A good streaking rule of thumb would be to avoid sporting events, there are too many people that are paid to run after you.  Although, running naked in a pitch black garden probably isn’t the safest way to cross it off your list either.

When I was a freshman in 2007, Halloween on Franklin Street seemed like the ultimate college party. Every year more than 80,000 celebrators would flood Chapel Hill’s most popular road and transform it into a runway for their craziest costumes.

Four years later, only 27,000 revelers braved the cold to celebrate Halloween on Franklin. The town of Chapel Hill has put efforts into place to keep the crowds down and clear the streets early to keep residents safe… more like crush the hopes and dreams of my 17-year-old self.

Despite the toned down celebration, I had to get to Franklin for Halloween before I graduated so I roadtripped down to Chapel Hill on Monday with high hopes and a car full of costumed friends.

We arrived pretty early and the town was still shutting down the streets. Luckily, we had a friend’s place to park at so we were able to avoid the outrageous $20 parking fees.

We waited for the streets to fill at a small pizza place, the Artisan Pizza Kitchen, with gross pizza, but great beer specials. One minute, I leaned down to take a bite and there were only a couple hundred people outside, the next I sit up to see thousands. It happened that fast.

Franklin Street is one of those weird events that doesn’t have a pre-determined start time, people just seem to all show up at once as though they had an internal alarm clock telling them the time.

The whole experience was vaguely reminiscent of a middle school dance but one full of paparazzi instead of 12-year-olds. Everyone was doing laps up and down the street so they could see and be seen while cameras flashed everywhere you looked.

I’ve never seen costumes so creative and elaborate. Charlotte definitely needs to step its costume game up. My favorites were a family of Angry Birds, a man wearing nothing but a grass loincloth, Sexy Sax Men who had a saxophone battle playing ‘Careless Whisper’ and a group dressed as Rice Krispies’ animated spokespeople Snap, Crackle and Pop.

If you’re over 21, I recommend paying the cover to go to Top of the Hill. It’s a restaurant and brewery with a rooftop section that allows you the best view of the Franklin Street masses. The bird’s eye view is also one of the best ways to take in all of the crazy costumes.

I don’t see how 80,000 people used to cram onto Franklin, it was crazy and crowded with just 27,000. I’ve never seen anything like it and there isn’t anything comparable here in Charlotte. It wasn’t quite what I expected but I’m glad I went.

Next week, find out exactly how embarrassing streaking through campus is when I tell you about number 18 on the list.

I’d like to give a special thank you to Erin Coats for letting us park at her house, and to Emily Kupsky and Zach Buchholz for dressing up and going on the Halloween adventure with me.

The VUE Charlotte, the building Over the Edge participants would rappel down.

After a valiant four-day effort, I hate to report that I did not make my $1,000 goal, I did not rappel down the side of a 51 story building and I did not get to cross number 16 (bungee) off of My Super Senior Year bucket list.

It’s clear to me now that I was overly optimistic.  Raising $1,000 in four days was a long shot, but I honestly believed that nothing would be able to stop me.  Super senior luck was not on my side, however I was able to raise around $200 for the Special Olympics, which is a nice consolation prize.

If you attempt to raise an astronomically large sum of money in an absurdly short amount of time, learn from my fundraising successes and failures.

Do:

• Ask your friends to support you, mine were incredibly generous and were able to scrounge up money even if we’re all broke college kids.
• Set up a donation website to make it easy for people to give to your cause and for your friends to share with others.
• Set up a table and ask for donations.  Instead of trying to sell something at a set price, I bought bags of Hershey’s Kisses and gave them as rewards to anyone who donated.  The average donation was $1.00, more than we would have made selling bake goods or something else requiring more money and effort.
• Approach local businesses and ask how they can help.  FUEL Pizza allowed me to do a benefit night where a percentage of sales went to my cause. (see the don’t column for added advice on benefit nights)

Don’t

• Give yourself an unreasonable time limit to meet your goal.
• Fail to plan ahead when you have a benefit night.  I attempted to hand out the benefit vouchers at bars on the same night as the benefit.  People already had after party plans or were so intoxicated they thought I was saying that I was a Special Olympic participant.  Only one voucher was returned to FUEL that night and the only result of that benefit was damage to my pride.
• Be overly pushy when asking for donations.  Money is a touchy subject and people get uncomfortable when asked to give it away.  If someone says no, thank him or her and move on.

I haven’t given up on marking number 16 off my list.  I still have seven months to conquer my fear of heights and bungee jump.  If anyone has successfully bungeed in the past and has tips or tricks please let me know!

I would like to thank my friends, especially Gini Arnold, for their generous donations of both time and money.  I really couldn’t have made even a small dent in the $1,000 without them.

Gini Arnold helping to work the Kisses for Cash fundraiser.

Tonight, I’m on my way to Chapel Hill to experience a Franklin Street Halloween.  This is one I’ve wanted to do since my freshman year of college.  Check back on Thursday to see if the two hour trip was worth it.

I’ve never been much of an athlete.  To “prepare” for the race I went to the gym maybe three times the week before and messed around on the treadmill.  Completing two miles seems a lot easier when you’re able to laugh at 30 Rock or pretend to kick robot ass with Will Smith while watching I Am Legend.

My first mistake race day was over sleeping, I had to skip breakfast and start cardio early by running all over campus to register and get ready in less than hour.  My second mistake came when I decided to make my 4.NINER K experience as entertaining as possible and ran with the pack leaders for as long as I could.

“As long as I could” was about 45 seconds because my nerves, empty stomach and lack of physical prowess created a roiling mess that I couldn’t keep down. Nothing is quite as embarrassing as publicly blowing chunks, especially at an event designed to showcase athleticism.

I couldn’t let my 4.NINER K experience end in shame behind a car in the Spruce parking lot so I decided to finish the race… this time I walked.  My goal was to finish ahead of the moms pushing strollers and my “arch nemesis” for the race, Wiyo, a small sheltie who happened to belong to Chancellor Dubois.

I managed to finish before Wiyo and the moms without any other mishaps.  As lame as it seems, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face as I crossed the finish line.  Fellow 49ers lined the sides of the final stretch and cheered me through the final steps.  I couldn’t help but feel plugged into my campus and Niner Nation as I finished a race where the proceeds create scholarships that benefit my fellow students.Yeah, I puked behind a car and walked the majority of the race, but I still finished something that most students didn’t even attempt to do.

Of all the items on my bucket list, I would encourage other students to run in the 4.NINER K at least once before they graduate.  It’s definitely an experience worth having.Crossing the finish line is something every Niner should do before they graduate.

Next week, find out if I raised enough funds to rappel down the VUE skyscraper uptown and follow me to Chapel Hill as I road trip to experience Halloween on Franklin St.  To help make number 16 on the list possible, stop by FUEL Pizza at Hearst Tower on Friday.  A percentage of the proceeds go to help raise the $1,000 donation to the Special Olympics.

If you can’t make it to FUEL, donate online at my First Giving site!

I would like to give a big thank you to Emily Kupsky for running almost the entire race with me while filming, Colby Hopkins for editing the footage into the hilarious video above, and Corbin Peters for taking pictures.

A school mascot is given the responsibility of personifying the student body.  The humble person inside the heavy, often smelly suit doesn’t subject his or herself to potential humiliation for the money.  They don’t toil under a giant head with limited visibility to pad their resume.  The individual filling the giant, clumsy shoes of a mascot doesn’t do it for the glory; it’s crucial that their identity be kept secret.  The men and women behind the mascots do their job quietly and often thanklessly for the simple pleasure they take in boosting the morale of their campus family.

I can make these extravagant, sentimental claims because two weeks ago I was humbled as I struggled through the mascot audition process for Norm the Niner.  Nothing puts you in your place quite like sticking your hands in gloves moist with other people’s sweat and falling down in front of three stone-faced strangers.

I may understand that being a mascot is a serious job now, but before I went into the audition, I wasn’t taking it seriously at all.  I was more interested in making sure the others auditioning heard my sarcastic comments than in picking up the mantle of Niner Nation.

The opening speech, given by a former Norm and current professional mascot for the Charlotte Checkers, quickly killed the light-hearted atmosphere that had filled the room of Norm hopefuls.  As he paced in front of us decked out in a Checker tracksuit, complete with matching shoes, he tried to impress upon us the gravity that comes with lifting spirits.

The audition was comprised of three parts: a questionnaire/form, a test in the suit and running the flag.

The form asked for a detailed description of exactly what my vision for Norm was on and off campus.  It was intense, addressing the identity and greater vision for what I used to think was just an empty Miner suit.  How seriously have UNC Charlotte and the other Norms been taking his identity?  He’s been voted the creepiest mascot on several lists and his bro-style tank top doesn’t help the creeper image.  http://bleacherreport.com/articles/739284-50-top-mascots-in-college-basketball/page/7

The test in the suit was nerve-racking to say the least.  Visibility with the Norm head on is nonexistent.  I had to come up with three unique Norm walks, perform different emotions, show of my dance skills and use an object to interact with the crowd (by crowd I mean the three judges).

I felt ridiculous and clumsy inside the ill-fitting, smelly suit, but after the first few minutes I calmed down.  There is a certain level of confidence that comes from the anonymity the Norm suit provides and soon I forgot to be self-conscious.

The low point of the audition came towards the end when I was told to choose one object lying on the ground and find a way to use it for six seconds.  I thought one of the objects was a broom; it was actually a lacrosse stick.  Did I mention visibility was nonexistent?  I had no idea what to do with it so I threw it down and tried again.  I had gone far beyond the six second limit at that point, and I wasn’t feeling the confidence that had given inspiration to my hoe down dance earlier in the audition.

Despite my flub, I tried to keep my head up as I left the room.  That’s the first time I connected with the spirit of Norm, creepy tank top be damned.  Being a mascot is hard.  Sometimes people don’t interact with you, sometimes people make fun of you, sometimes people throw their drinks on you and sometimes you mess up.  In real life you can turn back to your friends who will laugh with you, you can snap back at smart mouths and you can leave.  When you’re a mascot you have to stick it out.  You can’t walk off, you can’t cry, you have to keep your chin up and keep trying to make everyone else happy.

Norm’s identity must remain a secret so I can’t reveal the results of the audition.  Just in case, make sure you’re nice to Norm next time you run into him on campus; you never know who he really is.