So tonight I was working on a little blurbity writing thing for my mom. She asked me to write a little farewell thing to her good friend, and my former band director. He actually taught every kid in my family. So at first, I was all “Hmm…I don’t really remember high school all that much. Wait, I WAS in band, wasn’t I?” Needless to say, it was a slow start. But then all of a sudden, I started having these memories of all the things, I guess you could call them LESSONS, I learned in school. And wouldn’t you know it? Apparently TEACHERS had something to do with it.
A few of my friends now are teachers. It. Is. Weird. First off, I always assumed all my teachers (until college) were like 100 years old and had no life outside of ruining my day with tests. I have a distinct memory of imagining my 5th grade English teacher – who was my favoritest teacher ever – grading papers all night every night and perusing the yearbooks to get to know her students in her spare time. But now, I know the truth: some of them sit down with a bottle of wine, and mindlessly assign B’s and D’s to papers while they watch American Idol. But then they also say things like “I need to think of a good way to explain fractions.” And then they brainstorm all these crazy fun things I would have LOVED to have done in my math classes as a kid. I find myself wishing my friends could have been my teachers. That would have ruled.
I had World’s Worst Teacher in first grade who smacked me on the knuckles with a ruler because I colored something wrong (my mom promptly removed me from the class), and then there was Every Single Math Teacher I Ever Had who I hated, but besides them, I’ve totally loved my teachers. Not surprisingly, the best one (mentioned above) was my first English/Writing teacher. She smelled like cigarettes all the time and had these long pointy finger nails that she’d poke into your head if you goofed off. But guess what? No one ever goofed off twice. Anyway, she taught me about prose and imagery and tone and using adjectives effectively. She picked me to read the part of Juliet when we started reading Shakespeare, and then, as if she were my own little Cupid, picked the boy I had a crush on to read Romeo. I just loved her.
In high school, there was my teacher who announced, on the very first day, “About 90% of you will fail my class. If you think you are in that 90%, please get out.” And then like 5 kids dropped the class because they believed him. But he was lying, and he was hilarious, and he was one of my greatest teachers. He taught me AP European History and I think I understood that better than regular ol’ American History.
In college, my writing classes were taught by grad students. One of them was actually a “working writer”, in that she was actually writing for publications on a regular basis. AND GOT PAID! She wrote (under a pseudonym) for various, eh hem, adult magazines. I was like star struck by her. And when she complimented me on the story I wrote about how much I loved my own butt – yup, that’s Big Ten University education right there, folks – I knew she just got me and I loved her ever since.
There's something really comforting about finally realizing that all those teachers who I loved and admired so much actually had lives outside of me. You know, they didn't just sit alone and concern themselves with what I was going to wear to school the next day like I used to assume. And then all day they'd be all inspiring (and a little scary sometimes). After I graduated and told people I got my degree in English, people always asked "So, are you going to be a teacher?" (as if that's all English majors are good for) and I'd be all disgusted and say "Ugh, no way! Work with kids all day?! PUKE." But I don't think very many people sit around and wax nostalgic about how a Sales Coordinator changed their lives as a kid. Consider this my good deed for the day, though: Thanks, teachers. I guess you're pretty okay. Now, if only you'd just shut up about getting summers off...
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Queen of Clubs
I really think every chick needs a good book club. Or, well, at least SOME sort of club where you all do something for a month and then get together and talk about it. Tonight was the 11 month anniversary of our little club (but who's counting). I only knew a couple of the girls when it started, but now it's like seeing old friends, which is just lovely.
Full disclosure: I didn't think this club would last more than a couple months when my friend Liz started it. It was an awesome concept with awesome girls, but I'm not exactly the girl who typically sticks with "clubs" very long. It's not like I go in with bad intentions of dropping out or flaking out, I just, I dunno, lose interest. Luckily, that is not the case with my Book Club. It's awesome. I hope we continue it forever. Though, based on my history, I have my fears.
Okay, so yes I was in band and soccer and cheerleading when I was young. Those weren't like "clubs" though. Those were competitive and there were prizes and awards. But, okay, I remember being in a New Kids on the Block club when I was young. Claire, our neighbor Johanna and I started the club. We met every day in Johanna's garage and each set up a desk. We each chose our favorite New Kid and we'd tape their trading card to our "desk" and, like, write them letters we never sent. I somehow got stuck with Danny. Ew. But we'd sit and write and talk about our favorite songs. We'd congregate in the driveway and make up dances to Hangin' Tough, and just generally gush over how much we loved them. But, because I got stuck with the sucky New Kid, I bailed on the club after about our 4th meeting.
Then there was a period of time where I was in the Leggings/Jean Shorts club. In middle school, my friends and I would only wear jean shorts over leggings, and side ponytails. That particular club last a couple disgusting weeks. I'm pretty sure I only had one pair of shorts and maybe two pairs of leggings. And with the unreliable laundry schedule at my house, I probably never washed them. I must have quit soon after the chaffing started.
In college, I was in a BIG TIME club. A NATIONAL club, if you will. I was in a sorority for my freshman year. I loved it. I met my best friend Madeline in the House. All the members met for weekly formal dinners, wore matching t-shirts to fundraisers and hay rides, chanted House cheers, hosted parties, and studied together. Well, when we weren't out partying. I especially liked the PROCESS of joining that club. Rushing sororities was incredibly fun for me. You go to all the different sororities in big groups of newbie freshmen, and talk to members of each house about random stuff..you know, like other clubs we were into - if I remember correctly, no one was too impressed with the Jean Short/Legging club. But despite all the perks of being a "sorority girl", I was only in my House for a year. I still get their newsletters and address labels, though, so it's like I still get the perks of club membership, but I don't have to actually do anything.
As of late, of course, I'm in the process of joining a new club. More specifically a GYM. There's a lot riding on this choice. Unlike the NKOTB club, I actually have full control over this choice and the consequences. There's the dirt cheap gym with bad classes, and the pricier gym with awesome classes. I don't know why I'm wiggin' out so much about this choice. It's not like I'll be there for more than a few months anyways...
But I've got a good feeling about Book Club. I think I'm really psyched about any club that enforces a Must Bring Wine policy, to be honest. Man, if only I'd known that back in the days I was in the Mickey Mouse Club.
Full disclosure: I didn't think this club would last more than a couple months when my friend Liz started it. It was an awesome concept with awesome girls, but I'm not exactly the girl who typically sticks with "clubs" very long. It's not like I go in with bad intentions of dropping out or flaking out, I just, I dunno, lose interest. Luckily, that is not the case with my Book Club. It's awesome. I hope we continue it forever. Though, based on my history, I have my fears.
Okay, so yes I was in band and soccer and cheerleading when I was young. Those weren't like "clubs" though. Those were competitive and there were prizes and awards. But, okay, I remember being in a New Kids on the Block club when I was young. Claire, our neighbor Johanna and I started the club. We met every day in Johanna's garage and each set up a desk. We each chose our favorite New Kid and we'd tape their trading card to our "desk" and, like, write them letters we never sent. I somehow got stuck with Danny. Ew. But we'd sit and write and talk about our favorite songs. We'd congregate in the driveway and make up dances to Hangin' Tough, and just generally gush over how much we loved them. But, because I got stuck with the sucky New Kid, I bailed on the club after about our 4th meeting.
Then there was a period of time where I was in the Leggings/Jean Shorts club. In middle school, my friends and I would only wear jean shorts over leggings, and side ponytails. That particular club last a couple disgusting weeks. I'm pretty sure I only had one pair of shorts and maybe two pairs of leggings. And with the unreliable laundry schedule at my house, I probably never washed them. I must have quit soon after the chaffing started.
In college, I was in a BIG TIME club. A NATIONAL club, if you will. I was in a sorority for my freshman year. I loved it. I met my best friend Madeline in the House. All the members met for weekly formal dinners, wore matching t-shirts to fundraisers and hay rides, chanted House cheers, hosted parties, and studied together. Well, when we weren't out partying. I especially liked the PROCESS of joining that club. Rushing sororities was incredibly fun for me. You go to all the different sororities in big groups of newbie freshmen, and talk to members of each house about random stuff..you know, like other clubs we were into - if I remember correctly, no one was too impressed with the Jean Short/Legging club. But despite all the perks of being a "sorority girl", I was only in my House for a year. I still get their newsletters and address labels, though, so it's like I still get the perks of club membership, but I don't have to actually do anything.
As of late, of course, I'm in the process of joining a new club. More specifically a GYM. There's a lot riding on this choice. Unlike the NKOTB club, I actually have full control over this choice and the consequences. There's the dirt cheap gym with bad classes, and the pricier gym with awesome classes. I don't know why I'm wiggin' out so much about this choice. It's not like I'll be there for more than a few months anyways...
But I've got a good feeling about Book Club. I think I'm really psyched about any club that enforces a Must Bring Wine policy, to be honest. Man, if only I'd known that back in the days I was in the Mickey Mouse Club.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Don't Count On It
Another day, another failure at applying mathematics to real-world situations. I wish I would have worked a TITCH harder in 3rd grade math. Without that basic comprehension, I also have no concept of estimating, budgeting, or distance. Prinna and I did some shopping last night, and we were reminded why neither she nor I have any business using numbers. We stood at the check-out counter, trying to figure out the pricing, additional costs, a discount, and really trying to add everything up in our head (what are we, Einstein!?!). Then our heads exploded and flew across the counter, splattering on the register.
The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.
In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.
I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.
My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”
He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.
Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!
The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.
In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.
I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.
My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”
He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.
Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Classic Phraud
Book Club tonight, kids. So far we've read some really great books in our fun little club. We scour Book Club and Bestseller lists for new titles, and with only a couple exceptions, they've all been great. Have you guys noticed the amount of Book Lists going around? Like the top 10 autobiographies, or the top 10 books about canker sores or whatever? It must be the time of year. They're everywhere. BUT: The one that really flips the script on me is the list of The Top 50 Books You Should Have Read By Now. (Or some variation of that...)
I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.
But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.
Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.
I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.
What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.
Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.
I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.
But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.
Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.
I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.
What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.
Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Gleek Squad
I. Love. Glee. Does anyone NOT love Glee? Who woulda thought? The former band geek is now a loud, proud Gleek. It’s one of the few TV shows I try and stay home to watch. Why? Well, it’s got everything I love in a TV show. Dancing, singing, costumes, teen pregnancy, and ditzy cheerleaders who date the ditzy jocks. Ah, to be in high school again…
When I was in high school, as I’ve mentioned, I was a bandie. I played the flute. When my lack of practicing and frequently missed classes due to “doctor’s appointments” started to affect my standing in the flute chorale, I focused all my half-hearted energy on being the solo piccolo player. Every note I played was technically a solo. Didn’t really make sense at the time, as I was pretty content blending in to the middle of 15 girls faking my way through runs and trills, but it made me buckle down and not embarrass myself anymore. So, I practiced. I went to rehearsals. I even marched in Marching Band, when it didn’t conflict with soccer or cheerleading. Wow, that makes me sound both very nerdy and very well-rounded simultaneously. Anyway, the point is I started working. And I got by. Such a success story!
I guess I never really thought there was anything wrong with being in band. A lot of my friends were in band. Roughly 80% of the Homecoming Court was made up of bandies. It wasn’t the mark of shame that some would believe. I mean, yeah there were nerds and geeks IN band, but just being in band didn’t make you a nerd. At least, that’s what my mom tells me. But I liked it, dammit. I love music, and I loved being able to make it. And that is why I watch Glee.
I am totally unaware of whether or not my high school had a glee club. I’m 99% sure we didn’t. Even if there was one, I probably wouldn’t have joined. There’s no way they would have performed Britney Spears or Journey songs. They would not have embraced Lady Gaga’s disgusting, albeit totally funny, fashion choices with such…such…vigor. And they dance. It’s everything I never would have done in high school. Well, except for one thing: Rachel, the main character, wears Kate Spade sweaters. THAT I would have done.
See, the show is awesome. But it keeps the kids geeky and unpopular when possible. I like that. Being a geek makes a person much more interesting. I like to think of myself as a geek. And I made it through high school totally unscathed and almost totally free of emotional scarring...even though I wore one of the ugliest band uniforms ever created, and technically lettered in band. Of course I never put the patch on my letter jacket, but oh well. I put it on my college applications, and that’s really what counts.
So, if you haven’t watched it yet, start watching Glee immediately. And if you know of any 12 or 13 year-olds, or are one yourself, go ahead and sign up for something nerdy before it’s too late. Just make sure they don’t end up in like CHESS CLUB. There’s no show on the planet that can give Chess Club any street cred.
When I was in high school, as I’ve mentioned, I was a bandie. I played the flute. When my lack of practicing and frequently missed classes due to “doctor’s appointments” started to affect my standing in the flute chorale, I focused all my half-hearted energy on being the solo piccolo player. Every note I played was technically a solo. Didn’t really make sense at the time, as I was pretty content blending in to the middle of 15 girls faking my way through runs and trills, but it made me buckle down and not embarrass myself anymore. So, I practiced. I went to rehearsals. I even marched in Marching Band, when it didn’t conflict with soccer or cheerleading. Wow, that makes me sound both very nerdy and very well-rounded simultaneously. Anyway, the point is I started working. And I got by. Such a success story!
I guess I never really thought there was anything wrong with being in band. A lot of my friends were in band. Roughly 80% of the Homecoming Court was made up of bandies. It wasn’t the mark of shame that some would believe. I mean, yeah there were nerds and geeks IN band, but just being in band didn’t make you a nerd. At least, that’s what my mom tells me. But I liked it, dammit. I love music, and I loved being able to make it. And that is why I watch Glee.
I am totally unaware of whether or not my high school had a glee club. I’m 99% sure we didn’t. Even if there was one, I probably wouldn’t have joined. There’s no way they would have performed Britney Spears or Journey songs. They would not have embraced Lady Gaga’s disgusting, albeit totally funny, fashion choices with such…such…vigor. And they dance. It’s everything I never would have done in high school. Well, except for one thing: Rachel, the main character, wears Kate Spade sweaters. THAT I would have done.
See, the show is awesome. But it keeps the kids geeky and unpopular when possible. I like that. Being a geek makes a person much more interesting. I like to think of myself as a geek. And I made it through high school totally unscathed and almost totally free of emotional scarring...even though I wore one of the ugliest band uniforms ever created, and technically lettered in band. Of course I never put the patch on my letter jacket, but oh well. I put it on my college applications, and that’s really what counts.
So, if you haven’t watched it yet, start watching Glee immediately. And if you know of any 12 or 13 year-olds, or are one yourself, go ahead and sign up for something nerdy before it’s too late. Just make sure they don’t end up in like CHESS CLUB. There’s no show on the planet that can give Chess Club any street cred.
Monday, August 30, 2010
COLLEGE
Another week, another trip to Target. Seriously, I have a problem. But I noticed a whole lot of college freshman doing some school/dorm shopping with their parents. It was quite cute, actually. A lot of exhausted parents were strolling through the aisles with single-cup coffee makers, new bedding, and plastic little bookshelves. I heard one girl tell her defeated dad, “But dad, I NEED a blender! I can make my own smoothies in the morning!” Okay, honey. Judging by the space-saving materials your poor dad has bought for your inevitably lofted bed, there’s not going to be room for a blender. Priorities, Honey. Priorities.
I remember getting all the fun new stuff for college. I loved shopping at the Union Bookstore in Iowa City for my giant textbooks, my color-coordinated folders, and several thousand highlighters. I had a whole new basket of toiletries for my shower caboodle thing, new shower shoes, towels, everything. I brought all my new stuff to my new school and set up shop.
Cue: worst experience ever. I applied late to U of Iowa (people will tell you that I thought I was applying to Iowa STATE, not University of Iowa, but those people are jerks. Maybe they were right, but they’re jerks) and therefore was assigned to Temporary Housing. Temp Housing is just a room that is technically a shared lounge for the whole floor. They cram some people in it, and as other unfortunate freshman drop out, or don’t show up, members of Temp Housing are reassigned to the abandoned rooms. I walked into the 4th Floor Lounge in Burge Hall. It looked like an insane asylum. There were 6 bunk beds with plastic mattresses on them, 6 dressers, and mini-kitchenette off to the side. There were 4 desks lined up against a wall with dividers in between them. It was…sterile. It was small. And it was empty otherwise. Because I was rushing sororities, I was a week earlier than the rest of the students.
My parents set up my cot, we chose my dresser, taped up some pictures of friends from home, and then it was time for them to take off in the empty conversion van. I realize this sounds pathetic, but I cried like a giant baby. I begged my parents not to leave me alone there. I said I would clean my room every day if they took me home. I wasn’t ready for college. I would return all my new stuff if they would let me get back in the van. “Don’t leave me here alone!” I sobbed.
During this infantile breakdown, the first roommate, Kristen, showed up with her mom. She was going through Rush as well. After they set up her stuff, they hugged and off her mother went. Then Kristen bounced off to go shopping downtown. I was like “UM! YOUR MOTHER JUST ABANDONED YOU!”
It was bad. Then, Rush started. I stopped calling home and crying every night because I was too busy hanging out with my Rush group, and staying up late eating Mac and Cheese out of a hot pot debating which house had better GPAs and parties. I would guess it took about 2 weeks for me to forget my family altogether. Pictures of home were replaced by pictures of my new “sisters”, all my books and folders were tossed onto the floor as we converted the desks into make-up stations, and the only crying I did was when a roommate would be reassigned to another dorm. I discovered Hawkeye football. And tailgating. Oh yeah, there were some classes in there too…
I only lived in the dorms for a year (most people at Iowa only live in for a year, two tops). It was a great year. Hallways full of open doors, people walking in and out of everyone‘s room, guys and girls chatting outside the showers (co-ed floors=very Ally McBeal-ish bathroom situation). I loved it. Moving into my first apartment after that was never quite as much fun. Bills? What?
So anyway, back in Target, this girl and her poor dad were debating the blender for a good 5 minutes before compromising on a Magic Bullet. The dad tossed it in the cart, and she was going on and on about what kind of contact paper to get for her drawers. I wondered if she’d be like me or Kristen when she was left alone at college. Judging by her obvious “first time away from home” priorities, I’m guessing she’ll be a wreck like I was. Lucky girl…
I remember getting all the fun new stuff for college. I loved shopping at the Union Bookstore in Iowa City for my giant textbooks, my color-coordinated folders, and several thousand highlighters. I had a whole new basket of toiletries for my shower caboodle thing, new shower shoes, towels, everything. I brought all my new stuff to my new school and set up shop.
Cue: worst experience ever. I applied late to U of Iowa (people will tell you that I thought I was applying to Iowa STATE, not University of Iowa, but those people are jerks. Maybe they were right, but they’re jerks) and therefore was assigned to Temporary Housing. Temp Housing is just a room that is technically a shared lounge for the whole floor. They cram some people in it, and as other unfortunate freshman drop out, or don’t show up, members of Temp Housing are reassigned to the abandoned rooms. I walked into the 4th Floor Lounge in Burge Hall. It looked like an insane asylum. There were 6 bunk beds with plastic mattresses on them, 6 dressers, and mini-kitchenette off to the side. There were 4 desks lined up against a wall with dividers in between them. It was…sterile. It was small. And it was empty otherwise. Because I was rushing sororities, I was a week earlier than the rest of the students.
My parents set up my cot, we chose my dresser, taped up some pictures of friends from home, and then it was time for them to take off in the empty conversion van. I realize this sounds pathetic, but I cried like a giant baby. I begged my parents not to leave me alone there. I said I would clean my room every day if they took me home. I wasn’t ready for college. I would return all my new stuff if they would let me get back in the van. “Don’t leave me here alone!” I sobbed.
During this infantile breakdown, the first roommate, Kristen, showed up with her mom. She was going through Rush as well. After they set up her stuff, they hugged and off her mother went. Then Kristen bounced off to go shopping downtown. I was like “UM! YOUR MOTHER JUST ABANDONED YOU!”
It was bad. Then, Rush started. I stopped calling home and crying every night because I was too busy hanging out with my Rush group, and staying up late eating Mac and Cheese out of a hot pot debating which house had better GPAs and parties. I would guess it took about 2 weeks for me to forget my family altogether. Pictures of home were replaced by pictures of my new “sisters”, all my books and folders were tossed onto the floor as we converted the desks into make-up stations, and the only crying I did was when a roommate would be reassigned to another dorm. I discovered Hawkeye football. And tailgating. Oh yeah, there were some classes in there too…
I only lived in the dorms for a year (most people at Iowa only live in for a year, two tops). It was a great year. Hallways full of open doors, people walking in and out of everyone‘s room, guys and girls chatting outside the showers (co-ed floors=very Ally McBeal-ish bathroom situation). I loved it. Moving into my first apartment after that was never quite as much fun. Bills? What?
So anyway, back in Target, this girl and her poor dad were debating the blender for a good 5 minutes before compromising on a Magic Bullet. The dad tossed it in the cart, and she was going on and on about what kind of contact paper to get for her drawers. I wondered if she’d be like me or Kristen when she was left alone at college. Judging by her obvious “first time away from home” priorities, I’m guessing she’ll be a wreck like I was. Lucky girl…
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