I'm starting to panic about an español mid-term I have tomorrow. I've freaked out over the exam for a week--it all started last week, martes, when he gave us the review material. We were supposed to have exams at the end of every chapter, but we are going to be tested on three pre-chapters and two chapters tomorrow.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail.
I just wanted to say, to all those kids who are taking this class, admittedly, for "an easy A": I don't like you. I don't like you at all. It's all your fault that he gave us homework from chapters that we aren't even supposed to cover this semester. It's all your fault we didn't have an exam one chapter ago. It's all your fault he has high expectations. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, AND YOU'RE GOING TO PASS WITHOUT BREAKING ANY SEMBLANCE OF A SWEAT WHILE I DIE IN THE CORNER WRITHING IN SHEER AGONY.
I feel better now. Thanks for listening. I'm off to cram in some more español.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Midterms: hungry and studying
I used to eat roast beef, but found I liked ham instead.
Then I found ham too salty, and now I like roast beef again.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Senoritis
I thought today was Tuesday.
And as I was headed up the stairs to my first class, I stopped on the third floor instead of heading up to the fifth because I completely forgot where I was going.
Confused, perhaps, but warm (courtesy of scarf). Confused, but almost, nearly, practically done with four years of school.
Living a Jane Austen novel
UPDATE: I have added why I started writing my life as an Austen novel. In case you so wanted to know. And I know you did.
Literature of the 19th century is one of my classes this semester, and while the novels are fun to read, the ideas my professor relates to us can get rather tedious. Last week, during one of his soliloquies, I was suddenly intrigued by the idea of what my life might look like if I were in one of Austen's novels. I've had to adjust some details for it. My family is just too modern for Austen.
But some pieces:
Literature of the 19th century is one of my classes this semester, and while the novels are fun to read, the ideas my professor relates to us can get rather tedious. Last week, during one of his soliloquies, I was suddenly intrigued by the idea of what my life might look like if I were in one of Austen's novels. I've had to adjust some details for it. My family is just too modern for Austen.
But some pieces:
One of their mother’s beaus was a foppish, silly sort of man named Matthew Mark. He had never previously been married, yet Mrs. Pith’s eight children and widowed status did not frighten him. When he wooed Mrs. Pith, he was just developing a trading company. Soon after his rejected proposal, the company flourished and, unable to accept her refusal, he constantly offered Mrs. Pith and her children presents. It showed the family’s lack of propriety when they accepted the gifts, and it revealed their prudence when they carefully hid the source of the offerings. In fact, the children believed that it couldn’t be helped. The family was in need and he was offering assistance. The mother only learned the extent of the gifts the children graciously received on her behalf when she saw them flouncing around wearing the latest bonnets from
__________
One of the Pith boys had nearly enlisted in the military, but he did not have the money to pay a debt he owed. The second Pith boy, having found a sponsor, was headed to University; and the third, still too young for such decisions, simply did what young boys did best, and teased his sisters.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Pulling teeth
At 11:30 a.m. this morning, I received my first "weekly." The weeklies are different from the walk-ins at the tutoring lab. The walk-ins come in, grab an available tutor, and torture the tutor for one hour. The walk-ins can make another appointment if they so choose with that particular tutor, or they can get another tutor. The weeklies, on the other hand, come in every week at the same time to torture their assigned tutor. I use "torture" lovingly, of course. Perhaps it's not so much torture as it is ... hmm ... no, it's torture.
There are the few perfectly lovely students, of course; I don't want to imply that all the people coming in for help only offer a time of agonizing pain and suffering--that's simply not true. There are the few who instantly get the point the tutor is trying to make, who manage to use their new-found knowledge to sculpt not only an amazing thesis, but delightful topic sentences as well, and who part ways at the end of the hour with a wide smile and a "have a great week!"
But these particular students are few and far between, and I seriously doubted my tutoring abilities this morning when I was given a weekly who somehow managed to seemingly cuddle with me, leaning on my shoulder at one point, with bad breath and a stubborn inability to understand anything I was trying to say. This was further compounded by the added stress of only having a half an hour instead of the full hour. When he left, I learned that he wanted to switch tutors; I apparently wasn't good enough.
The head tutor did reassure me, however, saying that that particular student was odd, he could sense it when the guy came in, but I was the only available tutor and I did fine. It wasn't me, he said. Which I seriously continued to doubt, especially when my next student, a walk-in, showed me a nearly incoherent essay with no visible thesis and phrases like "individual innocuous" splattered throughout.
So, after the equivalent of pulling five teeth (also equivalent to one and a half hours), we managed to come up with a thesis, and we started on the topic sentences. We hadn't even touched his grammar.
At 2 p.m., my shift ended and I finally ran away, completely drained of all energy and convinced that I was a failure. Could I quit? I thought, hurrying up the stairs to my Egyptian art class. Maybe I'll give it one more day. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a tutor. Oddly enough, there was no panic, simply a deep-seated weariness. Another writing tutor had warned me about this weariness--she'd said that the trick is to help them while not becoming completely drained.
Maybe I just need a little time to figure out how to do that.
UPDATE: Today (Tuesday) was a complete 180 from yesterday (when the above post was written), since I only had one student and I was able to successfully help her without coming away from the session feeling like a smushed pile of silly putty. That was nice.
There are the few perfectly lovely students, of course; I don't want to imply that all the people coming in for help only offer a time of agonizing pain and suffering--that's simply not true. There are the few who instantly get the point the tutor is trying to make, who manage to use their new-found knowledge to sculpt not only an amazing thesis, but delightful topic sentences as well, and who part ways at the end of the hour with a wide smile and a "have a great week!"
But these particular students are few and far between, and I seriously doubted my tutoring abilities this morning when I was given a weekly who somehow managed to seemingly cuddle with me, leaning on my shoulder at one point, with bad breath and a stubborn inability to understand anything I was trying to say. This was further compounded by the added stress of only having a half an hour instead of the full hour. When he left, I learned that he wanted to switch tutors; I apparently wasn't good enough.
The head tutor did reassure me, however, saying that that particular student was odd, he could sense it when the guy came in, but I was the only available tutor and I did fine. It wasn't me, he said. Which I seriously continued to doubt, especially when my next student, a walk-in, showed me a nearly incoherent essay with no visible thesis and phrases like "individual innocuous" splattered throughout.
So, after the equivalent of pulling five teeth (also equivalent to one and a half hours), we managed to come up with a thesis, and we started on the topic sentences. We hadn't even touched his grammar.
At 2 p.m., my shift ended and I finally ran away, completely drained of all energy and convinced that I was a failure. Could I quit? I thought, hurrying up the stairs to my Egyptian art class. Maybe I'll give it one more day. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a tutor. Oddly enough, there was no panic, simply a deep-seated weariness. Another writing tutor had warned me about this weariness--she'd said that the trick is to help them while not becoming completely drained.
Maybe I just need a little time to figure out how to do that.
UPDATE: Today (Tuesday) was a complete 180 from yesterday (when the above post was written), since I only had one student and I was able to successfully help her without coming away from the session feeling like a smushed pile of silly putty. That was nice.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Indecision
I didn't know what I wanted to do when I went to college. All I knew was that I needed to go. I jumped from wanting to be an archeology major to being a history major. My first semester, I had a class with the Most Bizarre Teacher Ever and knew that I had to do something else or the rest of my college career would include classes with this strange person. I switched to psychology, because I thought it would be interesting to study people, and, like, stuff. My interest in psychology ended when I learned ... hmm, now I don't remember now why my interest in psychology waned. But wane it did, and then I moved to English after I joined the school newspaper. There was a short period of time when I couldn't figure out if I wanted Communications instead, but I hate speaking in front of people, and in order to avoid speech classes, an English major I remained.
And thus I remain still, until this very day.
I have extensive experience in journalism, from reporting to editing to editor-in-chiefing to interning at a daily paper and compiling over 40 clips. Journalism was my life, my dream, my goal--until something happened, I don't know exactly what, and I decided that I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue in journalism.
I graduate next semester, finally, after four brutal years, and I am in the boat that I scoffed at others for being in. The boat that holds those who scratch theirs heads and murmur, "I don't know what I am going to do." It's a rocky boat, and there are storms on the horizon.
While I have some ideas about my future, I'm not entirely sure yet. It's not too frightening, really--or at least, I'm not allowing myself to be frightened--because, the possibilities are endless and I can set off in any direction I so choose. I was told today that I need to just get a job, that I need to stop being in a state of transition as a student and just arrive already. Get a job, she said, and use the weekends or whatever to figure out what you want to do.
Okay, I'm ready to arrive. Which direction to my dream?
And thus I remain still, until this very day.
I have extensive experience in journalism, from reporting to editing to editor-in-chiefing to interning at a daily paper and compiling over 40 clips. Journalism was my life, my dream, my goal--until something happened, I don't know exactly what, and I decided that I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue in journalism.
I graduate next semester, finally, after four brutal years, and I am in the boat that I scoffed at others for being in. The boat that holds those who scratch theirs heads and murmur, "I don't know what I am going to do." It's a rocky boat, and there are storms on the horizon.
While I have some ideas about my future, I'm not entirely sure yet. It's not too frightening, really--or at least, I'm not allowing myself to be frightened--because, the possibilities are endless and I can set off in any direction I so choose. I was told today that I need to just get a job, that I need to stop being in a state of transition as a student and just arrive already. Get a job, she said, and use the weekends or whatever to figure out what you want to do.
Okay, I'm ready to arrive. Which direction to my dream?
Saturday, October 11, 2008
No ransom note
I washed my hair with body wash this morning. As a final insult, before I realized that I was washing my hair with body wash, when I snapped the lid closed some body wash shot into my eye.
That's when I decided that a letter from my empty skull might be an amusing thing to read, because apparently my brain is off somewhere, dipping into sun-kissed pools and frolicking across meadows, while I try, brainless, to maneuver school, life and hair washings.
Unfortunately, my empty skull just informed me that while it would love to write a letter for me to post on my blog about its current trials, it really can't do anything without a brain. My skull did mention, however, that it is optimistic about a possible brain return next spring after graduation.
I think that's good news for all of us, but keep in mind, it is only a rumor.
That's when I decided that a letter from my empty skull might be an amusing thing to read, because apparently my brain is off somewhere, dipping into sun-kissed pools and frolicking across meadows, while I try, brainless, to maneuver school, life and hair washings.
Unfortunately, my empty skull just informed me that while it would love to write a letter for me to post on my blog about its current trials, it really can't do anything without a brain. My skull did mention, however, that it is optimistic about a possible brain return next spring after graduation.
I think that's good news for all of us, but keep in mind, it is only a rumor.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
What just happened
I went to sign up for a job through work study this morning. I started the job this afternoon. My mind is a little bit frazzled, and I scarcely understand how that nonsense all worked out, but regardless of the semantics, I am now a writing tutor. I won't bore you with everything else that I am doing in addition to this new job. My brain stopped working ever since I started college, and now it just gets zapped every once in awhile.
When I was waiting for the interview, a (I will add an adjective here, and you'll see why that's relevant in a moment) white girl came up to the table where I was sitting and asked if I was the tutor. I told her no, didn't mention not yet, but merely said that I was waiting for someone, too. Not too long after she left, someone else came up, and I anticipated--okay, assumed--that he was looking for a tutor, too.
"Are you here for me?" he asked.
"No, I'm waiting for someone," I said. "Are you looking for a tutor?"
"I am the tutor," he said, sitting down after grabbing his book bag, which had been already sitting on the table. "Looks can be deceiving. I am also a part-time bank robber, a pimp and a priest."
He'd hit all the stereotypes usually associated with his skin color. I stared at him, not even realizing that he, with a spoken articulation that most writers--no matter their skin color--simply don't have, had assumed that I thought he was looking for a tutor simply because he was black.
"You should write a memoir," I teased, blurting out the only thing I could think of to say.
He laughed, seeming to be completely at ease, and explained that he hadn't thought of writing a memoir, though he had written a book. He was having a difficult time publishing it, though. I was then called away to my interview.
It took me five hours to become a paid tutor, and one unthinking second to be considered a moron.
When I was waiting for the interview, a (I will add an adjective here, and you'll see why that's relevant in a moment) white girl came up to the table where I was sitting and asked if I was the tutor. I told her no, didn't mention not yet, but merely said that I was waiting for someone, too. Not too long after she left, someone else came up, and I anticipated--okay, assumed--that he was looking for a tutor, too.
"Are you here for me?" he asked.
"No, I'm waiting for someone," I said. "Are you looking for a tutor?"
"I am the tutor," he said, sitting down after grabbing his book bag, which had been already sitting on the table. "Looks can be deceiving. I am also a part-time bank robber, a pimp and a priest."
He'd hit all the stereotypes usually associated with his skin color. I stared at him, not even realizing that he, with a spoken articulation that most writers--no matter their skin color--simply don't have, had assumed that I thought he was looking for a tutor simply because he was black.
"You should write a memoir," I teased, blurting out the only thing I could think of to say.
He laughed, seeming to be completely at ease, and explained that he hadn't thought of writing a memoir, though he had written a book. He was having a difficult time publishing it, though. I was then called away to my interview.
It took me five hours to become a paid tutor, and one unthinking second to be considered a moron.
That was TOTAALLY WIICKED
This past Saturday, I went corn mazing with some friends. On the ride there, I asked the married couple how they met. The resulting conversation started like this:
Dave: "We met in a fist fight."
Nina: "Katie won."
Me: "And that's when Dave fell in love."
Katie: "He saw me through his black eye."
The rest of the day continued to be awesome.
So awesome.
I still can't decide what the best part of the day was--one of the best was definitely when KG climbed into the cornstalks to take a picture, then had to go all the way through to the other side very quickly because some kids came down the path, and she was "breaking a rule."
Another awesome moment came when we decided to "think of the children" and attempted to remove a very dangerous, embedded stump from the path.
This is before:
This is after:
That is a rock. Yes, we left it the stump as a more dangerous obstacle than how we found it. But we got a TOOTTALLLY WIIICKED video from our valiant attempts. That I won't share, because it's rather embarrassing.
Another awesome moment was Noodles, the Wonder Cat, who climbed through a fence, cuddled with everyone and then tried to eat our cider donuts. I couldn't get a picture of him attacking the bag because I had the camera on one hand, and I was trying to lift him away from the donuts with the other.
I just want to say: go to a fall festival if you get a chance. Get lost in a corn maze. Pick a pumpkin.
Drink cider. Eat cider dogs.
Watch out for tractors.
Dave: "We met in a fist fight."
Nina: "Katie won."
Me: "And that's when Dave fell in love."
Katie: "He saw me through his black eye."
The rest of the day continued to be awesome.
So awesome.
I still can't decide what the best part of the day was--one of the best was definitely when KG climbed into the cornstalks to take a picture, then had to go all the way through to the other side very quickly because some kids came down the path, and she was "breaking a rule."
Another awesome moment came when we decided to "think of the children" and attempted to remove a very dangerous, embedded stump from the path.
This is before:
This is after:
That is a rock. Yes, we left it the stump as a more dangerous obstacle than how we found it. But we got a TOOTTALLLY WIIICKED video from our valiant attempts. That I won't share, because it's rather embarrassing.
Another awesome moment was Noodles, the Wonder Cat, who climbed through a fence, cuddled with everyone and then tried to eat our cider donuts. I couldn't get a picture of him attacking the bag because I had the camera on one hand, and I was trying to lift him away from the donuts with the other.
I just want to say: go to a fall festival if you get a chance. Get lost in a corn maze. Pick a pumpkin.
Drink cider. Eat cider dogs.
Watch out for tractors.
When be windy
It's taken a little longer than I thought to get this blog up and running, and I'm sorry! I'm sorry I haven't given out the url more, that I'm not creative enough, that I have homework, that I haven't found the perfect pre-made template for it.
Right now, I'm very tired and I keep setting my head down, but I know if I do that enough times, I will give up, only to awake 50 years later to find that all the children I loved to play with are now old and gray.
...
...
Okay, that didn't make sense at all, and it's because my eyes are starting to close and my brain is starting to shut down, and I am trying to figure out how much homework I can get away with not doing for tomorrow.
I have done about half of my Spanish homework, and the best part so far has been using freetranslation.com and spanishdict.com. Freetranslation.com is especially alluring because they have a machine do the translations for you, and the translations sometimes don't make sense. But they sure are funny!
So, when I'm in the dumps, I like to pull out freetranslation.com and announce: "When be windy I like to fly a comet in the beach" because, really, the windy days are the best days to fly comets.
Right now, I'm very tired and I keep setting my head down, but I know if I do that enough times, I will give up, only to awake 50 years later to find that all the children I loved to play with are now old and gray.
...
...
Okay, that didn't make sense at all, and it's because my eyes are starting to close and my brain is starting to shut down, and I am trying to figure out how much homework I can get away with not doing for tomorrow.
I have done about half of my Spanish homework, and the best part so far has been using freetranslation.com and spanishdict.com. Freetranslation.com is especially alluring because they have a machine do the translations for you, and the translations sometimes don't make sense. But they sure are funny!
So, when I'm in the dumps, I like to pull out freetranslation.com and announce: "When be windy I like to fly a comet in the beach" because, really, the windy days are the best days to fly comets.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Welcome
I have been something of a closet blogger for nearly two years. In January 2007, the spring semester of my sophomore year, I ended my teenaged angst-filled journals and started a blogger account, ready to venture into the world of Internet self-proclaimed writers. I have always needed an outlet for my creative energies, and my journals and then my blog provided something of a relief.
Then I offended someone on my anonymous blog. How can this happen, you ask, if the blog is anonymous? While the Internet in general had no idea who I was, several people I directed to the blog did. Out of malicious intent, I wrote a post that wasn’t very nice. I have now learned from that particular mistake, and I am moving on—moving on to sharing my life with everyone at the risk of offending even more people.
No, really, everyone is over it now, the situation merely remains seared into my memory to serve as a guideline for future posts. I have rules now.
One slow Friday evening, tonight as a matter of fact, I decided to start over. I’ve had some good times on my previous blog, but I have a feeling more people want to know what’s going on in my life. I can’t share that old blog with everyone, because I wasn’t writing it with everyone in mind. With the change, I am hoping that everyone won’t stifle me—I need a certain amount of freedom—but we shall see how this goes.
I am not going to talk politics, but I will discuss religion. I am not going to spread gossip—I am going to try not to spread gossip—but I will most likely relate the most recent stupid thing I did or said. I think of myself as something of a social klutz, and that makes for good reading.
As I started to design the blog, I wanted to come up with something witty and descriptive of me. However, I couldn’t think of anything. Not one word popped into my mind that would be able to conclusively define me.
I quickly conducted a mental survey of friends who were most likely awake, able to respond, and willing to offer one honest, descriptive word. I texted them: Can you describe me in one word?
As I had suspected, the response was immediate:
- 10:00 p.m. No … 10:01 p.m. Beautiful. … 10:02 p.m. You cant describe a person in one word unless they’re a debased moron or a simpleton
- 10:01 p.m. Sweet :)
- 10:01 p.m. One word that comes to mind is reflective :)
- 10:01 p.m. No. You’re too multifaceted for that. Even complex doesn’t quite cover it.
- 10:52 p.m. Sardonic
Ah, I love you guys. Come back and keep up with my life. It’ll be quite the hilarious journey, I promise you.
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