Class is in session. Um, sike.

SO I woke up this morning at 6:30. Not because my body wanted to, or because my mind thought it would be a good and healthy thing--but because my stinkin' alarm clock woke me up. 

*GROAN*


Another 8:00 AM Personality Psych class. Not that I have anything against Personality Psych--I actually think it's a very interesting subject--it's just the fact that it's at 8:00 AM. I mean, even the sun hasn't woken up in Charlottesville when my alarm goes off, so why should I have to?!

Anyway, I was rudely awakened by the stinging slap of reality: it is going to be a very busy week. Three exams by the weekend, and a paper due in 8 days. Needless to say, this did not motivate me to get out of the warm bed that kept entangling me in its linen clutches.


But--I got up anyway. Like a good student I went to class, got there early--2 minutes early!-- answered all my iClicker questions, made sure that I had gotten all the info I needed for the exam on Thursday, and did everything I was supposed to do as a law-abiding-honor-coding student. The day flew by with many pleasures, like catching up with one of my good friends over lunch, tasting white hot chocolate for the first time all semester, going to one of my favorite classes (Russian lit woot woot!), and finding out that the midterm for that class has been postponed (thank you, thank you, Professor Herman--may you live forever). 


But of course, Personality Psych couldn't stand the way my day was turning out, so it decided to mess with me again. The so-called exam review session that was CLEARLY supposed to be in Gilmer Hall room 190 was NOT in Gilmer Hall room 190. 

Now that really ticks me off. 

There I was, trying to be a good student, and the freakin review session up and didn't meet where the syllabus and professor clearly said it would meet! 


*insert acknowledgment that as of right now, I am speaking purely from irrational annoyance, and that a week from now, the preceding events will probably not appear so vexing to me.*

Today's events lead me to create a short list. In my perfect universe:

1. Exam reviews would come to me. In my house, in my pajamas, with everything catered to what I need to know for the exam.
2. Class itself would come to me. 
3. Tests would be catered to me, my tastes, and what I want to talk about. For example:
"Discuss the difference between the Humanistic school of thought and the Behavioral school of thought." 
 My answer: "You know what I want to discuss? Waffles. I LOVE waffles. We're going to talk about THAT for 2 pages."
Grade: A+

Yeah. Yeah, I like that a lot, actually.

Moral of the Story: Nonsensical or not, you know my list would be pretty fun in real life.  
 

the symptoms.

You know you're an English major if

1. You've been the grammar police since you learned what grammar is.
2. You know the difference between imminent and eminent.
3. You have the online Oxford English Dictionary bookmarked on your toolbar.
4. Your professor makes a Keats reference and you instantly check his left hand to see if he's married.
5. Someone confuses Dickinson with Dickens and you just want to slam your forehead repeatedly on your desk.
6. You're the only person in the room who laughs when someone makes a pun in normal conversation.
7. You can talk about the same book with your friend for 2 solid hours. Long after class has let out. 
8. You believe in "word economy" but secretly hate it, because when there exists a plethora of words, expressions, and figures of speech so readily at one's disposal, the only patent recourse is to thoroughly exhaust them all, assuming, of course, that you maintain a significant degree of unity and coherence, as well as remain true to one's original intent of meaning.
9. You don't need Spell Check. You use knowledge. 
10. You understand that Jane Austen is a necessary component to one's education.
11. You cry when someone tells you that the people in Anna Karenina aren't actually real.
12. You knew that there were 2 versions of Frankenstein. Which one is better? Both of them.
13. You can interpret something nobody else can make sense of.


Moral of the Story: Nerdy is the new normal.  

 

Psychology would call it regression. I call it awesomeness.

SO apparently I'm only, like, 12 years old. At least, according to some of my tastes and interests. And it's totally ok, because I have other really great grown-up features that more than compensate for this: like my taste for poetry, Russian literature, espresso, debating, going to sleep late and getting up early. Or my need to try to act like a mom and say stuff like "Drive carefully!" (because going 80 in a residential area was totally in the offing), or "Seriously, it was like a pigsty" (I don't even know what that means), or "I'm appalled" (I actually just like saying that word, as mommyish as it sounds).

But I digress. Deep down inside, there's a part of me that refuses to abandon those little buried treasures of childhood that really shouldn't just be for childhood. Like being 19 and still wearing duck-shaped bubble necklaces. Why? Because it's so much FUN! 

I mean, let's be real. I listen to Justin Bieber. (I'm not even going to bother defending myself on that one.) And I may or may not own a giant Toy Story 3 poster with matching socks, accessories, and kitchenware. (I will never tell.) I also still happen to like Sesame Street. (The humor is totally not for kids anyway.) I still collect stuffed animals...and I may or may not have created a Facebook page for one of them. (I'm not telling for that one, either.) Oh and by the way...classic Disney movies? Better than anything else in the theaters these days. I dare you--no--I defy you to find a 90 minute movie more epic than The Lion King. 

I honestly have no idea what Justin Bieber and the Lion King have to do with each other, so at this point I'm just taking that as a sign to stop and go back to the grown up world of homework and Anna Karenina.  

But you better believe you'll still see me blowing bubbles in any random place I find. :) 

Moral of the Story: "How strange it is that when I was a child I tried to be like a grown-up, yet as soon as I ceased to be a child, I often longed to be like one." --Leo Tolstoy, Childhood

That awkward moment when you see your professor outside of a classroom

...and you freeze, paralyzed from the tippy-top of your head to the rubber bottoms of your Chucks.  

Because it never, ever occurred to you that professors cross the street or go to Kroger or actually go to Starbucks to buy their coffee. 

What? What is this?...You mean to say that these people actually...do things?! 


And of course, because you got swag, you keep on walking and hope they don't see you. (Because them seeing you + you seeing them)*√not being in class  = a whole lot of potential awkwo. <--How's that for math.

Of course, though, because your swag is so very evident, they notice you. 


So you're forced to perform the ancient social ritual that I like to call The Headnod-Half-Smile-I'mGoingToSortOfSayHiToYouButNotReally-Exchange. And right on cue, home training (and pressure not to look like an idiot) demands that you at least say hello, and exchange niceties at the barest minimum. So you do. Then walk away. Awkwardly. And you try to convince yourself that they weren't able to tell that you definitely hadn't done the reading for their class yet.

Moral of the Story: Look at your shoes wherever you go. Just do it.

Touch is my love language, but seriously...

So. It's been over 2 months since I did the big chop, and I am still loving it. :) It makes me feel sassy(er) and carefree, and there's just something daring about a girl cutting her hair short that I find so delightful. It's been great! :D

Except for one thing. Now, before I continue, I hereby evoke the following disclaimer: the entry below is not directed toward any one person in particular. Seriously. It's not. Because trust me, everyone and their mom has done this to me at some point in the past 2 months. And I refuse to remain silent any longer! (Not that remaining silent is one of my character strengths, but that's beside the point.) Anyway, don't think that if you're reading this and you're one of the many who has done this to me, that I'm targeting you. I'm not.

I'm only sort of targeting you. 

Having said that, I continue. What the french toast exactly makes people think that just because my hair is now shorter, they can just stick their fingers in it and mess around with my head?!??!? I mean let's be real here, people. My hair is an extension of my body. This is precious territory we're talking about here. Now I know some of you are going to read this and will be thinking "Psh, gurlchill." I will not chill! Not until the full measure of my wrath has been poured out on the interwebs and the whole world tastes of my displeasure. 

If you're struggling to understand, let me put it to you this way. Imagine if every time I saw you, I walked up to you, and before even saying hello, I started tweaking your nose or stroking your leg. Aggressively. Um, WEIRD. Not to mention socially awkward.

It's not that I have issues with having my hair touched. It's the assumption that just because it's short and curly, you can pet it. Like a freaking dog. It's one thing to say, "Hey I really love your hair! May I touch it?" It's quite another issue when you assault my scalp with your fingers. 

Moral of the Story: In the words of my friend Mr. Hammer, "U Can't Touch This"

16 Ways to Get Kicked Out of Kroger

1. Do the running man on the grocery conveyor belt

2. Run around repeatedly screaming "THE CELERY IS ALIVE!!!!" as loud as you are humanly capable

3. Chuck M&M's at people 

4. Juggle grapefruit

5. Hide in the meat fridge

6. Dump milk out on the floor and turn it into a slip'n'slide

7. Make pirate hats out of the cereal boxes

8. Sing Justin Bieber songs through a megaphone 

9. Wrestle with a pillow in the front entrance

10. Stand at the exit in a Jedi costume and use the Force every time the doors open

11. Hack into the loud speakers and announce that from now on, all sale proceeds will go toward ant farming organizations

12. Set a monkey loose in the magazine section

13. Re-enact the last battle scene from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in the cereal isles

14. Do wheelies on your bike in the check-out line

15. Use air-freshener as mace

16. Hug the cashier, vehemently declaring that it's Free Hug Day

Moral of the Story: Grocery shopping is only boring if you want it to be.

Back home from home: final reflections

SO... I'm back at college, starting class, and loving every second of it.
Except for one thing.
I'm still obsessed with learning more about all things Middle Eastern. It wasn't enough for me to just go to Israel and Palestine, no. I have to go and take an entire class on Jewish history, from Genesis all the way to the Medieval Period. It wasn't enough for me to just hear the complex sounds of Arabic in a busy market, no. I have to start teaching myself the Arabic alphabet and practice writing sentences in Arabic, even if I have no idea how to say them. It wasn't enough for me to just revel in the memory of the amazing food I had there, no. I have to start googling every kosher or Arabic restaurant within 50 miles of Charlottesville.

I'm starting to see a trend here.

I just don't know what it is about that place. It's allure goes far beyond mere tourist attractions or exotic shopping. It's not just the food; it's not just the language; it's not just the architecture. It's like the entire place is a living, breathing entity that I can't get out of my head or heart. It's like it's calling to me, begging me to come back. And I would in a heartbeat, if it wasn't for the fact that I don't exactly have access to a travel portal right at the moment. :/

It's crazy, but I think of Jerusalem and Bethlehem almost like they are actual people, not places. I long to go back, as though I were mourning the loss of a beloved friend. I mean, it literally has taken me almost a solid month to stop dreaming about Israel whenever I go to sleep. I'm serious.

Everything makes more sense there. The stupid things I used to worry about before I left all just came into the light to be seen for what they really are--stupid. In a place where God and family come before anything else, I got to see with my own eyes the futility of the "American Dream"--that my life is not about me and what I can achieve for myself. It's about serving God with everything I have and everything I am. And it's about serving others in His name, no matter what it costs me.

I saw life for what it really is: short, fragile, beautiful, and far less complicated than I tend to make it.

I have to go back. I just have to.