So its hell week, and I'm a little on edge. This makes me notice the little things that ordinarily would have brought out an eye roll or grimace now elicit a death stare and petrifying scowl. For example:
-Girls who talk about Twilight as though it is a real movie.
Sorry, but its not. This movie was not made for "the love of the book" or to bring to life the vibrant words and world Stephanie Meyer's so painstakingly created (sorry but have you even read the book? "I do want to know what you’re thinking — everything. I just wish… that you wouldn’t be thinking some things." -Edward Cullen, Twilight, Chapter 10, p.208. Captivating.) No, these movies were made with the sole purpose of squeezing every last cent out of another teen obsession that blinds young women to the perils of their fixation on a fantasy vampire/werewolf/wizard/mutant-superhero until they wake up from their coma at age 23, dizzy, confused, and $1927 poorer than at age 14 when they first began their descent into the cult of the Hollywood created man. So when you say things like: "You can totally tell that New Moon's director was so much better, it was much better quality and dialogue" it kinda makes me die a little inside. We all know all you Twilight nerds would go see every one of the movies multiple times whether it was directed by Martin Scorcese or my little brother, so stop acting like you know what directors even do in the film making process, and just stick to rereading the books, re-watching the movies, and unfairly comparing the males around you to a vampire created to be the epitome of every girl's fantasy.
-Girls who wear the same outfit everyday:
Northface fleece, scarf, designer jeans, Uggs. Its super comfortable, I agree. I have worn this outfit (sans designer jeans, I'm in college- how do you people have money?!) many a time, but eventually I start to want to differentiate myself from an animated cartoon where the characters wear the same outfit every day for 25 years. Unless you are planning to give up your soul to become a cartoon character (if you know how to do this, please let me know because that's pretty badass), maybe consider not pouring yourself into the same clothes mold every day? I hear that eventually the fleece fibers and sheepskin fur begins to weave itself into the spirals of your DNA and soon it grows as a second skin. Warm? Yes. Creepy? A stronger and louder YES.
I apologize for these scathing (and slightly hypocritical considering I have both seen Twilight and worn the outfit I detest) remarks, however the kind side of my brain is being overpowered by the cranky-psycho-student side. That being said, I have also noticed that the small occurrences in my daily life give me a little hope that I will get through this ridiculous week and continue to mock humanity for a very long time. For example:
-People who are caricatures of themselves
This phenomenon, not surprisingly, tends to manifest itself on the el. I was coming home from the Field Museum after doing a super-fascinating (is there a font for sarcasm?) worksheet for my Plants and Civilzation course (http://www.blogfordemocracy.org/littleshopofhorrors2.jpg) and just as I was about to fall asleep to the gentle rhythm of public transportation (terrible idea by the way) I was saved by Adventure Man. As soon as his Tevas hit the floor of the Red Line train to Howard, I swear the theme music from "Into the Wild" played faintly in the background and somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. Adventure Man walked, nay, swaggered to a seat with the deftness only someone who has frequented the Lincoln Park Athletic Club’s rock wall could have mustered. He surveyed his surroundings with what I could only imagine was a keen eye, though hidden by a pair of highly technical wrap around, mirrored Oakleys, complete with a strap around his neck in case the el suddenly screeched to a stop in which case he could jump up and assist in saving three elderly women, four babies, and an attractive but steely woman to with which to exchange in witty sexually charged banter and not lose those precious shades. Though I was wrapped up in a rabbit fur hat and Northface, he was content in Under Armor and zippered pants- yes, he was prepared for any temperature jump with a simple ZIP! Cargo pants, man-pris, or shorts. Three pairs of pants in one. The ultimate preparedness for the ultimately prepared man. We approached Bryn Mawr (a known rugged stop) and he prepared to set off on another expedition. He gripped the silver pole with leather, fingerless gloves (because real men don’t need their phalanges protected), and adjusted his hyper high-tech, GPS/calculator/seven-time-zone clock/computer/radio watch (approximate size: 4 inches) and readied himself to set off on his newest endeavor. He departed the train, into the setting sun, intent on exploring the new horizons and cultures that awaited him in this Edgewater neighborhood.
-Loyola squirrels
Though I have been informed by many that the squirrels at their school are the most insane, I find that very hard to believe. I think consumption of tossed aside chicken strips and half smoked cigarette butts may have forced the Sciurus carolinenis to evolve into a new species of squirrel that behaves in an oddly humanistic way. I have heard countless stories describing these squirrel-men partaking in strikingly strange behavior, including (but not nearly limited to) eating entire chickens, dive bombing innocent students on the way to class, winking, and dancing. Every time I see one of these funny creatures I get the feeling that it could easily communicate with me in some way, perhaps telepathically by maintaining steady eye contact with those beady ebony eyes, and it would not have very pleasant or sane things to say. In fact I think the diet of Rambler food, sloshed alcohol, and nicotine would probably render speech somewhat akin to whatever that crack lady who sits on the top of the magazine stands outside the Loyola el stop has to say (Insert incoherent gargle/burble/babble here).
Do you find specific things severely annoying during finals week? Do you find joy in the little things you can only see in Chicago/Loyola? Let me know: LEAVE ME A COMMENT :D
12.07.2009
11.18.2009
My Name is Karis and I've Been Abused By The Chicago Wind
I apologize I haven't written in an unfortunately long time, but alas that honeymoon stage of classes in the morning, going downtown for a couple of hours, playing soccer for an hour or two, then staying up until 3 am working on homework and watching Hulu is now over, and the unfortunate realization that the "Just Because This Is College Does Not Mean I Am Invincible" thing has slapped me in the face and homework, coffee, and sleep have become my three occupations.
But now I'm back! Well, at least for an hour or so. Actually I shouldn't even be writing now because I have a Modern East Asia paper on the Red Guards to research, however the urge to write seems to strike me at these inopportune times. For example, when I wrote "The Stacks" it chomped an hour chunk out of the countdown to my 2:15 pm Brit Lit class for which I was writing a 5 page essay on Utopia. Of course I started at 11 pm and of course I would have a horrifying encounter with the Cudahy Tomb (I mean Library, ahem) that had to be immediately documented...
But in my defense, being in the IC for long periods of time makes me notice the little things. Like, for example, the 3rd floor silent study area is not silent in the least. Typing keys are extremely loud and distracting to people who are, say, looking for distractions from reading "The Rape of the Lock" (Not that we're being specific to any one person...). Also, there are small sections of the ceiling lights that are burnt out. Ordinarily this wouldn't be something to contemplate, but because the IC is so environmentally friendly, it scares me that it is falling out of repair. How long will it take for that lightbulb to biodegrade? Will it just disintegrate in a couple of days and a blob of organic matter will fall upon some unsuspecting student? I think if they let the IC go it would probably gently decompose and turn into a lush prairie filled with indigenous Illinois plant species throughout the course of finals week. Though I would miss those big windows and comfortable chairs, I suppose a prairie is probably the most environmentally friendly study space you can get. Wouldn't be too much fun in the winter though...
Speaking of weather, the Chicago wind and I have definitely moved past the honeymoon stage. In fact we are into the sleeping in separate beds while our divorce papers are filed and the custody battle for the dog begins stage. The other day it was predicted to be 50 degrees, and to my according to my Minnesota weather scale this means: Take Advantage Of The Warm Weather By Wearing A Cute Dress Because Pretty Soon Sundress Season Will Be A Myth Of The Past. So light sundress, jacket, scarf, and leg warmers it was. At first I felt confident in my outfit choice: I bounced down the stairs of Mertz, keeping rhythm with whatever Avett Brothers tune blasted in my headphones. As I started on the sidewalk toward the el, I felt a strong breeze pushing me forward. "Well Good Morning to you too, Chicago Wind!" I happily replied in my head. Suddenly the strong breeze died down then playfully switched to blowing against me, tousling my hair in the process. "Oh you're a tricky one Mr. Wind," I thought. "But I accept your challenge!" And I bent my head and continued to the crosswalk. The walk sign flashed and I went to step off the curb. The second my foot touched the pavement, out of nowhere, that "playful" Chicago Wind begins whipping around my bare legs and created an upward gust that made my sundress billow and bubble scandalously close to exposing more than I would ever like the people who hang out on Sheridan by the McDonalds to see. Shocked, I tried to control my dress with one hand while juggling my Red Eye, thermos, and UPass in the other, and I half sprinted into the safety of the wind free CTA station.
A strange feeling came over me. I felt...abused, by weather.
Environmental abuse is usually seen as humans against nature, but this time it was the other way around. It was like the wind was one of those creepy guys at a party: they seem normal until they randomly start grinding on you when no one else is dancing. No thanks.
When did the Windy City turn so aggressive? Later, I was coming back from the post office and had a package and three letters. Right as I was about to walk into my building, I briefly let the letters I was carrying rest on top of the package and immediately they were snatched off and scattered across the quad. I bent down to pick up each letter and was nearly blown over by the relentless gusts- I felt like a teased seventh grader picking up her papers off the hallway floor as the bully stands and laughs. It seemed the wind was trying to teach me a lesson- nature is bigger and better than you. Don't forget it.
And this is only the beginning; it hasn't even snowed yet. Looks like this winter is going to be more of the dreaded climb up the hill rather than the five second sled ride down.
What about you? Had an experience with wind getting frisky? Slapping rain? Leave me a comment.
But now I'm back! Well, at least for an hour or so. Actually I shouldn't even be writing now because I have a Modern East Asia paper on the Red Guards to research, however the urge to write seems to strike me at these inopportune times. For example, when I wrote "The Stacks" it chomped an hour chunk out of the countdown to my 2:15 pm Brit Lit class for which I was writing a 5 page essay on Utopia. Of course I started at 11 pm and of course I would have a horrifying encounter with the Cudahy Tomb (I mean Library, ahem) that had to be immediately documented...
But in my defense, being in the IC for long periods of time makes me notice the little things. Like, for example, the 3rd floor silent study area is not silent in the least. Typing keys are extremely loud and distracting to people who are, say, looking for distractions from reading "The Rape of the Lock" (Not that we're being specific to any one person...). Also, there are small sections of the ceiling lights that are burnt out. Ordinarily this wouldn't be something to contemplate, but because the IC is so environmentally friendly, it scares me that it is falling out of repair. How long will it take for that lightbulb to biodegrade? Will it just disintegrate in a couple of days and a blob of organic matter will fall upon some unsuspecting student? I think if they let the IC go it would probably gently decompose and turn into a lush prairie filled with indigenous Illinois plant species throughout the course of finals week. Though I would miss those big windows and comfortable chairs, I suppose a prairie is probably the most environmentally friendly study space you can get. Wouldn't be too much fun in the winter though...
Speaking of weather, the Chicago wind and I have definitely moved past the honeymoon stage. In fact we are into the sleeping in separate beds while our divorce papers are filed and the custody battle for the dog begins stage. The other day it was predicted to be 50 degrees, and to my according to my Minnesota weather scale this means: Take Advantage Of The Warm Weather By Wearing A Cute Dress Because Pretty Soon Sundress Season Will Be A Myth Of The Past. So light sundress, jacket, scarf, and leg warmers it was. At first I felt confident in my outfit choice: I bounced down the stairs of Mertz, keeping rhythm with whatever Avett Brothers tune blasted in my headphones. As I started on the sidewalk toward the el, I felt a strong breeze pushing me forward. "Well Good Morning to you too, Chicago Wind!" I happily replied in my head. Suddenly the strong breeze died down then playfully switched to blowing against me, tousling my hair in the process. "Oh you're a tricky one Mr. Wind," I thought. "But I accept your challenge!" And I bent my head and continued to the crosswalk. The walk sign flashed and I went to step off the curb. The second my foot touched the pavement, out of nowhere, that "playful" Chicago Wind begins whipping around my bare legs and created an upward gust that made my sundress billow and bubble scandalously close to exposing more than I would ever like the people who hang out on Sheridan by the McDonalds to see. Shocked, I tried to control my dress with one hand while juggling my Red Eye, thermos, and UPass in the other, and I half sprinted into the safety of the wind free CTA station.
A strange feeling came over me. I felt...abused, by weather.
Environmental abuse is usually seen as humans against nature, but this time it was the other way around. It was like the wind was one of those creepy guys at a party: they seem normal until they randomly start grinding on you when no one else is dancing. No thanks.
When did the Windy City turn so aggressive? Later, I was coming back from the post office and had a package and three letters. Right as I was about to walk into my building, I briefly let the letters I was carrying rest on top of the package and immediately they were snatched off and scattered across the quad. I bent down to pick up each letter and was nearly blown over by the relentless gusts- I felt like a teased seventh grader picking up her papers off the hallway floor as the bully stands and laughs. It seemed the wind was trying to teach me a lesson- nature is bigger and better than you. Don't forget it.
And this is only the beginning; it hasn't even snowed yet. Looks like this winter is going to be more of the dreaded climb up the hill rather than the five second sled ride down.
What about you? Had an experience with wind getting frisky? Slapping rain? Leave me a comment.
10.16.2009
Tales of a Four Hour Flight Delay
Thursday afternoon I busted outta my Brit Lit class like they were beginning demolition on Damen Hall.
I was headed home, FINALLY, after a two month hiatus and just could not wait to get to Midway Airport and be on my way back to Minnesota.
I got to the airport, zipped through security, and scanned the tv screens to determine the gate number. Flight 1323, service to MPLS/STP, Gate B2... arrives at... 10:25 pm?? Uh oh. I tentatively made my way to gate B2, willing the inevitable to not be true.
Sadly, it was.
My flight was delayed four hours.
An hour long flight? Delayed four hours?? Why Minnesota, why?! Has the land of 10,000 lakes become allergic to planes? All those years I lived in that great state, struggling to get to school in -35 degree weather because apparently that isn't grounds enough for canceling school (Thanks District 623), and now they are shutting down runways for a little freezing rain? You picked a great time to be weather cautious Minnesota, thanks a lot.
So I sighed, called home and told them the news, and put myself on the standby list. Now I had never had a flight delayed and had never had to deal with the stress of trying to get on as a standby, but let me tell you- it is NOT fun. Moving walkways became my best friend as I hopped from Gate B2 to 18 to 20 to 6 to try to hear my name being screamed by an overworked, underpaid flight attendant who has been dealing with pissy travelers all day.
Its amazing how chummy people become when stuck together in an airport. I'm all for a friendly conversation to pass the time, but some people seem to believe that this experience bonds us closer than a Saturday in detention a la Breakfast Club. I was standing in line behind an extroverted couple trying to get to Denver via Minneapolis and had waited for four flights on standby already. At first the conversation was friendly enough, Wow I can't believe how long this is taking, I thought Southwest was supposed to be dependable, Apparently there is only one runway available at the Mpls/StP, Man I'm about to get a beer and some deep dish harharhar, and other little tidbits of socially acceptable conversation. As we overheard the flight attendant explain to another customer there would be another hour added to the four hour delay we were expecting, the guy exasperatingly said, "Okay so how far is the drive to St. Paul? 7 hours? I have a free car rental at Hertz, lets all just drive up there. It will be so much easier!" His girlfriend nodded her head enthusiastically as he turned to the other member of our conversation, a middle aged woman who had been waiting for the same flight as me, and said "You weren't supposed to leave until 10:25 right?" and turning to me said "And you too? Yea I'm sure we could do that, I have the Hertz number here I bet they have a terminal right here at Midway, if we can't get on this flight I'm calling them and we're all going to drive up to the Twin Cities together!" I trained my eye contact on the pillar 90 degrees away from the desperate traveler's hungry gaze in order to separate myself from agreeing to this horror movie scenario in the making and the woman behind me paused and said, "Well lets just wait to see what the attendant has to say first..." This breath of fresh rationality seemed to break the man's neurotic obsession with the rental car plan and he said, "Oh... yea, yea. Lets do that first." Would it be rude to refuse this man's offer? I feel like he was a regular normal man before pulling out the lets-spend-8-hours-in-a-car-when-we've-known-each-other-for-10-minutes card, but does that really give him the credentials for me to trust him? Or for him to trust me for that matter- I could be a sociopathic nympho with the habit of identity theft and a penchant for knife fights, but he is so desperate to get to the Twin Cities that he would share his Hertz rental with me sans background check? People gotta travel safer these days...
Speaking of violence, I ran into another lovely fellow waiting in a different standby line about 10 minutes later. I lost Desperate Car Rental Man + Girlfriend after they scurried to the 3220 flight and I went to try my luck at an earlier departure, and so I was standing in line behind a grizzly older man and his companion. Being nosy, bored, and too lazy not to listen, I tuned into their conversation. "The best way to smoke those Pak-iss-tan-ees outta thur caves isn't ta spend all that money on special agents and whatnot, but just get a bunch of them cinnamon bommbbs and that'll suck the oxygen right outta thur- suffocate them all! Or we can jist get a big'un in there and blast the tops off all them mountains, that'll get rid of it." Um, what? I stood, jaw literally dropped, my face completely lack of any emotion besides utter astonishment that there was a person out there who was so uninformed and out of touch that he could be saying these things without a hint of sarcasm or joke. He says it would be so simple to kill these people, KILL THESE PEOPLE. PEOPLE. Real human beings, being mentally suffocated by a compassionless, crotchety old man. And then to even insinuate that the problem could be solved by blowing off the tops of mountains, therefore killing a small percentage of people who have done anything wrong in the least, and a huge percent of the innocent civilians who have lived in those mountainous regions for hundreds of years, who haven't even attempted to rebel or cause harm to the world around them even though they are suffering from poverty, malnourishment, and a barrage of violence everyday because their government is too concerned with fixing a thousand year old conflict to assist or protect them? Are you serious? Yes, sir, they are obviously the ones to blame. But that wasn't the end to his tirade, he moved to domestic issues: "And those kids down at Fenger High? I'd go in there with 50 of my men, we would have them straightened up in two weeks." And that was when I stopped listening. I'm so glad that you think the best way to stop violence is with more violence. Let's ignore the fact that these kids are living in conditions paralleled only by third world countries, or the fact that their lives are dictated by the crack dealing gangs that rule the projects and low income neighborhoods of the South Side. Obviously, they are unruly because no one has given them a good beating in awhile. I'm so glad that I have your expertise on this subject.
At this point, I was frustrated to say the least. Not only had I been invited on a road trip by complete strangers, forced to listen to the monologue of a warmonger, and eaten half of an overpriced, undercooked McDonald's burger, but I had been waiting two hours to get on a flight that was supposed to have delivered me to the Motherland Minnesota an hour previous. Finally, the flight attendant announced that she would be calling out the standbys for flight 303, and me and the 80 other frazzled, Minnesota-bound passengers crowded around the check in desk, hoping fervently that our name would be called next.
A typical middle aged midwestern man (windbreaker, baseball hat, architect glasses, nike athletic shoes) standing next to me (in typical middle aged midwestern man fashion) started a chummy conversation: "So you been waiting around long for your flight?" Me, being fresh out of my last two nightmare encounters with standby passengers, was a little short at first- who knows what this guys hidden creep trait is? But, (in typical nice wholesome midwestern girl fashion) I kept up my end of the conversation, even explaining that I went to school at Loyola and was a journalism major. As soon as I divulged those details, I felt like I may have overshared- not that my school and major are personal details but why would this guy really care? Most times when I tell people my major, they give me a small symphathetic smile and nod (insert quick montage of headlines screaming the demise of print media, while "Another One Bites The Dust" plays in the background) thinking how very noble I was to be strutting into an employment graveyard. But instead, the man suddenly seemed genuinely engaged. "Journalism? Well thats great to hear, I'm a Fellow at the Reynolds Journalism Institute at Mizzou." Ah! These are the times I wish I could pause time and look to the heavens and say "Really God? That easy? Thanks, I love when networking opportunities are literally handed to me." Unpause. We discussed schools and journalism, and he commended my choice in Loyola saying that "there is something to be said for studying journalism in the city". This, from one of the directors of one of the top undergrad journalism schools in the nation. Suggesting my school would give me an advantage over those Missouri grads. Just wonderful. He also asked my opinion on Loyola's new School of Communications facilities because they were planning a conference there for next summer, and then gave me his card saying I should contact him if I have any questions or will be around for the conference. Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe how lucky that I happened to run into this particular person at this time, and he happened to be so friendly and interested in discussing journalism- and this is why I love people from the midwest. Even when my day cannot seem to get worse, someone with a natural sense of friendliness and optimism in the world comes along, and instantly everything takes a turn for the better. Soon after he and his wife got called and boarded the plane, and I followed them fifteen minutes later.
Walking down the carpeted tunnel toward the plane my disposition was sittin' pretty. Yes, I would be getting into Minneapolis two hours late, yes, I almost became the next headline story on the local news, and yes, I think I may have discovered the next Polpot, but I was headed home and now had an in at Mizzou in case Loyola was bombed (probably by said crotchety old man) and I needed to transfer. We pulled out of the boarding area and were headed toward the runway when suddenly the plane stopped and the pilot came on the loudspeaker: "Sorry to delay your trip just a little longer folks, but it appears the secret service has shut down the Hubert Humphrey Terminal. We are waiting for clearance but it will likely be another 30 minutes." Seriously? The Secret Service? Is Minnesota so desperate to keep me out that they have employed the most powerful branch of security in the USA to delay my arrival further? Apparently Joe Biden was flying out of Minnesota, so they had shut everything in the airport down, including the ONE RUNWAY AVAILABLE. There's a great way to reach out to voters Vice Prez, trick them into thinking they are finally on their way home, then sadistically make them wait on the tarmac another 30 minutes while you Air Force One it back to Washington. Cool, executive branch, cool. However, a mere 10 minutes later, the pilot announced we were clear and finally, I was on my way home to a weekend of old friends and homecooked meals little thanks to Southwest Airlines, and no thanks to desperate traveling couples with a free Hertz rental, ornery old warmongers, and the Vice President of the United States.
All for a one hour flight.
I was headed home, FINALLY, after a two month hiatus and just could not wait to get to Midway Airport and be on my way back to Minnesota.
I got to the airport, zipped through security, and scanned the tv screens to determine the gate number. Flight 1323, service to MPLS/STP, Gate B2... arrives at... 10:25 pm?? Uh oh. I tentatively made my way to gate B2, willing the inevitable to not be true.
Sadly, it was.
My flight was delayed four hours.
An hour long flight? Delayed four hours?? Why Minnesota, why?! Has the land of 10,000 lakes become allergic to planes? All those years I lived in that great state, struggling to get to school in -35 degree weather because apparently that isn't grounds enough for canceling school (Thanks District 623), and now they are shutting down runways for a little freezing rain? You picked a great time to be weather cautious Minnesota, thanks a lot.
So I sighed, called home and told them the news, and put myself on the standby list. Now I had never had a flight delayed and had never had to deal with the stress of trying to get on as a standby, but let me tell you- it is NOT fun. Moving walkways became my best friend as I hopped from Gate B2 to 18 to 20 to 6 to try to hear my name being screamed by an overworked, underpaid flight attendant who has been dealing with pissy travelers all day.
Its amazing how chummy people become when stuck together in an airport. I'm all for a friendly conversation to pass the time, but some people seem to believe that this experience bonds us closer than a Saturday in detention a la Breakfast Club. I was standing in line behind an extroverted couple trying to get to Denver via Minneapolis and had waited for four flights on standby already. At first the conversation was friendly enough, Wow I can't believe how long this is taking, I thought Southwest was supposed to be dependable, Apparently there is only one runway available at the Mpls/StP, Man I'm about to get a beer and some deep dish harharhar, and other little tidbits of socially acceptable conversation. As we overheard the flight attendant explain to another customer there would be another hour added to the four hour delay we were expecting, the guy exasperatingly said, "Okay so how far is the drive to St. Paul? 7 hours? I have a free car rental at Hertz, lets all just drive up there. It will be so much easier!" His girlfriend nodded her head enthusiastically as he turned to the other member of our conversation, a middle aged woman who had been waiting for the same flight as me, and said "You weren't supposed to leave until 10:25 right?" and turning to me said "And you too? Yea I'm sure we could do that, I have the Hertz number here I bet they have a terminal right here at Midway, if we can't get on this flight I'm calling them and we're all going to drive up to the Twin Cities together!" I trained my eye contact on the pillar 90 degrees away from the desperate traveler's hungry gaze in order to separate myself from agreeing to this horror movie scenario in the making and the woman behind me paused and said, "Well lets just wait to see what the attendant has to say first..." This breath of fresh rationality seemed to break the man's neurotic obsession with the rental car plan and he said, "Oh... yea, yea. Lets do that first." Would it be rude to refuse this man's offer? I feel like he was a regular normal man before pulling out the lets-spend-8-hours-in-a-car-when-we've-known-each-other-for-10-minutes card, but does that really give him the credentials for me to trust him? Or for him to trust me for that matter- I could be a sociopathic nympho with the habit of identity theft and a penchant for knife fights, but he is so desperate to get to the Twin Cities that he would share his Hertz rental with me sans background check? People gotta travel safer these days...
Speaking of violence, I ran into another lovely fellow waiting in a different standby line about 10 minutes later. I lost Desperate Car Rental Man + Girlfriend after they scurried to the 3220 flight and I went to try my luck at an earlier departure, and so I was standing in line behind a grizzly older man and his companion. Being nosy, bored, and too lazy not to listen, I tuned into their conversation. "The best way to smoke those Pak-iss-tan-ees outta thur caves isn't ta spend all that money on special agents and whatnot, but just get a bunch of them cinnamon bommbbs and that'll suck the oxygen right outta thur- suffocate them all! Or we can jist get a big'un in there and blast the tops off all them mountains, that'll get rid of it." Um, what? I stood, jaw literally dropped, my face completely lack of any emotion besides utter astonishment that there was a person out there who was so uninformed and out of touch that he could be saying these things without a hint of sarcasm or joke. He says it would be so simple to kill these people, KILL THESE PEOPLE. PEOPLE. Real human beings, being mentally suffocated by a compassionless, crotchety old man. And then to even insinuate that the problem could be solved by blowing off the tops of mountains, therefore killing a small percentage of people who have done anything wrong in the least, and a huge percent of the innocent civilians who have lived in those mountainous regions for hundreds of years, who haven't even attempted to rebel or cause harm to the world around them even though they are suffering from poverty, malnourishment, and a barrage of violence everyday because their government is too concerned with fixing a thousand year old conflict to assist or protect them? Are you serious? Yes, sir, they are obviously the ones to blame. But that wasn't the end to his tirade, he moved to domestic issues: "And those kids down at Fenger High? I'd go in there with 50 of my men, we would have them straightened up in two weeks." And that was when I stopped listening. I'm so glad that you think the best way to stop violence is with more violence. Let's ignore the fact that these kids are living in conditions paralleled only by third world countries, or the fact that their lives are dictated by the crack dealing gangs that rule the projects and low income neighborhoods of the South Side. Obviously, they are unruly because no one has given them a good beating in awhile. I'm so glad that I have your expertise on this subject.
At this point, I was frustrated to say the least. Not only had I been invited on a road trip by complete strangers, forced to listen to the monologue of a warmonger, and eaten half of an overpriced, undercooked McDonald's burger, but I had been waiting two hours to get on a flight that was supposed to have delivered me to the Motherland Minnesota an hour previous. Finally, the flight attendant announced that she would be calling out the standbys for flight 303, and me and the 80 other frazzled, Minnesota-bound passengers crowded around the check in desk, hoping fervently that our name would be called next.
A typical middle aged midwestern man (windbreaker, baseball hat, architect glasses, nike athletic shoes) standing next to me (in typical middle aged midwestern man fashion) started a chummy conversation: "So you been waiting around long for your flight?" Me, being fresh out of my last two nightmare encounters with standby passengers, was a little short at first- who knows what this guys hidden creep trait is? But, (in typical nice wholesome midwestern girl fashion) I kept up my end of the conversation, even explaining that I went to school at Loyola and was a journalism major. As soon as I divulged those details, I felt like I may have overshared- not that my school and major are personal details but why would this guy really care? Most times when I tell people my major, they give me a small symphathetic smile and nod (insert quick montage of headlines screaming the demise of print media, while "Another One Bites The Dust" plays in the background) thinking how very noble I was to be strutting into an employment graveyard. But instead, the man suddenly seemed genuinely engaged. "Journalism? Well thats great to hear, I'm a Fellow at the Reynolds Journalism Institute at Mizzou." Ah! These are the times I wish I could pause time and look to the heavens and say "Really God? That easy? Thanks, I love when networking opportunities are literally handed to me." Unpause. We discussed schools and journalism, and he commended my choice in Loyola saying that "there is something to be said for studying journalism in the city". This, from one of the directors of one of the top undergrad journalism schools in the nation. Suggesting my school would give me an advantage over those Missouri grads. Just wonderful. He also asked my opinion on Loyola's new School of Communications facilities because they were planning a conference there for next summer, and then gave me his card saying I should contact him if I have any questions or will be around for the conference. Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe how lucky that I happened to run into this particular person at this time, and he happened to be so friendly and interested in discussing journalism- and this is why I love people from the midwest. Even when my day cannot seem to get worse, someone with a natural sense of friendliness and optimism in the world comes along, and instantly everything takes a turn for the better. Soon after he and his wife got called and boarded the plane, and I followed them fifteen minutes later.
Walking down the carpeted tunnel toward the plane my disposition was sittin' pretty. Yes, I would be getting into Minneapolis two hours late, yes, I almost became the next headline story on the local news, and yes, I think I may have discovered the next Polpot, but I was headed home and now had an in at Mizzou in case Loyola was bombed (probably by said crotchety old man) and I needed to transfer. We pulled out of the boarding area and were headed toward the runway when suddenly the plane stopped and the pilot came on the loudspeaker: "Sorry to delay your trip just a little longer folks, but it appears the secret service has shut down the Hubert Humphrey Terminal. We are waiting for clearance but it will likely be another 30 minutes." Seriously? The Secret Service? Is Minnesota so desperate to keep me out that they have employed the most powerful branch of security in the USA to delay my arrival further? Apparently Joe Biden was flying out of Minnesota, so they had shut everything in the airport down, including the ONE RUNWAY AVAILABLE. There's a great way to reach out to voters Vice Prez, trick them into thinking they are finally on their way home, then sadistically make them wait on the tarmac another 30 minutes while you Air Force One it back to Washington. Cool, executive branch, cool. However, a mere 10 minutes later, the pilot announced we were clear and finally, I was on my way home to a weekend of old friends and homecooked meals little thanks to Southwest Airlines, and no thanks to desperate traveling couples with a free Hertz rental, ornery old warmongers, and the Vice President of the United States.
All for a one hour flight.
9.28.2009
The Stacks
Here I am, 11:00 pm on a Monday night, out of breath, heart pounding, palms sweating.
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.
(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.
(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)
9.20.2009
Repetez si-vous plait?
Anyone else feel like they're repeating themselves?
Throughout this first month of college (the official anniversary was the 19th) I feel like I have had the same conversation with the vast majority of people I've met. Most go something like this:
Karis: Hey nice to meet you.
(Random Other Student): Nice to meet you too! My name is (Lizzie/Colin/Frederick/etc).
Karis: My name is Karis.
ROS: What?
Karis: Karis
ROS: Kare-iss/Karissa?
Karis: No, Karis like Car (makes steering wheel motions) iss.
ROS: Ohh Kar-is. Got it.(Cocks head, pretends to be interested) How is that spelled?
Karis: K-A-R-I-S
ROS: Oh. Thats a very unique name. Is that from anywhere?
Karis: Its the greek word for grace.
ROS: (failing to notice my pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes) Are you greek?
Karis: No not at all.
ROS: Ohhh okay haha cool. So where are you from?
Karis: Minnesota.
ROS: OOOHHHHH MinnesOOOOOOOta YAAAAHHH you betcha!
Karis: Ha ha.
ROS: Y'know I don't even think I know where Minnesota is.
Yes. I'm serious. I have literally met 4 people (who were admitted to college) who don't know a state 300 miles away. Did they miss all of second grade? Just coast through with what their coloring grade got them?
Its a bit embarassing. Not going to lie.
But I'll be honest some state stereotypes are true. For one, I do speak with long O's and I am from Minnesota. Also, people from Wisconsin really do enjoy cheese. And people from California actually wear Hollister!
Speaking of clothing stores and conversations that lower my IQ...
I recently had an interview at a certain prominent teen clothing store that may or may not have been mentioned above. And it was slightly frustrating.
First of all, I already know I'm qualified for the job (and thats not bragging). The position I'm applying for requires me to fold clothes according to rigid corporate standards and greet every customer that walks through the door, saying: "Hey, what's up?"
Its not rocket science.
However, they take this role very seriously. After going through the usual interview questions (why would you be successful here? what do you think our main goal is? why do you want to work here?) me and the other five job-hungry 17-21 year olds were asked to pretend our interviewer was a customer and we should greet them with the tagline "Hey, what's up?". We went down the line.
The first girl (bless her soul) was a high school senior, never had a job before. Flustered at being the first put on the spot, she began laughing and burst out a loud and exaggerated "HEYYY WHATS UP?!?!?!?!" that echoed awkaredly down the cavernous mall hallway. The interviewer paused, smiled tightly and turned to the next person. The next one illicited a simple "Hey, what's up?" with a smile. Classic, simple, not bad. I did the same, but better (at least I thought). I just hope that my radiant smile didn't somehow give away the screams of my mind: THIS IS STUPID. I ONLY HAVE10,000,000,000,000,000 NEURONS AND SYNAPSES. DON'T WASTE THEM ON THIS. But I simply continued to grin and look friendly while silently shoving my intelligence into a dark locked corner of my mind. The next three got all fancy: "Hey whats up? My name is Tony/Ramona/Freddy and if you need any help finding what you're lookin for or got questions about clothes, life or whatever, don't hesitate to give me a yell okay? Oh and be sure to check everything out we have these new jeans in and they are really great so don't miss them, and make sure you check out our bodycare it smells real good. Oh and welcome to our store." By the time they finished that greeting the angsty-too-cool-for-you teen would have sent them a firy stink eye and moved onto the clearance section. And that was the end of our interview.
Its slightly frustrating to me that that is a seriously considered question, like really? My employment status is dependent on how well I can say three words and smile at the same time? Of course it is important in retail to make the customer feel immediately welcomed but can't it just be assumed that I'm capable of this simple task?
However, I really can't complain. I can lampoon and satirize this company as much as I want but they are the ones holding my future paycheck just out of my desperate reach. So hopefully my greeting was good enough to impress their Mighty Corporateness and the job requirement doesn't require knowing where Minnesota is. Oh wait. I would be fine, but I know some people who would be out of a job...
(NOTE* I got the job)
Throughout this first month of college (the official anniversary was the 19th) I feel like I have had the same conversation with the vast majority of people I've met. Most go something like this:
Karis: Hey nice to meet you.
(Random Other Student): Nice to meet you too! My name is (Lizzie/Colin/Frederick/etc).
Karis: My name is Karis.
ROS: What?
Karis: Karis
ROS: Kare-iss/Karissa?
Karis: No, Karis like Car (makes steering wheel motions) iss.
ROS: Ohh Kar-is. Got it.(Cocks head, pretends to be interested) How is that spelled?
Karis: K-A-R-I-S
ROS: Oh. Thats a very unique name. Is that from anywhere?
Karis: Its the greek word for grace.
ROS: (failing to notice my pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes) Are you greek?
Karis: No not at all.
ROS: Ohhh okay haha cool. So where are you from?
Karis: Minnesota.
ROS: OOOHHHHH MinnesOOOOOOOta YAAAAHHH you betcha!
Karis: Ha ha.
ROS: Y'know I don't even think I know where Minnesota is.
Yes. I'm serious. I have literally met 4 people (who were admitted to college) who don't know a state 300 miles away. Did they miss all of second grade? Just coast through with what their coloring grade got them?
Its a bit embarassing. Not going to lie.
But I'll be honest some state stereotypes are true. For one, I do speak with long O's and I am from Minnesota. Also, people from Wisconsin really do enjoy cheese. And people from California actually wear Hollister!
Speaking of clothing stores and conversations that lower my IQ...
I recently had an interview at a certain prominent teen clothing store that may or may not have been mentioned above. And it was slightly frustrating.
First of all, I already know I'm qualified for the job (and thats not bragging). The position I'm applying for requires me to fold clothes according to rigid corporate standards and greet every customer that walks through the door, saying: "Hey, what's up?"
Its not rocket science.
However, they take this role very seriously. After going through the usual interview questions (why would you be successful here? what do you think our main goal is? why do you want to work here?) me and the other five job-hungry 17-21 year olds were asked to pretend our interviewer was a customer and we should greet them with the tagline "Hey, what's up?". We went down the line.
The first girl (bless her soul) was a high school senior, never had a job before. Flustered at being the first put on the spot, she began laughing and burst out a loud and exaggerated "HEYYY WHATS UP?!?!?!?!" that echoed awkaredly down the cavernous mall hallway. The interviewer paused, smiled tightly and turned to the next person. The next one illicited a simple "Hey, what's up?" with a smile. Classic, simple, not bad. I did the same, but better (at least I thought). I just hope that my radiant smile didn't somehow give away the screams of my mind: THIS IS STUPID. I ONLY HAVE10,000,000,000,000,000 NEURONS AND SYNAPSES. DON'T WASTE THEM ON THIS. But I simply continued to grin and look friendly while silently shoving my intelligence into a dark locked corner of my mind. The next three got all fancy: "Hey whats up? My name is Tony/Ramona/Freddy and if you need any help finding what you're lookin for or got questions about clothes, life or whatever, don't hesitate to give me a yell okay? Oh and be sure to check everything out we have these new jeans in and they are really great so don't miss them, and make sure you check out our bodycare it smells real good. Oh and welcome to our store." By the time they finished that greeting the angsty-too-cool-for-you teen would have sent them a firy stink eye and moved onto the clearance section. And that was the end of our interview.
Its slightly frustrating to me that that is a seriously considered question, like really? My employment status is dependent on how well I can say three words and smile at the same time? Of course it is important in retail to make the customer feel immediately welcomed but can't it just be assumed that I'm capable of this simple task?
However, I really can't complain. I can lampoon and satirize this company as much as I want but they are the ones holding my future paycheck just out of my desperate reach. So hopefully my greeting was good enough to impress their Mighty Corporateness and the job requirement doesn't require knowing where Minnesota is. Oh wait. I would be fine, but I know some people who would be out of a job...
(NOTE* I got the job)
8.30.2009
Goodbyes and Hellos
For a place I've been ready to leave for the last six or so years, it was heartbreaking to finally part ways with The Ville. Most moments in the last few days were like cracked and dog-eared photos you keep forever: drive in under a sky splattered with bright Minnesota stars, random but essential trip to ikea to shop for dorm furnishings and spend some time with a boy I could spend time with anywhere, volleyball under the blistering midafternoon sun, and cheap bowling with everyone in sepia-toned Saxon Lanes. Everything felt centered and perfect: it seemed crazy I was actually leaving and not coming back. As my parents and I pulled out of our driveway and slowly eased away, I looked back at my four best friends and nearly lost it right there. Why, oh why am I leaving here?
Its college, I kept saying. COLLEGE. "The best years of your life" as they say. Everytime I felt those pesky little doubts sneaking up on my common sense I would will myself into the same mantra: new friends, independence, chicago, college, etc etc. I would gain control of my insecurities when I would get a text from someone that mentioned an inside joke, or a song from a cd that someone just burned for me would start playing and I would lose it. However, as the miles rolled on, we passed less cows and cornfields and more tollbooths and suburbs, and by the time our highway broke the skyline of chicago I was able to hold down most of the ache I felt. I refocused my mind on the most looming reality in my life: moving into my new home.
While most people are most concerned about the size of their room, the quality of the beds, and the best living arrangement, the part I was most focused upon on my move in day was if I had brought too much stuff. I made my parents wait ten minutes while I consolidated and rearranged my trunkload of luggage until I thought it looked the least likely to garner annoyed looks from the move in staff and my fellow freshmen. Nonetheless, I still believed I was going to arrive on campus with a reputation as an unneccesarily overpacked diva. As the block count went down, my side effects of nervousness went up. Sweaty palms (shit I have two overstuffed suitcases), dry mouth (why did I bring that extra mug??), heart pounding (was the fourth sweatshirt really necessary?!). As we pulled into the move in driveway I was brainstorming clever replies to the grumblings of the movers and the stares of my peers. After greetings from the dean and the priest on campus (my first experiences as a student at a private school...quite odd), we stopped next to the inevitably neon-shirt clad move in crew and popped the trunk. I immediately sprinted out of my car to the slowly rising door and said "Okay you really have to watch out because there is a soccer ball and volley ball that is about to fall out of the bags here so I should really catch those before they fall because I brought too many suitcases (imagine continuous babble)" and braced myself for a disgusted look and an exasperated sigh as I fumbled around with my hordes of luggage. However they simply said, "Don't worry! We'll take care of it, just go over to the registration table and your stuff will be in your room in about 15 minutes." Wait what? My obviously irrational fear of dejection because of my overpreparedness became self aware and bashfully excused itself from my mind.
After checking into my room with an equally friendly and helpful move in assistant, I got on the elevator and was shipped up to the 8th floor. "818, 819...820," and I was at my door. I smoothly turned the key, opened the metal door and stepped into my home for the next year. Plain white walls, flat neutral carpeting, and sturdy wooden furniture decorated the small room, but a huge window opened it up to the city I now inhabited. A minute later my roommate knocked on the door, we hugged, met each other's parents, filled the room with luggage, brainstormed countless ways to arrange the beds, and unpacked all in a fashion worthy of a fast forward montage that always seems to accompany move-in scenes in Hollywood. And that was it. I was moved into my home for the next 8 months
That night I ate dinner with my parents at a local Thai restaurant- a last family meal before they headed back to the Cities. This summer it seemed we had a bit of a push and pull relationship, but usually when there is a major change in a family's daily life its hard to make it through without a little friction. That being said, the last few days were a good send off. The goodbye was short and sweet, we exchanged hugs and I-love-you-keep-in-touch-s in the pull through usually reserved for shuttles to downtown. Again, in true Hollywood fashion it started raining harder and harder as they drove away and I hurried back to my dorm, a cliche but genuine mixture of tears and raindrops on my cheeks.
And with that I was officially a college student. The next few days were like a constant meet-and-greet where any location goes. Elevator rides, random floors, the ashtray, the el, looking for pop at one in the morning, simpson dining hall, and a trip to the hookah bar just to name a few. Every day warranted another couple learned and forgotten names and a few friends who have stuck for at least the week and a half I've been here. The one thing I've noticed is it is extremely hard to be alone here and not feel like you should be out being social. Everytime you would just love to crawl into bed with an episode of Flight of The Conchords (by the way- my new favorite show. Every time I see some indie/hipster kid on campus I can't help but imagine them with New Zealand accents and it makes their obnoxious I'm-too-cool-for-this attitude so much more tolerable) you can't help but wonder what friends are being made without you. Eventually I'm sure this feeling will die down, but for now my extrovertism is on overdrive.
And with that, my college experience has officially begun. Aside from daily texts/skypes with Ville kids, I've said au revoir to life in the Twin Cities and have exclaimed salut! to new friends and adventures in the Windy City. Though its only been a little over a week I feel like I'm just about acclimated to this new life. But that being said, its only been a little over a week. Who knows what the rest of this year will bring? Ooh the intrigue...
Its college, I kept saying. COLLEGE. "The best years of your life" as they say. Everytime I felt those pesky little doubts sneaking up on my common sense I would will myself into the same mantra: new friends, independence, chicago, college, etc etc. I would gain control of my insecurities when I would get a text from someone that mentioned an inside joke, or a song from a cd that someone just burned for me would start playing and I would lose it. However, as the miles rolled on, we passed less cows and cornfields and more tollbooths and suburbs, and by the time our highway broke the skyline of chicago I was able to hold down most of the ache I felt. I refocused my mind on the most looming reality in my life: moving into my new home.
While most people are most concerned about the size of their room, the quality of the beds, and the best living arrangement, the part I was most focused upon on my move in day was if I had brought too much stuff. I made my parents wait ten minutes while I consolidated and rearranged my trunkload of luggage until I thought it looked the least likely to garner annoyed looks from the move in staff and my fellow freshmen. Nonetheless, I still believed I was going to arrive on campus with a reputation as an unneccesarily overpacked diva. As the block count went down, my side effects of nervousness went up. Sweaty palms (shit I have two overstuffed suitcases), dry mouth (why did I bring that extra mug??), heart pounding (was the fourth sweatshirt really necessary?!). As we pulled into the move in driveway I was brainstorming clever replies to the grumblings of the movers and the stares of my peers. After greetings from the dean and the priest on campus (my first experiences as a student at a private school...quite odd), we stopped next to the inevitably neon-shirt clad move in crew and popped the trunk. I immediately sprinted out of my car to the slowly rising door and said "Okay you really have to watch out because there is a soccer ball and volley ball that is about to fall out of the bags here so I should really catch those before they fall because I brought too many suitcases (imagine continuous babble)" and braced myself for a disgusted look and an exasperated sigh as I fumbled around with my hordes of luggage. However they simply said, "Don't worry! We'll take care of it, just go over to the registration table and your stuff will be in your room in about 15 minutes." Wait what? My obviously irrational fear of dejection because of my overpreparedness became self aware and bashfully excused itself from my mind.
After checking into my room with an equally friendly and helpful move in assistant, I got on the elevator and was shipped up to the 8th floor. "818, 819...820," and I was at my door. I smoothly turned the key, opened the metal door and stepped into my home for the next year. Plain white walls, flat neutral carpeting, and sturdy wooden furniture decorated the small room, but a huge window opened it up to the city I now inhabited. A minute later my roommate knocked on the door, we hugged, met each other's parents, filled the room with luggage, brainstormed countless ways to arrange the beds, and unpacked all in a fashion worthy of a fast forward montage that always seems to accompany move-in scenes in Hollywood. And that was it. I was moved into my home for the next 8 months
That night I ate dinner with my parents at a local Thai restaurant- a last family meal before they headed back to the Cities. This summer it seemed we had a bit of a push and pull relationship, but usually when there is a major change in a family's daily life its hard to make it through without a little friction. That being said, the last few days were a good send off. The goodbye was short and sweet, we exchanged hugs and I-love-you-keep-in-touch-s in the pull through usually reserved for shuttles to downtown. Again, in true Hollywood fashion it started raining harder and harder as they drove away and I hurried back to my dorm, a cliche but genuine mixture of tears and raindrops on my cheeks.
And with that I was officially a college student. The next few days were like a constant meet-and-greet where any location goes. Elevator rides, random floors, the ashtray, the el, looking for pop at one in the morning, simpson dining hall, and a trip to the hookah bar just to name a few. Every day warranted another couple learned and forgotten names and a few friends who have stuck for at least the week and a half I've been here. The one thing I've noticed is it is extremely hard to be alone here and not feel like you should be out being social. Everytime you would just love to crawl into bed with an episode of Flight of The Conchords (by the way- my new favorite show. Every time I see some indie/hipster kid on campus I can't help but imagine them with New Zealand accents and it makes their obnoxious I'm-too-cool-for-this attitude so much more tolerable) you can't help but wonder what friends are being made without you. Eventually I'm sure this feeling will die down, but for now my extrovertism is on overdrive.
And with that, my college experience has officially begun. Aside from daily texts/skypes with Ville kids, I've said au revoir to life in the Twin Cities and have exclaimed salut! to new friends and adventures in the Windy City. Though its only been a little over a week I feel like I'm just about acclimated to this new life. But that being said, its only been a little over a week. Who knows what the rest of this year will bring? Ooh the intrigue...
8.25.2009
The Countdown
So. I'm going to college in four days.
When the hell did this happen?
It seems like two days ago I was a strapping young junior, fresh faced and confident ready to embark on the process that would determine the next four years of my life but curiously, before I even realized it, everything started moving faster and faster and then I was sucked into a hurricane of college tours, AP grades, common application, standardized testing scores, college board, 17 drafts of the same bad essay, acceptance and postponing, financial aid stress, final decisions then POOF June 5th hits me in the face and I'm officially done. Suddenly I was spit out on my butt feeling bruised and battered but ultimately triumphant that I had survived four years of hell, and was ready for a relaxing summer before entering the next stage in my education. I stood up, dusted off those last crumbs of high school, and sauntered into summer.
Summer was as summer is. Work, endless grad parties, road trips, tan lines, and free arby's roast beef sandwhiches (plus a million other little details) worked themselves into a comfortable rythm that seemed to transcend time and delay the future. Yes, I'm going to college X I'd say, Yes, I'm excited but a little bit nervous, Yes I'm planning on studying X, Yes, I think it will be interesting. But even as I constantly affirmed the fact I would be leaving in three months, to me it just sounded like words without any concrete action behind them. I look at the tidy 3x5 foot area in my room that is packed with everything I will need for the next semester and it seems so unreal that I will actually be using any of it. But I will, I know I will. I just can't believe that time is actually here.
And even though I've been looking forward to this moment since I was 13, as the days-until-Karis-leaves countdown gets lower, I'm getting more and more anxious about leaving. I feel like I've finally found a life I enjoy and now I'm moving onto a new one that I am completely mystified by. I haven't the foggiest idea what college will be like. Literally I try to imagine my life in college and my mind bombards me with a million images of "Animal House", "The House Bunny", and the pictures off brochures from 37 different colleges. I know enough about college to know that the reality of a place is rarely what is advertised, but that is all I have to base my opinion off of. I'm the kind of person who doesn't like to not know what she is getting into: I'm paying a good chunk of cash for this place and what in the goddamn world am I supposed to do if I hate it? I'll have abandoned the happy life I have now for a meager existence as one of those kids who stays in their dorm 19 hours a day only to come out for meals and classes because they are so depressed they reside in such a hateful place. Okay maybe I'm too social for that dramatic of a change to occur but what if I always have that small feeling of regret at not choosing a better school for me eating away and corrupting my mind for the next four years? That kind of feeling is the worst because it taints every experience and every new friend, whispering "You could have better, You made the wrong choice, You screwed up...". And I know, I know, everyone loves college, you will like wherever you go etc etc blah blah blah. But what if I'm the exception?
Now don't get me wrong, I do feel like I picked the right school for me. Its smack dab in the city (Chi-town!), it has a beautiful campus, a great communications school, and a lot of opportunities I'm looking for. My roomate seems normal and nice and easy to live with (not nearly the tattoo/piercing/weed obsessed or clueless/bland/boring roomate horror stories of some of my friends) plus I'm living right in the middle of what is known around campus as the "fun" dorm, and one floor below one of my good friends. I feel like I'm setting myself up so even if I stumble around this first sememster I'll have a couple strong hands around to keep me standing.
And I know everyone has these doubts: bring up college around my friends and it becomes a screaming competition of who-is-more-screwed-and-terrified. So while my fears are probably unwarranted and irrational, they're probably the same fears as the other million soon to be college freshmen out there. We're all confused and frustrated and excited and nervous and just ready to finally move on to the future.
And in four days that is what I will be doing.
When the hell did that happen?
When the hell did this happen?
It seems like two days ago I was a strapping young junior, fresh faced and confident ready to embark on the process that would determine the next four years of my life but curiously, before I even realized it, everything started moving faster and faster and then I was sucked into a hurricane of college tours, AP grades, common application, standardized testing scores, college board, 17 drafts of the same bad essay, acceptance and postponing, financial aid stress, final decisions then POOF June 5th hits me in the face and I'm officially done. Suddenly I was spit out on my butt feeling bruised and battered but ultimately triumphant that I had survived four years of hell, and was ready for a relaxing summer before entering the next stage in my education. I stood up, dusted off those last crumbs of high school, and sauntered into summer.
Summer was as summer is. Work, endless grad parties, road trips, tan lines, and free arby's roast beef sandwhiches (plus a million other little details) worked themselves into a comfortable rythm that seemed to transcend time and delay the future. Yes, I'm going to college X I'd say, Yes, I'm excited but a little bit nervous, Yes I'm planning on studying X, Yes, I think it will be interesting. But even as I constantly affirmed the fact I would be leaving in three months, to me it just sounded like words without any concrete action behind them. I look at the tidy 3x5 foot area in my room that is packed with everything I will need for the next semester and it seems so unreal that I will actually be using any of it. But I will, I know I will. I just can't believe that time is actually here.
And even though I've been looking forward to this moment since I was 13, as the days-until-Karis-leaves countdown gets lower, I'm getting more and more anxious about leaving. I feel like I've finally found a life I enjoy and now I'm moving onto a new one that I am completely mystified by. I haven't the foggiest idea what college will be like. Literally I try to imagine my life in college and my mind bombards me with a million images of "Animal House", "The House Bunny", and the pictures off brochures from 37 different colleges. I know enough about college to know that the reality of a place is rarely what is advertised, but that is all I have to base my opinion off of. I'm the kind of person who doesn't like to not know what she is getting into: I'm paying a good chunk of cash for this place and what in the goddamn world am I supposed to do if I hate it? I'll have abandoned the happy life I have now for a meager existence as one of those kids who stays in their dorm 19 hours a day only to come out for meals and classes because they are so depressed they reside in such a hateful place. Okay maybe I'm too social for that dramatic of a change to occur but what if I always have that small feeling of regret at not choosing a better school for me eating away and corrupting my mind for the next four years? That kind of feeling is the worst because it taints every experience and every new friend, whispering "You could have better, You made the wrong choice, You screwed up...". And I know, I know, everyone loves college, you will like wherever you go etc etc blah blah blah. But what if I'm the exception?
Now don't get me wrong, I do feel like I picked the right school for me. Its smack dab in the city (Chi-town!), it has a beautiful campus, a great communications school, and a lot of opportunities I'm looking for. My roomate seems normal and nice and easy to live with (not nearly the tattoo/piercing/weed obsessed or clueless/bland/boring roomate horror stories of some of my friends) plus I'm living right in the middle of what is known around campus as the "fun" dorm, and one floor below one of my good friends. I feel like I'm setting myself up so even if I stumble around this first sememster I'll have a couple strong hands around to keep me standing.
And I know everyone has these doubts: bring up college around my friends and it becomes a screaming competition of who-is-more-screwed-and-terrified. So while my fears are probably unwarranted and irrational, they're probably the same fears as the other million soon to be college freshmen out there. We're all confused and frustrated and excited and nervous and just ready to finally move on to the future.
And in four days that is what I will be doing.
When the hell did that happen?
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