But I didn't. Because that is not within the realm of socially acceptable behavior. And because I really don't like confrontation, which you probably wouldn't have guessed based on my rather hostile inner dialogue. I'd like to give myself the benefit of the doubt and think that it was just the heat getting to me, and the fact that I had just spent two and a half hours watching a tedious and incomprehensible Italian movie for my film class, which just made me miss my beloved Italian whom I'll never see again... Ruh-roh, taking a turn to Negative Town. Oh, who am I kidding, I live in Negative Town. I am the mayor of Negative Town. Actually, I guess that would be Negative Nancy. Hmm... Not quite sure how I turned this into a lengthy blog entry, but if you're still reading, I apologize for the lack of actual plot and/or significance to the preceding paragraphs. Now I'm off to remedy my cantankerousness with some Gilmore Girls and healthy social interaction. Happy Friday, all.
Are you ever gripped by a sudden urge to verbally assault random strangers? I know I am. Particularly in the springtime, when they tend to look all happy and whatnot (ugh). For example, today I was trying to escape from the swamp of tour groups that is central campus, when I crossed paths with a former classmate, the kind who I used to wave to when I saw them, but they pretended not to recognize me and just ignored me instead--thanks a lot, kid--but they should be grateful that I even acknowledged them because they're a year younger than me and what's their problem anyway?...What was I saying? Oh yeah, so this kid walks by me (I don't even give him the nod anymore, let alone wave) wearing one of the tour guide shirts, a poorly-written name tag, and a ridiculous smile on his face. And for some inexplicable reason I am overcome by the sudden impulse to stop directly in front of him and go, "What? Do you want a cookie? Stop smiling, clownface."
But I didn't. Because that is not within the realm of socially acceptable behavior. And because I really don't like confrontation, which you probably wouldn't have guessed based on my rather hostile inner dialogue. I'd like to give myself the benefit of the doubt and think that it was just the heat getting to me, and the fact that I had just spent two and a half hours watching a tedious and incomprehensible Italian movie for my film class, which just made me miss my beloved Italian whom I'll never see again... Ruh-roh, taking a turn to Negative Town. Oh, who am I kidding, I live in Negative Town. I am the mayor of Negative Town. Actually, I guess that would be Negative Nancy. Hmm... Not quite sure how I turned this into a lengthy blog entry, but if you're still reading, I apologize for the lack of actual plot and/or significance to the preceding paragraphs. Now I'm off to remedy my cantankerousness with some Gilmore Girls and healthy social interaction. Happy Friday, all. You know how Yahoo! likes to prey on my biggest fears and anxieties? They are in peak form today, reporting once again on the less-than-great (read: horrible) state of the economy and the glaring lack of jobs to be found in our beloved country. Thanks for reminding me that-- even if I do somehow manage to graduate from college--it's not like I'll be able to find a job or anything. Good thing I'm not panicking. On the plus side, the aforementioned Yahoo! article says that having a bachelor's degree might actually benefit you in terms of job-hunting rather than a master's, or an M.B.A., or some kind of legit degree, because then companies can pay you less! See? The glass of my future is half full.
Now that the warm weather has arrived (I am, of course, referring to the obscene 90-degree heat in the first week of April... Still think Global Warming is something Al Gore made up to stay relevant?), campus has become something like a video game, with obstacles at every corner that you have to avoid. A few things to be on the lookout for during this dangerous time:
1) Tour groups: The most important thing to avoid during the spring is groups of prospective students wandering around campus. First, they generally travel in groups of 15 to 20, and they love to walk three- or four-across, thus blocking the entire sidewalk, so the only way to get around them is by walking into oncoming traffic. (If you have this option, take it. It's worth the risk. Trust me.) These groups are made up of annoying young people who a) haven't yet learned the college etiquette of sidewalking, b) are too busy trying to look like they're not with their parents to notice that they are in your way, and c) are still young and innocent and have not yet had their souls crushed by the tribulations of college, therefore I resent them greatly and must channel my bitterness into mocking. They also make frequent stops in front of buildings so their group leaders (whom I resent even more for their well-adjustedness and perkiness) can spout off some boring facts about the history of the college and blah blah blah. (Honestly, just read the brochure and get out of my way.) 2) People with clipboards and/or fliers: It's the clipboards that are the real enemy here. Anyone holding a clipboard clearly wants something from you, and they are bold enough to actually move into your path, so the old head-down-fake-texting bit won't do any good. My suggestion is to find a shield, someone to walk in front of you and divert any undesirables. You probably want to find someone bigger than you, and ideally alone. Big groups are quicker to blow off the clipboarders, leaving you as the straggling gazelle (the one who gets eaten by the lion, in case that metaphor wasn't clear), unless you can assimilate into the group as they pass by (high degree of difficulty). For instance, today these clipboard-bearing activists were swarming all over the courtyard outside the dining hall. First, I was shadowing a couple of sorority girls (not ideal, but it worked), and when they got nabbed by a clipboarder, I leap-frogged to a burly loner guy whom I followed to safety. Unfortunately, on my way out of the building I was cornered by two tour groups and a clipboard. I had to choose between the lesser of two evils and ended up writing a letter to Congressman Tom Perriello about providing clean energy jobs for the state of Virginia. (Granted, this was mostly just a strategic move in order to give the tour groups time to disperse before I escaped the courtyard.) 3) Freshmen: Once you're out of the central campus area, you're out of range of most of the threats of spring, but there's still one more to watch out for. It's just like in the Pokémon video game, when you make it out of Rock Tunnel, past all the trainers and Zubats, but just as you exit the cave, one more trainer ambushes you. Your Pokémon are too weak to fight, and you black out, getting sent back to the Poké Center before the cave. (Okay, the first part of that tangent is actually relevant.) So you're on your way back to your dorm, but you have to walk through freshman dorms. Watch out for freshmen partaking in frisbee, football, tanning, and general frivolity. These carefree young students are like the touring prospectives in that they still haven't been appropriately beaten down by college, so they're all cheerful and excited and shirtless. The bathing-suit-clad girls tanning are annoying but avoidable, since they usually lay on the grass. It's the guys you have to watch out for. They enjoy flaunting their perceived "pimpness" (for lack of a better word) by standing directly between you and your destination while throwing projectile objects dangerously close to you. Sometimes they are considerate enough to pause their fun-having in order for you to walk past them, but sometimes they're just idiots. Like yesterday, when I was walking to class, and two annoying (I don't know them, I'm just assuming) freshmen were throwing a frisbee, which came THIS CLOSE to hitting my face. I literally had to dodge the flying disc as I was walking. Had I not been running late for class, I would have stopped to berate them, and possibly inflict physical violence, but instead I just gave them a solid Death Glare and most definitely did not laugh with them as they enjoyed their little shenanigans. Do not cross me, freshmen. That being said, yeah, I kinda miss the snow right about now. It kept everyone indoors and out of my way. Most college students choose to spend their Spring Break in Mexico or Florida, getting skin cancer and living like a 24/7 Ricky Martin music video. While I understand the appeal of lounging by the pool at some exotic locale, á la Blondie here in this Judge Parker strip, I went another route and chose to spend a wonderful week at home with my family and assorted friends who were also home on break. Things I will miss from Spring Break: 1) Real food. For my first dinner back at school, I'm too exhausted/sick/lazy to drag myself to the dining hall, so I am instead attempting to mimic the nutritional value of an actual meal with popcorn, Vitamin Water, and oatmeal craisin cookies. Take that, impending scurvy. 2) Reading Judge Parker as a telenovela with Mr. C. It may sound weird, but adding Colombian accents and dramatic intonation to this otherwise dull comic strip is quite entertaining. 3) The addictive crack bacon from the McLean Family Restaurant. As an esteemed bacon connoisseur, I can honestly say they have the best bacon I have ever tasted. 4) Other people joining in when I randomly break into song. When I'm home (i.e. with my similarly-minded family members and friends), my random bouts of song are generally tolerated, even appreciated, and often turn into duets. 5) Not doing anything that could be even remotely considered "academic." 6) Watching television with real people instead of Twitter people (AKA random strangers I've never met but who happen to share my taste in television shows). B.t. dubs, I am aware that Twitter is not a suitable substitute for human interaction. 7) DVR recording capabilities. You have no idea how many times I try to pause and rewind live television while I'm watching at school, where I have nothing but basic cable and a DVD player. 8) My black cardigan, which I conveniently left on the floor of my bedroom at home. 9) Not having to wear flip-flops in the shower/Not having to share the shower with five roommates and several varieties of mold and bacteria. 10) The thrill of random people (and by "random people" I mean friends and neighbors who were probably invited) coming and going through the house at various intervals. Ah, the wonder of Spring Break, how I long to recapture thee. Sigh... It's hard to be back, but fortunately there are only about 9 weeks left of classes, and then we're home free. So I'll just continue to do the minimal amount of work necessary to maintain my unremarkable GPA, pop a One-A-Day vitamin every once in a while, and I'll be good to go. Okay, so that title might be a bit overdramatic. As semesters go, this new one (my sixth) hasn't been that bad. On a scale of mildly inconvenient to I'd-rather-be-in-Azkaban, this one has been closer to mockingly obnoxious. Nonetheless, I'd be lying if I said I was glad to be back in this soul-sucking hellhole--I mean... "institution for higher learning."
If you're reading this, thanks for not giving up on me during my month-long hiatus from blogging. Great news: I'm not dead! I just didn't have time over the holiday break to keep up with the blog. Between working at the children's bookstore, watching 'Arrested Development' with my family, eating string cheese, and watching 'Lost' with Rouxski, I didn't have time. Not to mention, there really wasn't anything terribly interesting to write about. I decided not to bore you with blog entries like "Today I Went To The Safeway!" (Although, for the record, my mother and I have plenty of exciting adventures at the grocery store that are borderline blog-worthy.) The most entertaining thing that happened was the saga of Louie the Christmas Mouse, but that's for another day, after I've recovered from the first week of classes. As usual, the university has wasted no time in trying to make my life as difficult as possible, even going so far as to sabotage my tuition payment plan, telling me I owe them oodles of money by the end of the week or they'll disenroll me from all my classes and deactivate my student ID card and meal plan. Ah yes, it's good to be back. Sadly, that whole debacle has been taken care of, so I have to stay here. This semester was the first time I managed to schedule all my classes without any egregious problems or extreme emotional distress. (Of course, this suspicious lack of obstacles inflicted its own paranoid disturbia.) I suppose then I should have been comforted by the frustrations brought on by my second day of classes. Here's some background to get you up to speed: My university has a Nursing School. The Nursing School buildings are located at the far end of campus near the hospital. (So far, everything seems pretty logical, right? Wait for it...) To clarify: I am not in the Nursing School, nor have I ever been in the Nursing School. Despite this point of fact, I have had a class in a Nursing School building for five out of my six semesters. In case you weren't aware, I live pretty much as far away from campus as you can get, so walking to the Nursing School, which is essentially located at the Edge of the World, is quite a trek. (Seriously, between the traffic, the construction, and the pointy-umbrella-wielding pedestrians, it's like Frodo's journey to Mordor, for God's sake.) I was not surprised to find that my required Spanish Translation class is located in the Nursing School, but at least it's in a familiar part of it. My Religion class, however, meets in a building I had never heard of. (That happens a lot here: buildings just randomly pop up in new and inconvenient places.) So I looked up the Claude Moore Nursing Education Building on the map, and found it to be even farther away than any other Nursing School building ever created. I left 45 minutes before my class was scheduled to start, giving myself plenty of time to get lost and confused along the way. Or in case I ran into that Gollum character. After passing through the Candy Cane Forest and answering the bridge troll's three riddles, I finally came to the Claude Moore building, only they had mislabeled it the Claude Moore Nursing Library. With ten minutes to spare, I opened the door only to find a very polite and friendly sign informing me that I was in the wrong building. (Don't even pretend to be surprised; you totally saw that coming.) The sign read, "If you are looking for the Claude Moore Nursing Education Building, turn around, then make a left on Lane Street, and it's on your right!" but what it meant was, "Ha ha! You're an idiot." And that's how I learned where the Claude Moore Nursing Education Building is located. But really, did you run out of names for buildings? Is it really necessary to have two Claude Moore buildings? Or are you actually trying to confuse the students? Frankly, I think that's pretty selfish of Claude to have two buildings named after him when some of us don't even have one. Share the wealth, buddy. 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. It's that time of year again. (Which is to say it's one of the nine months out of the year during which one is at college...) Freshman season is upon us, and after only one week of their presence and fewer than two direct interactions with any of them I am already severely annoyed with all of them. Yes, ALL. I am not afraid to make an enormous generalization based solely on their year. My annoyance encompasses every last one of them. (Except maybe the two that I know personally. They're alright.) I know, I know- We were all first-years once, it just takes some adjusting, they don't mean to be obnoxious, blah blah kumbaya peace and understanding blah. Not this year. As a third-year I believe it is my right to make blanket statements about the inconveniences that they are. Such is the hierarchy of academia, the circle of life, natural selection and whatnot. You don't see sharks giving minnows directions to the Special Collections Library, do you? I didn't think so.
Most of my disdain for first-years is due to my intense resentment of any and all fun that they may be having. I wasn't allowed to have fun in my first year, so why should they? ("Allowed" may not be the most accurate choice of words, but the overall outcome is the same.) I curse their carefree, perpetually excited well-adjustedness. ATTENTION FIRST-YEARS: Wipe that stupid grin off your face, learn to share the sidewalk (four people walking with arms interlocked = unacceptable), and for God's sake stop hogging all the advisors because apparently we are experiencing a shortage and some of us need them more than you. It's a shiny new day, and I've decided to take the fabulous Tim Gunn's advice and "make it work." At this juncture, "making it work" involves scrounging for 6 more credit hours for the semester in order to not incur academic probation, catching up on the reading for the classes I missed before I knew I would be taking them, and continuing to NOT PANIC. So far I'm two for three. (Surprisingly, the lack of credits is the only outstanding issue of concern. The panic is strangely under control for the time being.)
Trying to find available classes five days after they've started is like picking through the remnants of a piñata after dozens of sugar-crazed children have already mutilated its sad, broken carcass: all that's left is gum wrappers, paper mache innards, and some Good & Plenties. (Because let's face it- no one under the age of 70 actually likes Good & Plenties.) Of course, it doesn't help that the school's new course enrollment system was designed to be as difficult to use as possible while maintaining the appearance of simplicity. It's like it was created by a rocket scientist with the purpose of being used by kindergardeners. Can we please go back to the days of carbon paper and abacuses? (Abacai? I should look that up.) I would suggest they offer a course on how to use the online enrollment system, but I probably wouldn't be able to figure out how to sign up for it. At this point, all the good classes are taken and we're left with the dregs, unless you can find a sleeper class, a feat I have accomplished only once in my college life. Down to the wire, it looks like my options are a Slavic Folklore course called "Ritual Demonology" (You didn't even know we had a Slavic Folklore department, did you?), SWAG 2559: Women's Lives in Myth and Reality ("SWAG" = Studies in Women and Gender), and an Intro to Urdu course. As fun as it would be to be able to say, "Why, yes, I speak Urdu. Do you Urdu too?" I'm leaning towards the SWAG class if only because "SWAG" is such a fun course mnemonic (not to be confused with "pneumonic," which means of or relating to pneumonia- fun fact). On a sadder, less grammatical note, allow me to share with you the unfortunateness of my textbook-buying experience this semester. The university bookstore hates students. We are nothing but walking, talking dollar signs to them, and they rip us off at every opportunity. This year I decided to take matters into my own hands and buy my books online. (Radical, I know.) Regrettably, this was also the year I decided I did not want to be in the Education School. If you haven't connected the dots yet, I shall explain. The bookstore had posted a list of ten books that were "required" for my Content Area Reading class in the Ed School. Wanting to be prepared for the first week of class, I went online and purchased all of these books (used) from various sellers. Then I went to the first class for this course, at which the professor started out by saying, "I hope none of you bought all these books. Did you?" (I learned the hard way that you should NOT raise your hand at questions like this, even if you think you should.) She proceeded to explain that we only needed to read ONE book from the list of ten, and that the bookstore was supposed to indicate this on the printout. (Which, apparently, they did, but in some kind of sneaky bookstore code so I couldn't understand it.) I was only slightly concerned by this situation seeing as I had, for the most part, already resolved to withdraw from the Education School. And so I await the deluge of individually shipped text books that will soon be piling up in my mailbox (which, it's worth noting, is about .3 miles and 75 stairs away from my dorm room), mocking me with every single e-mail notification of their arrivals. Dear World, learn from my mistakes: Don't buy ten books that you can't return for a class that you haven't been to yet. |