It's election season.
I feel the need to point this out. If you really think about it, there are a lot of people who might not be aware. There's a huge part of our population that doesn't vote. Why not? Is it that they don't care, or that they don't know? I suppose if you buried your head in the sand, you could ignore election season. There are channels on television that don't mention it, people who don't talk about it, and publications that don't write about it. I can see why some people are unaware or can't drum up enough emotion to care.
This is part of the reason why I find it so odd that I care. I care quite an awful lot. Part of it is, of course, that this is my first chance to vote. I'm old enough now. The state believes that I have the capacity to fill out a ballot, maybe even with some semblance of an opinion if they're lucky. So like millions before me, I registered and geared up to take full possession of my democratic rights.
I feel like I've done a good job making myself into an informed citizen. I've read position statements from all candidates, watched debates, followed the news, talked with people of all persuasions. I even came to a couple of conclusions all by myself. Uncle Sam himself would pat me on the back for making the effort.
Now don't laugh -- I like Dennis Kucinich. Yes, I know he saw aliens. I know his wife is about 30 years his junior and has a tongue piercing. I know the press paints him as a wacky little liberal. But if you read up on him, he has some really good things to say. Single payer health care plan, withdraw from Iraq, searching for alternative energy, the creation of a department of peace -- how could I not like him? I even showed up in the wind and cold when his wife made a brief campaign stop in Modesto. I have a pin!
I felt set. Ready. I have my information. I have my candidate. I have my gear. I even have an absentee ballot so I can vote in Berkeley and keep my ability to vote for local issues when they roll around. So on the day I get my absentee ballot, what do I do? I fill it out immediately. I admit, I felt pretty suave. There I was, 18 and voting for the underdog, taking an active hand in the policies that would affect me. I bubbled with my No. 2 pencil, sealed, signed, and sent. As I dropped my ballot in the mailbox, I could practically hear the national anthem playing in my head.
But this little imaginary serenade was short-lived. I was going home that night. The drive over was pleasant, me babbling about my experience and some slight depression that I wouldn't get to go to a polling place on the 2nd. But oh well! Then we get home. There's my Dad, home from work, and what does he tell me? Not "Hi, honey! Good for you!" but "Oh, didn't you hear? Kucinich dropped today."
And with that, my elation dropped.
But I took it in stride. Whatever. That's cool. At least I voted. At least I took the time to participate in the democratic process and kept our republic alive! At least I took that extra step to ensure that my generation wasn't labeled as uncaring and apathetic!
It was only the other day when I found out I didn't.
Like always, I checked my mailbox, my electoral experience already behind me. And what did I find? That's right! My bright yellow absentee ballot staring back at me. Except this time it was different. Right in the middle there was a large red notice, scolding me for not having affixed a stamp to the left hand corner.
That's right. They don't include postage. I vaguely recalled my mother telling me that I needed to put a stamp on it, but that had escaped me in my excitement. How could they not include postage? The government controls the postal service, right? Maybe they'd get more people voting if they did that! Now, not only had I supported a non-candidate, but I had been discounted through my own carelessness. Uncle Sam no longer wants to shake my hand. No bald eagles would soar overhead as I stroll down Sproul on Super Tuesday. Fireworks wouldn't go off and Souza would stop playing patriotic kazoos in my head. And for what? A stamp.
I didn't give up, of course. I immediately stamped it and threw it back in the mailbox. There's still the hope that they'll count the ballot. Yeah, Kucinich isn't in the race anymore, but I honestly didn't think he'd win anyway. It was more of an ideological vote than anything else. My feelings haven't changed, so why should the vote?
So as I walked down Sproul, watching the professional sign spinners dance for Obama and the Hilary campaign work a table in her honor, I didn't feel like a bad citizen. Yeah, no eagles. But are there ever really visible displays of your vote? No. It's just an imperceptible drop in the democratic ocean. But it wouldn't be an ocean without individual contributions. Change doesn't come from the candidate -- it comes from the citizens.
And there's the moral of the story. My first election -- better than any civics class. So just to remind everyone -- it's election season. Time to get informed. Time to get your head out of the sand. Time to vote.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Viva la Breakfast!
It's amazing how quickly one can fall back into routine. I just automatically started doing things just the way I used to before break. I woke up at the same time with ease. It took me just as long as it usually does to get dressed and ready for the day. Breakfast lasted as long as breakfast always does. Just like always.
But not everything was just like always. Someone took a giant monkey wrench and threw it into the well-oiled machine that is my daily routine. To tamper with something as practiced and perfected as my schedule is an act so heinous that I never thought it could happen. Don't people understand that I, like many other college students, am a creature of habit? Can't they see I've come to terms with my Pavlovian sensitivity to time and place and have actually come to appreciate it? My eye is still twitching from the trauma.
First of all, you must understand my breakfast habits. I have a favorite server in the dining commons. She's fantastic. I have a nice little chat with her every morning and she calls me "sweetie" -- one of those little gestures that reminds me that despite teh bleakness of school days, all is right with the world and it's all going to be okay. Anyway, she and I have an understanding. The only things I eat at breakfast are scrambled eggs and the meat of the day. She knows I'm a carnivore so she always gives me an extra helping of sausages, or bacon, or ham, or whatever protein it is they're serving. She also usually says something like "I don't know where you put it!" -- something else that makes me like her. And that's breakfast -- smile, serve, chat, wave, eat. That's magic.
But when I came back from my winter break, my favorite server was no longer at her usual post. This has, of course, happened before. Sometimes she's simply working on something else and I usually make a point to wave and say good morning. But this was different. I didn't see her anywhere. There was someone else weilding her serving spoon and wearing that proud, blue apron. Already, I was feeling apprehensive.
But that's no reason not to carry on with the normal pleasantries. So I tell this new woman good morning, I smile, and I ask for eggs and 4 sausages. Just like I normally would.
And then she gives me this look. I can't describe it. It was a Look -- one that communicated to me that my request was not only out of the question, but so very, very abnormal and wrong that it required special attention. Attention in the form of a Look.
"I can't give you four. You can't have four at a time."
"I can't?" (Already intimidated by the look, I was unable to express anything other than flabberghasted disbelief and confusion.) "Well how many can I have?"
"Two. If you want more, you'll have to come back."
Two?! How can I only have two at a time? That's not the way it was before! How could I survive on only two sausage patties? How would I be able to get through my first day of classes? Did I not look hungry enough? Why else would she deny me my normal portion?
So I tell her that two is fine and walk away with eggs and only two sausage patties. Two fully inadequate sausage patties. And there's you monkey wrench. I couldn't help but obsess over my smaller portion the entire time I ate. Even as my roommate and I conversed, my mind wandered back to the food counter and the new server. I was angry, confused and hurt. Quite upset. From the get-go, I had made up my mind. Whether or not I wanted them, I was going to go back for seconds. Defiantly, I would walk up to the new server, thrust out my chin, and ask for the two sausages that I had been denied. I imagined her looking surprised and offering to fill my entire plate up with all the meat I wanted because I had proven myself to be as much of a carnivore as I claimed to be.
As I finished those two sausage patties, I concluded that this scenario I worked out was the only way I could get back into my routine. Sure, the sausages weren't my favorite item on the breakfast lineup, but I liked them enough to defend my right to them. The second helping of sausage would be my mini revolt against a system that denied me the breakfast that I felt I deserved after a whole five weeks away from the dining commons. This would be a political action more than anything. I was resolute. Those two sausages would be mine!
So I walked up to the counter, excited to get my protest sausage and proudly march back to my seat to finish a nice breakfast.
"May I please have two sausages?" (Ha ha! Victory! Surely she'll be flummoxed by my eating capacity!)
"Sure! Is that all you want, babe?"
Suddenly my little victory bubble deflated. I could tell from this new look (notice the lower case) that she didn't remember me and my request. I had been ruminating and steaming over something that mattered only to me in my own little warped, thrown-out-of-whack world. Not only that, but she called me "babe." That was nice. She was being nice. My nemisis was actually being very nice and I appreciated the sentiment.
So I smiled, "That's it. Thank you!" And walked away.
And that's it. Routine restored. It didn't bother me as much when I walked into the commons this morning and found the very same server stationed at her post. Not only that, but she gave me four pieces of bacon -- about as many as my favorite server used to give me. Sure, it was probably more because the bacon slices were kind of sticking to each other and not because I had made some kind of point, but it was nice. So I can live with a change. I suppose we all need to mix it up sometimes. Not to say I won't look forward to the return of my favorite server.
As much as I hate monkey wrenches thrown into my well-oiled machine, these are the kind I can deal with. Now let's see how classes go.
But not everything was just like always. Someone took a giant monkey wrench and threw it into the well-oiled machine that is my daily routine. To tamper with something as practiced and perfected as my schedule is an act so heinous that I never thought it could happen. Don't people understand that I, like many other college students, am a creature of habit? Can't they see I've come to terms with my Pavlovian sensitivity to time and place and have actually come to appreciate it? My eye is still twitching from the trauma.
First of all, you must understand my breakfast habits. I have a favorite server in the dining commons. She's fantastic. I have a nice little chat with her every morning and she calls me "sweetie" -- one of those little gestures that reminds me that despite teh bleakness of school days, all is right with the world and it's all going to be okay. Anyway, she and I have an understanding. The only things I eat at breakfast are scrambled eggs and the meat of the day. She knows I'm a carnivore so she always gives me an extra helping of sausages, or bacon, or ham, or whatever protein it is they're serving. She also usually says something like "I don't know where you put it!" -- something else that makes me like her. And that's breakfast -- smile, serve, chat, wave, eat. That's magic.
But when I came back from my winter break, my favorite server was no longer at her usual post. This has, of course, happened before. Sometimes she's simply working on something else and I usually make a point to wave and say good morning. But this was different. I didn't see her anywhere. There was someone else weilding her serving spoon and wearing that proud, blue apron. Already, I was feeling apprehensive.
But that's no reason not to carry on with the normal pleasantries. So I tell this new woman good morning, I smile, and I ask for eggs and 4 sausages. Just like I normally would.
And then she gives me this look. I can't describe it. It was a Look -- one that communicated to me that my request was not only out of the question, but so very, very abnormal and wrong that it required special attention. Attention in the form of a Look.
"I can't give you four. You can't have four at a time."
"I can't?" (Already intimidated by the look, I was unable to express anything other than flabberghasted disbelief and confusion.) "Well how many can I have?"
"Two. If you want more, you'll have to come back."
Two?! How can I only have two at a time? That's not the way it was before! How could I survive on only two sausage patties? How would I be able to get through my first day of classes? Did I not look hungry enough? Why else would she deny me my normal portion?
So I tell her that two is fine and walk away with eggs and only two sausage patties. Two fully inadequate sausage patties. And there's you monkey wrench. I couldn't help but obsess over my smaller portion the entire time I ate. Even as my roommate and I conversed, my mind wandered back to the food counter and the new server. I was angry, confused and hurt. Quite upset. From the get-go, I had made up my mind. Whether or not I wanted them, I was going to go back for seconds. Defiantly, I would walk up to the new server, thrust out my chin, and ask for the two sausages that I had been denied. I imagined her looking surprised and offering to fill my entire plate up with all the meat I wanted because I had proven myself to be as much of a carnivore as I claimed to be.
As I finished those two sausage patties, I concluded that this scenario I worked out was the only way I could get back into my routine. Sure, the sausages weren't my favorite item on the breakfast lineup, but I liked them enough to defend my right to them. The second helping of sausage would be my mini revolt against a system that denied me the breakfast that I felt I deserved after a whole five weeks away from the dining commons. This would be a political action more than anything. I was resolute. Those two sausages would be mine!
So I walked up to the counter, excited to get my protest sausage and proudly march back to my seat to finish a nice breakfast.
"May I please have two sausages?" (Ha ha! Victory! Surely she'll be flummoxed by my eating capacity!)
"Sure! Is that all you want, babe?"
Suddenly my little victory bubble deflated. I could tell from this new look (notice the lower case) that she didn't remember me and my request. I had been ruminating and steaming over something that mattered only to me in my own little warped, thrown-out-of-whack world. Not only that, but she called me "babe." That was nice. She was being nice. My nemisis was actually being very nice and I appreciated the sentiment.
So I smiled, "That's it. Thank you!" And walked away.
And that's it. Routine restored. It didn't bother me as much when I walked into the commons this morning and found the very same server stationed at her post. Not only that, but she gave me four pieces of bacon -- about as many as my favorite server used to give me. Sure, it was probably more because the bacon slices were kind of sticking to each other and not because I had made some kind of point, but it was nice. So I can live with a change. I suppose we all need to mix it up sometimes. Not to say I won't look forward to the return of my favorite server.
As much as I hate monkey wrenches thrown into my well-oiled machine, these are the kind I can deal with. Now let's see how classes go.
Monday, January 21, 2008
License to Drive
I finally did it. I got my driver's license. It took two years of waiting and half a year of practice, but I finally did it. I went in and took my test and obtained my license to drive.
That's a big deal, you know. In America, driving has long been a symbol of independence -- a huge step in development staircase of any healthy US psyche. The ability to drive means freedom. Suddenly, I have the freedom to go on an adventure, the freedom to wander aimlessly, the freedom to come and go as I please. It's all there waiting for me to tap into it. All I have to do is get a car and I'm halfway to making my own "On the Road."
Of course, I don't mind not having a car. I've done well enough these past 18 years without one. Frankly, the freedom has kind of escaped me. I've never really felt held back or tethered to a specific location. In all honesty, a car would probably be more of a hassel than anything else to a college student like me who lives on campus. Not to mention to my parents. Do you know how expensive it is to add on another driver to the insurance? I don't either, but it's definitely way too much especially when you consider that I remain without car. The only thing the license really allows me to do at this point (in college and devoid of wheels) is to buy my cold medicine when I need it. A valid picture ID including my birthday doesn't seem like a strong enough reason to got through all the pain and expense of becoming a licensed driver.
But that's all beyond the point! The point is that I could drive if I wanted to. I could go on a road trip if I wanted to. If the spirit moved me, I could high-tail it to Mexico or cruise over to Santa Barbara. If I wanted to. That's a nice enough feeling. I'll tell you, though, the driving test wasn't the highlight of my vacation.
They try their hardest to put you on edge and force your wobbly, nervous inner fifth grader to surface. This is completely counter intuitive since they're going to be taking you out onto the open road -- they're basically putting their lives into your hands, counting on your skill to pull them through the drive. Why would they want to make a jittery teenager even more hesitant and anxious?
They create an atmosphere of confusion from the very start. When I got there, they told me to go out to the lot and pull in to lane 1. Okay. That sounds easy enough. But guess what? They didn't label any of their lanes! Luckily, they had marked where people waiting for their behind-the-wheel exam should be. So that wasn't too bad. I even got the benefit of listening in on the person in front of me as he was tested. I heard most of the questions they were going to ask. So I felt pretty confident that I would be okay on that portion of the test.
So when the stoic, emotionless robot they sent out to test me arrived, I was feeling good. I was sitting in the driver's seat and she motioned for me to roll down the window.
"Turn the key on."
Ah. She wants to car on so she can make sure all my lights work. Cool. So I turn on the car. But that's not what she wanted.
"No, no. Just turn the key on."
I didn't know that you could expressionlessly snap at someone. But she had managed. But what did she mean? Just turn the key on? It occured to me that maybe she wanted me to do what my mom does when she leaves just the radio on for me. But how does she do that? It's something to do with turning the key, right? RIght? So I frantically turn the key left and right, around and around until it finally clicks on. Relief floods in.
Then it's time to identify things in the car. Turn signal. Emergency break and lights. Windsheild wipers. And defrost. She wanted me to point to where the defrost was. What? Why do I need to know that? No one's ever shown me where that it! So I look around the car, trying to look cool while desperately searching for something that at least vaguely resembles a defroster. Wait! There by the heater and air conditioning! That looks like something! But which one? There are so many buttons with squiggles and squares that could possibly be a defroster, but who knows? So I wave my hand in the general vicinity.
"It's right here."
Apparently I fooled her. But that was really the only time when I could rely on fooling her. Then I started to drive. Just like my mother told me, the woman tell me slightly in advance which way I should turn.
"Turn left here."
That's clear enough. Left. Easy. That's the opposite of right. No biggie. So why is it that for some reason my brain traslated that command into the action of a right turn?
"I said right."
Ahh! How could I mess up on something that simple???
"Oh! You did! Ha ha. Yes, a left turn."
Great way to start the test. Actually, that was the wrost of it. The rest of the test went without much incidence. I was good for the rest of it. I anticipated her tricks, turned my head the full 90 degrees left and right before I proceeded, waiting until after the intersections to change lanes -- it was textbook. At the end of the drive, she tell me I passed. Without a smile, without a nod, without even blinking. But I didn't care. I passed.
And now there's just the wait. The wait until I get my actual physical license. The wait until I get a car. The wait until my grand road trip. But the hardest part is over. Now there's just the drive of school to keep me going. But it's good that I took my little step forward. Sure makes me feel nice.
That's a big deal, you know. In America, driving has long been a symbol of independence -- a huge step in development staircase of any healthy US psyche. The ability to drive means freedom. Suddenly, I have the freedom to go on an adventure, the freedom to wander aimlessly, the freedom to come and go as I please. It's all there waiting for me to tap into it. All I have to do is get a car and I'm halfway to making my own "On the Road."
Of course, I don't mind not having a car. I've done well enough these past 18 years without one. Frankly, the freedom has kind of escaped me. I've never really felt held back or tethered to a specific location. In all honesty, a car would probably be more of a hassel than anything else to a college student like me who lives on campus. Not to mention to my parents. Do you know how expensive it is to add on another driver to the insurance? I don't either, but it's definitely way too much especially when you consider that I remain without car. The only thing the license really allows me to do at this point (in college and devoid of wheels) is to buy my cold medicine when I need it. A valid picture ID including my birthday doesn't seem like a strong enough reason to got through all the pain and expense of becoming a licensed driver.
But that's all beyond the point! The point is that I could drive if I wanted to. I could go on a road trip if I wanted to. If the spirit moved me, I could high-tail it to Mexico or cruise over to Santa Barbara. If I wanted to. That's a nice enough feeling. I'll tell you, though, the driving test wasn't the highlight of my vacation.
They try their hardest to put you on edge and force your wobbly, nervous inner fifth grader to surface. This is completely counter intuitive since they're going to be taking you out onto the open road -- they're basically putting their lives into your hands, counting on your skill to pull them through the drive. Why would they want to make a jittery teenager even more hesitant and anxious?
They create an atmosphere of confusion from the very start. When I got there, they told me to go out to the lot and pull in to lane 1. Okay. That sounds easy enough. But guess what? They didn't label any of their lanes! Luckily, they had marked where people waiting for their behind-the-wheel exam should be. So that wasn't too bad. I even got the benefit of listening in on the person in front of me as he was tested. I heard most of the questions they were going to ask. So I felt pretty confident that I would be okay on that portion of the test.
So when the stoic, emotionless robot they sent out to test me arrived, I was feeling good. I was sitting in the driver's seat and she motioned for me to roll down the window.
"Turn the key on."
Ah. She wants to car on so she can make sure all my lights work. Cool. So I turn on the car. But that's not what she wanted.
"No, no. Just turn the key on."
I didn't know that you could expressionlessly snap at someone. But she had managed. But what did she mean? Just turn the key on? It occured to me that maybe she wanted me to do what my mom does when she leaves just the radio on for me. But how does she do that? It's something to do with turning the key, right? RIght? So I frantically turn the key left and right, around and around until it finally clicks on. Relief floods in.
Then it's time to identify things in the car. Turn signal. Emergency break and lights. Windsheild wipers. And defrost. She wanted me to point to where the defrost was. What? Why do I need to know that? No one's ever shown me where that it! So I look around the car, trying to look cool while desperately searching for something that at least vaguely resembles a defroster. Wait! There by the heater and air conditioning! That looks like something! But which one? There are so many buttons with squiggles and squares that could possibly be a defroster, but who knows? So I wave my hand in the general vicinity.
"It's right here."
Apparently I fooled her. But that was really the only time when I could rely on fooling her. Then I started to drive. Just like my mother told me, the woman tell me slightly in advance which way I should turn.
"Turn left here."
That's clear enough. Left. Easy. That's the opposite of right. No biggie. So why is it that for some reason my brain traslated that command into the action of a right turn?
"I said right."
Ahh! How could I mess up on something that simple???
"Oh! You did! Ha ha. Yes, a left turn."
Great way to start the test. Actually, that was the wrost of it. The rest of the test went without much incidence. I was good for the rest of it. I anticipated her tricks, turned my head the full 90 degrees left and right before I proceeded, waiting until after the intersections to change lanes -- it was textbook. At the end of the drive, she tell me I passed. Without a smile, without a nod, without even blinking. But I didn't care. I passed.
And now there's just the wait. The wait until I get my actual physical license. The wait until I get a car. The wait until my grand road trip. But the hardest part is over. Now there's just the drive of school to keep me going. But it's good that I took my little step forward. Sure makes me feel nice.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Most Important Meal
I've been on vacation for a while now. Finals have been over and Christmas has come and gone. The hectic season is over. The holiday madness is now but a memory. My mother and my brother are back at school and my father is at work. I am at home and there are very few things to do.
I suppose that's a good thing. People are always complaining that they don't have enough down time -- that there's no time built into the world to relax. Well, I'm getting my time to relax now. Quiet. Peaceful. Dull.
Take this morning for example. I found myself alone at the dining room table reading the newspaper, the house quiet and sleepy. The coffee in my cup was getting cold and I had hit a rough spot in the crossword puzzle. Was this what the rest of my day had in store for me? Lukewarm caffeine and impossible word games? I couldn't let that happen. So I took my future into my own hands and decided that I possessed the necessary skill and talent to cook breakfast for myself.
It was the perfect idea. I was just beginning to feel slightly peckish and it wasn't as if the rainy weather was going to allow me to do anything useful outside, so why not prove that I can take on adult responsibilities and create a delicious dish all for myself? I had done it yesterday. I made this wonderful eggy thing with peppers and onions and cheese... How could hard could four little sausages be when I had already braved salmonella and Poblano chilies?
So I took out the frying pan, sprayed it with some imitation PAM, and turned on the burner, throwing on four little breakfast sausages as soon as I saw it was warming up. So far, so good. There was the satisfying little hiss of meat frying, the small amount of steam that naturally emits from something so raw -- it all seemed good. After a few, minutes, I flipped them. Nice and brown. Perfect. That's how they're supposed to look.
So I waited some more. That's what my mother did whenever she fried sausage. I've seen her do it a thousand times before and each time we end up with perfectly cooked little bundles of meaty goodness. So I stood back and watched them fry.
The only thing that struck me as slightly odd was the large amount of steam rising up from the pan. There's liquid in sausage, but can there really be that much? That's when I realized that it wasn't steam -- it was smoke. Even though my sausages were looking perfectly healthy and golden brown, they were burning. Or something was burning. I don't know. Either way, they were smoking like a chimney so I quickly turned on the little fan in our microwave that sits above our stove. Problem solved.
Except not really. I just let them cook for a few minutes, naively believing that one little touch of a button could clears the clouds of smoke that had already been set loose by the breakfast meat. Ha! That's when on shrill beep from the fire alarm brought me back to cold, cruel reality. In a moment of panic, I switched off the burner, ran upstairs, grabbed a pillow from my parents' bed and started frantically fanning the fire alarm at the top of the stairs in a desperate attempt to keep the smoke from further provoking the detector. Yeah, I know I probably looked ridiculous, but honestly, that's the only way we can ever get the thing to shut up.
When I was satisfied that the smoke was clear (or maybe it was when my arms got tired), I stopped fanning and went to open the windows and turn on the fans. I couldn't let the smoke sit in the house, now could I? As I opened my last window, I thought about the sausages. I knew they weren't done yet. Sure, the outside was brown, but I'd probably get worms or something if I tried to eat them at that point. They had to cook more. I couldn't just throw them away -- that would be a waste. So cautiously, I turned the burner back on.
This time, I kept the fan/vent above the stove on high the entire time, the stove on a lower heat setting and my watchful eyes never leaving the pan (not as if they did the first time around, but I think it's an important thing to note twice). Eventually I was satisfied that they were thoroughly cooked. Success! And breakfast!
And that's how far I've fallen. The highlight of my morning was the Great Sausage Caper. Is that sad or is that just me? Maybe it's just because it reminded me of my days in Chemistry -- the time when my partner and I almost killed the entire class when noxious fumes started spewing from our crucible. The whole class had to leave the room because it made everyone hack and cough. Given, ours wasn't the only one doing it, but ours was the first. Now that's something to be proud of, it you ask me.
So perhaps my day would be better spent searching the Food Network website for tips on cooking. Or maybe I should just spend the day cleaning and making sure all the windows are closed before it starts to rain again. Or maybe I should just accept the boredom and try to find something useful to do with my time. Either way, I can say with certainly that I started the day off with a fantastic breakfast.
I suppose that's a good thing. People are always complaining that they don't have enough down time -- that there's no time built into the world to relax. Well, I'm getting my time to relax now. Quiet. Peaceful. Dull.
Take this morning for example. I found myself alone at the dining room table reading the newspaper, the house quiet and sleepy. The coffee in my cup was getting cold and I had hit a rough spot in the crossword puzzle. Was this what the rest of my day had in store for me? Lukewarm caffeine and impossible word games? I couldn't let that happen. So I took my future into my own hands and decided that I possessed the necessary skill and talent to cook breakfast for myself.
It was the perfect idea. I was just beginning to feel slightly peckish and it wasn't as if the rainy weather was going to allow me to do anything useful outside, so why not prove that I can take on adult responsibilities and create a delicious dish all for myself? I had done it yesterday. I made this wonderful eggy thing with peppers and onions and cheese... How could hard could four little sausages be when I had already braved salmonella and Poblano chilies?
So I took out the frying pan, sprayed it with some imitation PAM, and turned on the burner, throwing on four little breakfast sausages as soon as I saw it was warming up. So far, so good. There was the satisfying little hiss of meat frying, the small amount of steam that naturally emits from something so raw -- it all seemed good. After a few, minutes, I flipped them. Nice and brown. Perfect. That's how they're supposed to look.
So I waited some more. That's what my mother did whenever she fried sausage. I've seen her do it a thousand times before and each time we end up with perfectly cooked little bundles of meaty goodness. So I stood back and watched them fry.
The only thing that struck me as slightly odd was the large amount of steam rising up from the pan. There's liquid in sausage, but can there really be that much? That's when I realized that it wasn't steam -- it was smoke. Even though my sausages were looking perfectly healthy and golden brown, they were burning. Or something was burning. I don't know. Either way, they were smoking like a chimney so I quickly turned on the little fan in our microwave that sits above our stove. Problem solved.
Except not really. I just let them cook for a few minutes, naively believing that one little touch of a button could clears the clouds of smoke that had already been set loose by the breakfast meat. Ha! That's when on shrill beep from the fire alarm brought me back to cold, cruel reality. In a moment of panic, I switched off the burner, ran upstairs, grabbed a pillow from my parents' bed and started frantically fanning the fire alarm at the top of the stairs in a desperate attempt to keep the smoke from further provoking the detector. Yeah, I know I probably looked ridiculous, but honestly, that's the only way we can ever get the thing to shut up.
When I was satisfied that the smoke was clear (or maybe it was when my arms got tired), I stopped fanning and went to open the windows and turn on the fans. I couldn't let the smoke sit in the house, now could I? As I opened my last window, I thought about the sausages. I knew they weren't done yet. Sure, the outside was brown, but I'd probably get worms or something if I tried to eat them at that point. They had to cook more. I couldn't just throw them away -- that would be a waste. So cautiously, I turned the burner back on.
This time, I kept the fan/vent above the stove on high the entire time, the stove on a lower heat setting and my watchful eyes never leaving the pan (not as if they did the first time around, but I think it's an important thing to note twice). Eventually I was satisfied that they were thoroughly cooked. Success! And breakfast!
And that's how far I've fallen. The highlight of my morning was the Great Sausage Caper. Is that sad or is that just me? Maybe it's just because it reminded me of my days in Chemistry -- the time when my partner and I almost killed the entire class when noxious fumes started spewing from our crucible. The whole class had to leave the room because it made everyone hack and cough. Given, ours wasn't the only one doing it, but ours was the first. Now that's something to be proud of, it you ask me.
So perhaps my day would be better spent searching the Food Network website for tips on cooking. Or maybe I should just spend the day cleaning and making sure all the windows are closed before it starts to rain again. Or maybe I should just accept the boredom and try to find something useful to do with my time. Either way, I can say with certainly that I started the day off with a fantastic breakfast.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Geographic Displacement
Finals are a major cause of fear.
People all over the campus have minor phobias of them. Frankly, after having taken a few, I'm not quite sure what all the fervor and fear is about. Don't get me wrong -- I get caught up in the frenzy myself. I cram and fret and consume massive amounts of caffiene just like everyone else. I have one final left and it's causing me great amounts of stress. But the ones I've taken so far? They're not terrible. They weren't the demonic bastions from hades I thought they would be. Frankly, they're not much harder than high school tests.
So why the fear? It's not really the test itself. It's the percentage. It's all a mind game, you see. A crazy, crazy mind game. The professors let you know that the tests are going to be 40% or 50% of your final grade. This means that all those tedious essays you worked on so assiduously, all those quizzes you studied so diligently for, and all those discussions you purposefully participated in were for nothing. They were simple exercises meant to stretch your brain. The real thing is this one test based on one day -- a day that's tainted by lack of sleep and the sloth that precedes vacation. No wonder people are nervous! Something that simple and that short can make or break you.
That's a major cause of stress. But you see, they can't just leave it at that. They have to add even more stress and confusion. So they schedule your final to take place at an unfamiliar time in an unfamiliar room. And then forget to tell you about it.
This is what happened to me today. Now, I certainly won't rule out the possibility that they announced the room the final would be in and I just didn't hear it because I was busy thinking about how much I didn't want to be in class at that time. That could have happened! However, I'm always more willing to believe that there was a conspiracy.
I knew that the final was at 12:30. I assumed that it would be held in the room where we normally have lecture. That's where we had the midterm, after all. Why wouldn't we do the same thing for the final? You know -- a nice fond farewell to the room that's seen us through the semester. But no. I get to the lecture hall and there are other people there. People from another class. I have no idea who they are and they have no idea who I am. I see one who's collecting papers -- a GSI by the looks of her -- and I ask her if there's another class moving in to take a final in about five minutes (it was about 12:25 at the time). She gives me The Look and I know -- I just know! -- what she's going to say. So by the time she says it, I'm outta there, running off to the near-ish geography building.
Yes. I was literally running. I know this is against my code -- never run unless something is chasing you -- but I did it anyway, trying to play it off cool like I wasn't panicing. The test might be in the Geography building, right? That would make sense since it's my geography final. And if it's not, then I can at least go to the department office and ask where it's at. Someone in there should know!
The elevator ride up to the fifth floor where the geography department is was an eternity and guess what? The main office wasn't even open. It was closed. There was no one there. I was alone in a strange place with enough knowledge to know that I wasn't in the right place but not enough to know where I had to be. I was just about to give up hope when I saw a posting of all the locations of the finals -- my shining, saving light!
It was in Dwinelle. Why would it be there? But either way, it was. So I ran. Again. It was just far enough away to make me panic even more. But I made it there only ten minutes late. That wasn't as bad as it could have been. Not nearly. Then I get the test and that wasn't even that bad -- not that I'm counting chickens or anything. It just felt pretty good. They had a three hour time slot for us to finish and it took me only about ninety minutes. So that wasn't terrible.
So finals are phobias. Irrational fears created by evil professors and perpetuated by the college mileau. It's a fear that strikes everyone at one point or another. I can certianly see why. But I only have one more left and then vacation. One more that I'm still rather nervous for. But after that, no more worries! No more studying! No more tests!
And hopefully no more running.
People all over the campus have minor phobias of them. Frankly, after having taken a few, I'm not quite sure what all the fervor and fear is about. Don't get me wrong -- I get caught up in the frenzy myself. I cram and fret and consume massive amounts of caffiene just like everyone else. I have one final left and it's causing me great amounts of stress. But the ones I've taken so far? They're not terrible. They weren't the demonic bastions from hades I thought they would be. Frankly, they're not much harder than high school tests.
So why the fear? It's not really the test itself. It's the percentage. It's all a mind game, you see. A crazy, crazy mind game. The professors let you know that the tests are going to be 40% or 50% of your final grade. This means that all those tedious essays you worked on so assiduously, all those quizzes you studied so diligently for, and all those discussions you purposefully participated in were for nothing. They were simple exercises meant to stretch your brain. The real thing is this one test based on one day -- a day that's tainted by lack of sleep and the sloth that precedes vacation. No wonder people are nervous! Something that simple and that short can make or break you.
That's a major cause of stress. But you see, they can't just leave it at that. They have to add even more stress and confusion. So they schedule your final to take place at an unfamiliar time in an unfamiliar room. And then forget to tell you about it.
This is what happened to me today. Now, I certainly won't rule out the possibility that they announced the room the final would be in and I just didn't hear it because I was busy thinking about how much I didn't want to be in class at that time. That could have happened! However, I'm always more willing to believe that there was a conspiracy.
I knew that the final was at 12:30. I assumed that it would be held in the room where we normally have lecture. That's where we had the midterm, after all. Why wouldn't we do the same thing for the final? You know -- a nice fond farewell to the room that's seen us through the semester. But no. I get to the lecture hall and there are other people there. People from another class. I have no idea who they are and they have no idea who I am. I see one who's collecting papers -- a GSI by the looks of her -- and I ask her if there's another class moving in to take a final in about five minutes (it was about 12:25 at the time). She gives me The Look and I know -- I just know! -- what she's going to say. So by the time she says it, I'm outta there, running off to the near-ish geography building.
Yes. I was literally running. I know this is against my code -- never run unless something is chasing you -- but I did it anyway, trying to play it off cool like I wasn't panicing. The test might be in the Geography building, right? That would make sense since it's my geography final. And if it's not, then I can at least go to the department office and ask where it's at. Someone in there should know!
The elevator ride up to the fifth floor where the geography department is was an eternity and guess what? The main office wasn't even open. It was closed. There was no one there. I was alone in a strange place with enough knowledge to know that I wasn't in the right place but not enough to know where I had to be. I was just about to give up hope when I saw a posting of all the locations of the finals -- my shining, saving light!
It was in Dwinelle. Why would it be there? But either way, it was. So I ran. Again. It was just far enough away to make me panic even more. But I made it there only ten minutes late. That wasn't as bad as it could have been. Not nearly. Then I get the test and that wasn't even that bad -- not that I'm counting chickens or anything. It just felt pretty good. They had a three hour time slot for us to finish and it took me only about ninety minutes. So that wasn't terrible.
So finals are phobias. Irrational fears created by evil professors and perpetuated by the college mileau. It's a fear that strikes everyone at one point or another. I can certianly see why. But I only have one more left and then vacation. One more that I'm still rather nervous for. But after that, no more worries! No more studying! No more tests!
And hopefully no more running.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Academic Epidemic
I must admit, finals are getting to me.
Not just me, either. Everyone. It's like an epidemic -- an Academic Epidemic. The symptoms are clear. Victims generally have wide, red eyes and coffee-scented breath. This is, of course, caused by the coffeeius starbucksus virus that invades immune systems weakened by all-nighters. Then there's the semi-comatose state victims of the Academic Epidemic adopt when they're seated in front of a book. This symptom stems from exposure to study guides and direct contact with professors. Also, sufferers tend to be pale and emaciated; this is caused by hallucinations induced by the overloading of information, causing the victim to totally lose track of time and forget when to eat or go outside and enjoy the sunshine.
Clearly, you can see that this is a terirble disease that must be stopped. Surely there is a better way to test our knowledge. The university needs to be made aware that by introducing finals into the scholarly system, they are putting their students seriously at risk. Before anyone realizes, the student population will be composed of mindless, latte-drinking, neurotic zombies.
Of course, there are ways to minimize the effects of the Academic Epidemic. The most effective cure is said to be apathy. This greatly reduces the symptoms. However, the fervor of finals season is rather catching, meaning that even the most indifferent, laid-back student can come down with a serious case of this disease.
So just to repeat myself, yes. Yes. The finals are getting to me. My eyes are looking glazed, my hair is falling out (or maybe I'm just pulling it out), and my caffiene intake has experienced a noted increase. And you know the sad thing? I don't even think I'm stressing half as much as the majority of people. I'm a little nervous, yes. But no matter how nervous I get, I don't know that I can really bring myself to freak out. Freaking out would be nice, of course, but I haven't yet gotten to that point.
And if you hadn't guessed, this is one of my study breaks right now. I've been reading over outlines for peace and conflict studies on and off for five or six hours now. I think I deserve a little light-hearted break. But the key word there is little. So now I should get back to studying. Seriously.
Bleh...
Not just me, either. Everyone. It's like an epidemic -- an Academic Epidemic. The symptoms are clear. Victims generally have wide, red eyes and coffee-scented breath. This is, of course, caused by the coffeeius starbucksus virus that invades immune systems weakened by all-nighters. Then there's the semi-comatose state victims of the Academic Epidemic adopt when they're seated in front of a book. This symptom stems from exposure to study guides and direct contact with professors. Also, sufferers tend to be pale and emaciated; this is caused by hallucinations induced by the overloading of information, causing the victim to totally lose track of time and forget when to eat or go outside and enjoy the sunshine.
Clearly, you can see that this is a terirble disease that must be stopped. Surely there is a better way to test our knowledge. The university needs to be made aware that by introducing finals into the scholarly system, they are putting their students seriously at risk. Before anyone realizes, the student population will be composed of mindless, latte-drinking, neurotic zombies.
Of course, there are ways to minimize the effects of the Academic Epidemic. The most effective cure is said to be apathy. This greatly reduces the symptoms. However, the fervor of finals season is rather catching, meaning that even the most indifferent, laid-back student can come down with a serious case of this disease.
So just to repeat myself, yes. Yes. The finals are getting to me. My eyes are looking glazed, my hair is falling out (or maybe I'm just pulling it out), and my caffiene intake has experienced a noted increase. And you know the sad thing? I don't even think I'm stressing half as much as the majority of people. I'm a little nervous, yes. But no matter how nervous I get, I don't know that I can really bring myself to freak out. Freaking out would be nice, of course, but I haven't yet gotten to that point.
And if you hadn't guessed, this is one of my study breaks right now. I've been reading over outlines for peace and conflict studies on and off for five or six hours now. I think I deserve a little light-hearted break. But the key word there is little. So now I should get back to studying. Seriously.
Bleh...
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Deck the Shrub
It's finally raining. You don't know how happy that makes me. For the longest time, it's just been sunny blueskies and weather that doesn't require a jacket. That is not the type of thing I need to put me in the Christmas spirit. But the weather is finally shaping up! I can really get my Christmas on now.
Yes. It's time for the Christmas spirit to start possessing me, taking over every aspect of my life. When I sleep -- sugarplums. When I walk -- through a winter wonderland. When I speak -- words of good cheer. When I shop -- presents. This is it, babe! It's time to bust out the stockings and deck the halls with holly. Who doesn't love that? I do admit, any sort of representation of Santa Claus displayed on a house or inside of one creeps me out slightly (why would you celebrate breaking and entering?) but other than that, the decor is one of the season's highlights.
I even have my dorm room decorated. Sort of. Kind of. Ish.
I have a tree. Well, you can't even really say that. I have a potted shrub. Okay, maybe that's an overstatment too. I have a small evergreen shrub in a festive durable cardboard container -- but it's an awesome small evergreen shrub in a festive durable cardboard container! I would make any college student envious. It's lovingly nestled next to my coffee maker and sweet yellow duck. Really, it spices up the whole area.
Of course, it did look a little plain when I first got it. Even with the festive durable cardboard, it needed some decoration. At first I thought I would buy some mini ornaments at the Walgreens. But then Walgreens refused to sell me medicine when I was feeling really nasty-sick. Therefore, I felt it was my duty to exercise my consumer power and run a one-woman boycott of the place. So no mini ornaments from the drug store. Then I thought maybe I would just decorate it with random stuff from the dorm. But the only random stuff I could find was paper clips, tape, and old gum wrappers. I wanted a Christmas tree, not a trash tree, so that idea went out the window as well.
So what could I do? There didn't seem to be many other options left. But then inspiration struck in the form of my Mythic West class -- the sheriff's badge I had won in the costume contest. It made the perfect star for the top of the tree. And then there was a pinecone my mom gave me before I left home to face the finals. So that's where the tree (shrub) stands now. We'll see if that expands, but it certainly works.
So there's me getting my Christmas on. I'll study finals while worrying about the criminal St. Nick. I'll write papers while singing carols. Hey -- at least it's raining.
Yes. It's time for the Christmas spirit to start possessing me, taking over every aspect of my life. When I sleep -- sugarplums. When I walk -- through a winter wonderland. When I speak -- words of good cheer. When I shop -- presents. This is it, babe! It's time to bust out the stockings and deck the halls with holly. Who doesn't love that? I do admit, any sort of representation of Santa Claus displayed on a house or inside of one creeps me out slightly (why would you celebrate breaking and entering?) but other than that, the decor is one of the season's highlights.
I even have my dorm room decorated. Sort of. Kind of. Ish.
I have a tree. Well, you can't even really say that. I have a potted shrub. Okay, maybe that's an overstatment too. I have a small evergreen shrub in a festive durable cardboard container -- but it's an awesome small evergreen shrub in a festive durable cardboard container! I would make any college student envious. It's lovingly nestled next to my coffee maker and sweet yellow duck. Really, it spices up the whole area.
Of course, it did look a little plain when I first got it. Even with the festive durable cardboard, it needed some decoration. At first I thought I would buy some mini ornaments at the Walgreens. But then Walgreens refused to sell me medicine when I was feeling really nasty-sick. Therefore, I felt it was my duty to exercise my consumer power and run a one-woman boycott of the place. So no mini ornaments from the drug store. Then I thought maybe I would just decorate it with random stuff from the dorm. But the only random stuff I could find was paper clips, tape, and old gum wrappers. I wanted a Christmas tree, not a trash tree, so that idea went out the window as well.
So what could I do? There didn't seem to be many other options left. But then inspiration struck in the form of my Mythic West class -- the sheriff's badge I had won in the costume contest. It made the perfect star for the top of the tree. And then there was a pinecone my mom gave me before I left home to face the finals. So that's where the tree (shrub) stands now. We'll see if that expands, but it certainly works.
So there's me getting my Christmas on. I'll study finals while worrying about the criminal St. Nick. I'll write papers while singing carols. Hey -- at least it's raining.
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