Folks, it's that time of the year again: where we remember Jesus Christ, where we stuff our faces with animal shaped chocolate, and where we can finally stop tormenting our roommates by going to Starbucks because Lent is finally over. And you thought I would be too specific in this blog!
I'm not particularly religious, so I've never used this time to reflect on Jesus, and searching for candy-filled eggs and gorging ourselves in chocolate doesn't do a fantastic job reminding us of what Easter is all about. I think Eddie Izzard would agree:
When I was little, I was so enthralled by the idea of eating extra dessert, that the whole "what is this supposed to mean?" thing kind of escaped me. I just demolished some bunnies. Now that I'm nineteen, I'm staring to see Easter a little differently:
Pay no attention to the headless bunny behind the curtain
I've stopped Easter egg hunting since I was ten. And by ten I mean sixteen. Because the holiday has been increasingly losing its magic every year, I've grown disheartened by this loss of joy towards what once evoked sleepless nights six months before the actual holiday. Even the chocolate, while still delicious, doesn't have that magic je ne sais quoi. Perhaps that's because it's American chocolate, not French.
So are the older just doomed to sad and depressing holidays because they aren't as magical as they once were? Is that why Christmas makes everyone over the age of twenty want to huddle in a corner? Perhaps yes, for some who want to live in their own personal soap opera, or who watched The Grinch one too many times. But have no fear--you don't have to instantly become religious or age negative ten years in order to enjoy the chocolate-eating activities.
The answer? Kids.
No, I'm not pulling a "16 and pregnant" on you and telling you to go pop out a few babies. But if you can surround yourself by nieces, nephews, cousins, students, etc. during a holiday, that magical feel instantly comes back. I guarantee it. I had an early Easter dinner with family last weekend, and my little cousin Liam had his very first egg hunt. Watching his face light up in delight after finding that first egg was a hundred times more exciting than any egg hunt I'd participated in before. That kid is going to be wild in hide 'n seek, let me tell you, because he found twelve eggs in a matter of three minutes. At two years old. I swear, this should be news for the presses.
My dad used to tell me religiously (no pun intended) that "when you're older, you get more joy out of seeing your kids' happiness than your own." I would shove some bunny ears into my mouth, nod, and say "okay Dad, what's your point?"
He also told me that you should separate your colors from whites and wash your clothes in hot water. Some things never stick.
But his first piece of advice did. Even if you're a long way away from having kids yourself, just offering some little pieces of joy to any little kid is going to impact both the kid and yourself. Hiding a few plastic ovals may not seem like a lot, but once you see that kid run around like he's just won the lottery, it starts to make more sense.
My older cousins heavily influenced my brother's and my own childhood simply by flinging playmobile cars down a staircase, hunting for "New Jersey elves" and swinging hammocks. To this day, they are the coolest cousins a girl could ask for. What seems silly and fun to an adult is, to a kid, somewhere along the lines of ten new Harry Potter books.
Easter doesn't die when you start paying taxes. Hang with some kids, and you'll see what I mean.
And until then, there's always this to drown your "I'm getting old" sorrows in:
So, as some of you know, I am a member of Penn State's "Problem Child" literary magazine. And as it turns out, sometimes we act like problem children. With the combination of sentimentalism (as the semester is drawing to a close) and sugar highs (due to a quantity of Teddy Grahams that is not healthy for any human being), we kind of went a little nuts. And by a little nuts, I mean this:
I don't know what's up with the sudden spike in Jenna Marbles Gifs. I'm just going through a time, don't judge!
But there a few valuable life lessons I learned at tonight's Problem Child meeting that I thought I would share with you lovely people of the world.
1) If you are enraged with a certain person and write an angry poem about him/her, do not submit that poem.
What you think is literary genius in the heat of the moment is actually a bunch of metaphorical "fuck you"s lumped together on a page. It doesn't matter how many literary references you make in this smattering on anger, it will still look petty. And ridiculous. Thankfully, this angry poem had no romance involved, or shit really would have gone down, and I would soon be the Taylor Swift of literary magazines.
That insult has the same sting as calling Johnny Depp un-sexy.
2) A pig can orgasm for 30 minutes.
That fact I already knew from The Oatmeal. Yoda I speak. But what I didn't know is that when certain friends suggests that I should write a poem about these pig orgasms, I would automatically combine the two words (which results in "porgasms"), and somehow my brain would translate that to "porkgasms."
And then I would burst out laughing for the next five minutes. No joke. Sometimes, I'm surprised I can go out and talk to people in the world.
3) One should not try to open a closing elevator door with one's bare hands.
So I have a fun story for you peeps. After the meeting was over, my friend and I got in the elevator like lazy people tend to do. As the door started to close, we saw the rest of the group approach us. I lunged towards the entrance, screaming out "noooooo!" And slammed my hands against the door. By this point, the door was almost 3/4 of the way shut, but I had equated that to times I've seen people use their arms to keep a fully open door from shutting. Not the same thing. As the group got closer, I pushed harder and harder, and my friend was flipping shit in the corner. But whils't the flipping out occurred, she was sensible enough to do what any normal person would do, and push the "door open" button. In my brain, however, I had attacked this door with my bare hands and allowed my friends to enter the elevator.
If it weren't for friends with common sense, I would have no fingers right now. Only now do I realize my life flashed before my eyes.
4) Real life hashtags are cool if you make the symbol with your hands.
So Twitter hashtags are getting stale, right? Actually, I never understood the appeal of Twitter. But hashtags have a whole new level of coolness when turned "interactive."
So how does one create such an elaborate symbol with one's hands?
Glad you asked.
Step one.
Put on some sunglasses. Because all cool people wear sunglasses.
Step two.
Make an anorexic peace sign:
Step three.
Get a really bossy anorexic peace sign and slam it right in front of the sissy peace sign.
Step four.
Make a "too cool for life" face as you proceed to hashtag everything. #Nolife #boredonathursday #problemchildren #livingupfreshmanyear #yolojkiwantalegitimatefuture #fuckingeverything #notinasexualway #speakingofwhichitispossibletomakesexualpoemsabouttoothbrushes #everything
So it's that lovely time of the year where the flowers are budding, rain is pouring and "Springtime for Hitler and Germany" is sung:
Brace yourselves, winter is still here
But as pleasant as the beginning of Spring is supposed to be, every college student has that sinking feeling that for the next month or so, they will end up feeling something like this:
This computer is so hilariously '90's, it actually made me lol
Time management is a skill I've acquired over the past few months, but when all the professors schedule all the things in those precious few weeks, having a challenging but manageable amount of work tumbles straight into "kill me now." The worst thing is that, if you go to your professor's office hours and they ask how your other classes are going, they will give you that all knowing look when you reply with a huge-ass sigh.
Somewhere, someplace, a group of professors are grabbing coffee right now and cackling over the revenge they're gaining for their sleepless nights in college.
While this is my first year experiencing such high-level stress, I've compiled a list of "let's not die just yet" tips for getting through the next million pages one has to study for tomorrow's test you totally forgot to study for.
1) Establish a good rep with your professor from day one.
When you walk into a class with a many eight-hour nights of sleep behind you, it's easier to concentrate on actively participating in class, attending many office hours, and maybe even getting ahead on an assignment or two. You don't have to be a superstar student and start writing dissertations for that class, but if you show that you're enthused about learning and that you want to put the effort into learning, your professor will be more prone to understand when you get a little quieter towards the end of the semester and your assignments reach that dropbox closer to the deadline. You still have to put the effort into each assignment, but if you've gone above and beyond in the beginning weeks of class, your professor is (hopefully) going to realize what kind of student you are and be more understanding about a week or two of rough patches.
This doesn't work for every professor, and being overwhelmed is never an excuse for not doing your work.
2) Plan ahead, but don't think ahead.
There's a fine balance between being aware of how much you have to do and being freaked out about it. This is a time when a planner is basically your bible of college. It can be daunting to look at the remainder of your syllabi for the next five weeks and realize that, oh wait, you have four papers due that final week of class. I'd suggest writing down your daily homework and project assignments up to the end of the semester (that way it's harder to forget that pesky little math sheet in between five million projects), but once you've got the workload in that planner, stick to looking at your daily to-do list.
3) Give yourself breaks.
It can be tempting to try to power through five chapters of Dorian Gray (spoiler: Chapter eleven will put you the fuck to sleep), but you will burn out. A break doesn't have to be an hour's episode of Game of Thrones or five minutes turned into two hours on Tumblr. Give yourself a break schedule. Maybe for every chapter of your history textbook you complete, you get an M&M and one short YouTube video. Or after each exam during that hell week, you get a celebratory hour at Kiwi.
That celebratory "hour" may or may not have turned into three hours. Shhhh.
4) Exercise, but not at the gym.
I mean, this may be biased about this topic because I'm terrified of the gym, but it seems to eat up quite a bit of time. I mean, first you need to make your hair look presentable. Then you need to change. Then you need to find where the hell you left your ID card, and so on and so forth. The time it takes you to walk to the gym, wait in line, flirt with that guy who's been eyeing you from the treadmills, and cry over how skinny you aren't, it may be well past that group meeting you were supposed to attend. It's important not to neglect exercise during optimal stress, but whipping out a yoga mat and doing a few crunches saves way more time than making workouts this entire ordeal. There are plenty of ten minute workouts you can do in your room that are relaxing to both the body and the conscience.
And finally,
5) Quit the un-scheduled breaks.
You know how it goes. You open facebook in another tab. Maybe G-Chat just to be hip. Your friend starts chatting you. Then you remember said friend told you she was going to reblog that really cool post. So up comes Tumblr. Suddenly a five minute facebook perusal becomes your entire night. For no reason at all! It gets to the point where, as you keep refreshing your news feed, nothing changes. Imagine if you used that "I"m gonna stalk my ex" time for actually, y'know, securing future employment. Tumblr is always going to be there. That A+ that is dangling right in front of your face, however, is not.
And remember, after this month of hell, everything will be worth it once you lay on that beach in your bikini.
Then you get to worry about the stomach that has magically emerged during your freshman year. But that's for another time.
First off, it would really help if "anon" was spelled "awenone," because then my pun wouldn't have flopped as epically as it did just there.
But, my friends, this is not a defense of puns. That's old news in the blog-esphere. Today I would like to express the fact that I'm having an emotion. It's not rage towards weather, nor is it any fork-stabbing tendencies towards Twilight.
Today's emotion is both apprehension towards awe and awe towards apprehension.
I see we've got a little paradox on our hands. I also see somebody has been reading too much about New Criticism.
I am an advocate of joy. And not just the "oh hey, I got an A on my math test" (true story) kind of joy, but the "I'm going to explode if I don't run around this house five million times" kind. Except I don't have a house, so that means I end up having to spring around my dorm and people look at me funny. I feel inexplicably happy about a box of chocolate or a particularly silly gif. I secretly feel like this on the night before Christmas and my birthday:
There will be times when I have to remind myself that it's not socially acceptable to say "I'm nineteen and three quarters, and for my 20th birthday I would like a hat that looks like a koala."
Except I would like one of those please and thank you. Because as much skill as it takes to lose one of these guys, I have apparently acquired said skill:
If you see any koalas running around State College, let me know.
So. Upon entering college, I assumed that the general attitude would go from "too cool for school" to "too school for cool." And in some situations, people are perfectly open and willing to unleash their nerdy side and discuss formalism for hours on end. But there is still an overwhelming number of students who prefer to fill their time in this manner:
And I'm just like:
Normally, those who behave like college is the next high school are easily ignore-able. But as I got to the feminism unit in my English class, a writer made the claim that Emily Dickinson was a hermit because she evoked childlike traits such as awe and fascination with the little pieces of life. The author jumps to the conclusion that because Dickinson clung to childish traits, she would never be able to transition into an adult life.
Actually, a number of factors such as that whole agoraphobia thing come into play, oh all knowing theorist.
But it got me thinking: why is it that genuine joy towards a simple pleasantry is seen as childish and unworthy of the post-eighteen year olds? It's not like Johnny Depp magically stopped liking cake as he torpedoed past the teens.
Then again, he also lost his virginity at 13 and tried almost every drug you can name by age 14. So perhaps that's not the best example.
If you think about it, Plato's "divine inspiration"--which a true writer must gain in order to succeed in his craft, according to him--is a form of true joy. The romantics would look at a scene outside and think "how beautiful, how wonderful, this gift of nature is." Did people assume Wordsworth drank out of a sippy cup and cried out to his Mommy and Daddy in between poems?
These were all considered great, sophisticated poets. If that's not awe, I don't know what is.
It seems that dulling down our excitement just to seem more "adult" makes an already difficult life even more challenging. An exciting event is an exciting event. It's not like a kid's meal; it doesn't just disappear along with your birthday. Once you get past the social constrains, you'll realize you can not only appreciate more, but observe more, and perhaps gather some understanding about human nature.
And then us English majors can all write about it and perhaps increase our chances to pay the bills and not live in a box. So that's a thing.
And before I leave you to go find some glee in snow and chocolate and...breathing...I must add that I have a third choice for my post-graduation plans: the Peace Corps. I know it's still a monkey and a half away, but...suggestions??
Firstly, I'd like it to be known to the world that I dragged my ass out of bed at 7:00 to sun-salutation it up before class.
That's like 4:00 A.M. college student time. Bam.
As the yoga teacher and I introduced ourselves and I shook the pressing need for coffee out of my aching little head, I mentioned that I was studying English at Penn State. The teacher's eyes lit up.
"Oh, I was in English major in college too!"
So lots of people are English majors. Not that exciting, right?
We are a dying breed, after all (I guess job security is a thing and all that jazz). But what really astounded me is how many of the yoga teachers at Lila Studio are studying or have studied English at some point in their lives.
Is this trend coincidental? Or is there some similar attractive trait in both literature/writing and yoga? At first glance, the two activities couldn't be farther apart. Reading and writing are stationary. Yoga (duh) requires movement. Writing can be competitive. I have yet to see a "down dog" competition. Your stereotypical writer is the "tortured artist." The stereotypical yogi is chill and ready to om their way through life.
I don't know about you, but I doubt 100 pages of OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM would be the next bestseller. But hey, never say never.
I've only officially been studying English for 8 months and yoga for 1.5 years, so I can only guess here. But both these hobbies seem to be modes of escape, while at the same time, further understanding the self.
In this instance, I am mainly going to talk about writing. But reading can relate to this connection as well.
When I am deeply involved in my yoga practice, I'm not thinking about that thing my hair is doing, or what I'm going to say to my boyfriend after class (mainly because I don't have a boyfriend...wheeeeeee single life).
In yoga, you see the world as connected. The breath makes us one and the same. We may have all come from different jobs, different families, different backgrounds, but in one room we create the same movement, the same sounds. It is an escape from personal worries and fears.
In my experience, it is particularly useful after breakups. For an hour and a half, you can have the bliss of not wondering if he's going to text you. It's a beautiful feeling.
During the practice, my only focuses are 1) on not falling over. Still working on that bit. And 2) Appreciating the beauty of my surroundings. How lucky we are to have that tranquil picture of the Buddha. How happy those St. Patrick's Day celebrators below the studio sound. How delighted that bird seems. Then 3) Not dying after the millionth sun salutation. It's not a perfect process.
After the practice however, I begin to get a clearer sense of the self. I appreciate my surroundings, but I don't let them deeply influence me. I get a deeper understanding of why I look for approval, why I grow anxious around a large group of people, and why I have an incessant need for a truckload of cream eggs.
So yay, being aware of the self. That's a thing.
The writing process is similar. While I'm in the middle of creating a story, I become deeply wrapped up in my characters' stories. Their dialogue flows similar to how a sun salutation would flow. I'm not thinking about how an audience would perceive the words, only how the right the words seem to fit on a page. It's like a jigsaw puzzle for the logically challenged. Only after I've finished the final word (or if I'm stuck and need some inspiration) do I read through my work and learn about my progress as an author and a thinker (or lack thereof), what I need to improve on, both as a writer and as a person.
You want an example, you ask?
Well.
So when I was 16, I had this massive crush. We're talking "won't eat won't sleep" type crush. Coincidentally, when I was 16, my best friends seemed to disappear for a few months...hmm, coincidences. And, being the wisened sophomore I was (hardeeharhar?), I was convinced that I knew exactly what type of guy I would be most compatible with. In the throes of my obsession, I wrote a much-too-autobiographical-for-anyone's good "novel" that ended up un-read on my googledocs.
And that I realized that the guy was kind of a dickhead and that maybe at 16 I didn't know all the secrets of the world. But that's not the story that made me learn about myself, thank God.
A year later, I wrote a story on eating disorders. At this point, I was well past the obsession with this guy and back on track with the food obsession. The characters weren't based on anyone I knew. The plot line was, for the most part, fictionalized. Being the sucker for romance I am, I had to throw a love story in there. Enter Forrest, the guy with dreadlocks. He wasn't perfect, but damn he was sexy. He had dialogue that would make a girl swoon and a writer not wretch. I doubt that miraculous combination will not happen again in my writing career.
Through this story, I learned not only how to get past a rather pesky food obsession, but also what kinds of people I wanted to surrounded myself around (not just in romantic situations but friend situations as well). Through a fictional world, I realized how I could focus my "real" world. The less autobiographical you get, the more you can learn about yourself.
Any yogi/writer combos out there? What are your thoughts on the two hobbies? Do you prefer one over the other? I'd love to hear your "what I learned about myself through writing/yoga" stories!
Being only a freshman, I realize I still have plenty of time before the daunting force of "reality" faces me. But I've always been a planner (except I don't have little boxes with numbers inside me). I tend to associate excitement about my future with scribbling out a schedule. Even when I was eight years old, I'd plan Christmas Eve through New Year's, hour by hour.
Side note: In a six hour period, I'd scheduled three times for eating. Man, I miss those days.
I still love to plan, but with that love comes a sense of fear. I'm no longer organizing my holidays or what beanie baby I should complete the family tree with. As it gets harder to find a job, I find myself seriously considering two alternatives for my post-college life so that I don't have to live in my parents' basement and get "the look."
You know the one I'm talking about: the raised eyebrows, the suspicious gaze. The "oh, poor baby, can't handle the heat," kinda look.
Which is ridiculous, because I live in Pennsylvania. And we all know there is no heat in PA.
...freaking know what to do with the rest of my life.
Oops.
So as it stands, I have two options:
1) Go to grad school. This is pretty standard for us English majors. It's always a safe idea to back up a not-so-specialized degree with more specializations. I figure, if I just keep getting degrees until there are no more degrees to get, I'll be somewhat desirable for a job...or at least, that's what I like to tell myself at night.
Plus, literature excites me, and I'd like to be able to make my job thinking/writing about literary works. 'Cause I'm white and nerdy like that.
Oh, and master's degrees are shiny and fun to hang up on your wall.
2) Live/work in an ashram.
Wait.
Wut?
How on earth, you ask, did you get from "follow the standard route and try to make some semblance of an income, to living in an ashram?"
Good question. I'm still trying to figure that one out.
It all started one fateful April when I spent a month stretching, meditating and picking up rocks betwixt the grand Rocky Mountains of Colorado. And really, really, really enjoying it. It could've been the inherent new-ness of the situation that got to me, but I tend to look for the deepness of an experience. And in that "let's look for some deeper meaning" thing I tend to do, I found happiness in that month, rather than mere contentment. It was hard, yes. I didn't know how to garden, I got sick of replacing my jeans with skirts, I missed my hair straightener. I was homesick. But I learned a shit ton about the self, others, and that it's not impossible to get up at five A.M.
Seriously, it's not.
But just to make sure I wasn't simply in vacation mode during my Shoshoni stay, I'd first apply for the 6 month work study program and go from there.
So after a lovely evening of playing Apples to Apples with family, my friend and I decided to brave the white loop and peek into the chaos that is the whole world's Saturday night. This is what we found:
"Guys, in eight minutes it's fucking Saint Patrick's day!"
"Woooo, I wanna celebrate!"
"I would hook up with him if I didn't think he was gay."
"I don't think he's gay."
"He knows about cheerleading."
"He wants to hook up with cheerleaders."
"I thought she was digging for gold in my throat."
"guys, we're at the library, I should go study."
*Friend bursts out laughing*
"I can study...I study with my mind."
"Why does your name have a vowel in it? E is so much better than the n. You have no idea what it's like to be named Jewel. Jewels unite!"
"Fuck this red light! You don't get this, cuz I'm Jewel!"
"I promise you, no one's gonna fucking remember what you did tomorrow."
"He was jacking off too hard."
"Hey, these are expensive-ass pants! I'm not ripping this shit, this is Ralph Polo shit."
"Be a man!"
"I'm gonna go see Jewel."
"you're Jewel."
"Nooooo, my best friend Jewel."
"I'm so gay for all of you."
"He's like...the only boy I know who plays tennis."
"Taking on the big, bad world...single life or not!"
"Your hair looked damn good in that basement. You looked like a freshman."
"You're hot, my sister is hot!"
"I washed my hair today, when should I wash it again?"
"Your hair is awesome, can I just touch it?"
"Okay, no one here is drunk because drinking underage is illegal."
"Stop disturbing the people in front of you."
"Just scream 'Penn State' after us okay? WE ARE!"
"No one cares!"
"I'm a girl...I think."
"Fuck that green."
"Yolo!"
"You should keep buying her 'I'm an asshole friend' flowers."
"I wonder how many drunk texts you can do in snapchat."
"He looks like Quasi Modo!"
"Did he like. cut his eyes open?"
"LOOK AT MY FACE."
"Best thing ever...getting with a short girl."
"I'm trying to grow a gotee so I look a little older."
Hey shiny internet friends! I've been obsessing over quite a few things lately, so in true Kristina Horner fashion, I thought I would share them with you. And to be quite honest with you, today seems to be "procrastinate all things productive "day," as I spent an hour of homework time doing this:
Wow that's a close up on my face I never wish to see again (yes, the technological inconsistencies are bothersome. I'll work on saving for that "let's buy Kira a real, grownup camera" fund at some point).
But anyway. The seven facts about me are not the things I'm into (except for coffee, obviously. And animal hats). My current obsessions haven't sprung into popularity in March of 2013, but I'm always a late boat-catcher. Then again, I'm not into boats.
So. What tickles me pink, you ask?
1) Parenthood.
....Okay, stop freaking out. I have no intentions to become a mother for a very very very long time. I'm talking about the show. Yes, it's one of those "brings you tears, brings you laughs" shows about people and their lives. But, hullo, Loren Graham is in it. Which should make anyone jump straight over to Netflix and watch all four seasons.
Full disclosure: I haven't watched all four seasons. Dammit, college, for getting in the way of my TV watching life.
This show not only has great chemistry between the characters, but it deals with pressing issues of today in a real manner. TV has a tendency to gloss over and glamorize real issues, but Parenthood doesn't do the fakey, made-up version. It's one of the first shows to tackle Asperger's syndrome in a main character. It covers the challenges of a loved one facing cancer. It shows us how it's normal to tumble through life, rather than glide.
2) The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult.
If you ask me who my favorite author is, my answer will be John Green. But it wasn't too long ago that, without hesitation, I would answer Jodi Picoult. This author covered ethical dilemmas with unrelenting wit and grace. She gave each character a strong voice. She wasn't afraid of humor, but she didn't use it to condescend to her reader. Then her books started getting predictable. There would be some kind of drastic event, the kid would shy away from his/her family and friends, and a difficult trial would end the charade. By Lone Wolf, I'd gotten frustrated with Picoult. Then her most recent book came out. There was no trial. Instead, Picoult depicts the life of an isolated baker, a former SS Nazi guard, a former Holocaust survivor, and a current day Nazi hunter. I have always been interested in studying the events of the Holocaust, but it's easy to gloss over dates and names in a textbook without getting the full pain the victims, (as well as perpetrators) experienced. Picoult makes the horrendous acts involved in the Holocaust come alive, and she captures the guilt a living Nazi feels. It's tough to try and evoke any sort of sympathy for monstrous behavior. I dove into the book claiming I could never feel anything close to sorry for the former Nazi. But Picoult, after much research, pinned the sort of guilt a monstrous figure would feel. The dialogue is witty. The pain is real.
This book is seriously a piece of art. I can't believe she's still being coined as "chick-lit" author.
3) Lindsey Stirling.
Think you have to choose music or dance? Think again. Stirling has been titled the "dancing violinist." Her two passions, rather than competing, complemented each other. As did her love for classical music and dubstep. I never thought of violin as being a component of dance music, but Stirling's work isn't that of the dead classical artists. Her beats are lively and expressive. Even a simple measure is exploding with joy.
And the girl can dance. The fact that she learned those techniques from YouTube astounds me.
So you're in the middle of English class, right? All your classmates are saying intellectual, well thought out things. They all sound like old, wisened scholars of the literary world. You get the urge to talk (bad sign). You slowly raise your hand (even worse sign). You make eye contact with your english professor (AAAAH JUST STOP NOW, GODDAMIT!).
"Yes, Kira?" Your professor says--the beginning words to doomsday.
You begin your sentence with confidence, like you've written a dissertation, but as you see the raised eyebrows, the enraged expression, you lose a little ground. Your phrase ends up sounding a little something like:
"I THINK MATTHEW...arnold...w---as...a, erm, sissy."
And the thunder claps. The literary rain pours. Oh god, you think, panicking. How can I ever get out of this one?
Your teacher is not amused, that much is obvious. You can see his fingers grappling for his angry red pen. You think of the damage this could do to your GPA.
What do you do? What can you do?
There are several ways to go about such a situation.
1) Got great gag reflexes? Throw up. You can blame anything on sickness. Your classmates will probably think you're disgusting for the rest of eternity, but that's a small price to pay when your future is at stake here.
2) Pretend you're from France (you should do this on a daily basis, anyway)
"Oh, ees zhat zhee right word? Je ne sais pas. I seenk I meant 'zhee greatest poète of all zhee times'"
No one can stay mad at the French. Except for...the rest of the world.
3) Say you have the hots for sissies. But actually, don't.
4) Write a gleaming essay celebrating all of Matthew Arnold's work and tell your prof you did it "just for fun."
Note: If your professor is a grad student, he will believe this claim. Because that is exactly what grad students do for fun.
5) Run. Fast.
And if all else fails, embellish on your statement by saying "Matthew Arnold was a sissy, but Byron is my hero. As are you." Watch as gold stars fall on your head.
I am not a baddass. I own no leather jacket. I have a total of zero tattoos (though I have been dying for this to change). I can't drive a motorbike. More often than not last year, I described myself as "an 80 year old living in an 18 year old's body." Even as a "rebellious teenager," the most dangerous I got was going a little crazy with the caffeine and cutting my skirt's hemline un peu court. I've actually apologized for not being troublesome enough.
When you tell your kid, as punishment, to "get out of your room!", you know there's a bit of a situation.
As I've gotten older, I've learned that wanting to curl up with a book/movie/epically large mug of hot chocolate isn't something to be guilty about. It's the introvert's party. For the most part, I'm happy to be excited by the subdued life. But I've also noticed that some who are most at peace, more self-realized, and most ready to accept what is were major baddasses at some point in their lives. I mean, it got the point at Shoshoni, where it was almost part of the schedule to, at dinner, talk about one's former pot smoking, beer chugging self. Me? I felt like sitting at the "kid's table" and coloring with some crayons. Could I only be spiritual if I had "seen the pretty colors" and blacked out, completely shitfaced? Did I need bad life experiences to truly revel in the good ones?
The "I must compare myself to everyone and everything" side of myself thought so. In fact, her inner dialogue went something like this:
compare-girl: That guy used to think everything was made of clay! Have you ever mistaken anything for clay?
Kira: Ummm...I thought a soup spoon was an ice cream scooper once.
Compare-girl: You're an idiot for never having been an idiot! Completely worthless! How dare you refuse to make decisions that make you horribly uncomfortable?
Kira: Can I go read some Jodi Picoult now?
Compare-Girl: Everyone's gonna know how immature you are. Those "wise beyond your years" compliments? They're just masking the fact that you're a silly little punk.
Kira: I'll dye my hair pink tomorrow. There. Is that reckless enough for you?
Compare-Girl: We're getting there.
People sometimes look at these reckless life choices with regret. They preface these stories with "I was so stupid..." but it's a bonding moment for so many. Because they were foolish once, that gives a concrete reason to not be foolish ever again. Is it naive to think you can skip the rebel stage and try to dive straight into finding the self?
I mean, not that all moments in my life have been the proudest. But I gather that calling your mom names and throwing strawberries at walls isn't gonna cut it for those bonding moments. It's as though never having smoked a joint will make me less valuable for creating good in the world.
It sounds completely ridiculous. I know it does. But has anyone felt this way? That badassery is the first step to self-realization?
I mean, not getting arrested is cool and all, but then again, who wants to be the "naive one" at age 30?
So, remember those notes on facebook that asked a bazillion questions about your breakfast cereal of choice, if you have any crushes, if facebook should stop being so nosy?
I know, back in the dark ages, right? Well, it's been a few years since I've been fb note obsessed, and I've become to realize how pointless they are. But when I saw this awesomely possumly survey done by Julia Mitchell, I couldn't resist delving into the note-y world again. This survey has spunk. It has wit. Spoiler alert: it has rainbows.
Seriously, what could be better than rainbows?
1) If you could have any object made out of toast what would it be and why?
Hmmm. I would have to go with a toast desk. Being in college, I've become acquainted with the value of time, and how we students don't have enough of it. Stopping for study breaks takes FOREVER. I mean, first you have to nag your roommate to go to Starbucks again, even though you're running out of meal points faster than Michael Jackson rushed to get nose surgery. Then you have to stand in line. Then you have to freak out at how burning hot your drink is. Then you have to watch a million episodes of Parenthood while it cools. It would be so much less time consuming to, whenever you need to stop for a snack break, to just bite off a chunk of your toast-desk and then be done with it.
Unless you're REALLY hungry. Then you wouldn't have a desk anymore.
2) Would you rather vomit chocolate or rainbows every hour for the rest your your life?
This is an odd dilemma; for much of my life, I was convinced that when presented with a "chocolate or..." question, then answer would always be chocolate. I mean, let's be real here, I'm slightly addicted. But if I vomitted chocolate, I would just be too grossed out to even be tempted to eat it. Plus, people would be all "why is all this brown stuff coming out of your mouth?" Not cool, man. So I'm gonna have to go rainbows here. At least people can distinguish a rainbow as something beautiful. Although I think chocolate is unjustly pictured as ugly. If that could be fixed, I might change my answer to chocolate.
3) You are about to be fired into fictional universe of your own
choosing where you must live out the rest of your life. Select one now!
I was gonna say Harry Potter, but that answer has been taken. So I'm gonna go with Gilmore Girls, which is about as un-fantastical as you could get. But if I had any chance to meet Lorelai Gilmore, I would absolutely take it. Stars Hallow is just too eccentrically awesome a place to pass up. And if I could hear Luke Danes rant just one more time, I could die happy.
4) Would you rather be impaled by a rake or flattened by a stampede of angry moose?
Angry moose! I am obsessed with moose. I have a pair of "text-moosaging" pants. Also, my stepmother's trail name is "mooseless" so I beat her in the moose hunt. Not that it's a competition or anything, nooooo.
Although I would be dead. So that's kind of an issue.
5) A candy mountain has been deposited in your back garden. If it
could only be filled with one type of candy, which one would you choose?
Cadburry Caramel eggs, no question.
I think I need an intervention. 6) Which cookie best describes your life and why?
A white chocolate chip cookie. I'm a surprising twist on a classic, and people kinda look at them funny and go "but it's so white!" With time, however, they realize it's pretty good and only sometimes makes you ridiculously hyper.
7) Describe your blog in one sentence
I'm one one giant caffeine high and it's pretty much the literary equivalent of running around all over the place than taking an existentialist-crisis-esque breather.
8) Now name the three bloggers that you would most like to fill out the tag
Bryarly Bishop (I realize I'm slightly dreaming here, but it's what I do best)
As you might have guessed from my previous blogs, I've been somewhat of a feminist lately. Not that I ever deemed it okay to putz around in the kitchen all day (as my cooking skills might suggest), but these past few weeks, I've seen feminist issues in bowls of soup, YouTube videos, and my "I need to stop resembling a furry animal" shopping.
So today, I went to CVS with my mother. Pretty standard, right? It's not like they pull an Abrecrombie and Fitch and post pictures of male models glistening with testosterone. Nobody's going to cross their arms furiously, point their fingers at CVS managers and scream "you are sexist!" (okay, maybe someone will). But as I walked through the shaving aisle, trying to find the cheapest razor, I realized that I'd rejected the first set of razors because they were "too manly." There were no pictures of men on the packages. There were no beards, or any typical "male" symbol. The only thing that differentiated these razors from the "female" collection was the color of the packages. The "male" packages (oh, stahp) tended to be dark shades of orange and blue. They normally contained batteries, yet the ultimate purpose was the same: to remove hair from one's body. Both collections of razors were designed to not make you bleed out when you approached the tricky spots. Yet I walked straight past the orange and blues, making my way for the soft pinks and purples. I almost wished I had picked out a manly razor as soon as I caught myself making the distinction. Would the cashier look at me funny? Would he categorize a dark orange razor as manly if it was separate from its shaving tool companions? Would he make conclusions about me that had nothing to do with my hair-remover of choice? I guess I missed out on that social experiment this time.
It's amazing how we associate colors with our gender roles. Something that has the same purpose across the board can still be distinguished between manly and feminine if it's pink versus black. I own way more black items of clothing than pink. Does that classify me as butch? If I stopped wearing pink goo on my face, that would say something about my personality.
Then again, if I wore black goo on my face, that would say I'm gothic. Whole other can of worms.
This moment during a routine shopping excursion brought me back to a more thought-provoking atmosphere: the Andy Warhol museum. Warhol often used accessories as his subjects, making social commentary both on our consumerist society, and how gender roles play out in society. Although I didn't see this piece in full, I read that he painted a collection of shoes, but replaced the heels with tiny pistols.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Many artists gained inspiration from Warhol's works, and they too got an exhibition in the museum. The piece that resonated the most was Tom Sach's "Chanel Chainsaw":
This piece makes two different important commentaries. It first presents a typically masculine piece of machinery, but Sachs plays around with the connotations of the chainsaw when a typically feminine is slapped onto it. To be honest, I first read the label as "chain-el" because the word seemed so foreign to me when it wasn't on clothing or makeup. Would you see the chainsaw as less reputable because of the feminine label? Or would you see the label as more reputable because it was on a piece of masculine machinery?
Sachs also does a nice job referring to the dangers fashion throws at us. We rarely label fashion as un-threatening because of it's sweet and docile nature (so, rather, the sweet and docile models). It doesn't have an immediate physical violence (although, hullo, eating disorders anyone??), thus we deem it as harmless. Yet the psychological violence it forces on the female demographic can demolish just as much as any killing machine could. It's sneakier, but that just makes fashion scarier. You can't see its pointy edges, the death it's causing in so many young women.
Why these distinctions? Do we feel better when something is made "just for us"? Lots of women have different shaving needs; lots of women would rather power through life with a chainsaw rather than a tube of lipstick.
Next time, I'm buying a manly razor. I'll let you know if the world thinks I'm crazy.
So as you have probably surmised from the title, this is going to be somewhat of a rant. Yes, it's all fine and good to have a couple of list blogs that (hopefully?) make us laugh, but there's a topic that's been on my mind for quite a few years now, and I just haven't known why or how I should articulate it.
That topic, my friends, is education.
I'm not going to throw a bunch of statistics at you. You have free will and the rest of the internet to look those up. Obviously education is a huge topic that politicians and school teachers battle about, and there are facts and figures to back up what they think makes the "best" kind of education. I'm not an expert in how one should shape the supremest of supreme curriculum, but I do have my own experiences to tell you what kind of stereotypes and biased judgment I've encountered when it comes to alternative education.
But let's first define the meaning of "alternative." Meriam-Webster defines the word as "different from the usual or conventional." In no way does it imply lacking skill. If that were the case, we'd all hate the Beatles and hair dye.
I started off my schooling at Friend's School, a private Quaker school. I learned how to read, just like any Kindergartener. I learned that birthdays were awesome because you got a shitload of sweets wiser. I learned about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I have a dream speech." But here comes stereotype number one:
"Oh you went to a private school. You must be a snobby rich kid who used Daddy's trust fund to work your way up."
I'm not going to go into detail about my financial situation on the internet, but I am not going on ski trips and eating out every second. If you spend some time with me sans judgment and ultimately decide I'm annoying, weird, too obsessed with John Green, whatever. That's fine. But if you hear about my educational background and conclude that I'm a "snobby rich kid," shit's gonna go down.
Just like any educational system, my elementary school had some gaps in its curriculum. While the other kids were learning about all things American history, we learned all the details of MLK Jr's assassination. But we also had interactive learning about the silk road and Rube Goldberg.
Fast forward two years to public middle school. Scene: A108 homeroom, a bunch of little kids who think they're tough (plus an overly pink, overly sparkled twelve year old. May or may not be me...) . Plot: Homeroom teacher surprises class with "how much do you know?" geography quiz. Asks question about silk road. All four Friends School Kids light up and scribble down answer.
Bam.
Okay, so perhaps my American history background is a tad lacking. Points awarded to traditional schooling system, there. But we also had a strong music and art program. And a couple times a week, we got an education in yoga, complete with postures and Hindu stories.
Different, not inferior. Each school had its strong and weak points.
I did have "traditional" schooling for two years. But it was middle school, and obviously the ages of 12-14 don't actually count towards one's acceptable memories. I learned the five paragraph essay. I resented it. Looking back, it was helpful organization-wise. I learned that if you show up to class wearing twelve different shades of cheetah print, you will be mocked, and that calling people bitches is generally not a positive thing. Life lessons, people. Write them down.
In eighth grade, I entered the Delta Program. By this point, I was much more aware of judgment and being accused of something. I heard that all the druggies went to Delta, that people who were social outcasts or too stupid for regular high school needed somewhere to go. Yes, stereotypes originate from some level of observation, but that doesn't mean that a bunch of pot smokers were arriving high to class. I never touched a drug (besides caffeine) during my year and a half at Delta. I made "normal" (what in the hell is normal anyway?) friends. The classes were more specified, so I didn't gain all the knowledge a typical 8th or 9th grader may receive. Rather than getting a brief overview of many things, I dove into film studies, romantic poets, and environmental studies, amongst other things. To this day, more than half of my film knowledge comes from a class I took at Delta. That's not to say that getting a brief overview is bad. But gaining mastery in one topic is no less valuable. I mean, heck, that's what grad school is all about.
For two years of "regular" high school, I felt like I had to apologize for my educational background. Because I didn't have all the same references my friends did, I felt like I was dumb or had slept through what I was supposed to know. There are certainly topics that I could use some brushing up on. But it's not like I spent ten years sitting in a circle and singing "Kumbaya." I did learn a lot at State High. I had some phenomenal and some not-so-terrific teachers. Same with Delta. Just because you learn something different, doesn't mean you're totally useless in the intellectual world.
I'll get back to more humorous blogs, I promise. This was just something that I had to get out in the world. Or something.
It’s where meals are made, breakfast is eaten, and where we awkwardly
run into each other when we’re trying to get a glass of water (“Excuse
me,” and “no you go ahead,” “no, you” is often heard here. Yet between
the meals, kitchen perfectionist and doofus are known to disagree on a
few topics.
1)On coffee stains Perfectionist: I’m going to
need hot water, soap, Clorox, five towels, and don’t walk your coffee
mug across the white carpet, darnit! Doofus: If I rub the stain in with my sock, maybe no one will see it. And now I can have brown socks.
2)On twisty ties Perfectionist:
Twisty ties must wrap around the four layers of packaging around bread.
Double knot the tie around a rubber band, but only if it’s blue.
Otherwise, I’ll be eating stale cardboard for the next month. Doofus: Hey, these are cool…I wonder if I could make a bracelet out of these things. Where’s all the bread?
3)On beverages Perfectionist: Shake the container of 1.5% milk until the entire top surface tastes like foam. Doofus: Shake your booty while you’re walking around the kitchen, looking for a can of soda.
4)On beverages, part two Perfectionist:
*Sees five bottles of orange juice in fridge* Damn. This one expired
five minutes ago. *Throws all bottles in recycling.* Doofus: If I
leave an inch of liquid in each bottle, it looks like I take less and of
course I won’t annoy the hell out of anyone.
5)On finding said doofus to correct her habits Perfectionist: She didn’t stand the half and half upside down, between the milk and butter! Where is she? Doofus: Follow the trail of chocolate chips.
6)On the kitchen counter Perfectionist:
You mean some people eat food on the counter? But this is marble. It’s
for people to marvel at. You can eat this in your room so your coffee
stain can have some company. Doofus: If I eat an orange popsicle and some strawberries over the counter, maybe I can make a rainbow.
In
the end, kitchen doofus and perfectionist learn to get along, after the
kitchen is divided in two, one side containing cleaning supplies and
well shaken drinks, the other containing ten bottles of soda and quite a
few brown socks.
