Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Boys: read no further.

Any guys who read this, which is probably not many, should stop here. It's gonna get pretty girly.

Well, I warned you.

It's hard to have a good attitude during that "visit from Aunt Flow," seeing as it is one of nature's most frustrating events and also happens to be accompanied by a tidal wave of rage hormones. But today that all changes. I have done my best to come up with a bunch of reasons periods don't suck that bad.

-They provide you with an appropriate time to take a bunch of pills and pass out on your bed.
-You have to eat more. You just do. It's not like you want to, you just have to.
-You can completely break down in tears and then say, "Sorry. It's just that time of the month."
-You can smash a plate against the wall and then say, "Sorry. It's just that time of month."
-You can do things like tell your brother you need the bathroom first, and when he asks why you can point to the cupboard with the tampons and watch him squirm.
-The time spent in the bathroom being sick to your stomach can also be used for lots of things, like thinking of lists of reasons why periods don't suck that bad.
-You can do this fun thing I do sometimes where I buy a different color of pad the month before and then forget what color it was, so it's a fun surprise when I take them out.

And that's enough of that. Excuse me while I go smash a plate against the wall.


"I'm in the middle of a RAGING period.... of economic turmoil."   --Jack


*Note: My mom asked me if I find my 30 Rock quote first and then write the blog, and the answer is no. There truly is a 30 Rock quote for every occasion. 

Monday, September 26, 2011

Is this your sock?

It's a really, really good thing I'm not one of those high school graduates who went right off and got married, because according to recent studies, I can barely even take care of myself and one tiny dorm room at the same time. Here are some highlights from two Saturdays ago:

Saturday morning I walked a visiting friend out to her car. I had a paper to write that day before I left for the evening, so I hurried back to my room. I got up to the third floor, shuffled through my bag, and realized I had left my keys inside. I knocked and knocked, but my roommates had apparently all disappeared within the five minute window that I had been gone. I decided that was okay because I needed to grab some lunch anyway, and then I could go to the cd store which I had been wanting to do. Once I got to the cd store, on the complete opposite side of campus, my roommate called me to tell me she was in the room, and only would be for a half hour. I lied that I could be there in fifteen minutes and sprinted across campus. I was wearing horrible shoes and my flat feet seized up, but I was not deterred. I even ran up my stairs, lost my shoe, and had to run back down for it and then up again. It was like Cinderella - prince + asthma. I barely made it in as my roommate was leaving.  

I had plans for the night, so I was going through my clothes trying to find a white shirt. As I did this, I realized that not only was my white shirt missing, but so was a gray cardigan and various pairs of socks. Also a lot of underwear. I pulled my room apart before I realized that they were all the same color, which meant that maybe....

I had left all my whites in the washing machine. The washing machine used by the entire building. Downstairs. FOR THREE DAYS. WITHOUT DRYING THEM. Sure enough, there they were, somehow unstolen. I threw them in the dryer. 45 minutes later I headed back down for them, deciding I wouldn't need a hamper because it was such a small load. I piled the cardigan, white shirts, socks, and underwear in my arms and headed up to the third floor again. I shuffled through my bag with one hand. I had left my keys inside. And were my roommates home yet? No. They were not.

I knocked on my RA's door for several minutes before I saw the note that said he was out of town. So I hauled myself and my underwear down to the next floor. That RA was gone, too. So was the one on the first floor.

"That's okay," I thought to myself. "I can call the front desk." But had I left my cell phone in my room, also? Why, yes. I had. So I picked up my load of laundry (sans hamper, remember) and trucked it out to the Housing and Residential Center. Did I mention I was wet from a recent shower? Did I mention I was wearing a bright orange t shirt? Did I mention I was carrying a humongous wad of underwear? Did I mention it was not a very short walk? The Asians just stared.

The guy at the desk said he'd walkie-talkie for a guy to let me in, which never actually happened. That's okay, because my other roommate was home by the time I had made my very unique walk of shame back. She had a few friends over who she introduced me to.

Me: Nice to meet you.
Guy: Is this your sock? It was outside the door.

Morals of this story:

-Bring your keys, no matter where you go and how many roommates are home.
-Bring a laundry hamper, too, just to be safe.


"If you're running low on laundry, a swimming suit makes perfectly acceptable underwear." --Liz Lemon

Monday, September 12, 2011

Freedom of Choice.

And you thought this would be political. Nope, just tampons. 
Ladies' restroom, second floor MBH.





Thursday, September 8, 2011

Who put a couch in here?

I am not a very big person. So, my bladder is also not really big. So, I go to the bathroom a lot. So, I have seen a lot of campus ladies' rooms. And I've noticed something great: they are all really interesting. They have weird furniture, weird signs, weird windows, and weird grime. I am certainly no photographer, but every time I visit the restroom I wish I had a camera.

I was thinking about this last night, so before I went to bed I threw my camera into my bag to take to class this morning. It worked out really well because I had to sprint to the restroom after a long movie about westward expansion, so I got a few shots in. Then I took some pictures of the restroom.

Again, not a photographer. Not even one of those hipster kids who pretends to be a photographer and really just has Photoshop. Just messing with a cheap point-and-shoot and iPhoto. If I were an artist, I might say something like, "I just want to draw attention to the details in the things we see every day and don't necessarily consider beautiful."

But I am not an artist, and so I'm going to say something like, "Bathrooms are weird."

Grime on the hinge of an out-of-order tampon dispenser in the AEB.

This is the sign outside that door. The walls in that building are all cement like that, which is actually very cool.
This couch is in a tiny room just outside the ladies' bathroom in the JWB. 


"I didn't get a bathroom door that looks like a wall by being bad at business." --Jack

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

That's the name of the lady who cleans our house.


I went through this phase a week or two ago where I was wondering if I had picked the right major. I mean, I'm a freshman, so it's not a big deal for now, but the teacher licensure program is long and full and I really need to know ASAP. I had been thinking about the icky parts of teaching that I had been learning about in my classes, and thinking about the majors I had been considering before. Stories of overworked, underpaid elementary school teachers were starting to make, I don't know, orthodontics look a lot more interesting.

I went to work yesterday and was filing papers mindlessly when my boss came over, and apparently out of the blue, asked me what grade I wanted to teach. I didn't even remember telling her my major, so I was a little surprised. I told her I was hoping for fifth or sixth grade. She smiled and told me she came from a family of teachers. Then she told me about her aunt Ella Mae, who, when she died, had crowds and crowds of people at her funeral.

"She influenced so many people," Liz said. "You help shape those kids."

So I'm back to knowing what major I want. Which is good, because I started my fieldwork today. And I loved it even more than I expected. I'm volunteering in a third grade classroom at a school downtown. They call me Miss Anderson. It's so adorable I want to cry. 

We were doing interviews to get to know each other today, since they just started school, and I was talking to a little girl whose name is not really Shirley (there are creeps out there).

Shirley: What's your first name?
Me: Maggie.
Shirley: That's the name of the lady who cleans our house.
Katie: So... your mom?
Shirley: No. 
Katie: Your... sister?
Shirley: No. I don't know. I've only seen her like once.
Katie: So not a member of your family?
Shirley: No. 
Katie: That's weird.

Which basically sums it up. We're supposed to only work in schools with an at least 45% nonwhite population, so it's a real potpourri of kids. One little girl was talking about how she was adopted from Nepal, and her adoptive family is sponsoring her biological family so they can go to school. They do a lot of class in Spanish, too. And I heard one white kid say to a little Latino boy, "You have a great accent."

So, I love it. And that's without getting paid at all. But those kids better come to my funeral.


"Last time I taught, I was like Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society-- by which I mean I got fired." --Pete