Since i spend my days researching TV, I try to occupy my time outside of work with reading, writing, exercising - things that are somewhat productive. Or at least I aspire to. There are plenty of nights where I hunker down in front of my tiny TV and waste away the hours staring in its direction. I'm just too damn tired to be productive. Sadly, my current cable package doesn't afford me the glorious evenings I once had with old movies on TMC, Top Chef, Project Runway, or Entourage. Until I'm able to sacrifice my first-born child to Time Warner and provide a sworn affidavit in blood, I'm stuck with the fare on the most basic cable. After 10 years of obsessing over "Law and Order" reruns when I need to just veg, I've transitioned to the slippery slope of reality television. Now before I go any further, I should preface this. I slowly feel my IQ seeping out of my soul with every viewing of "Celeb-reality", but feel it's necessary to share with the world a few insights to the world of trashy television. I fully suppot the writers and their plight, but sometimes it's necessary to watch a few hours with some seriously dysfunctional fame-seekers to really put your life into perspective. Here (in no particular order) are my favorite shows that I probably shouldn't admit to liking:
- Gossip Girl: XOXO! This show couldn't be different than my high school experience, but somehow this show has completely knocked Criminal Minds out of my regular rotation. I guarantee i'll go through burnout and ditch it in season 2 (probably when it is revealed that serena's dad impregnated dan's mom and they're actually siblings), but wow has it been fun while it's lasted.
- The Bachelor: It's not truly trashy television in the Joe Millionaire sense of the word, but it's mind-numbing in its own right. The men seemingly get worse each season. This year, the guy chose NEITHER of the girls. I feel bad for ABC. Here they are trying to make a show for all the hopeful romantics who get their ass kicked by love and this jackass doesn't even like either of them enough to pretend to date them after the show.
- Kenny vs. Spenny: The meat eating contest was pure genius. It's rare to see that sort of creativity in reality tv competitions.
- Shot of Love with Tila Tequila: A bisexual whose fame stems from having the most friends on myspace, Tila's show is a mix of bar fights, meltdowns, and challenges involving physical activity. I will admit that this is certainly the trashiest show I watch, but the lack of viable shows in my cable package on Tuesday nights has certainly lowered my standards. Plus I'm really rooting for Dani the firefighter to win Tila over.
- The Hills: LC is a completely likeable person. She may live in a psuedo-scripted world, but I don't care. She somehow has risen above her insane friends. I often hope that Heidi's robot head will headbutt Spencer at some point in the season, but more than anything I hope that this fame-mongering pair won't be included in Season 4.
-Rock of Love with Bret Michaels: Sadly the reunion show divulged how quickly Bret abandoned the courtship of Jes, but I thought the aging rocker was pretty endearing (though not extremely bright). Despite my appreciation, I won't be watching season 2 - i think there's something unjust about having multiple seasons to help the same person find their "true love" on VH1 (aka telegenic, bubbly, and probably somewhat unstable match with a hot body).
It worries me that I can pontificate on this at will. I could write a whole rant about how the republican debate on wednesday panned out, but I'll save that for another night. Anyway, you're probably going to check what's on VH1 now.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
A desperate plea
Transcribed from a voicemail left by my sister, Friday, November 23 at 9:23pm:
"Mom won't let me listen to the radio and we still have 10 more minutes left in our drive and i don't want to talk to her. So I'm leaving you this message. Please call me back in the next 10 minutes."
Ah, the joys of living across the country.
"Mom won't let me listen to the radio and we still have 10 more minutes left in our drive and i don't want to talk to her. So I'm leaving you this message. Please call me back in the next 10 minutes."
Ah, the joys of living across the country.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Turkey Weekend Pt 2 - You have just died from giardia
The cabin was a 0.9 mile hike from our car. We brought only the essentials on our journey - sleeping bags, clean underwear, and a few cases of beer (there were other important items too, but nothing worth explaning further). The area surrounding the cabin was absolutely stunning. Hardcore backpackers and families alike frequent the area - impossible hikes and slow winding paths wrap for miles upon mile across the virginian "wilderness".
We really lucked out. The leaves were still contemplating seasons and varied in their shades of brown, and the temperatures had yet to reach the subzero digits that I'm accustomed to facing on turkey weekend. Our cabin was located in a spot i fondly call, "Little House on the Prairie-ville". It was in the middle of a small clearing on the top of a slightly-slanted hill. Our front porch housed a little stone fireplace and table, which was unfortunately a little too welcoming to weary travelers who would park themselves in front of our cabin, unaware (or ignoring) that we had rented the place for the weekend. The inside of the cabin was surprisingly roomy. We had a wood burning stove, four bunk beds, and a giant table in the middle of the room. The outhouse of death (the smell will haunt my dreams for weeks) was a minute down the path, and a spring on the bottom of the hill provided us with water for cooking and any beverages that didn't include booze.
One major item we were without was electricity. The windows in the cabin plus the doorway gave us some extra light during the day, but at night we lit our room using candles (and ocassionally turned on the lantern when playing a round of flip cup). The darkness caused us to make it until 11:30 each night. When it gets pitch black at 7pm, it's hard to tell the difference between 10pm or 3am. Our main source of entertainment when hanging out in the cabin was a homemade version of oregon trail i created using a deck of cards. The game was complete with such gems as "Joker - You have just died from dysentary. Finish your drink." or "10 - Civil War breaks out. Round of flip cup ensues." There were only really two things i feared during the weekend - ending up face to face with a bear and getting giardia. It's all fun and games until someone gets a gastrointestinal virus.
We really lucked out. The leaves were still contemplating seasons and varied in their shades of brown, and the temperatures had yet to reach the subzero digits that I'm accustomed to facing on turkey weekend. Our cabin was located in a spot i fondly call, "Little House on the Prairie-ville". It was in the middle of a small clearing on the top of a slightly-slanted hill. Our front porch housed a little stone fireplace and table, which was unfortunately a little too welcoming to weary travelers who would park themselves in front of our cabin, unaware (or ignoring) that we had rented the place for the weekend. The inside of the cabin was surprisingly roomy. We had a wood burning stove, four bunk beds, and a giant table in the middle of the room. The outhouse of death (the smell will haunt my dreams for weeks) was a minute down the path, and a spring on the bottom of the hill provided us with water for cooking and any beverages that didn't include booze.
One major item we were without was electricity. The windows in the cabin plus the doorway gave us some extra light during the day, but at night we lit our room using candles (and ocassionally turned on the lantern when playing a round of flip cup). The darkness caused us to make it until 11:30 each night. When it gets pitch black at 7pm, it's hard to tell the difference between 10pm or 3am. Our main source of entertainment when hanging out in the cabin was a homemade version of oregon trail i created using a deck of cards. The game was complete with such gems as "Joker - You have just died from dysentary. Finish your drink." or "10 - Civil War breaks out. Round of flip cup ensues." There were only really two things i feared during the weekend - ending up face to face with a bear and getting giardia. It's all fun and games until someone gets a gastrointestinal virus.
Turkey Weekend Pt 1 - Manassus is for lovers...and shotguns
I spent Thanksgiving day in Washington, D.C with my friends Tracy (girl) and Casey (boy). We celebrated as any other person in their mid-twenties does when they live on the opposite coast as their families: watched football, drank beer (wine with dinner), and got the turkey for 3 from boston market. Tracy bumped us up a notch by making scalloped corn and three-bean casserole, but admittedly none of us is quite ready to baste a bird all morning or whip up some gravy during halftime. This was my first endeavor with Boston Market and let me tell you - I was impressed. Granted the corn bread could have been a little more crumbly, but all in all it was a meal well done.
Friday morning we set out for the Shenandoah Mtns. Casey rented a cabin for a few nights and the three of us were spending the first night by ourselves before 5 others joined us for the second night in the wilderness.
Hour 1, day 1, we're on our way out of D.C. We stop for gas in a town called Manassus. While Casey's inside the station, we notice a truck parked about 2 spaces away from us with three men hanging outside of it. Presumably, the three friends are on their way back from hunting. Orange hats. Cammo pants. A gun sitting shotgun outside their monster truck. There's a sticker on the back passenger window, "Southern-style", depicting an extremely flexible woman on all fours, covered by a confederate flag. Real porn enthusiast stuff. The guy closest to us has blood on his pants from his knees to his ankles. Just before they leave, Casey sees them drop a bag of deer entrails in the garbage. They hop into the truck, tear out of the parking lot, squealing their tires as they pull away. Welcome to appalachia.
Friday morning we set out for the Shenandoah Mtns. Casey rented a cabin for a few nights and the three of us were spending the first night by ourselves before 5 others joined us for the second night in the wilderness.
Hour 1, day 1, we're on our way out of D.C. We stop for gas in a town called Manassus. While Casey's inside the station, we notice a truck parked about 2 spaces away from us with three men hanging outside of it. Presumably, the three friends are on their way back from hunting. Orange hats. Cammo pants. A gun sitting shotgun outside their monster truck. There's a sticker on the back passenger window, "Southern-style", depicting an extremely flexible woman on all fours, covered by a confederate flag. Real porn enthusiast stuff. The guy closest to us has blood on his pants from his knees to his ankles. Just before they leave, Casey sees them drop a bag of deer entrails in the garbage. They hop into the truck, tear out of the parking lot, squealing their tires as they pull away. Welcome to appalachia.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Did You Hear What the Crazy Lady Did?
My sister and I call my mom "the crazy lady". It's an endearing label, one we bestowed upon her after years of her hilarious behavior. Most kids through go through a stage in their lives when their parents are an embarrassment. I never hit that stage in my life and have always loved mom's company. I think she's slightly offended by the nickname, but we've assured her repeatedly that if she actually were crazy, we'd just smile and nod rather than call her crazy to her face.
This morning I received a call from the crazy lady at work. Sadly, there was a deadly fire in the house next to my sister's place from last year. An alderman in the area went on record saying that the college kids living there should have done a better job keeping their apartment and in working order, somewhat insinuating that the kids were to blame for the blaze. Mom was so pissed about it that she sat down and wrote a letter to the alderman. She told him how wrong he was, asking where the landlord was when this was all going on. The alderman was so taken with her letter that he passed it onto the local college newspaper that had interviewed him about the fire. Last night at 11:30, she received a phone call from a reporter from the paper. He asked to reprint an excerpt from her letter and use her name in his article for today. Fearful that my sister would face repercussions from her landlord or friends depending on the tone of the article, mom asked for her name to be withheld, but agreed to the use of her letter. (This ended up being an unnecessary precaution - my sister has been sharing the article with everyone after it was printed.) Today the article was featured in the Badger Herald:
http://badgerherald.com/news/2007/11/20/bedford_street_blaze.php
The reporter dubbed the Crazy Lady, "Carolyn".
What impresses me most about this situation is not my mom's words, it's her course of action. She was angry, wrote an email, and ended up in the paper the next day. The alderman - to his credit - not only read her rant, but even passed it along to the masses. In an ideal world, this is how the political process should work. A citizen takes action and their representatives react. It's unfortunate to see its efficiency under such tragic circumstances.
This morning I received a call from the crazy lady at work. Sadly, there was a deadly fire in the house next to my sister's place from last year. An alderman in the area went on record saying that the college kids living there should have done a better job keeping their apartment and in working order, somewhat insinuating that the kids were to blame for the blaze. Mom was so pissed about it that she sat down and wrote a letter to the alderman. She told him how wrong he was, asking where the landlord was when this was all going on. The alderman was so taken with her letter that he passed it onto the local college newspaper that had interviewed him about the fire. Last night at 11:30, she received a phone call from a reporter from the paper. He asked to reprint an excerpt from her letter and use her name in his article for today. Fearful that my sister would face repercussions from her landlord or friends depending on the tone of the article, mom asked for her name to be withheld, but agreed to the use of her letter. (This ended up being an unnecessary precaution - my sister has been sharing the article with everyone after it was printed.) Today the article was featured in the Badger Herald:
http://badgerherald.com/news/2007/11/20/bedford_street_blaze.php
The reporter dubbed the Crazy Lady, "Carolyn".
What impresses me most about this situation is not my mom's words, it's her course of action. She was angry, wrote an email, and ended up in the paper the next day. The alderman - to his credit - not only read her rant, but even passed it along to the masses. In an ideal world, this is how the political process should work. A citizen takes action and their representatives react. It's unfortunate to see its efficiency under such tragic circumstances.
Special Delivery
The name "Jenski" comes from my Aunt Kitty. I'm not quite sure of it's origin, but my family has called me it since the day I was born. I've always embraced it and there are the few close friends who picked up the name from my mom, but never go out of my way to tell anyone outside of this virtual world my nickname. I have my Grandmother to do that. Now before i'm blasted for going on a tirade about my Grandma, I should qualify things by saying first and foremost I absolutely love my Grandparents. They're sweet and lovely people from a small town in central Wisconsin and I love them to death. Though my Grandpa has figured out how to send me emails, I still write them letters often. My sister always seems to one-up me by sending out a larger volume of letters, but I do my best to keep them entertained with tales of my life in Brooklyn.
Today I received a call from the receptionist at work letting me know I had a package waiting for me at the front desk. She's laughing as she's telling me this, but I think nothing of it an assume it's because she's just exchanged a joke with someone. I get to the desk and glance down at the package. To Jenski Dill. I stop wondering why she's laughing at me. I take the package to my desk, peel off the label and give it to one of my coworkers who already was privvy to my childhood monkier. I'll admit it - I thought it was a sweet gesture, but it's a little hard to try and get your colleagues to take you seriously with care packages with cookies being sent to your office. All it takes is a package from Grandma to make you feel like you're 12 again.
Today I received a call from the receptionist at work letting me know I had a package waiting for me at the front desk. She's laughing as she's telling me this, but I think nothing of it an assume it's because she's just exchanged a joke with someone. I get to the desk and glance down at the package. To Jenski Dill. I stop wondering why she's laughing at me. I take the package to my desk, peel off the label and give it to one of my coworkers who already was privvy to my childhood monkier. I'll admit it - I thought it was a sweet gesture, but it's a little hard to try and get your colleagues to take you seriously with care packages with cookies being sent to your office. All it takes is a package from Grandma to make you feel like you're 12 again.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Respect your Elders - Especially on the B75
Something about the general clientele on the buses is a little bit off. I can't figure it out. The cost is the same as the subway, but seemingly there are always more people who are a little bit crazier on the bus. I'd like to think it's just that on the bus the craziness is concentrated, whereas on the subway it's distributed amongst numerous cars. Whatever the case, I'm on-edge on a bus much more at any time of the day than I ever am in the subway. For this very reason, I don't ordinarily frequent the B75 on the weekends. It's the bus that I take to the gym or to visit one of my friends in the neighborhood, but beyond that I prefer to walk a few blocks rather than stress myself out while trying to get to New York Sports Club. This weekend, though, I was forced to take the B75 repeatedly. The good old MTA is doing some work on the line (most likely cutting my stop out of their routes) which means that all trips out of the neighborhood included a 20-30 minute detour on the bus to a subway stop about 1 mile away.
Yesterday was a prime example of what bothers me about the bus. I was on my way home from volunteering and a quick trip to target. I had a few bags with me, but made sure to sit in a side seat so that there was plenty of room for any elderly/handicapped persons. Next to me is a woman and her dog. At first I assume it's a seeing-eye dog. The woman is certainly not blind (she was eyeing my goodies from target), but why else would she have the dog on board? Before I can think things through thoroughly, my thoughts are interrupted by the dog barking. Apparently it's not only a regular dog, but it hates children - especially when they try and pet it. (I try not to, but I glare at the little girl who almost got her arm bit off by the dog.) I look hopefully to the driver, convinced he'll make the dog lady get off the bus. He's more concerned about the traffic ahead and doesn't even give a warning glance back at her. Fine. I crank up my iPod, stare out the window to try and drown out the noise.
At the next stop, I see a sweet elderly couple entering the front door. I get up and move back three seats to make sure there's plenty of room and a few choices for their seating. This was no easy feat with my two full target bags, but I try to do my best to accomodate others when it comes to seats on public transportation. I cringe thinking about how many pregnant women have to stand on the subways so some jackass can continue to check his emails on his blackberry. So here I am on the bus, thinking i've done a nice thing for these two folks. I turn my iPod back on (yep - the damn dog is still barking) and start to take mental inventory of the things still left to do for the day. Then I realize the nice elderly woman who has gotten on the bus only looks nice. She's screaming at me, something about how I was so rude to take her seat (she's walked halfway through the bus to tell me this and passed 5 seats along the way), all the while whipping her cane around to prove her point. I quickly get up and move ALL the way to the back of the bus. Nice lady smiles sweetly at me, then starts on another rant about how iPod have turned today's youth into a zombie culture. I would venture to argue that anyone who sees her on a regular basis chooses a life of zombie-dom rather than incur her wrath. But what do I know? I'm still trying to figure out how that damn dog got on board.
Yesterday was a prime example of what bothers me about the bus. I was on my way home from volunteering and a quick trip to target. I had a few bags with me, but made sure to sit in a side seat so that there was plenty of room for any elderly/handicapped persons. Next to me is a woman and her dog. At first I assume it's a seeing-eye dog. The woman is certainly not blind (she was eyeing my goodies from target), but why else would she have the dog on board? Before I can think things through thoroughly, my thoughts are interrupted by the dog barking. Apparently it's not only a regular dog, but it hates children - especially when they try and pet it. (I try not to, but I glare at the little girl who almost got her arm bit off by the dog.) I look hopefully to the driver, convinced he'll make the dog lady get off the bus. He's more concerned about the traffic ahead and doesn't even give a warning glance back at her. Fine. I crank up my iPod, stare out the window to try and drown out the noise.
At the next stop, I see a sweet elderly couple entering the front door. I get up and move back three seats to make sure there's plenty of room and a few choices for their seating. This was no easy feat with my two full target bags, but I try to do my best to accomodate others when it comes to seats on public transportation. I cringe thinking about how many pregnant women have to stand on the subways so some jackass can continue to check his emails on his blackberry. So here I am on the bus, thinking i've done a nice thing for these two folks. I turn my iPod back on (yep - the damn dog is still barking) and start to take mental inventory of the things still left to do for the day. Then I realize the nice elderly woman who has gotten on the bus only looks nice. She's screaming at me, something about how I was so rude to take her seat (she's walked halfway through the bus to tell me this and passed 5 seats along the way), all the while whipping her cane around to prove her point. I quickly get up and move ALL the way to the back of the bus. Nice lady smiles sweetly at me, then starts on another rant about how iPod have turned today's youth into a zombie culture. I would venture to argue that anyone who sees her on a regular basis chooses a life of zombie-dom rather than incur her wrath. But what do I know? I'm still trying to figure out how that damn dog got on board.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Please and Thank You. Thanks!
Overuse of exclamation points is a problem in today's email world. Tonality isn't always clear to begin with through writing, and rampant exclamations only add to the problem. Someone could be mad! sad! happy!!! It's hard to tell. Maybe they're just extra pumped about fulfilling a client request. Caps locked letters only muck up the system more. I have a friend who texts in all caps. DO YOU WANT TO GO TO CHIPOTLE TODAY? Perhaps, I do want to go to get a steak burrito, but I'm not angry about it.
This somewhat overlaps with the please and thank you epidemic. I'm a part of it myself. It's a hard habit to kick once you've started. I'm all about being polite, but it frightens me sometimes when I look back at my emails and realize i've written a 3 sentence email with 4 "pleases". My new year's resolution is to try and break the cycle. I think i'm going to bring back "cordially".
Thank you for your time. Thanks, Jeni
This somewhat overlaps with the please and thank you epidemic. I'm a part of it myself. It's a hard habit to kick once you've started. I'm all about being polite, but it frightens me sometimes when I look back at my emails and realize i've written a 3 sentence email with 4 "pleases". My new year's resolution is to try and break the cycle. I think i'm going to bring back "cordially".
Thank you for your time. Thanks, Jeni
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Great Name Debate
My parents named me "Jennifer" for two reasons: 1) they thought the name sounded nice, and 2) they needed a "J" name to fulfill their desire to have two children with matching initials. (My brother and I share "JED" as our initials - it doesn't get much more backwoods than that.)
On my almost two and a half decades on this planet, I've only recently started to use my given name. It happened when I entered the "real" world. I was always "Jeni" up until my move to new york, but once I landed here, I was told during my first job interview that my name would never fly in the business world. Now I'm "Jen" or "Jennifer", both of which still make my friends break into fits of laughter whenever I introduce them to someone who knows me from work. I don't mind the switch in names, and perpetuate it by calling myself "Jen" when I meet someone in a social situation. It's just odd to be called by a completely different name than when I was growing up. If I really prefered to be called "Jeni", I could easily just have the people in NY address me that way.
The real problem lies in how I now identify myself. I find myself struggling to figure out what to tell someone my name is when I meet them for the first time. Am I Jen? Jeni? Jennifer? It's gotten to the point that I'm not even quite sure. Obviously all variations are pretty spectacular, but what sets apart a Jeni from a Jen? Do I speak with a different tone? Do I wear my hair differently? Is there a certain age at which I'm supposed to naturally transition to Jennifer from Jeni? Is it unacceptable (er-too "midwest") to be called Jeni on the east coast? These are the thoughts that cross my mind when I shake someone's hand.
On my almost two and a half decades on this planet, I've only recently started to use my given name. It happened when I entered the "real" world. I was always "Jeni" up until my move to new york, but once I landed here, I was told during my first job interview that my name would never fly in the business world. Now I'm "Jen" or "Jennifer", both of which still make my friends break into fits of laughter whenever I introduce them to someone who knows me from work. I don't mind the switch in names, and perpetuate it by calling myself "Jen" when I meet someone in a social situation. It's just odd to be called by a completely different name than when I was growing up. If I really prefered to be called "Jeni", I could easily just have the people in NY address me that way.
The real problem lies in how I now identify myself. I find myself struggling to figure out what to tell someone my name is when I meet them for the first time. Am I Jen? Jeni? Jennifer? It's gotten to the point that I'm not even quite sure. Obviously all variations are pretty spectacular, but what sets apart a Jeni from a Jen? Do I speak with a different tone? Do I wear my hair differently? Is there a certain age at which I'm supposed to naturally transition to Jennifer from Jeni? Is it unacceptable (er-too "midwest") to be called Jeni on the east coast? These are the thoughts that cross my mind when I shake someone's hand.
You're Never Too Old for Factoring
Mr. Lang was my freshman geometry teacher. Something about him always reminded me of Mr. Burns from 'The Simpsons'. He was a nice man, but everytime he spoke his eyes shifted around while he twiddled his fingers back and forth. The man really frightened me, but I really can't blame him for my lack of ability or hunger for geometry. I'm a decent pool player, but something about proofs just don't make sense to me. If the answer is already known, why is it necessary to write out ten steps as to how you got there? To avoid any boredom that may come of explaining my mathmematical journey of high school, all that really needs to be said is that I lasted 3 weeks in Mr. Lang's class, transfered to the slacker class, and received my only "C" grade in all of high school in geometry. (Not to brag, but I got a 3.8 in college, so a "C" in anything is a true indicator of mediocrity for me in a subject.)
This morning, my dark past with geometry came back to haunt me. It was my first day of tutoring at a local high school. Before I signed up to do this, I was told that I may need to do a little math and science - "really nothing more than your basic geometry problem." I figure I'm fine. Aside from my "C", I have managed to graduate high school and college - I'm employed. It can't be that hard.
When I walk in, I'm asked what subjects I'd like to help with. "Anything but geometry," i say, expecting to help a tenth grader with an essay on "Grapes of Wrath". The first girl who walks in is placed with another tutor (a Cornell Med Student). She needs help with biology. They're learning about zygotes. Next up, comes in the girl I'll help for the morning. "I need help with geometry." CRAP.
Luckily it's factoring (think x^2-10x+25/x-2). We make our way through her practice problems with me hoping she doesn't realize I'm sweating. The first two problems are easy enough. We finally get to a problem that I have no clue how to explain to her how to get the answer. I know what the answer is, but in the decade since my own geometry class, I can't even begin to say how to do it step by step. As any good tutor would do, I gave her the answer right before our time was up. "Your job for next week is to figure out how to get to this answer." I'll figure out the steps before next week, but i'm hoping she'll need help with English instead. If she has proofs to do, I don't know how i'll help. It's suddenly become so clear why my parents always deferred to each other to help me with my homework.
This morning, my dark past with geometry came back to haunt me. It was my first day of tutoring at a local high school. Before I signed up to do this, I was told that I may need to do a little math and science - "really nothing more than your basic geometry problem." I figure I'm fine. Aside from my "C", I have managed to graduate high school and college - I'm employed. It can't be that hard.
When I walk in, I'm asked what subjects I'd like to help with. "Anything but geometry," i say, expecting to help a tenth grader with an essay on "Grapes of Wrath". The first girl who walks in is placed with another tutor (a Cornell Med Student). She needs help with biology. They're learning about zygotes. Next up, comes in the girl I'll help for the morning. "I need help with geometry." CRAP.
Luckily it's factoring (think x^2-10x+25/x-2). We make our way through her practice problems with me hoping she doesn't realize I'm sweating. The first two problems are easy enough. We finally get to a problem that I have no clue how to explain to her how to get the answer. I know what the answer is, but in the decade since my own geometry class, I can't even begin to say how to do it step by step. As any good tutor would do, I gave her the answer right before our time was up. "Your job for next week is to figure out how to get to this answer." I'll figure out the steps before next week, but i'm hoping she'll need help with English instead. If she has proofs to do, I don't know how i'll help. It's suddenly become so clear why my parents always deferred to each other to help me with my homework.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
A Cover Letter to Remember
I was cleaning out my harddrive the other day and came across a cover letter I wrote back in my days of unemployment. I dont' think I ever had the gall to send it out with my resume, but now I sort of regret it...
I was born in Madison, Wisconsin. Dad managed rock bands; Mom worked in insurance. Despite their similarities, they divorced when I was eight. Every summer up until I was 21, I spent at the pool. I was obsessed with swimming and planned on competing in college until a back injury and the desire to associate myself socially with students out of the water turned my focus away from the pool. I still sport a permanent flip flop tan and attended my college classes at the wearing the wardrobe of an athlete – a baggy heather-grey sweat suit and hair up in a ponytail – but it has been over four years since I’ve swam more than a few consecutive laps.
When I got to college, it was assumed I would trade in my goggles and towel for a beer mug. While I did manage to learn how to navigate through the non-swimmer social scene, I mainly filled the void of the pool with academia. I wasn’t a nerd per se, but I will admit to more than once being the only student in an entire lecture hall to have read for class.
My freshman year, I was completely gung-ho about being a doctor. As a kid I obsessively watched Law and Order and ER, and the two shows greatly influenced my career choices. But I had to pick between the two, and eventually determined medicine was the way to go. The appeal of wearing pajamas to work everyday won out over business suits. Plus, the doctors on ER get a whole hour to showcase their skills while the Law and Order prosecutors have to split time with the detectives. Once I started taking biology and chemistry classes though, I realized my rationale for a career path was rather flawed. I hated equations and set answers. I wanted to help create my own solutions, not follow someone else’s theories. Really, my lack of appreciation for hundreds of years of research in the sciences pulled me into advertising.
I was smart enough to know that medicine was not for me. Thanks to my years at the pool, I can guarantee I can be the first one at work in the morning. You can’t even see my flip flop tan when I’m wearing heels, plus I’m far to young to be jaded by the business world. Given these extremely important variables, you should really give me a shot.
I was born in Madison, Wisconsin. Dad managed rock bands; Mom worked in insurance. Despite their similarities, they divorced when I was eight. Every summer up until I was 21, I spent at the pool. I was obsessed with swimming and planned on competing in college until a back injury and the desire to associate myself socially with students out of the water turned my focus away from the pool. I still sport a permanent flip flop tan and attended my college classes at the wearing the wardrobe of an athlete – a baggy heather-grey sweat suit and hair up in a ponytail – but it has been over four years since I’ve swam more than a few consecutive laps.
When I got to college, it was assumed I would trade in my goggles and towel for a beer mug. While I did manage to learn how to navigate through the non-swimmer social scene, I mainly filled the void of the pool with academia. I wasn’t a nerd per se, but I will admit to more than once being the only student in an entire lecture hall to have read for class.
My freshman year, I was completely gung-ho about being a doctor. As a kid I obsessively watched Law and Order and ER, and the two shows greatly influenced my career choices. But I had to pick between the two, and eventually determined medicine was the way to go. The appeal of wearing pajamas to work everyday won out over business suits. Plus, the doctors on ER get a whole hour to showcase their skills while the Law and Order prosecutors have to split time with the detectives. Once I started taking biology and chemistry classes though, I realized my rationale for a career path was rather flawed. I hated equations and set answers. I wanted to help create my own solutions, not follow someone else’s theories. Really, my lack of appreciation for hundreds of years of research in the sciences pulled me into advertising.
I was smart enough to know that medicine was not for me. Thanks to my years at the pool, I can guarantee I can be the first one at work in the morning. You can’t even see my flip flop tan when I’m wearing heels, plus I’m far to young to be jaded by the business world. Given these extremely important variables, you should really give me a shot.
Monday, November 12, 2007
A Proper Way to Ring in 21
I fled the country the summer prior to my 21st birthday. I came back 4 days before my big day, and when I came back it only took me a day to remember why I wanted to leave in the first place. The week started out well enough. I made it back to Wisconsin in one piece, and planned on spending a few days with my family before heading to Minneapolis to celebrate my first (legal) drink.
The first order of business I had to take care of was my car. The 1991 Berretta has treated me well over the last 10 years, but that's really because my parents have poured more money into that thing than my braces and college tuition combined. I think the only thing that hasn't been replaced is the paint job and the cranberry plush interior. (Clearly my parents were more concerned with safety than vanity.) So I take the car to the nearest Jiffy Lube to get it checked out before my 4 hour trek back to school. $300 later, I have new brake pads and I'm seemingly set to go. The assumption the car is in working order, relatively speaking. Apparently no one sweat prior to 1992 because my car has no working AC. (It never has, but as a 16 year old, I never minded.) To remedy the situation I leave at 9pm. I have enough Red Bull and angst-filled Pop CDs to last the trip, plus there is virtually no chance of traffic at that time in Wisconsin. I'm three hours into my trip, when something in my engine snaps. My car sounds like a go cart or the propellers of an old plane. It's so loud I can't hear my music (when it's late at night and i'm by myself, I really like listening to Ashlee Simpson - her screeching voice has a way of keeping me up). Well, at this point i'm screwed. I'm in the middle of nowhere, it's 1am, and i'll have to sit by myself on the highway if I call someone to pick me up. I proceed to drive the car at 35 on the interstate back to my apartment in Minneapolis. My usual 4 hour jaunt took almost 6. Another $300 buys me a reattached spark plug. And what I hope to be a safe trip back to my parents.
We spend the next night celebrating my birthday. As with any 21st birthday, there's an equal mix of shots and stupidity, and I found myself puking in a flower pot before making my way to my bed. Now this is where there's a learning moment, folks. Being the loving granddaughter that I am, I had promised my dear old grandparents that I would be at their place for lunch the next day. (They live 2.5 hours away from Minneapolis.) Between trips to the bathroom to ralph, I managed to set my alarm for 8am. I pull myself out of bed and trudge to the parking ramp to get my car. Somewhere during my 4 block walk, my phone falls out of my bag. I spend the next two hours looking for/calling my damn phone. There's no way I'm hopping into my car for a road trip without a lifeline. Finally I realize I should probably call my mom to tell her the bad news. I'm going to be majorly late for lunch. She answers her phone as if she's waiting for the morgue to call. A man had found it on the street and answered it when she called to check on me. The poor woman! The last thing time she spoke to me, I was on my way to my "first" bar trip, the next time she calls a man answers, telling her he found my cell on the street. I swing by the man's office to pick up my phone and I head out to my grandparents.
After two hours on the road, a warning light - for something COMPLETELY different than the brakes or spark plugs turns on. Then comes the "SERVICE ENGINE IMMEDIATELY" light. Now i'm really screwed. I'm so hungover that I can barely spell my own name, riding in a car in the middle of July with over 90-degree heat, and now I have my dashboard tell me I have approximately 30 minutes left in my life. (I figured I would probably be warned with a subsequent light, "DEATH IS IMMINENT" if my car was seconds from imploding.) I pull over at the next exit and fill my coolant reservoir with water in the hopes it'll drown out all these warning lights. Nope. I travel a few more miles, then stop in a gas station to buy coolant. Does that help? Nope. I end up driving the next 65 miles at speeds that rival a paperboy with 3 of my 5 warning lights on. What a warm welcome to adulthood.
The moral of the story? Parents shouldn't look to their vehicles to bring their children character-building experience. And hangovers and heat don't mix.
And yes, my car was eventually fixed. This time, I waited it out by doing puzzles with my Grandpa on the porch.
The first order of business I had to take care of was my car. The 1991 Berretta has treated me well over the last 10 years, but that's really because my parents have poured more money into that thing than my braces and college tuition combined. I think the only thing that hasn't been replaced is the paint job and the cranberry plush interior. (Clearly my parents were more concerned with safety than vanity.) So I take the car to the nearest Jiffy Lube to get it checked out before my 4 hour trek back to school. $300 later, I have new brake pads and I'm seemingly set to go. The assumption the car is in working order, relatively speaking. Apparently no one sweat prior to 1992 because my car has no working AC. (It never has, but as a 16 year old, I never minded.) To remedy the situation I leave at 9pm. I have enough Red Bull and angst-filled Pop CDs to last the trip, plus there is virtually no chance of traffic at that time in Wisconsin. I'm three hours into my trip, when something in my engine snaps. My car sounds like a go cart or the propellers of an old plane. It's so loud I can't hear my music (when it's late at night and i'm by myself, I really like listening to Ashlee Simpson - her screeching voice has a way of keeping me up). Well, at this point i'm screwed. I'm in the middle of nowhere, it's 1am, and i'll have to sit by myself on the highway if I call someone to pick me up. I proceed to drive the car at 35 on the interstate back to my apartment in Minneapolis. My usual 4 hour jaunt took almost 6. Another $300 buys me a reattached spark plug. And what I hope to be a safe trip back to my parents.
We spend the next night celebrating my birthday. As with any 21st birthday, there's an equal mix of shots and stupidity, and I found myself puking in a flower pot before making my way to my bed. Now this is where there's a learning moment, folks. Being the loving granddaughter that I am, I had promised my dear old grandparents that I would be at their place for lunch the next day. (They live 2.5 hours away from Minneapolis.) Between trips to the bathroom to ralph, I managed to set my alarm for 8am. I pull myself out of bed and trudge to the parking ramp to get my car. Somewhere during my 4 block walk, my phone falls out of my bag. I spend the next two hours looking for/calling my damn phone. There's no way I'm hopping into my car for a road trip without a lifeline. Finally I realize I should probably call my mom to tell her the bad news. I'm going to be majorly late for lunch. She answers her phone as if she's waiting for the morgue to call. A man had found it on the street and answered it when she called to check on me. The poor woman! The last thing time she spoke to me, I was on my way to my "first" bar trip, the next time she calls a man answers, telling her he found my cell on the street. I swing by the man's office to pick up my phone and I head out to my grandparents.
After two hours on the road, a warning light - for something COMPLETELY different than the brakes or spark plugs turns on. Then comes the "SERVICE ENGINE IMMEDIATELY" light. Now i'm really screwed. I'm so hungover that I can barely spell my own name, riding in a car in the middle of July with over 90-degree heat, and now I have my dashboard tell me I have approximately 30 minutes left in my life. (I figured I would probably be warned with a subsequent light, "DEATH IS IMMINENT" if my car was seconds from imploding.) I pull over at the next exit and fill my coolant reservoir with water in the hopes it'll drown out all these warning lights. Nope. I travel a few more miles, then stop in a gas station to buy coolant. Does that help? Nope. I end up driving the next 65 miles at speeds that rival a paperboy with 3 of my 5 warning lights on. What a warm welcome to adulthood.
The moral of the story? Parents shouldn't look to their vehicles to bring their children character-building experience. And hangovers and heat don't mix.
And yes, my car was eventually fixed. This time, I waited it out by doing puzzles with my Grandpa on the porch.
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