There once were two boys who liked the same girl
Though the thought of approaching her made them both want to hurl.
Each of the boys were both quiet and meek,
Equally handsome and equally geek.
One was named Archie, the other named Pat –
Both loved Emily, they were sure of that.
“Alas!” cried out Pat, “for I saw her first!”
“My heart,” swooned Archie, “I think it shall burst!”
Though the two were best friends, they knew they would fight
To hang out with Em, even just for one night.
Meanwhile, Emily was tot’lly clueless;
Which makes the whole story quite a true mess.
One fair day the boys saw they had a chance
To get a date to the Mistletoe Dance.
“I pray," said Archie, "that she will just say yes.
That would rid me of all my distress."
And as he went to go find dear Emily,
He could hear the gods whisper "Victory."
Pat had a different wish for the dance,
And that was to simply start a romance.
"I pray," said Pat, "that we dance together
Because that will lead to love forever."
Emily, however, wished for much more.
She wanted a night like none she'd had before.
"I pray," said she, "that the boy who wins me
cares more than anyone; that is the key."
The next day, Archie asked her to be his date.
He beat Pat to it, and Pat was too late.
Emily said yes just as Archie hoped
But since Pat was his friend, he did not gloat.
Instead, he waited for the night calmly,
Did not act out of the ordinary.
But the day of the dance, something was wrong:
His throat was sore, his ears rang like a gong.
His temperature was one hundred two
"Emily," he croaked, "I can't dance with you."
She was very upset to lose her date,
But Emily thought, "It must fate."
She decided to go to the dance stag
Hoping it wouldn't be a total drag.
Pat didn't think he'd have much fun either
But Em would be there; he'd at least get to see her.
The music was loud, the dancing was fast,
Pat was nervous, but soon it had passed
For when he saw Emily all dressed up
He was overcome with feelings of love.
They shyly locked eyes from across the room
But soon were so close, Pat could smell her perfume.
Luckily for them, the music slowed down
(For when Pat boogied, he looked like a clown).
But a slow dance, he could do, and they swayed
Until the Boyz II Men song began to fade.
Neither wanted the three minutes to end;
They were smitten, neither had to pretend.
The night was grand for Pat and Emily,
And they walked home together happily.
None of our heroes would have ever guessed
That they'd get their wish: Archie his yes,
Pat his dance, and Emily her suitor:
A boy who truly desired to woo her.
People get what they want: fame, love, glory!
But how they get it is another story.
Fate and destiny can be quite tricky,
You can get your 'yes' but still get sick(y).
Some days you'll be crushed by the fortune wheel,
But some days you'll be on top: what a deal!
‘Tis the end of my tale, hope ‘twasn’t a fright,
To all a good Christmas, and to all a good night!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Oh, The Mystery
It was one o’clock in the morning and I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised that I was very awake, vaguely alert, and only halfway through my to-do list. I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have started my night by re-watching the second season of the OC. That probably wasn’t going to help me in my Literature of Icelandic Societies class, for which I still had to concoct an eight page paper for.
Yeah, I probably should have started with the paper.
And not the OC.
Or the two hours of Farmville …
Going on three.
Oi, I really should have put procrastination on my to-do list because then I would be crossing things off like a boss. I wanted to do well in my class, but my lima beans were getting soggy and my cows needed to be brushed. I couldn’t let my cows go un-brushed, could I?!
I tended the last of my crops and peaced out of Farmville. I had to write this paper!
I opened a blank document and put on my glasses (because obviously if I look smarter, my papers will sound better). Just as my index finger hit the first key, my phone rang. A TEXT MESSAGE!
Well, I had to look at it; a sensible girl knows that curiosity killed that cat as well as her will to work. So I couldn’t just sit there wondering!
Oh, huh, it was a text from a number I had never seen before! “Creepy things.” That’s all it said! I figured it had to be from someone I knew on campus. So I texted back, “Creepier things!”
The moment the text sent, I felt as though I had opened Pandora’s box. My phone was convulsing with text messages from multiple numbers that I had never seen before:
“this is a super creepy message for christine” … I was confused. My name was definitely Christina, with an “a,” right? RIGHT?!
“Christina, don’t look in the closet. Its not safe tonight.” ... I looked up and my closet was wide open, revealing nothing but a few sequined dresses and a fur coat (don’t judge, I promise that someday when I marry rich all of my wardrobe decisions will finally make sense). Oooh. Scary.
“mmm … im waiting” … For what?! An apostrophe between your “I” and “m?” Listen buster, only you can prevent bad grammar.
“U should really close ur windows its dangerous” … Now I was getting kind of perturbed. My window was closed with the blinds shut. And why would it be dangerous? If anyone tried to climb through my window, they would immediately be sucked into the abyss that is my laundry pile. The chance of survival is minimal, so yeah, I guess it would be dangerous, but not for me!
“ill see you soon – the devil” … I wasn’t aware that the devil had a South Carolina area code! But he’ll see me soon, eh? Did I say yes to a date that I shouldn’t have?
I imagined someone on campus going to a study group and giving everyone my number to pass the time by creeping me out and seeing what kind of pathetic response I could render. I hoped it wasn’t a malicious thing because I saw Carrie and I know what bullying does to people.
And then that familiar “POP” came from my computer.
“You’ve been mystery googled!” my friend wrote,
I had had enough of stupid messages that night, but at least I knew who he was.
“What in the name of all things Blondie is mystery googled?” I typed back, hoping this wasn’t actually going to turn into a Scream situation.
My dear friend went on to explain that he had gone onto the website, mysterygoogle.com and typed in “Text creepy things to Christina at (240) 555 – 6789.” With mysterygoogle.com, when you search you get results for the last thing that whoever was on the site searched for. Like, if I search for “How to Disapparate like Harry Potter,” then my results could be anything from “oranges” to “World’s Best Booger Stories.” It just depends on what the last person searched for. Apparently, when my friend typed his little request into mystery google, a bunch of people got it as their result.
Cute.
I have to admit, I was half furious and half impressed. My mommy always told me never to share vital information on the interweb, and I definitely do not need any more stalkers! Sheesh. But using the internet to confuse the (excuse my French) poo out of your friends? That, I’m kind of okay with, somehow.
Besides, two can play that game!
So I went to mysterygoogle.com, thought hard for a moment, and then typed: “Experienced ninja looking for a new challenge: Opus Hall 620 Michigan Avenue NE, Washington D.C. Feel free to break windows!”
Funny, right? I figured some guy dressed all in black would burst into my friend’s room with nunchucks and scare the living daylights out of him. If I was lucky, he would scream like a girl and maybe pee in his pants. But I wasn’t going to get too greedy.
Well, nothing ever happens like you plan.
Not one, not two, but eight ninjas broke into my friend’s room. And one awkward pizza delivery guy, who seemed really confused. I’m not sure what was up with that.
Anyway, they ended up pinning my friend up to the wall with ninja stars and tickling him for a good two hours. I mean, he’s fine. Completely traumatized, but still breathing and talking (though in a weird accent now). I guess I feel a little guilty. A lot guilty. Pranks should never hurt people. Pranks should result in giggling and, if you’re feeling crazy, a good fart joke.
I’ve given up mystery google cold turkey. It’s too much power.
Just remember that the internet is a vast universe of attainable knowledge. And disgusting perverts. Don’t let the urge to make fun of your friends distract you from keeping your loved ones safe. Because some ninjas don’t just tickle.
Yeah, I probably should have started with the paper.
And not the OC.
Or the two hours of Farmville …
Going on three.
Oi, I really should have put procrastination on my to-do list because then I would be crossing things off like a boss. I wanted to do well in my class, but my lima beans were getting soggy and my cows needed to be brushed. I couldn’t let my cows go un-brushed, could I?!
I tended the last of my crops and peaced out of Farmville. I had to write this paper!
I opened a blank document and put on my glasses (because obviously if I look smarter, my papers will sound better). Just as my index finger hit the first key, my phone rang. A TEXT MESSAGE!
Well, I had to look at it; a sensible girl knows that curiosity killed that cat as well as her will to work. So I couldn’t just sit there wondering!
Oh, huh, it was a text from a number I had never seen before! “Creepy things.” That’s all it said! I figured it had to be from someone I knew on campus. So I texted back, “Creepier things!”
The moment the text sent, I felt as though I had opened Pandora’s box. My phone was convulsing with text messages from multiple numbers that I had never seen before:
“this is a super creepy message for christine” … I was confused. My name was definitely Christina, with an “a,” right? RIGHT?!
“Christina, don’t look in the closet. Its not safe tonight.” ... I looked up and my closet was wide open, revealing nothing but a few sequined dresses and a fur coat (don’t judge, I promise that someday when I marry rich all of my wardrobe decisions will finally make sense). Oooh. Scary.
“mmm … im waiting” … For what?! An apostrophe between your “I” and “m?” Listen buster, only you can prevent bad grammar.
“U should really close ur windows its dangerous” … Now I was getting kind of perturbed. My window was closed with the blinds shut. And why would it be dangerous? If anyone tried to climb through my window, they would immediately be sucked into the abyss that is my laundry pile. The chance of survival is minimal, so yeah, I guess it would be dangerous, but not for me!
“ill see you soon – the devil” … I wasn’t aware that the devil had a South Carolina area code! But he’ll see me soon, eh? Did I say yes to a date that I shouldn’t have?
I imagined someone on campus going to a study group and giving everyone my number to pass the time by creeping me out and seeing what kind of pathetic response I could render. I hoped it wasn’t a malicious thing because I saw Carrie and I know what bullying does to people.
And then that familiar “POP” came from my computer.
“You’ve been mystery googled!” my friend wrote,
I had had enough of stupid messages that night, but at least I knew who he was.
“What in the name of all things Blondie is mystery googled?” I typed back, hoping this wasn’t actually going to turn into a Scream situation.
My dear friend went on to explain that he had gone onto the website, mysterygoogle.com and typed in “Text creepy things to Christina at (240) 555 – 6789.” With mysterygoogle.com, when you search you get results for the last thing that whoever was on the site searched for. Like, if I search for “How to Disapparate like Harry Potter,” then my results could be anything from “oranges” to “World’s Best Booger Stories.” It just depends on what the last person searched for. Apparently, when my friend typed his little request into mystery google, a bunch of people got it as their result.
Cute.
I have to admit, I was half furious and half impressed. My mommy always told me never to share vital information on the interweb, and I definitely do not need any more stalkers! Sheesh. But using the internet to confuse the (excuse my French) poo out of your friends? That, I’m kind of okay with, somehow.
Besides, two can play that game!
So I went to mysterygoogle.com, thought hard for a moment, and then typed: “Experienced ninja looking for a new challenge: Opus Hall 620 Michigan Avenue NE, Washington D.C. Feel free to break windows!”
Funny, right? I figured some guy dressed all in black would burst into my friend’s room with nunchucks and scare the living daylights out of him. If I was lucky, he would scream like a girl and maybe pee in his pants. But I wasn’t going to get too greedy.
Well, nothing ever happens like you plan.
Not one, not two, but eight ninjas broke into my friend’s room. And one awkward pizza delivery guy, who seemed really confused. I’m not sure what was up with that.
Anyway, they ended up pinning my friend up to the wall with ninja stars and tickling him for a good two hours. I mean, he’s fine. Completely traumatized, but still breathing and talking (though in a weird accent now). I guess I feel a little guilty. A lot guilty. Pranks should never hurt people. Pranks should result in giggling and, if you’re feeling crazy, a good fart joke.
I’ve given up mystery google cold turkey. It’s too much power.
Just remember that the internet is a vast universe of attainable knowledge. And disgusting perverts. Don’t let the urge to make fun of your friends distract you from keeping your loved ones safe. Because some ninjas don’t just tickle.
Happy Vetrans Day
My alarm went off at 7:00 A.M. as usual. It might have been light outside, but I can never be sure at 7:00 A.M, really.
Approximately 20 snooze buttons later, I rolled out of my bed. Which was a tremendously bad idea because my bed is lofted. Like, a lot.
Luckily, I landed right on my laundry basket. The very same laundry basket that was filled with clean clothes. And, you know, surrounded by all of my dirty ones waiting for their turn. Well, they were all dirty now!
I tripped over the massive pile of Target merch and fumbled for the light. Maybe those super intense blinds we put on our windows weren’t a good idea. It was like a cold winter’s night in my room – perfect for hibernating, not good for functioning.
I used the light of my angry alarm clock to find the switch. The CV light seemed creepier than usual, casting an eerie gray light over my normally cheerful pink room. And my hallway was … silent? That never happens. I figured something had to be wrong. Maybe I forgot to change my clock and was actually an hour behind the rest of the world. Or maybe everyone had been murdered by some psychotic mask-wearing, axe-wielding, smelly old ghost murderer. Not like a murderer who kills ghosts. That would be dumb. No, this was probably a murderer who died but left his soul on Earth to prey on sweet innocent little Quinnies like myself.
Ew, was that cold sweat? Ugh, gross! I didn’t have time to fear for my life anyway. I only had twenty minutes before I was fashionably late and I desperately needed a shower. I bathed as quickly as I could, hoping to avoid a Psycho scene in my fluffy pink bathroom. I hear blood usually ruins hot pink towels, and that would just be such a mess.
I tried to pick the clean clothes out of the massive pile (no guarantees!) and practically poured mascara on my face. I glanced in the mirror before brushing my teeth and saw in the reflection that November 11th had been a big red circle around it on my calendar. Well, today was November 11th. Oh no. I hoped that the ghost murderer hadn’t come in the middle of the night to circle the day that he would come to chop off all my toes. That would have been kind of anti-climactic.
I held my breath and turned to inspect the calendar. Something was typed under the obscenely big red circle and I had to squint to make it out … Veterinarians’ Day? Was that even real? It definitely wasn’t terrifying. My heart stopped racing and I turned back to my morning routine.
Then it came to me. It was Vegetarians’ Day! Obviously.
I wondered why I had decorated the day so enthusiastically. I love Nug Night too much to ever even think about being a vegetarian.
I brushed my teeth until I was satisfied with their squeaky clean-ness, grabbed my books, and headed out the door. It was a little gray outside. Not horror movie gray, though. I had been so off on that!
I started off to my class, feeling rather pleased that I had solved the November 11th mystery. At the CV gate I ran into a girl from my Spanish class. I remembered that time she refused to eat a chicken quesadilla because she was vegetarian. Today was her time to shine! I gave her a big hug, a “Happy Vegetarians’ Day,” and waved good-bye to her as I continued the trek to Pangborn.
With two minutes to spare before I was ten minutes late, I was almost to my Statistics of Canned Foods class when it dawned on me: wasn’t Vegetarians’ Day technically a holiday? Didn’t the government get a day off? I could be president if I really wanted to be (according to my mommy!) so why didn’t I have the day off, too?
Yes, I decided. A day off was exactly what I needed. I could fix my horrendous laundry situation, fix the blinds in my room, and finally catch up on sleep so maybe I could start hitting the snooze button only, like, ten times each morning. That would be refreshing.
I started walking back to my room, but stopped. The guilt was setting in. Not the guilt for missing class, but the guilt of wasting a perfectly good day off doing chores. I’m young and healthy and should be exploring the United States like Sacajawea, I said to myself. Even the sky was agreeing with me as the sun started to peep out from behind the clouds.
The beautiful city of D.C. was calling to me: Christina! Museums are free! Christina! There are so many trees to sit under while you watch tourists make fools of themselves! You know you want to!
I did want to. I wanted to eat lunch in some weird café with a crazy name that I didn’t understand. And then I wanted a fancy cupcake. I wasn’t going to be picky about where it was from. There were more important things to worry about. Like if there were any jazz clubs open at nine in the morning. I definitely needed to hit up a jazz club.
Before I could start off on any fabulous adventures, I needed to go back to my room to get my SmartTrip. I rarely carry it with me, you see, because I have a knack for losing things. I practically skipped back to Quinn, all the while imagining my Statistics teacher drawling out my name while taking attendance. “Wolfgram? … Wolfgram?” Oh, how delightful!
I opened my door and rushed in to find my card, but of course slipped on a rogue pair of sweatpants on the floor. I wondered if really should just take a little time to do laundry. I would still have the afternoon to gallivant around the city.
I gathered all of my clothes and dumped them into my hamper. The hamper that was supposed to be under my bed.
Bed.
I probably had time for a wee nap as well. I mean, it was vital to get back on some sort of coherent sleeping schedule was so important, and what would help more than taking a forty-five minute nap at 9:30 A.M.?
I crawled into bed and told myself to dream of the adventures I would have on Vegetarians’ Day. Maybe I could dance on one of the floats in the parade.
Next thing I knew, it was dark. Whatever, it was always dark in my room thanks to our fancy blinds. But then I checked the clock. 9:30 P.M.?! I had slept through the entire day! I had missed everything! Even the Vegetarians’ Day parade!
Moral of the story? Over-thinking leads to oversleeping.
Approximately 20 snooze buttons later, I rolled out of my bed. Which was a tremendously bad idea because my bed is lofted. Like, a lot.
Luckily, I landed right on my laundry basket. The very same laundry basket that was filled with clean clothes. And, you know, surrounded by all of my dirty ones waiting for their turn. Well, they were all dirty now!
I tripped over the massive pile of Target merch and fumbled for the light. Maybe those super intense blinds we put on our windows weren’t a good idea. It was like a cold winter’s night in my room – perfect for hibernating, not good for functioning.
I used the light of my angry alarm clock to find the switch. The CV light seemed creepier than usual, casting an eerie gray light over my normally cheerful pink room. And my hallway was … silent? That never happens. I figured something had to be wrong. Maybe I forgot to change my clock and was actually an hour behind the rest of the world. Or maybe everyone had been murdered by some psychotic mask-wearing, axe-wielding, smelly old ghost murderer. Not like a murderer who kills ghosts. That would be dumb. No, this was probably a murderer who died but left his soul on Earth to prey on sweet innocent little Quinnies like myself.
Ew, was that cold sweat? Ugh, gross! I didn’t have time to fear for my life anyway. I only had twenty minutes before I was fashionably late and I desperately needed a shower. I bathed as quickly as I could, hoping to avoid a Psycho scene in my fluffy pink bathroom. I hear blood usually ruins hot pink towels, and that would just be such a mess.
I tried to pick the clean clothes out of the massive pile (no guarantees!) and practically poured mascara on my face. I glanced in the mirror before brushing my teeth and saw in the reflection that November 11th had been a big red circle around it on my calendar. Well, today was November 11th. Oh no. I hoped that the ghost murderer hadn’t come in the middle of the night to circle the day that he would come to chop off all my toes. That would have been kind of anti-climactic.
I held my breath and turned to inspect the calendar. Something was typed under the obscenely big red circle and I had to squint to make it out … Veterinarians’ Day? Was that even real? It definitely wasn’t terrifying. My heart stopped racing and I turned back to my morning routine.
Then it came to me. It was Vegetarians’ Day! Obviously.
I wondered why I had decorated the day so enthusiastically. I love Nug Night too much to ever even think about being a vegetarian.
I brushed my teeth until I was satisfied with their squeaky clean-ness, grabbed my books, and headed out the door. It was a little gray outside. Not horror movie gray, though. I had been so off on that!
I started off to my class, feeling rather pleased that I had solved the November 11th mystery. At the CV gate I ran into a girl from my Spanish class. I remembered that time she refused to eat a chicken quesadilla because she was vegetarian. Today was her time to shine! I gave her a big hug, a “Happy Vegetarians’ Day,” and waved good-bye to her as I continued the trek to Pangborn.
With two minutes to spare before I was ten minutes late, I was almost to my Statistics of Canned Foods class when it dawned on me: wasn’t Vegetarians’ Day technically a holiday? Didn’t the government get a day off? I could be president if I really wanted to be (according to my mommy!) so why didn’t I have the day off, too?
Yes, I decided. A day off was exactly what I needed. I could fix my horrendous laundry situation, fix the blinds in my room, and finally catch up on sleep so maybe I could start hitting the snooze button only, like, ten times each morning. That would be refreshing.
I started walking back to my room, but stopped. The guilt was setting in. Not the guilt for missing class, but the guilt of wasting a perfectly good day off doing chores. I’m young and healthy and should be exploring the United States like Sacajawea, I said to myself. Even the sky was agreeing with me as the sun started to peep out from behind the clouds.
The beautiful city of D.C. was calling to me: Christina! Museums are free! Christina! There are so many trees to sit under while you watch tourists make fools of themselves! You know you want to!
I did want to. I wanted to eat lunch in some weird café with a crazy name that I didn’t understand. And then I wanted a fancy cupcake. I wasn’t going to be picky about where it was from. There were more important things to worry about. Like if there were any jazz clubs open at nine in the morning. I definitely needed to hit up a jazz club.
Before I could start off on any fabulous adventures, I needed to go back to my room to get my SmartTrip. I rarely carry it with me, you see, because I have a knack for losing things. I practically skipped back to Quinn, all the while imagining my Statistics teacher drawling out my name while taking attendance. “Wolfgram? … Wolfgram?” Oh, how delightful!
I opened my door and rushed in to find my card, but of course slipped on a rogue pair of sweatpants on the floor. I wondered if really should just take a little time to do laundry. I would still have the afternoon to gallivant around the city.
I gathered all of my clothes and dumped them into my hamper. The hamper that was supposed to be under my bed.
Bed.
I probably had time for a wee nap as well. I mean, it was vital to get back on some sort of coherent sleeping schedule was so important, and what would help more than taking a forty-five minute nap at 9:30 A.M.?
I crawled into bed and told myself to dream of the adventures I would have on Vegetarians’ Day. Maybe I could dance on one of the floats in the parade.
Next thing I knew, it was dark. Whatever, it was always dark in my room thanks to our fancy blinds. But then I checked the clock. 9:30 P.M.?! I had slept through the entire day! I had missed everything! Even the Vegetarians’ Day parade!
Moral of the story? Over-thinking leads to oversleeping.
Bloody Hell!
“Are you or have you ever been a prostitute?”
Well, I don’t hear that every day.
I click “NO,” because obviously the American Red Cross wouldn’t like it if I joked about life on the street corner. Not that I know what that’s like.
I deny that I’ve ever dated a monkey from Africa or that I lived in Europe during the ‘70’s. I finish the questionnaire and stand up. The nurse comes back and tells me to sit down next to her. I wonder what kind of ridiculous questions she has for me. How odd to be interrogated – I thought pretty much anybody could donate blood!
“Okay, please roll up your sleeves so I can see both of your arms.”
My arms check out.
“Now I need your finger.”
Ha! What, was she going to check my fingerprints or something?
But then she pulls out a needle. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. NOT OKAY!
I look away, but as she squeezes my finger I know that there’s blood. And she’s taking it. Taking it away! For some sick, mutilated experiment! The HORROR!
I feel her put on a band-aid, which obviously makes my finger feel 100% better. The nurse gives me a troubled look.
“Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale, there.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile. “I just hate the sight of blood. Or anything that has to do with blood.”
I ignore the nurse’s puzzled stare as we walk to the next station where she hands me what appears to be a massive, dead jellyfish. Upon closer inspection, I realize that these are bags, with tubes. Bags with tubes that are going to be filled. With my blood. I gag a little. No one notices.
I sit next to a calm looking chap and try not look at the people already laying on the over-sized lawn chairs or their disgusting bags of bodily fluids.
“So, come here often?” I ask, too nervous to consider personal space.
“Actually, yeah, I do,” he says, all cool and unfazed like we aren’t surrounded by needles and blood bags. “I am a double red.”
“Like, what? Communism?”
“No, like I give twice as much blood. And then they take out the red blood cells out of half of it and put the plasma back in my body. It takes twice the time but I think …”
I feel my face whiten. It was a bad idea to be social at a blood drive. Where there is blood.
Someone calls my name and I sheepishly hand my tubey bags to a friendly-looking woman in white who tells me to sit down. I try to get comfortable, but I feel like I can hear the blood leaving the veins of my neighbors. And it is not pleasant.
Suddenly the girl next to me starts to convulse and then flops over in her chair. I gasp as she is surrounded by a group of people in white, all touching her face and repeating her name.
“Is that going to happen to me?” I ask my white-clad friend who is hooking up my empty bags.
“No, honey, you won’t faint. Now just hold still.”
“Hold still? Why? Is it time to put the …”
And then a needle is in my arm. Oh the awkward sensation! My elbow hurts, my hand is numb, my stomach is definitely not okay with this! I debate telling the nurse that I am not cut out for this job and I need to leave because I am late for an appointment with a cat or the president or something.
Instead, I look away. There is not a needle in my arm. I am not strapped to an old lawn chair in the Great Room of the Pryz. No, sir, I am not in the least bit uncomfortable. Or at least this is what I try to tell myself. It doesn’t work. My arm still hurts. There is still blood leaving my body.
The two girls sitting across from me burst into genuine laughter. Oh, hi, girls why do you get to party at the blood drive while I’m sitting here holding my breath so I don’t vomit on myself? I can almost feel my blood pressure rising; am I angry?! Yeah, I’m pretty pissed. I am miserable and everyone else is having the time of their lives while their blood is getting sucked right on out of them. WHY ME? WHYYYYY?
Okay, fine. It’s my fault I didn’t come prepared with a friend or any hilarious jokes. Sorry about that, American Red Cross! Next time I will bring a magazine or maybe a funny YouTube video or something. No really, if this goes faster, next time I will be in a better mood. Actually, I take that back. If this goes quickly, I will never donate blood again. Instead, I will take on the life of Mother Teresa. I might even consider getting within twelve feet of babies or (gulp) elderly people! Just, please, blood, pump faster. Gag.
Wait, this is already a really nice thing to do. People need my awesome O+ blood. Yeah, I’m going to be queasy for, like, an hour, but what about people in car accidents? Or freak machete accidents? They need this blood way more than whiney little me does.
“Are you okay, there?” one of the nice women in white asks. I realize that there are two single tears down my face. How emotional. And ridiculous.
“Yeah, there’s just … a needle in my arm,” I say slowly, remembering that my stomach really wants to yack right now. “Am I almost done?”
She checks my bags. “About three more minutes,” she says with a nice smile. Ugh, she’s so nice. I bet she doesn’t even wince when she gives blood because she is such a nice person.
But three minutes! That’s better than three hours. I mean, my arm must be dry as a raisin now, but just three more minutes. There are so many good things that only take three minutes. Like eating a Chipotle burrito. And singing a Taylor Swift song. Yes, I can accept three minutes. I have the power! I am so excited, I think I feel a song coming on …
“Okay, I think you’re set,” my nurse friend says, starting to undo the tape holding the needle in my arm. And then I saw blood.
And passed out.
Oops.
Well, I don’t hear that every day.
I click “NO,” because obviously the American Red Cross wouldn’t like it if I joked about life on the street corner. Not that I know what that’s like.
I deny that I’ve ever dated a monkey from Africa or that I lived in Europe during the ‘70’s. I finish the questionnaire and stand up. The nurse comes back and tells me to sit down next to her. I wonder what kind of ridiculous questions she has for me. How odd to be interrogated – I thought pretty much anybody could donate blood!
“Okay, please roll up your sleeves so I can see both of your arms.”
My arms check out.
“Now I need your finger.”
Ha! What, was she going to check my fingerprints or something?
But then she pulls out a needle. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. NOT OKAY!
I look away, but as she squeezes my finger I know that there’s blood. And she’s taking it. Taking it away! For some sick, mutilated experiment! The HORROR!
I feel her put on a band-aid, which obviously makes my finger feel 100% better. The nurse gives me a troubled look.
“Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale, there.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile. “I just hate the sight of blood. Or anything that has to do with blood.”
I ignore the nurse’s puzzled stare as we walk to the next station where she hands me what appears to be a massive, dead jellyfish. Upon closer inspection, I realize that these are bags, with tubes. Bags with tubes that are going to be filled. With my blood. I gag a little. No one notices.
I sit next to a calm looking chap and try not look at the people already laying on the over-sized lawn chairs or their disgusting bags of bodily fluids.
“So, come here often?” I ask, too nervous to consider personal space.
“Actually, yeah, I do,” he says, all cool and unfazed like we aren’t surrounded by needles and blood bags. “I am a double red.”
“Like, what? Communism?”
“No, like I give twice as much blood. And then they take out the red blood cells out of half of it and put the plasma back in my body. It takes twice the time but I think …”
I feel my face whiten. It was a bad idea to be social at a blood drive. Where there is blood.
Someone calls my name and I sheepishly hand my tubey bags to a friendly-looking woman in white who tells me to sit down. I try to get comfortable, but I feel like I can hear the blood leaving the veins of my neighbors. And it is not pleasant.
Suddenly the girl next to me starts to convulse and then flops over in her chair. I gasp as she is surrounded by a group of people in white, all touching her face and repeating her name.
“Is that going to happen to me?” I ask my white-clad friend who is hooking up my empty bags.
“No, honey, you won’t faint. Now just hold still.”
“Hold still? Why? Is it time to put the …”
And then a needle is in my arm. Oh the awkward sensation! My elbow hurts, my hand is numb, my stomach is definitely not okay with this! I debate telling the nurse that I am not cut out for this job and I need to leave because I am late for an appointment with a cat or the president or something.
Instead, I look away. There is not a needle in my arm. I am not strapped to an old lawn chair in the Great Room of the Pryz. No, sir, I am not in the least bit uncomfortable. Or at least this is what I try to tell myself. It doesn’t work. My arm still hurts. There is still blood leaving my body.
The two girls sitting across from me burst into genuine laughter. Oh, hi, girls why do you get to party at the blood drive while I’m sitting here holding my breath so I don’t vomit on myself? I can almost feel my blood pressure rising; am I angry?! Yeah, I’m pretty pissed. I am miserable and everyone else is having the time of their lives while their blood is getting sucked right on out of them. WHY ME? WHYYYYY?
Okay, fine. It’s my fault I didn’t come prepared with a friend or any hilarious jokes. Sorry about that, American Red Cross! Next time I will bring a magazine or maybe a funny YouTube video or something. No really, if this goes faster, next time I will be in a better mood. Actually, I take that back. If this goes quickly, I will never donate blood again. Instead, I will take on the life of Mother Teresa. I might even consider getting within twelve feet of babies or (gulp) elderly people! Just, please, blood, pump faster. Gag.
Wait, this is already a really nice thing to do. People need my awesome O+ blood. Yeah, I’m going to be queasy for, like, an hour, but what about people in car accidents? Or freak machete accidents? They need this blood way more than whiney little me does.
“Are you okay, there?” one of the nice women in white asks. I realize that there are two single tears down my face. How emotional. And ridiculous.
“Yeah, there’s just … a needle in my arm,” I say slowly, remembering that my stomach really wants to yack right now. “Am I almost done?”
She checks my bags. “About three more minutes,” she says with a nice smile. Ugh, she’s so nice. I bet she doesn’t even wince when she gives blood because she is such a nice person.
But three minutes! That’s better than three hours. I mean, my arm must be dry as a raisin now, but just three more minutes. There are so many good things that only take three minutes. Like eating a Chipotle burrito. And singing a Taylor Swift song. Yes, I can accept three minutes. I have the power! I am so excited, I think I feel a song coming on …
“Okay, I think you’re set,” my nurse friend says, starting to undo the tape holding the needle in my arm. And then I saw blood.
And passed out.
Oops.
A Knight's Fail
Monday. Sweatpants. Stayed up all night writing a paper.
Not pretty.
My general hideousness was interfering with everyday tasks. I left my cardinal card in my room, was late to my first class, and therefore late to breakfast, my favorite meal of the day. My head was starting to hurt from the weight of my ugly hair and I managed to spill coffee all over my already disturbingly sloppy outfit.
As I was walking out of the Pryz, I felt a strange tug on my shoulder. My book bag felt heavier than usual, and I debated taking out some of the … RIIIIIIIP.
I watched all my possessions fall loudly down the main stairs as I mourned the huge hole in my bag that I would never be able to fix because I was too busy thinking about Spongebob Squarepants when my mom tried to teach me how to sew. I tried to gather everything up as quickly as possible, practically running for the glass doors so I could get back to my dorm and kill myself.
A boy walked in front of me and opened the door. I got ready to thank him for helping out little ol’ me by holding the door open for me, but as I rushed through the door … SMACK. Yeah, that’s right - glass door, right in the kisser. Not only did he not hold the door open for me, he ignored my howl of pain as I withered to the ground, still holding all of my textbooks and the model of the solar system I was supposed to hand in for my Literature of Space Odyssey class.
My day had been too awful. My favorite bag had a hole in it. I was wearing coffee-stained sweatpants in public. I was not letting him get away with this. I shoved my way through the doors.
“Excuse me, that is no way to treat a damsel in distress!” I shouted as everyone sitting at the picnic tables turned in unison, ready for a fight.
The boy kept walking, either really oblivious or kind of cruel.
“Helloooo!” I yelled, starting to realize that I was fighting a losing battle. “As a member of the weaker, softer sex I really needed some help with that door back there!” He finally turned around. Probably because I said sex. Ugh.
“Well, sorry,” he muttered, obviously scared that I might get close enough for him to smell me.
“I have to give birth, you know,” I said, maybe kind of sort of getting a little hysterical. “LABOR PAINS! EVER TRIED ‘EM! NOT PLEASANT! The LEAST you could do is hold the door open for me. Chivalry cannot be THAT dead. Puleeze.”
The boy finally looked me in the eye. Oh, he was kind of cute!
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Chivalry is dead as a doornail.”
Okay, never mind. Not cute.
And, dead as a doornail? What does that even mean?
I huffed back to my dorm, wondering if something dead as a door whatsit could be resuscitated. As I approached the glass doors to my building, I caught sight of myself. I didn’t even look like a woman; I looked like a busty thirteen year old boy who is too wild to wear jeans and owns only two pairs of sweatpants that he alternates wearing on a daily basis. No wonder no one wanted to get chivalric with me!
Desperate times called for desperate make-overs. I showered and made sure I used extra fruity-smelling shampoo, only to douse my head in fragrant product before blow-drying the living daylights out of it. I covered up the dark circles under my eyes with about five pounds of Maybelline and tried to make my lips as pouty as possible because nothing says “open the door for me” like Pamela Anderson lips. I mean, with that face, Pam has probably never opened a door for herself in her life. Oh, wait …
I shook off the idea of plastic surgery, put on a pink dress and high heels, and walked as confidently and femininely as I possibly could (which is REALLY hard when you’re suddenly three inches taller than usual) out of my dorm and toward the Pryz.
I reached the CV gate right before a big group of guys did, so I held the gate open for them. The last one out turned around and said, “Thanks!” And I turned red and said, “DAMMIT!” I hadn’t meant to be such a gentleman.
At least I sort of learned something. Chivalry is dead. It died with King Arthur, and that’s kind of okay. We don’t live in a world of dragons and princesses who can’t tie their own shoes. Instead of love letters, we get texts like, “Gurl, u r 2 hot. Luv <3.” And, yeah it’s creepy and the grammar is bad enough to make you want to throw your cell phone in a moat, but we don’t have moats and we don’t have handkerchiefs to give knights because I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a handkerchief and come on a handkerchief is kind of gross anyway because Kleenex are much more sanitary!! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!
But, luckily, Chivalry has a cousin and his name is Respect. We all get to wear pants, so we should all hold doors open for each other. It shouldn’t be a treat to be in the presence of good manners! But, guys, if you are looking for a date to the Homecoming Dance, it might interest you to know that girls really do notice when you hold the door open for them. Much easier than a joust, huh?
Not pretty.
My general hideousness was interfering with everyday tasks. I left my cardinal card in my room, was late to my first class, and therefore late to breakfast, my favorite meal of the day. My head was starting to hurt from the weight of my ugly hair and I managed to spill coffee all over my already disturbingly sloppy outfit.
As I was walking out of the Pryz, I felt a strange tug on my shoulder. My book bag felt heavier than usual, and I debated taking out some of the … RIIIIIIIP.
I watched all my possessions fall loudly down the main stairs as I mourned the huge hole in my bag that I would never be able to fix because I was too busy thinking about Spongebob Squarepants when my mom tried to teach me how to sew. I tried to gather everything up as quickly as possible, practically running for the glass doors so I could get back to my dorm and kill myself.
A boy walked in front of me and opened the door. I got ready to thank him for helping out little ol’ me by holding the door open for me, but as I rushed through the door … SMACK. Yeah, that’s right - glass door, right in the kisser. Not only did he not hold the door open for me, he ignored my howl of pain as I withered to the ground, still holding all of my textbooks and the model of the solar system I was supposed to hand in for my Literature of Space Odyssey class.
My day had been too awful. My favorite bag had a hole in it. I was wearing coffee-stained sweatpants in public. I was not letting him get away with this. I shoved my way through the doors.
“Excuse me, that is no way to treat a damsel in distress!” I shouted as everyone sitting at the picnic tables turned in unison, ready for a fight.
The boy kept walking, either really oblivious or kind of cruel.
“Helloooo!” I yelled, starting to realize that I was fighting a losing battle. “As a member of the weaker, softer sex I really needed some help with that door back there!” He finally turned around. Probably because I said sex. Ugh.
“Well, sorry,” he muttered, obviously scared that I might get close enough for him to smell me.
“I have to give birth, you know,” I said, maybe kind of sort of getting a little hysterical. “LABOR PAINS! EVER TRIED ‘EM! NOT PLEASANT! The LEAST you could do is hold the door open for me. Chivalry cannot be THAT dead. Puleeze.”
The boy finally looked me in the eye. Oh, he was kind of cute!
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Chivalry is dead as a doornail.”
Okay, never mind. Not cute.
And, dead as a doornail? What does that even mean?
I huffed back to my dorm, wondering if something dead as a door whatsit could be resuscitated. As I approached the glass doors to my building, I caught sight of myself. I didn’t even look like a woman; I looked like a busty thirteen year old boy who is too wild to wear jeans and owns only two pairs of sweatpants that he alternates wearing on a daily basis. No wonder no one wanted to get chivalric with me!
Desperate times called for desperate make-overs. I showered and made sure I used extra fruity-smelling shampoo, only to douse my head in fragrant product before blow-drying the living daylights out of it. I covered up the dark circles under my eyes with about five pounds of Maybelline and tried to make my lips as pouty as possible because nothing says “open the door for me” like Pamela Anderson lips. I mean, with that face, Pam has probably never opened a door for herself in her life. Oh, wait …
I shook off the idea of plastic surgery, put on a pink dress and high heels, and walked as confidently and femininely as I possibly could (which is REALLY hard when you’re suddenly three inches taller than usual) out of my dorm and toward the Pryz.
I reached the CV gate right before a big group of guys did, so I held the gate open for them. The last one out turned around and said, “Thanks!” And I turned red and said, “DAMMIT!” I hadn’t meant to be such a gentleman.
At least I sort of learned something. Chivalry is dead. It died with King Arthur, and that’s kind of okay. We don’t live in a world of dragons and princesses who can’t tie their own shoes. Instead of love letters, we get texts like, “Gurl, u r 2 hot. Luv <3.” And, yeah it’s creepy and the grammar is bad enough to make you want to throw your cell phone in a moat, but we don’t have moats and we don’t have handkerchiefs to give knights because I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a handkerchief and come on a handkerchief is kind of gross anyway because Kleenex are much more sanitary!! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!
But, luckily, Chivalry has a cousin and his name is Respect. We all get to wear pants, so we should all hold doors open for each other. It shouldn’t be a treat to be in the presence of good manners! But, guys, if you are looking for a date to the Homecoming Dance, it might interest you to know that girls really do notice when you hold the door open for them. Much easier than a joust, huh?
How to Lose a Friend in Ten Days
Freshman year, everyone wanted to make friends.
People left their doors open in hopes that someone on their floor would come in and add themselves as a Facebook friend or gossip about the latest outing to Brothers. It was perfectly normal to introduce yourself to random people during dinnertime at the Pryz or try to sit next to people you didn’t know during classes.
As a sophomore, I find that the atmosphere has changed quite a bit. It’s not a bad thing, but people have found cliques and usually have someone they know to sit next to in class. Plus, now I hear things like,
“I have too many friends.”
Really? Is that even possible? Apparently it was for my good ol’ buddy Derrick.
“No, seriously! I have way too many friends! I can’t keep up with them all,” Derrick whined over breakfast. “I don’t even know why some of us hang out. We don’t actually like each other!”
Derrick went on to explain that some of the friends he had made in his desperation to avoid loneliness his freshman year were starting to get on his nerves. They didn’t have anything in common:. Derrick is a homebody and prefers to stay in and order Boli’s on Friday nights and he was sick of his friends pressuring him to leave the coziness of his room to be squashed between two complete awkwardly dancing strangers on the dance floor at Hawk ‘n’ Dove. They had signed up for a lot of the same classes as Derrick and were constantly asking for homework help. Plus, according to Derrick, they kind of smelled.
“They’re not bad people,” Derrick reflected, “they’re just not the kind of people I really click with.”
After listening to Derrick’s predicament, I had to wonder: how many people are stuck in friendships that really aren’t beneficial to anyone anymore. Are people too lazy to make sure that their friends are people that they truly enjoy and can relate to on a daily basis? Is there a way to painlessly ease yourself out of a relationship that is becoming painful to maintain?
I decided to help Derrick. We sat down and made a list of things he could do to subtly drive his “friends” away. Derrick thought it would be a good idea to use the yuck factor and use it A LOT. He started talking with his mouth full, coughing all over everyone’s Pryz feasts, and I’m pretty sure he stopped showering because he was emitting an odor that could choke a cow. I was even having trouble staying friends with the guy!
But his unwanted friends stuck by. They still followed Derrick to class, they continued to invite him out, and Derrick was confused. Surely, these people recognized that Derrick didn’t fit in with them. Why wasn’t a little stink sending them to the hills?
So Derrick amped up the ick. He publically announced that he needed someone to help him shave his back hair. He started borrowing people’s toothbrushes without asking. He even started wearing Crocs. It was awful.
When that didn’t even work, Derrick started getting a little rude. He constantly talked about his other, better, more beautiful friends. He purposefully ignored his unwanted friends when they talked. I knew I had to put a stop to the experiment when Derrick told the group that they were playing hide and seek, but then never left to go find them after counting to one hundred. It was just too cruel. And they obviously weren’t getting the message.
When I approached him about it, Derrick was defensive.
“You want me to just tell a bunch of people that I don’t want them in my life? That’s so rude!”
I sighed. It was true. Talking with your mouth full is a forgivable kind of rude. Telling someone that they’re not good enough to be your friend is kind of like asking for a giant wedgie. You just don’t do it.
So what do you do? Not that I’m some sort of expert, but I did watch an episode of Dr. Phil once and I think the best thing to do is to wait it out. Don’t do anything rash or hurtful, because even if someone is your unwanted friend, they’re still your friend. Don’t let the time you’ve spent together be in vain! Maybe introduce them to people you think they would be better friends with, or simply spend a little less time with them.
And keep showering. For the love of all things sacred, KEEP SHOWERING.
People left their doors open in hopes that someone on their floor would come in and add themselves as a Facebook friend or gossip about the latest outing to Brothers. It was perfectly normal to introduce yourself to random people during dinnertime at the Pryz or try to sit next to people you didn’t know during classes.
As a sophomore, I find that the atmosphere has changed quite a bit. It’s not a bad thing, but people have found cliques and usually have someone they know to sit next to in class. Plus, now I hear things like,
“I have too many friends.”
Really? Is that even possible? Apparently it was for my good ol’ buddy Derrick.
“No, seriously! I have way too many friends! I can’t keep up with them all,” Derrick whined over breakfast. “I don’t even know why some of us hang out. We don’t actually like each other!”
Derrick went on to explain that some of the friends he had made in his desperation to avoid loneliness his freshman year were starting to get on his nerves. They didn’t have anything in common:. Derrick is a homebody and prefers to stay in and order Boli’s on Friday nights and he was sick of his friends pressuring him to leave the coziness of his room to be squashed between two complete awkwardly dancing strangers on the dance floor at Hawk ‘n’ Dove. They had signed up for a lot of the same classes as Derrick and were constantly asking for homework help. Plus, according to Derrick, they kind of smelled.
“They’re not bad people,” Derrick reflected, “they’re just not the kind of people I really click with.”
After listening to Derrick’s predicament, I had to wonder: how many people are stuck in friendships that really aren’t beneficial to anyone anymore. Are people too lazy to make sure that their friends are people that they truly enjoy and can relate to on a daily basis? Is there a way to painlessly ease yourself out of a relationship that is becoming painful to maintain?
I decided to help Derrick. We sat down and made a list of things he could do to subtly drive his “friends” away. Derrick thought it would be a good idea to use the yuck factor and use it A LOT. He started talking with his mouth full, coughing all over everyone’s Pryz feasts, and I’m pretty sure he stopped showering because he was emitting an odor that could choke a cow. I was even having trouble staying friends with the guy!
But his unwanted friends stuck by. They still followed Derrick to class, they continued to invite him out, and Derrick was confused. Surely, these people recognized that Derrick didn’t fit in with them. Why wasn’t a little stink sending them to the hills?
So Derrick amped up the ick. He publically announced that he needed someone to help him shave his back hair. He started borrowing people’s toothbrushes without asking. He even started wearing Crocs. It was awful.
When that didn’t even work, Derrick started getting a little rude. He constantly talked about his other, better, more beautiful friends. He purposefully ignored his unwanted friends when they talked. I knew I had to put a stop to the experiment when Derrick told the group that they were playing hide and seek, but then never left to go find them after counting to one hundred. It was just too cruel. And they obviously weren’t getting the message.
When I approached him about it, Derrick was defensive.
“You want me to just tell a bunch of people that I don’t want them in my life? That’s so rude!”
I sighed. It was true. Talking with your mouth full is a forgivable kind of rude. Telling someone that they’re not good enough to be your friend is kind of like asking for a giant wedgie. You just don’t do it.
So what do you do? Not that I’m some sort of expert, but I did watch an episode of Dr. Phil once and I think the best thing to do is to wait it out. Don’t do anything rash or hurtful, because even if someone is your unwanted friend, they’re still your friend. Don’t let the time you’ve spent together be in vain! Maybe introduce them to people you think they would be better friends with, or simply spend a little less time with them.
And keep showering. For the love of all things sacred, KEEP SHOWERING.
Confessions of an Ex-Teenage Drama Queen
People don’t like it when I sing in public.
Probably because I forgot how to hum about eight years ago after suffering minor brain damage during a tragic water polo incident, so when I sing, I have no choice but to sing as loudly as my poor little girly lungs allow. It’s NOT my fault! I have a doctor’s note!
I won’t lie to you, though, sometimes I will go through an entire glorious day and everything will be going my way, but I won’t feel satisfied until I’ve sung a little Barbara Streisand. It’s not like I’m some pro or that I could ever sing enough to put bread on the table, but not having music in my life makes me antsy.
Okay, okay, you’ve probably guessed by now that this is leading up to some awkward confession. Like that I want to drop all of my dreams of getting promoted to 4th columnist to live a life on the road as a singing telegram girl. You know, like it’s your mom’s birthday and you forgot to get her something so you call me up and I show up in some wacky costume and stick her name into some awesome Cher song? No, that’s not what I’m confessing. Well, not today, at least. I’ll save it for next week’s column.
Ah, here goes:
I miss high school theatre.
Not High School Musical. I really had enough of that nonsense after I realized that Zac Efron wears more mascara than his girlfriend.
And I don’t miss high school. I mean, it was great, but after being voted Most Likely to be the Neighborhood Cat Lady, I felt like high school and I had spent way too much time together and it was most definitely time to part ways.
No, I miss having a place to go after sitting through hours of classes where I could belt my brains out and no one gave me weird looks. I miss having an excuse to put on an old musty dress and a ridiculous accent! Not to mention, performing in high school was the only time anyone would leave me alone with a microphone. Oy vey!
I can usually spot people in my classes who feel the same way as I do. Sometimes they slip into a Russian accent while answering a question or they put just a little too much feeling into reading a passage from The Nicomachean Ethics out loud.
Actually, I’ve been thinking (dangerous as that is), and I’m pretty sure everyone is missing something and it’s not just the stage at Quince Orchard High School. The girl that sits next to me in English class tap dances under her desk during lectures on Chaucer. I’ve definitely heard someone humming Les Mis in the architecture building and I totally caught my nursing major friend writing poetry on her Biology notes the other day.
It’s kind of bittersweet, isn’t it? We can’t have it all. We can do anything but not everything. No one has enough time in their life, much less their day, to write a bestselling novel, earn a PhD, and star in the Broadway production of Shrek all at once. And if anyone does somehow have enough time to do all of that, then they have no friends. And they can stick their bestselling book where the sun don’t shine.
Seriously, though, how can we get close to having it all without completely abandoning our dreams of getting into grad school? Do we have to give up our joys to follow our passions? Are we all too focused?
But we have to be. Right?
On the other hand, if you work hard, you deserve to play hard. If you used to be president of the knitting club in high school, do not be ashamed to whip those needles out in your dorm’s common room. Are you sick of just reminiscing about being star of the tennis team? You don’t have to have a jersey to play! Get out there and kick some butt, champ! Remember how interpretive dance used to calm you down before a big test? It’s okay to dance even if you are not planning on becoming a professional dancer. It’s okay to paint if you’re not the next Picasso, study French if you don’t plan on visiting Paris anytime soon, and it is most definitely okay to sing out, even if you’re not the next Julie Andrews.
Because, honestly, if it weren’t okay, we would all be miserable.
Ah, I feel so much better.
Probably because I forgot how to hum about eight years ago after suffering minor brain damage during a tragic water polo incident, so when I sing, I have no choice but to sing as loudly as my poor little girly lungs allow. It’s NOT my fault! I have a doctor’s note!
I won’t lie to you, though, sometimes I will go through an entire glorious day and everything will be going my way, but I won’t feel satisfied until I’ve sung a little Barbara Streisand. It’s not like I’m some pro or that I could ever sing enough to put bread on the table, but not having music in my life makes me antsy.
Okay, okay, you’ve probably guessed by now that this is leading up to some awkward confession. Like that I want to drop all of my dreams of getting promoted to 4th columnist to live a life on the road as a singing telegram girl. You know, like it’s your mom’s birthday and you forgot to get her something so you call me up and I show up in some wacky costume and stick her name into some awesome Cher song? No, that’s not what I’m confessing. Well, not today, at least. I’ll save it for next week’s column.
Ah, here goes:
I miss high school theatre.
Not High School Musical. I really had enough of that nonsense after I realized that Zac Efron wears more mascara than his girlfriend.
And I don’t miss high school. I mean, it was great, but after being voted Most Likely to be the Neighborhood Cat Lady, I felt like high school and I had spent way too much time together and it was most definitely time to part ways.
No, I miss having a place to go after sitting through hours of classes where I could belt my brains out and no one gave me weird looks. I miss having an excuse to put on an old musty dress and a ridiculous accent! Not to mention, performing in high school was the only time anyone would leave me alone with a microphone. Oy vey!
I can usually spot people in my classes who feel the same way as I do. Sometimes they slip into a Russian accent while answering a question or they put just a little too much feeling into reading a passage from The Nicomachean Ethics out loud.
Actually, I’ve been thinking (dangerous as that is), and I’m pretty sure everyone is missing something and it’s not just the stage at Quince Orchard High School. The girl that sits next to me in English class tap dances under her desk during lectures on Chaucer. I’ve definitely heard someone humming Les Mis in the architecture building and I totally caught my nursing major friend writing poetry on her Biology notes the other day.
It’s kind of bittersweet, isn’t it? We can’t have it all. We can do anything but not everything. No one has enough time in their life, much less their day, to write a bestselling novel, earn a PhD, and star in the Broadway production of Shrek all at once. And if anyone does somehow have enough time to do all of that, then they have no friends. And they can stick their bestselling book where the sun don’t shine.
Seriously, though, how can we get close to having it all without completely abandoning our dreams of getting into grad school? Do we have to give up our joys to follow our passions? Are we all too focused?
But we have to be. Right?
On the other hand, if you work hard, you deserve to play hard. If you used to be president of the knitting club in high school, do not be ashamed to whip those needles out in your dorm’s common room. Are you sick of just reminiscing about being star of the tennis team? You don’t have to have a jersey to play! Get out there and kick some butt, champ! Remember how interpretive dance used to calm you down before a big test? It’s okay to dance even if you are not planning on becoming a professional dancer. It’s okay to paint if you’re not the next Picasso, study French if you don’t plan on visiting Paris anytime soon, and it is most definitely okay to sing out, even if you’re not the next Julie Andrews.
Because, honestly, if it weren’t okay, we would all be miserable.
Ah, I feel so much better.
Major Problem
About this time last year, I was deciding to declare my major. I had taken a pretty great lower-level math course and decided that I most definitely wanted to do math as a career since obviously life as a math major would just be more of Math 101 only with cuter calculators ... right?
Wrong.
Second semester was a disaster. My pink Hello Kitty calculator didn’t stand a chance in Statistical Equations of the Western Hemisphere 411 and, quite honestly, neither did I. But I didn’t want to give up.
So this semester I continued on my quest for mathematical greatness, only minus the greatness. I went into my classes the first day with a very determined look on my face. A very determined look that said, “Hello world, I just want to pass this class with a C-.” I sat in the back. I never sit in the back.
My teacher started explaining the syllabus; the work required to pass Fractions for a Modern World 436 sounded like the equivalent of getting my face kicked in by a rabid horse. I looked out the window. Everything seemed better outside that window.
I thought of all the things I would rather be doing: gardening, painting by numbers, sleeping, walking through the coffee aisle at Giant – any of it would be better than stupid fractions. I wondered if it was too late to major in becoming an astronaut. What does one even major in if she wants to become an astronaut? But maybe cooking would be better. Then I could move to Paris. Would I have to major in French? That might actually be worse than math. But would there be baguette-eating?
Suddenly, everyone in the class was leaving. I had day-dreamed through the entire fractions lecture. I was only half sorry.
As I walked back to my room, I realized how incredibly easy it would be to hate math. I dreaded the homework; wouldn’t I dread a job? Would I grow up to be the all too talented hooky girl of the math office? Always “coming down with” some strange strain of raccoon pox or rabbit flu, while really I stay home from work to crochet mittens for my many cats?
I could not major in math.
I had to get out. I had to see my advisor. I had to figure out what I actually want to do with my life! “But life is so vast and unpredictable, Christina!”
Oh boy, I was talking to myself.
I knew I needed help, so I dashed over to my wisest friend’s room. When he saw the terrified look on my face, he asked what was wrong.
“I have a major problem,” I said, trying to control my breathing.
“Oh jeez, you didn’t try to yoga again? Do I need to take you to the doctor?”
“No,” I snapped, getting panicky. “I can’t do math for the rest of my life. You have to help me find a new major. Please. PLEASE.”
My wise friend looked surprised. “I thought you loved math,” he said.
“Oh yeah, well math hates me! I’m miserable! What else can I do?”
“It’s okay; I have an idea,” my friend said as he started scribbling on a stack of Post-Its. Within two minutes, his desk was covered with the yellow papers.
“It’s a game,” he explained. “On the back is written a job. Just pick up a few and see how you react. We’ll go from there.”
I picked the one right in the middle. “Architecture.” I was never good with Leggos. Or missing my beauty sleep. I made a face and put the Post-It back. I wondered if this game would just show me how many majors I couldn’t handle.
The next Post-It said “Bio Medical Engineering.” No.
And the next was “English.” I didn’t feel completely nauseous when I read it – how promising! I mean, I speak English all the time, right? I’m practically an expert!
I kept playing the Post-It career game, but my positivity toward “English” trumped the anxiety I felt for “Mail Carrying,” “Medieval Byzantine Studies,” “Ballet,” and “Zoology.” So I made the switch and have been feeling pretty good ever since. I have absolutely no idea what I will do after college, but now is the time to study what I’m interested in, right? After that, it will be up to me whether I live in a box on John McCormick Road or if I become the CEO of Mattel Toys so I can just spend the rest of my life playing with Barbies.
Bottom line? Follow your heart. If that fails, trust your Post-Its.
Wrong.
Second semester was a disaster. My pink Hello Kitty calculator didn’t stand a chance in Statistical Equations of the Western Hemisphere 411 and, quite honestly, neither did I. But I didn’t want to give up.
So this semester I continued on my quest for mathematical greatness, only minus the greatness. I went into my classes the first day with a very determined look on my face. A very determined look that said, “Hello world, I just want to pass this class with a C-.” I sat in the back. I never sit in the back.
My teacher started explaining the syllabus; the work required to pass Fractions for a Modern World 436 sounded like the equivalent of getting my face kicked in by a rabid horse. I looked out the window. Everything seemed better outside that window.
I thought of all the things I would rather be doing: gardening, painting by numbers, sleeping, walking through the coffee aisle at Giant – any of it would be better than stupid fractions. I wondered if it was too late to major in becoming an astronaut. What does one even major in if she wants to become an astronaut? But maybe cooking would be better. Then I could move to Paris. Would I have to major in French? That might actually be worse than math. But would there be baguette-eating?
Suddenly, everyone in the class was leaving. I had day-dreamed through the entire fractions lecture. I was only half sorry.
As I walked back to my room, I realized how incredibly easy it would be to hate math. I dreaded the homework; wouldn’t I dread a job? Would I grow up to be the all too talented hooky girl of the math office? Always “coming down with” some strange strain of raccoon pox or rabbit flu, while really I stay home from work to crochet mittens for my many cats?
I could not major in math.
I had to get out. I had to see my advisor. I had to figure out what I actually want to do with my life! “But life is so vast and unpredictable, Christina!”
Oh boy, I was talking to myself.
I knew I needed help, so I dashed over to my wisest friend’s room. When he saw the terrified look on my face, he asked what was wrong.
“I have a major problem,” I said, trying to control my breathing.
“Oh jeez, you didn’t try to yoga again? Do I need to take you to the doctor?”
“No,” I snapped, getting panicky. “I can’t do math for the rest of my life. You have to help me find a new major. Please. PLEASE.”
My wise friend looked surprised. “I thought you loved math,” he said.
“Oh yeah, well math hates me! I’m miserable! What else can I do?”
“It’s okay; I have an idea,” my friend said as he started scribbling on a stack of Post-Its. Within two minutes, his desk was covered with the yellow papers.
“It’s a game,” he explained. “On the back is written a job. Just pick up a few and see how you react. We’ll go from there.”
I picked the one right in the middle. “Architecture.” I was never good with Leggos. Or missing my beauty sleep. I made a face and put the Post-It back. I wondered if this game would just show me how many majors I couldn’t handle.
The next Post-It said “Bio Medical Engineering.” No.
And the next was “English.” I didn’t feel completely nauseous when I read it – how promising! I mean, I speak English all the time, right? I’m practically an expert!
I kept playing the Post-It career game, but my positivity toward “English” trumped the anxiety I felt for “Mail Carrying,” “Medieval Byzantine Studies,” “Ballet,” and “Zoology.” So I made the switch and have been feeling pretty good ever since. I have absolutely no idea what I will do after college, but now is the time to study what I’m interested in, right? After that, it will be up to me whether I live in a box on John McCormick Road or if I become the CEO of Mattel Toys so I can just spend the rest of my life playing with Barbies.
Bottom line? Follow your heart. If that fails, trust your Post-Its.
The Good, the Good, and the Really Good
Human interaction can be rough.
Human interaction during the first week of school can be really rough. Walking through the Pryz is like walking through an awkward family reunion – everyone recognizes each other, but no one knows what to say. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, there is unnecessary squealing, followed by a blatantly obvious comment: “OH MY GAAAAWWWWD! I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU ALL SUMMER!” Oh jeez.
And there are always questions. Questions we already know the answer to: “How was your summer?” It was good. “How is your family?” They are GOOD. “How are your classes?” GOOD, DANG IT, EVERYTHING IS GOOD.
Okay, I’m getting worked up. I think it’s because I scold myself every time I fall into this awkward pattern. I mean, my summer wasn’t just good. It was stupendous when I got to sleep in, it sucked when I had to get up for work, it was beautiful when I got to sit outside; it deserves better adjectives than good!
So the other day, I decided to change. I vowed not to answer a single question, “good,” nor let anyone else give me that cop-out word as an answer to one of my inquiries. I even got really dorky and looked “good” up on thesaurus.com. Why use the plain, boring word good when you could say something like, “Oh yes, ol’ chum, my summer was quite recherché and my classes have proven extremely satisfactory.” Actually, don’t do that, people will throw rocks at you.
Anyway, I walked to the Pryz determined to have a real conversation. I got my first opportunity almost immediately when I bumped into a girl who used to be in one of my classes. I say a girl because I forgot her name, and by the look on her face, she probably couldn’t remember mine either. But we made eye contact and something had to be said.
“Oh hey girl!” she said as we awkwardly hugged. “How was your summer!?”
“It was wonderful,” I said, racking my brain for some sort of story I could tell to prove it. “I went to the dentist! Oh, and I had dinner at my grandma’s house and she made this crazy casserole thing with broccoli in it. I don’t really like broccoli but I like my grandma. And I went to the beach with my family, but that’s a whole other story!”
The girl looked shocked. She probably didn’t know that words other “good” were allowed in conversations like this. I was glad I let her know.
I proudly asked, “And how was your summer?” hoping that she would return the favor and share a personal anecdote or maybe an adjective that I had never heard before.
Instead she just stared, blinked twice, and said, “It was good.” And then she ran out of the Pryz. I was surprised! I mean I had seen her every day during class and I never would have guessed she was a sprinter!
A little discouraged, I trudged up the stairs to the student restaurant, hoping I could still prove that “good” is bad. As I waited in line to get my card swiped, a guy that I used to hang out with in my freshman dorm walked up behind me. Thank goodness, I remembered his name.
“Hank!” I said, trying to keep my squealing to a minimum (which is harder than it looks). “How are you? How was your summer?”
Hank gave me a hug and said confidently, “I am doing really good! My summer was good, but I’m glad to be back.”
Suddenly, I felt very emotional. Why didn’t Hand trust me with his true feelings? If he was having a rough time, I have two whole shoulders to cry on! And if he had an extraordinary experience over the summer, well, I wanted to give him a pat on the back!
“Hank?”
“Yes?”
“What have I done to you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Hank, just tell me how you are really feeling. I know you’re not just GOOD. There’s more to you, Hank, I know there is! We made pancakes together in Flather last year! Remember?!?! Does that mean nothing to you now?!”
I took a deep breath. Hank looked like he was going to cry.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m glad you are good.”
I sat down in a corner booth and watched people interact. People were smiling and saying that their summers were good all over the place and they seemed perfectly happy. Maybe you can’t know everything about everyone. And, let’s face it, not everyone wants to know about my grandma’s broccoli casserole. It’s not impersonal, and, you know what, it’s not insulting! It’s just how humans roll, I guess.
So after my failed experiment, I’ve decided it’s perfectly fabulous to have had a good summer and to feel good about your classes. And you know what, it is good to be back.
Human interaction during the first week of school can be really rough. Walking through the Pryz is like walking through an awkward family reunion – everyone recognizes each other, but no one knows what to say. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, there is unnecessary squealing, followed by a blatantly obvious comment: “OH MY GAAAAWWWWD! I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU ALL SUMMER!” Oh jeez.
And there are always questions. Questions we already know the answer to: “How was your summer?” It was good. “How is your family?” They are GOOD. “How are your classes?” GOOD, DANG IT, EVERYTHING IS GOOD.
Okay, I’m getting worked up. I think it’s because I scold myself every time I fall into this awkward pattern. I mean, my summer wasn’t just good. It was stupendous when I got to sleep in, it sucked when I had to get up for work, it was beautiful when I got to sit outside; it deserves better adjectives than good!
So the other day, I decided to change. I vowed not to answer a single question, “good,” nor let anyone else give me that cop-out word as an answer to one of my inquiries. I even got really dorky and looked “good” up on thesaurus.com. Why use the plain, boring word good when you could say something like, “Oh yes, ol’ chum, my summer was quite recherché and my classes have proven extremely satisfactory.” Actually, don’t do that, people will throw rocks at you.
Anyway, I walked to the Pryz determined to have a real conversation. I got my first opportunity almost immediately when I bumped into a girl who used to be in one of my classes. I say a girl because I forgot her name, and by the look on her face, she probably couldn’t remember mine either. But we made eye contact and something had to be said.
“Oh hey girl!” she said as we awkwardly hugged. “How was your summer!?”
“It was wonderful,” I said, racking my brain for some sort of story I could tell to prove it. “I went to the dentist! Oh, and I had dinner at my grandma’s house and she made this crazy casserole thing with broccoli in it. I don’t really like broccoli but I like my grandma. And I went to the beach with my family, but that’s a whole other story!”
The girl looked shocked. She probably didn’t know that words other “good” were allowed in conversations like this. I was glad I let her know.
I proudly asked, “And how was your summer?” hoping that she would return the favor and share a personal anecdote or maybe an adjective that I had never heard before.
Instead she just stared, blinked twice, and said, “It was good.” And then she ran out of the Pryz. I was surprised! I mean I had seen her every day during class and I never would have guessed she was a sprinter!
A little discouraged, I trudged up the stairs to the student restaurant, hoping I could still prove that “good” is bad. As I waited in line to get my card swiped, a guy that I used to hang out with in my freshman dorm walked up behind me. Thank goodness, I remembered his name.
“Hank!” I said, trying to keep my squealing to a minimum (which is harder than it looks). “How are you? How was your summer?”
Hank gave me a hug and said confidently, “I am doing really good! My summer was good, but I’m glad to be back.”
Suddenly, I felt very emotional. Why didn’t Hand trust me with his true feelings? If he was having a rough time, I have two whole shoulders to cry on! And if he had an extraordinary experience over the summer, well, I wanted to give him a pat on the back!
“Hank?”
“Yes?”
“What have I done to you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Hank, just tell me how you are really feeling. I know you’re not just GOOD. There’s more to you, Hank, I know there is! We made pancakes together in Flather last year! Remember?!?! Does that mean nothing to you now?!”
I took a deep breath. Hank looked like he was going to cry.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m glad you are good.”
I sat down in a corner booth and watched people interact. People were smiling and saying that their summers were good all over the place and they seemed perfectly happy. Maybe you can’t know everything about everyone. And, let’s face it, not everyone wants to know about my grandma’s broccoli casserole. It’s not impersonal, and, you know what, it’s not insulting! It’s just how humans roll, I guess.
So after my failed experiment, I’ve decided it’s perfectly fabulous to have had a good summer and to feel good about your classes. And you know what, it is good to be back.
Orientation Nation
I think my freshman orientation was the closest I have ever come to glimpsing eternity. Seriously! Between being nervous and packing and unpacking and shaking hands and receiving texts from my mom every ten minutes, those four days felt like a lifetime and a half!
With so much happening in such a short amount of time, it’s actually really funny what memories stick out the most. But I mean it’s pretty hard to forget getting your first key to your first room in your first residence hall. And seeing your room for the first time – all empty and ugly, just waiting to be decorated – what a trip! I didn’t even realize how much would happen in my first dorm room: talks that lasted all night, naps that lasted all day, dance parties and study sessions. I could never have guessed that first day that my plain little room would be home to so much!
But it obviously was not as significant as the people I met during Orientation. It turns out that those crazy games on the Pryz lawn really do work! I never expected that the goofy people I played Rock Paper Scissors with during Playfair would become my closest friends. But, sure enough, by Movies on the Mall (which in real time is only a day after Playfair but in Orientation time, five years after Playfair) we were already telling each other secrets and playing pranks on each other.
On the other hand, some of the friends I made during Orientation faded in to the background. When we see each other, we wave and smile and maybe remember a deep dark secret that we accidentally shared too quickly. Sometimes I see them in class and it’s great to have someone to sit next to and catch up with. You never know, the people you meet during Orientation could introduce you to your best friend, your next roommate or boyfriend or friendly rival. It’s impossible to see the future, but I guarantee things always work out in a wonderfully unpredictable way.
It’s also weird to think that my parents were also with me that weekend. I think they were a little nervous about my friend-making abilities because they were constantly introducing me to people … that they didn’t know. During Father O’Connell’s Welcome Speech, my beloved mother spotted a cute boy (how creepy is it when your mom thinks a guy is cute?!) that she thought I should probably meet, marry, and have beautiful babies with. She was very enthusiastic and insisted that we sit together during the presentation, which I’m pretty sure might have been uncomfortable, especially for my dad.
I ran into my “future husband” about three times my entire freshman year, but every time we saw each other, he made sure to remind me to say hi to my mom for him. I’m sure other parents have been far more embarrassing, but, honestly, I loved being able to call my mom, squealing, “GUESS WHO I SAW TODAY?!?!” It’s amazing how just hearing my mom laugh over the phone made me feel even more at home here.
Sometime during Orientation, I got hit by a water balloon. I must have also taken time to figure out the public bathroom system, because to be completely honest, I was pretty freaked out by the idea of sharing a bathroom with twenty other people. Luckily, my floormates were considerably sanitary. Even though I saw all of their faces at our first floor meeting during Orientation, it took almost the whole year to learn everyone’s names, but that’s okay. In fact, I met my future suitemates and neighbors on my floor during the last half of my second semester!
I guess what I’m trying to say is that things take time. Especially good things. Orientation does feel infinite, but it really is just four days. You can’t already know who will play an important role in your life. Remember to be yourself and take advantage of all the amazing events (cough Playfair cough) CUA has to offer during this, your eternal weekend.
With so much happening in such a short amount of time, it’s actually really funny what memories stick out the most. But I mean it’s pretty hard to forget getting your first key to your first room in your first residence hall. And seeing your room for the first time – all empty and ugly, just waiting to be decorated – what a trip! I didn’t even realize how much would happen in my first dorm room: talks that lasted all night, naps that lasted all day, dance parties and study sessions. I could never have guessed that first day that my plain little room would be home to so much!
But it obviously was not as significant as the people I met during Orientation. It turns out that those crazy games on the Pryz lawn really do work! I never expected that the goofy people I played Rock Paper Scissors with during Playfair would become my closest friends. But, sure enough, by Movies on the Mall (which in real time is only a day after Playfair but in Orientation time, five years after Playfair) we were already telling each other secrets and playing pranks on each other.
On the other hand, some of the friends I made during Orientation faded in to the background. When we see each other, we wave and smile and maybe remember a deep dark secret that we accidentally shared too quickly. Sometimes I see them in class and it’s great to have someone to sit next to and catch up with. You never know, the people you meet during Orientation could introduce you to your best friend, your next roommate or boyfriend or friendly rival. It’s impossible to see the future, but I guarantee things always work out in a wonderfully unpredictable way.
It’s also weird to think that my parents were also with me that weekend. I think they were a little nervous about my friend-making abilities because they were constantly introducing me to people … that they didn’t know. During Father O’Connell’s Welcome Speech, my beloved mother spotted a cute boy (how creepy is it when your mom thinks a guy is cute?!) that she thought I should probably meet, marry, and have beautiful babies with. She was very enthusiastic and insisted that we sit together during the presentation, which I’m pretty sure might have been uncomfortable, especially for my dad.
I ran into my “future husband” about three times my entire freshman year, but every time we saw each other, he made sure to remind me to say hi to my mom for him. I’m sure other parents have been far more embarrassing, but, honestly, I loved being able to call my mom, squealing, “GUESS WHO I SAW TODAY?!?!” It’s amazing how just hearing my mom laugh over the phone made me feel even more at home here.
Sometime during Orientation, I got hit by a water balloon. I must have also taken time to figure out the public bathroom system, because to be completely honest, I was pretty freaked out by the idea of sharing a bathroom with twenty other people. Luckily, my floormates were considerably sanitary. Even though I saw all of their faces at our first floor meeting during Orientation, it took almost the whole year to learn everyone’s names, but that’s okay. In fact, I met my future suitemates and neighbors on my floor during the last half of my second semester!
I guess what I’m trying to say is that things take time. Especially good things. Orientation does feel infinite, but it really is just four days. You can’t already know who will play an important role in your life. Remember to be yourself and take advantage of all the amazing events (cough Playfair cough) CUA has to offer during this, your eternal weekend.
Breakfast & Me
There are certain times when you just DON’T bother someone: while performing brain surgery, for instance. Or a really intense nap. During these times, people put up an invisible DO NOT DISTURB sign, and, unless your hair is on fire and they’re holding a hose, you leave them well alone.
I have recently become quite fascinated by people’s need for alone time. Those most successful in producing some good ol’ quiet time are those that make a general announcement, like, “I am going in my room and shutting the door. If anyone opens and/or knocks on said door, I will break them in two.” See, now I’m not going to bother that person. Ever.
But the line between bothering and being friendly becomes significantly ambiguous when people decide to have alone time in a public area.
Take the Pryz, for instance. Every morning between my first two classes, I set up camp at a table in the cafeteria where I can eat my eggs and do my philosophy homework. It’s not lame, it’s not lonely – I’m hanging out with Descartes and, let me tell you, he is a chatterbox. People are always friendly: they stop by and tell me a great weekend anecdote, maybe a knock-knock joke, but the true friends either keep their distance or sit down but let me do my work anyway. Yes, these people are the gems. Thank you.
But I never realized what everyone else does as I sit and finish my work. Last week I completed my homework early and decided to do some quality staring into space. It was marvelous, but I couldn’t help but notice how awkward people got as they passed my little table for one. I wondered if I smelled, so I did what any normal human being would do, I sniffed my general space. Nope, still smellin’ like roses. I wondered if maybe I had ink on my face, so I checked in the reflection of my spoon. I was ink free.
Then it dawned on me. I was the town leaper. Or, at least everyone thought I was the town leaper. People were acting weird because I was sitting alone. Okay, and smelling myself, but before that I was acting perfectly normal.
I shrugged off the embarrassment and looked around, curious as to what I had been missing when I was buried in my Plato. A girl made eye contact with me, looked down, looked at the ceiling, and then looked back at me and gave me the most awkward smile of all time. Awesome. One boy I knew from a class last semester gave me almost the exact same smile, turned around, and took a different route to his table of friends (who were right next to me). I have to admit, I was amazed. So I sit by myself for forty-five minutes each morning. Pretty much every other hour of my day, I’m surrounded by people that I have to pay attention and talk to – it can get exhausting!
My point is, don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t try to make awkward conversation. If a conversation begins with, “Hey! How are you?” “Good!” “That’s good! I’m good, too!” then it should probably end there as well. And please don’t invite me to join anymore clubs or sororities or fraternities because you think I need to make friends. And (maybe this reflects upon my fashion choices, but) please don’t tell me where the nearest homeless shelter is or put change in my cup! I’m not friendless or homeless or anything of the sort. But if you still want to give me money, just put it directly in my bank account, thanks.
We all need alone time. And we all need to respect each other’s alone time.
But seriously. I’m not homeless.
I have recently become quite fascinated by people’s need for alone time. Those most successful in producing some good ol’ quiet time are those that make a general announcement, like, “I am going in my room and shutting the door. If anyone opens and/or knocks on said door, I will break them in two.” See, now I’m not going to bother that person. Ever.
But the line between bothering and being friendly becomes significantly ambiguous when people decide to have alone time in a public area.
Take the Pryz, for instance. Every morning between my first two classes, I set up camp at a table in the cafeteria where I can eat my eggs and do my philosophy homework. It’s not lame, it’s not lonely – I’m hanging out with Descartes and, let me tell you, he is a chatterbox. People are always friendly: they stop by and tell me a great weekend anecdote, maybe a knock-knock joke, but the true friends either keep their distance or sit down but let me do my work anyway. Yes, these people are the gems. Thank you.
But I never realized what everyone else does as I sit and finish my work. Last week I completed my homework early and decided to do some quality staring into space. It was marvelous, but I couldn’t help but notice how awkward people got as they passed my little table for one. I wondered if I smelled, so I did what any normal human being would do, I sniffed my general space. Nope, still smellin’ like roses. I wondered if maybe I had ink on my face, so I checked in the reflection of my spoon. I was ink free.
Then it dawned on me. I was the town leaper. Or, at least everyone thought I was the town leaper. People were acting weird because I was sitting alone. Okay, and smelling myself, but before that I was acting perfectly normal.
I shrugged off the embarrassment and looked around, curious as to what I had been missing when I was buried in my Plato. A girl made eye contact with me, looked down, looked at the ceiling, and then looked back at me and gave me the most awkward smile of all time. Awesome. One boy I knew from a class last semester gave me almost the exact same smile, turned around, and took a different route to his table of friends (who were right next to me). I have to admit, I was amazed. So I sit by myself for forty-five minutes each morning. Pretty much every other hour of my day, I’m surrounded by people that I have to pay attention and talk to – it can get exhausting!
My point is, don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t try to make awkward conversation. If a conversation begins with, “Hey! How are you?” “Good!” “That’s good! I’m good, too!” then it should probably end there as well. And please don’t invite me to join anymore clubs or sororities or fraternities because you think I need to make friends. And (maybe this reflects upon my fashion choices, but) please don’t tell me where the nearest homeless shelter is or put change in my cup! I’m not friendless or homeless or anything of the sort. But if you still want to give me money, just put it directly in my bank account, thanks.
We all need alone time. And we all need to respect each other’s alone time.
But seriously. I’m not homeless.
Valentine's Day '09
violets are blue
Valentine’s Day is coming up soon.
I am trying to find
the very best way
to make the most of this ridiculous day.
I could buy myself candy
or flowers or bears,
since I don’t have a boyfriend, it’s only fair.
I could take myself
to a fancy place to dine,
buy myself lots of lobster and wine,
That could work,
but conversation would lack.
Maybe I’m just on the wrong track.
I could take a vacation!
Drive for a day,
Go to a spa to just get away.
Too bad I’m so poor –
a spa would be grand!
I’d be the happiest single in all the land.
But alas!
Money I most certainly have not,
Ideas I have, though - I have quite a lot!
I could follow around
a hot movie star
see if he’ll take me out or buy me a car.
That would be a great
Valentine’s gift!
And Lord knows my heart could use that sort of lift.
I guess I don’t really need
lots of things on parade,
I would be fine with a nice serenade.
Maybe just a walk,
someone holding my hand,
perhaps down a beach, enjoying the sand.
Oh, who am I kidding?!
I hate all that crap!
All that romancing makes me feel like a sap!
Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be
about stuff,
shouldn’t be about showing off and all of that fluff.
It’s a great opportunity
to show that you care
because finding great people is tremendously rare.
So tell your family,
your friends, and your boo
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” from me
to you.
Exercise Journey: The Trail of Tears
Not to be one of those girls, but recently I’ve noticed that my skinny jeans haven’t been feeling so skinny. At first, I blamed my grandmother’s deadly chocolate pie that she pretty much force-fed me every day during break. Okay, well, maybe not force-fed. FINE! I ate a whole pie by myself on Christmas Eve. Happy?! But I just thought, “Hey, no problem. I’ll go back to school and the weight will just fall off.”
Well, looks like I was wrong. The other day, my best friend and I had a SUPER BFF moment, so I ran into his open arms for an epic movie hug. Unfortunately, I completely underestimated the effects of eating an entire pie by oneself and ended up knocking him flat on his back.
But I was still in denial.
I mean, yeah, my friend had to go to the hospital for cracked ribs and a broken arm. And, yeah, that squirrel he fell on still had a limp. So what?! It wasn’t like I was unhealthy or something.
I kept these cheery thoughts ringing in my head as I walked to all my new classes. I checked my schedule – next class – Philosophy – FIFTH floor of Marist?! I didn’t even know there was a fifth floor of Marist! “Whatever,” I thought, breezing right past the elevator, “I’m young and healthy. This should be a snap.” FALSE.
By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I was wheezing harder than an asthmatic after climbing Everest. I suddenly realized that it was time to (gulp) start working out.
Now, I will be the first to admit that I am extremely un-athletic. If a bear was chasing everyone I know, I would probably get eaten sixth because I run like girl … with weights tied to her ankles. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I am outrageously impatient. When I was small, I played tennis, but was consistently yelled at for hitting the ball over the fence – I didn’t have the self restraint to hit the ball gently. I played soccer for a short blip of my life and regularly kicked the ball out of bounds or in opposing team member’s faces because I didn’t want to have to spend all that time inching my way up the field dribbling like one-legged Joe from the old folk’s home. Plus, dribbling up the field would require some leg work that I quite honestly have never been capable of.
So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when I was completely winded after running on the treadmill at 8.5 mph after only two minutes. And that my arms REALLY hurt after trying to bench press 350 lbs. But I told myself that beauty is pain and after only ten minutes in the gym, I must have looked like Cindy Crawford.
I went to the Pryz and helped myself to a cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of broccoli. Why not? I had clearly just burned enough calories to be able to enjoy such delicacies without worrying about my weight, and I purposefully skipped the cake display. After my nutritious meal, I went back to my dorm and weighed myself. I had gained three pounds. Perfect.
Okay, so since the gym didn’t work, I could do something in the dorm room by myself. I typed “yoga” into the search bar on youtube and was glad to see how many results popped up. “Yoga for Beginners.” No. “Yoga for Pregnant Women.” No. “Yoga for Sleep Deprived,” “Yoga for Relaxation,” “Yoga for the Elderly.” No, no, and definitely no. “Super Intense Yoga Power Crunch for Extreme Weight Loss.” PERFECT!
The video consisted of a gothic looking woman taping herself in her Brooklyn apartment. Shady, but there was no way I was doing “Yoga for the Elderly.” The work-out seemed easy enough at first – lots of breathing, lots of sitting. Then came some stretching. And then suddenly, yoga lady was doing a full on handstand. I knew if I wanted to be serious and lose weight, I had to be able to a headstand, too, obviously. So I kicked off my make-shift yoga mat (a small shag carpet) and felt my legs try to find balance in the air. Of course one of the worst side effects of grandma’s chocolate pie is severe lack of balance, but don’t worry, the lamp, the mirror, and collection of antique crystal cat figurines didn’t break when I knocked them all over with my lazy legs.
I realize now that patience is a virtue for a reason, and while it is important to stay healthy, you have to take it slowly, one day and piece of chocolate pie at a time.
Well, looks like I was wrong. The other day, my best friend and I had a SUPER BFF moment, so I ran into his open arms for an epic movie hug. Unfortunately, I completely underestimated the effects of eating an entire pie by oneself and ended up knocking him flat on his back.
But I was still in denial.
I mean, yeah, my friend had to go to the hospital for cracked ribs and a broken arm. And, yeah, that squirrel he fell on still had a limp. So what?! It wasn’t like I was unhealthy or something.
I kept these cheery thoughts ringing in my head as I walked to all my new classes. I checked my schedule – next class – Philosophy – FIFTH floor of Marist?! I didn’t even know there was a fifth floor of Marist! “Whatever,” I thought, breezing right past the elevator, “I’m young and healthy. This should be a snap.” FALSE.
By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I was wheezing harder than an asthmatic after climbing Everest. I suddenly realized that it was time to (gulp) start working out.
Now, I will be the first to admit that I am extremely un-athletic. If a bear was chasing everyone I know, I would probably get eaten sixth because I run like girl … with weights tied to her ankles. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I am outrageously impatient. When I was small, I played tennis, but was consistently yelled at for hitting the ball over the fence – I didn’t have the self restraint to hit the ball gently. I played soccer for a short blip of my life and regularly kicked the ball out of bounds or in opposing team member’s faces because I didn’t want to have to spend all that time inching my way up the field dribbling like one-legged Joe from the old folk’s home. Plus, dribbling up the field would require some leg work that I quite honestly have never been capable of.
So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when I was completely winded after running on the treadmill at 8.5 mph after only two minutes. And that my arms REALLY hurt after trying to bench press 350 lbs. But I told myself that beauty is pain and after only ten minutes in the gym, I must have looked like Cindy Crawford.
I went to the Pryz and helped myself to a cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of broccoli. Why not? I had clearly just burned enough calories to be able to enjoy such delicacies without worrying about my weight, and I purposefully skipped the cake display. After my nutritious meal, I went back to my dorm and weighed myself. I had gained three pounds. Perfect.
Okay, so since the gym didn’t work, I could do something in the dorm room by myself. I typed “yoga” into the search bar on youtube and was glad to see how many results popped up. “Yoga for Beginners.” No. “Yoga for Pregnant Women.” No. “Yoga for Sleep Deprived,” “Yoga for Relaxation,” “Yoga for the Elderly.” No, no, and definitely no. “Super Intense Yoga Power Crunch for Extreme Weight Loss.” PERFECT!
The video consisted of a gothic looking woman taping herself in her Brooklyn apartment. Shady, but there was no way I was doing “Yoga for the Elderly.” The work-out seemed easy enough at first – lots of breathing, lots of sitting. Then came some stretching. And then suddenly, yoga lady was doing a full on handstand. I knew if I wanted to be serious and lose weight, I had to be able to a headstand, too, obviously. So I kicked off my make-shift yoga mat (a small shag carpet) and felt my legs try to find balance in the air. Of course one of the worst side effects of grandma’s chocolate pie is severe lack of balance, but don’t worry, the lamp, the mirror, and collection of antique crystal cat figurines didn’t break when I knocked them all over with my lazy legs.
I realize now that patience is a virtue for a reason, and while it is important to stay healthy, you have to take it slowly, one day and piece of chocolate pie at a time.
March Against Meanies
I have been bummed out all week. Don’t worry, I’m not emo or on the verge of dying my hair black and getting a tattoo of a bleeding rose on my forehead. No, I’m just wandering around, staring at my dragging feet, humming Aretha Franklin and remembering the good old days.
You know, the good old days: when there were still Inauguration events that required waking up at four in the morning. Those days when the city air was filled with the tinkling of accents from all over the country, when it was easy to buy a neon Obama t-shirt for three dollars on a street corner and carry big signs with pictures of ovaries on them without being questioned. Yeah, those were the good old days.
But now what do I have to live for? Snow. Pah! It’s just going to melt; I don’t want to get too attached to it. I want last week back – the excitement, the romance, the crowds!
Perhaps it’s time to take matters into my own hands. While I don’t plan on forgetting the madness of Inauguration and the March for Life anytime soon, I think D.C. could use more events that will draw millions of people together. We need to collaborate on some causes that virtually anyone would want to stand for.
Like ice cream. Do you know how many billions of people would travel from New Mexico, Florida, and even Canada if D.C. held a March for Ice Cream. Even the two people I know that don’t like ice cream would probably go to the March for Ice Cream just because it sounds like a real party, does it not?
Or how about a We Are Fun concert? I know I would definitely be first in line for a concert featuring only the funnest artists in the business. Plus, I would definitely want at least eight commemorative t-shirts.
But I think I found my best plan for a gathering of epic proportions – NO ONE could resist this idea. I propose we organize a March Against Mean People. Yes, it’s unfortunate, but EVERYONE knows at least ONE mean person, so why not march for the cause?! March in protest of the middle school bully that broke your model of the solar system that took six weeks to make. March in protest of that awful, smelly second grade teacher that wouldn’t let you eat paste. Or march for someone you care about: your awkward brother who has recently fallen victim to mean telemarketers. March for your grandmother who got cussed out by some meanie when she made an illegal left hand turn on Michigan Avenue.
Mean people should no longer tear us apart, make us feel crummy. Instead, let’s let our common dislike of mean people bring us together. On the Mall. Really soon.
Okay, maybe it’s a terrifically stupid idea. Maybe I’ll never feel the same way about a week again. Maybe last week was my peak and it’s all downhill from here.
Or maybe I need to look around and find excitement in everyday life. I don’t need a march or a concert or political party to find people that share the same interests as me. And if I want to meet people from around the country, then maybe it’s high time that I start saving up for Greyhound Bus tickets.
Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate what we have in front of us, but I guess there’s no time like right now to start trying.
You know, the good old days: when there were still Inauguration events that required waking up at four in the morning. Those days when the city air was filled with the tinkling of accents from all over the country, when it was easy to buy a neon Obama t-shirt for three dollars on a street corner and carry big signs with pictures of ovaries on them without being questioned. Yeah, those were the good old days.
But now what do I have to live for? Snow. Pah! It’s just going to melt; I don’t want to get too attached to it. I want last week back – the excitement, the romance, the crowds!
Perhaps it’s time to take matters into my own hands. While I don’t plan on forgetting the madness of Inauguration and the March for Life anytime soon, I think D.C. could use more events that will draw millions of people together. We need to collaborate on some causes that virtually anyone would want to stand for.
Like ice cream. Do you know how many billions of people would travel from New Mexico, Florida, and even Canada if D.C. held a March for Ice Cream. Even the two people I know that don’t like ice cream would probably go to the March for Ice Cream just because it sounds like a real party, does it not?
Or how about a We Are Fun concert? I know I would definitely be first in line for a concert featuring only the funnest artists in the business. Plus, I would definitely want at least eight commemorative t-shirts.
But I think I found my best plan for a gathering of epic proportions – NO ONE could resist this idea. I propose we organize a March Against Mean People. Yes, it’s unfortunate, but EVERYONE knows at least ONE mean person, so why not march for the cause?! March in protest of the middle school bully that broke your model of the solar system that took six weeks to make. March in protest of that awful, smelly second grade teacher that wouldn’t let you eat paste. Or march for someone you care about: your awkward brother who has recently fallen victim to mean telemarketers. March for your grandmother who got cussed out by some meanie when she made an illegal left hand turn on Michigan Avenue.
Mean people should no longer tear us apart, make us feel crummy. Instead, let’s let our common dislike of mean people bring us together. On the Mall. Really soon.
Okay, maybe it’s a terrifically stupid idea. Maybe I’ll never feel the same way about a week again. Maybe last week was my peak and it’s all downhill from here.
Or maybe I need to look around and find excitement in everyday life. I don’t need a march or a concert or political party to find people that share the same interests as me. And if I want to meet people from around the country, then maybe it’s high time that I start saving up for Greyhound Bus tickets.
Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate what we have in front of us, but I guess there’s no time like right now to start trying.
Obamaramafeefifofama
“Christina, do you know what time it is?!” my roommate squeals. She has that tone in her voice. That tone my mother used that time I slept through three days of school. That tone of worry and slight panic that can easily imply that an alarm has failed me and I have once again snoozed my way through something important.
I look at my cell phone. Just as I suspected; my alarm has been repeatedly sounding off since 7:00 A.M. Nutcrackers. I have practically slept through the Inauguration. I am the worst American ever! I should change my name to Benedict Arnold! I should be banished! I should .. zzzzz.
“Christina!” My roommate brings me back out of my mental spiral, urges me out of bed, and pushes me toward my closet. Twenty minutes and twenty-eight layers of clothes later, we waddle down to the Metro station, which, much to our dismay, is packed with about a hundred other people who apparently slept through their alarms, too.
There is general chaos as Metro rookies attempt to get through the partition by shoving dollar bills in the card slot. Not okay. I hear trains come and go and kick myself at the thought of all the people getting to the Inauguration before me. How will ever get to hug Oprah if there are Metro trains full of people in front of me?!
There is no room to sit on the Metro. I stand among the array of Bedazzled Obama merchandise and wonder why I am even bothering. By the time I would get to the Mall, Obama would be sworn in and there would be an estimated 2.5 million people between me and Yo-Yo Ma. Could I handle the disappointment? I will be the first to admit, I am a very jealous person, and I knew if Aretha Franklin decided not to dedicate her first musical number to me, well, I might just fly right off the handle.
We stumble onto the platform at Judiciary Square only to be met by (surprise!) more people. I try hard not to hyperventilate until we are out of the station into the open air. People swarm around us, trying to push into lines for closed security check-points. I feel defeat cloud my eyes but I’m determined not to cry within a mile-radius of Beyoncé. Just in case.
Though waiting in a line seems like the diplomatic thing to do, my roommate and I continue to wander through the city, keeping our ears open for any sign of nearby speakers. We see groups crowded around restaurant windows, trying to get a glance at the TVs inside, but we trudge on, hoping to find a hole in the fence or even just a megatron showing what’s going on.
A little bit after noon, we hear cheering. The people that crowd the streets hug each other, thank God out loud, and wave American flags like they are pom poms. Obama has been sworn in, and the streets are full of joy.
I smile and remember why I wanted to go to the Inauguration in the first place. My roommate and I find a clear place along the fence on F Street. We can hear Obama’s voice, loud clear, and confident, echoing from the speakers on the Mall. Everyone around us has taken a break from celebrating to listen with respect. I lean against the fence and am relieved. Things feel right. Of course there are 2.5 million people on the Mall: this is an historic day! Whether or not they voted for Obama, how glorious is it that everyone came just to show America’s new top dog some support?!
Obama finishes his speech and the partying starts up again. I turn to my roommate and know that she’s thinking the same thing: we need to celebrate. So we do the most American thing we can think of: we eat McDonald’s. And the rest…
Is history.
I look at my cell phone. Just as I suspected; my alarm has been repeatedly sounding off since 7:00 A.M. Nutcrackers. I have practically slept through the Inauguration. I am the worst American ever! I should change my name to Benedict Arnold! I should be banished! I should .. zzzzz.
“Christina!” My roommate brings me back out of my mental spiral, urges me out of bed, and pushes me toward my closet. Twenty minutes and twenty-eight layers of clothes later, we waddle down to the Metro station, which, much to our dismay, is packed with about a hundred other people who apparently slept through their alarms, too.
There is general chaos as Metro rookies attempt to get through the partition by shoving dollar bills in the card slot. Not okay. I hear trains come and go and kick myself at the thought of all the people getting to the Inauguration before me. How will ever get to hug Oprah if there are Metro trains full of people in front of me?!
There is no room to sit on the Metro. I stand among the array of Bedazzled Obama merchandise and wonder why I am even bothering. By the time I would get to the Mall, Obama would be sworn in and there would be an estimated 2.5 million people between me and Yo-Yo Ma. Could I handle the disappointment? I will be the first to admit, I am a very jealous person, and I knew if Aretha Franklin decided not to dedicate her first musical number to me, well, I might just fly right off the handle.
We stumble onto the platform at Judiciary Square only to be met by (surprise!) more people. I try hard not to hyperventilate until we are out of the station into the open air. People swarm around us, trying to push into lines for closed security check-points. I feel defeat cloud my eyes but I’m determined not to cry within a mile-radius of Beyoncé. Just in case.
Though waiting in a line seems like the diplomatic thing to do, my roommate and I continue to wander through the city, keeping our ears open for any sign of nearby speakers. We see groups crowded around restaurant windows, trying to get a glance at the TVs inside, but we trudge on, hoping to find a hole in the fence or even just a megatron showing what’s going on.
A little bit after noon, we hear cheering. The people that crowd the streets hug each other, thank God out loud, and wave American flags like they are pom poms. Obama has been sworn in, and the streets are full of joy.
I smile and remember why I wanted to go to the Inauguration in the first place. My roommate and I find a clear place along the fence on F Street. We can hear Obama’s voice, loud clear, and confident, echoing from the speakers on the Mall. Everyone around us has taken a break from celebrating to listen with respect. I lean against the fence and am relieved. Things feel right. Of course there are 2.5 million people on the Mall: this is an historic day! Whether or not they voted for Obama, how glorious is it that everyone came just to show America’s new top dog some support?!
Obama finishes his speech and the partying starts up again. I turn to my roommate and know that she’s thinking the same thing: we need to celebrate. So we do the most American thing we can think of: we eat McDonald’s. And the rest…
Is history.
New Year's Revolution
Ah, school. I have returned from my Winter Break with some rather unfortunate turkey weight, about a thousand new Facebook pictures of me dancing on a table at New Year’s, and, surprisingly, about fifty new pairs of socks.
Yes, I to use an entire suitcase to get them all here, but I have no one to blame but myself. Anyone feel a flashback coming on? Because I certainly do …
*Cue classic flashback music, preferably along the lines of The Twilight Zone theme song*
Ah, Christmas morning. Even without snow, there was definitely some magic in the air as my eleven year old sister ripped the covers off my bed, telling me that she would sit on my face if I did not wake up immediately. Christmas spirit really does wonders on children, doesn’t it?
Though it was still dark outside, as it often is at 6 A.M., our Christmas tree glowed over the array of red and green wrapping paper as my three siblings calmly decided who would open what first by playing the traditional game of rock paper scissors. My little sister won, probably because of her sneaky but brilliant use of real scissors.
After we cleaned up the blood and settled down, the wrapping paper started to fly, the stockings were emptied, and my sister’s violent tendencies finally came to a halt. It seemed that everyone got what they wanted: my dad was already trying out his new GPS system, my mom was putting on her new necklace, my brother was practically making out with his new Redskins sweatshirt while my other brother documented the romantic moment on his new camera, and my sister was admiring her new Hannah Montana merchandise.
I looked down and felt a surge of guilt. I was surrounded by an obscene amount of warm and, in some cases, glittery socks, but I didn’t get that spark of childish excitement I can normally depend on feeling Christmas morning. I sat for a while and thought about it. It wasn’t that I was being a brat – I love socks – especially ones that match my Vegas showgirl outfits! Of course I would wear them every day for the rest of my life, but the feeling of disappointment, I discovered, was not about what I got, but what I didn’t get. When my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I brushed them off, saying that I didn’t care. I expected them to be able to read my mind.
But life isn’t like that. No one can possible know what you want unless you say it out loud, unless you live your life in the direction you want it to go. Be an example of what you want, who you want to be.
I kept this in mind throughout the rest of winter break and noticed people making similar mistakes: a friend making goo-goo eyes at her ex-boyfriend but never pulling him aside and flat out telling him that she wanted to get back together; another friend living miserably under the thumb of his parents never putting his foot down and telling them that he wants to work toward being a better family. Life isn’t about the socks we get for Christmas, it’s about writing the letter to Santa a month before Christmas and telling him that what you really want is a pony. Because even mythical holiday spirits won’t know what you want unless you vocalize it.
You can probably guess what my New Year’s Resolution is. Actually I have two: the first is to write, direct, and star in my own sock puppet musical. If I’m successful, this will probably be the last time you hear from me unless I send you a postcard from Hawaii where I will be frivolously spending all the trillions of dollars I make on Opening Night alone. But if I fail, at least my feet will stay warm.
My second and more challenging (yes, more challenging than a sock puppet musical) resolution is to stop holding back. From now on, I’m going to make sure I get what I want: like good grades and fancy ink pens and, most importantly, a pony.
Yes, I to use an entire suitcase to get them all here, but I have no one to blame but myself. Anyone feel a flashback coming on? Because I certainly do …
*Cue classic flashback music, preferably along the lines of The Twilight Zone theme song*
Ah, Christmas morning. Even without snow, there was definitely some magic in the air as my eleven year old sister ripped the covers off my bed, telling me that she would sit on my face if I did not wake up immediately. Christmas spirit really does wonders on children, doesn’t it?
Though it was still dark outside, as it often is at 6 A.M., our Christmas tree glowed over the array of red and green wrapping paper as my three siblings calmly decided who would open what first by playing the traditional game of rock paper scissors. My little sister won, probably because of her sneaky but brilliant use of real scissors.
After we cleaned up the blood and settled down, the wrapping paper started to fly, the stockings were emptied, and my sister’s violent tendencies finally came to a halt. It seemed that everyone got what they wanted: my dad was already trying out his new GPS system, my mom was putting on her new necklace, my brother was practically making out with his new Redskins sweatshirt while my other brother documented the romantic moment on his new camera, and my sister was admiring her new Hannah Montana merchandise.
I looked down and felt a surge of guilt. I was surrounded by an obscene amount of warm and, in some cases, glittery socks, but I didn’t get that spark of childish excitement I can normally depend on feeling Christmas morning. I sat for a while and thought about it. It wasn’t that I was being a brat – I love socks – especially ones that match my Vegas showgirl outfits! Of course I would wear them every day for the rest of my life, but the feeling of disappointment, I discovered, was not about what I got, but what I didn’t get. When my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I brushed them off, saying that I didn’t care. I expected them to be able to read my mind.
But life isn’t like that. No one can possible know what you want unless you say it out loud, unless you live your life in the direction you want it to go. Be an example of what you want, who you want to be.
I kept this in mind throughout the rest of winter break and noticed people making similar mistakes: a friend making goo-goo eyes at her ex-boyfriend but never pulling him aside and flat out telling him that she wanted to get back together; another friend living miserably under the thumb of his parents never putting his foot down and telling them that he wants to work toward being a better family. Life isn’t about the socks we get for Christmas, it’s about writing the letter to Santa a month before Christmas and telling him that what you really want is a pony. Because even mythical holiday spirits won’t know what you want unless you vocalize it.
You can probably guess what my New Year’s Resolution is. Actually I have two: the first is to write, direct, and star in my own sock puppet musical. If I’m successful, this will probably be the last time you hear from me unless I send you a postcard from Hawaii where I will be frivolously spending all the trillions of dollars I make on Opening Night alone. But if I fail, at least my feet will stay warm.
My second and more challenging (yes, more challenging than a sock puppet musical) resolution is to stop holding back. From now on, I’m going to make sure I get what I want: like good grades and fancy ink pens and, most importantly, a pony.
A Whole New World
A very wise fictional teenager once said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Bueller.
It’s so easy to get swept up into schedules: classes, assignments, even people blurring into each other, making all the days of the week melt into a colorless lump. Ew. Who wants a life that can only be described as a colorless lump?
Don’t let your life spin out of control into endless monotony. There are some simple things that you can do to prevent mundane-ness in your life without failing school. I took a mini survey and have compiled a list of simple, yet extremely effective activities that will help you say “bye-bye” to boredom:
1. Say hello to a stranger – Don’t try to hide it, everyone loves get a random salutation every once in a while, and let me assure you, it feels just as fabulous to give one. You don’t have to tackle anyone in the streets, just acknowledge someone else’s existence. It can be subtle, like chatting with whoever is behind you in the Starbucks line, or you can get a little crazy and hug the first stranger you see on your morning commute. However, I can say from experience, the latter may result in some bruising.
2. Sing a Disney song – Puh-leeze, I know you still know all the words from “The Circle of Life.” Now grace the world with that melodious sound that erupts from your wind pipes! So what if your version of “Make a Man Out of You” resembles the shrieks of dying monkeys? Ignore the way your roommate obviously plots to murder you every time you burst into “Be Our Guest.” Singing is good for the soul and singing Disney is the best way to let out that quirky inner child that so desperately wants to throw paper airplanes during Philosophy class.
3. Get lost – Yeah, that’s right, punk; GET LOST. Hop on the Metro and get off at a random spot. Explore. Give tourists directions. Listen to the sound of your footsteps hitting the pavement. Love your city. Walk through a museum - you might learn something. Or if it’s time you lack, just take a stroll around a part of campus that you never see. If you are sick of our fair campus, try hunting for the albino squirrel that lives near the art building. He’s quite the character.
4. Make friends with a tree – If walking really isn’t your thing, try sitting. Give your tush a rest from sitting in cold hard plastic classroom chairs and pop a squat under a tree. WARNING: Making friends with a tree does not require speaking to the tree. I really do not suggest it, unless you want to be referred to as “Tree Girl” – this could be crushing to your reputation, especially if you are, in fact, a boy. But seriously, try being a temporary hippie – stare at the sky, ponder the meaning of life, meditate, be aware of how welcoming the tree is, with is strong trunk and protective branches. Or you could always do homework.
5. Write a poem – This one is my personal favorite. Start with one word and try to find as many words as you can that rhyme with it. Write down a conversation you hear and make up a little story about it. Poems don’t have to rhyme and they don’t have to be anything spectacular – just use your pen as a creative outlet extraordinaire. Draw a little picture or write something sweet or funny on a scrap of paper and leave it for someone to find. It will not only make their day but will leave you with a unique fulfillment similar to that of having a secret. Tee hee!
I’m sure you and your friends could come up with about 500 different ways to kick monotony in the face, so get out there and start living the dream, people! You’re only young once, and life is short, and all that, but truly, the only way to avoid living on repeat is to constantly remind yourself that the world is beautiful. Good luck!
It’s so easy to get swept up into schedules: classes, assignments, even people blurring into each other, making all the days of the week melt into a colorless lump. Ew. Who wants a life that can only be described as a colorless lump?
Don’t let your life spin out of control into endless monotony. There are some simple things that you can do to prevent mundane-ness in your life without failing school. I took a mini survey and have compiled a list of simple, yet extremely effective activities that will help you say “bye-bye” to boredom:
1. Say hello to a stranger – Don’t try to hide it, everyone loves get a random salutation every once in a while, and let me assure you, it feels just as fabulous to give one. You don’t have to tackle anyone in the streets, just acknowledge someone else’s existence. It can be subtle, like chatting with whoever is behind you in the Starbucks line, or you can get a little crazy and hug the first stranger you see on your morning commute. However, I can say from experience, the latter may result in some bruising.
2. Sing a Disney song – Puh-leeze, I know you still know all the words from “The Circle of Life.” Now grace the world with that melodious sound that erupts from your wind pipes! So what if your version of “Make a Man Out of You” resembles the shrieks of dying monkeys? Ignore the way your roommate obviously plots to murder you every time you burst into “Be Our Guest.” Singing is good for the soul and singing Disney is the best way to let out that quirky inner child that so desperately wants to throw paper airplanes during Philosophy class.
3. Get lost – Yeah, that’s right, punk; GET LOST. Hop on the Metro and get off at a random spot. Explore. Give tourists directions. Listen to the sound of your footsteps hitting the pavement. Love your city. Walk through a museum - you might learn something. Or if it’s time you lack, just take a stroll around a part of campus that you never see. If you are sick of our fair campus, try hunting for the albino squirrel that lives near the art building. He’s quite the character.
4. Make friends with a tree – If walking really isn’t your thing, try sitting. Give your tush a rest from sitting in cold hard plastic classroom chairs and pop a squat under a tree. WARNING: Making friends with a tree does not require speaking to the tree. I really do not suggest it, unless you want to be referred to as “Tree Girl” – this could be crushing to your reputation, especially if you are, in fact, a boy. But seriously, try being a temporary hippie – stare at the sky, ponder the meaning of life, meditate, be aware of how welcoming the tree is, with is strong trunk and protective branches. Or you could always do homework.
5. Write a poem – This one is my personal favorite. Start with one word and try to find as many words as you can that rhyme with it. Write down a conversation you hear and make up a little story about it. Poems don’t have to rhyme and they don’t have to be anything spectacular – just use your pen as a creative outlet extraordinaire. Draw a little picture or write something sweet or funny on a scrap of paper and leave it for someone to find. It will not only make their day but will leave you with a unique fulfillment similar to that of having a secret. Tee hee!
I’m sure you and your friends could come up with about 500 different ways to kick monotony in the face, so get out there and start living the dream, people! You’re only young once, and life is short, and all that, but truly, the only way to avoid living on repeat is to constantly remind yourself that the world is beautiful. Good luck!
Hello, Kitty!
Thursday night is a sacred night in college. People go out, people study, people hibernate in preparation for a crazy weekend – Thursday night is unspeakably important.
Last Thursday night, as I snuggled down under my blankets, feeling responsible for getting Friday’s homework done and excited to get a good night sleep, I said to myself, “Wow, how lucky am I to live in America, where my fellow kinsmen appreciate the hallowed events of Thursday night.” My roommate, who has just recently gotten over the fact that I always talk to myself before falling asleep, nodded and went back to cramming for her major history exam.
Just as all the week’s troubles began to disappear with that magic Thursday night slumber, the most horrible noise woke me up. It was worse than the kids in the room above me when they sing Hannah Montana, it was worse than drunken shrieks, it was even more vile than my alarm clock. It was the fire alarm, and it was definitely unwelcomed at 2:30 in the morning.
My roommate urged me to get up and get out of the building. I calmly grabbed a jacket and started sliding on boots, looking around the room, wondering if there was anything else I should take – books? Too heavy. Jewelry? Too silly. Pillows and blanket in case Flather burns down and I have to live on the streets? Nah, too much trouble.
I realized how dazed I was as I tried to walk out of the room, tripping over my own feet and wondering aloud if my boots matched my sparkly Hello Kitty pajamas. My roommate and I found a stampede erupting in the stairwell, but made it to the first floor un-trampled.
My fellow Flather residents spilled out into the chilly outdoors wearing robes, pj pants, or like some of the more unlucky ones, just boxers. Some complained, some huddled together for warmth, some even tried to study. One of my friends tried to dry his hair, as he had just jumped out of the shower. Ironically, the group closest to me lit up cigarettes, and through the haze of smoke and naturally bad eyesight sans glasses or contacts, I saw that the magic of Thursday night had been ruined.
There are so many milestones that we were warned about before college: the sleepless nights, the tough professors, living on your own. It could have been the hour of sleep, it might have been the cold, but, standing outside in my pajamas I wondered if this was a milestone. Yes, some idiot pulled the fire alarm. That probably happens all the time. But people were standing in groups, looking out for friends – just three months ago, I didn’t even know any of these people existed. Imagine who we will be in three years. Hopefully we won’t be getting dragged out of our beds in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe by senior year, none of us will even be in bed by 2:30.
Who will we be? Do we have to grow up? As I continue my “journey” at CUA, do I have to give up things like Hello Kitty pajamas? Do I have to start doing adult things like folding my socks? I’m BAD at folding clothes! Is there any hope for me? What if I decide to change my major to Political Computer Spanish History? What if I have to graduate late? What if I don’t graduate at all?! Then, I will have to roam the streets. I cursed myself for not grabbing my pillow and blanket. That would have made the transition to hobo life way easier.
My inner panic attack was cut short by my RA shuffling us back into the building. I almost forgot my anxieties when one of the boys on the fifth floor laughed at my pj’s. Back in my warm, cozy room, I realized that this fire alarm had been a sort of awakening, both literally and metaphorically. Over-thinking the future is lame. Milestones are for old people. Just enjoy the moment, even if it means huddling close to your relatively new friends for warmth or laughing at the kid who didn’t get a chance to put clothes on before evacuating his dorm room.
Oh, and P.S. Whoever pulled that fire alarm: Don’t do it again. Thanks.
Last Thursday night, as I snuggled down under my blankets, feeling responsible for getting Friday’s homework done and excited to get a good night sleep, I said to myself, “Wow, how lucky am I to live in America, where my fellow kinsmen appreciate the hallowed events of Thursday night.” My roommate, who has just recently gotten over the fact that I always talk to myself before falling asleep, nodded and went back to cramming for her major history exam.
Just as all the week’s troubles began to disappear with that magic Thursday night slumber, the most horrible noise woke me up. It was worse than the kids in the room above me when they sing Hannah Montana, it was worse than drunken shrieks, it was even more vile than my alarm clock. It was the fire alarm, and it was definitely unwelcomed at 2:30 in the morning.
My roommate urged me to get up and get out of the building. I calmly grabbed a jacket and started sliding on boots, looking around the room, wondering if there was anything else I should take – books? Too heavy. Jewelry? Too silly. Pillows and blanket in case Flather burns down and I have to live on the streets? Nah, too much trouble.
I realized how dazed I was as I tried to walk out of the room, tripping over my own feet and wondering aloud if my boots matched my sparkly Hello Kitty pajamas. My roommate and I found a stampede erupting in the stairwell, but made it to the first floor un-trampled.
My fellow Flather residents spilled out into the chilly outdoors wearing robes, pj pants, or like some of the more unlucky ones, just boxers. Some complained, some huddled together for warmth, some even tried to study. One of my friends tried to dry his hair, as he had just jumped out of the shower. Ironically, the group closest to me lit up cigarettes, and through the haze of smoke and naturally bad eyesight sans glasses or contacts, I saw that the magic of Thursday night had been ruined.
There are so many milestones that we were warned about before college: the sleepless nights, the tough professors, living on your own. It could have been the hour of sleep, it might have been the cold, but, standing outside in my pajamas I wondered if this was a milestone. Yes, some idiot pulled the fire alarm. That probably happens all the time. But people were standing in groups, looking out for friends – just three months ago, I didn’t even know any of these people existed. Imagine who we will be in three years. Hopefully we won’t be getting dragged out of our beds in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe by senior year, none of us will even be in bed by 2:30.
Who will we be? Do we have to grow up? As I continue my “journey” at CUA, do I have to give up things like Hello Kitty pajamas? Do I have to start doing adult things like folding my socks? I’m BAD at folding clothes! Is there any hope for me? What if I decide to change my major to Political Computer Spanish History? What if I have to graduate late? What if I don’t graduate at all?! Then, I will have to roam the streets. I cursed myself for not grabbing my pillow and blanket. That would have made the transition to hobo life way easier.
My inner panic attack was cut short by my RA shuffling us back into the building. I almost forgot my anxieties when one of the boys on the fifth floor laughed at my pj’s. Back in my warm, cozy room, I realized that this fire alarm had been a sort of awakening, both literally and metaphorically. Over-thinking the future is lame. Milestones are for old people. Just enjoy the moment, even if it means huddling close to your relatively new friends for warmth or laughing at the kid who didn’t get a chance to put clothes on before evacuating his dorm room.
Oh, and P.S. Whoever pulled that fire alarm: Don’t do it again. Thanks.
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