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.