Steeplechase is like my family's Thanksgiving - I fly home to Georgia for it at the beginning of November and don't see any Bells again until Christmas. And, like Thanksgiving, Steeplechase revolves around food - glorious, delicious, obscene amounts of food (and wine, of course).
Until this year.
This year, I spent most of Steeplechase NOT eating. In fact, I was doing just the opposite, thanks to a bizarre-o and meritless hangover that plagued me the entire day.
Why do I share with you my unpleasant stomach situations? Because they were brought on by mostly bad decisions: I arrived home the evening before Steeplechase, sleep-deprived and highly stressed from a week spent trying to write an 18 page research paper on social media marketing. I had been up until about 1:30 the night before our flight and then woke up around 7 to take the dog to the park before we left. After much dehydrating travel, I made it to the homestead and immediately began drinking wine. Then we went to dinner, where a pomegranitini was forced upon me, followed by plate upon plate of rich food and, yes, a bit more wine.
At 5:00 AM I woke up with a mind-breaking headache and a distinct urge to empty the contents of my stomach. Not only was I upset over being sick (is there any worse feeling?), I was also upset over what had gotten me there. Four or 5 glasses of wine over the course of 4 or 5 hours? That's enough to make me sick for an entire day? Not only was it a giant fun-suck on Steeplechase day, it was downright embarrassing.
Being sick on a day devoted to the pleasures of consumption is almost certainly one of the circles of hell described in The Inferno. It probably means I'm being punished for something - like, maybe, equating an all-day drinking- and gambling-fest with a proper holiday. Powers-that-be don't seem to like it when you celebrate the wrong things like that.
To make it up to the higher powers of punishment, I have taken it seriously easy this Thanksgiving - no going out drinking the night before, getting to bed early, even doing some yoga. All good decisions, only, on a day devoted to gluttony, it feels almost wrong to be responsible and moderate.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Mostly Bad Decisions, part a million
I skipped my first class last night.
Don't worry, Mom and Dad -- I feel really guilty about it! AND I have excellent and manifold excuses: It was Teaching of Reading, and I hadn't done the reading, and I didn't think I could look at one of my professor's crazy muumuu-and-leggings get-ups with a straight face, and I was super tired from driving to Virginia, having a homecoming throwdown (which mostly involved me yelling at undergrads for not knowing how to play drinking games) and driving back within a 40-hourish span. Oh, also, I'd been so busy homecoming-ing, I hadn't exactly finished my midterm paper.
How did I become this person? I never just DON'T DO something. In fact, I've been doing too many things all semester. I have been diligently attending class - sharing my feelings upon request, taking incomprehensible notes on reading theory, riding the 1, 2 AND F trains to school and back again. I'm going to work study in the admissions office (as cheerfully bizarre an experience as I had hoped). I DO things - that's what I do, especially when I'm paying $568 per second to do said things.
But Monday, class time happened, and, after being at work in the admissions office all day I still had 2 pages to go on the paper. I ended up hanging out with Miz Deb in admissions 40 minutes past the start of class to finish it. By the time we printed the darn thing, I had decided that my wisest course of action would be to just run it up to the professor's office, slide it under her door, and sneak away pretending that it had been on time (For those of you concerned about my grades, please remember - my professor is the type of person who wears muumuus and leggings. Deadlines are more like...guidelines for her. I hope.).
I don't like living like this! The sneaking! The fibbing! The hanging out in the admissions office after even my peppy boss leaves! The few extra hours of free time on Monday night are just not worth it.
Don't worry, Mom and Dad -- I feel really guilty about it! AND I have excellent and manifold excuses: It was Teaching of Reading, and I hadn't done the reading, and I didn't think I could look at one of my professor's crazy muumuu-and-leggings get-ups with a straight face, and I was super tired from driving to Virginia, having a homecoming throwdown (which mostly involved me yelling at undergrads for not knowing how to play drinking games) and driving back within a 40-hourish span. Oh, also, I'd been so busy homecoming-ing, I hadn't exactly finished my midterm paper.
How did I become this person? I never just DON'T DO something. In fact, I've been doing too many things all semester. I have been diligently attending class - sharing my feelings upon request, taking incomprehensible notes on reading theory, riding the 1, 2 AND F trains to school and back again. I'm going to work study in the admissions office (as cheerfully bizarre an experience as I had hoped). I DO things - that's what I do, especially when I'm paying $568 per second to do said things.
But Monday, class time happened, and, after being at work in the admissions office all day I still had 2 pages to go on the paper. I ended up hanging out with Miz Deb in admissions 40 minutes past the start of class to finish it. By the time we printed the darn thing, I had decided that my wisest course of action would be to just run it up to the professor's office, slide it under her door, and sneak away pretending that it had been on time (For those of you concerned about my grades, please remember - my professor is the type of person who wears muumuus and leggings. Deadlines are more like...guidelines for her. I hope.).
I don't like living like this! The sneaking! The fibbing! The hanging out in the admissions office after even my peppy boss leaves! The few extra hours of free time on Monday night are just not worth it.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The dog ate my homework.
True Story.And I let her because 1) I am a horrible dog-spoiler and 2) I am an AWESOME procrastinator. I know of no on else who could possibly take as long to write a one page paper as I have (4 hours and counting.) I've probably spent about 8 minutes actually writing - and filled at last a page, but I've spent a billion interspersed minutes reading blogs and taking pictures of the dog. Sig. School is hard.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Well, that'll learn me
The day after posting the previous entry, about the inexplicable irony of how I am too stupid to do anything but go to grad school, I actually landed a job.
I'm doing some work study in the office of admissions and I am (weirdly?) very excited. It's a lot of shredding paper and filing things and yadda yadda yadda shouldn't I feel like I'm above this even though I can't get a job doing anything more complicated blahblahblah. But, you know what, it's a job, so wheeee!
Also, the office of admissions people, from what I've seen of them, are like, crazy-jolly. I don't know what kinds of meds they are on, but I want a bucket. Every morning. When I went in for my interview, it was like visiting Santa's workshop: everything was bright and clean, and everyone was working very diligently, but as soon as they paused their important work to talk to me, they became insane giggle machines who were just super-pleased about EVERYTHING. I love that.
Working in the admissions office would be cool anyway, because of all the secrets they keep, but with the awesome happy people in there too, it will be like a cool job AND and anthropology study. I hope to soon be passing on to you the secrets of leading a happy life. I think it has something to do with shredding documents.
I'm doing some work study in the office of admissions and I am (weirdly?) very excited. It's a lot of shredding paper and filing things and yadda yadda yadda shouldn't I feel like I'm above this even though I can't get a job doing anything more complicated blahblahblah. But, you know what, it's a job, so wheeee!
Also, the office of admissions people, from what I've seen of them, are like, crazy-jolly. I don't know what kinds of meds they are on, but I want a bucket. Every morning. When I went in for my interview, it was like visiting Santa's workshop: everything was bright and clean, and everyone was working very diligently, but as soon as they paused their important work to talk to me, they became insane giggle machines who were just super-pleased about EVERYTHING. I love that.
Working in the admissions office would be cool anyway, because of all the secrets they keep, but with the awesome happy people in there too, it will be like a cool job AND and anthropology study. I hope to soon be passing on to you the secrets of leading a happy life. I think it has something to do with shredding documents.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Good thing I'm in school
It's been, wow, three weeks since I quit my job. I wouldn't necessarily say that I regret quitting, but this whole "making money without a job" thing is proving harder than I thought it would be.
I have yet to find part-time employment. Plenty of positions have opened up -- in the bakery around the corner from my house, at a local bar, various work-study jobs at school -- and I have applied, diligently, with a personal, individualized cover letter, to each. No one wants me to work for them.
Most of the school jobs, in their very kind rejection letters, blame my schedule for their anti-me stance: "Well, we would love to have you, but we're concerned that your schedule wouldn't allow you to devote as much time to the job as we would like." I almost understand this logic, except for the fact that these are work study jobs. They are designed for students. In fact, you have to be a student, attending school at least half-time to even be considered for the job; it is the first qualification. I'm not a full-time student, and, unlike most of my classmates, I am not student teaching this semester. All I have is time. If I cannot devote enough time to the job, who at this school possibly can?
The non-school jobs -- the bartending and the bakery staff -- don't even call me back or write kindly rejection e-mails. I acknowledge that I have no experience in these particular areas, but, you know, I'm a smart person; I can learn! Most of the kids working at the bakery are just that -- children. What makes them more qualified than me? Is it just because they're malleable and cheery? Well, yes, probably, but I LOVE baked goods. Does that count for nothing?
The bartending rejections I'm less upset about. I probably wouldn't be a good bartender. I don't like loud places, and I'm not particularly well-known for being good-natured around the drunk and obnoxious. Also, I worry I'm not sexy enough.
Female bartenders always seem to be tousled and pretty and a little hard-assy, like dominatrixes who went into early retirement, before getting too hard looking. For one bartending job that I applied for on craigslist, I had to send in a picture, so I put on some chapstick (that's how I get tarted up) and did my best sassy bartender face for a quick pic on my computer. Just before sending, I felt like I had to add a post-script to my application e-mail, just to let them know, that, "oh, sorry, I took this at my kitchen table at 9 in the morning, and I'm happy to take some aesthetic pointers or make my look more of a 'type' or something." I never heard back from those people. Bars don't like nervous ramblers. Nor do they like girls with short hair who do not know how to apply eyeliner.
I've always had trouble finding jobs. I started at my horrible job after college because it was the only place that I could even score an interview. I eventually decided to go back to school because two years of searching for different jobs turned up nothing. I have no idea what the problem is, really. I blame my cover letters, which I hate writing because they're so awkward and self-promotional and always end up sounding the same even when you take the time to write a new one for each job.
It's weird to me how difficult it is to convince a bakery I am an intelligent, trainable person when Columbia University had absolutely no trouble believing such a thing, even when I applied late and had to call and beg them to look at my hastily-written essays. I suspect I am not qualified for anything except attending school, which, unfortunately, is even less profitable than working part-time with a bunch of high-schoolers.
I have yet to find part-time employment. Plenty of positions have opened up -- in the bakery around the corner from my house, at a local bar, various work-study jobs at school -- and I have applied, diligently, with a personal, individualized cover letter, to each. No one wants me to work for them.
Most of the school jobs, in their very kind rejection letters, blame my schedule for their anti-me stance: "Well, we would love to have you, but we're concerned that your schedule wouldn't allow you to devote as much time to the job as we would like." I almost understand this logic, except for the fact that these are work study jobs. They are designed for students. In fact, you have to be a student, attending school at least half-time to even be considered for the job; it is the first qualification. I'm not a full-time student, and, unlike most of my classmates, I am not student teaching this semester. All I have is time. If I cannot devote enough time to the job, who at this school possibly can?
The non-school jobs -- the bartending and the bakery staff -- don't even call me back or write kindly rejection e-mails. I acknowledge that I have no experience in these particular areas, but, you know, I'm a smart person; I can learn! Most of the kids working at the bakery are just that -- children. What makes them more qualified than me? Is it just because they're malleable and cheery? Well, yes, probably, but I LOVE baked goods. Does that count for nothing?
The bartending rejections I'm less upset about. I probably wouldn't be a good bartender. I don't like loud places, and I'm not particularly well-known for being good-natured around the drunk and obnoxious. Also, I worry I'm not sexy enough.
Female bartenders always seem to be tousled and pretty and a little hard-assy, like dominatrixes who went into early retirement, before getting too hard looking. For one bartending job that I applied for on craigslist, I had to send in a picture, so I put on some chapstick (that's how I get tarted up) and did my best sassy bartender face for a quick pic on my computer. Just before sending, I felt like I had to add a post-script to my application e-mail, just to let them know, that, "oh, sorry, I took this at my kitchen table at 9 in the morning, and I'm happy to take some aesthetic pointers or make my look more of a 'type' or something." I never heard back from those people. Bars don't like nervous ramblers. Nor do they like girls with short hair who do not know how to apply eyeliner.
I've always had trouble finding jobs. I started at my horrible job after college because it was the only place that I could even score an interview. I eventually decided to go back to school because two years of searching for different jobs turned up nothing. I have no idea what the problem is, really. I blame my cover letters, which I hate writing because they're so awkward and self-promotional and always end up sounding the same even when you take the time to write a new one for each job.
It's weird to me how difficult it is to convince a bakery I am an intelligent, trainable person when Columbia University had absolutely no trouble believing such a thing, even when I applied late and had to call and beg them to look at my hastily-written essays. I suspect I am not qualified for anything except attending school, which, unfortunately, is even less profitable than working part-time with a bunch of high-schoolers.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Stupid poetry for morning
7:30 AM
A hole is punched in the dark envelope of the room
And NPR pours in
You would think that would be soothing
The dog hears us, muttering ,rumbling, shifting under blankets
She cries
We both pretend to be asleep, hoping the other will take her out
A hole is punched in the dark envelope of the room
And NPR pours in
You would think that would be soothing
The dog hears us, muttering ,rumbling, shifting under blankets
She cries
We both pretend to be asleep, hoping the other will take her out
Thursday, September 3, 2009
First class
My first class starts in about 2.5 hours (not that I'm nervously counting down or anything). It's a big, mean, double-whammy of a class -- 4 hours long and really two classes combined -- "Teaching of Writing" and "Writing Non-fiction."
Teaching of writing I'm cool with. I need to know how to do that. Writing non-fiction I am less cool with. From what I can tell, it's a lot of writing about yourself and your feelings and attempting to make some sort of "breakthrough" as a writer. I'm not saying I don't need the help; if you are reading this you know very well that I could use about a billion classes on improving my writing.
The thing is, I don't really like feelings. I don't like to talk about mine, and I definitely don't like having to react and respond to other people's. I think I'm an empathetic person -- friends can come to me with their problems and feel pretty safe that I will try to see things their way -- but, between you and I, it's hard! I usually have no idea why people feel the way they do or act the way they act; they baffle me. A two hour feelings assault masquerading as a class sounds terrifying.
The worst part: even if I make it out of there without having offended anyone and having learned something, I am 98% sure that, when I start teaching, I still will not understand why middle schoolers act the way they do.
Teaching of writing I'm cool with. I need to know how to do that. Writing non-fiction I am less cool with. From what I can tell, it's a lot of writing about yourself and your feelings and attempting to make some sort of "breakthrough" as a writer. I'm not saying I don't need the help; if you are reading this you know very well that I could use about a billion classes on improving my writing.
The thing is, I don't really like feelings. I don't like to talk about mine, and I definitely don't like having to react and respond to other people's. I think I'm an empathetic person -- friends can come to me with their problems and feel pretty safe that I will try to see things their way -- but, between you and I, it's hard! I usually have no idea why people feel the way they do or act the way they act; they baffle me. A two hour feelings assault masquerading as a class sounds terrifying.
The worst part: even if I make it out of there without having offended anyone and having learned something, I am 98% sure that, when I start teaching, I still will not understand why middle schoolers act the way they do.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Getting oriented
Today, I had to go up to school at 8 in the morning for orientation. Of course, they didn't call it "orientation" - how boring! how bland! - what I attended this morning was THE NEW STUDENT EXPERIENCE, conveniently referred to only by its initials on every TC Web site. It took me about a month to figure out what NSE was and why I should probably care about it.
And boy, am I glad I took the time to decipher TC's evil online code. I totally experienced everything I could possibly need to experience as a new student today. There were talks and important people and lunch and the awkwardness of attending lunch without knowing anyone. Wheeee!
I had been dreading orientation for a while, and not just for its early start time. I had figured (rightly) that orientation here would not be like my undergraduate NEW STUDENT EXPERIENCE. Unlike undergraduate orientation, which consisted mostly of standing in circles on the grass and saying each others' names over and over, TC orientation was all business: sign in, get a dorky bag with the school's name on it and some branded literature inside, watch a keynote/welcome from the president, and then break out into concurrent sessions, with a break for lonely lunch. I've had this EXPERIENCE before, only last time it was called "DMA '08" or "MeritDirect List Expo" or some other business conference from my previous life.
It wasn't all bad. I managed to sit next to someone who, in spite of my generally unpleasant demeanor and horrific coffee breath, could not stop talking to me. Instafriend. The talk given specifically to Teaching of English students (of which, holy crap, there are a lot) was helpful, and it was nice to have all the professors in the department introduce themselves, although it had the nasty effect of making me fall in love with pretty much all of them, meaning, sorry Mom and Dad, but I might just try to stay there forever.
The main thing I learned during all these special sessions is that I am more anal retentive and control-freakish than about 42% of my TC classmates. We were all told, upon acceptance, that everything -- registration, student teaching, getting an adviser, figuring out our lives -- would be taken care of at orientation. When I heard this foolishness, I immediately began calling and e-mailing everyone in my department, the admissions office and the financial aid office, demanding that someone help me take care of these essentials AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
My first class is Thursday. I have reading due. If I had waited until today to get everything together, well, I certainly would not be sitting at home eating jelly beans and writing in this blog right now. I would be having a conniption fit over how I'm supposed to get everything done on time (although being unemployed would probably help in this situation). I was shocked by how many people 1) had not taken it upon themselves to get registered before everyone else. Isn't Columbia supposed to be a school for over-achievers? and 2) Did not have a conniption fit when told that, because they followed instructions, they were pretty much screwed as far as registration goes.
While I appreciate their calm, and see how it will one day help them become great teachers, I have to wonder about these people. Our sassy little admissions director specifically said the school was looking for thought leaders and game changers. What kind of thought leader gets into school and then doesn't even try to figure out which classes they ought to be taking before the week that classes actually start? I did all my work ahead of time, and I was so stressed about everyone else that I had to skip the afternoon sessions.
And boy, am I glad I took the time to decipher TC's evil online code. I totally experienced everything I could possibly need to experience as a new student today. There were talks and important people and lunch and the awkwardness of attending lunch without knowing anyone. Wheeee!
I had been dreading orientation for a while, and not just for its early start time. I had figured (rightly) that orientation here would not be like my undergraduate NEW STUDENT EXPERIENCE. Unlike undergraduate orientation, which consisted mostly of standing in circles on the grass and saying each others' names over and over, TC orientation was all business: sign in, get a dorky bag with the school's name on it and some branded literature inside, watch a keynote/welcome from the president, and then break out into concurrent sessions, with a break for lonely lunch. I've had this EXPERIENCE before, only last time it was called "DMA '08" or "MeritDirect List Expo" or some other business conference from my previous life.
It wasn't all bad. I managed to sit next to someone who, in spite of my generally unpleasant demeanor and horrific coffee breath, could not stop talking to me. Instafriend. The talk given specifically to Teaching of English students (of which, holy crap, there are a lot) was helpful, and it was nice to have all the professors in the department introduce themselves, although it had the nasty effect of making me fall in love with pretty much all of them, meaning, sorry Mom and Dad, but I might just try to stay there forever.
The main thing I learned during all these special sessions is that I am more anal retentive and control-freakish than about 42% of my TC classmates. We were all told, upon acceptance, that everything -- registration, student teaching, getting an adviser, figuring out our lives -- would be taken care of at orientation. When I heard this foolishness, I immediately began calling and e-mailing everyone in my department, the admissions office and the financial aid office, demanding that someone help me take care of these essentials AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
My first class is Thursday. I have reading due. If I had waited until today to get everything together, well, I certainly would not be sitting at home eating jelly beans and writing in this blog right now. I would be having a conniption fit over how I'm supposed to get everything done on time (although being unemployed would probably help in this situation). I was shocked by how many people 1) had not taken it upon themselves to get registered before everyone else. Isn't Columbia supposed to be a school for over-achievers? and 2) Did not have a conniption fit when told that, because they followed instructions, they were pretty much screwed as far as registration goes.
While I appreciate their calm, and see how it will one day help them become great teachers, I have to wonder about these people. Our sassy little admissions director specifically said the school was looking for thought leaders and game changers. What kind of thought leader gets into school and then doesn't even try to figure out which classes they ought to be taking before the week that classes actually start? I did all my work ahead of time, and I was so stressed about everyone else that I had to skip the afternoon sessions.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
(What I'm sure will be) The Ongoing Sasga of Financial Aid
My financial aid forms were finally processed and put through yesterday. I don't know how or why this very important work was done on a Saturday. My guess is for shock value.
I filed my FAFSA as soon as I heard that I was accepted to school -- back in May or so. Within a few weeks, I had received my financial aid "award package." They call it this to make it sound like something fun and exciting, when, in my case at least, the "award package" actually turns out to be a soul-crushing denial of what you may think you're worth to a school. It's like they know only a crazy person would turn down Columbia, and everyone else will surely find some way to cough up the cash.
Not that coughing up cash is a big deal to most of the people I've seen around TC so far. In my 35-person summer class, I was one of only two people holding down a job. That means there were at least 33 people spending $3000 or so dollars on a class and $xbajillion living in Manhattan on...their inheritances? Money saved from their previous lives as abstemious bankers? Highly mysterious; I must learn their secrets.
I have no money. Columbia chose not to believe this when doling out my "award," and I proved that they were right in doing so by agreeing to attend, and pay, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if this was some kind of test -- "Are you really stupid enough to go thousands of dollars into debt for this? Then ACCEPTANCE RESCINDED. We don't need fools tarnishing our good name." So far I have not been kicked out, mostly thanks to my dad taking the hit for Summer tuition (though I did pay for my book, which, despite being an electronic [i.e. almost totally free to produce] version, cost around $90. how do you explain that?).
So yes, anyway, my Fall/Spring/Summer financial aid has come through, leaving me with living expenses -- but, hey, not tuition! -- to worry about. Yay! It only took months and months and months, through which I fretted constantly over whether everything was going through correctly. I think I called or visited the financial aid offices at least half a dozen times since getting accepted, always with a different way of phrasing the question, "So how can I get some money from you people?" I was put on academic probation for about a week -- they said because of a computer glitch, but I think it was just to get me to ask them something different.
I'm not sure if this means I should always trust financial aid to come through in the end, or if it means I should never ever trust financial aid to do things without half a dozen desperate calls. Those people thrive on drama.
I filed my FAFSA as soon as I heard that I was accepted to school -- back in May or so. Within a few weeks, I had received my financial aid "award package." They call it this to make it sound like something fun and exciting, when, in my case at least, the "award package" actually turns out to be a soul-crushing denial of what you may think you're worth to a school. It's like they know only a crazy person would turn down Columbia, and everyone else will surely find some way to cough up the cash.
Not that coughing up cash is a big deal to most of the people I've seen around TC so far. In my 35-person summer class, I was one of only two people holding down a job. That means there were at least 33 people spending $3000 or so dollars on a class and $xbajillion living in Manhattan on...their inheritances? Money saved from their previous lives as abstemious bankers? Highly mysterious; I must learn their secrets.
I have no money. Columbia chose not to believe this when doling out my "award," and I proved that they were right in doing so by agreeing to attend, and pay, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if this was some kind of test -- "Are you really stupid enough to go thousands of dollars into debt for this? Then ACCEPTANCE RESCINDED. We don't need fools tarnishing our good name." So far I have not been kicked out, mostly thanks to my dad taking the hit for Summer tuition (though I did pay for my book, which, despite being an electronic [i.e. almost totally free to produce] version, cost around $90. how do you explain that?).
So yes, anyway, my Fall/Spring/Summer financial aid has come through, leaving me with living expenses -- but, hey, not tuition! -- to worry about. Yay! It only took months and months and months, through which I fretted constantly over whether everything was going through correctly. I think I called or visited the financial aid offices at least half a dozen times since getting accepted, always with a different way of phrasing the question, "So how can I get some money from you people?" I was put on academic probation for about a week -- they said because of a computer glitch, but I think it was just to get me to ask them something different.
I'm not sure if this means I should always trust financial aid to come through in the end, or if it means I should never ever trust financial aid to do things without half a dozen desperate calls. Those people thrive on drama.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The last hurrah
We went on a week-long camping trip last week -- my last paid vacation time before unemployment and permanent, unpaid loafing commences.
It started out well -- equipped with a GPS system, fully-stocked iPod and 5 pound bag of Sourpatch Kids riding shotgun, Gerard, the dog and I cruised up to Maine in just over the time estimated by the good folks at Garmin International. We were staying at my aunt's, in neighborhood a cross between the middle of nowhere and luxury golf community -- the type of place where people never lock their mansion doors.
The idyllic atmosphere did not keep a local villain from robbing us the night before we left. The Garmin and fully-stocked iPod were no longer ours, although the thief had kindly left the complementing plugs, our stereo, my purse and everything else we owned.
Bummed out, but not deterred, we set out for Acadia with borrowed maps and some Google directions, which kept us in line during that quick, two-hour trip. A few days later, when we left on an estimated 6 hour drive for Vermont, things did not go so smoothly.
The robbery really did us in on this leg of the trip. The missing iPod was bad enough, as it forced us to choose between 8 country music stations (in Maine? Yes.) and Rush Limbaugh for most of the trip. The missing Garmin was simply disastrous. Thanks to horrible Google directions, we started off going about an hour in the wrong direction. Google had, you see, mistaken route 1 for route 1A. And once we actually did get into Vermont, Google pretty much gave up on us. The instructions to the campsite were along the lines of, "Go over a mountain, or something, and, uh, you should see it."
If Google has enough satellite power to practically peer into my windows, how can it possibly not know where Vermont is in relation to the Maine coast? Why, when we have done our due diligence and printed out Google directions before embarking, should we have to rely on our wits, AAA maps and the vague instructions of a convenience store owner?
It is a main peeve of mine when things do not accomplish the one objective for which they are designed. Google's failure to get us where we needed to be was akin to the Mets' utter inability to win baseball games or Comedy Central's strong aversion to comedy. Shoot, I can get you lost or strike out or make bad jokes for half of what these frequent offenders are making. Especially if you pay me in Garmins.
It started out well -- equipped with a GPS system, fully-stocked iPod and 5 pound bag of Sourpatch Kids riding shotgun, Gerard, the dog and I cruised up to Maine in just over the time estimated by the good folks at Garmin International. We were staying at my aunt's, in neighborhood a cross between the middle of nowhere and luxury golf community -- the type of place where people never lock their mansion doors.
The idyllic atmosphere did not keep a local villain from robbing us the night before we left. The Garmin and fully-stocked iPod were no longer ours, although the thief had kindly left the complementing plugs, our stereo, my purse and everything else we owned.
Bummed out, but not deterred, we set out for Acadia with borrowed maps and some Google directions, which kept us in line during that quick, two-hour trip. A few days later, when we left on an estimated 6 hour drive for Vermont, things did not go so smoothly.
The robbery really did us in on this leg of the trip. The missing iPod was bad enough, as it forced us to choose between 8 country music stations (in Maine? Yes.) and Rush Limbaugh for most of the trip. The missing Garmin was simply disastrous. Thanks to horrible Google directions, we started off going about an hour in the wrong direction. Google had, you see, mistaken route 1 for route 1A. And once we actually did get into Vermont, Google pretty much gave up on us. The instructions to the campsite were along the lines of, "Go over a mountain, or something, and, uh, you should see it."
If Google has enough satellite power to practically peer into my windows, how can it possibly not know where Vermont is in relation to the Maine coast? Why, when we have done our due diligence and printed out Google directions before embarking, should we have to rely on our wits, AAA maps and the vague instructions of a convenience store owner?
It is a main peeve of mine when things do not accomplish the one objective for which they are designed. Google's failure to get us where we needed to be was akin to the Mets' utter inability to win baseball games or Comedy Central's strong aversion to comedy. Shoot, I can get you lost or strike out or make bad jokes for half of what these frequent offenders are making. Especially if you pay me in Garmins.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Today, I quit my job
Actually, I'm not sure if that was a totally bad decision, considering that my job occasionally made me feel like faking a horrible accident that would get me out of work for multiple weeks, and my impending poverty is surely going to be slightly more fun (and more legal) than that.
But isn't "Today, I quit my job" an intriguing kick-off to a blog entitled "mostly bad decisions?" Also a bad decision: ending that previous sentence with ? and "". I never can remember the rule for which goes where.
So, yes, welcome to my blog, wherein you will see what happens when I quit my job to go back to school and quickly fall $35,000 into debt. No, I do not have any other jobs lined up. Yes, I am extremely concerned about that.
I've actually already made multiple bad decisions related to what I am going to chronicle in this blog, but I made the horrible decision to not write them down in a timely manner. In fact, I'm cheating just a little: I started school 5 weeks ago and made the decision to quit my job long before that.
Today, though, is the real start. The resignation is in, I just received my syllabus for my first real class (summer session doesn't REALLY count, does it?), and I am pretty much crapping my pants with terror over how I am going to feed myself.
And did I mention that I am taking a puppy on a multi-hour road trip to some remote campgrounds in about a week? Mostly bad decisions. I make those.
But isn't "Today, I quit my job" an intriguing kick-off to a blog entitled "mostly bad decisions?" Also a bad decision: ending that previous sentence with ? and "". I never can remember the rule for which goes where.
So, yes, welcome to my blog, wherein you will see what happens when I quit my job to go back to school and quickly fall $35,000 into debt. No, I do not have any other jobs lined up. Yes, I am extremely concerned about that.
I've actually already made multiple bad decisions related to what I am going to chronicle in this blog, but I made the horrible decision to not write them down in a timely manner. In fact, I'm cheating just a little: I started school 5 weeks ago and made the decision to quit my job long before that.
Today, though, is the real start. The resignation is in, I just received my syllabus for my first real class (summer session doesn't REALLY count, does it?), and I am pretty much crapping my pants with terror over how I am going to feed myself.
And did I mention that I am taking a puppy on a multi-hour road trip to some remote campgrounds in about a week? Mostly bad decisions. I make those.
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