Grad school is just like college, only different

So I’m almost done with my first week of graduate school. It’s been a big week of firsts for me, since I took the bus for the first time (well, in Boulder), got lost on campus (had to ask a freshman for directions), and met a lot of new people.

Last week was actually the first time we met everyone, as we all sat through an entire day of orientation talks by just about every group on campus (no Womynists though. What kind of a PC campus is this?). By the end of this long day we were all sort of bonded in our common tiredness and looking forward to our short-by-comparison 2.5 hour classes.

But it was fun getting to know everyone, and, well, sizing each other up. Journalism is a practical degree, but only about half of the people have actual journalism experience. There’s that one woman who was working as an associate producer for Martha Stewart Living in NYC, another one who’s been writing for a newspaper in Argentina, and still another who’s making her own documentaries.

And then there are the brand new college grads, who have for some reason decided that two more years of school is the way to go right now. There’s the 50-year-old woman with three kids who wants to do something new and interesting, and the Jersey girl who, after getting to the orientation 30 minutes late, asked five million stupid questions in that irritating Jersey girl way. Later she proceeded to eat a bag of chips while sitting right behind me, crunching her way through a kind of important talk by the Dean. (Note to self: Do not sit near to Jersey girl in future classes.)

My favorite part of the day was on the bus ride home. I got surrounded by undergrads, who were sharing their own stories of life at school. Two boys/men sitting right next to me were chuckling about all of the freshmen who were wandering lost around campus, huddling around school maps trying to find their way to class. Then the subject turned to food, and boy/man #1 says “we’ve got to get some real food to eat. I mean, all we’ve been eating is ramen, hot dogs, ramen, pop tarts, and more ramen.” Ah yes, the foods of the undergraduate gods. Thank god I’m not one of them anymore.

Friday: Bad Manners at the Movies

I like going to see movies, and I don't mind going to see them alone. What's the point of having a date? You're there to watch the movie, not talk to the person (ya hear that, movie-talkers*?).

Today I was in the new theater in town, the one with stadium seating and everything. The problem with these theaters is that now you have to enter from the front, in full view of all of the already-seated audience members. Before you could sneak in the back and find a spot without drawing too much attention to yourself. Not that I have a problem with doing things on my own, I just don't want to have to give anyone that "yeah, i'm alone, you got a problem with that?" glare (must be leftover from city living).

So I found the closest seat--careful not to make eye contact with anyone--which happened to be in front of three chatty older ladies. A moment later, an older gentleman walked in the theater and took the chair two seats down from me.

At this point I'm not worried. Until the opening credits start. Chatty Cathies 1,2, and 3 start up their conversation again. I breathe deep, and think that they'll have to stop when the movie actually starts, right? Then Mr. Older Gentleman starts up his own conversation. With SLEEP. This guy seriously came in, sat down, and started snoring. Seriously? Why would you pay $8 to take a nap?

I sit there for awhile, thinking about moving up a row, when someone a few chairs down (past Mr. Snores-a-Lot) starts shaking the dregs of their Slurpee and making that whistling sound with their straw. The last straw, as far as I was concerned. So I picked up my stuff and moved.

After that the movie was great. If only I could see movies totally alone, minus the annoying strangers with bad manners. And hey, at least it wasn't as bad as the time I was watching Snatch by myself and was almost molested by that creepy stranger who had clearly misinterpreted the title. Talk about bad manners.

+++++++
*As a sidenote, my friend Mindy actually got into it once with some chatty people sitting behind her at a movie. "I wish you wouldn't have talked so much," she said as they were walking out. "Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?" they replied. "Whatever, you're just a bunch of, of, movie-talkers!" Not Mindy's wittiest moment, but I think she imbued her jibe with just the right amount of passion.

Punchbug, in all its glory

RL and I pride ourselves on several things: making up silly words and phrases, blaming each other for our own misdeeds, and the most serious game of Punchbug the world has ever seen.

It's no longer just one punch when you see a Bug. It's two punches if the Bug's moving. You can punch someone multiple times if you see the Bug twice in a short amount of time (e.g. coming into and out of a parking lot), unless you have agreed that that Bug is off-limits. If you are alone and you see one you have to punch yourself, but you can also punch the other person when you get home for all the Bugs you saw without them. Lately RL has taken to just punching me as many times as possible before I scream "ow!"

Didn't I tell you it was serious?

The other day, as we embarked on a road trip to go camping, RL decided to pre-emptively punch me for all of the Bugs he was bound to see before me on our journey. I'm convinced that was why, as we slept in our tent later that night, RL woke up to ME punching HIM. Here's our verbatim, mostly asleep conversation.

Me, solidly asleep: (punch-punch-punch)
RL, waking up: What are you punching me for?
Me, groggily realizing that I have just dreamt about bugs, and that it doesn't count if they AREN'T REAL BUGS: Um, nothing, I was just dreaming about a bug.
RL: There was a bug in your dream and you want me to kill it?
Me: No, it was a Punchbug!
RL: Well if there was only one Bug, why did you punch me three times?
Me: There were two bugs.
RL, surprisingly lucid: That still doesn't count for three punches.
Me: I was sleeping. I don't really know what I was doing.

Sorry babe. But you started it.

You guys know this place is clothing optional, right? (Part II)

When we left our heroines, they were about to embark on an exciting campground adventure…

As we drove into the site, snowflakes began gently fluttering to the ground. We parked the car, unloaded the “mondo condo” (the only tent left at the rec center) and began blindly trying to put together this unknown and ridiculously large tent in the pitch-black, near-blizzarding mountains of Colorado. Neither of us had thought to bring a flashlight, and the batteries in the tiny keychain light that we had brought died within minutes.

So we ditched our tent-erection attempts, and decided to hunt down some firewood. If we could get a fire going, we’d be able to see much better, right? We wandered over to the campsite’s designated wood pile, consisting of a rather sizeable log in a trough, which we were meant to cut with a rather less sizeable hacksaw.

Cold, tired, and not really knowing what we were doing, we made our first few feeble attempts at hacking. Suddenly, out of the nearby sauna building came a gray-haired man with a pot belly and a cigar. Naked. He sat outside the steamy enclosure for a few minutes and watched as we struggled in our frustration. Finally, Mr. Pot Belly gets up, saunters over our direction, and tells us we’re doing it all wrong. Naked. Then he proceeds to pick up the saw and show us how the saw is meant to be used. Did I mention he was naked?

Daisy and I stood back, stifling giggles and giving each other “is this really happening?” looks. Finally, once Mr. Pot Belly felt he had sufficiently demonstrated his sawing prowess, he left us and went back into the sauna. We stood there for awhile, incredulous, frustrated, and ready to give up.

And give up we did. As it turns out, we didn’t have the skills, equipment, or patience to finish the job. Hanging our heads in shame, we packed up the car and headed home. In hindsight it was a good thing we did—the storm of the decade dumped on Colorado that night, closed roads and stranded hundreds of students on their own adventure. If we hadn’t been so ill prepared, we might have been stuck sleeping in the sauna with Mr. Pot Belly, smoking cigars and eating the last scraps of our PB&Js.

Wednesday: My No Good Very Bad Day

Today I:
1) Woke up on the wrong side of the bed (apparently);
2) Stubbed my toe;
3) Dropped a plastic jar of hummus on the ground and broke it; and
4) Pissed my cat off, to which she responded by scratching me. Repeatedly.
And that was before I left the house.

When I did leave the house I got in the car to run some errands, namely getting a wedding present ready to send. I had already re-hot-glued the homemade present (it had come apart after sitting in my hot car for an hour), and was finally ready to get it in a box and ship it off. Since I didn’t have any boxes lying around (one of the downsides to not having an office job—no access to random stuff like that), I thought I’d just go to a nearby packaging store and get them to find a box and fill it with peanuts.

The clerk at the store takes some measurements and asks how I want to send it. “Cheap!” I respond. He says the cheapest he can do is FedEx Ground, and that’s $21. The cheapest is $21?!!?? “Half of that is the box, and half is the shipping,” he assures me.

Unfortunately I’m not really prepared to pay $10 for a cardboard box. Nuh-uh, I say, and walk out of the store, resolving to find my own box and stuff some newspaper into it, like all normal shipping people. As I’m driving home, I remember that the liquor store around the corner always has boxes to give away. I stop and pick one up, and am delighted to find a Sierra Nevada box (the happy couple that I’m sending this to love this beer, and they just got married in the Sierra Nevadas. What could be cuter?).

I bring my little box home, happy I have saved myself $10, when it dawns on me that you can’t send liquor boxes through the mail. Even if they don’t have liquor in them. Erg.

Frustrated, I set aside that project, and get ready for a bike ride to run a few more errands. I run around the house, looking worriedly at the darkening sky, and resolve to ride no matter what. Then of course, the moment I step out of the garage, the rain starts. I linger for a few minutes, go back to the house, linger for a few more minutes, and the rain dwindles.

Now that the rain’s gone, the bike ride is hot—and rather humid. But I make my way to campus, and get right to the building I was looking for. Success! Except for the fact that I’ve forgotten my bike lock (rookie mistake). From what I’ve heard, leaving your bike unlocked on campus is not the best idea. So I leave it where I can see it from the windows of the card office, where I’m about to get my picture taken for my school ID, envisioning a scenario in which my bike gets stolen and my bad day turns into a really bad day.

In the card office, I learn that the computers are down all over campus, and I might have to wait awhile. Fine, I think, I’ll go check on my bike, and stop by the career services office. There I learn that they can’t really help me, and I probably should head over to the student employment office across campus. Great, I think. Another errand. I walk back outside and check on my bike (still there) and head back to the card office. They look at me sadly, say they’ll do their best, and apologize. I decide to wait it out, as long as I can see my bike. Finally, miraculously, they are able to print me a card. The sad news is that sweaty bike ride does not equal terribly attractive ID photo. I shrug, take my card, and get back on my bike.

I ride up the hill, stop at a light and wait to cross. Suddenly a big truck passes, and in a split second something has flown off the top of the truck and hit me in the leg. It was a mushroom, of all things, a big one. Thank goodness it wasn’t a chunk of cheese, or, god forbid, a steak.

By this point I have to laugh at how ridiculous the situation is. I’ve just been hit by an errant mushroom on Broadway. What? I giggle to myself the whole way home, where I swap my bike for my car to get to my next appointment. The next appointment is a haircut, which I think is at 3 o’clock. It’s not—it’s at 2:30, so by the time I get there my girl is on her next client. Looks like I’ll have to wait awhile til she’s free again.

Finally, errands done, bangs trimmed, I go home and collapse. The day’s not over yet, but apart from the hurricane-like hailstorm outside, I think the evening’s got to get better.

Tuesday: Fun with Animals

Mr. Squirrel: "Maybe if I just flatten my tocks I'll blend in."



Mr. Squirrel: "Gah! Kitteh! Steady, steady. Just be cool Mr. Squirrel, you know what to do. You've dealt with evil kitteh before and she hasn't beat you yet...Commence squirrel barking!"

You Guys Know This Place is Clothing Optional, Right? (Part I)

One of my favorite stories ever happened in a moment where my still-to-this-day-good-friend Daisy and I were becoming close and trying to be adventurous. We were in the middle of college, and we decided that a good old-fashioned camping trip would solidify our friendship. I knew of a spot in the mountains, about three hours away from school, and after class let out on Wednesday, we packed up the car with our PB&Js—pilfered from the school cafeteria—and a borrowed tent from the outdoor recreation center.

Daisy had talked to me of her life-changing Outward Bound experience as a teenager, and though I was a bit of a camping virgin, I trusted that she knew enough about the outdoors to get us both through. We had shelter, snacks, and some sleeping bags. What more did we need?

On the trip out there Daisy and I taught each other our favorite car games, talked about life, and realized that we both loved the same obscure k.d. lang song. But by the time we arrived at our campsite/hot springs, it was nearly midnight. We paid our dues, collected our towels, and listened to the campground manager tell us two things: a snowstorm was moving in—and it was supposed to be a big one—and the hot springs were clothing optional (so don’t be too surprised if you see people wandering the campground naked).

We laughed, overconfident in our college worldliness and outdoor preparedness. At that moment we should have just turned around and gone home for all the good the next hour did us.

Old timey radio voice: Stay tuned for Part II of our exciting adventure, wherein our two daring heroines face cold, snow, and a little too much nudity. Will they survive?

Two broken windows, with a side of redneck please

Sometimes you try and do a good thing and you just end up getting pooped on. Last weekend, as RL and I were wrapping up the Relay for Life we helped plan, we had a little accident with a light stand and a generator. We were hauling the thing back to the rental place—whose drivers had all worked too much that week, and couldn’t drive the extra two miles to pick up this unwieldy piece of equipment—when the hitch came undone. Hearing the thing dragging on the ground, RL hit the brakes and all of the sudden the boom was in our backseat.

Now, I don’t love this car. It’s a 17-year-old Blazer, and about every single luxury feature the car ever had has managed to stop working (and by “luxury” I mean air conditioning, defrost, and the ability to tell which gear you’re in while driving). So with a crunched back gate, now windowless, the first words out of my mouth are, “at least now we’ll have better air flow.” Seriously, the car is on its last legs, and that’s why neither of us was terribly upset over the accident.

But without any plans to replace the car in the next few weeks, RL decided to head on over to the junkyard and see if he could just grab a few parts and replace the back end himself. $125 later, he’s got a new back gate and a new window. Though I’ve never actually done any auto body work, I agree to watch/help as he installs the stuff.

So all is going fairly, strangely, well—we get on the gate without any major problems, and move onto the glass. Only a few more bolts through the window and we’re set. So here I am holding the underside of the glass as RL is tightening the window onto the car, when all of the sudden the glass shatters, about two inches from each of our faces. Amazingly both of us survive without much more than some tiny scratches and a few straggling bits of glass (and in RL’s case, those straggling bits all got trapped in his forest of arm hair. It's quite impressive). Once we realize that we’re okay, we start to laugh about the inevitability of something going wrong in every project that we do.

But we never could have predicted how this project was going to turn out.

The next day RL heads back to the junkyard. Of course he has to hang his head a little in telling these guys that yes, he needed another window because the last one didn’t quite work out. By the time he arrives at the yard they’ve pulled out just the window for him. I think they felt sorry for him, so they helped him put it on, obscene sticker and all.



I’ve amended the photo, but you get the idea. RL has since removed the sticker in embarassment, but I knew we had to have some way of remembering that, for at least a few days, he was a redneck.

My Kickball Team, or How I Spend My Monday Nights

Last Monday night my kickball team came dangerously close to ruining our one-loss-per-season streak. Against a team that hadn’t WON a single game. And who were fairly skeezy kickball players. That's right, skeezy.

I should start by saying this is how we spend our Monday nights: dressing in silly costumes, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, and running the bases with all we’ve got. And our team rocks. We refuse to create a batting order, give out an award each week for the person who has most sacrificed their body for the game (read: bleeding most profusely), and generally try not to take it too seriously.

Until we meet another team that does take it too seriously. This last team was pretty good, but they also played pretty dirty. The pitcher was hurling balls at our batters so fast that we barely had a chance to kick. One runner took out our second basewoman as he was rounding the base. And one husky woman kept trying to lead off the base (this is what we call cheating).

After I saw that, I knew I had to keep an eye on her. She was one of those ex-softball player types, and reminded me of Velda, Shelley Long’s troop leader foe from Troop Beverly Hills (don’t pretend like you don’t know who I’m talking about). Velda, as I’ll call her, bossed her team around, edged in off of the grass when the girls kicked (also cheating), and generally made me mad. I’m sure I sounded like a little whiny brat when I was trying to get someone—anyone—to pay attention to my pleas to watch as she led off. But kickball is about having fun! It’s not about cheating! I’ll whine if I have to to protect the integrity of this game!

In the fifth inning my mom, who was in the stands, began cheering for me as I walked up to the plate. “Do a Leckonby!” she yelled, referencing my boyfriend’s earlier two-run-producing kick. Thanks Mom, I always love to be held up to someone else’s standard of athleticism, especially my boyfriend's. The resulting kick was a pop fly—right into Velda’s arms. Erg.

The thing with our team is that we have a lot of fun, but only because we manage to beat almost everyone. If we didn’t keep winning, I can’t imagine we would have such a good time. We cheer every time one of our players slides into a base unnecessarily (hence the bleeding), makes a diving catch, or pegs out an opposing player with a great throw (you can do that in kickball! If only that was legal in softball). Oh yes, the glories of kickball are many, especially when your third basemen is wearing a Twinkie costume.