Sunday, December 28, 2014

English Professors: A Breed Classification

So I've had quite a few English professors over the past three years, and I've made the recent scientific discovery that animals of this breed exhibit a wide range of appearances, lectures, and  obscene amounts of reading homework assignments. Until my entry into college, I had assumed that every English professor was the same eyeglass-wearing, nature-loving hippie, only to realize that I'd spent too much time with my father and it wasn't normal to end every sentence with "let's look at this from an eco-critical lens!" (love you, Dad).

Despite this realization that not every professor is going to rant at you about Lord Byron for an hour (although some will, and he'll spend the first half hour going "Byron is my hero!"), there's something inherently...English-professor-y about these varying breeds. For instance, everyone likes thesis statements--they make for a clear, concise essay--but I have yet to meet a professor who didn't love thesis statements with the same level of enthusiasm that you might have for, say, chocolate cake. And I can guarantee you that every English professor will at least mention Freudian theory, even if they back up their statement with "but that's completely bogus; you guys talk about sex enough as it is."

And that is all true. 

So how do you distinguish these breeds? Of course every professor is his/her own unique snowflake, and you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, blah blah, insert more nice clichés here. But I've at least jotted down some observations on certain trends among professors, in hopes that you can then tailor each essay to your professor's random expectations have a more fulfilling educational experience.

1) The hippie professor.
This professor will go to great lengths to find the meaning in everything. I mean, that's what great literature is for, right? To find deeper meaning and make some grand revelation about life? But this professor will not just stop at the meaning of Hamlet's "To Be or Not to Be" speech. Suddenly he's looking at every semicolon, every comma, and going "what did you mean to suggest to the reader through this comma?"

Um, I meant to suggest that there was a pause in the sentence and I know how to use basic grammar? Hello?

This professor will desperately want his entire class to become lifelong friends--if everyone doesn't sit around a fire together singing "Kumbaya," he considers himself a failure. This can present a bit of a problem to said professor because, as noted by my fellow English major friend, no one talks in English class.

The easiest way to distinguish this professor is through his collection of body jewelry, crazy opium eyes, and a collection of ties that had probably seen better days in the '70's.

The perk of having the hippie professor is that you could probably get away with meditating in the grass for an hour and calling it college. So that's fun.

2) The professor that "isn't here to make friends."
This professor knows that liberal arts gets a bad rep. She realizes that people seem to think that English majors are getting stupider while, coincidentally enough, universities get richer. However, this professor refuses to pity you and your story about how you have to work 30+ hours a week just to pay for your schooling and she has no need to hear your traumatic story about your dying cat Dennis. She is the academic version of that girl on America's Next Top Model who "isn't here to make friends":
If you're in tears and throwing books around your dorm room, you either A) are crazy, or B) have a type 2 professor. She will be sure to assign at least 4 hours of reading each night and will only give A's to the kids who don't seem to need sleep or food or a moment to breathe. Her favorite phrase will be "you need to earn your grades, kids," all while making it impossible to get anything above a B.

3) The professor that is here to make friends and influence people.
This professor knows that college is hard. She sees your creativity being squashed by textbooks and exams. She makes it known that she despises the way universities are being run like corporations and she wants you and your creative spirit to run free. The biggest perk of this particular breed of professor is that she does not believe in exams and she wouldn't give grades if the university didn't force her to. Similar to the hippie professor, this professor wants to talk about the meaning of things, though this meaning almost always relates back to her students' lives. She is forgiving of students who don't do the reading, but only if they have a convincing story about their dying cat, Dennis.

The professor that is here to make friends can be seen wearing floral skirts and tee-shirts with bold political statements. Hence the confusion with the hippie professor.

At the very least, you know you can impress each breed of professor by throwing in a Derrida reference or two, and if that doesn't work, there's always the option of dropping out of college and selling yourself to an art gallery, à la Eddie Izzard.

Namaste.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

A Very Grownup Christmas: Things that Happen When You Feel Like a Kid, but Have to Be a Grownup

Friends, an interesting thing has happened to me in the past couple of years. It feels like I've acquired some kind of terminal illness where I'm supposed to give money to the government, pretend I like giving rather than receiving happily give gifts to my friends and family, and un-ironically say things like "back in my day..." This disease is called adulthood, and I would very much like to find a cure for it immediately.

I may have mastered the whole wearing hats that aren't animal faces thing (that happened like yesterday, I don't want to talk about it), and I can do that bit where I go "I'm Kira, and I do impressive things; please hire me!" But the one time I struggle to be a grownup is every single day Christmas.

The thing about Christmas, is that my family made it a month-long shindig. This, friends, is one of the perks of coming from a divorced family. My parents were all "oh, we can't be together as one big happy family? Let me give you all the material goods in the world!"

If love can't come from a giant collection of obscenely priced American Girl dolls, I don't know what can. 

Since then, our Christmases have leveled out a little bit, but my feelings towards Christmas seem to have not received the memo.

For instance, everyone knows that the best way to start hating Christmas is to enter a grocery store any time between December 1st-24th. Having worked at Wegmans for 3 years, I should hate anything and everything involving the holiday season. But somehow, when a customer says "what do you mean you don't have sturgeon caviar?? Everything is horrible, and you've ruined my Christmas!" I cannot muster the strength to give the typical "glare-and-say-passive-aggressive-things" response. Instead, I smile and go, "but it's Christmas!" as though that should solve every bad mood in the world.

The only good thing about this disheartening realization about the holidays is that I can drown my sorrows in alcohol drink responsibly, which everyone knows is the true meaning of Christmas.

However, the other thing that happens to me on Christmas is an abuse of online shopping. This can go two ways. I'll spend an hour looking for one nice, thoughtful gift for my friends and family. My friend group, apparently, has not heard of secret santa, so all us broke college students decide to spend exorbitant amounts of money (that none of us have) on gifts. But the thing is, I'll start off with one cute tee-shirt for my friend. Then I'll find a million other things that would be absolutely perfect for her, and all of a sudden my hand is directing me to click on "purchase" until my credit card limit explodes.

Even sadder to admit is that I do this for myself. It's like I know that it's ridiculous to buy myself $100 flat irons, but wrapping it up in overpriced paper and slapping a sticker that reads "to Kira from Santa" makes it okay. That's still another $100 that I don't have, but hey, Christmas is all about giving, right? Including giving to yourself, said no one ever.
It's not greedy if it's from Santa


At least I've mastered the art of sleeping in on Christmas. That's adult-ish, right?

Merry Christmas!  

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

In Defense of Tattoos

For the most part, my friends and family have been supportive of my tattoos. Even if they're not the type to go out and get inked, they give me the "oh Kira's being...interesting" look and let me spend obscene amounts of money on body modifications. But every once in a while someone will ask me "why are you doing this? Why not get a nice piece of jewelry instead? You know it's permanent, right?"

No, I didn't. I just spent $200 to scrub away at my skin for an hour and freak out that the ink wouldn't come off.

The thing is, so many things that people say about tattoos could easily translate to questions about marriage. Think about it. "But you're so pretty!" "Think about how it will influence your future." "You know those things last forever, right?" "But it'll be so painful if you decide you want it removed."

Those are all legitimate things to say about a husband/wife. And let me tell you, weddings are a hell of a lot more expensive than tattoos.

I'm not trying to claim that marriages and tattoos are interchangeable, and I understand that committing your life to another human being is probably more meaningful than putting a tulip on your calf. But you shouldn't automatically assume that anyone who is inked is impulsive, obsessed with instant gratification, and/or part of a gang.

I got the om tattoo because I wanted to remind myself of everything that yoga has given me/can offer me. I want to strive to be peaceful, calm, and compassionate. The om symbol doesn't inherently give me those qualities, but it reminds me of the person I want to become. It's like a pep talk and art all in one. Two birds, one stone. Except don't kill birds; that's just cruel.

If in ten years I decide that it's stupid to have something that looks like a 30 on my shoulder, I'll tell my family that they were right. But until then, I'm allowed to rock some ink and not be considered a horribly impulsive person. Save that for when I decide to get a pixie cut (#never).

Namaste.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Places where you become an asshat

So as I've previously mentioned, the holidays do weird things to people. First you're a normal, sane human being, then all of a sudden your face is turning purple and you're screaming "if I don't get my cheese platter right now, my life will be ruined!"

Basically, Christmas makes everyone an asshole. And you thought you were jaded, dear reader.

But what's often overlooked is the fact that there are several places, regardless of season, that instantly turn even the kindest of humans into royal asshats. While I may be lucky enough to have nothing worse than a mediocre experience at the DMV, I've ridden many a bus in my life time, and let me tell you, they are prime asshole territory.

Flashback to 11th grade. I was one of the lucky students who got to be picked up second-to-last. On rare occasions I could find an empty seat, but normally I had to sit at the front of the bus and discuss the nature of Oscar the grouch with a bunch of kindergarteners.

On the joyous occasion that I could find an empty seat, and army of seniors ha no problem telling me that I had to get out of the seat, that it was "Ellie's chosen spot," and you know what happens when Ellie doesn't get her way.

I didn't know, but I was quick to find out that when Ellie doesn't get her way, she tries to drag you out of your seat, and when she fails, she threatens to set your hair on fire.

My hair had already been through enough trauma in high school. I didn't need any 12th grade bullies to worsen the process.

This girl was the sweetest person in our environmental studies class. But get her on a bus and all basic manners fly out the window.

Similarly, one can often find assholes of the adult variety in airports. People literally try to shove you out of the way just so they can be on the plane five seconds earlier. At least karma serves its purpose and makes these people get stopped to be "further inspected," probably because shoving is, y'know, suspicious and rude.

I once let someone go ahead of me in like at an airport and she looked at me like I had twenty eyeballs. It's like being nice is against the law when you're about to jet off to California or somewhere equally lavish.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

I Despise Colons

As you may have noticed from previous posts, I have a lot of strong feelings about punctuation. I do a little happy dance every time someone uses an em dash or semicolon. Knowing when to use a comma is like finally being in a stable relationship. A good question mark never hurt anyone (unless it follows the phrase, "will you give me that $100 you owe me?"). But there is one piece of punctuation that I can never get behind. And that, my friends, is the colon.

I mean, just look at it. Is that not the ugliest piece of grammar you've ever seen? It's atrocious. It's like someone had a basket of extra periods and just flung them around the page willy-nilly. If grammar had celebrity counterparts, Jillian Michaels would be the colon. And she's just plain scary.
Up until this point, I could kind of ignore the colon and pretend it never existed. However, my English professor loves colons. It got to the point where he would look at an em dash on my paper, raise his eyebrow, and go "why isn't this a colon?" And I'd be all "because my reader is not an idiot, and I don't feel the need to announce every time I'm about to present idea." Except I didn't, because, y'know, grades.

When I begrudgingly revised and slapped a few colons onto my essay, my professor actually drew a heart next to each colon. A grown man loves this punctuation so much, it's made him transform into a teenage girl.

Seriously though! Can someone please explain to me what is so likeable about the colon? Perhaps it's organized and is all "hey guys, here's a list of important things, please stop playing Angry Birds and listen up," but the Nazis were organized too, and they went ahead and slaughtered 6 million Jews.

So what we should take away from this is that every colon is a Nazi. Glad you're coming with me on this one.

Think back to when you were in third grade and had to present a report on dogs. You'd be all "I like dogs. This is why I like dogs: they're cute. They're cuddly. They're nice to me." That is what the colon does. It makes you look like you're a third grader who cannot combine ideas. 

Colons make it impossible to make an essay flow. It's alarming. And honestly, you're just gonna let your reader down. Your essay is going "hey, reader, hey. A really great idea is coming up. Hold onto your hats, you're going to be blown away by this idea!" And then they read the idea and they're all "that was a mediocre idea." They'd probably be thinking it was a good idea if that stupid colon didn't get their hopes up!

The colon is the grammatical equivalent of getting a really ugly sweater from your Aunt Tina. You cringe a little and say "oh that's nice," while secretly wishing to slash every ugly sweater in the universe.

So for the love of all things grammatical, please stop using colons. It's hurting our future as writers. It's hurting our reputations. The colon is killing our souls.

Namaste.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

True Life: I'm Addicted to Perfume

Once upon a time, there was a 19-year-old college freshman who had like, two bottles of perfume. She decided it probably wasn't logical to go on $50 spending sprees at Bath and Body Works, and that the whole investing in the future thing was a better way to spend her money. Everyone was all "hey, look how mature you are, saving up for your future and realizing material goods aren't the path to happiness!"

How cute, 19-year-old self. Now fast forward two years.

Somehow, in the course of two years, I've managed to go from having two perfumes to acquiring thirty. I am not even exaggerating. I could literally go a month wearing a different perfume every day. I mean, my skin has gotten to the points where it's so confused--it doesn't know why it smells like lavender one day and "noir tease" (what does a noir tease even smell like??) the next. The top of my dresser is sprawling with vanillas and coconut, and it's slowly encroaching on my earring tree, which as anyone knows, is a very sacred space! I mean, it's a problem, which involves getting into my earring addiction, but we'll save that for a later time.

The thing about my perfume addiction is that it started from a mere desire to have a collection. When I was little, I had a stuffed cat collection, and everyone congratulated me on my dedication to beanie babies. My fourth grade class was just so impressed by my 75 cats, and always wanted to come over to my house to use me for my material possessions play with them.

So I figured that I would start a new collection, and my friends would be equally impressed by my dedication, and my roommates would be racing into my room, dying to try my new vanilla bean perfume, and they'd go "Kira, you are the queen of the fragrance-universe, let me bow down to you and shower you with admiration!"

Okay, so perhaps I've embellished on my expectations a little bit. But you get the idea.

As it turns out, people are a lot less impressed by collections when you have to go forth and be an adult. Because *gasp* having a collection requires no skill whatsoever. You just go into a store and buy a lot of shit, and then you have a room full of too much of the same thing and a pile of regrets. Like, congratulations, you have too much stuff and no money! How impressive!

So some things that worked when you were ten don't work when you're twenty-one. Noted.

But why perfume? Why not collect elephant figurines, or something even slightly more unique?

A wise question, dear reader. I commend you on your curiosity. As my roommate Maria observed in her blog, my feet have this tendency to smell. Instead of smelling of roses or vanilla, or something equally appealing, they just smell bad. According to Maria, "they smell like a moose that vomited." The whole foot odor problem has improved since last year, but in a mad dash to not scare humans away from me, I bought every perfume ever to make the rest of my body smell like Christmas cookies and love. So as soon as people catch a whiff of my sneakers and start to hate my very being, the smell my arms and instantly forgive me. Or, at the very least, aren't utterly revolted by my foot hygiene (yes, I do wash my feet, the world just hates me).

Now that the foot odor problem has ceased, I just feel obligated to buy more perfume. I feel it's a personal attack on Bath and Body Works if they come out with a new fragrance and I'm just like "lalala don't care." And that's just rude.

Obviously if you're not impulsive with financial spending, you're a rude person. That's a perfectly logical conclusion to come to.

So, until further notice, I will continue to acquire perfume until my collection falls of my dresser and I start drowning in vanilla.
The latest victim


Namaste.

Friday, December 5, 2014

How to Holiday, the Cynic's Edition

With Christmas approaching, there is the inevitable stress of oh my God I have to get into the holiday spirit right now! Since we've all had 11 months of being normal cynical, miserable humans, it's time to hop back on that holiday bicycle and frosting-coat our misery with too many cookies and eggnog. Of course, it may take a little time and effort to get back into the holiday cheer, so I've compiled a list of tips on how to holiday:

1) Resolve to lost ten pounds over the holiday season. Sob every time you see a platter of cookies, and when you cave and eat one, eat twenty more because hell, you already broke your diet. Become so depressed that you can't commit to your diet that you end up gaining fifteen pounds, only to resolve to lose thirty pounds come New Year's Eve.

2) If you're in a relationship/married, fight over whose family gets you guys this year. When you try to convince your SO that you'll go to his house next year, become bitter and resentful when he says "but you said that last year," and refuse to talk to each other for a week. Eat Christmas turkey in bitter silence as you each go to your respective family's homes and try to convince your SO that you had so much fun with your cousin Carl, even though you both know you were miserable without each other.

3) Take an angry stance against holiday shopping, then panic when you don't have gifts for anyone a week before Christmas. End up fighting other holiday shoppers to the death until you get that Xbox your brother so desperately wanted, only to discover that two other people got him the exact same thing.

4) If you're single, cry every time you see a happy couple holding hands and wearing Santa hats. Convince yourself that couples are 1000% happier during any given holiday, making you 1000% more miserable in your singleness. Watch corny Netflix movies and cry yourself to sleep every night. Note: This step usually goes hand in hand with step 1.

5) Drink too much wine during Christmas dinner and start dancing on the table. Extra points if your grandmother is there.

6) As a result of said wine, challenge your family to a dart game and try to convince everyone that you're a champion dart player. Then do this: (true story)
7) Write cryptic Facebook statuses, either about how alone and depressed you are, or about how great life is and you are so #blessed. Really you should do this all year, but really try to outdo yourself during the holiday season. Remember, the more hashtags, the better.

8) Convince yourself and others that gifts are soooo overrated and that you don't need material goods to be happy. Then silently hate others for getting more gifts than you.

9) If your parents are divorced and they both want you to spend Christmas with them, instead of spending time with either of them, curl up in a corner in your room, plug your ears, and go "lalala I can't hearrrrrr you!" That way, everybody loses.

10) And if none of that puts you in the holiday spirit, repeat step five for the rest of eternity.

Namaste.

An Open Letter to Helicopter Parents

Like with any generation, millennials get a multitude of labels: we are the "selfie generation," the "me, me, me" generation, the generation that's forgotten the art of face-to-face conversation. While this is all true to a degree, I wanted to cover a generational phenomenon that isn't primarily our fault, and one that needs to go away, like, now. That, friends, is the helicopter parent. Obviously you need to hover around your kid and make sure they learn how to be, y'know, people when they're young. You're not helicoptering your five year old, so don't freak out and accuse me of making good parents seem like royal asshats. In this particular instance, I'm talking about parents of kids in their late teens/early 20's.


Glad we got that straightened out.

The tricky thing about helicopter parents is that no one believes that they are one. I may not be a parent, but I have (too) closely observed the helicopter parent/kid relationship. I understand that this constant hovering around your kid is well-intentioned--you just want him to succeed and you feel that he lacks the maturity to make good life choices, and without your incessant nagging gentle guidance, he will fall flat on his face.

Your instincts are probably right on this one. He will, inevitably, fall on his face. He may flunk out of a class, or drink too much vodka one night, and, being a teenager and all, he will probably be more enthused by the immediate rewards of video games, rather than the long-term rewards of college. It's hard to see those you love most fail--especially when it's been pushed down your throat that you are Superparent; it's your duty to stop this failure, to make your child the next president! I've had the strong urge to motivate past boyfriends to go forth and be upstanding citizens, so I can only imagine how much stronger the instinct is with your child.

 While I understand that parents are looking out for their kids because there's much more competition for college and employment, there's a fine line between encouraging support and helicoptering. And when you cross that line, the incessant checking-in is actually going to deter your kid from being motivated to do well. Under the assumption that you've raised an intelligent, capable kid, I'm going to suggest that your child knows he has an English paper due in a week. He knows that his teeth will rot if he goes through all of college without seeing a dentist. The hard part of parenting should be over; you've given your kid the tools to succeed, and ultimately, you just have to step back and see what he does with said tools. This advice may contradict every single instinct you have, but do you really think that following every chemistry assignment your kid has is going to ensure his success? Is it really worth it when your kid gets into Harvard, but you're the one that lead the whole college search?

This not only adds a lot unnecessary stress to your life, but it's bound to make your kid feel like you're living his life for him. Sure, he's achieved a whole lot, but are they actually his achievements when you're scuttling behind him, sweeping up every little mistake?

I may be far from a "normal" real-life example, but just bear with me here. Having been raised by non-helicopter parents, from the time I was 16, my parents and I had a pact that the basic rules were "don't fuck with hard drugs, stay in school, and don't get pregnant." I made other mistakes, and my parents were less than enthused when I showed up with ink all over my body and a chain-wearing boyfriend, but I'm living to tell the tale, so something must have worked out. Somehow in the midst of my immature life choices and overly hormonal boy obsessions mistakes, I took charge of my own assignments, woke myself up for school, and even made myself dinner on occasion. Obviously I'm proud of my accomplishments because I chose the direction that I wanted to go, but I'm also extremely grateful that my parents let me fail. If I hadn't had those experiences, I would feel like an academic machine, or simply an extension of my parents.

After receiving a not-so-hot grade on an exam, I met with my professor. Instead of giving the usual "study harder" spiel, my professor noted that this generation is so afraid of failure because we know it will destroy our parents. Unlike last generation, we see failure as the end of everything, rather than as an opportunity to learn and grow. Part of this stems from the societal pressure to be superhumans, but it's also due to the fact that well-meaning helicopter parents are so invested in their kids lives, that they see this failure as their own. So you're not only pushing your kids too hard, you're pushing yourself as well. And that adds the kind of stress that no one can live with comfortably.

It's normal to want your kid to do well. But at some point, you have to shift from hovering-parent to the one in the sidelines who is cheering on your kid. Your child will probably fall harder if you step back, but he will feel more pride in his successes when they come from his own motivation to do well, rather than out of fear of disappointing you, or from getting fed up with your nagging. And I promise, just because you step back a little bit does not mean he will end up homeless, in a ditch, so just relax. You got through the hard part. Now you get to enjoy watching your kid turn into a super cool human who accomplishes shit and then you can resent him for being smarter than you, and all will be right with the world.

Namaste.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

If Shakespeare characters had Facebook

So after spending a semester reading various Shakespeare plays, I get that Shakespeare is timeless and relevant to modern day society--I understand that my high school English teachers have been right all along, that classics never die, blah, blah, blah. I've even enjoyed relating certain Shakespeare plays to my own life. But what really got to me was Much Ado About Nothing. For those of you who haven't read the play, basically this guy really fancies this one girl, and his friend is all "hey, I'll get the girl for you, since you're too scared to go up to her and be a person." And the guy with the crush goes "thanks man, that would be swell." Then the other couple just shoots insults at each other, basically making Shakespearean "your face" jokes until they realize that oh wait, that means they love each other, who would have thunk it.


Basically, everything that happens in this play also happens in high school, minus the constant texts and Facebook updates. But it made me wonder what would happen if Romeo and Juliet were able to tag each other in posts, what would happen if Falstaff could post Buzzfeed quizzes on his wall. If Shakespeare characters lived in the 21st century, what would their social media look like?


Romeo

 

November 20th: "Baking pumpkin pie with the most beautiful girl in the world, Juliet Capulet! Babe, I'm sooo lucky I met you last week, and can't wait to bake you pies for the rest of my life!"


November 21st: Romeo Montague>Juliet Capulet: "I love you, Julsie! <3 #whereforartthousobeautiful"


November 22nd: "Ugh, why are parents such asses? Can't a guy just marry a girl already?"


November 23rd: *posts One Direction song on Juliet's wall*

November 25th: "Btw guys, I'm not dead, just pretending to be for love and all that. Juliet Capulet <3" 


Hamlet
November 20th: "Sometimes I wish I could just slip away from the universe..."
*concerned friend posts comment*
 "God, why can't people just leave me alone??"


*emo Green Day song lyrics*
*more emo song lyrics*

Othello
November 20th: *posts Thought Catalog article 10 signs she's cheating on you* "maybe someeeebody should look at this."

*when nobody comments on said Thought Catalog article* "F*** this, I'm done. I need somebody new to talk to. Iago hmu for poker nightttt."

"What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more." 

This. 
"So over girls! I need a woman in my life."
"Awful day...don't ask me about it. I just need to be alone." 
*wonders why no one responded to previous status.*

Falstaff
November 20th: "Just got done with my shift at McDonald's! Who wants to hit the bars tonight?"

November 25th: "Everyone's getting married and becoming kings and I'm just like LOL who wants to drink tequila shots tonight?"
 
December 1st: "Who needs to rule a kingdom when you can have 500 calories worth of eggnog instead?"

Somehow, the characters seem a lot less mature and sophisticated when they start speaking in text speak. All I can say is it would've saved Romeo and Juliet a lot of grief.

Namaste.