That being said, I suppose I can understand why some people might feel the desire not to spend several hours wearing soaking wet clothes, but I still think the best use of an umbrella is as a magic wand, a la Hagrid in 'Harry Potter.'
I don't believe in umbrellas. When I tell people this, they generally assume I'm joking or crazy (or some combination of the two), but I stand by my principles. Umbrellas are ridiculous and unnecessary, like soup spoons or gallbladders. Why do you need a patterned piece of fabric spread over metal spikes to protect you from the rain? A little water never hurt anybody. With the possible exception of the Wicked Witch of the West, and maybe Leonardo DiCaprio in 'Titanic.' But they both involved extenuating circumstances. (There are different rules when you're dealing with the Occult or icebergs.) The bottom line is, so what if you get wet? Isn't the human body close to 60% water anyway? Umbrellas are more trouble than they're worth. Sure, they may be convenient for you umbrella-wielders, but for everyone else trying to share the narrow sidewalk with you, they make walking to class seem like something out of a 'Survivor' challenge. You and your Vera Bradley umbrella are walking along, without a care, completely dry, (probably texting or fiddling with your iPod and not paying attention to other pedestrians) while those of us without umbrellas are forced to dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge your pointy metal parasols of death. (This just in: Umbrella spikes are at exactly eye level. I think I speak for everyone when I say, two fully-functional eyes are better than one.) And let's be honest, one person does not need a four-foot-wide umbrella. (Unless, of course, you're Mary Poppins and you're using it to fly.) The goal of an umbrella is to protect one person from the rain, not to house a small Nicaraguan family. Come on, people.
That being said, I suppose I can understand why some people might feel the desire not to spend several hours wearing soaking wet clothes, but I still think the best use of an umbrella is as a magic wand, a la Hagrid in 'Harry Potter.' Raise your hand if you successfully donated blood today! *Delicately raises bandaged arm* This may not sound like a triumph to all of you, but giving blood without complications is harder for me than for others. This was the third time I have successfully given blood out of seven attempts. What could possibly have gone wrong the other four times, you ask? Allow me to recount to you my previous experiences with donating blood.
I'm pretty much a Red Cross information brochure on how NOT to give blood. The first time I went to give blood was in high school. While many teenagers counted down the days until they could get their drivers' licenses, buy lottery tickets, and get into R-rated movies, I was excited to be 16 because it meant I was eligible to donate blood! (I do not mean this sardonically. This is a true story.) So when my school's blood drive rolled around I signed up, and before I knew it I was sitting in a makeshift cubicle in the gym answering a series of awkwardly personal questions. "Have you ever had Mad Cow Disease?" "Have you ever lived in the U.K. between August 1987 and March 1995?" "Have you ever been a prostitute?" "Have you ever shared a needle with Tommy Lee?" "Have you ever had sex with someone who has had sex with someone who has had sex with a prostitute, or Tommy Lee?" I think you get the point. After passing the multiple choice portion with flying colors, I moved on to blood testing. To be honest, I think the tiny finger prick they give you to test your Iron levels might hurt more than the real suck-your-blood needle. When the nurse gave me the stamp of approval, I headed on over to the waiting area where I found the best part of donating blood: FREE COOKIES! And juice! You can't beat that. They WANT you to eat their free cookies because the cookies make your blood stronger. Or something. Everything was going swimmingly, even when she stuck the needle in my arm. Things didn't start to go south until a few minutes later, and then I started to feel a little woozy. The next thing I know, my neck was cold and wet and there were three nurses hovering over me. It was kind of like the end of 'The Wizard of Oz,' but with more panicking. And blood. Apparently, I had passed out and had a small seizure. (As opposed to a large seizure, like the ones on TV where they have to hold the person's tongue and stuff. Gnarly.) As I sat up, I realized two things: 1) The football players from my Stat class who were sitting on either side of me were looking at me with a mix of fear and disgust, and 2) My pants were wet. Not to worry; I had not peed, I had only spilled my juice in my lap during my slight seizure. And it gets worse: While I wasn't paying attention (I was still trying to fully grasp the whole seizure thing) the nurse tried to wrap my arm in a PINK BANDAGE. Oh hell no. I was having none of that. I made her change it to green. My dear mother brought me a dry, juiceless pair of pants to change into, and I took it easy at the Red Cross station for the next two class periods, munching on free cookies. But the terrible part of the story (worse than seizures, and needles, and Tommy Lee even) was that they were unable to collect the vials of blood they need to test the blood, so the half a pint I had donated was unusable. That was the first time I tried to give blood. I'm sure you're wondering what kind of masochistic person would try to donate blood again so soon after a debacle of a first attempt such as this one, but I took that experience as more of a challenge from Mother Nature. Challenge accepted! My next several attempts weren't nearly as interesting. The second time I tried to donate, my Hematocrit levels were too low. Attempt #3 went without a hitch until afterwards when I started to feel light-headed in Government class. By my fourth time, I was a little freaked out by my apparent tendency to almost pass out. I was so nervous that my heart rate was above the limit for donating. The very patient nurse tried to calm me down three times, but no such luck. Every time she came in the cubicle to take my pulse my heart started pounding like an eleven-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. By my fifth try I was in college, and the Red Cross bus came by every month or so. Aside from having to wait an exorbitant amount of time to donate, there were no complications and I effectively gave blood for a second time! My next visit to the Red Cross bus was less fruitful. I waited for an hour and a half, and when my turn came I was really excited that I passed the Hematocrit test and my heart rate was within the acceptable range. And then I got to the questions. "Have you gotten a tattoo in the last year?" Um... Yes. But I had researched it before and the waiting period was 6 months. Jim the medic informed me that they had changed the regulations, and hadn't I seen the sign on the door? Oops. You mean there was a way I could have known two hours ago that I am ineligible and could have avoided wasting a good portion of my day if I had just bothered to read a sign? Wonderful. (Seriously, though. Who reads signs? Psh.) So you can see why today's victory is such an exciting moment for me, and for the Red Cross. While I count today as a win, I did come close to passing out in my class immediately afterward. I am now 3 for 7, making my record about the same as that of the Cleveland Indians. (Which is to say, bad.) If my blood-giving was a Major League Baseball team, it would be the 5th worst of all 31 teams. I'm just saying. I'm feeling inspired by Journey. Ever since I re-re-watched the pilot of 'Glee,' in which a dysfunctional group of teenage misfits cover the 80s power anthem while simultaneously teaching us to follow our dreams and do what makes us happy, I've been listening to "Don't Stop Believin" on repeat, and, on more than one occasion, singing along out of key. (I still don't know what "streetlight people" are... Is that a polite term for hookers? I don't understand, Journey.) Thanks to Journey (and Fox, although I am still mad at them for numerous things- ahem, 'Bones' finale anyone? Canceling 'Firefly'? Not okay, Fox) things are looking up.
I knew things were turning around for me when I miraculously found my wallet (things weren't looking so good when I lost it... along with the keys to my dorm and my school ID), or more accurately, Katie The First-Year found it. That's right! A first-year actually did something right! Finally they're starting to make my life easier instead of harder. However, they still haven't mastered the complicated Entrance-Door/Exit-Door layout of the dining hall. So I was at the mail room (AKA a quarter mile from my dorm) picking up no less than 7 packages (all of which, you may recall, were books I had ordered for a class that I have since dropped), and it was a struggle to situate myself and my 7 packages. In the process I may have carelessly stuffed my iPod and my wallet in my pocket. One of these was still there when I reached my dorm. (Hint: It was the one that was not plugged into my headphones, alerting me to its presence.) Without my wallet I have no money, no debit card, no school ID (which I swipe for the dining hall), and no keys to my dorm. So there I was, carrying 7 packages and unable to get into my room. Did I mention it was hot? (Toting 7 packages around doesn't do wonders for your sweat glands. I'm just saying.) I immediately retraced my steps back to the mail room, but my wallet was nowhere to be found. WOMP WOMP. Thank God one of my suite mates was around to open the door for me when I knocked on our door, or I surely would have passed out from heat exhaustion. I was really hoping someone had e-mailed me telling me that they'd found my wallet, but no such luck. An hour and a call to Wachovia (to put a hold on my debit card) later, I was ecstatic to receive an e-mail from Katie The First-Year telling me that she had found my wallet. MIRACLE! I raced over to her dorm to pick it up, but I ran into Raymond. I don't think I can explain Raymond to anyone who doesn't know him. He went to my high school, was the class president of the grade below me, and was in my Calculus class. He's like a mix between Erkel and SpongeBob SquarePants. He lives in my dorm now, so I inevitably run into him at the strangest times. At this moment, he had just received 'Flight of the Conchords' season 2 from Amazon, and I was en route to retrieve my wallet. When I told him this, he bubbiliciously responded, "You lost your wallet? That's a first-year mistake!" Thanks, Raymond. He has a point, though. I guess since I never lost my ID during freshman year the Universe is just now catching up. But it's all good because I got my wallet back in time to eat dinner! And so far as I know, Katie The First-Year hasn't been using my debit card number to purchase sharks with lasers on their heads or whatever expenditures first-years make with unlimited funds. On a less exciting, actually extremely disappointing note, my SWAG (Studies in Women and Gender, remember people? Keep up) T.A. revealed to us in class today that she hasn't read Harry Potter. *GASP!* We were doing an activity in which we were supposed to name examples of "Ideal Men" as seen by society, and a group named Albus Dumbledore. She said, "I don't even think I can spell that..." Awkward (shocked) silence. She opted for "Dumbledohr." Awkwarder (appalled) silence. And she didn't even register the appropriate amount of shame at her lack of Harry Potter knowledge. I mean, really. What kind of university is this where our T.A.s haven't even read Harry Potter? Speaking of disappointing staff members at this school... The reason I haven't written in quite some time is that I've spent the majority of the last week in the library media center catching up on the movies I missed for my Latin American Film class. I'm pretty sure Profesora still hates me, but I'm trying to confuse her by sitting in different seats every day in the hopes that she'll forget who I am. If this doesn't work, I'll have to go to my fallback plan: Jedi mind trick her. (Plan C is get one of those Flashy Thingies from 'Men In Black.') Apparently the goal of my Latin American Film prof is to make us cry as much as possible. (This wouldn't be a problem if we weren't forced to watch the films in the library media center surrounded by strangers.) It started off alright with a nice Gael García Bernal movie (he's pretty), but then it was all, "Here, watch this film about a cute little boy whose grandmother dies... Still not bawling? Check out this one about an adorable old couple- PSYCH! The husband dies. What's that? You need a tissue? Sorry, we're all out. But you can ask one of the people sitting in the cubicles next you giving you funny looks." Try as she might to crush the light in soul, I will continue to thwart her efforts and the attempts of this school to dishearten me. Remember this: Don't stop believing. Hold on to that feeling. Now if only I knew a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit. We could take the midnight train going anywhere. I have a theory: My name is on a list. Obviously this list was sent to all employees at this university with an attached memo that read: “Attention Staff: Make these students’ lives a living hell. PS: don’t forget your TPS reports.” How do I propose they decide whose names go on the List? I’m glad you asked. I’m not entirely clear on this, seeing as the school’s hatred for me seems relatively unprovoked. I do have a couple guesses, however:
1.) These are names of legacies whose parent(s) pissed of the administration when they were students, therefore our generation must pay for their crimes. I’m banking on this as the likeliest scenario. My mom probably forgot to return a library book before she graduated. 2.) They somehow found out that this was not my first choice of colleges and now they’re messing with me for their own sadistic entertainment. 3.) The List is compiled of randomly chosen names based on social security numbers and/or birthdays. These may be the ramblings of a half-crazed conspiracy theorist, but I think there’s something to the giant shitstorm that this school keeps throwing me into. When we left off, I was a lost little Spanish major with 9 credit hours, no advisor, and very few attainable career aspirations. Fast-forward 24 hours: I’m feeling pretty good because the Spanish class on Latin American Cinema (AKA my dream class that I’ve been trying desperately to get into since I got to this Godforsaken school) is actually still open, according to the aforementioned impossibly challenging new course enrollment system. Trying not to get my hopes up, I quickly request enrollment and await the professor’s affirmation to tell me I am officially in the class. After not hearing a response, I take a proactive approach and e-mail her explaining how excited I am for her class and which section has more room? Another day passes, and still no word, so I decide to just show up to the class. At 8 AM. (Now that’s dedication.) I gleefully awaken at 7 o’clock and make my way to the secret hidden classroom in the basement of the library (creepy). I find a friend from a previous Spanish class and she tells me this course is great and she hopes I get in. Witty banter ensues. Prof sits down, takes roll, and I bring my predicament to her attention. She tells me, “Lo siento, pero no hay espacio en la clase,” which is Spanish for “Fuck you, get out of my classroom.” (Not really, but that’s how it felt.) I ask her about the 9:30 section of the class. She tells me she will be letting in one more student but then it, too, will be full. She does all this very politely, but still manages to make me think she just might be the Devil incarnate. I am fighting both the urge to bust into tears and the impulse to scream, “I’M A THIRD-YEAR SPANISH MAJOR AND THERE ARE FIVE EMPTY DESKS IN THIS CLASSROOM SO WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM?!” (Now that kind of outburst would probably earn me some kind of asterisk or gold star on The List: “*Requires excessively thorough torment*”) But I don’t. Cry or scream, that is. (At least not right then.) I ask if there is even a small chance of getting into one of the classes, if it’s worth it for me to stay. She shakes her head with fake compassion. So I pick up the tiny pieces of my shattered dreams off the floor, gather my books and take the walk of shame out of the classroom. That class was pretty much my last hope. I had somehow convinced myself that despite this rocky transitional time, everything would be great once I got into that Spanish class. I realize it was a bad idea to put all my eggs in one basket, and I was seriously regretting turning down the other two offers of enrollment I had received, sure that I could get into this class. This meant that in order to maintain the 12-credit minimum, I would have to stay in the Religion class that I had signed up for in a moment of blatant stupidity: The History of the Bible. It met for 2 hours and 45 minutes once a week. Its subject was not the content of the Bible, but rather how the books included in the Bible were chosen and why. Like I said, it was a horrible decision. I realized this after the first meeting, but hadn’t technically dropped it yet. Without my beloved Spanish film class, I had no choice but to go crawling back to History of the Bible. At this point I had 24 hours to complete the week’s worth of reading that I hadn’t started, thinking I would surely be dropping the class. I had spent a couple hours trying to get through the tedious readings when I checked my e-mail. I received a message from the Spanish film class professor notifying me that I had been granted a spot in the 9:30 section of the class. ... REALLY?! Now that I’ve missed three classes and completed 75% of my mind-numbing Religion reading, NOW you decide to let me into your class? Not before when I was, you know…present? Really? Why must they toy with my emotions like this? I was equally outraged and relieved. And I really didn’t want to do the last 25% of my reading for History of the Bible. So it all worked out and everyone lived happily ever after. (False. Remember The List?) We’ll see how it goes down when I actually show up for class. (“Surprise! You got Punk’d.”) My brother suggested I make the “Facial” sign when I see her in class, but I think that might be one expression that gets lost in translation. |