i guess i made dean's list

Speeding towards the classroom, with mere seconds away from being late, I saw him making a beeline right towards me. He was my student last semester in my school’s tutoring center, and because he reminded me of my brother, I had a bit more tolerance than I normally would have when he sat too close and wrote sentences about his lack of a girlfriend.

I thought that I would never see him again, but he somehow managed to bump into me randomly on campus. And he has a class right before mine in the same classroom. If I mismanaged my arrival time, he intercepted me and monopolized my time talking about music (he plays piano) and one of my friends, who is very pretty and a better pianist than he is. Fortunately, today, because I was late, I managed to say, “HiBorisIhavetogotoclass,” in response to his “ELIZABETH: WHAT ARE YOUR SUMMER PLA—“ and slip past him. There was no loophole for him—my professor was already at her desk taking attendance. I relaxed over my close call.

Immediately after class, I fled downstairs to exit in the front of the building. With our last newspaper issue on stands Monday, the staff was celebrating the end of the year with a picnic. It had been raining in the morning, so I wasn’t sure if we were still going to be outside, but I went to check just in case. Then I saw him again, coming in through the doors. I quickly changed directions to exit through another set of doors, but he saw my maneuvering and he intercepted me. “ELIZABETH,” he said, keeping pace with me as I sped up through the doors and down the steps. “WHAT ARE YOUR SUMMER PLANS?”

“Oh, this and that,” I said.

“YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE?”

“No,” I said, trying to move around him as I surveyed the lawn in front of the building. I saw no one I recognized. I would have hung out for a little while to see if anyone showed up, but Boris was not going away. He was talking about his summer plans, and something about the Dean’s List – I abruptly sped up and charged in the direction of the newspaper office. At this point, my only thought was escape.

“DID YOU GO TO THE CEREMONY?”

“What ceremony?” I asked, not making eye contact.

“THE DEAN’S LIST CEREMONY.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think I made the dean’s list.”

“OH, YOU DID,” he informed me.

“Hm, I didn’t get a letter or anything.” I was close to the gate. There was the stop light. It was changing—I was plunging across the street, and Boris was still walking with me. He was saying something about how he didn’t go to the dean’s party because he’d wanted to practice so he could be a better piano player than my friend, and I said something vague about it being unlikely. He finally turned back, after making it to the middle of the street with me. I made it across the street and couldn’t stop laughing.

------

Every time I go to work, I see her, and I say hi and how are you doing? She says she's fine, but there's something going on with Matt/Bob/Nick/Joe/Mike/Tim.

Matt is the guy she met online.

Bob was also from online.

Nick was the guy at the doctor's office who took care of her when she was sick.

Her bartender, Joe, walked her home one night but now he doesn't talk to her.

She met Mike in the bar and he seemed really sweet so they went on a date, but she isn't sure about him.

Tim showed up over spring break and they've been dating for three weeks but he won't kiss her. Or is the kissing nice? I can't remember.

She gives up on guys about every other day, and I think that maybe that's a good idea because I can't keep track anymore.

"Is Nick the one that gained weight?" I ask.

"No, that's Mike," she explains.

"Who sent you that funny text?"

"Tim. I like Tim."

But I can tell that she's looking for any excuse to not like Tim, and today she found it. Something about a really weird Facebook message. But I forget to ask for details, then I have to work, and I wonder what it was exactly that made her not like Tim anymore.

The April Project: Day Two: Clever

I'm on page eight of David Sedaris' book, Naked, and I love it already. He's odd, it's true, but his very oddity blends with his fabulous writing style to create a delicious story.

I might be on page 15 of the book, or even 20, if it weren't for a little mishap I created this morning. For some reason, noon was implanted in my head as a Very Important Time. I have a tutor meeting today (we are forced to come to school on a Friday [a Friday!!] every month just for these things), and I did not want to be late. I was ready by 11 and out the door by 11:18. Yet, as the time inched closer to 11:30, and I, standing at the bus stop with no bus in sight, was becoming nervous about being late, my brain suddenly decided to kick into gear.

My meeting was at 1 p.m.

This minor detail was verified by a quick phone call to another tutor (who'd been up late the night before, drinking, and revealed through the tone in her voice that she did not care for the interruption), and I shifted my weight from side to side as I tried to figure out what to do. Home was an eight minute walk away, and leaving is always depressing, so that option was nixed. A friend with three adorable children lived about five minutes away, but she never answers her phone, and thus another possibility was quickly terminated.

Had I mentioned it was raining? And that I'd caught something itchy in my throat that'd been held at bay by random doses of Airborne?

Nevertheless, I decided to walk five avenues. In the rain. Fighting a cold. It gave me enough time to text a friend about spring break possibilities (next week. PRAISE THE LORD.), think about random things, and even buy a birthday card for that tutor I called. Her birthday is this weekend and her party is tonight, but I'm not going. Something about getting smashed and making out with complete strangers does not appeal to me. But perhaps kids these days do other things at parties. Like eat food. Or watch movies. I haven't the slightest idea.

I beat the bus I was waiting for. I saw it pull up as I went into the store. Then, as I was leaving the store, another bus pulled up just as I walked to the bus stop. Funny.

But not as funny as David Sedaris, who I will never be as clever as. Especially if I can't even remember when a work meeting is supposed to start.

Why I'm a bad Penelope

My left ring finger started to hurt and then swell yesterday. I wonder if it is some sort of sign from God. A judgment, perhaps? Am I being punished for being picky? For being clumsy? Did I knock my finger against something hard enough to jam it, but not hard enough for me to feel it happen?

It still hurts for me to try to bend it, and the swelling increased slightly today. I bore my wound proudly all day, randomly flexing my fingers. Ow, ow. I am not brave enough to do things that would injure me on a daily basis, and I spend the time to honor each bruise and sore muscle. (I'm pathetic; I knew this already. Shut up.)

My desire to show off my wound led me, this morning, to try to cheer up a Spanish II classmate while we waited outside a locked classroom for a professor we both weren't fond of.

I whipped out my bruised and swollen finger.

She gazed upon it, with slack-jawed awe.

"It distracted you, didn't it?" I smugly asked.

She laughed. "Yes, it did."

"But you're not impressed?" I guessed.

She hesitated. "Well ... I jammed my thumb ... " She trailed off as she pulled back her coat sleeve to reveal an over-sized red thumb that could possibly have been mistaken for a third arm.

Basketball players. Pshaw.

I quickly drew my sweater back over my own hand.

"Okay," I said. "You win!"

Why I hate public transportation

I tend to go somewhere else in my mind when I'm taking public transportation. If I have a fabulous fiction book, I'll escape entirely through reading. If I have to read for school, I'll usually zone out by looking out the window intermittently with trying to skim a few pages.

It's a lot of smelly people crammed into one little space on the bus or train, and I want to avoid eye contact in case a Crazy shows up, but I also want to make sure I'm not depriving the elderly, the pregnant, or the parent of a seat they need. Worse, I HAVE to take public transportation. I can't afford a car. I can barely afford MTA.

I usually watch the fortunate as they drive by in their minivans and beat-up sedans. At one bus stop, I saw one young man sitting in the front seat of a minivan, holding a shaking (from tininess and indignation, apparently) white dog on his lap. He laughed with the driver as the dog barked at something. The car sped off as the light turned green, while I sat in my seat, waiting for more people to get on the bus.

Despite the smells and possibly contagious diseases transferred by coughs or sneezes, MTA isn't too, too bad, especially when you manage to catch it during an off-hour, when everyone is already at work or school. I've never had a problem with completely careless driver, and cars usually respect the bus.

Or, cars did respect the bus.

This morning, I watched people through the window per usual. My brain was tired, and my anthology of plays lay open in my lap, unread. Jewish neighborhoods are always fun. I look to see what they are wearing, and try to guess if they're married or not. We were inching past the light near a synagogue. Having spied all the personalities I could catch, I then looked down, still through the window, eyeing a car that was trying to make a right turn. The car turned, ever so slowly, and I waited for the car to stop. The bus was clearly in the way -- half past the car. But the car didn't stop, in fact, the car continued to turn -- into the bus.

It wasn't a bang or a thump; it was a crackle. The car crackled into the bus.

The bus driver pulled the bus over, and told us all to get off. She was clearly annoyed. We filtered off, some not even realizing what had happened, and crossed the street to head back to the bus stop. Pieces of the errant vehicle littered the road, cracking under passing cars.

Another bus came by five minutes later, which was rather anti-climatic, I thought. I had envisioned missing class, and having to send my professor an email explaining that I'd missed class because my bus had been hit by a car -- and worried that I wouldn't be able to prove it.

No need. I made it to class with three minutes to spare, ready to burst out to my friends that MY BUS HAD BEEN HIT. BY A CAR. But I knew they wouldn't have been impressed. After all, nothing had burst into flames and no blood has been spilled. Next time, I suppose.

The here and now

I have a brand-new nephew, an adorable haircut, and ... oh, what's this ... a vise-like sensation gripping my skull. This headache signifies that I have signed up for a tuition pay plan to pay off next semester. I apparently am not receiving any more financial aid, and it will now cost my soul (signed away with a contract written in my own blood) and first born to finish my degree.

I wish this is something I could just blame on Bush and the flippin' retarded economy. But I can't. The fact of the matter is that I'm just a kid, trying to work my way through school, and I can't make enough to pay for rent, food, tuition, and MTA cards. What's that you say? Christmas is right around the corner? Insert inappropriate curse word here. No matter how many jobs I take on (three, last count) or how hard I try to finish school despite transferring (18 credits this and next semester), I can't seem to work it out.

I'm not looking for pity or to induce any sort of guilt. I merely want to present the idea that life is hard. People, life is hard, and we can blame the president or the economy, or we can take a moment to sigh, and then we need to keep moving forward. I heard once that if your childhood sucks, then your adulthood will be awesome. If I'm still a child, then I'll ride the wave a little bit longer. But if I am now an adult, then, dude, this still sucks.

I make up words when I'm lonely

Hup-lah (hoop-la) (noun): An epic trip that usually takes place after college graduation to stave off the real world. For example: Abigail plans to go to California after May to go on a huplah with her friends.

Huplah must not be confused with hoopla (bustling excitement or activity; commotion; hullabaloo; to-do), even though spelling and meaning are oddly similar.

--

I had been thinking of going on a huplah to Peru. After all, when would I really ever get the chance again to blow some hypothetical dollars using a credit card and have the adventure of a lifetime, all without worrying about classes (because they've ended), and student loans (because they're not due for six months)? My sense of adventure is not as strong as Jamaican rum, however, and, as a result, I want to share my huplah with someone. That someone is a good friend who lives in a cozy little town somewhere north of Sacramento, California.

Which means, of course, that I've got some plannin' to do. Huplahs have very specific guidelines, especially because they signify the end of freedom as relatively carefree college students know it.

I get hit on at the most random times

"I apologize for my curtness."

"I like your curtness. It's cute."

"Are you hitting on me?"

"No, I'm way out of your league."

"Oh?"

"You're like an eight, and I'm like a negative three."

In other, more exciting news

For our "extra credit" quiz/mid-term/whatever in Spanish, I earned a 9/10. I'm not sure what that means for my grade overall, but a 9/10 is much better than a 61/100.

Next Tuesday, for more "extra credit," these three slackers from my class and I will give a presentation on Peru. I will be talking about the weather, and giving the introduction. During the rest of my research, I will be trying to stay from any sites involving airplanes and booking possibilities, because I've already discovered that a flight there and back, not flexible, costs about $500. It's so very tempting to purchase such a ticket when the wind in Brooklyn sneaks up your sleeves and into your bones, while it bites your nose and clips off the tips of your ears.

I don't care if the weather in Peru is unpredictable. The natives are going to the beach this time of year and what am I doing? I'm sitting in a drafty apartment and trying to figure out how to fix the computer-related mistakes I foolishly made.

A little bit of crooked sunshine

She was a little taller than waist level, bundled up in a pink coat, with a blue hat and white flower. She was standing in front of me, not exactly looking at me. I glanced down, smiled, and said, “Hi!”

Children usually make my day better. There is no guile, no sarcasm, no cruelty. Their smiles are genuine, their energy infectious.

She smiled, still not quite looking at me, not quite looking away. Then she started walking toward me, as her parents, waiting to pay for their Starbucks drinks, watched.

She hugged me. Confused, I patted her back as her father said, “She never gives me hugs!” and her mother, handing a card to the cashier said, “That’s just the way she is. She says hi to the people she wants to say hi to.”

The hug over, the little girl retreated, and then started to wander away, behind a pillar. Her mother grabbed the receipt and then quickly grabbed her daughter. The Starbucks drinks disappeared into a bag, and then the small family was gone.

We who are about to die

I am an editor at the better newspaper (there's two rival newspapers. Interesting and long history behind that) at my school. I give them advice on layout (which they don't want to take) and fix things they mess up (sometimes without telling them, and they don't realize why it's so much better). I also update their website, usually on a weekly basis.

I try to give them their space; they're all editors who are more important than I, with specific expectations on how their newspaper is run. I am something of an outsider and loner, having leaped into an editor position since I'd already climbed the ranks at my other school.

I usually don't comment on what they do.

Except, this time, they wrote something in their editorial that struck me. They wrote, "We at the ______ salute you." They were writing it to the young voters who turned out in record numbers for this election. This particular statement struck me because I've learned about Roman history. I've even watched the well-made movie Gladiator. I hope you have as well, because it is really a good movie, despite the incest and gore. There is a scene where the gladiators stand in the ring, prepared to die. They face the emperor, salute him, and shout, "We who are about to die salute you."

Historical fact: gladiators saluted the emperor when they were about to die--dying for the entertainment of the masses, who wanted gore and bread.

I'm not sure what the use of this particular phrase says about my newspaper, or my school, or my country. I merely found it to be an unfortunate use of words that were usually the last words of a man condemned to death, before he fought for his life in front of a crowd who could determine his fate merely by the position of an outstretched thumb.

Just a moment

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.

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.

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.

Because I had a moment, with one of my classes canceled, I decided to grab a computer and illustrate how I feel:

Confused, perhaps, but warm (courtesy of scarf). Confused, but almost, nearly, practically done with four years of school.

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.

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?