There are the people who wank off on airplanes. There are the people who touch everything they can get their hands on. There are people who pick their noses while on the bus in the morning. There are people whose mothers never taught them what proper behavior is while in the public eye, and these people? The ones I just mentioned? These people are those people, with those mothers, who are now either mortified that their son or daughter was noticed and pointed out as being one of those gross people. Or, they are those mothers, who are also picking their noses in public. It's hard to tell.
But I am here to tell you, Internet, that I have witnessed the weirdest and most disgusting personal habit ever. In public. And I am so disgusted that I feel compelled to share this with someone, anyone - even if I also feel compelled to vomit while I type this.
I just sat through an hour long class, and the guy in front of me was clicking his ballpoint pen. Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click. Over, and over, and over. Naturally, being as high-strung as I am, I went from zero to annoyed after the second click. I shifted around to see what was with all the clicking when I saw him using the tip of his ballpoint pen to scratch the top of his head, then click it open to clean it off (apparently he has some sort of head debris?) and then do it again...and again. For the entire hour.
I am speechless with disgust.
If this is something he learned from his mother, somebody better be calling Social Services pronto.
What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen anyone do in public?
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Monday, September 25, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Clear, so clear
In class today:
"Don't forget, your papers are due on Tuesday the 26th."
"What sort of criteria will you be using to grade our papers?"
"Very specific criteria."
"Are you going to tell us what it is?"
"Yes."
"Will you be telling us soon?"
"No."
"Don't forget, your papers are due on Tuesday the 26th."
"What sort of criteria will you be using to grade our papers?"
"Very specific criteria."
"Are you going to tell us what it is?"
"Yes."
"Will you be telling us soon?"
"No."
Thursday, September 21, 2006
TMI
There are certain reasons to go to class. To ask questions of your professor, to engage in discourse with other students, to learn more about the topic at hand. Today, I went to Political Theory to learn more about Machiavelli. I did NOT go to class to hear about a brown recluse bite, asthma, strange cases of neck claustrophobia, a boyfriend's bed sheets, living in her mother's employer's house, constant NPR listening, and ADD. Lucky for me, I heard all about them anyway! And why? Because some people have a little disease called TMI.
You know the people. You do. If only they gave off some sort of weird vibration, a strange sort of shimmery light that would delineate them from normal humans. Unfortunately, you only find out that they are carriers of the disease AFTER they tell you about that one time when they just, like, couldn't get the poop all the way out!
I don't know about you, but I just, like, couldn't care less about that. Or about the spider bite, or even, believe it or not, the neck thing. I don't care. I am the opposite of a gossip - if you have information that does not pertain to me, please keep it to yourself, because it's just bad manners not to, and if there's anything I hate more than bad manners it's getting sick, and I'm afraid it might be contagious. It's just not socially acceptable to reveal so much to perfect strangers, especially not in a classroom when people are trapped and forced to sit next to you. Maybe on a bus when you're drunk, but even then, I would feign a heart attack rather than risk catching the TMI disease.
If only there was a cure. The best defense mechanism I have is complete ignorance. I always feel that, if I pretend not to notice the TMI carrier, don't breathe, and don't make eye contact, maybe I can avoid it. But it's not just me, because TMI carriers are indiscriminate and they will overshare to anyone. Maybe one day there will be an uprising in class and she'll be killed. Sadly, sometimes things like that have to happen, for the good of the group.
How very Machiavellian.
You know the people. You do. If only they gave off some sort of weird vibration, a strange sort of shimmery light that would delineate them from normal humans. Unfortunately, you only find out that they are carriers of the disease AFTER they tell you about that one time when they just, like, couldn't get the poop all the way out!
I don't know about you, but I just, like, couldn't care less about that. Or about the spider bite, or even, believe it or not, the neck thing. I don't care. I am the opposite of a gossip - if you have information that does not pertain to me, please keep it to yourself, because it's just bad manners not to, and if there's anything I hate more than bad manners it's getting sick, and I'm afraid it might be contagious. It's just not socially acceptable to reveal so much to perfect strangers, especially not in a classroom when people are trapped and forced to sit next to you. Maybe on a bus when you're drunk, but even then, I would feign a heart attack rather than risk catching the TMI disease.
If only there was a cure. The best defense mechanism I have is complete ignorance. I always feel that, if I pretend not to notice the TMI carrier, don't breathe, and don't make eye contact, maybe I can avoid it. But it's not just me, because TMI carriers are indiscriminate and they will overshare to anyone. Maybe one day there will be an uprising in class and she'll be killed. Sadly, sometimes things like that have to happen, for the good of the group.
How very Machiavellian.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
The waters, they are ripe for writing
I've heard rumors all through college about the worst thing that could happen on the first day of school. I don't mean worst thing like falling down the stairs (it's happened to me, you get through it) or getting lost (also happened to me). I mean worst thing like, finding out that your professor talks too fast or grades too hard - anything that basically signals to you that your GPA is going to tank because of a particular class. I've never experienced this, as my GPA will attest, so I thought that everyone was just really whiny because they decided to pick boring, hard majors and were now regretting it. My favorite worst first day excuse is the ever-popular "my professor doesn't speak English." I always thought, mmm-hmm, yes, CSU would definitely hire a professor who barely speaks English, yeah right.
Actually, it's true. They totally do that. And now, I'm screwed.
Okay, not exactly screwed, I exaggerate (who me? Never!) but only a little. My Comparitive Politics professor is from Turkey, but lived in Finland for awhile too, and now teaches in the states. She has the wonkiest accent I've ever heard, and it cracks me up, so much so that I listen to how she says words, not the actual words that she says, which then explains why all I've learned so far is that Britain is, in fact, a democracy, despite their insistence on keeping royals with bad hats.
My professor really loves direct object articles ('a' or 'the' for the grammatically ungeeky) and she is mad about plurals, which is always fun. She also ocassionally spells like she pronounces things, which makes for an interesting activity as well. Bored by the lecture? That's OK, just use the spare time to decipher the power point from Turkish accented English, into regular English. On the first day of school, she told us that she frequently checks her e-mails and that we shouldn't bring in foods or drinks, but if we wanted to bring in the water bottles to drink the waters, that would be OK.
I'm pretty excited to go to class tomorrow actually, because when we last left off, we were talking about the Quinn of England, and her relationship with the Margaret Thatchers.
Actually, it's true. They totally do that. And now, I'm screwed.
Okay, not exactly screwed, I exaggerate (who me? Never!) but only a little. My Comparitive Politics professor is from Turkey, but lived in Finland for awhile too, and now teaches in the states. She has the wonkiest accent I've ever heard, and it cracks me up, so much so that I listen to how she says words, not the actual words that she says, which then explains why all I've learned so far is that Britain is, in fact, a democracy, despite their insistence on keeping royals with bad hats.
My professor really loves direct object articles ('a' or 'the' for the grammatically ungeeky) and she is mad about plurals, which is always fun. She also ocassionally spells like she pronounces things, which makes for an interesting activity as well. Bored by the lecture? That's OK, just use the spare time to decipher the power point from Turkish accented English, into regular English. On the first day of school, she told us that she frequently checks her e-mails and that we shouldn't bring in foods or drinks, but if we wanted to bring in the water bottles to drink the waters, that would be OK.
I'm pretty excited to go to class tomorrow actually, because when we last left off, we were talking about the Quinn of England, and her relationship with the Margaret Thatchers.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Memoirs of a (formerly) angsty teen girl
You could not pay me to go back to high school. I mean it. No amount of money in the world is worth the awkward, angsty, crying nights of those four years. I know that some people claim their high school years were "the best of their life!" but I was praying just to make it through the day. And yet, when I think about high school in the most abstract way, I remember dances and choir concerts and flirting with boys and getting my first car. Why is there a discrepancy between what I actually felt and what I remember feeling?
I have been reading my old journals (my mom told me to clean my room, and in my house, you do what she says!) and the pain and anger that oozes out of those pages is enough to remind me that what I remember feeling is not nearly as cheery as I would like to think. Why do some of us hold on to that anger and let it infect our lives? Why do others of us mold our memories to reflect what we later processed, not what we actually remember feeling?
I remember the anger of not getting the lead in the musical my senior year, the dances where I didn't have a date, my senior prom and having to pick between two dates, the day in choir where nobody would talk to me... and on and on. Putting aside how small and trivial all of these moments are, they were very real to me at the time. And reading my old journals doesn't help either. The obvious pain of that writing only fans the flames of anger that have been lying dormant for a long time.
But these are not the memories I think about. I'm wondering when and how the old, bad, painful memories got sanded down and covered with the "oh I loved high school!" varnish? I feel like I'm not being true to myself if I can only remember the good times. It's like saying the embarassing, horrible moments weren't valid and they are best forgotten. When in reality, I believe that the moments when I felt the most alone are the moments when I felt, more resolutely than ever, the conviction to hold steadfastly to myself. Reading those journals last night made me feel like I had betrayed myself somehow, or at least the memory of my old self. I wondered if I had shaken the teenage girl angst for good.
But then I went back to high school today, to visit some old teachers. Just walking down the halls made me nervous. I felt like all the old awkwardness would rub off on me as soon as I walked in. I wish I could go back to myself at that age and know that one day it would be okay. The heartache wouldn't be over, and the drama would still occur, but in clinging to myself during those years, I made it okay to be myself later. I wish my tortured 15-year old soul could have known that.
I also wish I would have known that, even at age 21, going back to high school is not a good idea. Because as soon as I walked through the doors, I was afraid that, at any second, I would be 15 again, wearing overalls and braces, just hoping to make it through the day.
I have been reading my old journals (my mom told me to clean my room, and in my house, you do what she says!) and the pain and anger that oozes out of those pages is enough to remind me that what I remember feeling is not nearly as cheery as I would like to think. Why do some of us hold on to that anger and let it infect our lives? Why do others of us mold our memories to reflect what we later processed, not what we actually remember feeling?
I remember the anger of not getting the lead in the musical my senior year, the dances where I didn't have a date, my senior prom and having to pick between two dates, the day in choir where nobody would talk to me... and on and on. Putting aside how small and trivial all of these moments are, they were very real to me at the time. And reading my old journals doesn't help either. The obvious pain of that writing only fans the flames of anger that have been lying dormant for a long time.
But these are not the memories I think about. I'm wondering when and how the old, bad, painful memories got sanded down and covered with the "oh I loved high school!" varnish? I feel like I'm not being true to myself if I can only remember the good times. It's like saying the embarassing, horrible moments weren't valid and they are best forgotten. When in reality, I believe that the moments when I felt the most alone are the moments when I felt, more resolutely than ever, the conviction to hold steadfastly to myself. Reading those journals last night made me feel like I had betrayed myself somehow, or at least the memory of my old self. I wondered if I had shaken the teenage girl angst for good.
But then I went back to high school today, to visit some old teachers. Just walking down the halls made me nervous. I felt like all the old awkwardness would rub off on me as soon as I walked in. I wish I could go back to myself at that age and know that one day it would be okay. The heartache wouldn't be over, and the drama would still occur, but in clinging to myself during those years, I made it okay to be myself later. I wish my tortured 15-year old soul could have known that.
I also wish I would have known that, even at age 21, going back to high school is not a good idea. Because as soon as I walked through the doors, I was afraid that, at any second, I would be 15 again, wearing overalls and braces, just hoping to make it through the day.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Oh those funny engineers!
The punchline to a joke that I don't get:
"But it was an alloy!" (insert ridiculous laughing and snorting *here*)
Engineers have jokes about alloys, music kids have jokes about fermatas. I'm just waiting for a geeky joke about William Randolph Hearst to come my way.
Although I do know a really funny one about Final Cut Pro...
"But it was an alloy!" (insert ridiculous laughing and snorting *here*)
Engineers have jokes about alloys, music kids have jokes about fermatas. I'm just waiting for a geeky joke about William Randolph Hearst to come my way.
Although I do know a really funny one about Final Cut Pro...
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
PSA from your friendly neighborhood hitwoman
Dear kid in class who talks too much,
As a public service to the rest of the class, I feel compelled to tell you what you probably already know: you talk waaay too much. I know, it's a political science class, and everyone has their two cents to put in. But thus far, you've contributed at least $75.86, and I'm afraid that is well over the two-cent comment limit. And since we're a political science class, and not a political campaign, you can keep your money - and your mouth - to yourself.
Sometimes I wonder if you were ignored as a child, or even worse, overly encouraged. Every word you say is not always valid or interesting, your running commentary and sound effects actually don't enhance my education, and no, you are not a unique and special snowflake. Deal with it.
And the way you begin every comment with "Ummm... well, I've been thinking about it, and..." also really makes me wonder. Have you been thinking about it? Really? Do you think of all that in the five seconds between the last time you opened up your mouth and now, the moment of time in which you are again talking?
I know this won't prevent any more outbursts like today's (in which you called everyone in the class "fucking idiots" just in case you forgot) nor will it cause you to ever verbally censor yourself in any way, which is a shame because you need a verbal censor like I need a haircut - badly! But this might be my release from prison when my defense attorney uses this post as Evidence A. "She did warn him, your Honor."
Yes, she did.
Sincerely,
One whose mafia connections run deep
As a public service to the rest of the class, I feel compelled to tell you what you probably already know: you talk waaay too much. I know, it's a political science class, and everyone has their two cents to put in. But thus far, you've contributed at least $75.86, and I'm afraid that is well over the two-cent comment limit. And since we're a political science class, and not a political campaign, you can keep your money - and your mouth - to yourself.
Sometimes I wonder if you were ignored as a child, or even worse, overly encouraged. Every word you say is not always valid or interesting, your running commentary and sound effects actually don't enhance my education, and no, you are not a unique and special snowflake. Deal with it.
And the way you begin every comment with "Ummm... well, I've been thinking about it, and..." also really makes me wonder. Have you been thinking about it? Really? Do you think of all that in the five seconds between the last time you opened up your mouth and now, the moment of time in which you are again talking?
I know this won't prevent any more outbursts like today's (in which you called everyone in the class "fucking idiots" just in case you forgot) nor will it cause you to ever verbally censor yourself in any way, which is a shame because you need a verbal censor like I need a haircut - badly! But this might be my release from prison when my defense attorney uses this post as Evidence A. "She did warn him, your Honor."
Yes, she did.
Sincerely,
One whose mafia connections run deep
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Save the pandas! (and Noam Chomsky)
"Human beings like to rescue cute, fuzzy little things - like baby pandas. They're very charismatic, the pandas."
I quote directly from one of my professors. This is also the same man who refers to Noam Chomsky as "The Noamster."
Make of it what you will.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
The weather outside is frightful
Oh, who am I kidding, it's not really that bad. I don't usually like winter. In fact, I would go so far as to say I downright hate it, and could do without it snowing ever again. But, for some reason, I am enjoying this winter immensely. That's not to say that I can't wait for Spring Break and all the beach time that will come with it; but thus far, the snow has been beautiful and the real Colorado cold has been a welcome change from the will-it-won't-it ambivalence that was December. When I'm walking across campus and everyone is bundled up, I don't know who is what gender, I can't recognize anyone - I kind of like it. It's like we're little Arctic explorers, taking the medicine home to save the family. We're all in this together. Plus, if no one can recognize me, then I totally don't have to do my hair.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
La Vie Boheme
Tonight, my twin and I went to the Alley Cat to study. I've been there a couple of times before, but never for an extended period of time. We got a table with great black and white photos under the glass, which enabled me to procrastinate for quite awhile. I just love going there to people watch, listen in on crazy conversations and look at the snow outside. The baristas were banging on the counters, a guitarist was strumming in the corner, girls with Louis Vuitton bags were minging with dreadlocked guys a table over.
Places like this make me feel so college. The free flow of ideas, the mixing of lifestyles (and hairstyles) remind me that I'm human - that we all are. And even if my inner Bohemian girl is supressed by my outward sorority girl, all it takes is some good tea and the perfect atmosphere to let her come out, at least long enough to (briefly) consider dreadlocks.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
I hope it's not contagious
Disclaimer:
This is an actual conversation that happened in my dining room at 9:00 a.m. this morning. In telling you, I am assuming that you remember I live with 20 girls, three housekeepers, one house mom, an old repair man, and a part-time chihuahua named Stella. You've been warned.
The Cast:
B - House mom who spends inordinate amounts of time smoking and trying to convince us to redecorate by making all the furniture purple, paisley or a combination thereof.
John - Old repair man with lisp. Drinks Mountain Dew like it's his job, which maybe it is, because that bathroom we're paying him for is still not done.
Me - I like shiny things and I write this blog. Also, I eat bagels for breakfast. This will be important for later.
Ashley - Sorority sister who lives down the hall. Enjoys sports, sleeping, and making me squirm.
The Scene:
John - "Well, I think we need 100-watt lightbulbs. Those last the longest."
B - "Well the ones we have in there now don't last very long at all. Those advertisers decieved me!"
Me - Silently and innocently eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Enter Ashley, wearing sunglasses.
Me - "Hey Ash, why are you wearing your sunglasses in the house?"
Ashley - "Well, my eyes are infected, and so I'm really light-sensitive right now."
B - "Is it conjunctivitis? Because my son-in-law had that, and his eyes were pink and gooey and-"
Me - Staring at and no longer eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Ashley - "Well I don't think they're very conjuctivy yet..."
Me - "People I am EATING!"
B - "Well it was just the most awful thing I ever saw in my life, that's all I'm saying."
John - "So did you still want 100-watt?"
I hope she doesn't pass it along to the dog. She already had mites, I don't think she can handle any more.
This is an actual conversation that happened in my dining room at 9:00 a.m. this morning. In telling you, I am assuming that you remember I live with 20 girls, three housekeepers, one house mom, an old repair man, and a part-time chihuahua named Stella. You've been warned.
The Cast:
B - House mom who spends inordinate amounts of time smoking and trying to convince us to redecorate by making all the furniture purple, paisley or a combination thereof.
John - Old repair man with lisp. Drinks Mountain Dew like it's his job, which maybe it is, because that bathroom we're paying him for is still not done.
Me - I like shiny things and I write this blog. Also, I eat bagels for breakfast. This will be important for later.
Ashley - Sorority sister who lives down the hall. Enjoys sports, sleeping, and making me squirm.
The Scene:
John - "Well, I think we need 100-watt lightbulbs. Those last the longest."
B - "Well the ones we have in there now don't last very long at all. Those advertisers decieved me!"
Me - Silently and innocently eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Enter Ashley, wearing sunglasses.
Me - "Hey Ash, why are you wearing your sunglasses in the house?"
Ashley - "Well, my eyes are infected, and so I'm really light-sensitive right now."
B - "Is it conjunctivitis? Because my son-in-law had that, and his eyes were pink and gooey and-"
Me - Staring at and no longer eating a bagel and cream cheese.
Ashley - "Well I don't think they're very conjuctivy yet..."
Me - "People I am EATING!"
B - "Well it was just the most awful thing I ever saw in my life, that's all I'm saying."
John - "So did you still want 100-watt?"
I hope she doesn't pass it along to the dog. She already had mites, I don't think she can handle any more.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Purple is the new pink is the new black
I have discovered a disturbing trend. Okay, actually I guess it can't be considered a trend yet. According to Esquire magazine, there have to be three of something in order for it to be considered a trend (as in BOTH Olsens AND Nicole Ritchie wearing whatever is ugly right now!) But I am officially going to be the first to jump on the "Trend of Two" bandwagon and say that I think I'm on to something here: Men in purple.
I know, sounds crazy, but I saw it twice within five minutes today. The first mauve-sporting male was seen outside the Natural Resources building. Granted, the NR kids are not generally known for their high-stylin' ways (sorry Lindsay) but this man was wearing a large, hooded ski jacket, and it was definitely purple.
Second sighting happened just moments later, in my Media Effects class, when my professor waltzed in (and it was a waltz) wearing pants with a distinctly purple tint. While I can't say they were quite Barney the Dinosaur in coloring, they leaned a little closer to mulberry than I've seen in awhile.
All in all, I would say that Queer Eye is doing a fine job metrosexualizing the nation. Either that or today's man just really likes purple. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I know, sounds crazy, but I saw it twice within five minutes today. The first mauve-sporting male was seen outside the Natural Resources building. Granted, the NR kids are not generally known for their high-stylin' ways (sorry Lindsay) but this man was wearing a large, hooded ski jacket, and it was definitely purple.
Second sighting happened just moments later, in my Media Effects class, when my professor waltzed in (and it was a waltz) wearing pants with a distinctly purple tint. While I can't say they were quite Barney the Dinosaur in coloring, they leaned a little closer to mulberry than I've seen in awhile.
All in all, I would say that Queer Eye is doing a fine job metrosexualizing the nation. Either that or today's man just really likes purple. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
In the world, or of the world?
Isn't is strange how you can be in a huge crowd of people, and yet feel entirely alone? I realize that I am not the first person to make this (not so?) profound realization, but it wasn't something that sank in until I was in the middle of it. At rehearsal today, I was in a hall with hundreds of people, and yet everyone was so engrossed with doing homework, listening to iPods, eating Chipotle etc... that I made no impact whatsoever on the dynamics of the room - zero. It was the strangest feeling to walk into a place and not have one single person be happy to see me, or angry to see me, or even to acknowledge my existence. I'm not saying a parade erupts and "Hail to the Chief" plays whenever I go somewhere, but to know that you have made no difference in a given space is so surreal.
I'm not holding any sort of pity party for myself. I decided long ago that music people had their own little groups and as the lone non-music major (ie, crazy person who can't possibly understand the angst that lives in their poetic souls) that was fine with me. You can have your fermata jokes, because I don't need them: I know a really funny Pope joke.
But it's not just this - I realized that I have a tendency to isolate myself in life too, and not just when I don't know people. And the strange thing about all of this, is that it doesn't bother me. To walk into a room full of strangers and go sit in a corner alone would scare some people, and just seem weird to others, but not to me. But then, it doesn't seem weird to me to eat dinner alone, go see a movie alone, or even just sit in my room alone, despite the fact that I live with several other people. I think it's good to be OK with me; to be able to sit inside myself and not be afraid of the introspection that goes on. I really do like myself most of the time, and I don't think many people have that. But do I like myself so much that I'm afraid of letting other people in? Or am I just afraid that if I let someone in, they won't like me?
Am I destined to be alone?
I'm not holding any sort of pity party for myself. I decided long ago that music people had their own little groups and as the lone non-music major (ie, crazy person who can't possibly understand the angst that lives in their poetic souls) that was fine with me. You can have your fermata jokes, because I don't need them: I know a really funny Pope joke.
But it's not just this - I realized that I have a tendency to isolate myself in life too, and not just when I don't know people. And the strange thing about all of this, is that it doesn't bother me. To walk into a room full of strangers and go sit in a corner alone would scare some people, and just seem weird to others, but not to me. But then, it doesn't seem weird to me to eat dinner alone, go see a movie alone, or even just sit in my room alone, despite the fact that I live with several other people. I think it's good to be OK with me; to be able to sit inside myself and not be afraid of the introspection that goes on. I really do like myself most of the time, and I don't think many people have that. But do I like myself so much that I'm afraid of letting other people in? Or am I just afraid that if I let someone in, they won't like me?
Am I destined to be alone?
Monday, January 30, 2006
Nobody really lives in a glass house, so quit throwing stuff!
Am I wearing a KICK ME sign today? Or even a NUDGE ME REALLY HARD sign? I checked, and the answer is no. I would really like to know what the problem is then, because I feel like I was just subjected to a public beating - and it's only 11:00 a.m.! I always thought these things happened at night dammit, I don't have my mace.
The girl I was sitting next to in class kicked me in the shins no less than three times and only apologized the first time - Newsflash: saying you're sorry doesn't make it hurt any less during the subsequent kickings. And on my way out of class, I was exiting a door and someone else felt the need to shoulder me so hard that I almost fell over. Newsflash #2 - I am not a linebacker. I am a girl who is 5'2". If you push me, I will fall down. Do you want my blood on your hands? Or my ripped GAP jeans?
And why do people like to throw things in parking lots? Is it really necessary that they throw an empty soda bottle instead of just placing it in the trashcan like an environmentally-concious citizen? Is it really necessary that they throw that soda bottle near my head?
Also, I was almost hit by a bike. I am always having near-death experiences with bikes, it's a way of life at CSU, but today it felt personal. On days like today, everything is personal. So don't trip me on the stairs or I'll mace you.
The girl I was sitting next to in class kicked me in the shins no less than three times and only apologized the first time - Newsflash: saying you're sorry doesn't make it hurt any less during the subsequent kickings. And on my way out of class, I was exiting a door and someone else felt the need to shoulder me so hard that I almost fell over. Newsflash #2 - I am not a linebacker. I am a girl who is 5'2". If you push me, I will fall down. Do you want my blood on your hands? Or my ripped GAP jeans?
And why do people like to throw things in parking lots? Is it really necessary that they throw an empty soda bottle instead of just placing it in the trashcan like an environmentally-concious citizen? Is it really necessary that they throw that soda bottle near my head?
Also, I was almost hit by a bike. I am always having near-death experiences with bikes, it's a way of life at CSU, but today it felt personal. On days like today, everything is personal. So don't trip me on the stairs or I'll mace you.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Yo ho... oh no
I am singing opera. Not right now, of course, but every day since two weeks ago Monday and until Saturday night. I am in an all-German performance of "The Flying Dutchman" with the Colorado Opera.
I don't know German.
He Seleut, wach ter kauf! Sounds like swearing, no? ( sadly, actually means Hey you sailors, waken up! If I knew how to say Holy shit, there's no way I can pull this off! in German, I totally would have.)
I'm singing in the maiden chorus, and our only purpose is to bring the 'sailors' (and we use that term loosely because half of them are homosexual choir boys who couldn't tell you ahoy! from a hottie if their lives depended on it) gifts and baskets of foodstuffs - and apparently waken them up as well. This is not exactly my idea of a hot date, especially not bringing foodstuffs AND wearing a Norweigen kerchief, in which I look so sexy.
If anyone would like to see "The Flying Dutchman" it will be presented at the University Center for the Arts on South College Avenue, Feb. 3 and 4 at 7 p.m.
If not, I'll sing for you some other time. But I'm definitely NOT going to be wearing the kerchief, and I think the foodstuffs might be gone by then.
I don't know German.
He Seleut, wach ter kauf! Sounds like swearing, no? ( sadly, actually means Hey you sailors, waken up! If I knew how to say Holy shit, there's no way I can pull this off! in German, I totally would have.)
I'm singing in the maiden chorus, and our only purpose is to bring the 'sailors' (and we use that term loosely because half of them are homosexual choir boys who couldn't tell you ahoy! from a hottie if their lives depended on it) gifts and baskets of foodstuffs - and apparently waken them up as well. This is not exactly my idea of a hot date, especially not bringing foodstuffs AND wearing a Norweigen kerchief, in which I look so sexy.
If anyone would like to see "The Flying Dutchman" it will be presented at the University Center for the Arts on South College Avenue, Feb. 3 and 4 at 7 p.m.
If not, I'll sing for you some other time. But I'm definitely NOT going to be wearing the kerchief, and I think the foodstuffs might be gone by then.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Gariel Scharoner?
More fun slips from the land of Political Science (ie, land of those who like to hear themselves talk incessantly - what fun!)
In my American Government and Politics class yesterday, we were discussing the newly elected female (whoo!) president of Liberia, the newly elected female (whoo again!) Chancellor of Germany, and how Ariel Sharon has blinked twice and nothing else in the past few days. Below is the actual conversation that ensued:
Kid: "Is Ariel Sharon still trying to share power with that lady who got elected?"
Professor: "I'm sorry?"
Kid: "Well, since that lady got elected to be the chancellor, Ariel Sharon is pretty mad, so he wanted to share the job with her."
Professor: "Ariel Sharon is comatose, he hasn't been real emotional lately. Do you mean the Chancellor of GERMANY, Gerhard Schroeder?"
Kid: "Um, yeah I guess I do..."
I thought the girl next to me was going to pee her pants. If I go to hell for making fun of these people, at least I won't be alone.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Ach nein!
Life is so humorous. Like today, for example: in my state and local politics class, the girl who was sitting in front of me is from Germany (I am a shameless eavesdropper - let it go.) We were talking about the man who was caught with marijuana and the D.A. threw out his case because of the Safe Pot initiative in Denver. All of this was fine, until the girl pronounced marijuana as "merry-a-huana." Yes, you did read that correctly. And for the rest of the class, I was half-paying attention to my professor and half-figuring out how I was going to spell that later.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
In which I round-house some MATH in the face!
I haven't done math in quite some time. Apparently, neither have any of my other journalism friends, as was evident today when we took our final exam in Copy Editing and Design.
It started out well. Grammar? Done! Spelling? Please - I spell in my sleep. Sentence structure? I will structure you a sentence the likes of which you never done seen before, just hand me that pencil. Being as cocky as I was, it was probably no surprise that the MATH hit me out of nowhere. Yes, it's true - MATH (in all caps AND bolded, because it's just that scary) on a journalism exam. Oh, the humanity! Except for my professor - she doesn't have any.
Luckily though, I wasn't alone. As a group, we were whipping right along correcting those sentences, tossing gerunds and false posessives to the side in the middle of the linguistic carnage. But after this, the deluge- MATH.
You could see the devastation hit immediately. One by one, like rainfall, the pencils began to hit the desks as everyone arrived at question #35: percentages. People began looking around, afraid for their lives, eyes wide in the presence of numbers and symbols. We looked at each other, mouthing a silent scream that would do Edward Munch proud: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!!!!!!!!! OH GOD WHY???"
Well, after all that carrying on, there was little to do but carry on, in spite of the tragedy. I tried everything I knew how to do. Pie charts, colors, even reasoning with the MATH by using rational and well-thought out arguments and power point presentations. Nothing. The math would not yield its secrets to me.
After five minutes of staring at the MATH and wishing I had paid more attention in 4th grade instead of making faces at Donald Ackerman, I remembered the holy grail of percentages, and I knew that my salvation was nigh unto me: decimal points.
And then I did the MATH, and I did it good. I round-house kicked that MATH in the face. And in the end, MATH was really just math, and Munch was proud, and so was Chuck Norris. Because let's face it - I can do one mean round-house kick.
It started out well. Grammar? Done! Spelling? Please - I spell in my sleep. Sentence structure? I will structure you a sentence the likes of which you never done seen before, just hand me that pencil. Being as cocky as I was, it was probably no surprise that the MATH hit me out of nowhere. Yes, it's true - MATH (in all caps AND bolded, because it's just that scary) on a journalism exam. Oh, the humanity! Except for my professor - she doesn't have any.
Luckily though, I wasn't alone. As a group, we were whipping right along correcting those sentences, tossing gerunds and false posessives to the side in the middle of the linguistic carnage. But after this, the deluge- MATH.
You could see the devastation hit immediately. One by one, like rainfall, the pencils began to hit the desks as everyone arrived at question #35: percentages. People began looking around, afraid for their lives, eyes wide in the presence of numbers and symbols. We looked at each other, mouthing a silent scream that would do Edward Munch proud: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!!!!!!!!! OH GOD WHY???"
Well, after all that carrying on, there was little to do but carry on, in spite of the tragedy. I tried everything I knew how to do. Pie charts, colors, even reasoning with the MATH by using rational and well-thought out arguments and power point presentations. Nothing. The math would not yield its secrets to me.
After five minutes of staring at the MATH and wishing I had paid more attention in 4th grade instead of making faces at Donald Ackerman, I remembered the holy grail of percentages, and I knew that my salvation was nigh unto me: decimal points.
And then I did the MATH, and I did it good. I round-house kicked that MATH in the face. And in the end, MATH was really just math, and Munch was proud, and so was Chuck Norris. Because let's face it - I can do one mean round-house kick.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
If there was more than one, would it be nemisi?
I have a new arch nemisis. I will not mention her by name, nor will I give her any descriptors because, after all, you just never know. But I will talk about her in the most abstract of terms, simply because I want to, and I can.
Basically, if you were to compile all the qualities I hate in other people into one person, that person would probably look and behave just like this person - fancy that.
She's waaaay too competitive, bossy, controlling, and just plain mean. Now I can handle most of that. I myself have days where I dabble in controlling, and don't we all? But mean, I cannot deal with. I take care not to be intentionally mean to anyone (and yes I DO realize the irony of what I just said - is she really going to read this and figure out it's her? Is she really going to read this at all? Highly unlikely, so get over it) especially since the basketball-to-face incident of '93. Trust me, I know how mean girls can be, and I try not to be one of those. But this one, she does mean like a pro.
For example, today she snapped at her lab partner so much so that the lab partner was taken aback. ABACK! Physically, she took herself a back a few feet so that Her Meanness wouldn't spit venom upon her. It was a sorry sight. And right after the snapping, she commenced with biting the heads off kittens.
And the worst part about it is that we share the same major. Of course we do. So the kittens will not be safe until May of 2007, when hopefully she will move on to a small newsmarket and settle for rats instead.
Basically, if you were to compile all the qualities I hate in other people into one person, that person would probably look and behave just like this person - fancy that.
She's waaaay too competitive, bossy, controlling, and just plain mean. Now I can handle most of that. I myself have days where I dabble in controlling, and don't we all? But mean, I cannot deal with. I take care not to be intentionally mean to anyone (and yes I DO realize the irony of what I just said - is she really going to read this and figure out it's her? Is she really going to read this at all? Highly unlikely, so get over it) especially since the basketball-to-face incident of '93. Trust me, I know how mean girls can be, and I try not to be one of those. But this one, she does mean like a pro.
For example, today she snapped at her lab partner so much so that the lab partner was taken aback. ABACK! Physically, she took herself a back a few feet so that Her Meanness wouldn't spit venom upon her. It was a sorry sight. And right after the snapping, she commenced with biting the heads off kittens.
And the worst part about it is that we share the same major. Of course we do. So the kittens will not be safe until May of 2007, when hopefully she will move on to a small newsmarket and settle for rats instead.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Spice Girls...the key to my soul?
CSU has a renowned music therapy program, and according to the department findings (for which they have won many awards, they'll have you know) the music you listened to from age 12-19 is the music that will forever unlock certain parts of your subconcious. I know that this must be true on some fundamental level. But I think this is true of most external stimuli: the smell of Clearasil facewash reminds me of my first night away from home, the smell of rose petals reminds me of my mom, and every birthday I've ever celebrated with my large and crazy family at the Spaghetti Factory recalls all the birthdays before it (19 so far - because there was that one year my carnivorous uncle insisted we eat at a steak house.)
Or, I could just be in denial about the fact that Spice Girls, Ace of Base, and N*Sync will forever be the keys to unlocking the secrets of my soul.
Musical travesty if ever there was one.
Or, I could just be in denial about the fact that Spice Girls, Ace of Base, and N*Sync will forever be the keys to unlocking the secrets of my soul.
Musical travesty if ever there was one.
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