A Highschool Education

I haven't written anything in a while because, to be honest, nothing has happened which would translate well into an amusing, relatable anecdote.  And, to be honest, nothing has changed.  I don't have a funny or entertaining story to tell, no pictures to share and no exciting announcements.  The subject of this post was actually inspired by the subject of a conversation this weekend and, (and you have no idea how loath I am to admit this tidbit) a movie.  It wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, not much can outdo To Kill a Mockingbird, and it wasn't even a memorably bad movie.....it was just....alright.  But, it concerned a touchy subject for me-namely high-school.  See, most people hate high-school; I however, can claim to be an overachiever in this department, even if in no other.  Basically, my public school experience went downhill after third grade.  Kid you not.  During those tender, formative years of what people claim was my childhood-although I prefer to see it as my practice adulthood-I was in hell at least 98.9% of the time.  I repeat-it was hell.  See, here's the thing, learning was not an issue (math excepted), but relating to my fellow classmates left me sticky with a cold, sweaty panic.  Still does.  I had orthodontic work from second grade to ninth.  My hair was wild and frizzy.  I had freckles.  I was scrawny and chicken-legged with no indication that I would ever boast anything like a feminine figure.  I was, still am, ghostly white.  I liked books-strange books compared to my classmates.  Sweet Valley and the Babysitter's Club never really caught my attention, but I wanted to know about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, what happened to Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher as they wandered in the maze of caves, how Jo March fared as she pursued a career as an author.  It wasn't that I was smarter or better, I just liked different things.  This, apparently, was unacceptable.  

I still have a scar on my left elbow from an incident on the way to the cafeteria, one day in seventh grade.  We had to go around the outside of the building in order to get into the cafeteria, and the parking lot was in the process of being repaved.  Right in front of the cafeteria doors, there was a long swath a few inches wide which formed a gulf between two sections of asphalt.  It had recently rained, and so the gulf had become a small channel filled with muddy water and crumbling asphalt.  Rather than walking in single file, we were allowed to walk in a group, and so I was walking by myself in a space between other groups consisting of three or four chatty pre-teens.  Just as I came to the channel and began to step over, I received a massive shove on the back by three pairs of hands.  I fell face first into the puddle, catching the ragged edges of the pavement on the way down.  My jeans were ripped at the knees and both they and my shirt were soaking wet; both hands and forearms were slightly oozing blood from the abrasions that ran from fingertip to elbow on each arm, my left elbow sporting a jagged cut.  And these from those who claimed on odd days, to be my friends.  My mom stilled worked at the school and so I was allowed to go to her classroom to get bandaids and sympathy.  The only thing I remember, really, is the sting of peroxide and trying desperately not to burst into tears in front of a room full of kindergarteners.  Not long after, as I sat my tray down at the table where I sat simply because no objections had until then been verbalized, one of the other lunchers casually turned to me and asked why I sat where I wasn't wanted.  

Now, these may seem like juvenile and petty things to remember ten or more years later, but my point is this-when such things occur daily, hourly for years, regardless of what is preached to us, our self-esteem and self-image becomes generally and almost inevitably based on the type of treatment we receive from others.  It is easy to begin to believe that there is truth in what they say, that if it were not true, it would not be said by so many so frequently.  We begin to see ourselves as they say we are.  This leads to something known in psychology as the Looking Glass effect.  Now, I am no psychologist, and so I don't claim to know all of the details on this subject (and it has been years since I read anything about it).  The gist of it, though, as I understand it, is this: we perceive ourselves in a certain way, subconsciously we convey these perceptions to others through things such as verbal patterns, body language, etc.  They, in turn, accept these perceptions as presented by us and return them, reaffirming our perceptions of ourselves, leading us to accept what was our own opinion of ourselves as an outsider's original opinion of us.  This cycle is self-perpetuating and often enacted without either party ever be conscious of its existence.  So you see, if, during the period when children are learning to exist and function socially independent of their parents, they suffer ridicule and rejection from their peers, it often sets the course for many years to come.  The sad thing is, those who already, and I am not just talking about myself here, suffer from a dismal lack of self-esteem are juicy and vulnerable prey for the more socially fit.  Therefore, those who are least able to defend themselves become the most hunted.  

For some, it drives them to overachieve and prove their worth, for others, and I think I can safely say, for most, it becomes a stumbling block which they battle years afterwards.  It is almost like Jean Valjean in Les Miserables.  After his release from long years of imprisonment, he was given a yellow card which identified him as a former convict.  He was required by law to present this card whenever he applied for employment or moved to a new place.  Of course, no one wished to employ a convict or allow him to be their neighbor, and so the yellow card essentially extended his sentence to a life sentence.  He was imprisoned by what he had once been.  Sometimes, the scars left, and the self-perceptions we adopt in our youth, are our yellow cards.  The difference being that we condemn ourselves to carry those yellow cards in the form of low self-esteem, and fear that maybe we are as worthless as we felt, that maybe it is better if we just keep ourselves to ourselves.  It has prevented me, and I am sure many others, from accepting friendships, from applying for jobs in which they would actually excel, if they allowed themselves to try, from many other good things in life.  In short, it can affect every aspect of your life.  Without delving into any deep religious conversation, I will say this-it also prevents us from accepting blessings and gifts from a loving Father in Heaven who is probably pained by the thought that we do not love something which he so carefully and thoughtfully created-spending time to not only create a world filled with beautiful things, but to fill it with distinct and individual beings with personalities and talents, whom he considers his most precious creations and loves more than we can ever begin to fully understand.  Our worth, although it is hard to see, is in our existence.  Heavenly Father created us, and therefore we are endowed, not only with inalienable rights, but with intrinsic worth.  Although it sounds so simple, this is probably the hardest thing to accept and realize in this life.

So although it is true that highschool cheerleaders are actually the keepers of the gates of hell, it is also true that highschool is not forever-that is, of course, unless you let it be.  Those yellow cards are self-assigned.  It is not easy and it is not quick, but it is possible for things to change.  The catch is, no one is going to do it for you but yourself.  It is tough, but hey, if you've been tough enough to survive high-school, you can pretty much take it.  Right?                      

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 I love Elder Holland; I mean, I love them all, but he is one of my favorites.  I was actually thinking this morning about a few lines from one of his books, a Christmas book but still very relevant to the day.  "It is the life at the other end of the manger scene that gives this moment of nativity in Bethlehem its ultimate meaning.  Special as this child was and divine as was his conception, without that day of salvation wherein he would gain an everlasting victory over death and hell on behalf of every man, woman, and child who would ever be born-until that day should come-this baby's life and mission would not be complete.  Perhaps these parents knew even then that in the beginning of his mortal life, as well as in the end, this baby son born to them would have to descend beneath every human pain and disappointment.  He would do so, at least in part, to help those who also felt they had been born without advantage.  The true meaning, the unique and lasting and joyous meaning of the birth of this baby, would be in the life he would lead and especially in his death, in his triumphant atoning sacrifice, and in his prison-bursting resurrection." 

There's something about those middle years between being young enough that you actually look forward to being a year older and being old enough that you're impressed with how far you've made it.  During those in-between years birthdays become a trial of patience which you try to endure well but generally just try to ignore altogether.  I reached that stage when I turned seven or somewhere thereabouts.  (It's kind of like Woody Allen said, "My mother always said I was a cheerful kid until I was five years old, and then I turned gloomy."  Even though I'm no fan of Woody Allen, that's still funny.....)  Anyway, this yearly trial has recently rolled around again even though I could swear up and down it just happened six months ago.....But this time was a little different.  I received one of the best birthday gifts of all time.  Now, my mom is the master at coming up with great gifts so I've always gotten really good loot, but this year my niece outdid everyone.  She gave me a Barbie.  Belle from Beauty and the Beast, to be exact.  My sister and I did play with barbies as kids, but we never got into the obsessive collector's mindset about them that some kids do, it was more of an occasional past-time.  My Belle barbie, however, sits proudly on display in my room because it was bought with the hard earned money of a five year old who saw it in the store and remembered our conversation about Disney princesses when I said that Belle was my favorite because she liked to read.  You can't beat that.  It made me think of another birthday present I'll never forget.  I was in about second or third grade and my birthday fell on a weekday.  We were on the playground, I was on the monkey bars, when another student came running up and told me Mr. Jones wanted to see me.  Mr. Jones was one of the janitors at the school that both my sister and I attended, and where my mom worked as a teacher's assistant.  I couldn't imagine why he wanted to see me, and felt a little anxious as I couldn't help but think that I might be in trouble, even though I couldn't imagine what I'd done.  (Apparently I've always had some anxiety about being summoned before any sort of authority figure....)  I still remember what the empty gym looked like as it came into focus as my eyes adjusted after being out in the bright sun for so long.  Mr. Jones was standing by the stage with one of those long push-brooms in one hand.  I didn't really know what to say as I walked up since I still didn't really know why I was there and "Hey, Mr. Jones" didn't seem very respectful or appropriate, and I was even less chatty then than I am now, believe it or not.  As I walked up, he said, "I heard today was your birthday."  I kind of did a half shrug and nod, a little embarrassed by the flush of pride I felt that, at least today, something made me different and maybe a little bit special, and wondering how he even knew it was my birthday.  He reached into his pocket and took out two dollar bills, "I guess you need something for that, then," and handed over the two bills that I knew, even then somehow, that he worked very hard for.  "Alright, go on back out and play, but just don't tell everybody where you got that," he grinned.  Knowing that this wasn't a privilege everyone got made it even more special, and suddenly I felt even more shy.  I think I mumbled something along the lines of a thank you and smiled at the floor before running back out to the playground.  But even all these years later, I still remember those two dollars, not because it was flashy or expensive, but because of the effort that went into earning them and the kindness they represented.  I have a feeling that, years down the road, I'll remember this barbie for the same reasons.   

This is what envy looks like

This has always been one of my favorite pieces.  Along with this and Chopin's "Fantasie Impromptu" it has been one of those "You-Know-It'll-Never-Come-True" dreams for me.  I want to be able to do this.  On one piano.  At all.  Ever. 


And this is one of my absolute most favorite hymns.  The world really is such a beautiful place, when you stop and look.  It's like my niece once said when she was still just a little thing, "You know it is going to be a good day when the birds sing."

The weather here has been fantastic the past couple of days, so I decided to do a little exploring.  Then, this weekend, my mom came to visit and we spent the day in some gardens in this area.  The day was kind of chilly and overcast, but not bleak, because everything was so colorful and smelled so fresh and alive.  Let's just say, the weather and the gardens so did not make me not want to move to England/Ireland.  Right now.  Ship my stuff later.....and send tickets for my family to come visit soon, since I've learned I have a rather difficult time being too far away from them for too long......But, you know, for England/Ireland, I think I could learn.  Then we went to the annual festival for the town I live in.  It was alright, but after about two seconds of being walled in by people on all sides, I felt I'd experienced all I needed to experience.  But, the good thing of all of it was that there was a guy on the sidewalk outside of an "Irish pub" playing the bagpipes.  I took a few pictures, but frankly, I think it weirded him out a little that I was sticking a camera in his face and taking more than one shot.  But you know, 1. he's playing the bagpipes-not something you see around here frequently.  2. it was during a festival-there were approximately five gazillion people milling around-somebody's going to take a picture (or five) 3. you're wearing a kilt. not to be confused with a skirt, the kilt is a solidly manly piece of clothing.  girls like musical manly men.  the end.

Robinson Crusoe Syndrome

I remember reading Robinson Crusoe for the first time and receiving quite a shock.  You grow up knowing the general idea of the story: young man runs away and signs on a ship.  Said ship goes down.  Young man survives and is stranded on an island.  Young man waits to be rescued, gives up and decides to make the best of it.  After trial and error period during which he become Middle-Aged man, he manages to live in some comfort, albeit solitary and somewhat lonely comfort.  Then Middle-Aged man is sent a Friend named Friday.  Blah-Blah, Middle-Aged man now Old(ish) man is rescued and returns home.  The only thing is, nobody ever tells you as a kid that Friday was a cannibal.  When I read RC the first time and found out that Friday was a fan of the alternate white meat it nearly put me off the book.  Anyway, after having spent two days in an involuntary vow of silence, I realized I was beginning to suffer from Robinson Crusoe Syndrome.  When you start mentally laughing at your own lame jokes, you know its time to get out for a bit.  So, I took it upon myself today to treat myself to the aquarium.  Although I must admit I'm not really a particular fan of anything cold-blooded (or anything with more than four legs or less than two), it was a really nice trip.  Plus, it's been months since I've touched my camera (and I can tell), so I took a few pictures.  I haven't really photoshopped many of them yet, but once I do, I'll post some more.  (I have a new friend now; the albino alligator and I bonded as we commiserated together over our lack of melanin and how it decreased our ability to survive in the great outdoors.....)

Vegetarian Fed Eggs and Life Lessons

You know, you learn a lot about yourself once you suddenly find yourself the only responsible adult in the household. Or, you know, the only person in the household period.  I've learned that I find cooking irritatingly repetitive if I'm only cooking for myself.  Why go to all the trouble and mess to cook for one person when pulling a Lean Cuisine from the freezer works just as well?  I've also learned that eating the same thing for three months will make you ill.  Literally and metaphorically.  I've learned that I don't know how to grocery shop.  My habit has become to go to the grocery store, wander the aisles and stare blankly into space waiting for some revelation about what to cook for dinner, eventually capitulate and buy Rice-a-Roni and fruit and call it a day.  The other day I looked at my shopping list and realized that, no exaggeration, I had written down such specifics as: trash bags, soft soap, bottled water, food.  Simple is better.  Makes life easier.  Or harder?  Anyway, as I was wandering the aisles and suddenly realized I'd only bought replacement eggs once since December I thought I'd better buy some more, as I dare say eggs have an expiration date.  (Do they?  I mean, if I keep them in the fridge, that should extend their shelf life, shouldn't it?  Come on, wasn't the Ice Man nearly perfectly preserved for how long since he was on ice?  Same goes for eggs, right?)  As I was standing there, I noticed on the side of some egg cartons were these words: "Vegetarian Fed Eggs."  Personally, it was an eye-opening experience-I didn't realize eggs needed to be fed or that some were vegetarian.  If it is in reference to the chickens, aren't they 'vegetarian' already?  I mean, yeah, I'd love to see some barnyard bi-ped trying to choke down a medium-rare 12 oz., but I just don't think that's going to happen.  So, suddenly having to become my own responsibility has taught me quite a few new things.  Such as:

1.  Cool-Whip will mold.  Who knew?
2.  Even if you don't know for sure, if a food article doesn't seem like it is supposed to smell like that, chances are, it isn't.
3.  You can cook an entire meal in one pan.  It's all going to end up in the same place anyway, and it saves having to wash multiple dishes.
4.  You can also eat straight out of said pan, also saving clean-up time.
5.  If you don't do it, it doesn't get done.
6.  The phrase 'dead quiet' seems a little creepy when you live by yourself.
7.  It's hard to put a band-aid on your own elbow.
8.  Make sure you have reserve tooth-brushes just in case you drop yours on the floor.
9.  It's nice to be able to drink straight from the orange juice carton, but just remember that when you offer some to guests.
10. No matter how much you try to pretend like you're a 'responsible adult' you can never really convince yourself that you really are.
11. Trying to be completely responsible and mature makes you realize you never get too old to need to call your mama and daddy, just to hear their voices.
12. Even if you make friends, nobody fills in for your family.
13. When you're the one responsible for making sure the oven is turned off you realize that being obsessive compulsive can be a learned trait.
14.  Never assume you have enough milk for cereal tomorrow.
15.  When you lose your social circles, you realize just how social you really were, even if you thought you weren't.

So, life has been.....interesting during these past few months.  Not bad, necessarily, just......interesting.  

Family and Sanity

Guess what?  I get to go home.  For a whole week and a half.  I don't think anyone knows how stoked I am...seriously.  I have never in my entire life spent this much time away from my family.  I've been going through withdrawals-twitching like Ray Charles needing a fix, in fact.  My sister came last weekend, which is the only reason I've been able to make it this far.  My sister is...well, if anyone has a sister, no explanation needed.  You know, I'm sure we fought at some point in our childhood, but never enough for me to remember.  Even as a teenager neither of us went through that whole 'I hate my family' teenage angst-ridden phase.  I remember when we were packing up her room shortly before she got married and moved out, it started out with us laughing hysterically over everything (we were both a little sleep deprived-she from planning a wedding and me from finals) and ended up with both of us sitting on her bedroom floor crying.  Changes are tough, even when they are good and sometimes especially when they are voluntary.  The only thing I've never been able to figure out though, is how we came from the same gene pool when it comes to shoes....Packing her room that day she had three pairs of shoes, if I remember it correctly.  I have, well......more than three pairs.  My sister and I speak our own language, my aunt calls it being 'Windtalkers.'  (Our whole family has been corrupted by movies......)  I'm ready to see my mom, or as someone once referred to her, 'the other half of my act.'  Some mothers and daughters can't be in the same room because they get loud when they start arguing.  My mom and I can't be in the same room because we get loud as we increasingly feed off of each other.  Then there's my dad.  Every girl loves her dad, but my dad is also my 'very good best friend.'  I remember sitting on the tailgate and watching dry lightning on summer evenings.  Or sitting on a fallen log in the middle of a swamp talking about how scared I was about having to make big decisions about what to do with my life.  Or the time in elementary school when I got sick and he stayed home with me-he sat me down in front of the t.v. with a constant supply of soup, crackers and orange juice and put on the all-day marathon of "Ripley's Believe It Or Not."  Last year we went to Williamsburg together and visited the original Ripley's museum.  It was kinda 'full-circle.' Then there's the man-cub and the queen.  I've kept all of their voicemails archived on my phone and listen to them on my way to class.  And sometimes on my way back.  I have the valentines they made me on my fridge and looking at them is the best part of my day.  There's also my brother in law, who's really just my brother, since I never had a brother and he stepped right into the role of big brother to me.  He knows just how to aggravate the crap out of me sometimes, and I think that's a pretty good sign that he's really, truly my brother.  That and the fact that I couldn't talk to anyone of the male persuasion for years without some disapproval being expressed.  He's coming around, though.  I like where I am now, but I also haven't been able to kick the habit of my family.  Really, to be honest, I hope I never do.  I don't think there's any rehab for that, anyway.  So, the chorus of the "Sloop John B" is for my family.  No matter where I am, no matter how much good a change has been for me, "I feel so broke up, I wanna go home."  Love you guys.  Always. 

(I know it's not a good idea to put pictures of you/your family on blogs that aren't private, but just this once I'll take the chance because these are some of my favorite pictures of me and the queen.  Don't have any of the man-cub because he's an experiment in perpetual motion.  And I just realized I have no pictures of me and the rest of my family.....I guess because my mom and I are usually on the other side of the camera, I get my genetic loathing of having my picture taken from my dad, and my sister is usually wrestling miniature people away from potentially deadly situations......)

(She's so going to hate me for this in a few years....)

I should really be working on two thirty page research papers, but instead......

Being forced to ponder profound questions in the pursuit of an education made me think of someone's blog my mom once stumbled across.  The person put forth the unanswerable question 'Why did the chicken cross the road?' and then proceeded to answer as she imagined different individuals may have answered.  This was funny, as my boss and I once had a rather long conversation about how different authors would respond.  I had completely forgotten about that conversation until just this morning when, without any connection to what I should have been studying, I suddenly thought about it and realized once again how much I miss the people I worked with.  So, I decided to attempt to answer the unanswerable in the tradition of a few authors.  (I have to 'fess up that the other blogger came up with the first one; but, not being a huge fan of Hemingway myself, I found it too funny not to include....) 

So, Why did the chicken cross the road?


Hemingway: "He didn't. He died. In the rain. Alone."
(my boss and I agree that it was most likely in Spain somewhere)


Dr. Seuss: "The chicken crossed the road to pay a visit to Frog and Toad. 'Put down, put down your heavy load,' said Toad when the chicken had crossed the road. "


Nietzsche: "The chicken did not cross the road because there was no road to cross.  The chicken merely imagined the road.  Therefore all life is pointless."


Thomas Wolfe: "The chicken crossed the road once, but he could never go back home."


Steinbeck: "Because it was the Depression and he was a downtrodden migrant worker.  And he'd recently had trouble with a woman, because all women are evil."  (Has anyone ever noticed that Steinbeck seemed to have hate issues with women?)


C.S. Lewis: "Because it was a challenge and challenges build character."


Dickens: "To show that even a chicken not born into privilege can have great expectations."


Emerson: "To become self-reliant."


Mark Twain: "He didn't really cross the road; he thought about it and that was close enough-he told the truth, mostly, just stretched it a little."


Austen: "The chicken was a female born into a large family without privilege.  Through her own wit the chicken was able to cross the road which divided the chicken classes.  And make an advantageous marriage in the process.  All through her wit and good taste.  The end."


Oscar Wilde: "Because the chicken wasn't really a chicken, he was only pretending to be a chicken when city life bored him.  But since you must be in earnest to successfully fool everyone, and all chickens seem to be crossing the road, then you must cross the road to maintain the guise of being a chicken-even though you secretly think all of the other non-chickens pretending to be chickens are mindless, soulless opportunists."


Tennessee Williams: "Because the chicken felt trapped in a suffocating, pointless existence and it was the only way out he could come up with.  His family was stifling him and he felt unable to meet their expectations.  Unhappiness breeds desperation. (And he got depressed because Stella would never answer him.)"


Shakespeare: "Because being or not being obliterated by a semi answers the question 'To be or not to be.'"

Francis Bacon: "Because although another chicken had described crossing the road, the Chicken knew he could only come to an accurate conclusion about crossing the road by experiencing it himself."

I think I need to make some friends and get out a little more............

"Why do you say it like that, with your nose all scrunched up....'You're French, aren't you?'"

So there's this movie that I love, which I probably shouldn't, but I do, so there....It's called French Kiss starring Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline.  The more I watch it the funnier it gets.  There's this one part where Kevin Kline, playing a frenchman, asks Meg Ryan, who has shown nothing but disgust for him, "Why do you say it like that, with your nose all scrunched up, 'You're French, aren't you?'"  Anyway, that's what this little news clip made me think of.  Plus, I kinda hate the French right now.....or at least the person who failed me on the French translation exam I just had to take.  I'll admit it was kind of a blow.  An expected blow, but a blow nevertheless.  Foreign languages are not my thing.  I wish to goodness they were because I would love nothing more than to be fluent in 15 different languages, but alas the fates have not smiled upon me in that department.  Or, you know.....many others to speak of, but still....Still, it was a blow because the last time I ever failed anything was in seventh grade.  I'll never forget it, I made a 23 on an Algebra test.  (Big surprise there, it was in math.)  However, there was some consolation in the fact that no one in the class passed that test, the person sitting next to me made a seventeen.  I can still remember that experience, the classroom, the way the light slanted in from the back windows and cast a glare on the green chalkboard, the smell of cheap, damp industrial carpeting and the scent of the hog farm at the back of the field adjoining the school grounds, drifting in through the open window on a hot August breeze.  And getting a 23 on a test.  I can't smell a hog farm now without the feeling of anxiety bred by failing a test ressurecting itself.  Okay, maybe not, but to get on with the story....maybe that recent experience of failing the translation exam (a 300 word essay about something to do with the French Revolution.  The only thing I really know about the French Revolution is that a bunch of genetically discontent, downtrodden and presumably inebriated peasants broke into a prison and freed everyone, including some dregs of society....just kidding, I know there's more to it than that, apparently) is one of the reasons why this article was so funny. "There's nothing more discouraging than unappreciated sarcasm....."

"Sarkozy admits French language a hoax after Wikileaks exposé



After yesterday’s Wikileaks revelations, Nicolas Sarkozy has today confirmed that the “French language” is indeed a one thousand year old hoax. The president of France revealed that what purported to be his native tongue was in fact complete gibberish, admitting the French really speak English, except in the presence of the British. This comes as Wikileaks published cables sent by French diplomats to countries such as Spain, China and Russia which were all found to be written in English.

During a speech given in received pronunciation, the French President came clean, stating that it all started off as a joke during William the Conquerer’s invasion to make the aggressors seem a bit more exotic. “What was initially a prank snowballed and after a few years we realised we’d look silly revealing the truth, so we had to keep up the façade,” said the Premier. “In the company of any Brits we would try to make convincingly “French” sounds, a mixture of guttural grunts and rapid-fire syllables.


But as soon as we were on our own we’d all heave a huge sigh of relief and revert to English. We developed a heavy reliance on hand gestures to cover up when we ran out of likely noises, and the shrug was a particular boon if inspiration dried up. In the end we became quite the raconteurs, with an impressive array of supposed vocabulary. So what began as a game for the élites, became a hobby across all levels of society, and it shocked us that the Brits were so naïve as to not see through the charade.”


Sarkozy claims Wikileaks will soon expose a number of other “languages”. “I mean, seriously guys, has anyone ever actually listened to “Arabic”? Je ne sais pas…..”"

Many thanks to my friend Stephen, a linguist in training, who posted this on facebook.  You're awesome, dude.

Leggings are not real clothes and water is not a food group

(Only re-posted for an hour or so, per a request,but I promise to take it back down immediately....I promise I'm not really this hateful........just experiencing culture shock.)
So I am now in the land of the Eternal Sun.  Or, maybe not Eternal Sun, but definitely Land of Malibu Barbie, the Perpetual Cheerleader.  It's like Dante's tenth circle of hell.  I like it here, really, I do, but I'm definitely a fish out of water in some respects.  I have yet to see a girl on campus who has what could legally pass as hips or thighs.  There is an obsession with working out that is a complete enigma to me-I try to be healthy, but I figure if I can make it up two flights of stairs with a fifteen pound book bag without any vital organs rupturing I'm doing alright.  I don't know if anyone actually eats here, but I do know they drink copious amounts of bottled water.  That's a good thing, just kind of.....abnormal.  All things revolve around the arrival of 'beach weather.'  I left to go to the library the other day and saw someone getting out of her car, wrapped in a beach towel, apparently just having come from the tanning bed.  It was 47 degrees outside.  Frankly, coming from someone who couldn't tan in Africa, it just doesn't look natural for someone to have a tan in February.  It looks like an escaped extra from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I expect to hear someone break into the refrain "Oompa, loompha, doom-pa-dee-doo..." at any moment.  The concentration on appearance is much stronger here than where I came from.  People dress up to go to Wal-Mart.  I swear I think I saw Tammy Faye in the grocery section the other week. 


The standard uniform on campus seems to be leggings, which if you ask me are nothing more than glorified panty-hose, fuzzy boots and a t-shirt.  If it's cold enough that you need to wear faux-fur lined shoes, knock-off spandex tights aren't exactly going to keep you from suffering from Donner Party Syndrome.  Before I moved in I had my retinas seared by an unfortunate run-in with a pro-leggings-er.  My mom had gone in somewhere while I waited in the car, as she was only going to be a moment.  Sitting in the car I looked around, killing time and listening to the radio.  The parking space next to me was empty but the one next to it was occupied.  The passenger door was open and someone sporting leggings was digging something out of the floorboard.  The leggings were so tight and opaque that I was traumatized by the sight of neon orange underwear.  If I had an identical twin I wouldn't need to know that much about her, much less a complete stranger.  My mom got in the car and asked with some alarm "Why are your eyes bleeding....?!"  Okay, maybe not really, but it was close.


Then there are the surfers.  I have to admit, I've had to eat my words.  I've always poked some fun at surfers and jocks, but then again, no one has really been spared my defensive sarcasm.  It's kind of like one of Oscar Wilde's characters says, "'You would sacrifice anyone for the sake of an epigram.' 'The world goes to the altar of its own accord.'"  Anyway, some of them may be dumb, yes.  Shallow, probably.  But they still look good.  Very good, as a matter of fact.  However, you can tell their mothers no longer dress them.  Take, for instance, the guy who passed by the desk where I was sitting in the library the other day.  Either he had no idea that what he was wearing insulted the senses, or he just hasn't done laundry in a month.  He was sporting a blue, teal and purple plaid oxford shirt and a black and white vertical striped sweater.  His mother would be horrified to see him in public, I dare say.  Then my opinion of surfers was justified when, due to the lovely weather we had on Saturday, my dad and I drove down to the beach for an hour or so.  We parked in the public parking on the side of the street, right in front of a house where two young men with shaggy hair and surfer shorts (I was in jeans, a thermal shirt and a light coat) were sitting in the driveway in indoor rocking chairs with a carved wooden table obviously also meant for indoor use placed before them with a six-pack on it, drinking beer.  It was 1:30 in the afternoon.  We asked if it was alright to park where we had parked and one of them gave us an unsteady thumbs up and replied "'S all good."  We hoped he was right.


Perhaps I've just become lazy, perhaps I've just capitulated, perhaps (most likely) I just know my own limitations.  I know what I can and can't wear-I might strike it lucky and pull off Audrey Hepburn once in a blue moon, but I'm never gonna be able to manage Heidi Klum.  Looking around I often think of that scene in "An American in Paris" when the cool blonde comes out in this gorgeous evening gown and Gene Kelley says, "Wow.  That's quite a dress you're almost wearing.  What keeps it up?"  "Modesty."  If it requires duct tape being applied anywhere except the busted water pipe, it just ain't happening.  Which is why, when I was getting ready to leave and a friend said, "You know, statistics show that most people who go to grad school meet their spouses there" I thought, "Sure thing.  Let me just schedule that cosmetic surgery and personality transplant and we'll be good to go."  Well, if this is what I've got to compete with, I haven't got the chance of an ice-cube in hell.  Is it upsetting?  Occasionally.  But, my consolation is this: when I get this degree and get a job that will get me to Europe, everybody will be just as short and pasty white as me.  Solidarity, my friends.  Solidarity.  Long live Ireland!  Do me a favor and eat a Thin Mint for me, will you?