There are two main rules to Christianity. 1) Love God with all of your heart, soul, and mind. 2) Love your neighbor as yourself.
The hardest time in my life was a lesson in rule #1. I learned to love and trust God through anything and everything. The second hardest time in my life is now, and it has just occured to me that it is a lesson in rule #2.
I've been doing this wrong. And those of you that know me well understand how hard it is for me to say that I was wrong. Sitting in my room and hating the lifestyle that surrounds me is not OK. Being lonely, homesick, and sad is alright, but being snobbish, indignant, self-righteous, and irrate is not alright.
The rule does not say love only the people that live and think like you do. Love your neighbor. Even if they are cheerleaders and party at the drop of a hat and live a lifestyle that you don't agree with, love them. There are no kind, forgiving, understanding or compassionate things on this campus. All I am is lucky - I have been on the receiving end of good, healthy, strong things my entire life. What if I am the only person in my classmates' lives that can show them this life, and I blow it because I'm farther ahead of the game than they are?
It doesn't matter what I get back. I have been getting since day one, and I already have everything I could ever need. I have a good family and good friendships at the end of a phone. I have ambitions and priorities and respect for myself. It's time to stop worrying about what I'm going to get out of it, and it's time to think about what I can give. I know better. I can be the one person that is giving and compassionate and understanding, I can be the one that cares about someone for no good reason. I can be the one unconditionally safe and kind thing in that life.
I can't do that if I sit in my room and hate everything around me. I can't do that if I'm impatient and judgemental of people that haven't been able to learn what I was fortunate enough to be exposed to. I know better. I know better than that. I have to grow up and realize that it's not about me. If I have anything to give, I need to start learning how to give it. Because the things that I have never run out, never dry up. And they are the very best things, and they shold be given joyfully and freely. So I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to see what I can give, what I can change, instead of what I can get.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Real Glamorous
Editing for the Behrend Beacon. Being part of the production team of a college paper. Late nights working in the newsroom. Sounds great, doesn't it?
Let's break this down. The editing team is all male except for the other two copy editors and myself. (The ad editor is also a woman, but she is never in the office during production nights.) The grand total is 16 people. Our newsroom is a tiny basement office a little bigger than my dorm room, no windows, with five functional Macs, each about as old as I am. There is a table is the middle and two couches lining two of the walls. Most of the office chairs are in varying states of disrepair. I've worked there for three weeks, and I couldn't tell you what color the table is. Covered with old papers: the Times, the local paper, the Collegian, Beacons from last week to last year. There are pizza boxes everywhere, and a common question is, "Is this pizza from tonight?" Up on the far wall is the board of shame. Nasty notes from companies whose ads we've botched, really, really bad articles, and a note screaming "LEARN HOW TO WRITE, COMM 001!"
As for the actual work of a production night. Since my job is to proofread, I have to wait around until one of the editors finshes their page. This could be a half an hour to three hours. I read whatever papers are lying around, talk with editors waiting for a computer, try in vain to get studying done. My night starts at 7:30, but it really starts to pick up around 9:30. Then pages are getting printed out, laid out and proofread. Our editor-in-chief is usually throwing tennis balls or wads of paper at his staff, cracking the most terrible jokes I've ever heard, or trying to get someone to wrestle with him. Youtube videos are a common pastime as well. Last night he was singing Rufus Wainwright's Hallelujah in Spanish.
It's hilarious, but it is far from glamorous. The women are vastly out-numberd, and the guys don't hold anything back. I've heard things that have actually made my eyes water. The saddest thing is, it's the sharpest conversation I get all week. Since there's never any space on the table, I check for an empty pizza box with the least-greasy bottom, and edit pages on top of that, sitting on a decrepit couch. I spend from five to seven hours in the office, waiting until the last page is done.
Last night was particularly fun; the kid who had been assigned the front-page article didn't turn anything in, and somehow myself and another person had been assigned the same article. So at 11:00 pm, I was given the front-page article. Somehow I interviewed three people, started up an incredibly slow and ancient PC, and cranked out 500 coherent words by midnight. As for next week, I have three articles to write, 500 words each. That equates to a six-page paper at least, complete with an interview with...I don't know who yet. On top of that, I have my four actual credit classes, and meetings Monday through Thursday nights.
Do I get paid for this? Not a cent. How about credits? I did the math, and for 10-15 hours of work per week, I get one credit in my transcript. So why do I do it? Because for whatever freakish reason, I love it. Reading this blog, I have no idea how I could even like it. But I'm gone, I'm sunk, I'm head over heels. I want this to be my life.
Go figure.
Let's break this down. The editing team is all male except for the other two copy editors and myself. (The ad editor is also a woman, but she is never in the office during production nights.) The grand total is 16 people. Our newsroom is a tiny basement office a little bigger than my dorm room, no windows, with five functional Macs, each about as old as I am. There is a table is the middle and two couches lining two of the walls. Most of the office chairs are in varying states of disrepair. I've worked there for three weeks, and I couldn't tell you what color the table is. Covered with old papers: the Times, the local paper, the Collegian, Beacons from last week to last year. There are pizza boxes everywhere, and a common question is, "Is this pizza from tonight?" Up on the far wall is the board of shame. Nasty notes from companies whose ads we've botched, really, really bad articles, and a note screaming "LEARN HOW TO WRITE, COMM 001!"
As for the actual work of a production night. Since my job is to proofread, I have to wait around until one of the editors finshes their page. This could be a half an hour to three hours. I read whatever papers are lying around, talk with editors waiting for a computer, try in vain to get studying done. My night starts at 7:30, but it really starts to pick up around 9:30. Then pages are getting printed out, laid out and proofread. Our editor-in-chief is usually throwing tennis balls or wads of paper at his staff, cracking the most terrible jokes I've ever heard, or trying to get someone to wrestle with him. Youtube videos are a common pastime as well. Last night he was singing Rufus Wainwright's Hallelujah in Spanish.
It's hilarious, but it is far from glamorous. The women are vastly out-numberd, and the guys don't hold anything back. I've heard things that have actually made my eyes water. The saddest thing is, it's the sharpest conversation I get all week. Since there's never any space on the table, I check for an empty pizza box with the least-greasy bottom, and edit pages on top of that, sitting on a decrepit couch. I spend from five to seven hours in the office, waiting until the last page is done.
Last night was particularly fun; the kid who had been assigned the front-page article didn't turn anything in, and somehow myself and another person had been assigned the same article. So at 11:00 pm, I was given the front-page article. Somehow I interviewed three people, started up an incredibly slow and ancient PC, and cranked out 500 coherent words by midnight. As for next week, I have three articles to write, 500 words each. That equates to a six-page paper at least, complete with an interview with...I don't know who yet. On top of that, I have my four actual credit classes, and meetings Monday through Thursday nights.
Do I get paid for this? Not a cent. How about credits? I did the math, and for 10-15 hours of work per week, I get one credit in my transcript. So why do I do it? Because for whatever freakish reason, I love it. Reading this blog, I have no idea how I could even like it. But I'm gone, I'm sunk, I'm head over heels. I want this to be my life.
Go figure.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Beware: A Rant
Guess where all of the cool kids are going Friday night. (My entire dorm is in a flurry of excitement.)
The mardi gras party at skins (frat). Here is the idea. Upon entering, all of the boys recieve a strand of beads. During the course of the night, the boys then hand off their beads to whatever pair of breasts they are most impressed by. The owner of the winningest, most-beaded breasts gets free liquor.
Seriously. What happened to going out for coffee? Movie marathons with cookie dough? Going to a playground at 1:00 am? Trips to the lake, spontaneous expensive meals out for no reason, hours around a fire? Midnight sledding, sports bars for the Monday night game? Conversation! What happened to conversation? Two or more sane and sober people enjoying each other's company? Arguments and jokes and stories? God, what I would give to interact with a HUMAN BEING.
I may be sitting alone on Friday nights. But it's better than pandering - no, I'll say it, whoring - to numerous, nameless guys whose last shred of common sense has been consumed by alcohol and hormones. Who even thinks this is fun, getting drunk on cheap liquor and then having your body blatantly graded by strangers? When you wake up, you'll have a dim memory of half the night, a headache, maybe some plastic beads and perhaps an STD. Stupid!
Look, I know I'm insane. I know it's earth-shattering to go to Penn State and refuse to party. I'm aware of the fact that it makes me a freak. And I don't care. Here's to the sober people, here's to the 16%! Someday we'll find each other, and how glorious the conversation will be.
The mardi gras party at skins (frat). Here is the idea. Upon entering, all of the boys recieve a strand of beads. During the course of the night, the boys then hand off their beads to whatever pair of breasts they are most impressed by. The owner of the winningest, most-beaded breasts gets free liquor.
Seriously. What happened to going out for coffee? Movie marathons with cookie dough? Going to a playground at 1:00 am? Trips to the lake, spontaneous expensive meals out for no reason, hours around a fire? Midnight sledding, sports bars for the Monday night game? Conversation! What happened to conversation? Two or more sane and sober people enjoying each other's company? Arguments and jokes and stories? God, what I would give to interact with a HUMAN BEING.
I may be sitting alone on Friday nights. But it's better than pandering - no, I'll say it, whoring - to numerous, nameless guys whose last shred of common sense has been consumed by alcohol and hormones. Who even thinks this is fun, getting drunk on cheap liquor and then having your body blatantly graded by strangers? When you wake up, you'll have a dim memory of half the night, a headache, maybe some plastic beads and perhaps an STD. Stupid!
Look, I know I'm insane. I know it's earth-shattering to go to Penn State and refuse to party. I'm aware of the fact that it makes me a freak. And I don't care. Here's to the sober people, here's to the 16%! Someday we'll find each other, and how glorious the conversation will be.
An Ode To Coffee
Joe, Java, mud, perk, ink, cafe noir,
A rose by any other name.
Dark, rich, almost too bitter
Potent in your strength
On foggy Erie mornings
You warm my toes
And make life worth living.
I'll take my chances
With insomnia, high blood pressure,
and anxiety.
Not to mentioned stunted growth.
When your first drop sizzles in my bloodstream
The neurons begin to fire,
My brain connects to my spinal cord,
My eyes open unto the day,
And the sun appears bright.
I am once again capable of standard speech
and human interaction.
I'm not addicted -
I'm in love.
A rose by any other name.
Dark, rich, almost too bitter
Potent in your strength
On foggy Erie mornings
You warm my toes
And make life worth living.
I'll take my chances
With insomnia, high blood pressure,
and anxiety.
Not to mentioned stunted growth.
When your first drop sizzles in my bloodstream
The neurons begin to fire,
My brain connects to my spinal cord,
My eyes open unto the day,
And the sun appears bright.
I am once again capable of standard speech
and human interaction.
I'm not addicted -
I'm in love.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Rachel: 1 Life: 0
Wow. There really is a God. And he is brilliant.
So, I was poking around on princetonreview.com, trying to find Behrend's national safety rating for my police and safety article. My statistic is nowhere to be found, but I did stumble across this glorious tidbit.
Penn State, Univeristy Park has the tenth best college newspaper in the country. Number ten. Out of thousands and thousands. But here's the kicker. Syracuse, the goal of my life, my dream, the school that cooly and cruely wait-listed me, leaving me hard and bitter, ranks eighteen. Hahaha. Eighteen. That's eight whole places after ten. That's barely top twenty. Way to just squeak through, SU.
Am I gloating? Hell yes.
So, what good does University Park's paper do me? Thanks to my late application, I'm at Behrend for two years. Aren't I missing out on two years of writing for the tenth best paper in the USA?
But that is the most beautiful thing about all of this. If I didn't get shuffled into Behrend, I would have never written for the paper. I didn't even do it on purpose, it's just what my writing freshman interest group makes me do. I never even thought that journalistic writing was appealing. Only because it was pushed on me, have I fallen in love with newspaper reporting.
So, two heart-wrenching, dream-shattering, wait-listing letters have put me the one perfect place I could have ended up. Just 24 hours ago, I was praying to God, asking if I've made a mistake, begging Him to show me that I belong here.
I belong here! I'm here for a reason! Did you hear that? Do you understand? This is exactly where I am supposed to be.
So, I was poking around on princetonreview.com, trying to find Behrend's national safety rating for my police and safety article. My statistic is nowhere to be found, but I did stumble across this glorious tidbit.
Penn State, Univeristy Park has the tenth best college newspaper in the country. Number ten. Out of thousands and thousands. But here's the kicker. Syracuse, the goal of my life, my dream, the school that cooly and cruely wait-listed me, leaving me hard and bitter, ranks eighteen. Hahaha. Eighteen. That's eight whole places after ten. That's barely top twenty. Way to just squeak through, SU.
Am I gloating? Hell yes.
So, what good does University Park's paper do me? Thanks to my late application, I'm at Behrend for two years. Aren't I missing out on two years of writing for the tenth best paper in the USA?
But that is the most beautiful thing about all of this. If I didn't get shuffled into Behrend, I would have never written for the paper. I didn't even do it on purpose, it's just what my writing freshman interest group makes me do. I never even thought that journalistic writing was appealing. Only because it was pushed on me, have I fallen in love with newspaper reporting.
So, two heart-wrenching, dream-shattering, wait-listing letters have put me the one perfect place I could have ended up. Just 24 hours ago, I was praying to God, asking if I've made a mistake, begging Him to show me that I belong here.
I belong here! I'm here for a reason! Did you hear that? Do you understand? This is exactly where I am supposed to be.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
"This Above All, To Thine Own Self Be True"
When I began this blog, I swore honesty. It's hard to write honestly, mostly because it's hard to face the truth yourself.
College is not what I was planning on it being. I was expecting glorious higher education, living with people that shared some interests but had different backgrounds. I was looking foward to intelligent discussion about world affairs over coffee. I was looking foward to meeting all kinds of people that were in the same place because they had similar goals and ambitions to mine. People that were here because of their initiative and gusto and clear priorities. I knew that the transition would be hard, but I've done harder things. This should have been a breeze.
Well, I don't go to Yale. I am a freshman at a state school. I'm not living in the honors building, I'm taking general ed courses. And, shocker, people don't magically age five years in one summer. The claim to adulthood that most people have here is getting drunk off of cheap, frat keg beer and getting laid every weekend. (Weekends range from Wednesday night to Monday afternoon.) It's exactly like high school, only cruder and more blatant.
There's the kind of lonliness where you're in a strange place with strange faces, and everyone you know and love is miles away. Then there's the feeling you get when you know that you are the only person of your kind. When every single person(excepting five - no joke) that you talk to in the course of a month is cut out of the exact same mold, and you aren't. It feels like you are the only human being surrounded by cardboard cutouts. I am the language that no one understands. I am the quiet religious girl, the frigid, sober prude. I don't know how to have fun, I don't know what life is about.
It's hard. It's painful, and sometimes I wonder if I really am insane. But this month, as long and as lonely as it has been, I have learned so much about myself that I couldn't begin to expain it all. It's like reading the Qu'ran parallel to reading the Bible; suddenly your own faith is defined in completely new and powerful ways, just by the contrast.
When all that's left is what I believe, it is enough. When everyone says that I'm wrong, I am right. The life I choose is a good one, the biggest parts of me are the best. Life has pain and lonliness and fear, and I can take it. Life has big questions, and I ask them. Life has wonderful possibilities, and I demand them. Life has truth hidden away in it, and I pull it out and display it to the world. I am radiant, I am whole, I am precious and I am strong. I take chances, I hope when I shouldn't, I carry on long after I should quit. I am unstoppable. I am winning, and I will win. I won this morning when I woke up and decided to be myself.
So what, you may ask. So what if you have your white plume of honor if all it gets you is a Friday night with Remember the Titans and a bowl of popcorn? It's true that life right now is lonely and hard and I don't like it. But it is life, big and real, and I'm not hiding or running away from anything. My quiet weekends are wilder and more rebellious and far more grown-up than any party. There are 4,000 people on this campus. It will be long and hard work, but I will find the select few that came out of my mold. I will find people that take no less than they ask for, people that I can share my big, wild and fulfilling life with. I will meet people that know and love who they are. We will start friendships that shatter whatever half-relationships I was supposed to settle for. And until then, I can survive on my own. It is worth it, and I am enough.
College is not what I was planning on it being. I was expecting glorious higher education, living with people that shared some interests but had different backgrounds. I was looking foward to intelligent discussion about world affairs over coffee. I was looking foward to meeting all kinds of people that were in the same place because they had similar goals and ambitions to mine. People that were here because of their initiative and gusto and clear priorities. I knew that the transition would be hard, but I've done harder things. This should have been a breeze.
Well, I don't go to Yale. I am a freshman at a state school. I'm not living in the honors building, I'm taking general ed courses. And, shocker, people don't magically age five years in one summer. The claim to adulthood that most people have here is getting drunk off of cheap, frat keg beer and getting laid every weekend. (Weekends range from Wednesday night to Monday afternoon.) It's exactly like high school, only cruder and more blatant.
There's the kind of lonliness where you're in a strange place with strange faces, and everyone you know and love is miles away. Then there's the feeling you get when you know that you are the only person of your kind. When every single person(excepting five - no joke) that you talk to in the course of a month is cut out of the exact same mold, and you aren't. It feels like you are the only human being surrounded by cardboard cutouts. I am the language that no one understands. I am the quiet religious girl, the frigid, sober prude. I don't know how to have fun, I don't know what life is about.
It's hard. It's painful, and sometimes I wonder if I really am insane. But this month, as long and as lonely as it has been, I have learned so much about myself that I couldn't begin to expain it all. It's like reading the Qu'ran parallel to reading the Bible; suddenly your own faith is defined in completely new and powerful ways, just by the contrast.
When all that's left is what I believe, it is enough. When everyone says that I'm wrong, I am right. The life I choose is a good one, the biggest parts of me are the best. Life has pain and lonliness and fear, and I can take it. Life has big questions, and I ask them. Life has wonderful possibilities, and I demand them. Life has truth hidden away in it, and I pull it out and display it to the world. I am radiant, I am whole, I am precious and I am strong. I take chances, I hope when I shouldn't, I carry on long after I should quit. I am unstoppable. I am winning, and I will win. I won this morning when I woke up and decided to be myself.
So what, you may ask. So what if you have your white plume of honor if all it gets you is a Friday night with Remember the Titans and a bowl of popcorn? It's true that life right now is lonely and hard and I don't like it. But it is life, big and real, and I'm not hiding or running away from anything. My quiet weekends are wilder and more rebellious and far more grown-up than any party. There are 4,000 people on this campus. It will be long and hard work, but I will find the select few that came out of my mold. I will find people that take no less than they ask for, people that I can share my big, wild and fulfilling life with. I will meet people that know and love who they are. We will start friendships that shatter whatever half-relationships I was supposed to settle for. And until then, I can survive on my own. It is worth it, and I am enough.
Monday, September 24, 2007
I Have A Dream...
That's right, I have a new life goal. I'm actually surprised that I've lived this long without one. The Penn State Daily Collegian. I was looking at it's webpage. It's beautiful, it's glorious. It's so unlike the Beacon that it isn't even funny. The Collegian is the real deal. The newspaper office is actually a building, a two-story building a short way from University Park campus. Outside there are three newspaper stands: New York Times, Washington Post, and the Collegian. (I have the picture taped to my desk.)
I watched clips from a documentary made about the Collegian, following it for a year. There are editorial offices, conference rooms, and great big newsrooms full of Macs. The people working there seem well-dressed, articulate, sharp. They seem to each be their own person, and they take reporting very seriously. The paper itself (I have a copy of Wednesday's on my bed) is well-written, sharp, and tells good news, from global to campus stories.
It's very competitive. During the third week of every semester, there are staff-writer try-outs. They sit everyone down, give them a headline concerning a current event and one hour, and the students have to write 500 words. That is how they decide who works for the Collegian. No portfolio, no prior experiance, no interview. Do or die.
It might be a little bit stupid for me to pursue this. At Behrend, I can be an editor from my sophomore year. I could build an extremely thick portfolio. It's even conceivable that I could be Editor-in-Cheif by my Senior year. Whereas I could go to main campus, never get accepted into the Collegian's staff, and my portfolio would come to a screeching halt my junior year. That doesn't look too good when you're trying to get a job.
But - I want to know. I want to know if I'm good enough. I want to know how far my talent and hard work can get me. And I just plain want it. I want to belong to something serious and important, something historical and prestigous. I want to work with other reporters and writers, people who have a global perspective. I want the big news, the big stories. I want the real thing. I want it so bad. So, I'm going for it. No fear, not in this lifetime. I'm going to write my butt off this year, snap up an open editing position next year, and read the paper (Times, Collegian, Beacon) every day of my life. I am going to become well-versed in everything that's going on everywhere, and I'm going to become a writing machine. I'm going to take history, science, politcal science courses. I'm going to learn how to think big and write well. And when that audition comes along in exactly two years, I will rip it up.
Hmm. I guess this makes me a journalism major.
I watched clips from a documentary made about the Collegian, following it for a year. There are editorial offices, conference rooms, and great big newsrooms full of Macs. The people working there seem well-dressed, articulate, sharp. They seem to each be their own person, and they take reporting very seriously. The paper itself (I have a copy of Wednesday's on my bed) is well-written, sharp, and tells good news, from global to campus stories.
It's very competitive. During the third week of every semester, there are staff-writer try-outs. They sit everyone down, give them a headline concerning a current event and one hour, and the students have to write 500 words. That is how they decide who works for the Collegian. No portfolio, no prior experiance, no interview. Do or die.
It might be a little bit stupid for me to pursue this. At Behrend, I can be an editor from my sophomore year. I could build an extremely thick portfolio. It's even conceivable that I could be Editor-in-Cheif by my Senior year. Whereas I could go to main campus, never get accepted into the Collegian's staff, and my portfolio would come to a screeching halt my junior year. That doesn't look too good when you're trying to get a job.
But - I want to know. I want to know if I'm good enough. I want to know how far my talent and hard work can get me. And I just plain want it. I want to belong to something serious and important, something historical and prestigous. I want to work with other reporters and writers, people who have a global perspective. I want the big news, the big stories. I want the real thing. I want it so bad. So, I'm going for it. No fear, not in this lifetime. I'm going to write my butt off this year, snap up an open editing position next year, and read the paper (Times, Collegian, Beacon) every day of my life. I am going to become well-versed in everything that's going on everywhere, and I'm going to become a writing machine. I'm going to take history, science, politcal science courses. I'm going to learn how to think big and write well. And when that audition comes along in exactly two years, I will rip it up.
Hmm. I guess this makes me a journalism major.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Church-Shopping
Church #1:
I guess the easiest way I can describe it is with a food analogy. For communion, the ushers passed around a loaf of homemade, white bread. As I ripped off a piece, I couldn't help but notice how like the church itself it was. The walls and the floor were as white as the bread, and the pews and the piano and the cross on the far wall were the same rosy gold as the crust was. It was small, but had nice high ceilings. They had good lights, and widows all along the wall, wide open to the sun and the breeze.
The minister was a little bit old, but he was big and wore a black suit with a white shirt and a bright red, silky tie. He had curly black hair, a graying beard and bushy eyebrows that almost hid his glinting eyes. When we met, he took my hand in both his giant own hands and I watched him process my name and attach it to my face. When he spoke, his voice was much softer than I had imagined. The sermon and the ideas and the language were traditional and kind of old-fashoined. We sang a few hymns, and prayed, and took communion.
I spent most of the sermon and an hour afterwards watching the people. Fifty people total: mostly younger families, maybe only three other people my age. The place was full of children, coloring away in their family pews. Everyone was was clean and well-dressed, their eyes were bright, and they sang better than the 300 peple in my own church. All of the little girls were wearing bright skirts and bright, patterned leggings. After church, the kids went to play in the patch of woods next to the church. The men all went outside in the sun, with their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up, studying some construction that was going on in the front of the building. The women stood in the tiny foyer by the open doors and asked all kinds of questions about me and how I was doing with the move. One woman invited me to her house to help make applesauce, which I had to decline since I didn't do any homework yesterday.
I've been to churches like it before and haven't liked it. I have always thought that they were too quiet and comfortable. I have always steered away from tradition in religon. This church was not about bringing people into the faith, it's definitely made for people that already have their faith. But is was exactly like the communion bread; it was clean and fresh and comforting and wholesome. Everything else about my life is new and challenging, and that isn't what I need from God right now. Today I needed something that I understood, something simple and relaxing.
So, I don't plan on going there every week. But once a month they have church luncheons, and I think I will go on those Sundays. All of the mothers were planning for next week's luncheon, baking breads and pies and making sauces and desserts. So once a month, I think I'll go and be comfortable and well-fed by mothers, and get dragged all over the place by their kids.
I guess the easiest way I can describe it is with a food analogy. For communion, the ushers passed around a loaf of homemade, white bread. As I ripped off a piece, I couldn't help but notice how like the church itself it was. The walls and the floor were as white as the bread, and the pews and the piano and the cross on the far wall were the same rosy gold as the crust was. It was small, but had nice high ceilings. They had good lights, and widows all along the wall, wide open to the sun and the breeze.
The minister was a little bit old, but he was big and wore a black suit with a white shirt and a bright red, silky tie. He had curly black hair, a graying beard and bushy eyebrows that almost hid his glinting eyes. When we met, he took my hand in both his giant own hands and I watched him process my name and attach it to my face. When he spoke, his voice was much softer than I had imagined. The sermon and the ideas and the language were traditional and kind of old-fashoined. We sang a few hymns, and prayed, and took communion.
I spent most of the sermon and an hour afterwards watching the people. Fifty people total: mostly younger families, maybe only three other people my age. The place was full of children, coloring away in their family pews. Everyone was was clean and well-dressed, their eyes were bright, and they sang better than the 300 peple in my own church. All of the little girls were wearing bright skirts and bright, patterned leggings. After church, the kids went to play in the patch of woods next to the church. The men all went outside in the sun, with their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up, studying some construction that was going on in the front of the building. The women stood in the tiny foyer by the open doors and asked all kinds of questions about me and how I was doing with the move. One woman invited me to her house to help make applesauce, which I had to decline since I didn't do any homework yesterday.
I've been to churches like it before and haven't liked it. I have always thought that they were too quiet and comfortable. I have always steered away from tradition in religon. This church was not about bringing people into the faith, it's definitely made for people that already have their faith. But is was exactly like the communion bread; it was clean and fresh and comforting and wholesome. Everything else about my life is new and challenging, and that isn't what I need from God right now. Today I needed something that I understood, something simple and relaxing.
So, I don't plan on going there every week. But once a month they have church luncheons, and I think I will go on those Sundays. All of the mothers were planning for next week's luncheon, baking breads and pies and making sauces and desserts. So once a month, I think I'll go and be comfortable and well-fed by mothers, and get dragged all over the place by their kids.
Friday, September 21, 2007
I'm a Genius
Seriously. I'm so proud of myself right now I can hardly speak.
Here's what I'm having for dinner tonight. Grilled chicken alfredo over pasta cooked to al dente perfection. Without leaving campus.
I'm cooking the pasta in my microwave. Although you can get it at the cafeteria, it's mushy and overcooked and has been sitting for an hour. After that's done, I'll go up to the cafeteria to the grill station. I will ask for one grilled chicken breast with no bun and put that in a to-go container. I will go to the pasta station and scoop alfredo sauce into the soup bowl in the to-go kit. I will bring it back to my dorm, and dish out the pasta onto a nice red plastic plate. I will cut up the hot, grilled, unprocessed chicken and mix that into the pasta. I will pour the alfredo sauce over everything. I will sit down and eat off of a plate with a real knife and fork. Pasta cooked just ten minutes ago to my preferred specifications. Fresh, hot meat and nice, fatty alfredo sauce.
Tune in tomorrow for lunch, when I get texas-sliced bread from the toast station, add meat and cheese from the sandwhch station, and give it to the panini lady to grill up.
I know, I know. I'm brilliant.
Here's what I'm having for dinner tonight. Grilled chicken alfredo over pasta cooked to al dente perfection. Without leaving campus.
I'm cooking the pasta in my microwave. Although you can get it at the cafeteria, it's mushy and overcooked and has been sitting for an hour. After that's done, I'll go up to the cafeteria to the grill station. I will ask for one grilled chicken breast with no bun and put that in a to-go container. I will go to the pasta station and scoop alfredo sauce into the soup bowl in the to-go kit. I will bring it back to my dorm, and dish out the pasta onto a nice red plastic plate. I will cut up the hot, grilled, unprocessed chicken and mix that into the pasta. I will pour the alfredo sauce over everything. I will sit down and eat off of a plate with a real knife and fork. Pasta cooked just ten minutes ago to my preferred specifications. Fresh, hot meat and nice, fatty alfredo sauce.
Tune in tomorrow for lunch, when I get texas-sliced bread from the toast station, add meat and cheese from the sandwhch station, and give it to the panini lady to grill up.
I know, I know. I'm brilliant.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
All In A Week's Work
Exactly a week ago, I was standing in the newspaper office with the editors and all of the freshmen staff writers. Our copy editor was reading off the list of assignments, all of which were being reluctantly accepted by writers one at a time. However, when she called out "New plastics training academy at the school of engineering," heads went down, and people inched behind thier classmates to hide. After about 120 seconds of prickly silence and tension, I sighed and said "I'll take that one." I wrote down the basic info into my notebook and left.
I tracked down the Chair of our Plastics Engineering Program - I like to start at the top - and then e-mailed him asking for an interview. A couple days later I got a reply, referring me to the Injection Molding Chair and head of the program. I fired back a nice, professional thank-you e-mail set up a meeting with the referred-to Dr. He told me to meet him in room 113 of the REDC building. I agreed, and sent him my cell number in case anything should fall through.
After about an hour of background research and preparing questions, I arrived at the engneering building 20 minutes early. I found room 113 in a massive, warehouse kind of hallway, with three-story high ceilings and no windows. The room had two giant doors that looked that they belonged on a loading dock instead of an office. I read the panel next to the numbers 113 - "WIND TUNNEL."
Hmm. The Dr seemed to have sent me the wrong room number. I walked around the building until I found a board listing the faculty and their office numbers. Dr.....213. Aha! I walked around some more until I found the hallway with the 210 offices, and found 213 at 4:00 exactly. Of course, the Dr had completely forgotten about the appointment and was 15 minutes late, leaving me with a quarter of an hour for a decent interview. I asked my questions, and he answered without the understanding that I was not an engineering major and had no idea what he was talking about. "Then the processors inject the molten plastic into heat-tempered coagultion modules," and the like. It went a little better when I asked him to describe things to me like I was a humanities major. Or a five-year old.
I went back to my room, sat at my desk, and played over the recorded interview, pausing every 5 seconds to write down potentially important quotes. I went to the bathroom. I read the blog of everyone I knew, and some blogs of people that I have never met. I shook up my bottle of extra concentrated dish soap and squeezed it so that little bubbles came out. I wrote down each point on a sticky note and arranged everything on my desk so that I had a flowing, coherant article all color-coded and lined out. I took a picture of it on my phone. I watched Gilmore Girls, I went to dinner. I came back, I spent all of 45 minutes writing it all up into a beautiful, 600 word article with a nice lead and ending quote. I sent it in to the on-line drop box.
Then I sat back for the Wednesday night feeling. No matter how dull my story is, it's a thread that keeps my week connected and linear. Once I've finished, I've met someone new, I've learned someting new, I've faced a new writing challenge. But my week kind of unravels. So I pick up the Times, or whatever book I'm reading, or flip on the TV, and wait for Thursday night, when I get my new story.
I tracked down the Chair of our Plastics Engineering Program - I like to start at the top - and then e-mailed him asking for an interview. A couple days later I got a reply, referring me to the Injection Molding Chair and head of the program. I fired back a nice, professional thank-you e-mail set up a meeting with the referred-to Dr. He told me to meet him in room 113 of the REDC building. I agreed, and sent him my cell number in case anything should fall through.
After about an hour of background research and preparing questions, I arrived at the engneering building 20 minutes early. I found room 113 in a massive, warehouse kind of hallway, with three-story high ceilings and no windows. The room had two giant doors that looked that they belonged on a loading dock instead of an office. I read the panel next to the numbers 113 - "WIND TUNNEL."
Hmm. The Dr seemed to have sent me the wrong room number. I walked around the building until I found a board listing the faculty and their office numbers. Dr.....213. Aha! I walked around some more until I found the hallway with the 210 offices, and found 213 at 4:00 exactly. Of course, the Dr had completely forgotten about the appointment and was 15 minutes late, leaving me with a quarter of an hour for a decent interview. I asked my questions, and he answered without the understanding that I was not an engineering major and had no idea what he was talking about. "Then the processors inject the molten plastic into heat-tempered coagultion modules," and the like. It went a little better when I asked him to describe things to me like I was a humanities major. Or a five-year old.
I went back to my room, sat at my desk, and played over the recorded interview, pausing every 5 seconds to write down potentially important quotes. I went to the bathroom. I read the blog of everyone I knew, and some blogs of people that I have never met. I shook up my bottle of extra concentrated dish soap and squeezed it so that little bubbles came out. I wrote down each point on a sticky note and arranged everything on my desk so that I had a flowing, coherant article all color-coded and lined out. I took a picture of it on my phone. I watched Gilmore Girls, I went to dinner. I came back, I spent all of 45 minutes writing it all up into a beautiful, 600 word article with a nice lead and ending quote. I sent it in to the on-line drop box.
Then I sat back for the Wednesday night feeling. No matter how dull my story is, it's a thread that keeps my week connected and linear. Once I've finished, I've met someone new, I've learned someting new, I've faced a new writing challenge. But my week kind of unravels. So I pick up the Times, or whatever book I'm reading, or flip on the TV, and wait for Thursday night, when I get my new story.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
What if?
I've learned lots of things in three weeks. How to sleep when your roommate is moving around your room at 7:30 am. How to hook up a TV, how cereal combines on a molecular level to your bowl if left for too long. How amazing of a football player Paul Posluszny is. How to write for a published paper, how to dish it and take it with upperclassmen guys. How to microwave pasta and steal butter and salt from the cafeteria. How to go for a walk or call someone when I'm feeling blue. How not to go get fall-down drunk even when evryone else is. How to get my morning paper out of the fussy paper machine, how to coax my key into the lock of my dorm door. That when all else fails, a grilled chicken sandwhich from the cafeteria is good, moist meat. That sometimes, a pint of Ben and Jerry's is perfectly OK.
Most importantly, I've learned that there are things much, much worse than fear. I'm not talking about the trepidation someone experiences right before they do something incredibly stupid, that's different. I'm talking about the solid, real-life fear that settles in your stomach for more than 30 seconds. I've been confronted with new fears every few days here. Some are big and some are little. I've also watched some people handle thier own, personal fears. One thing that I've noticed is that whenever someone complies to fear, their lives get a tiny bit smaller, and a tiny bit sadder.
So, what would happen if I lived my life in complete disregard of fear? If instead of concentrating on how afraid I am, I think about how I will feel in twenty years, looking back on every scenario. Can you live life that way? Is that much courage possible?
Am I afraid that if I don't party every weekend, that I will never fit in here? Am I afraid that if I don't join the swim team, I will never meet any good friends? Am I afraid that if I go to the youth group on Monday night, it will just be weird and disappointing? Am I afraid of looking for a good church, of how long it will take and how lonely it will be? Am I afraid of pursuing what I love, just to find out that it isn't good enough, that I don't have what it takes?
Yes. And yes, and yes, and yes again. But I have decided that either I can sit in my room, comfortable and unafraid, or I can make the hard choice every single time. I've decided to sit down and separate the fear from what I really want to do, and then throw the fear right out the window. I'm not kidding myself here, I know that it will be hard. It will be exhausting, there will be times when I will fall on my bed and wonder what I could have been thinking. My downs will be lower than most - I will fall harder.
But I know that I was not made for fear. I know that I do not want to look back on my freshman year of college and wonder what could have happened. I know that Brett Favre has the most interceptions, and he also has the most wins. I know that even though I will fall harder than most, I will also live higher and bigger than most. I do not want a small, constant, slightly sad life. I want a big life, alternating between tragedy and joy.
So I'll give this life a try. I will live so that I am slightly crazy, and constantly tired. I will live the sweaty-palmed, shaky-kneed life. I'll take the big hits, trusting that it will be worth it in the end. And I'll keep you posted.
Most importantly, I've learned that there are things much, much worse than fear. I'm not talking about the trepidation someone experiences right before they do something incredibly stupid, that's different. I'm talking about the solid, real-life fear that settles in your stomach for more than 30 seconds. I've been confronted with new fears every few days here. Some are big and some are little. I've also watched some people handle thier own, personal fears. One thing that I've noticed is that whenever someone complies to fear, their lives get a tiny bit smaller, and a tiny bit sadder.
So, what would happen if I lived my life in complete disregard of fear? If instead of concentrating on how afraid I am, I think about how I will feel in twenty years, looking back on every scenario. Can you live life that way? Is that much courage possible?
Am I afraid that if I don't party every weekend, that I will never fit in here? Am I afraid that if I don't join the swim team, I will never meet any good friends? Am I afraid that if I go to the youth group on Monday night, it will just be weird and disappointing? Am I afraid of looking for a good church, of how long it will take and how lonely it will be? Am I afraid of pursuing what I love, just to find out that it isn't good enough, that I don't have what it takes?
Yes. And yes, and yes, and yes again. But I have decided that either I can sit in my room, comfortable and unafraid, or I can make the hard choice every single time. I've decided to sit down and separate the fear from what I really want to do, and then throw the fear right out the window. I'm not kidding myself here, I know that it will be hard. It will be exhausting, there will be times when I will fall on my bed and wonder what I could have been thinking. My downs will be lower than most - I will fall harder.
But I know that I was not made for fear. I know that I do not want to look back on my freshman year of college and wonder what could have happened. I know that Brett Favre has the most interceptions, and he also has the most wins. I know that even though I will fall harder than most, I will also live higher and bigger than most. I do not want a small, constant, slightly sad life. I want a big life, alternating between tragedy and joy.
So I'll give this life a try. I will live so that I am slightly crazy, and constantly tired. I will live the sweaty-palmed, shaky-kneed life. I'll take the big hits, trusting that it will be worth it in the end. And I'll keep you posted.
Monday, September 17, 2007
I used to be a swimmer.
I've hit the three-week mark. My life has stopped consisting of large, detached glumps and is now linear again. Classes, grades, organizations, the paper, people; it's all coming into perspective. And I'm glad of it. But I didn't realize what was missing until everything started coming together.
Swimming. It's fall, it's getting chilly and the sky is super blue and I know I'm supposed to be running and weight-lifting and working my butt off with friends every day. I'm jittery and snapish, never really hungry or sleepy. The smell of chlorine makes my knees shake, I'm turning to gangster rap instead of my usual mellow music. My body, for for the first time in five years, is not breaking into fall in the pool.
But it's more than just missing the sport. As far as relationships go, there's mentors and then there's coaches. There's friends and then there's teammates. When you spend most of your time and energy working to hear one person say, "That was perfect, that was exactly what we needed," they supercede mere mentorship. And when you spend 40 hours a week with the same people, going through hell together, doing what you love together, you get to something more than friendship. The cheers and the songs and the jokes, posters and puffy painted t-shirts, communal saltines packages, bonfires. Being on a team like that is the next best thing to family.
Since I was thirteen years old, I have been a swimmer. I wish I could explain how deeply engrained it is in me. It was part of my identity, not just an activity. I grew and learned so much in that pool, I would not be the same person without that experience. And I can't explain how it feels for it to be September, and knowing that 3 hours away my coach and my team are having practices and meets without me. I had no idea I loved it so much. I had no idea that losing it would hurt so much.
So, my college does have a swim team. It's a six-month season, training without one race for over a month, then traveling most weekends for meets. Morning and evening practices. And I don't really want to do it. I want to give everything I have to the paper, and I want to do women's flag football in October, then I want to join the sailing club in the spring. I need time to get my A-average, I have other clubs I want to be involved in. It's college, I want to do new things, find new things to sign my life over to, meet new people to get close to. But I'm afraid of life without a team. I'm afraid of the hard things in life if I don't have swimming to take it out on. I'm afraid to give up such a big part of me.
Swimming. It's fall, it's getting chilly and the sky is super blue and I know I'm supposed to be running and weight-lifting and working my butt off with friends every day. I'm jittery and snapish, never really hungry or sleepy. The smell of chlorine makes my knees shake, I'm turning to gangster rap instead of my usual mellow music. My body, for for the first time in five years, is not breaking into fall in the pool.
But it's more than just missing the sport. As far as relationships go, there's mentors and then there's coaches. There's friends and then there's teammates. When you spend most of your time and energy working to hear one person say, "That was perfect, that was exactly what we needed," they supercede mere mentorship. And when you spend 40 hours a week with the same people, going through hell together, doing what you love together, you get to something more than friendship. The cheers and the songs and the jokes, posters and puffy painted t-shirts, communal saltines packages, bonfires. Being on a team like that is the next best thing to family.
Since I was thirteen years old, I have been a swimmer. I wish I could explain how deeply engrained it is in me. It was part of my identity, not just an activity. I grew and learned so much in that pool, I would not be the same person without that experience. And I can't explain how it feels for it to be September, and knowing that 3 hours away my coach and my team are having practices and meets without me. I had no idea I loved it so much. I had no idea that losing it would hurt so much.
So, my college does have a swim team. It's a six-month season, training without one race for over a month, then traveling most weekends for meets. Morning and evening practices. And I don't really want to do it. I want to give everything I have to the paper, and I want to do women's flag football in October, then I want to join the sailing club in the spring. I need time to get my A-average, I have other clubs I want to be involved in. It's college, I want to do new things, find new things to sign my life over to, meet new people to get close to. But I'm afraid of life without a team. I'm afraid of the hard things in life if I don't have swimming to take it out on. I'm afraid to give up such a big part of me.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
My Eleventy-Hundreth Post!
I am in love with life today.
It is fall, and the air is crisp and it seems like I haven't seen such a blue sky since Europe. I wish that I had a football to throw around on the lawn, because that is exactly what this weather is - football weather. Cold hands and cheering and marching bands and school colors. It's sleep-under-the-covers weather and brand new jacket weather and "It was a dark and stormy night," weather. Warm pajamas and hot popcorn and warm, heavy throw blankets weather.
Fall is my favorite.
As if this weren't enough, my math class got canceled. No math, no math professor, no math homework. I didn't even get to my math room before I was told to turn around and waste my gloriously free hour. AND my jersey came. My brand-new, blue and white, Penn State #31 Paul Poluszny jersey. The jersey that I will wear every Saturday of college football season. And, since Penn State is ranked #1 in the Big Ten, hopefully for many Saturdays into post season. It's hanging over my desk right now.
It is a beautiful day to be a college kid.
It is fall, and the air is crisp and it seems like I haven't seen such a blue sky since Europe. I wish that I had a football to throw around on the lawn, because that is exactly what this weather is - football weather. Cold hands and cheering and marching bands and school colors. It's sleep-under-the-covers weather and brand new jacket weather and "It was a dark and stormy night," weather. Warm pajamas and hot popcorn and warm, heavy throw blankets weather.
Fall is my favorite.
As if this weren't enough, my math class got canceled. No math, no math professor, no math homework. I didn't even get to my math room before I was told to turn around and waste my gloriously free hour. AND my jersey came. My brand-new, blue and white, Penn State #31 Paul Poluszny jersey. The jersey that I will wear every Saturday of college football season. And, since Penn State is ranked #1 in the Big Ten, hopefully for many Saturdays into post season. It's hanging over my desk right now.
It is a beautiful day to be a college kid.
Monday, September 10, 2007
So Embarassing
Of course T-Mobile does not finally, finally switch me over from recording to a human being, after twenty minutes of cat-and-mouse games - which was sapping my minutes - until I'm bellowing into the phone "BURN T-MOBILE, JUST BURN!"
Poor Jim.
Poor Jim.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Settling in.
I have been two weeks and one day at college, and every day I like it more and more. It's now just beginning to feel like I have one life, instead of two very separate lives; one here, one at Home. Today is the first day I can listen to my favorite music from this summer and not feel sad. It's starting to feel more like school than this alien world where nothing make sense.
Part of this is my busyness. I'm taking four classes and I need an A in all of them. I have meetings every night of the week except for Fridays - for the school entertainment board, hall council, and the paper. And I absolutely love working with the paper. I had two articles printed last week; one previewing the upcoming alumni weekend, and one was a bit on the first week as a freshman in college. I sent in the freshman bit on a whim, I didn't expect them to use it. But the editors said that it was good, and that I can send in anything else in the same genre. They also asked me to production nights, to get to know the editors and learn how to edit myself. So, this week I have three articles to write and maybe another column, and I'll be in the office Thursday night until the paper is done, which tends to be 1:00-2:00 am. I'll be meeting new people and learning how to make a newspaper - I'll be able to watch the pieces that I wrote go into print. Is that the coolest thing ever?
Yesterday was my first college game day on a Penn State campus. I wore my PSU t-shirt, and decorated the board on my door with things like "WE ARE......PENN STATE" and "I heart JoePa!" and "#31...Always." There was about 20 or so people in the lobby watching the game. It's fun watching football with people that know football. It's fun to watch football when your team is excellent, and really, truly belongs to you. College football is just plain fun - the massive stadium, every single spectator wearing white, the marching band, the noise, everything. Next time I'll go to the cafe - they project the game on a giant screen and I guess it's standing room only.
So, I'm starting to get to know people that don't feel the need to get fall-down drunk every night of the week. I have one of the best college teams in the country. The paper gives me something to participate in and belong to. I'm building up a resume and a portfolio and grades good enough to get me into my major. It finally, finally feels like I'm moving foward.
Part of this is my busyness. I'm taking four classes and I need an A in all of them. I have meetings every night of the week except for Fridays - for the school entertainment board, hall council, and the paper. And I absolutely love working with the paper. I had two articles printed last week; one previewing the upcoming alumni weekend, and one was a bit on the first week as a freshman in college. I sent in the freshman bit on a whim, I didn't expect them to use it. But the editors said that it was good, and that I can send in anything else in the same genre. They also asked me to production nights, to get to know the editors and learn how to edit myself. So, this week I have three articles to write and maybe another column, and I'll be in the office Thursday night until the paper is done, which tends to be 1:00-2:00 am. I'll be meeting new people and learning how to make a newspaper - I'll be able to watch the pieces that I wrote go into print. Is that the coolest thing ever?
Yesterday was my first college game day on a Penn State campus. I wore my PSU t-shirt, and decorated the board on my door with things like "WE ARE......PENN STATE" and "I heart JoePa!" and "#31...Always." There was about 20 or so people in the lobby watching the game. It's fun watching football with people that know football. It's fun to watch football when your team is excellent, and really, truly belongs to you. College football is just plain fun - the massive stadium, every single spectator wearing white, the marching band, the noise, everything. Next time I'll go to the cafe - they project the game on a giant screen and I guess it's standing room only.
So, I'm starting to get to know people that don't feel the need to get fall-down drunk every night of the week. I have one of the best college teams in the country. The paper gives me something to participate in and belong to. I'm building up a resume and a portfolio and grades good enough to get me into my major. It finally, finally feels like I'm moving foward.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Independent Living; Installment Two
Another major accomplishment today:
I cooked pasta in my microwave. I took my little pasta cooker and filled it with water, running my two-cup pyrex measurer back and forth from the drinking fountain three times. It took about 20 minutes for my little, old microwave to get the water up to boil. Then I took some pasta and poured it into the water, and it took another 20 minutes for it to cook. Occasionally I would pop open the door, wait for the blistering steam to disperse, snatch the cooker onto my desk and stir it with a fork. When it was at al dente perfection, I stuck the little pasta strainer in the laundry room sink, and I gingerly picked up my little plastic vat of pasta and drained it.
After it had cooled some, I put the noodles into my bright red soup mug with the handle. I scooped butter out of the little packet I had taken from the cafeteria at breakfast. I added some salt from the shaker I had stolen out of the Cafe an hour previously. Hey, if I'm paying thousands a year for out-of-state tuition, I can steal a salt shaker if I want. And I ate it, and it was wonderful.
However, this is not the clincher. The best part was when I put my dirty dishes into the little pasta vat and almost clapped my hands in joy when I realized I could wash my dishes using the pasta vat as a sink.
Independent living is when you're standing over the massive sink in the laundry room, and your microwavable pasta vat is full of soapy water and dirty dishes, and you're scrubbing away with your disposable dish rag, and you're happy. Because it's the easiest way to clean your dishes that you've used in two weeks.
So, I'm going to eat a brownie with a big glass of milk, and watch Friends (on the TV that I myself hooked up to cable) and then call my family.
Who says you have to be drunk to have fun?
I cooked pasta in my microwave. I took my little pasta cooker and filled it with water, running my two-cup pyrex measurer back and forth from the drinking fountain three times. It took about 20 minutes for my little, old microwave to get the water up to boil. Then I took some pasta and poured it into the water, and it took another 20 minutes for it to cook. Occasionally I would pop open the door, wait for the blistering steam to disperse, snatch the cooker onto my desk and stir it with a fork. When it was at al dente perfection, I stuck the little pasta strainer in the laundry room sink, and I gingerly picked up my little plastic vat of pasta and drained it.
After it had cooled some, I put the noodles into my bright red soup mug with the handle. I scooped butter out of the little packet I had taken from the cafeteria at breakfast. I added some salt from the shaker I had stolen out of the Cafe an hour previously. Hey, if I'm paying thousands a year for out-of-state tuition, I can steal a salt shaker if I want. And I ate it, and it was wonderful.
However, this is not the clincher. The best part was when I put my dirty dishes into the little pasta vat and almost clapped my hands in joy when I realized I could wash my dishes using the pasta vat as a sink.
Independent living is when you're standing over the massive sink in the laundry room, and your microwavable pasta vat is full of soapy water and dirty dishes, and you're scrubbing away with your disposable dish rag, and you're happy. Because it's the easiest way to clean your dishes that you've used in two weeks.
So, I'm going to eat a brownie with a big glass of milk, and watch Friends (on the TV that I myself hooked up to cable) and then call my family.
Who says you have to be drunk to have fun?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
September
Things are starting to settle in here. I've evern referred to my room as home a couple of times. Although in my head it's just "home," while Ro-cha-cha is "Home."
Classes and the workload are picking up a little bit, but nothing too scary. I'm joining clubs and organizations and the like in my free time. The paper, the school entertainment bard that brings in movies, bands, and comedians, and my hall council. I like busy.
But overall, complete independence is a bit overrated. It's definitly less exciting than it seems.
Take last night, for example. My biggest accomplishment was getting my TV hooked up to cable. I wrestled the cable out of its box, undid the twist-ties, and unrolled to cord. I spun the TV around backwards so I could get to the screwy cable thingy. I then spent ten minutes trying to twist on the cable the wrong way. After a few suppressed curse words, some extraneous tools, and sore fingers, I remembered, "Righty tighty, left loosey." Ahh. Well, that made it a lot easier. But I still had to screw the other end of the cable into the jack...in the wall...behind my roomate's fully loaded, solid wood, triple tier desk. Lovely.
Between the two of us, we got the stupid honking big piece of furniture moved out a couple of inches. With one arm angled over the first tier, and the other angled behind it, which had me practically sprawled, flat-out over the desk, it only took about 6 minutes to righty tighty the cable into place. And I flicked on the TV, and Gilmore Girls was on! So my roomate and I shrieked "Gilmore Girls!" and jumped onto my bed and spent the next half hour trying to figure out if it was Rory's high school or college graduation. It was college, the one where she turns down Logan's marraige proposal so he dumps her.
Welcome to the adult world.
Classes and the workload are picking up a little bit, but nothing too scary. I'm joining clubs and organizations and the like in my free time. The paper, the school entertainment bard that brings in movies, bands, and comedians, and my hall council. I like busy.
But overall, complete independence is a bit overrated. It's definitly less exciting than it seems.
Take last night, for example. My biggest accomplishment was getting my TV hooked up to cable. I wrestled the cable out of its box, undid the twist-ties, and unrolled to cord. I spun the TV around backwards so I could get to the screwy cable thingy. I then spent ten minutes trying to twist on the cable the wrong way. After a few suppressed curse words, some extraneous tools, and sore fingers, I remembered, "Righty tighty, left loosey." Ahh. Well, that made it a lot easier. But I still had to screw the other end of the cable into the jack...in the wall...behind my roomate's fully loaded, solid wood, triple tier desk. Lovely.
Between the two of us, we got the stupid honking big piece of furniture moved out a couple of inches. With one arm angled over the first tier, and the other angled behind it, which had me practically sprawled, flat-out over the desk, it only took about 6 minutes to righty tighty the cable into place. And I flicked on the TV, and Gilmore Girls was on! So my roomate and I shrieked "Gilmore Girls!" and jumped onto my bed and spent the next half hour trying to figure out if it was Rory's high school or college graduation. It was college, the one where she turns down Logan's marraige proposal so he dumps her.
Welcome to the adult world.
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