There is not a stick of premade cookie dough to be found in the entirety of Oxford.
I know this because yesterday I really wanted to make cookies. Being on a strict student budget, I didn't want to have to buy every ingredient (flour, sugar, baking soda, salt) and then only use a little of it, leaving the rest to grow stale in the cupboards of the kitchen. So of course, what would any red-blooded American do? Turn to the genius of Pillsbury in the form of our saviour, Poppin Fresh. I soon realized the errors of my ways, howerver, when I went to Tesco, Sainsbury's, Marks & Spencer... and came up empty-handed. I was finally directed to a specialty delicatessen in the Covered Market called Palms, which the lady at M&S promised had "imported American delicacies." When I asked the lady for premade cookie dough or something like it, she pointed me to a single shelf, which held... cake mix. Betty Crocker cake mix. (Which, apparently, you also cannot find easily in England.) It occured to me at that moment that when I said "premade cookie dough," they thought I was talking about a dry mix. (What a dark, cruel country this is, not to have Pillsbury cookie dough to offer to its children to eat straight out of the packet.) Realizing my search had ended in futility, I instead bought another American food group that has been missing from my life--Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Nothing has contributed more to the waistline of the American child from coast to coast than this mix of neon-orange preservatives and simple carbohydrates.
Spring has hit Oxford like a sledgehammer. It's as if while I was away on my four-week spring break, England suddenly realized, "Right-o--better get along with spring" and burst into blossom. Everywhere I go, trees are flowering, warm breezes blowing, lambs prancing around pastures. This, of course, has led to a widespread sense of joy in the English people. The day I came into Oxford, when it was mid-60's and partly cloudy, I counted no fewer than five men walking down the street with their shirts off. For the British female, warm weather means sundresses and skirts. Holy crap, are there a lot of skirts. Whenever I look out the window onto High Street, I feel as if the whole women's movement never happened because almost none of the girls I see are in pants or shorts. Considering the fact that I live in jeans, this makes me stick out like a sore thumb.
I have never seen a society as in love with the sunshine as that in Oxford. In Northern California, we are all giddy for about the first week that it turns warm, and then settle in for the long, harsh, climbing-upward-to-low-110's summer, when the grass turns brown and dry with the heat and a simple lemonade stand by the road will turn the profit of a small NGO on a hot August day. But here, people seem never to get tired of it. Instead, they stream out of their houses and litter themselves like potato-chip bags across Christ Church Meadows. They even seem to forget the emphasis they all put on privacy here and lie on blankets to make out voraciously with their significant other, even in the presence of strangers. As one book I read said, you can only be truly British if you agree with the phrase "I am a different person when the sun comes out." My answer to this before my winter in Oxford would have been, "When the sun comes out? As opposed to... what? Nighttime?" But now I finally understand the sense of being cooped up over a long, hard winter, praying every day as you check the 10-day forecast on weather.com for the temps to climb. "Please," you seem to bargain with the screen. "Make the high at least 60-something! I'll give blood if you do!" Still, I feel as if deep in my core, I am at heart a Californian--the people around me seem to act like children, frolicking around as if they cannot believe their good fortune. I want to go up to them and say, "Dude, it's only the sun!"
Suffice it to say, though, that when I returned to Oxford, I almost didn't recognize it. What's this--greenery on the trees? People actually walking on the path next to the river? No puddles to dodge when I'm wearing my jeans that have a tendency to drag on the ground? During our first-weekend field trip to the Lake District, I came onto the bus wearing my heavy tweed jacket, and my British professor laughed at me. "Francie!" he said. "You're still dressed as if it was winter!" I guess now I just connect Britain with coldness and can't get out of that mindset. I brought almost nothing with me that is suited to anything below freezing--about three t-shirts, one light sweater, and that's about it. I was forced to buy flip-flops and capris in Spain just because I looked ridiculous, all wrapped up in my scarves and coat. (Look at me---claiming that I am still American in my nonchalence about warm weather, and yet devoting a good portion of my entry to discussing it. I think I am becoming more British than I may realize.)
And now that we're talking about spring break, I guess I should go into that, shouldn't I? In order for you all to not have to spend half a day reading my blog, I am going to do it in short, reader-friendly format, with a quick rehash of each place we went and a grade for the experience. (Look at me--I'm already prepared for a teaching position.)
PARIS: This was my first stop, but not Genevieve's and Kelly's. They had spent the week before in London, but I had to finish up my finals and, since I live about an hour away from London and had been there many times during the term, I didn't feel the need to "do" London, as they did. My British Airways flight to Paris was 2.5 hours late--keep in mind that the entire flight there takes about 40 minutes. I hate travelling alone, because whenever I do, something always seems to go wrong. I thought the lateness would be it, but I also almost didn't get off the RER train in time at Gare du Nord, and then my bag wouldn't fit through the Metro ticket wicket, driving me close to tears. I hate being in a country in which I don't really speak the language--I feel like an illiterate five-year-old, completely dependant on others.
Our hostel in Paris was this cramped, tiny little room at the very basement of this crappy hostel, and although the receptionist claimed it had "a shower," it was the tiniest shower I have ever seen and in no way disconnected from the room. There was a line of about three tiles and then--boom!--the shower. It was also absolutely FREEZING in Paris, so most nights, we were miserably cold. ("I love Paris in the springtime," my ass.) Genevieve got sick in the middle of our stay there, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of our room. I was reading "Angela's Ashes" during this time and kept thinking, "This is my life right now." Never mind that our bed wasn't infested with fleas or that our father wasn't drinking away his wages on Guinness--I felt as if we were living in similar squalor, and no one really cared. Add this to the fact that the hall outside our room was being redone and we breathed in the fumes of drywall every time we had to climb the four separate staircases to reach the ground level, and you'll see what I mean.
Still, Paris was gorgeous. We were able to visit Sacre Couer (this beautiful white church on a hill in Montmarte overlooking the city) and the Jardin du Luxembourg (where my dad proposed to my mom), as well as many eat many pate sandwiches, coo over cute little dogs being pulled along on jewelled leashes, and be seranded with accordions playing "La Vie en Rose." I don't think you can have a bad time in Paris, even when your roommate is coughing up phlegm and you're doubled over with cold, even while wearing a winter coat, scarf, and mittens. GRADE: B.
MADRID: Madrid was the biggest surprise to all of us. All of the guidebooks kind of gloss over it, claiming that Seville is more charming and Barcelona funkier and cooler. We were going there because it was the easiest Spanish city to fly into from Spain, and booked only two nights there. But I think in the end, it was my favorite city. The people were friendly and helpful and would speak Spanish with Kelly and me, even though it was apparent that we were tourists. The city held a wealth of cool places to go to and a bumping nightlife, and yet it felt small and welcoming, what with the efficient subway system that was absolutely spotless and easy-to-use. It was also the first time since about October that I had been in a relatively warm and sunny climate, and we shed our heavier layers like a butterfly shaking off its chrysalis. The hostel we had the first night was right smack dab in the middle of the town and nightlife, and had amazing bathroom facilities. The one we stayed at the other night was a little weird, but still better than our Paris digs. I would really like to go back to see Guernica and tour the Royal Palace there. Overall, it was wonderful. Grade: A.
SEVILLE: I couldn't hate Seville if I tried because of the most important reason--Liz was there! My childhood friend Elizabeth Gray, whose dad has been friends with my dad since they were in preschool together, is studying at Seville until the summer and was able to meet up with us quite a number of times. Seville was also, as the guidebooks all say, so pretty--it was like the Disneyland version of Spain! Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping up cobblestone streets, bright flamenco dresses in shop windows, even the smell of orange blossoms permeating the air (which actually seemed strange, because I associate that smell so strongly with my grandparents' house in Phoenix, where I usually spend my spring breaks, because their house was built in the middle of this huge orange grove, and each April you can't escape the heady smell of orange blossoms as the trees turn a starry white.) It had so many quaint, picturesque neighborhoods and also a great nightlife. We were in a hostel that was in the Triana neighborhood, across the river from the center of town, but it was a very walkable city.
The only real drawback to it was that they were doing road construction on the pedestrian walkways while we were there--more road construction than I have ever seen in my life in one place. Liz said it was because Semana Santa (the Holy Week before Easter) was coming up, when masses of tourists descend on the town like locusts, and they wanted to finish it for that. But the road construction did bring something good with it--catcalling construction workers! Kelly and I kept laughing about it, because we both agreed that we had never actually experienced the stereotype before. It was a bit jarring after England, where boys are polite to the point of ignoring you on the street and you wonder why you are even bothering to put makeup on in the morning. (Of course, this is not true with everyone--I warned my roommate this term to not expect any action in the Land of Sexually Frigid Boys, as Kelly calls it, and she came in the second night from a bar with a guy's number scribbled on a napkin.) But it would always take me about 10 seconds to realize they were shouting "bella" or "hola, chica" at ME, at which I would simply blush and smile shyly at them. It's not like any of them were Brad Pitt (or Jake Gyllenhaal, for that matter,) but catcalling is the one area of feminism I can't agree with. I like it when boys do it. I don't feel offended or like "a piece of meat." They are just trying to be nice. We especially have to soak it up while we're young. Liz always rolled her eyes, but she has just gotten used to the adoration. ;)
The best part of Seville was the Royal Palace there, especially the gardens. I can't even describe them, they were so beautiful and peaceful--"almost like the zoo," my sister said, "except without the animals." But that same feeling of immensely tall shade trees and pleasant, sun-dappled nooks. Grade: B+.
BARCELONA: I don't really want to go into Barcelona. It was not funky, cool, hip, or any of the other outdated terms the guidebooks used for it. It was just a chaotic, nasty mess. The area we were staying was right in tourist land, so there were rows upon rows of stores that I could visit in England (H&M, Puma, McDonald's even), and I felt as if we weren't even in a foreign country. (Of course, that didn't keep us from frequenting Starbucks twice a day. Starbucks is one of the few international chains that I like--no matter where you go in the world, it is always comforting to see that circular green sign and settle down into a faux-purple-velvet chair while blowing on your latte to cool it.)
There was an incredibly nasty maid in the hostel. We had been told when we checked in that we would have to be out of our rooms from 12 to 2 for cleaning, which we agreed to. However, at around 11, this maid would come in and throw open the shutters, then proceed to shake us awake, chattering away in Spanish that did not sound like, "Get up and greet the dawn, my sweets." They also had those kind of showers that turn off every 15 seconds if you don't continue to push in the water control. I hate these showers. The only time I ever encountered them before was once in a pool changing room. In this case, they are perfectly fine, since all you really want in that case is to wash the chlorine off you before going home. But for your daily shower? A constant stream of warm water is one of the most basic human rights, in my mind. We are not cows being washed off before being led to the slaughterhouse--we are human beings, goddamn it, paying good money for the facilities. When will hostels realize this? I don't know.
But aside from the hostel, other things were horrible. The city was waaayyy too big. It seemed about the size of Paris or London, but without any reason to be. The buses and metro were overcrowded beyond belief, and Barcelonians apparently believe they can push, shove, and line-jump as much as they want. There wasn't much to see beyond the Gaudi stuff, and considering that he's an architect, most of his stuff was houses that you look at, say "oooh, ahhh," and leave. OK, OK, Sagrada Familia (the giant church that looks like it's melting) was pretty cool, but the rest of it wasn't that impressive. Even Parque Guell didn't meet my expectations--the tiled iguana is the only cool part of it. And it started raining while we were there.
The people were also the rudest, meanest people I have ever met. People claim that the French and New Yorkers are brusque and unhelpful, but compared to Barcelonians, the French and New Yorkers look like the Depression-era farmers from "The Grapes of Wrath," sharing their last potato with their neighbors. One citizen that stuck out to me as the example of all of Barcelona was this bitchy bus driver that picked us up from Parque Guell, screeching the second the bus doors opened to get in NOW, then driving up to a stoplight about 5 feet in front of us while we were still paying and slamming on the brakes so hard all of us fell over as we were standing there, even though there was not a car in sight. It continued to the moment we were leaving the Barcelona airport, when the security staff was yelling at me to take off my jacket. It's like, "Hello! The main reason Barcelona exists is because of tourism. You have meat on your tables because of us. Treat us with a little respect, jerkwads!" I also met three different people that got their purses stolen while they were there. I have sworn to myself I will never go back again in my life. Grade: D.
VENICE: Venice was my other favorite city. Although our hotel was on the mainland and not actually in Venice itself, it was a short bus ride into town, and the bus stop was quite nearby. Venice is... beautiful. Pictures cannot possibly do it justice. I was also surprised by it, as I was with Madrid, because my dad told us that there wasn't much to do and that it is best seen with a boyfriend. But I am so glad we did end up going. I think part of the reason I liked it so much was just because of that former fact--there weren't a lot of tourist sites to see outside of Palazzo San Marco, so we spent most of our time eating gelato and pizza and wandering through the labyrinth of streets and alleyways. (Hey, I didn't say I lost weight here--I just said I liked it.) :) The town is 90% tourists, too, so you don't have to worry as much about your valuables. Still, this didn't mean it was like Barcelona in terms of tourism choking all of the individuality out of it--there was nary an H&M, Burger King, or Starbucks in sight. I don't know how they've managed to steer clear of these big chains, but they have, and I was grateful for it. The best part was when we took the waterbus up the Grand Canal--I had to pinch myself, it was so beautiful. All I could think was, "My friends are all in school right now, and I'm HERE." Grade: A-.
ROME: Rome is like this kid I taught last year at Summerbridge. At times he would drive me up the wall and I would have to keep him after class to have "special talks," but then suddenly he would get into a class discussion and I would just stand there, in awe of the maturity of his ideas and his ability to notice things the other kids never would in a million years. Yes, Rome was overcrowded and crazy, large, kind of smelly, and way overtouristed. But at the same time, you never lost the sense of its character. It was truly Italian to me, much more so than Florence. At times I would have to restrain myself from socking a street vendor from showing me ONE MORE squishy animal meant to entertain five-year-olds, but then you would take a bite of orgasmically good caramel gelato, or have a guy ten times more attractive than any you could ever hope to catch the attention of in the States proclaim you "beautiful, beautiful," or you turn a corner and--WHAM!--the Trevi Fountain in all of its glory. It is such a multi-faceted city, so full of contradictions. I even enjoyed the morning we got up at 5:30 AM to stand in line for the Sistene Chapel, regardless of the fact that it was incredibly overhyped. (Come on, people, it's paintings on a ceiling. Very pretty, famous paintings, but paintings just the same.)
My two favorite parts were: 1) the Keats Museum, housed in his house near the Spanish Steps where he died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. (Of course, this sent me into introspection--by the time he was 25, he had become so famous that all of us still quote him and he remains a staple of the study of English poetry. I only have four more years to gain this status?) 2) I also loved, loved, LOVED the Palatine Hill/Roman Forum, with all of its ruins and pretty gardens and orange groves. My sister remarked to me, "It's funny--most of my favorite sites we saw on our trip were outside," and I have to agree with her. The gardens of the Royal Palace of Seville, walking down the streets of Madrid, sitting at the very front of the waterbus in Venice as it snaked down the Grand Canal, wandering along the Seine in Paris, getting lost in the Santa Cruz neighborhood of Seville--all of them were in the fresh air, taking in the beauty of nature and buildings. Museums are nice, but they can't beat Mother Nature.
Our hotel was about half an hour outside Rome, since it was Holy Week and everyone wanted to be in Rome for Easter, but it only cost a euro for the bus, train, and metro ride into the city, which was a friggin' STEAL. I also liked that we were a little outside of the masses of people in Rome--I felt like a businessman making the afternoon commute home, separating my tourist life with my nighttime activities. We were right near the beach, where we went on Easter Sunday instead of getting crushed among the other tourists to hear the Pope say something in Latin as original as, "We welcome and bless this Easter morning." Grade: B+.
Well, that's my spring break. You want to know the best part, though? Because we were travelling around so much, we often found ourselves waiting--for taxis, for buses, for trains, for planes to take off. And because of all this downtime, I was able to finish no less than SEVEN books. They were:
1. "Nineteen Eighty-Four" by George Orwell 2. "Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCourt 3. "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro 4. "The Girls" by Lori Lansens 5. "The Grapes of Wrath" by John Steinbeck 6. "The Age of Innocence" by Edith Wharton 7. "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Arthur Golden
My favorite, hands down, was "The Remains of the Day." It was one of those books that you start reading and realize it is going to be your new favorite book if the writer doesn't screw it up. And he didn't, fortunately. It was also the first book in a long while that I've read that's provoked new thoughts in me on so many different subjects--politics, expressing one's emotions, England being better than America, etc. I feel as if it made me understand England and its people more than any other book I've read. AND the main setting of the action, Darlington Hall, was described as being "near Oxford." Woot. I just rented the movie and am hoping to watch it tonight. (Read it.)
I got back to Oxford and, along with the landscape being unrecognizable, the people around me had change almost entirely, also. Because Stanford (and Oxford, for that matter) operates on the quarter system, our year is split up into three segments (the fourth quarter being summer term, which most people don't attend.) Thus, most Stanford kids study abroad only one quarter. I think this is a crying shame--you cannot get to know a place in 10 weeks or less any more than you can gain a true understanding of a subject (note the academic bitterness.) I feel as if you are just starting to get over the dip after the honeymoon phase when you leave. This is why I elected to stay two terms, January through June, most colleges' semester. And I don't even feel like THAT is enough. But new people had moved into the Stanford House, and I have to go through the whole I-suck-at-making-new-friends dance yet again. I really feel as if I'm one of those people others have to know for a long time before they actually start to like. I was just beginning to feel comfortable around last term's kids when they left. And now there's more people I have to have awkward chit-chat sessions with. Groan.
But my British friends are back. OK, OK--British friend. I really have only made one good British friend in my time here. Well, I mean, outside of the newspaper--I am very close to all of them, but we don't hang out much outside of newspaper, since we're all from different colleges and socialize within different circles. This can be nice, since they're my "Wednesday friends" I get to see once a week for a break from the Stanford kids, but I wish we could do slightly more than that, since they're all such nice, interesting people.
But anyway, my one British friend--the boy from Brasenose I mentioned earlier in my blog. We both very much wanted to see each other, but since he was busy with exams (yes, they have exams at the end of spring break--talk about a way to ruin your six weeks of freedom) and I was busy with Stanford House programs and outings, the first time we could do it was last night, Friday night. I couldn't come to Formal Hall, but he asked that I come meet up with some of his friends afterward, since they were all going out pub-hopping. I have to admit that I was nervous as a cat walking there. I usually feel quite comfortable around him, but him and his friends? There are so many of them, and only one of me, and I was afraid I would say something like "I spilled beer all over my pants" and have them laugh because, remember, pants=underwear in England. It was the exact opposite, though. We all hung out at the college bar and then tried to get into The Kings Arms (a popular student pub here), realized it was too full, and retired to one of the boy's rooms with a bottle of vodka, some mixers, and the music of Bob Dylan and Blondie to keep us company. Now, I don't really like what all of the Brit kids think of as a "fun night out"--clubbing. It is too expensive, too noisy, and you have to wait simply forever to get in. But vodka and talking? This was much more my scene. It is the typical Friday night preparty at Stanford before going to frat parties. I think they all thought of it as something out of the ordinary, but I was thrilled. We also got into the whole "Britain-versus-America" talk, which I never get tired of. They all must think I am a terrible bore, because that and poetry is all I ever want to talk about, but it is a subject that endlessly fascinates me. I also got a long lecture on the TV show "Doctor Who" and the difference between the multitude of British accents. It was pretty much what every visiting student dreams of--a get-together where you are the only foreigner and they ask you 1,000 questions about your home country and how it compares to their country and laugh in a nice way at your slang and the way you pronounce your vowels. And I finally had it.
I forgot to tell you all that I (like Kelly) also have a travel blog : http://francieinoxford.blogspot.com It can give you more diary-ish updates on my life, if you are interested.
I just posted the following entry on it, and wanted to post it here, too. Please comment on YOUR favorite tearjerking movie moments:
I subscribe to this online community and the issue came up of the saddest things you've heard/read/seen in your life--you know, those things you subject yourself to when you want to bawl like a little girl, particularly movies. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Billy Elliott, and Life is Beautiful got a lot of mentions, but those never really did it for me. I was trying to think of a list, and came up with these:
1.
"Casablanca." No, this isn't the "here's looking at you, kid," the punch of which was somewhat spoiled for me before I'd even seen it because it seems like they show it in a film-clip montage at every single Academy Awards ceremony. This is the part in the bar where the German soldiers are singing a German song just to remind everyone that the Nazis are winning and everyone else stands up and starts singing the national anthem of occupied France. GOD, that gets to me. Maybe it's also because I connect that song with my father in my mind, the only song he can ever remember the words to (in French--go figure.)
2.
"It's a Wonderful Life." The ending. I know it's cliched, and even my best Stanford friend doesn't understand this movie, but oh, my freaking God. From the first to last moment of this clip, I am complete puddle. "My mouth's bleeding, Burt!" "Isn't it wonderful? I'm going to jail!" "I busted the jukebox, too!" "To my big brother George--the richest man in town!" "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends." "Atta boy, Clarence!" The tear-provoking quotes are endless. Even though it may not be true, and I don't think it is, this movie makes me believe that if you're a good person, things will work out in the end. Sigh. I hope that's true.
3.
"Shadowlands." This was a made-for-TV movie I saw in a class when we were studying CS Lewis. It's a scene where the woman Lewis loves has just died, and he goes to console her little boy and his stepson. When I saw this in class, I literally started to cry right there, with all those people around. I love when Anthony Hopkins just breaks down and starts crying and hugging the little boy. Something so chilling about seeing a grown-up actor dissolve into tears like that... it reminds me of when teachers or parents cry. As a kid, nothing scared me more or filled me with such a sense of the hopelessness of the world.
4.
"Braveheart." This was the first R-rated movie my parents allowed me to watch, and I think rightfully so. It remains my dad's favorite movie of all time. We watched this in seventh grade in history class and I started bawling and some of the boys even laughed at me. Yeah, that pretty much right there cemented my status as "nerd" until I graduated from high school, but seriously, how could you not cry? The fact that they're torturing him and expect him to say "mercy" for a quick death but instead he uses his last dying breath to cry "Freedom!"? Forget supporters of the Iraq war--THAT'S patriotism. And then when he sees his wife coming through the crowd--and the final "And like Scots, they won" monologue--holy crap.
5.
"West Side Story." I hate the Internet--nowhere online can I find the final scene of this movie! In my opinion, this is hands-down the best musical of all time--better than My Fair Lady, Oklahoma, Webber, or even Les Mis. The music, the lyrics, the lines--it's like perfection personified. The last scene always gets me. When they start singing "Somewhere" together as he bleeds to death on the blacktop, she realizes he's dead, and her voice cracks? And the whole "how many bullets, Chino" monologue? And "te adoro, Anton"? Seriously, people!
6.
"American Beauty." This is my favorite movie and will never been dethroned. It seems almost like the 90's, cynical version of "It's A Wonderful Life"--the idea that every tiny little insignificant detail in life is overrun by beauty. The montage at the end is the best--when even though he's been murdered, he talks about how he isn't mad about it. And that he still loves his estranged wife. I love the idea, "I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time." And then when the wife realizes he's dead and goes into his closet and starts hugging his coats? Most wrenching scene ever. And the last few lines? "I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life... You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday." I have so many people in my life that have "no idea," but will some day. It kills me that they can't realize it now. Reminds me of "Our Town," never translatable into film because it's such a play--"Goodbye, clocks ticking, and new dresses. Oh earth, you're too wonderful for anyone to realize you."
7.
No clip, but "Born on the Fourth of July." So few people I know have seen this movie. I think a lot of girls think of it as a "boring war movie," but God, it is so much more. This idealistic young kid goes off to Vietnam, gets paralyzed from the waist down, and basically forgotten by everyone (including his family) as he spirals into shellshock and veteran depression. The part when he storms the Republican Party meeting where they're all chanting "four more years" for Nixon and they all drag him out--I just weep. I have many friends who are Republicans, but after watching this scene, I can't even begin to understand why anyone would support the right wingers for a few days. It is that emotionally heartwrenching for me.
8.
"Dead Poets Society." Another cliche, but this film is so important to me. Every time I start to hate academics and school and essays (of which I've written so many here that I could scream,) I think of DPS, and it makes me realize why I keep going to classes and listening to teachers and studying. It is to become a well rounded human being, like Mr. Keating would want you to be. To truly fall in love with life and literature. This scene is the final one, where Mr. Keating returns to pick up his stuff after he's fired by the administration because they thought he drove a student to suicide. Earlier on in the movie, he tells them they may call him "o captain my captain", as Walt Whitman does to Lincoln in his poem "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd." He also tells them that they should stand on their desks to be unique and see life from a different perspective. I love the sense of rebellion of this scene, of sticking it to the man. Even though they are stuck in this hellhole of a prep school, they will not let it keep them down. The ones who stand on their desks will become real people in the end.
9.
Again, no clip, but "The Adventures of Milo and Otis." Sad tears at the part where Milo is carried away on the river, happy tears when they reunite with their respective families and head home to the farm. I'd like to think that, no matter how long you stayed away from your best friend, you could always experience the amount of joy and happiness Milo and Otis do when they find each other finally. Just because someone's life diverges from yours doesn't mean it has to split from yours.
10.
"The Miracle Worker." I haven't even seen this movie, yet I saw a clip in a recent TV show and it made me cry. Because Helen Keller just plain rocks. Wawa!
So, that's my list. And that's just movies--don't even get me started on books, poems, TV, or songs!
I'm curious. What's your favorite tearjerking movie moments?
IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE? 1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc) 2. Put it on shuffle 3. Press play 4. For every question, type the song that's playing 5. When you go to a new question, press the next button 6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...
WARNING: Not as good as Kelly's.
Opening Credits: "Stuck on You" by Mark Oh--I accidentally downloaded this song from someone in my dorm when I was trying to download the Elvis "Stuck on You" for my friend for his mix CD of all the songs mentioned in Avenue Q's "Mix Tape." It is a different song, though. The only lyrics I can catch are "Needed a friend/and the way I feel now, I guess I'll be with you to the end/yes, I'm on my way/mighty glad you stayed/mighty glad you stayed." This would have worked better as the end credits song, but I guess this could be me dancing in a club with my friends, since it's very techno-ish.
Waking Up: "There's Gotta Be More to Life" by Stacie Orrico--OMG, the perfect song. I get up for yet another school day but feel jaded and drone-like and question myself, "Is this really what I want?" ~ foreshadowing alert! ~
First Day At School: "Promiscuous Girl" by Nelly Furtado--Obviously, I have suddenly morphed into the sexiest girl in the school, and in my first lecture, some guy hits on me and quotes Byron. I play hard-to-get for about 5 minutes before we make out behind the lectern after class.
Falling In Love: "Heaven" by DJ Sammy--Clubby remix of the original Bryan Adams song. So cliche for falling in love. My life movie seems to be predictable and happens in a lot of clubs. I can see me and the boy at a Rave, poking each other flirtatiously with glowsticks and making out in front of the strobe light. (I also make out a lot in my movie life.)
Breaking Up: "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett--The boy and I have this huge fight before I decide to try and make it as a singer in New York. This song would (as always) be overlaid with shots of my taxi on the Brooklyn (?) Bridge driving into New York city at night and my facial expressions as I see the Empire State Building, Chrysler Tower, and Times Square out the window.
Prom: "Cell Block Tango" from Chicago--I return to high school after I don't get the lead in the Broadway revival of "West Side Story" (seriously, was Tony such a long shot in this enlightened, PC day and age?) All my best friends have gotten dumped, too, so we engage in a collaborative, feminist power ballad as we assuage our broken hearts at the punch bowl.
Life's OK: "Pachelbel's Canon" by George Winston--Oooh, good one. I lie on my bed in a shaft of sunlight, stroking my cat and reading poetry as my mom makes grilled cheese in the kitchen, my dad mows the lawn outside, and Schwe is in the shower.
Mental Breakdown: "Going Away to College" by Blink-182--It's kind of freaky how well all these songs are working out with their appropriate moods. I have to go away to Stanford (this movie is set in the past of my life) and I have a breakdown about my boyfriend, who has made up with me, and we've spent the entire summer swimming at the local pool, catching fireflies and cuddling at night on a blanket in my backyard, looking up at the stars.
Driving: "What is Love?" by Haddaway--Suddenly I have my driver's license (when did that happen?) and I go for long, thoughtful drives in the fading twilight, considering my relationship with the boy and whether I should break it off.
Flashback: "White Christmas" by Otis Redding--On one of my long drives into the countryside surrounding Sacramento, I flashback to the Christmas I had with my boyfriend (let's call him Hank) at Strawberry Lodge in Strawberry, CA (I've always driven past that on the way to Lake Tahoe and wanted to spend more time there.) We are surrounded by an Alpine wonderland as we basically reenact the snow scene from "Love Story."
Getting Back Together: "Sorrow" by Box Car Racer--I come back home at Thanksgiving and admit to Hank that Stanford boys just don't hold a candle to him and that I need him to survive. I play this song on a boombox and hold it over my head in the window, a la Lloyd Dobbler.
Wedding Scene: "Angeles" by Elliott Smith--This seems like such a sad wedding song. We elope to a tiny chapel near the Mendocino coast and get married in our jeans and sneakers, with my veil and flowers as the only clue to what we're actually doing. We smile sadly at each other as we realize our childhood has ended and have one of those naive wedding nights where we undress each other slowly. (Hey, we may have made out a lot, but we never lived in sin--jk.) ;)
Birth of Child: "Big Bad John" by Jimmy Dean--I have a hell of a delivery and give birth to a baby that is 12 lbs. and 6 inches taller than most babies. We decide to name him John after my best friend. The regular hospital diapers won't even fit him. He grows up to play for the University of Texas football team and beats USC.
Final Battle: "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)" by The Arcade Fire--John makes the winning touchdown as the crowd's cheers morph into this.
Death Scene: "Crazy for this Girl" by Evan and Jaron--John's long-term fiance, Ella, suddenly dies in a car crash in her vintage, convertible 1971 Datsun 240Z. In a stroke of post-modernist irony, this song plays over John breaking into tears over the phone and rending his garments. I bring him tea and he cries like a baby into my melon-pink terrycloth robe, even though he is now twice the size I am.
Funeral Song: "Red Rain" by The White Stripes--John breaks down (a la Vada Sultenfuss in "My Girl") and starts talking to his girlfriend's corpse in front of everyone at the open-casket funeral, explaining how he's been waiting out in the rain for her. Time for the audience to break out the Kleenex.
End Credits: "Main Theme" from Requiem for a Dream--This is one of the most depressing songs ever, so my life must turn out pretty bad. John shoots himself in the head with a pearl-handled shotgun ("This is Texas. My florist owns a gun.") Then Hank has an affair with Kelly and I decide to take the Datsun (which we inherited) out on a rainy night and drive up to Dead Man's Curve. The brakes fail...
Do you ever stop in the middle of all the craziness and think, "What the hell am I doing all this for?"
I went to go see "The Devil Wears Prada" tonight at Flicks, which I have done before. I went in the summer with Ann and Kelly. But somehow it didn't inspire in me the same sense of fear that time as it did tonight. Maybe it's because it was summer then, and nothing seems urgent in the summer. Even during Summerbridge, there was the feeling that we had the entire summer to accomplish the things we needed to, that there was really nothing to worry about. We were all on the right path and doing what we needed to be doing to fill up those long, hazy hours.
But this time when I watched it, I realized that I am not that far away from being Andy Sachs, a young twentysomething finally kicked out of the nest, the comfort zone, of college, and forced to face the real world. All of the jobs I have been looking at for next summer (yes, I am that paranoid) are all great options if I want to be a teacher.
There is one question I haven't asked myself, though--what if I don't? Want to be a teacher, that is? All throughout life, when people have asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I have said, "Either be a teacher or a journalist." I feel like now there's no more waiting. I have to make a choice between the two. It's now or never.
The thing is, I'm still not sure. I love to write--it completes me. I love the process of it, and how it's the one thing in the world that comes so easily to me. It's as if the words fit together like pieces of a puzzle in my head and they just... come out right on the page. I have never really figured out how I could do it. It's just always been there, helping me along. Sometimes even I am surprised at what my pen scribbles out, or what appears behind the blinking cursor in my Word document.
So I love to write, but I also love to be around people. Well, not be around them exactly--I am terrible at social situations, and it would take more than one hand to count the number of failed friendships and crushes I've encountered here at Stanford. But I love to... inspire people. I love to instruct them on something I know backwards and forwards and make them love it as much as I do. When I think about being a journalist, I ask myself, "Do I really want to spend my days stuck behind an office desk trying to get a hold of people over the phone and hammering out stories on a keyboard with no real interaction with human beings other than my boss and a handful of coworkers?"
Of course, writing an article is sort of like inspiring people--you learn as much as you can about the topic you're assigned and then explain it back to your audience, trying to interest them in it as much as you can. I love this aspect of journalism. Every time I have to write something for the Daily, I learn new things--like who Jose Gonzalez's hit song was originally by, or the story behind why Chip and Pepper Jeans wants to make vintage Stanford t-shirts, or what the hell a carillonneur is. But if you DO inspire someone through your writing, it isn't as apparent as in the classroom. All you can do when you write for a newspaper is put your work out there and hope that you interested someone enough that they deigned to finish your article as they finished their chai at the CoHo--maybe, in your wildest dreams, that they looked at the byline and took note of your name.
When you're in the classroom, however, you can talk about a Frost poem or an Angelou short story and what it means and see the students' faces light up like a string of Christmas lights. You ask them a question about how it pertains to their life, and their little hands shoot up before you've even gotten the sentence halfway out of your mouth. The kid who at the start of the summer thought "poetry was boring" is now the first one to explain to the others his take on the reading assignment, and you know that all of those long nights spent outlining grammar sheets and grading spelling tests are worth it.
I do love teaching. I really do. But--and here comes the big but--I think the reason why I have been hesitant to pursue it is simple: There is no glory in teaching. Yes, you inspire countless kids and the indirect rewards are paid back tenfold, but once all those kids die, no one will remember you. You are an honest, hardworking citizen of the community, but that's pretty much it.
I know it's silly to claim that journalists, on the other hand, are showered with glory--many of them write for their whole lives and go to their graves without any universal acknowledgement of their talent. So why am I striving so hard for something that I might never accomplish? Because there's always that chance. Hope needs ridiculously little to keep itself alive in your soul--especially mine. I am always astonished when I look back at my life at how many failures I have encountered, yet have perservered regardless. I am dogmatic to an extreme degree, and if I really want something, nothing can stop me from getting it.
Except--time? Is it too late now to change the entire path of my life and decide I want to be a serious journalist? And do I even want that? Which path am I on? More importantly, which is the one that will make me the most happy? I am afraid I'm the only one who can know the answer to that question, and yet I have no idea.
Gaah I need more of you to update! I am dying here.
But people in glass houses... So I will think of what's new with me.
Last week was Hell Week--all of my midterm essays and tests seemed to be that week. I pulled two all-nighters over a three-day period, which was impressive but exhausting. Still, this school intimidates me. Everything is so hard. I really don't mean to sound all "blah me blah," but in high school I got used to not trying all that hard and still getting good grades. Then I came here and still didn't try hard and got B's and C's. Now (for the first year in college) I am actually trying and... still getting B's and C's. It's not really fair, because I figured that when God was handing out the looks, charm, humor, and ambition, he must have forgotten me, but at least he gave me intelligence in spades. Now I don't have much else to rely on to set me apart from the pack... kindness? Not really, and that doesn't seem to be valued very highly after kindergarten.
Then I went home on Friday afternoon for less than 24 hours to see Tom Petty with my sister, which was so much fun. I had only been to a Fall Out Boy and Jose Gonzalez concert before, both of which I only knew a few songs of. But my childhood was soaked in Tom Petty, so I knew almost all of the songs. "Free Fallin'," "American Girl," "Refugee," "Riding Down a Dream," "I Won't Back Down," "Learning to Fly"... the list goes on. I felt like I belonged, you know? There's no better feeling at a concert than that.
Then I came home because my poetry group's annual retreat was Saturday night, and I had to go. I was kind of dreading it, because try as I might, I could find no option other than camping that was as cheap as we could afford, and also every time I organize something, it usually goes to Hell in a handbasket. BUT this was a raving success. It was at this place called Manresa State Beach, about 15 miles from Monterey and right near Capitola. The actual campsite was only about a 2-minute walk from this gorgeous, typically California beach where you could walk for miles. And no crowds! The cherry on the sundae was the fact that the campsite had flush toilets. FLUSH TOILETS! AT A CAMPSITE! I couldn't believe our luck. But I was sort of sad, because although everyone acknowledged it was the best retreat we'd had, no one thanked me in particular. Sigh. That's what I get for being organized and enterprising for once in my life.
But I still really enjoyed getting to know the newbies. One boy named Scott who I am completely in awe of (and reminds me of Ann Roberts's current boyfriend, strangely) asked me, "Francie, do you want to write a book?" Of course, I would love to and have been planning to all my life, but I didn't want to sound stuck-up, so I just said, "Me? Maybe." Then he said, "I just think you have a really great voice and I would love to read a book written by you." I was touched, because Kelly and I are both the type that can live off a compliment for a month. It was one of the few reminders I've gotten since I was at Stanford of "you might actually make a difference someday" instead of "you can't handle introductory STATS? might as well apply for truck-driving school now." (Although I've always secretly had this plan that my mid-life crisis will be giving up all my material possessions for a year and driving a truck across the country. I love road trips.)
Other than that, not much is happening. Oh! I did get to have dinner with my crush on Monday. We got into this heated, drunken discussion on Saturday two weeks ago about whether or not you should alienate yourself from society like Thoreau did when you disagree with it, or whether you should stay in it and work to change it. Actually, I thought I was drunk and he was completely sober, so he was just being the token kind sober person listening to my intoxicated ramblings, and I felt sorry for him, because I've been there before, and it is not fun. But it turns out he was drunk, too, which made me feel a little less guilty. We had this wonderful talk. We were so into it that we didn't even notice the vacated tables around us until a dining-hall lady had to physically come over and tell us that they were closing for the night. It was fun--we talked about books and conversations and whether introverts are antisocial or just not people persons.
Welly keeps telling me that I should go for it and that he is totally in my "league" if not below it, but I am still unsure. One thing I've learned in college is that looks really don't have as much to do with it as I once thought they did. This is both good and bad--good because I don't consider myself all that attractive, bad because this must mean I have a lacking personality if I am in a place with 3,000 horny boys and have managed to not snag one yet. (Snag, ha--they sound like steehead trout or something.) So yes, I would agree that he is no more attractive than I am, BUT there is so much more to it than that. I think he is more socially graceful and a little "cooler" in that "I can't describe why, he just is" way. I just think it would be so nice to have a crazy fling for one month before I went off to Oxford for the rest of the school year--neither of us would have to commit too long-term, and yet we could maybe start it up again next year. Of course, this would mean that I would have to be able to break it off cleanly in December and not spend my entire six months in the greatest country in the world pining away for a Stanford boy back home, and I'm not so sure I could do that. I am the loyal, sentimental type that subscribes to the "if it ain't broken, don't fix it" idea, so I would probably just miss him and elect to come back spring quarter and not stay in England, which is not what I want to do, since this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Still....
I am also having issues with my Halloween costume. I am going as Margot Tenenbaum, since I love that character. I got two things I needed off of eBay that I needed: a preppy striped Lacoste polo dress and a blonde wig. But I couldn't seem to win any of the fur coat auctions, and I went to the costume store in town and the only thing they'll rent to you is fur wraps, not actual fur coats. I am considering buying this faux fur coat off Alloy:
BUT it is very expensive. Still, I want to be unique and original and not "the tag may read 'lady vampire,' but it's really just glorified lingerie" like most other girls have. I hate all the costumes with their spandex and plunging necklines and skirts that barely cover my underwear. I wanted to wear something cute without having it look like an open invitation to rape me. Is that so much to ask??? What do you all think?
OK, as Lizzie McGuire would say, I'm outtie. And you all better update!
Current Music:some kid keeps playing "A Whole New World" in the lounge
An excerpt from a book I have to read on predynastic Egypt for a class:
"The Badarian Rippled pottery was probably developed from burnished and smudged pottery. Burnished ware is present in late Saharan Neolithic sites and from as far north as Merimda to as far south as Central Sudan in Khartoum Neolithic sites. The Rippled ware at present is known form the Badarian (4000 BC) in Upper Egypt, Terminal Akban (3200 BC) in Nubia, and El-Kadada (3500 BC) in Central Sudan (Bietak, 1986). The Badarian Rippled pottery may have thus originated in the Badari region from a Saharan prototype spreading southward or in a broad belt encompassing Nubia and Upper Egypt from a 'Khartoum-Varian' Neolithic (Hays, 1984; Bietak, 1986)."
GAAAHHHHH
No, actually, school is going pretty well. I am actually on top of my shit this year, for the first time since I came to Stanford. Summerbridge really did wonders on kick-starting that good old Protestant work ethic I had in high school, even as it slowly devoured my summer. I'll give it that.
The big problem--I was at a party this weekend (with Schwe!) and this boy from my dorm who also lived with me last year started talking to me and he was so nice and interesting and kind... so of course, now I have a baby crush on him.
But I don't want to. I really don't. I can just see where this is leading--I like him for a few months, I tell him, he doesn't like me, it's awkward for the rest of the time I know him. I really am just prepared to throw in the towel.
So why can't I? Why is my brain one of those annoying ones that really DOES believe that "hope springs eternal," despite all evidence to the contrary? What is it about the human spirit that it can withstand so much, yet still maintain that belief that things will work out in the end? Why can't I learn from my mistakes???
Current Mood: hopeless yet somehow OK Current Music:"You Don't Know Me" by Michael Buble
Ultimate Movie Quotes Quiz Sarah Marshall, I love your quizzes, but you never seem to have enough quotes! I only know one of them if I'm lucky. So, to make everyone feel smart, I have copied the American Film Institute's Top 100 Movie Quotes of the Past Century. Some of these a 5-year-old would know, but others are hecka hard. Feel free to guess and good luck!
(They all give me the chills.)
1. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
2. "I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse."
3. "You don't understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could've been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am!"
4. "Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."
5. "Here's looking at you, kid."
6. "Go ahead--make my day."
7. "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up."
8. "May the Force be with you."
9. "Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night."
10. "You talking to me?"
11. "What we've got here is failure to communicate."
12. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning."
13. "Love means never having to say you're sorry."
14. "The stuff that dreams are made of."
15. "E.T. phone home."
16. "They call me Mister Tibbs!"
17. "Rosebud!"
18. "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!"
19. "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"
20. "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
21. "A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."
22. "Bond. James Bond."
23. "There's no place like home."
24. "I am big! It's the pictures that got small."
25. "Show me the money!"
26. "Why don't you come up sometime and see me?"
27. "I'm walking here! I'm walking here!"
28. "Play it, Sam. Play 'As Time Goes By.'"
29. "You can't handle the truth!"
30. "I want to be alone."
31. "After all, tomorrow is another day!"
32. "Round up the usual suspects."
33. "I'll have what she's having."
34. "You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."
35. "You're gonna need a bigger boat!"
36. "Badges?! We ain't got no badges! We don't need no badges! I don't have to show you any stinking badges!"
37. "I'll be back."
38. "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."
39. "If you build it, he will come."
40. "Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."
41. "We rob banks."
42. "Plastics."
43. "We'll always have Paris."
44. "I see dead people."
45. "Stella! Hey, Stella!"
46. "Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars!"
47. "Shane. Shane. Come back!"
48. "Well, nobody's perfect."
49. "It's alive! It's alive!"
50. "Houston, we have a problem."
51. "You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"
52. "You had me at hello."
53. "One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas, I don't know."
54. "There's no crying in baseball!"
55. "La-dee-da, la-dee-da."
56. "A boy's best friend is his mother."
57. "Greed, for lack of a better word, is good."
58. "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."
59. "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."
60. "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into!"
61. "Say hello to my little friend!"
62. "What a dump!"
63. "Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?"
64. "Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room!"
65. "Elementary, my dear Watson."
66. "Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!"
67. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
68. "Heeeeeeeere's Johnny!"
69. "They're heeeee-eeere!"
70. "Is it safe?"
71. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain't heard nothin' yet!"
72. "No wire hangers, ever!"
73. "Mother of mercy, is this the end of Rico?"
74. "Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown."
75. "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."
76. "Hasta la vista, Baby."
77. "Soylent Green is people!"
78. "Open the pod bay doors, HAL."
79. Striker: "Surely you can't be serious."
Rumack: "I am serious…and don't call me Shirley."
80. "Yo, Adrian!"
81. "Hello, gorgeous."
82. "Toga! Toga!"
83. "Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make."
84. "Oh, no, it wasn't the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast."
85. "My Precious."
86. "Attica! Attica!"
87. "Sawyer, you're going out a youngster, but you've got to come back a star!"
88. "Listen to me, mister. You're my knight in shining armor. Don't you forget it. You're going to get back on that horse, and I'm going to be right behind you, holding on tight, and away we're gonna go, go, go!"
89. "Tell 'em to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper."
90. "A martini. Shaken, not stirred."
91. "Who's on first?"
92. "Cinderella story. Outta nowhere. A former greenskeeper, now, about to become the Masters champion. It looks like a mirac...It's in the hole! It's in the hole! It's in the hole!"
93. "Live, live, live! Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!"
94. "I feel the need - the need for speed!"
95. "Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys! Make your lives extraordinary."
96. "Snap out of it!"
97. "My mother thanks you. My father thanks you. My sister thanks you. And I thank you."
98. "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."
99. "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!"
The first Thursday of every month, Stanford's art gallery (Cantor) has a student night where all students get in for free, can look at all the artwork, eat refreshments, and watch student groups perform. This year they paid my poetry group $150 (!) to perform.
I just have to insert some photos, because when you think "art gallery," I'm sure you don't think of this:
The president wanted all of us to perform. I did, but I hate it. I mean, the reason I am a writer is because I love art, but writers are the only kind of artists that can be introverted. Singers, actors, dancers--they all have to stand up in front of an audience and have people judge their work in order to be real singers, dancers, and actors. But writers can hide away in their own little nook, spin their creative webs, and never once have to appear in front of others to gauge their reaction. Yet my poetry group constantly forces me to be a performing writer.
I guess it's good for me. I guess it brings me out of my shell. But really, it doesn't. All it does is make people have to say, "You were good," the next time they see me and give me an awkward hug. I hate it so much.
I read a NY Times article today about how people more and more are installing secret rooms in their houses, behind bookcases that swing open or stairs that open upwards to reveal a separate room. One woman said this secret room was her study, so that she could hide away from everyone when she was creating things.
I'm afraid I might end up like that lady. But is being introverted really that bad of a thing?
Somehow I got signed up on the class of 2010 pre-med e-mail mailing list. Then, when I went to go unsubscribe, it told me I had to use the "password you created when signing up."
Today I had to put up flyers for the auditions for my poetry group in the dorm I lived in last year. My old dorm, Roble Hall, went under HUGE renovations over the summer--or so I had read. I never actually figured out what they were going to change about the dorm, other than that they were to expand the laundry facilities, which was a blessing, considering before they only had 6 washers/dryers for 300 people. Basically, the only time I could do my laundry was when I was pulling all-nighters and up at 3:30 AM on some random Wednesday morning. Other than the whole laundry thing, though, I wasn't quite sure.
Boy, was I surprised. So much was different. They got rid of an entire lounge. Now the computer cluster's in the basement. The carpet went from a dark, soothing blue to bordello red. The blacktop volleyball court outside is now grass. In my old hall, they turned a one-room double into a guys' bathroom. And the old guys' bathroom is now the girls' bathroom. And the old girls' bathroom is now the RA's room. And my old room is now separated from the rest of the hall by a door.
The weirdest thing, though, is that there are other people living there. Other freshmen. Other upperclassmen. Other RA's. It really sent a chill down my spine to realize how transitive college life is. It felt the same way as when you're moving and you take one last look at your empty house--except, how often do most people move? Like, a few times in their life? Also, you never actually see the other people's stuff where your stuff used to be. It's so cruel in a way.
But then I realized that I was flyering Roble, and that the person who flyered Roble last year was the reason I was in this group. I got into the group around when I started making actual friends here, other than John. And I realized that someone else might respond to MY flyers by showing up for auditions and having their life changed as much as mine was. That made me sport a shaky smile.
Still, I miss the past. It physically hurt to look at all these new kids living there and not want to cry. Why am I such a Luddite--so against progress and the onward march of time? Sentimentality! Sigh!
Long-Needed Update So since all of you have been updating about your fantabulous lives, I felt as if I should jump on the bandwagon and give the people what they want. ("People" being all 5 of you, "want" being something you're probably only mildly interested in.) BUT ANYWAY...
I am living in a dorm on the East side of campus in the same dorm complex as my dorm in freshman year. It is called Trancos, and I am in room 311 ("like the band," as my RA said to me.) Originally I was supposed to be roomates with this Conservative Christian girl who was really into Civil War reenactments, but then things got switched around and instead I am rooming with a girl I knew in Roble last year completely by chance! Neither of us knew we would end up together until we were moving in. I am pretty happy, though, because this means my whole group of Roble freshmen from last year can't forget about me as easily, since my roommate (Kate) was pretty popular, and when they visit her, I get to see them too. She also has this totally nice, totally cute boyfriend named Jason who has also been visiting a lot. He is the sweetest. So far, he is the only male English major I have met at Stanford, and his favorite book is "Jane Eyre." Yes, "Jane Eyre." I have met very few girls that have liked that book, much less boys, much less straight boys. His question to me at a party last night was, "Francie, did you read any good books over the summer that you'd reccomend to me?"
This week has mostly been swallowed up with rehearsals with my performance-poetry group, Spoken Word. The administrators asked us to perform at Faces, which is this big performance every freshman goes to in order to see the variety of student groups that Stanford has to offer. So we all collaboratively wrote this poem about how no one thinks they're good enough for Stanford and how they think everyone around them is way smarter and more deserving than they. But it was funny, too. However, I was kind of freaking out the day of the performance--I mean, performing in front of 2,000 strangers? I had messed up before in front of a crowd a tenth of that size. I was also the one that kept forgetting her lines during practice. I kept telling myself that it was way harder for the dance groups and a cappella grops, since they actually had to call upon a skill they had. All I had to do was memorize lines and talk. Plus, I only had a fifth of the poem to remember, since there were 5 of us doing it. Still....
Then the time came, and we went out in front of the crowd. I kept telling myself that, like in a play, the stage lights would be so blinding that I wouldn't actually be able to SEE any of them--it would just be a formless black mass somewhere in front of me. This always comforted me in high-school plays. But no, that wasn't true. I could see almost all of them. And I swear to God, I almost messed up twice. But I DID it! No mess-ups! At all! And none of the other kids messed up either! Then the applause started. Have you ever been applauded by thousands of people? It was one of the most breathtaking experiences I've ever had in my life. It was like this primordial roar that just erupted and filled the entire auditorium. Pretty sweet.
Last night was one of the old Roble kid's birthdays, so we all got together and threw him a surprise party. It was a reunion of sorts, and I had a blast, as well as many cans of Coors Light. Then my roommate came up to me (somewhat drunkenly) and asked me if it was OK if she and her boyfriend spooned in our room tonight while I was in the room, too. (I really hate that word, "spoon"--I prefer "snuggle.") Anway, I told her it was totally fine--I mean, as long as they stop at 2nd base, I am pretty much OK with it. Plus, I fell asleep almost immediately, because of the whole alcohol-is-a-downer thing that makes you sleepy when you drink it. But I was wondering--is this normal? What would you guys do in the situation? I think she was a little surprised that I was so OK with it, and I don't want her to think of me as some weird voyeuristic pervert or anything. I just think it's nice that they love each other so much. It's kind of like when Tom Cruise was on Oprah--I thought it was nice that he was so in love. I know everyone's all, "He's gay, he's crazy, blah blah blah," and I do think he's insane about the whole Scientology thing, but the way he acted on the show was the way you FEEL when you're in love, you know? You can't act normal. You can barely form a coherent sentence, you're so on top of the moon, and you want to share it with everyone. OK, maybe it was infatuation and they'll break up in a week, but still--infatuation can be pretty neat, too.
My roommate has actually been doing me good. Downside of her--she snores like a truck driver. I really need some earplugs. The upside--she is an early bird and is regulating my sleep schedule a lot. Last year when I had a single, I could go to bed whenever I wanted, which was fun for a while, but then it just got ridiculous--i.e., me going to bed at the earliest at 4 AM when the birds were singing and waking up just before my 1 PM classes. Now I am going to bed 1 to 2-ish and getting up 9 to 10-ish. I feel like a normal person! I can actually get things done in the day, even at places like the post office, which closes at 5.
I've also been able to sneak away with my roommate for a Stanford Shopping Center buying spree (two dresses purchased, one the most gorgeous turquoise silk thing you've ever seen) and a quick trip to Borders in Palo Alto this afternoon. Sadly, the only used bookstore in Palo Alto closed literally the day I got back to Stanford. As the Gray girls and Kelly know, this is basically like ripping my heart out and having Jared-pre-Subway diet stomping on it with iron-spiked Doc Martens. Now it just sits, an empty storefront, and makes me want to cry. (I always say "makes me want to cry" that way that Marta does in "Sound of Music"--can't help it. What does she want to cry about again? I forget.)
I also participated in this really, really cool psychological experiment today. The upside of being at a medium-sized university like Stanford is that they have a buzzing pysch-research school and there are constant e-mails begging people to sign up for studies. Plus, they pay you. For most of them, all you have to do is fill out personality questionnaries or watch film clips and rate how you felt while watching them. I mean, $15 for doing something I already like doing? Hells yes! (Kelly and I love surveys and questionnaries. Those "what kind of a person are you?" tests in teen magazines were always our favorite. We also love movies.)
This one was cooler than any I have ever done, though. Once I filled out the obligatory questionnaires (I could do those in my sleep by now), the guy interviewed me in front of a video camera, asking me simple questions, like, "What kind of a person are you?" and "What are your strengths? What are your weaknesses?" (You know, basic guidance-counselor stuff.) Of course, I always say too much at questions like that, so he had to cut me off multiple instances "in the interest of time." (I laughed.) Then he had me watch my taped interview and rate how I acted in regard to about 40 adjectives on questionnaire he gave me. Then I had to watch another girl's interview and rate her on these adjectives.
He told me it was for a study on what he called "fish in water" syndrome. He talked about how people's perceptions of themselves and others' perceptions of them tend to differ quite starkly. For instance, I might be a really outgoing, but because I am so used to myself, I think of myself as the "norm." Hence, when I meet a reticent person, I would think they were shy to the extreme, when really they're just on the shyer side. He wanted me to watch myself because he said that it gave me more of an outsider's view of myself, and I could see what I was like when other people saw me.
My God, you guys. My GOD. It was so freaking INTERESTING. Thankfully, my first thought was NOT, "Am I really that fat?" I looked OK. But I did think, "Gosh, I use my hands so much!" I really did. Every second they're flying about, emphasizing my point or forming gestures or signals. I looked downright Italian. I also never realized how much I smile. Even when I was just listening to his questions passively, I had a huge smile on my face, even though there was nothing to smile about. I could see how he thought of me as extraverted, blabbering on jovially and waving my hands about like a conductor on uppers. In truth, though, I am really the definition of an introvert. I just do a good job of hiding it.
And the other girl was about at opposite as you can get from me. Hands? At her sides at all times. Smile? Not once. She also is hyperorganized, tends not to trust people, and has followed the same morning routine since she was 11 or 12. And she was wearing a pink, starched polo shirt (collar popped) and pearls.
Doing it, though, made me realize how much I really am like Kelly. And speaking of Kelly, I want to make a public announcement. Kelly has been feeling really down lately at college. I want everyone to make an effort to lavish extra attention on her for the next few weeks. Send letters! Call her! Post comments on her LJ entries! IM her! People, we can do this. Together.
**********ALSO:************** Special thanks go out to Sarah Marshall for letting me use this "West Side Story" user pic. I stole it a long time ago and never gave her props.
Current Mood: chipper Current Music:screaming freshmen
This kind of makes me sad. But their first dance WAS to the song "Iris," by the Goo Goo Dolls, which makes me happy, because it's my favorite song in the entire world. Still, it's a sentimental time for me.
Answers and Weltschmerz So you guys got all of the screen caps right... EXCEPT #2 ("The Sandlot") and #3 ("American Grafitti.") Now, I can accept your apology for not seeing AG, but "The Sandlot"? Are you serious? That movie was an integral part of my childhood...
Things have not been going well in my life. I mean, they have been going OK, but the end of the year looms in the near future, and all the accompanying sadness that goes with it. This year has been really great for the most part, and I have become a better person because of it, but soon it is going to end and I will have to start all over again. That scares me. I hate change. Once I establish myself somewhere, I like to keep it the same. It is extremely hard for me to make new friends and adapt to new situations, because I don't trust people until I've known them for a while.
But maybe my biggest fear is that, as much as I need the kids in my hall, I don't think they need me at all. And I hate that. I need to be needed. I feel like there are so few people in this world that really need me, and the number dwindles more every day.
What's really getting me down, though, is that I told the boy I liked that I liked him, and... he didn't like me back. Now, I know this shouldn't bother me. Being honest with people runs the risk of being open and vulnerable, and by doing so, you know you might get hurt. But this has happened four times. Four times. Could I have a worse track record? You think that very few people could try something four times and fail at it every time...
The worst part is that I am a person that gets very down on herself, so whenever someone rejects me, I assume it's because I did something wrong. As much as people tell me that it usually isn't that, I can't get my mind to accept the fact. It's like how people say, "All you need is a little confidence in yourself." But confidence? About what? I really don't think I'm all that special when it comes right down to it. I don't offer anything to the world that millions of other people don't offer already.
I really shouldn't have fallen for him. He is the only boy I have ever liked who has been out of my league--usually I know to stay in my league. But with him, I couldn't help it. Not only is he insanely cute, he is also so nice and perceptive and honest and funny. He is nice to ME. To ME. Why would anyone good-looking want to pay attention to ME? And he invited me over to his room many a time to watch movies and always sits with me in the dining hall when no one else does and is one of the few people on this earth that, when I talk about poetry, actually finds it interesting and listens to what I have to say not just because he's trying to be polite, but because the subject truly interests him.
To recap, me (on the left):
Him (in the blue):
I asked myself, "Why would a boy like this want to hang out with me other than he likes me? He must like me." So I talked myself into it and decided to confront him about it. Of course there was that little voice in the back of my head--"He is way too good-looking and popular for you, Francie; better not!"--but I didn't listen. (And I'm not sure why. It seems to me like 99% of the problems in the world are due to people not listening to that voice.)
So we were at a party and both tipsy. (Yes, I fear rejection so much that I can't admit my true feelings about people without a little liquid courage.) And all of a sudden he was gone and I went out into the stairwell and asked him where he was going. This might be better as a play:
Him: "I'm going to watch a movie with some friends in B-wing." Me (mustering up every bit of courage I could): "No. Don't. Come to my room." Him: "Why?" Me: "Because, Michael, I like you. Do you like me?" Him (slight pause): "No, Francie. I like you, but not in that way. And actually the reason I want to go this room is because the girl I like is in there." Me: "Oh." (hastily trying to regain some self-respect) "Well, I didn't tell you this before because I thought it might be awkward if it turned out this way." Him: "Francie, I'm not an awkward person." Me: "I know, but..." (wondering why he doesn't realize that I am the most awkward person in existence) Him: "Sorry if I broke your heart back there." Me (just wanting to get away from it all at this point and lying through my teeth): "No, it's OK." (Then being honest) "Good luck with that girl, OK?" (Because, hell, even if I can't get any, he should be allowed to, right?)
I walked away, and he watched me walk away.
Then, of course, I came back, lay on my bed, and for about 5 minutes just sat there in stunned silence, kinda like those few seconds between stubbing your toe and actually feeling the pain when you know that terrible feeling is coming but you can't do anything but just wait for it to come.
Then I burst into tears and got online because I needed to vent but it was too late to call my house and talk to Kelly because I might've woken up my parents. So I IMed Em Gray for a while and then talked to Em Marmaduke about it on the phone for a good half-hour. And this wasn't, like, a few stalwart, manly tears. I was crying my lungs out and my entire face was covered in mucus. I marvel that Em could even understand anything that I had to say between all of my weeping and stuffed-up nose.
And then he sent me this e-mail:
You know when you came over to my room and I told you to stop apologizing for stuff? Now its my turn to fill in the gaps. I'm sorry about letting you down tonight. I'm sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression, I'm sorry if you spent too much time thinking and now thoughts can't leave your head. I'm sorry I said no. I've always wanted the best for us, you have an amazingly unique personality and I love talking with you. Thanks for sharing your feelings, and I'm sorry I let you down when you were vulnerable. Its been a great year, francie. I'm glad you were a part of it. Thank you for everything, for the gifts, the tickets, the notes and the enthusiasm. Now let us go wildly into the summer sun, with days vibrating with the buzz of all things saying hello at the same time.
love, michael
It's not really that it's this boy--it's just that I am so sick of being the ugly yet nice one. The ugly yet interesting one. I am so sick of being ugly. I fantasize about what I would do if for one day I could just be one of the pretty girls. They just don't appreciate it. Sometimes I wish everyone was blind so stupid looks wouldn't matter. Looks--God, I hate them. I hate them. They keep me back from everything I want.
And perhaps my deepest fear, which is silly at this age, but--I'm always afraid I'll never get married. I know I shouldn't be worrying about this yet, because I am only 20, but I just know that I am the kind of person that needs to get married, and also the kind of person that probably never will. And that just kills me.
Also, this boy is my friend over everything else, and now I'm afraid that's going to be lost just because of my stupid, stupid hormones. But I want to stay his friend.
I just sit there, wondering, "What's so wrong with me? I am as nice and funny and kind and good-natured and helpful and generous and fun as I can be--what more can I do? Am I really that hideous?"
Perhaps this is what drives people to plastic surgery...
And now I have a huge 10-page paper I have to write by 5 PM tomorrow on books I haven't read and it is the only thing standing in between me and summer, but it might as well be the Great Wall of China. And last night was the most terrible night of insomnia I've ever had--I just could not fall asleep. And I don't know whether to pull an all-nighter on 3 hours of sleep or to go to bed and try this all tomorrow...
I think I will go to bed. But I suck.
Current Mood: numb Current Music:"I Hear the Bells" by Mike Doughty
Summer Screencap Extravaganza! So I just had to copy Sarah--except my screencap quiz is the ULTIMATE movies of summer, the kind where when you watch them, even in the dead of winter, you can almost taste the lemonade mixed by the little girl down the street and feel the muggy warmth of those hot July nights. Some of them I couldn't find real screencaps for, so I had to make do with what I could find. Anyway, without further ado...
(Oh, and Kelly, you can't guess.)
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Current Music:"June Is Bustin' Out All Over" from "Carousel"
Sigh Lately I have been getting into that wanting-to-be-someone-else feeling. It's not because I'm upset with my life, but...
OK, so my poetry group is revamping their website with all sorts of cool features, and one of them is posting videos of us all at the end-of-the-quarter shows reading our poems. They just posted mine, so I was all excited and clicked on the link...
OH. MY. GOD. Am I seriously that fat? Does that skirt really look that terrible on me? Do I really sound like a retarded Rheseus monkey when I talk? Again, am I seriously that fat????
It made me realize how other people see me, how fat and awkward and horrible I really am. It has made my confidence take a nosedive. And lately I haven't been eating as well as I should, so I'm thinking, "God, I probably look worse now than I do in those videos."
I don't get it. Every other chubby person I see seems to wear their extra poundage well. But I just... blarghhhhhh. I don't need to look like stupid Gisele or anything. Just like a normal person. Because I do exercise! I do ride my bike! I do eat carefully most of the time! So why do I still look like some lady you'd find in a carnival sideshow????
This is terrible, because I was just starting to feel comfortable with myself and my body and where I am in life. There is even a boy I kind of like that I was thinking in a "maybe he really does like me" kind of way, finally accepting the thought that maybe someone could actually find me sexually attractive. Now, though? I feel like there's as much a chance of that as there is that the moon will turn into cheese tomorrow.
Plus it doesn't help that I just watched "The Silence of the Lambs" and they kept calling Buffalo Bill's victim "a big girl." She was a size 14! That's one or two sizes away from me!
Long overdue WOW, kids. Wow. I haven't updated in WAY too long. So I will.
The main reason I didn't update from Valentine's Day to spring break is because... nothing really happened. Honestly. I was pretty much studying, eating, and sleeping. I can't think of one exciting thing I did. But that's OK! It was interesting at the time. (Wait, I had Parents' Weekend! But that doesn't warrant retelling.)
Then--spring break. I went on an Alternative Spring Break program, where you visit different places and help do community service for them. My ASB was on gender & sexuality in San Francisco, so I was excited. Little did I know what we would do. It was absolutely crazy. We: ~ went to a transvestite performance bar ~ went to a strip club (complete with semen-covered floors) and watched a show ~ went to a woman-centered porn store and got an entire lecture on the history of dildos and saw a collection of vintage vibrators ~ met about 30 transgender people--I met more transgender people in that day than I think I will ever again in my life ~ saw the breast-reduction scars of a female-to-male transgender ~ danced at a gay club full of sweaty, beautiful men without their shirts on, where they had a wet underwear contest and asked each participant, "So, are you tops or bottoms?"
It was a bit annoying, because it rained the ENTIRE week, and we had to stay in this tiny little art gallery all squished together on the cold, hard, uncarpeted ground (and two of the kids snored VERY loudly), but we also feasted on nachos and walked EVERYWHERE and just basically bonded. I haven't seen any of them for an extended period of time since then, but it was quite, quite the experience. I really did learn a lot about... well, gender and sexuality. :)
Then started my month of grand tours. The first weekend we got back, I went to San Marcos, TX, (near Austin) with my performance poetry group for the national finals. It was very exciting, because it was the first time I had ever been to Texas in my life, and the first state I have ever been to that Kelly hasn't! (This is quite an odd occurance.) It was sooooo lovely and hot. Unfortunately, I got one of the worst sunburns of my life, and for the next two weeks I was red and peeling, but it was ~almost~ worth it. We got into the semifinals, but sadly, we placed third in the semifinals, and only the top two teams went on to the finals. But we're one of the top eight teams in the country, right? Woo hoo!
The whole thing was fun but, for those of you who went to the journalism conventions with me in high school, it was nowhere near as fun as those. There was one class, which our president decided we should skip, and no dances or socials or farewell breakfasts or anything! I didn't get to know anyone outside of the Stanford team, which made me sad. On the journalism things, you could practically have a whirlwind romance with the amount of functions they arrange for the students. But at this, it was very much focused on the competitions and poetry, not on getting to know one another. Barf.
The next weekend I went home, since I hadn't been able to go home for spring break. I decided to go home then because it was the weekend of Easter, and Easter is very big in my family. There are a lot of traditions. Plus, it is my favorite holiday, hands down, so I wanted to celebrate it with my family. Kelly wasn't there because she had just been home for her spring break, but we still made a day out of it. Church, brunch, Easter-egg hunt--the works. I had missed by dog (who I hadn't seen since early January--about 3-and-a-half months) and I hadn't seen my parents in quite a while, either. And my house! The last time I had seen my house, the tree was still up and people hadn't yet put away their Christmas lights. And now tulips were blooming everywhere and roses budding and baby birds chirping... I swear, coming home after you've been at college is like seeing your hometown in one of those fast-action camera modes--you know, the type where they film a tree growing and then speed it up so that the growth of a year is condensed into one minute or something? That's the way it is when I go back to Sacto. For instance, just last fall they started to build this new house on our block, and every time back, it has made considerable progress. It is right on the route where I usually walk my dog, so instead of seeing it creeping along every afternoon, I come back 3 months later and all the insulation is in. Probably by the time I return home in the summer, it will just need to be painted. It's crazy. Instant gratification.
Then, the weekend after that, I went to go visit Kelly--which is always fun. We make so many new friends each year that almost all of her friends this year hadn't yet met me. The most fun thing is when she introduces me to other people and they just look back and forth and back and forth and go, "Wha--Kelly? Huh?" It is SO much fun. It's always sad when they just say, "Hi," and treat me normally. I know most people probably think we don't want to be treated like space aliens that just landed, but it is fun being unusual! I figure so many people strive throughout their life to find something unique about themselves, and I was given it at birth. I need to embrace it and use it in every way I can!
We had crazy fun and shopped in downtown Eagle Rock and went to Swork (her favorite coffee joint) and ate Thai food. We also went to a male beauty pageant one of the sororities was having for charity, which was so much fun. Aside from doing a talent and formalwear and such, they also had to show their Oxy pride and show off their best pick-up line and such. One guy ate 6 orange popsicles in 2 minutes (Oxy's colors are orange and black), and another guy had the greatest pick-up line I've ever heard. He went up to this girl, held up a quarter, and said, "I'll bet you a quarter I can kiss you without touching you." She said, "OK," and he gave her a long smooch. Then he smiled and gave her the quarter. Isn't that GREAT??? Oh, I laughed so much. If I was attractive, I would use that as often as I could.
We also went to one of the Oxy parties at one of the off-campus houses, but Kelly is right about dorm parties--they aren't much fun there. Just people sitting around and talking with a keg. At Stanford, most people are tipsy/drunk by the time they get to the parties, and then it is all loud music and dancing. And I don't usually like to dance because I am terrible at it and feel way too self-conscious when people are aware, but when everyone else is drunk, it is so freeing. I don't feel like anyone is looking at me or judging me, so I can do whatever I want. Not to say that I didn't have fun--I just could see why she didn't go to them every week, like I usually do with the frat parties here.
After that, I have been staying on-campus mostly. But I was exhausted after that string of excitement, so I am glad to get into the daily grind again. Two weekends ago, I went to this fun thing they have called Genderfuk, where people cross-dress and lip sync to songs. I got quite drunk and went with John (who cross-dressed and I did his make-up! I didn't cross dress because I couldn't find anything--no boy is as short as I am, I swear!) and we had a great time.
Sadly, the happiness was not to last. Two days after that, I came down with a stomach flu that was going around my dorm, and the night I came down with it was one of the worst nights in my life. I threw up about 5 times (I couldn't even keep down water) and ended up clogging my sink with vomit. My stomach felt like it was on fire. Then I slept for about 12 hours but woke up every few hours absolutely bathed in sweat, I think because my body was trying to break the fever. The next day when I woke up, though, I felt SO much better--just like I had a bad cold. So it was terrible, but not too prolonged.
Last weekend I had a party with the kids in my sophomore-college program and got tipsy off of two-buck Chuck (classy, I know) and went to a party at the hippie dorm, Chi Theta Chi, where they have gang co-ed showers and are the only dorm on campus that isn't run by university housing. They had a campfire out back, which was fun. The next night was one of the biggest parties of the year, Sunsplash at Sigma Nu, but I felt like I had drank a lot lately, so I was stone-cold sober. It was still fun, though, because they had three dance floors (including one outside under the stars) and I saw a lot of the people I knew.
What else? I am entering into the last two weeks of rehearsal for my dorm musical, "Guys and Dolls." I am not exactly the star, but I get to dance around in lingerie and have a small speaking part. It is quite deja vu for me, though, because we did this play my senior year of high school, and it takes me back to that time in my life a lot, and has made me realize how much I have changed since that time. I feel so much more confident and sure of myself now, and have so much more social grace around boys. Most of my closest friends are boys and I have very few girl friends. I'm not sure this is a good thing, but it shows I've matured, right? Now I don't feel like every boy is a potential crush object and I feel slightly more desirable around the straight ones.
But yes, the prospect of me dancing around in lingerie onstage makes me sweat a bit, so I have been dieting a lot. The thing I am the most worried about is not being able to remember the dance steps because I'm so nervous, but I know I'll just have to practice them extra hard, even outside of official rehearsal. I'm just so terrible at dancing. I can't understand how anyone could be good at it. My arms, hips and legs feel like big sand bags attached to me that I have no control over whatsoever. I'm also not very in touch with my physical body. I am much more a cerebral person. I don't think people who can dance understand how hard it is for the rest of us. But I guess you could say that about anyone that posesses a talent, right? Like, I don't get people who can't curl their tongue. I mean, it's so easy! They ask you how to do it--well, you just CURL it! It seems like a knee-jerk reaction to me, while they are struggling, and I can't understand why they can't do it, or how to explain how exactly you do it to them, because it comes so easily to me.
I also recently applied to study abroad in Oxford, England, January to June of 2007, but I haven't heard back about my application yet. Cripes.
I finally know what I am doing this summer! I got into the Summerbridge program at my old high-school, where I'll be teaching disadvantaged middle schoolers from the Sacramento area for 8 weeks. I'll be teaching 7th-grade English. It will be hard (especially the being-at-school-by-7:30 AM part), but I am excited about it. Ever since I was 8 years old, I have wanted to be a teacher, but lately I have also wanted to be a writer/journalist, so I feel like this will let me experience being a real teacher so I can have a clearer idea of what I want to do as a job. And I love being a mentor to people. I really do. I have loved being a sophomore in a mostly freshman hall this year and having them ask me advice about classes and advisors and courses to take and sections and having them look up to me and ask me if something was done similarly last year or not. It makes me sad, because they all are finding out where they are living next year this week, and it makes me realize that they are going to be sophomores soon and know as much as I did at the start of last year. But they're my babies! I wish I could keep them my naive, unknowing little freshmen forever, asking me what sexiling and chasers are... or whether Full Moon on the Quad is really all it's cracked up to be... or what a Band Run is... but now I am just being my typical nostalgic self, so I'll stop. Sometimes it makes me sad, though. This has been one of the best years of my life, and I have grown so much as a person. Why does it all have to change?
Last weekend was the Kentucky Derby. I watched it with a boy in my dorm who is actually from Kentucky, and he was sooo adorable about it. He is this kind of cynical, jocky guy, but he got all choked up when they played "My Old Kentucky Home," and he got really into the race, because he had actually bet money on the horses online. And it was the most exciting race I've ever seen. They were all nose-to-nose and then Barbaro pulled away from the pack and won--by 6.5 lengths! That's the most any horse has won the Derby by since 1946! It reminds me of Secretariat! I am so watching Belmont and Preakness--maybe I can finally see a Triple Crown won in my lifetime! (No horse has won it since 1978.)
They also had this funny thing on the TV program where one of the broadcasters had bought an $1,000 mint julep. They asked why it was so expensive and the guy was like, "Well, we have ice from the Arctic Circle, sugar from the South Pacific, mint from Bangkok, and bourbon from right here in Kentucky, and then the cup is gold brushed with silver and a silver straw... and besides, you get about 20 sips out of it, so that's only $50 a sip." I was just laughing and laughing at how rich some people are, and then they said, "But it's for charity!" And I was like, "Oh, well, I guess it's OK, then," thinking the money would go to breast-cancer research or AIDS-stricken children in Africa or something. Then the guy said, "Yes, the charity that helps elderly race horses retire comfortably..." and I laughed again. Only in Kentucky. :)
Also, later that day, I was biking by the bookstore and in the lawn out in front of it, all these people (about 15) were dressed up in Civil War garb and I just stopped and stared and took a picture. "Why are you guys dressed up?" I asked. "Today's the Run for the Roses, Miss!" said this guy in a Confederate uniform in a Southern acccent, not breaking character for a second. I laughed and said, "Oh, the Kentucky Derby? Cool!" I think he was a little surprised that I knew what the "Run for the Roses" actually was, but you don't have a Kentucky-bred grandfather for nothing! (My grandparents have a Kentucky Derby party every year, because my grandfather went to high school in Louisville.) It was just so strange--I never found out what student group put this on, and it was like this little gaggle of people had come through a rip in the time-space continuum and plopped down on the Stanford University campus. It was especially cool because I have been thinking about "Gone with the Wind" a lot lately and wishing I could see it again. So Scarlett sort of came to me, in a way! :)
The next week is pretty much going to be swallowed up by rehearsal, but I got a special leave-of-absence on Sunday and am going to a Giants game with two nice boys from my poetry group. (See? Both boys!) I am excited, because they are the season tickets of my ridiculously wealthy uncle, so they are right by the dugout and really nice. Yay!
Yes, that is my exciting life so far. Finally got this monkey off my back! :)
-- Yours Truly
Current Mood: busy Current Music:"Falling" by Jonathan Grossman
OK, OK, I know I haven't updated in forever, and I will soon, but here's some of the words I learned last night while reading a particularly high-falluting story:
I was just amazed at the number of words I was able to look up in one night.
Also, my dad just taught me a new colloquial term that the high-school kids are using: hyphee (or hyphie.) It means crazy, kind of a West Coast version of crunk.
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frabelle's journal
hopeless yet somehow OK
chipper
depressed
numb
busy
apprehensive