Apparently, I’m the worst person to take on your road trip. In our odyssey to Washington D.C. for the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear, I didn’t touch the wheel once. Even my mix CD almost got me tossed from the vehicle (not everyone enjoys Yo Gabba Gabba soundtracks as much as me).
But I tagged along anyway, drinking machine coffee from Styrofoam cups and making fun of each state we passed through.
Here’s a secret: I’m not really that politically-minded. Until I took an Intro to Politics class this semester, the only Hobbes I knew was the stuffed tiger who hung out with Calvin. The only real piece of political ammo I retained from the campus gubernatorial debate is that Bill Brady allegedly likes to strangle puppies with his bare hands (granted, I may have embellished this memory—I tend to overreact when puppy deaths are involved.)
But, like every modern college student, I hold Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert near and dear to my liberal arts heart.
And there’s no harm in being more political. If nothing, gaining more knowledge gives me more right to complain. After all, I didn’t even know what “gubernatorial” meant until about a month ago, and it’s never a bad thing to add another five-syllable word to my vocab.
As far as political signs go, I could get behind most of the messages at the rally, but only because the references had vague political connotations.
You referenced Harry Potter on your homemade banner? You must know what you’re talking about.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Flight of the Conchords, Arrested Development… It’s like a sign company got a hold of my Facebook “likes” and pumped out every weird reference they could think of.
Does that mean I like politics now? No, it means I like obscure pop culture references. But if I need obscure pop culture references to connect on a political sphere, is that such a terrible thing?
In the 2008 elections, MTV told us to Rock the Vote. And let me tell you, I rocked it. Not just because Fall Out Boy told me to, but to be honest, it did help.
Is there something wrong with politics being “hip?” If it’s cool to be political, that just means we’ll have a lot more trendy, informed citizens. You can wear your tightest skinny jeans to the ballots if you want. You don’t need full circulation in your legs to cast a vote. You just need to show up.
So in a way, I took a stand. In fact, I stood for five—feet aching, eyes squinted, watching the broadcast on a screen a few hundred feet ahead of me.
I know there are naysayers out there who bash Stewart’s rally as pointless, or even as a dangerous mockery of American politics. In some peoples’ eyes, humor can never be paired with a serious point.
But when used correctly, humor can be a powerful tool.
We hear a joke, we laugh, and sometimes we stop to consider the truth it illuminates. Sure, this was a rally for sanity. And if we never laughed, we really would go crazy.
Every once in awhile, we all need to do something utterly ridiculous in order to remain sane in this world. Sometimes “sanity” means you have to dress up like a lumberjack and play a round of Twister. Sometimes it means that you have to hold an impassioned argument with your pet cat.
Sometimes, it means you have to drive for twenty-six hours in order to spend just five at a rally you’re not entirely sure how to define. Because sometimes you need to add yourself to a tally, to take a stand, to point to pictures or newsfeeds the next morning and say I was there, I saw it, I heard it, let me tell you about it.
If I really gained one thing from our expedition to the rally, it’s this: we need to communicate, and listen, and stop typing in all caps on internet message boards, sure. But most of all, we need to laugh.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
[headline censored] -- A brief break from my standard voice
If you read the editorial, you’ll get more information on the Leader’s recent brush with censorship. The editorial gives you a glimpse of the soul of the paper. If you were to take the newspaper out to a nice seafood dinner and flatter it with compliments, these are the opinions it would ramble about.
My column reflects solely my views.
Story by-lines reduce the writer to a line of black text, but a real person took those photographs, wrote those headlines, and reported on those lectures that were so boring that everyone else skipped out to watch Teen Mom in their dorm rooms.
When you see a member of the ed board bleary-eyed on Monday morning, it’s not because they were out partying all weekend, but because they stayed up until obscene hours laying out the latest paper. These are the most committed students I’ve ever met, and my time at Elmhurst has been defined by their friendship and encouragement.
Yes, we make mistakes. That’s what happened in a student-run paper. We try to report accurately and fairly, but sometimes we slip up. But in all my time on The Leader, we’ve always cleaned up after our mistakes. We’ll correct, rewrite, apologize, and learn from whatever messes we’ve created.
And it’s paid off. At Illinois College Press Association last year, we won second in state for our division, plus tons of other awards for individual writers and artists. Campus response to each issue shows how important The Leader is to Elmhurst—when the paper is just a few hours late, faculty and staff both wait impatiently for the new paper.
But even without the awards or the praise, The Leader has heart. And that heart comes from the writers and photographers and artists who commit to The Leader even though they have classes, social lives, and the occasional desire to sleep.
In the end, whether you study physics or history or literature or exercise science, your time at Elmhurst should be defined by one thing: passion. The Leader is our passion. We’re students, but we’re also reporters and artists and storytellers. When we’re threatened, that passion is what holds us together.
We’re always talking about “The Elmhurst Experience” and “what college ought to be,” but how many people have seriously considered either of those statements? Lately, I have. My Elmhurst Experience is about finding my voice and the confidence to use it. My college ought to be a place where I am never scared of self-expression. Until two weeks ago, Elmhurst never faltered on encouraging these precise things. And if I were to stay silent now, when every molecule in my body is telling me to speak up, I’d be self-censoring.
And I promise, next week I’ll go back to writing about burritos or puppies or how to survive college without showering. Because those things are important, too.
My column reflects solely my views.
Story by-lines reduce the writer to a line of black text, but a real person took those photographs, wrote those headlines, and reported on those lectures that were so boring that everyone else skipped out to watch Teen Mom in their dorm rooms.
When you see a member of the ed board bleary-eyed on Monday morning, it’s not because they were out partying all weekend, but because they stayed up until obscene hours laying out the latest paper. These are the most committed students I’ve ever met, and my time at Elmhurst has been defined by their friendship and encouragement.
Yes, we make mistakes. That’s what happened in a student-run paper. We try to report accurately and fairly, but sometimes we slip up. But in all my time on The Leader, we’ve always cleaned up after our mistakes. We’ll correct, rewrite, apologize, and learn from whatever messes we’ve created.
And it’s paid off. At Illinois College Press Association last year, we won second in state for our division, plus tons of other awards for individual writers and artists. Campus response to each issue shows how important The Leader is to Elmhurst—when the paper is just a few hours late, faculty and staff both wait impatiently for the new paper.
But even without the awards or the praise, The Leader has heart. And that heart comes from the writers and photographers and artists who commit to The Leader even though they have classes, social lives, and the occasional desire to sleep.
In the end, whether you study physics or history or literature or exercise science, your time at Elmhurst should be defined by one thing: passion. The Leader is our passion. We’re students, but we’re also reporters and artists and storytellers. When we’re threatened, that passion is what holds us together.
We’re always talking about “The Elmhurst Experience” and “what college ought to be,” but how many people have seriously considered either of those statements? Lately, I have. My Elmhurst Experience is about finding my voice and the confidence to use it. My college ought to be a place where I am never scared of self-expression. Until two weeks ago, Elmhurst never faltered on encouraging these precise things. And if I were to stay silent now, when every molecule in my body is telling me to speak up, I’d be self-censoring.
And I promise, next week I’ll go back to writing about burritos or puppies or how to survive college without showering. Because those things are important, too.
Food Flings and Food Fights
I’m entering the third year of my latest relationship. And like any long-term relationship, it’s been full of laughter and tears, passion and strife, cheeseburgers and mac-and-cheese.
Since freshman year, I’ve been dating Chartwell’s. And I think that now, as I enter my junior year, I might be ready to call the whole thing off.
Three years is a long time to dedicate to one entity. At first, we were tangled in the bliss of new love like a Caesar chicken wrap is swathed in a tortilla. I was a naïve college freshman, eager to fall for the first person who offered me tater tots and milkshakes. But the more I see of the world, the more I realize that there are more options than just plastic cutlery that bends or shatters when you try to spear a baby carrot.
To be honest, our relationship has taken on the feel of a bowl of day-old oatmeal. We both have our downfalls. He gets cold and distant on the weekends. I nag and complain, especially when he’s out of ketchup.
Lately, he’s been trying to win me back. He woos me with fresh ranch chips and assorted baked goods as varied and delicious as a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He’s even started giving me free two-ounce cups of soft-serve ice cream, which seemed like a cute token until I realized his game. Two ounces is just enough to keep me craving for my next fix—he’s trying to keep me trapped and dependent.
On top of all this, he’s moved to Facebook stalking. Whenever I log on, I have seventeen new event invitations from Chartwell’s. His date ideas are charming, I’ll admit. Sushi in the Roost. October tea tasting. Still, it feels like a last desperate move. He’s become increasingly needy, and I’ve been considering my other options.
He must know my eyes have been wandering. He’s seen me with more exotic suitors, like Elmhurst Chop Suey and Chipotle. I’m only twenty, I can’t be tied down. But Chartwell’s-induced guilt makes my culinary exploits seem like the adventures of a cheap slut. Soon, I’ll be whoring myself out for the Taco Bell value menu. And as I sprawl on the curb with congealing nacho cheese spilling down my shirt, Chartwell’s will tell everyone I had it coming all along.
The thing is, we both knew our relationship would be temporary from the start. I can’t live in the dorms forever. I’ll move off campus, and he’ll find some impressionable freshman to regale with Alfredo sauce and chicken strips.
I’ve considered our long-distance options, but I’m not sure if tater tot casserole holds a strong enough siren call to pull me back day after day.
Besides, it might be fun to explore single life. Buy a few sauce pans and a bottle of vegetable oil and embark on my newly independent culinary life.
The problem is that after I end it, we’re bound to run into each other. It’s a small campus, and he’s involved in a lot. I’ll swing by to grab a bagel or a Diet Coke, and things will just be awkward. I’ll tell him I miss his apple cheesecake. I’ll admit I was rash and cruel in ending our fling, and that I’ve been surviving on Saltines and canned peas since I left the safe realm of the cafeteria.
He’ll smile understandably, nod in his most knowing way, and hand me a coupon for a free two-ounce ice cream cup.
Since freshman year, I’ve been dating Chartwell’s. And I think that now, as I enter my junior year, I might be ready to call the whole thing off.
Three years is a long time to dedicate to one entity. At first, we were tangled in the bliss of new love like a Caesar chicken wrap is swathed in a tortilla. I was a naïve college freshman, eager to fall for the first person who offered me tater tots and milkshakes. But the more I see of the world, the more I realize that there are more options than just plastic cutlery that bends or shatters when you try to spear a baby carrot.
To be honest, our relationship has taken on the feel of a bowl of day-old oatmeal. We both have our downfalls. He gets cold and distant on the weekends. I nag and complain, especially when he’s out of ketchup.
Lately, he’s been trying to win me back. He woos me with fresh ranch chips and assorted baked goods as varied and delicious as a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He’s even started giving me free two-ounce cups of soft-serve ice cream, which seemed like a cute token until I realized his game. Two ounces is just enough to keep me craving for my next fix—he’s trying to keep me trapped and dependent.
On top of all this, he’s moved to Facebook stalking. Whenever I log on, I have seventeen new event invitations from Chartwell’s. His date ideas are charming, I’ll admit. Sushi in the Roost. October tea tasting. Still, it feels like a last desperate move. He’s become increasingly needy, and I’ve been considering my other options.
He must know my eyes have been wandering. He’s seen me with more exotic suitors, like Elmhurst Chop Suey and Chipotle. I’m only twenty, I can’t be tied down. But Chartwell’s-induced guilt makes my culinary exploits seem like the adventures of a cheap slut. Soon, I’ll be whoring myself out for the Taco Bell value menu. And as I sprawl on the curb with congealing nacho cheese spilling down my shirt, Chartwell’s will tell everyone I had it coming all along.
The thing is, we both knew our relationship would be temporary from the start. I can’t live in the dorms forever. I’ll move off campus, and he’ll find some impressionable freshman to regale with Alfredo sauce and chicken strips.
I’ve considered our long-distance options, but I’m not sure if tater tot casserole holds a strong enough siren call to pull me back day after day.
Besides, it might be fun to explore single life. Buy a few sauce pans and a bottle of vegetable oil and embark on my newly independent culinary life.
The problem is that after I end it, we’re bound to run into each other. It’s a small campus, and he’s involved in a lot. I’ll swing by to grab a bagel or a Diet Coke, and things will just be awkward. I’ll tell him I miss his apple cheesecake. I’ll admit I was rash and cruel in ending our fling, and that I’ve been surviving on Saltines and canned peas since I left the safe realm of the cafeteria.
He’ll smile understandably, nod in his most knowing way, and hand me a coupon for a free two-ounce ice cream cup.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
We've got to get off this island
This is my last column of the year. I wanted to write something witty about Bieber Fever, or make fun of Chartwell’s some more, or at least make a really solid fart joke.
But I don’t have time to be funny. I don’t have time to do anything.
My ideal life plan (thinking of jokes, eating graham crackers and not wearing pants) has been replaced with the academic semester from hell. Right now, I have roughly 97 papers due. Some of those papers are for classes I’m not even registered for.
We all need to find a way to de-stress. Some people turn to cigarettes, or beer pong, or heroin. My new hobby is more dangerous than all three: I started watching Lost.
Like all addictions, it began meekly enough. You could call me a casual Lostee. I watched an episode every few days and dropped occasional references into conversations. Within a few weeks, I was locking myself in a dim dorm room to watch eight hour Lost marathons. Any conversation I had ended up with me quaking in the fetal position, whispering “The numbers… What do the numbers mean?”
I get obsessive about things a lot. I currently own enough Harry Potter t-shirts to go over a full week without wearing one twice. What did I expect of myself when I found an epic TV show with every single episode free over Hulu?
The difference is that I followed Potter Mania from the beginning, while I’ve packed 6 seasons of Lost into a little over two months. If Lost is my main addiction, I’m about to OD. The Lost fans who have been there since the beginning scoff at me. Apparently I’m not a real fan if I didn’t catch on until now. But I just laugh right back—I can watch every episode in a gluttonous spree and still enjoy the end result of 6 years’ hard work. I didn’t win the marathon, but I did win the pie eating contest.
In all my hours immersed in Lost, I realized something important. Elmhurst College is basically the Lost island. You’re stuck in this place, and a lot of the time you’re not sure how we got here or how to escape. Day-to-day, you mostly just worry about survival. Some people are cool, but some just want to shoot flaming arrows at you. Terrible things happen pretty often (polar bears, smoke monsters, Michelle Rodriguez) but sometimes things can be really fun (the beach, solving mysterious plots). And if by some twist of fate you manage to escape, something always pulls you back to the island.
I’m conflicted right now. If I do nothing but watch Lost for the next week, I can catch up in time to watch the final episode on the actual TV. But if I don’t study for finals, I’m going to be voted off the Elmhurst island via failing grades.
Honestly, I’m eager to find out how it ends. What will I choose—the instant happiness or the academic success? It’s quite a cliffhanger, and I can’t wait for the final episode of my Sophomore year to find out how things end up. Tune in next year. If I’m around campus, I probably studied. If not, at least I found out the secrets to the island.
Either way, I hope there are polar bears.
But I don’t have time to be funny. I don’t have time to do anything.
My ideal life plan (thinking of jokes, eating graham crackers and not wearing pants) has been replaced with the academic semester from hell. Right now, I have roughly 97 papers due. Some of those papers are for classes I’m not even registered for.
We all need to find a way to de-stress. Some people turn to cigarettes, or beer pong, or heroin. My new hobby is more dangerous than all three: I started watching Lost.
Like all addictions, it began meekly enough. You could call me a casual Lostee. I watched an episode every few days and dropped occasional references into conversations. Within a few weeks, I was locking myself in a dim dorm room to watch eight hour Lost marathons. Any conversation I had ended up with me quaking in the fetal position, whispering “The numbers… What do the numbers mean?”
I get obsessive about things a lot. I currently own enough Harry Potter t-shirts to go over a full week without wearing one twice. What did I expect of myself when I found an epic TV show with every single episode free over Hulu?
The difference is that I followed Potter Mania from the beginning, while I’ve packed 6 seasons of Lost into a little over two months. If Lost is my main addiction, I’m about to OD. The Lost fans who have been there since the beginning scoff at me. Apparently I’m not a real fan if I didn’t catch on until now. But I just laugh right back—I can watch every episode in a gluttonous spree and still enjoy the end result of 6 years’ hard work. I didn’t win the marathon, but I did win the pie eating contest.
In all my hours immersed in Lost, I realized something important. Elmhurst College is basically the Lost island. You’re stuck in this place, and a lot of the time you’re not sure how we got here or how to escape. Day-to-day, you mostly just worry about survival. Some people are cool, but some just want to shoot flaming arrows at you. Terrible things happen pretty often (polar bears, smoke monsters, Michelle Rodriguez) but sometimes things can be really fun (the beach, solving mysterious plots). And if by some twist of fate you manage to escape, something always pulls you back to the island.
I’m conflicted right now. If I do nothing but watch Lost for the next week, I can catch up in time to watch the final episode on the actual TV. But if I don’t study for finals, I’m going to be voted off the Elmhurst island via failing grades.
Honestly, I’m eager to find out how it ends. What will I choose—the instant happiness or the academic success? It’s quite a cliffhanger, and I can’t wait for the final episode of my Sophomore year to find out how things end up. Tune in next year. If I’m around campus, I probably studied. If not, at least I found out the secrets to the island.
Either way, I hope there are polar bears.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Chickening Out
Even as we pulled up to the KFC parking lot, I thought it all had to be a joke— some demented April Fool’s Day prank delivered a few weeks late. But the first line on the official website description put any rumors to rest—“The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real!” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Double Down exists. And I stove forth, like Lewis and Clark mapping unchartered territory, to bravely devour this deep fried monster of a “sandwich.”
First, some background on the Double Down. Basically, take everything your doctor doesn’t want you to eat and multiply it by 2— 2 slices of bacon and 2 slices of cheese contained in 2 pieces of fried chicken— and top it with a “special sauce” that’s probably just mayonnaise with orange food coloring. If you’re watching your figure, you can opt for the grilled version, though if you’re really health-concerned you should probably set fire to the KFC and run as fast as you can. Then add a large coke and a side of potato wedges.
The Double Down goes against every nutrition lesson I’ve ever learned in my life. With each bite, I felt a food pyramid crumble. Twenty years of sporadic dieting and food-related guilt meant that I couldn’t casually chomp down on every artery’s worst nightmare. I wasn’t raised catholic, but I now understand their sense of religious guilt—I felt it twist in my gut with every bite of greasy, cheesy chicken. And I opted for the grilled version (or as my brother puts it, I wimped out). If I’d eaten an entire fried sandwich, I think I would have imploded into a vortex of shame on the spot.
This is truly a travesty that could only be born in America: home of freedom, equality and the pursuit of gluttony. In what culinary dungeon did the Colonel’s insane alter-ego dream up this Frankenstein pile of meat and cheese?
My first problem came with the actual holding of a sandwich. They wrap it in a thin layer of paper, but that doesn’t stop oil and melting cheese to scald your fingers. Wrestling with two hot, oil-soaked chicken patties is much more difficult than containing all the fixings between a couple slices of carbs.
All sandwiches have one thing in common (bread) and that’s the one thing the Double Down rudely ignores. KFC should realize that they can’t just change the essential rules of sandwiches. These rules have been long established and respected, and a snappy ad campaign won’t make the American masses forget the definition of a sandwich. Then again, the “Double Down Pile of Meat” doesn’t sound quite as poetic.
What’s next for the restaurant world? Will Panera replace their bread bowls with hollow chicken carcasses?
Then again, it’s refreshing for a fast food joint to stop pretending they’re not killing you with every gloriously greasy bite. For awhile, KFC tried to change their name to “Kitchen Fresh Chicken,” which didn’t change the fact that 90% of their menu items are fried. Now, it looks like the charade’s up. They’re not only going back to their deep-fried roots, they’re publicly consummating their relationship with the birth of this meaty monstrosity.
To be honest, the sandwich tasted pretty good. The grilled chicken was spicy and tender, and the mayonnaise-cheese-bacon glob in the middle tasted like slow albeit happy heart failure. The sample of a fried version I tried was almost unbearably salty. The first few bites were fairly pleasant, but soon finishing the sandwich became a challenge rather than a meal. Even after I finished every gloppy bite, I was left with a souvenir—a three day heartburn spree that reminded me of just how lovely it is to a fast food-fueled American consumer.
First, some background on the Double Down. Basically, take everything your doctor doesn’t want you to eat and multiply it by 2— 2 slices of bacon and 2 slices of cheese contained in 2 pieces of fried chicken— and top it with a “special sauce” that’s probably just mayonnaise with orange food coloring. If you’re watching your figure, you can opt for the grilled version, though if you’re really health-concerned you should probably set fire to the KFC and run as fast as you can. Then add a large coke and a side of potato wedges.
The Double Down goes against every nutrition lesson I’ve ever learned in my life. With each bite, I felt a food pyramid crumble. Twenty years of sporadic dieting and food-related guilt meant that I couldn’t casually chomp down on every artery’s worst nightmare. I wasn’t raised catholic, but I now understand their sense of religious guilt—I felt it twist in my gut with every bite of greasy, cheesy chicken. And I opted for the grilled version (or as my brother puts it, I wimped out). If I’d eaten an entire fried sandwich, I think I would have imploded into a vortex of shame on the spot.
This is truly a travesty that could only be born in America: home of freedom, equality and the pursuit of gluttony. In what culinary dungeon did the Colonel’s insane alter-ego dream up this Frankenstein pile of meat and cheese?
My first problem came with the actual holding of a sandwich. They wrap it in a thin layer of paper, but that doesn’t stop oil and melting cheese to scald your fingers. Wrestling with two hot, oil-soaked chicken patties is much more difficult than containing all the fixings between a couple slices of carbs.
All sandwiches have one thing in common (bread) and that’s the one thing the Double Down rudely ignores. KFC should realize that they can’t just change the essential rules of sandwiches. These rules have been long established and respected, and a snappy ad campaign won’t make the American masses forget the definition of a sandwich. Then again, the “Double Down Pile of Meat” doesn’t sound quite as poetic.
What’s next for the restaurant world? Will Panera replace their bread bowls with hollow chicken carcasses?
Then again, it’s refreshing for a fast food joint to stop pretending they’re not killing you with every gloriously greasy bite. For awhile, KFC tried to change their name to “Kitchen Fresh Chicken,” which didn’t change the fact that 90% of their menu items are fried. Now, it looks like the charade’s up. They’re not only going back to their deep-fried roots, they’re publicly consummating their relationship with the birth of this meaty monstrosity.
To be honest, the sandwich tasted pretty good. The grilled chicken was spicy and tender, and the mayonnaise-cheese-bacon glob in the middle tasted like slow albeit happy heart failure. The sample of a fried version I tried was almost unbearably salty. The first few bites were fairly pleasant, but soon finishing the sandwich became a challenge rather than a meal. Even after I finished every gloppy bite, I was left with a souvenir—a three day heartburn spree that reminded me of just how lovely it is to a fast food-fueled American consumer.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bluenet: Belle of the Ball
All semester long, Bluenet waits like a homely girl at a junior high sock hop. It nurses its cup of Hawaiian Punch and frowns at its cousin Blackboard, who everyone courts all year long. Bluenet thinks Blackboard is a total slut, giving away all of those Powerpoint presentations for free.
But now, with class registration looming in the near future, everyone’s asking Bluenet to dance.
The next week brings nothing but panic. Late at night, students huddle over glowing computer screens and hyperventilate when they realize they will never graduate. They crowd Goebel hall and confusedly bump into each other, because they’ve never had a reason to enter Goebel until now. And all because it’s time to pick classes.
The main panic centers on the fact that if you sign up for the wrong class, you will fail horribly and get expelled from Elmhurst. So to make sure you don’t disappoint your parents, lose all your friend and throw your life away, you better be prepared.
This time of year brings out two species of students: the last-minute sloth and the aggressive over-planner. The sloth saunters to their advisor’s office the day before their registration date, then asks in a slow voice what their major is again. The over-planner mapped out every second of college during first semester freshman year, but still indulges in a panic attack once in awhile. Either way, the advisor loses.
Following are the three methods that guarantee you’ll enroll in some class, even if they have nothing to do with your major.
Rate-my-Professor method:
This method revolves around ratemyprofessor.com, which grades on professors using a complex system of smiley or frown-y faces. This kindergarten scale comes in handy since most people using this site are opting for the easiest class. Assigns a lot of homework? How dare she. Tough end-of semester test? No thank you. Might as well find the most effortless courses and use your excess energy for flirting in Founders.
Sleeping Beauty method:
This style of taking classes involves signing up for the latest classes possible. Ideally, no class will begin before 1 p.m. Extra points are rewarded if Fridays can also be kept class-free. This plan works best for late night partiers, insomniacs, and nocturnal animals.
Follow the Flock method:
Nobody wants to be the loser crying softly at the back of the classroom. This method completely solves that problem— you just sign up for every class your friends are taking. Leave your interests and passions behind. Popularity is more important anyway. You can always change your major to Conformity.
So get ready to woo Bluenet as best as you can. It’s your once-a-semester date, and Bluenet’s sole time to shine. So on that registration day, play some soft music, lay a single rose against your keyboard, and get ready for the exhausted site to crash from emotional exhaustion. Then you can run to your advisor and cry some more.
But now, with class registration looming in the near future, everyone’s asking Bluenet to dance.
The next week brings nothing but panic. Late at night, students huddle over glowing computer screens and hyperventilate when they realize they will never graduate. They crowd Goebel hall and confusedly bump into each other, because they’ve never had a reason to enter Goebel until now. And all because it’s time to pick classes.
The main panic centers on the fact that if you sign up for the wrong class, you will fail horribly and get expelled from Elmhurst. So to make sure you don’t disappoint your parents, lose all your friend and throw your life away, you better be prepared.
This time of year brings out two species of students: the last-minute sloth and the aggressive over-planner. The sloth saunters to their advisor’s office the day before their registration date, then asks in a slow voice what their major is again. The over-planner mapped out every second of college during first semester freshman year, but still indulges in a panic attack once in awhile. Either way, the advisor loses.
Following are the three methods that guarantee you’ll enroll in some class, even if they have nothing to do with your major.
Rate-my-Professor method:
This method revolves around ratemyprofessor.com, which grades on professors using a complex system of smiley or frown-y faces. This kindergarten scale comes in handy since most people using this site are opting for the easiest class. Assigns a lot of homework? How dare she. Tough end-of semester test? No thank you. Might as well find the most effortless courses and use your excess energy for flirting in Founders.
Sleeping Beauty method:
This style of taking classes involves signing up for the latest classes possible. Ideally, no class will begin before 1 p.m. Extra points are rewarded if Fridays can also be kept class-free. This plan works best for late night partiers, insomniacs, and nocturnal animals.
Follow the Flock method:
Nobody wants to be the loser crying softly at the back of the classroom. This method completely solves that problem— you just sign up for every class your friends are taking. Leave your interests and passions behind. Popularity is more important anyway. You can always change your major to Conformity.
So get ready to woo Bluenet as best as you can. It’s your once-a-semester date, and Bluenet’s sole time to shine. So on that registration day, play some soft music, lay a single rose against your keyboard, and get ready for the exhausted site to crash from emotional exhaustion. Then you can run to your advisor and cry some more.
Friday, March 19, 2010
eggcellent, eggceptional, eggcetera.
Some people reserve their true passions for a certain sports team. Others live for showing you awkward portraits of their kids that they keep stuffed in their wallets. My personal deepest obsession is reserved for Easter-themed candy.
Some people claim perfection is unobtainable. Still, certain things might come close—a particularly vivid sunset, an innocent child’s laugh. Of course, there is one thing comprised solely of beauty and truth and purity. I’m talking about Cadbury Crème Eggs.
I’m going to fill my wallet with snapshots of Cadbury Crème Eggs, and you’ll have to politely tell me how delicious they looked each time we bumped into each other. I’m going to paint my body the colors of a Cadbury foil wrapper and go running across Langhorst field to prove my devotion.
The smooth chocolate shell, the creamy faux-yolk filling, the ensuing sugar rush that hypes you up like a kindergartner on Speed and Lucky Charms… All other human experiences pale in comparison to the ingestion of a Cadbury Egg. They’re basically just balls of frosting dipped in chocolate, and if there’s one thing I love more than friendship and puppies and Mel Brooks combined it’s frosting. My original grand plan for college was to immediately ingest an entire tub of frosting. Relative independence from my parents? Time for a sugar high! That’s how you know you’re really grown up—when you’re hiding out in your dorm room scooping vanilla frosting from a plastic tub with your finger.
I’ve never actually done this. The shame involved in secretly devouring an entire tub of frosting would probably cause me to spontaneously combust. Last week, however, I ate two Cadburys for breakfast. The shame from that activity still makes me wince, but it was the best I’ve ever felt heading to class. Much more effective than a cup of coffee.
Maybe I love Cadbury Eggs so much because they’re only available once a year. Holidays always put us in an obsessive frenzy. My friends hoovered so many Shamrock Shakes leading up to St. Patrick’s Day that Shamrock-colored foam began forming around their mouths, and they began demanding their latest fix in high-pitched leprechaun squeals.
But would we overdose on these things so much if we could get them all the time? If Santa Claus sat in your living room all year, would he just become the fat guy who ate all your cookies?
I might just love what Cadbury Eggs remind me of—the return of warmth and springtime. Among the many rituals of the changing of the season (spring cleaning, shaving a winter’s worth of leg hair) unwrapping the first Cadbury holds a special joy.
My advisor thinks I’m desperate to study in Oxford to complete my English degree, but there’s another secret reason. I’ve heard grand rumors from overseas. The United Kingdom, the motherland of Cadbury, offers Cadbury Crème McFlurries year-round. Basically, their geese lay foil-wrapped Cadburys each morning, and the rivers run thick with sweet yellow Cadbury Crème.
I think it’s time to forge ahead with my study abroad plans.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Feeding Frenzy
College students aren’t known for being foodies. If anything, it’s the opposite—we’re characterized as slobs who live on Ramen, Mountain Dew, and the leftover pizza under the futon.
Meal-wise, pretty much everyone on campus worships at the shrine of Chartwells, where we can sacrifice our Blue Jay Bucks for a fruitful harvest of chicken fingers and Doritos. And lately, our faith has been rewarded by a slew of new treats.
The addition of Olive’s in the Roost opens up the options of Paninis, flatbreads and salads. The revised Roost pretends to offer more healthy options, but you can now get the Kindergarten special—a grilled peanut butter and jelly. Or if you’re craving even more sugar, opt for Nutella. Add a chocolate milk and a note from mom, and you can relive your glory days of bullying (or being bullied) on the playground.
The new menu screens are the most perplexing part of Olive’s. Meals are broadcast on state-of-the art flatscreen TVs, because we don’t spend enough of our time staring at digital images as it is. Just when you’re zeroing in on what to order, the images change to reveal an entire new selection.
Having plenty of choices is great, but when a steady parade of Panini options are sliding by, it’s hard to focus your hungers in one direction. Many a student has withered away after standing frozen for too long, unable to decipher which flatbread was the best choice.
And this isn’t the only place flatscreens broadcast our cafeteria options. Upstairs, even more screens taunt us will photographs of food much more appetizing than what’s being served.
If Chartwells really wanted to take full advantage of technology, they’d harness the power of Wonkavision to send candy bars through the screens. In fact, the cafeteria should probably take a lot more cues from Willy Wonka. Oompa Loompas make for cheap labor. And just imagine a magical garden where hills are made of cafeteria meatloaf and the river flows with thick brown gravy. If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it!
If Chartwells can’t afford the rights to Wonkavision, they should at least broadcast food in 3D. And if they’re feeling really generous, they could hold occasional Vin Diesel movie days. Nothing prompts hunger like adrenaline.
Still, there are perks to this technology leap. Namely, it lets us pretend we’re living in the future, where Elmhurst’s top three majors are Interplanetary Colonization, Mind Control and Lasers. Of course, then our cafeteria meals will consist of hearty nutrient pills.
All complaining aside, it’s nice to see Chartwells is trying. If they keep striving forward, they’ll get closer and closer to the perfect food. One day, we’ll come in, and it will be ready—the culinary pinnacle of college cafeterias, the softly glowing golden nectar of the dining hall gods. One bite, and we’ll have all of life’s questions answered. We’ll all immediately receive our degrees and head out into the world to spread messages of peace, goodwill and food appreciation.
In the meantime, who’s up for Chipotle?
Meal-wise, pretty much everyone on campus worships at the shrine of Chartwells, where we can sacrifice our Blue Jay Bucks for a fruitful harvest of chicken fingers and Doritos. And lately, our faith has been rewarded by a slew of new treats.
The addition of Olive’s in the Roost opens up the options of Paninis, flatbreads and salads. The revised Roost pretends to offer more healthy options, but you can now get the Kindergarten special—a grilled peanut butter and jelly. Or if you’re craving even more sugar, opt for Nutella. Add a chocolate milk and a note from mom, and you can relive your glory days of bullying (or being bullied) on the playground.
The new menu screens are the most perplexing part of Olive’s. Meals are broadcast on state-of-the art flatscreen TVs, because we don’t spend enough of our time staring at digital images as it is. Just when you’re zeroing in on what to order, the images change to reveal an entire new selection.
Having plenty of choices is great, but when a steady parade of Panini options are sliding by, it’s hard to focus your hungers in one direction. Many a student has withered away after standing frozen for too long, unable to decipher which flatbread was the best choice.
And this isn’t the only place flatscreens broadcast our cafeteria options. Upstairs, even more screens taunt us will photographs of food much more appetizing than what’s being served.
If Chartwells really wanted to take full advantage of technology, they’d harness the power of Wonkavision to send candy bars through the screens. In fact, the cafeteria should probably take a lot more cues from Willy Wonka. Oompa Loompas make for cheap labor. And just imagine a magical garden where hills are made of cafeteria meatloaf and the river flows with thick brown gravy. If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it!
If Chartwells can’t afford the rights to Wonkavision, they should at least broadcast food in 3D. And if they’re feeling really generous, they could hold occasional Vin Diesel movie days. Nothing prompts hunger like adrenaline.
Still, there are perks to this technology leap. Namely, it lets us pretend we’re living in the future, where Elmhurst’s top three majors are Interplanetary Colonization, Mind Control and Lasers. Of course, then our cafeteria meals will consist of hearty nutrient pills.
All complaining aside, it’s nice to see Chartwells is trying. If they keep striving forward, they’ll get closer and closer to the perfect food. One day, we’ll come in, and it will be ready—the culinary pinnacle of college cafeterias, the softly glowing golden nectar of the dining hall gods. One bite, and we’ll have all of life’s questions answered. We’ll all immediately receive our degrees and head out into the world to spread messages of peace, goodwill and food appreciation.
In the meantime, who’s up for Chipotle?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Backpacking through the Years
For the last six years I’ve had a constant friend. A friend who smoothly transitioned with me from high school to college, and who always had my back.
I’m talking about my corduroy Jansport backpack. The backpack that clung dedicatedly to my shoulders through most of my teenage years. And now it’s heaving a final, exhausted sigh. One of its straps has been knotted so many times that the most dedicated boy scout could never unravel it. An ever-widening hole spreads through the front pocket, and a wad of radio-actively green gum has only been half-heartedly scraped from the back. In short, it’s about to stop completing any of its important roles as a backpack.
It should come as no surprise that I easily attach to inanimate objects. In my bedroom, I still have an entire mesh hammock full of beanie babies. But if I was to build a museum of my life, my backpack would earn its own rotating display case.
I bought it freshman year of high school. Out of all the things I purchased at 14, there are very few I don’t regret. Beyond the heavy eyeliner and My Chemical Romance t-shirts that dominated my freshman year, my backpack waited patiently, knowing it would outlast all the fads.
High school is, in essence, a terrible time. That doesn’t mean that I personally had a terrible in high school. It just means now, two years later, I can recognize that we were all hormonal, pimply, overdramatic teenagers.
In those four years of turning into functioning adults, we wasted a lot of time on trivial things. A favorite activity of my group was taking pictures of ourselves to post on our MySpaces. We definitely weren’t the only teenagers obsessed with photographing ourselves. What is it about being sixteen that causes this frenzy to pout your lips, hold the camera out at arm’s length and snap your own face? Was it a desperate need to prove our own existence, to hold a concrete image of ourselves as our friends, our bodies, our lives changed around us? Or were we just hoping that the perfect default photo would finally make that homeroom hottie notice us?
All through those four years, my backpack hugged my shoulders with constant reassurance. It graciously held my textbooks in the hall, my water bottles at concerts, and my paperbacks on the train. And when I went to college, I packed it to bursting with knickknacks to decorate my dorm shelves with. On my first night of freshman year, when I hung my Harry Potter poster over my bed and worried over the team-building games I’d be forced to play the next day, my backpack waited calm and reassuring on its hook by the door. It’s always been there, silent and useful, and now it’s about to disintegrate for good.
I can’t help but feel this backpack represents me. Six years of an ever-changing array of band pins, iron-on patches, stains and rips—in essence, the entire process of growing up. I’m not sporty nylon, I don’t have a built-in water bottle holder, and I’m no good at hiking or braving the wilderness. I’m corduroy—unassuming and a tad nerdy, a fabric to last through the years.
I’m talking about my corduroy Jansport backpack. The backpack that clung dedicatedly to my shoulders through most of my teenage years. And now it’s heaving a final, exhausted sigh. One of its straps has been knotted so many times that the most dedicated boy scout could never unravel it. An ever-widening hole spreads through the front pocket, and a wad of radio-actively green gum has only been half-heartedly scraped from the back. In short, it’s about to stop completing any of its important roles as a backpack.
It should come as no surprise that I easily attach to inanimate objects. In my bedroom, I still have an entire mesh hammock full of beanie babies. But if I was to build a museum of my life, my backpack would earn its own rotating display case.
I bought it freshman year of high school. Out of all the things I purchased at 14, there are very few I don’t regret. Beyond the heavy eyeliner and My Chemical Romance t-shirts that dominated my freshman year, my backpack waited patiently, knowing it would outlast all the fads.
High school is, in essence, a terrible time. That doesn’t mean that I personally had a terrible in high school. It just means now, two years later, I can recognize that we were all hormonal, pimply, overdramatic teenagers.
In those four years of turning into functioning adults, we wasted a lot of time on trivial things. A favorite activity of my group was taking pictures of ourselves to post on our MySpaces. We definitely weren’t the only teenagers obsessed with photographing ourselves. What is it about being sixteen that causes this frenzy to pout your lips, hold the camera out at arm’s length and snap your own face? Was it a desperate need to prove our own existence, to hold a concrete image of ourselves as our friends, our bodies, our lives changed around us? Or were we just hoping that the perfect default photo would finally make that homeroom hottie notice us?
All through those four years, my backpack hugged my shoulders with constant reassurance. It graciously held my textbooks in the hall, my water bottles at concerts, and my paperbacks on the train. And when I went to college, I packed it to bursting with knickknacks to decorate my dorm shelves with. On my first night of freshman year, when I hung my Harry Potter poster over my bed and worried over the team-building games I’d be forced to play the next day, my backpack waited calm and reassuring on its hook by the door. It’s always been there, silent and useful, and now it’s about to disintegrate for good.
I can’t help but feel this backpack represents me. Six years of an ever-changing array of band pins, iron-on patches, stains and rips—in essence, the entire process of growing up. I’m not sporty nylon, I don’t have a built-in water bottle holder, and I’m no good at hiking or braving the wilderness. I’m corduroy—unassuming and a tad nerdy, a fabric to last through the years.
Monday, February 15, 2010
How do you say "embarassment" in French?
If I seem worldlier when you see me, it’s thanks to my recent J-term trip jet setting through Paris, Prague, Berlin and Amsterdam with a ragtag group of Elmhurst students. When I dreamed of myself in Europe, imaginary-me was incredibly stylish and nonchalant. Of course I would be wearing a dark trench coat and drinking coffee in Paris, or smoking a cigarette while staring moodily over Amsterdam’s glittering canals. It didn’t ever occur to me that I don’t smoke, rarely drink coffee, and don’t even own a trench coat.
My plans on being fashionable were mercilessly crushed in Paris. French women are not only impossibly slim and posh, but each one has mastered the art of cool indifference that makes them seem like the kind of women who have never worn pajama pants in public or eaten a microwave burrito. In short, I clomped through Paris like a rhinoceros in a thrift store t-shirt.
Any plans of European assimilation scattered like a flock of Parisian pigeons (the most fashionable birds in the world.) The longer we stayed in the City of Love, the more I felt like a bumbling Midwesterner. Everything gave me away, from my booming laugh to my scuffed sneakers. Even my conversations suddenly sounded like the dialogue from a King of the Hill episode. “Well, gol-dang, is that the Mona Lisa? This is just like the Da Vinci code, y’all!” I might as well have been draped with the American flag wherever I went.
Two years of high school French didn’t prepare me very well at all for my five days in Paris. Thankfully, I remembered how to order a ham sandwich, which has been proven to be the most useful survival phrase in any language.
I fared a bit better in Germany. After a few days, I mastered how to say “good morning,” “thank you” and “I would like some tap water.” In general, I fit in a bit better in Germany, whose culinary pinnacles involve filling one kind of meat with another meat. Germans are a bit more substantial than the French, so I no longer felt like a wooly mammoth crashing through a tea party. The only time I really felt alienated was when an elderly woman behind the counter at a bakery began screaming at me in rapid German as I tried to pay. When I couldn’t understand what someone was saying to me, I usually resorted to nodding and smiling. Grinning maniacally and jerking my head up and down fast enough to dislodge my brain, I piled Euros on the counter until she stopped screeching—anything to free me from her sudden explosion of rage.
Thankfully, I wasn’t on my own as I made a fool of myself across the European Union. Nothing forms friendships as solidly as stress, and the chaos of navigating four foreign cultures means my classmates and I are basically bonded for life. Navigationally, I can rattle off “Never eat soggy waffles,” but my inner GPS does me no good. Luckily, most of my group members could proficiently decipher maps, and they allowed me to follow after them like an oversized toddler. They could have easily ditched me somewhere in Prague, and I’d still be stumbling around trying to figure out how to convert koruna into dollars (I still have no idea how much money I blew in Prague).
Also thankfully, I was not only paired with a great group of kids, but a group who supported me when I inexplicably decided to talk with a Benjamin Button accent for 24 hours. Jet lag does strange things to people, and before long we were all resorting to strange ways to pass the time. In Paris, we bonded over a “draw the best beard” completion. In Prague, we built an epic fort from hotel sheets and curtains. And in Berlin, when we accidentally bought cookies instead of crackers, we topped them with cheese anyway.
Europe was astounding, beautiful and life-changing, but I’m not sure I could ever live there. I like knowing the secrets to the local Goodwill, and I much prefer our saccharine-sweet Diet Coke to Europe’s imposter Coke Light. The first thing I did when I arrived home, after hugging my parents, was head to Taco Bell. And somehow, the greasy faux-Mexican fast food tasted just like America to me.
Tick Tock on my Maternal Clock
My maternal instinct kicked in recently. I don’t actually want to have a baby. Mostly I just want to look at them, and occasionally hang out with them. My Google habits have been altered, too—instead of the ever-popular “puppies playing” image search, I’ve sneaked in a “babies in costumes” search. You’ve never known true happiness until you see an infant dressed as a slice of pizza.
Times have definitely changed how we look at proper mothering ages. Right now, I’m mostly concerned with being an independent college student (this means I limit calling my mom to twice a week). If I lived in the Old West, I’d probably already have a cabin full o’ rowdy pioneer kids. I’d also know how to shoot buffalo. I base my knowledge of pioneer life solely off of Little House on the Prairie books.
Maybe I can just guilt one of my siblings into having a kid. “Aunt” is probably the best position, anyway, because you get visitation rights but can give the baby back as soon as it poops or starts crying. I don’t want to have to deal with any real baby problems. Mostly I’m just in it for the peek-a-boo. Unfortunately, I already think I’d be a painfully unhip aunt, given that my pop culture knowledge wanes around 1999. “Hey kids, remember Catdog? Want to come over to Aunty Megan’s and play some N64?” By now, N64 is the equivalent of Atari, and Catdog might as well be Steamboat Willie.
My sister is married and owns a house, which seems very adult even though she has a cat named after an Invader Zim character—I could probably convince her to pop one out. My brother is problematic, though. He’s a high school junior, so I guess I don’t really want him to play the Michael Cera in Juno role.
So I guess for I’ll just fulfill my mothering instincts with other people’s offspring. I’m just hoping someone will let me name their baby. I’m really good at naming things. I have a houseplant called Salvidor, and if you sat and talked to him for a minute you’d realize the name is spot-on. Is there a career option for naming other people’s babies?
Maybe someday I’ll be ready for my own personal baby, but I’m not sure if anything could prepare me for the actual birthing process. The good news is that I’ve devised a solution. When I’m finally a mature, prepared adult, I’ll hit up a shopping mall and just steal a baby. Just grab a stroller and start running. If you’re gonna put your baby on wheels, I’m gonna take it as an invitation.
Those child leashes make more sense now. It’s not to stop the kids from getting in trouble, but to protect them from me. Good thing I have scissors.
Of course, publishing this plan might pose some problems. I’m pretty sure this is grounds for a restraining order from Baby GAP. Still, I’m free for babysitting!
Times have definitely changed how we look at proper mothering ages. Right now, I’m mostly concerned with being an independent college student (this means I limit calling my mom to twice a week). If I lived in the Old West, I’d probably already have a cabin full o’ rowdy pioneer kids. I’d also know how to shoot buffalo. I base my knowledge of pioneer life solely off of Little House on the Prairie books.
Maybe I can just guilt one of my siblings into having a kid. “Aunt” is probably the best position, anyway, because you get visitation rights but can give the baby back as soon as it poops or starts crying. I don’t want to have to deal with any real baby problems. Mostly I’m just in it for the peek-a-boo. Unfortunately, I already think I’d be a painfully unhip aunt, given that my pop culture knowledge wanes around 1999. “Hey kids, remember Catdog? Want to come over to Aunty Megan’s and play some N64?” By now, N64 is the equivalent of Atari, and Catdog might as well be Steamboat Willie.
My sister is married and owns a house, which seems very adult even though she has a cat named after an Invader Zim character—I could probably convince her to pop one out. My brother is problematic, though. He’s a high school junior, so I guess I don’t really want him to play the Michael Cera in Juno role.
So I guess for I’ll just fulfill my mothering instincts with other people’s offspring. I’m just hoping someone will let me name their baby. I’m really good at naming things. I have a houseplant called Salvidor, and if you sat and talked to him for a minute you’d realize the name is spot-on. Is there a career option for naming other people’s babies?
Maybe someday I’ll be ready for my own personal baby, but I’m not sure if anything could prepare me for the actual birthing process. The good news is that I’ve devised a solution. When I’m finally a mature, prepared adult, I’ll hit up a shopping mall and just steal a baby. Just grab a stroller and start running. If you’re gonna put your baby on wheels, I’m gonna take it as an invitation.
Those child leashes make more sense now. It’s not to stop the kids from getting in trouble, but to protect them from me. Good thing I have scissors.
Of course, publishing this plan might pose some problems. I’m pretty sure this is grounds for a restraining order from Baby GAP. Still, I’m free for babysitting!
Doggone It
I’ve been homesick lately, though not the knife-in-the-gut Freshman year variety. Instead, I miss the small things—the Picasso poster on my bedroom wall, or the Tribune crossword puzzle spread across the breakfast table. But most of all, with a constant ache in the cavern of my chest, I miss my dog.
Sammi is my best friend for the sole reason that she is boundlessly willing. She doesn’t care if I’m having a bad hair day or if I haven’t showered or if I’m screaming obscenities because Facebook chat has crashed for the 96th time that night. No matter what, she still wants me to scratch her butt.
I was the sort of kid who slept with mountains of stuffed animals, and kept even more invisible pets floating around like phantoms at a pet cemetery. My parents tolerate animals, even like them to a degree, but when I started packing for college they realized that I was ditching them with two surly cats and a sloppy lab mix who once opened the fridge door, devoured an entire turkey, and buried the evidential bones in a houseplant. Clearly the animals were all my idea.
I miss Sammi the most because she misses me the most. The cats treat me with cool indifference most of the time, and my brother barely pulls his attention away from his X-Box. My parents miss me, but I can’t whip them into a pee-inducing fervor when I walk through the door (which is, for the record, a good thing.) Nobody wears enthusiasm as well as a dog, especially a dog who hasn’t seen you in a matter of months.
Keeping dogs as pets is a strange phenomenon. Sammi has enough bulk to kill me if she really wanted, but she’s more interested with sneaking onto the couch for a nap. Our pets have come a long way from their proud wolf ancestors (especially my friend Eva’s dog, Phineas, who is essentially a glorified guinea pig on speed.)
Still, the historic bond seems natural—a constant buddy to sit by the fire with, to hunt the Wooly Mammoth beside, to throw the tennis ball to until your arm detaches itself from your shoulder.
So yeah, I miss Sammi. When I see anyone in Elmhurst walking their dog, I can’t tear my eyes away. “Ooh, can I pet your dog?!” I sometimes can’t resist asking, hands shaking like an addict craving a fix. What I really want to ask is “Oooh, can I borrow your dog for a couple hours?” We’d have such fun frolicking through the college mall, bounding after Frisbees and wagging out tails. For some reason, people will never hand over the leash. What we really need is a Rent-a-Pup station where needy college students can get their canine companion fill.
I’ve never met any dog owner who wasn’t passionate to talk about their pet. I trade dog stories the way some people trade Pokemon cards. And one thing’s for certain: everyone thinks that their dog is the smartest, bravest, funniest, and best. And they’re all right.
Sammi isn’t the smartest. She’s not purebred. She strews garbage throughout the house constantly, and goes into barking fits at 3 a.m. when nobody is at the door.
But she loves me the most.
So when I pull into my driveway and hear her joyous howl, I’ll hurry to the front door. We’ll perform the butt-dance of joy as she drenches me in her saliva. Then I’ll know I’m truly home.
Like Riding a Bike
Megan Kirby
“You don’t forget how to ride a bike,” everyone scoffed at me. “That’s one of those things you only have to learn once.” Still, I had my doubts.
I hadn’t ridden a bike since the 8th grade, when my supposed best friends led me miles and miles from home only to abandon me in the wilderness of the Oswego bike trail when I grew too sluggish.
So bicycles and I don’t share the fondest past. Still, everyone deserves a second chance. Plus, I got a bike for free courtesy of Elmhurst College. When I’m offered something free, I will always accept. If there was a booth handing out rabid Doberman Pinschers, I’d be first in line with my collar and squeak toy.
My bike might as well be a violent canine, for all of the danger it puts me in. The only reason most students will wear their helmets is because they signed an agreement to protect their skulls. I wear mine because without it I would definitely die. Everything poses a threat: cracks in the sidewalk, passing cars, low flying birds.
Still, there is something inherently cool about a bike. Maybe it’s that first taste of independence left over from when you strapped on your streamers and pedaled away from mom and dad for the first time. Of course, you returned 7 minutes later with skinned knees, but it’s easy to forget that part.
Plus, bikes are eco-friendly, which instantly makes them hip. Whenever I go into Chicago, I see all kinds of extremely cool looking people riding bikes. In the city, urban hipsters use bikes as their sole mode of transportation. They lean their bikes against their beds at night so they can coast to the kitchen the next morning. If I planned to ever reach this level of trendiness, I knew I had to start pedaling.
Still, I was too embarrassed to let anyone see me wobble down the sidewalk. So one afternoon I set out alone, intent on exploring the neighborhoods of Elmhurst while relearning how to ride my bike. In an attempt to make my helmet look cooler, I slapped a handful of pterodactyl stickers to the plastic dome before setting off.
Apparently, you don’t really forget how to ride a bike after all. But you do forget how to turn. I discovered this as I toppled into a bush, meeting the disapproving glare of an elderly man across the street with a leaf blower. When you’re 9 you get sympathy, when you’re 19 you get disdain.
Righting myself, I examined my battle scars: a series of tiny scratches on my right arm. It looked like I battled an army of kittens. Teetering back on my path, I realized that my timing was off. In my search for privacy, I headed out just as hoards of teenagers were released from York High School. Not even a dinosaur covered helmet could protect me from the scorn of high schoolers.
Because being passed by minivans on the road proved too terrifying, I mostly zigzagged down the sidewalks, but this meant I had to stop whenever a group of high schoolers ambled by. Of course, stopping a bike is also something you can forget. As I pumped the brakes and lurched to a halt, I smiled broadly at passing teenagers to show them everything was okay. Sometimes, I laughed softly to let them in on the joke.
I didn’t realize how utterly creepy I was until a lone girl passed, listening to her I-Pod. “Ha ha!” I blurted out, trying to prove my sanity as I leered from under my crooked helmet. I don’t think the pterodactyl stickers helped my situation.
My bike’s been locked to the bike rack ever since my afternoon of terrorizing Elmhurst. I hurry past when I walk to classes, trying to escape the guilt that accompanies my neglect. It’s akin to buying a puppy and tying it up in the backyard as soon as you get home. Bikes are meant to be ridden, but I am not meant to ride bikes.
If you hear the lonely crank and squeak of gears late at night, it’s probably just my bicycle begging for attention. I’ll hurriedly lace up my sneakers, head out into the night, and go on a nice, long walk to escape the reminders of my failure. I hope I don’t run into that I-Pod girl again.
“You don’t forget how to ride a bike,” everyone scoffed at me. “That’s one of those things you only have to learn once.” Still, I had my doubts.
I hadn’t ridden a bike since the 8th grade, when my supposed best friends led me miles and miles from home only to abandon me in the wilderness of the Oswego bike trail when I grew too sluggish.
So bicycles and I don’t share the fondest past. Still, everyone deserves a second chance. Plus, I got a bike for free courtesy of Elmhurst College. When I’m offered something free, I will always accept. If there was a booth handing out rabid Doberman Pinschers, I’d be first in line with my collar and squeak toy.
My bike might as well be a violent canine, for all of the danger it puts me in. The only reason most students will wear their helmets is because they signed an agreement to protect their skulls. I wear mine because without it I would definitely die. Everything poses a threat: cracks in the sidewalk, passing cars, low flying birds.
Still, there is something inherently cool about a bike. Maybe it’s that first taste of independence left over from when you strapped on your streamers and pedaled away from mom and dad for the first time. Of course, you returned 7 minutes later with skinned knees, but it’s easy to forget that part.
Plus, bikes are eco-friendly, which instantly makes them hip. Whenever I go into Chicago, I see all kinds of extremely cool looking people riding bikes. In the city, urban hipsters use bikes as their sole mode of transportation. They lean their bikes against their beds at night so they can coast to the kitchen the next morning. If I planned to ever reach this level of trendiness, I knew I had to start pedaling.
Still, I was too embarrassed to let anyone see me wobble down the sidewalk. So one afternoon I set out alone, intent on exploring the neighborhoods of Elmhurst while relearning how to ride my bike. In an attempt to make my helmet look cooler, I slapped a handful of pterodactyl stickers to the plastic dome before setting off.
Apparently, you don’t really forget how to ride a bike after all. But you do forget how to turn. I discovered this as I toppled into a bush, meeting the disapproving glare of an elderly man across the street with a leaf blower. When you’re 9 you get sympathy, when you’re 19 you get disdain.
Righting myself, I examined my battle scars: a series of tiny scratches on my right arm. It looked like I battled an army of kittens. Teetering back on my path, I realized that my timing was off. In my search for privacy, I headed out just as hoards of teenagers were released from York High School. Not even a dinosaur covered helmet could protect me from the scorn of high schoolers.
Because being passed by minivans on the road proved too terrifying, I mostly zigzagged down the sidewalks, but this meant I had to stop whenever a group of high schoolers ambled by. Of course, stopping a bike is also something you can forget. As I pumped the brakes and lurched to a halt, I smiled broadly at passing teenagers to show them everything was okay. Sometimes, I laughed softly to let them in on the joke.
I didn’t realize how utterly creepy I was until a lone girl passed, listening to her I-Pod. “Ha ha!” I blurted out, trying to prove my sanity as I leered from under my crooked helmet. I don’t think the pterodactyl stickers helped my situation.
My bike’s been locked to the bike rack ever since my afternoon of terrorizing Elmhurst. I hurry past when I walk to classes, trying to escape the guilt that accompanies my neglect. It’s akin to buying a puppy and tying it up in the backyard as soon as you get home. Bikes are meant to be ridden, but I am not meant to ride bikes.
If you hear the lonely crank and squeak of gears late at night, it’s probably just my bicycle begging for attention. I’ll hurriedly lace up my sneakers, head out into the night, and go on a nice, long walk to escape the reminders of my failure. I hope I don’t run into that I-Pod girl again.
This Little Piggy Went Home
They’re not testing for swine flu anymore. I learned this at the doctor’s office, after they jammed a swab up my nasal cavity and effectively punctured my brain. Apparently, they can still torture you with satanic tests, but they can’t tell you why you’re sick. If they’re not testing anymore, where are the news shows getting all these statistics that say swine flu is the coming of the apocalypse?
When I was healthy, getting sick seemed like fun. A few days to chill on the couch, drink apple juice and watch TV reruns sounds like heaven. When I ended up collapsed in my living room, shaking violently and wearing the same pair of filthy sweat pants for 3 days, it wasn’t such a great time. We need to start taking our sick days when we’re feeling fine. Then they’d be a lot of fun.
When the media first replaced the phrase “swine flu” with “H1N1” I scoffed, but now I understand. Nobody wants to admit they have the swine flu. It sounds dirty and embarrassing. That’s like admitting you get your twisted thrills rolling around in the mud with Miss Piggy. Why don’t we start naming our flus after cool things? Sky Diving Flu has a rebellious edge, and Astronaut Flu sounds just plain cool.
Whatever the flu, though, there’s no way to make the symptoms sound trendy. What were you up to this weekend? Oh, you know, I was just hanging out hacking up putrid mucus and crying pitifully. My list of symptoms pretty much encompassed every awful ache and pain that can accompany an illness. The worst part of the week, however, was my reading choice. Dan Brown’s new thriller The Lost Symbol was more painful than all of my symptoms combined (Wow, that was a snotty joke. Da Vinci Code rules!)
If you ever want to be banished from campus for a week, just mutter “H1N1.” It’s a guaranteed way to make sure people don’t want you around. Want to say no to that date invitation without being awkward? Sorry, I’ve got The Swine. Need a week off of work? Just start coughing and oinking next time you’re in the office.
Getting sick effectively regressed me to the mentality of a first grader. All I wanted to do was watch Nickelodeon shows and have my mom bring me juice boxes. When I was little, I used to watch Little Bear whenever I was sick, and I was ecstatic to find a Little Bear marathon airing on Nick Jr. Little Bear is possibly the most relaxing kid’s show ever produced. For the most part, Little Bear and his buddies meander the forest to a soothing soundtrack. Nothing exciting ever really happens. In one episode, Little Bear sets an entire table—napkins, forks, plates, the whole ordeal. In real life, I would never watch somebody set a table, but if an animated bear is setting the places then I’m mesmerized. In the end, Little Bear is more calming than a meditation session.
After about three days of germ-induced isolation, I realized my social circle had shrunken to include just me and my tabby cat, Tobias. As fun as Toby is, he doesn’t make the best conversation. By the end of the week, my brain became a pile of mush. When I was finally free to come back to campus, I was ecstatic to dive into the piles of schoolwork waiting in my dorm. After finishing the first paragraph of one essay, I was ready to get sick again.
So I’m back just in time to see everyone else leave with their own sicknesses. I was a pioneer of the Elmhurst flu season, but unlike starting a fashion trend, this basically just ostracized me from society. In the end, I’m not sure exactly what sort of sickness I had. For now, I’m just calling it Rock Star Flu.
When I was healthy, getting sick seemed like fun. A few days to chill on the couch, drink apple juice and watch TV reruns sounds like heaven. When I ended up collapsed in my living room, shaking violently and wearing the same pair of filthy sweat pants for 3 days, it wasn’t such a great time. We need to start taking our sick days when we’re feeling fine. Then they’d be a lot of fun.
When the media first replaced the phrase “swine flu” with “H1N1” I scoffed, but now I understand. Nobody wants to admit they have the swine flu. It sounds dirty and embarrassing. That’s like admitting you get your twisted thrills rolling around in the mud with Miss Piggy. Why don’t we start naming our flus after cool things? Sky Diving Flu has a rebellious edge, and Astronaut Flu sounds just plain cool.
Whatever the flu, though, there’s no way to make the symptoms sound trendy. What were you up to this weekend? Oh, you know, I was just hanging out hacking up putrid mucus and crying pitifully. My list of symptoms pretty much encompassed every awful ache and pain that can accompany an illness. The worst part of the week, however, was my reading choice. Dan Brown’s new thriller The Lost Symbol was more painful than all of my symptoms combined (Wow, that was a snotty joke. Da Vinci Code rules!)
If you ever want to be banished from campus for a week, just mutter “H1N1.” It’s a guaranteed way to make sure people don’t want you around. Want to say no to that date invitation without being awkward? Sorry, I’ve got The Swine. Need a week off of work? Just start coughing and oinking next time you’re in the office.
Getting sick effectively regressed me to the mentality of a first grader. All I wanted to do was watch Nickelodeon shows and have my mom bring me juice boxes. When I was little, I used to watch Little Bear whenever I was sick, and I was ecstatic to find a Little Bear marathon airing on Nick Jr. Little Bear is possibly the most relaxing kid’s show ever produced. For the most part, Little Bear and his buddies meander the forest to a soothing soundtrack. Nothing exciting ever really happens. In one episode, Little Bear sets an entire table—napkins, forks, plates, the whole ordeal. In real life, I would never watch somebody set a table, but if an animated bear is setting the places then I’m mesmerized. In the end, Little Bear is more calming than a meditation session.
After about three days of germ-induced isolation, I realized my social circle had shrunken to include just me and my tabby cat, Tobias. As fun as Toby is, he doesn’t make the best conversation. By the end of the week, my brain became a pile of mush. When I was finally free to come back to campus, I was ecstatic to dive into the piles of schoolwork waiting in my dorm. After finishing the first paragraph of one essay, I was ready to get sick again.
So I’m back just in time to see everyone else leave with their own sicknesses. I was a pioneer of the Elmhurst flu season, but unlike starting a fashion trend, this basically just ostracized me from society. In the end, I’m not sure exactly what sort of sickness I had. For now, I’m just calling it Rock Star Flu.
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