Well, it's finally here: the last year my parents will have to pay college tuition (otherwise known as the year I graduate from college). I literally never thought the day would come.
In more exciting news, my friend Nate is headed to India today for a "away rotation" in his last semester of medical school. Read more at his blog: The Rickshaw Express
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Friday, 5 December 2008
White Christmas
Anyone who tells you that it snows in Missouri is lying.
Sure, it snows, but it's not real snow. The tiny wet flakes pierce your skin as they fall to the ground and dust the grass with a spilled salt look.
I have heard that it has been snowing a lot back home but I hope the Chicago skies save some of its large, fluffy flakes for me. I'll be home again in 12 days and the storyteller in me always hopes for a white Christmas.
Sure, it snows, but it's not real snow. The tiny wet flakes pierce your skin as they fall to the ground and dust the grass with a spilled salt look.
I have heard that it has been snowing a lot back home but I hope the Chicago skies save some of its large, fluffy flakes for me. I'll be home again in 12 days and the storyteller in me always hopes for a white Christmas.
Monday, 1 December 2008
I will never drink red again
So, I am back in CoMo. Back to my apartment, back to a queen sized bed (as opposed to the twin sized cocoon I sleep in in Western Springs) and back to college debauchery. When Laura and I returned to our William street home yesterday we were welcomed by a large splattering of fruit punch-colored vomit covering the sidewalk that we are forced to use to enter our house. How do we know it's vomit and not just fruit punch, well it ain't smooth.
To make matters worse, this morning I left my house, forgetting about the barf, and walked right onto it/slid over the frozen mess. In the real world will there be no barf to avoid when you want to come in and out of your house?
To make matters worse, this morning I left my house, forgetting about the barf, and walked right onto it/slid over the frozen mess. In the real world will there be no barf to avoid when you want to come in and out of your house?
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Hi Aunt Kim
So, my aunt may be the only person still reading my blog, nonetheless, Aunt Kim you deserve something to read. And because I had the probably the lamest day on planet earth, here is something I wrote a while back for my Intermediate Writing class about my voting experience. I thought this would make for more interesting reading:
Fallen leaves crunched under my flip-flops as I walked the four blocks to my polling place. It was November 4th, Election Day, but it sure didn't feel like it.
I gently shuffled through the piles of leaves blanketing the sidewalk. Looking down at my feet, as I usually do when I walk, I noticed that the leaves on the ground were intact. Usually at this time of the year, sidewalks and streets are covered with the remains of beautiful foliage that has been pounded into a brown dust. But no dust here, in fact some of the trees in Missouri have yet to even change color.
I think the temperature reached 75 degrees that fall day, but for my Chicago blood it might as well have been 105. Having taken only a few steps out the door, I regretted not grabbing my sunglasses. The sun was still bright at 3:00 p.m. At least I had swapped my jeans for shorts.
This unseasonably warm Election Day would eventually make the history books for more than one reason, but for me there was one historic first that super seeded all the rest: this was my first time voting in a presidential election.
Although I was registered to vote at home in Chicago’s Cook County, I filed a change of address form and became a registered voter in the state of Missouri. My vote mattered more here anyway. So, I was to vote at a local Lutheran church a few blocks away from my East Campus apartment. Convenient, especially since my friend Lisa was voting there also.
"I guess we picked the hilliest route," I said to Lisa as we trudged up Anthony Street. "You think?" she seemed to say with the raise of her eyebrows. There was no time for a verbal response in between her deep breaths. As the sidewalk narrowed from college students' unkempt lawns and overgrown bushes, I mechanically got behind her. At that moment, I realized I was glad I wasn’t alone. My overly sensitive self had secretly wanted someone to share the experience with.
At this point in our walk, my anticipation was palpable. As we drudged steadily up the hill, I felt like I was on a roller coaster climbing to its peak. I am typically a very anxious person; even the thought of a situation I am unfamiliar with will make me sick to my stomach. I think of it as a vastly magnified fear of the unknown and in the weeks preceding the election I had dreams, or rather nightmares, about voting. In one I got to a polling place and was handed a blank ballot, and no one would acknowledge that there was anything wrong with it. In another, people kept stopping me to talk and eventually my time ran out and the polling place closed- without my vote.
I’ll be the first to admit that this fear about voting is somewhat unjustified. After all, I went to public schools that served as polling places in my hometown, so I knew what they looked like. I knew they were extremely informal and actually really anticlimactic. However, when I thought about people voting in the hallways of my school what really stuck out was being told repeatedly to be quiet and not disturb the adults. Now, I would be that adult hoping for others' silence so I could make conscious and thoughtful decisions.
In reality, I didn't need silence to cast my ballot. My mind was made up months, probably even years ago.
As we approached the doorway to the church, Lisa paused for a moment. She looked at me and said, “I’m the one who’s with you your first time voting.” Yes, I nodded. “And you are always going to remember this moment.” I nodded again. And she’s right. I think this experience can definitely be classified as one of those rights of passage that will never really escape my memory.
When we walked inside, there was no line. I had heard of longer lines at Starbucks with people waiting for their free coffee. Nonetheless, I showed them my id and was given a ballot and a short explanation as to what to do. I couldn’t tell if my voting location just happened to be particularly efficient or if I had just come at a slow time, but there was nothing to be anxious about, or even really excited.
Instead, I did my patriotic duty, got a much sought after “I voted” sticker and walked out proud to be an American, just as the song suggests.
Fallen leaves crunched under my flip-flops as I walked the four blocks to my polling place. It was November 4th, Election Day, but it sure didn't feel like it.
I gently shuffled through the piles of leaves blanketing the sidewalk. Looking down at my feet, as I usually do when I walk, I noticed that the leaves on the ground were intact. Usually at this time of the year, sidewalks and streets are covered with the remains of beautiful foliage that has been pounded into a brown dust. But no dust here, in fact some of the trees in Missouri have yet to even change color.
I think the temperature reached 75 degrees that fall day, but for my Chicago blood it might as well have been 105. Having taken only a few steps out the door, I regretted not grabbing my sunglasses. The sun was still bright at 3:00 p.m. At least I had swapped my jeans for shorts.
This unseasonably warm Election Day would eventually make the history books for more than one reason, but for me there was one historic first that super seeded all the rest: this was my first time voting in a presidential election.
Although I was registered to vote at home in Chicago’s Cook County, I filed a change of address form and became a registered voter in the state of Missouri. My vote mattered more here anyway. So, I was to vote at a local Lutheran church a few blocks away from my East Campus apartment. Convenient, especially since my friend Lisa was voting there also.
"I guess we picked the hilliest route," I said to Lisa as we trudged up Anthony Street. "You think?" she seemed to say with the raise of her eyebrows. There was no time for a verbal response in between her deep breaths. As the sidewalk narrowed from college students' unkempt lawns and overgrown bushes, I mechanically got behind her. At that moment, I realized I was glad I wasn’t alone. My overly sensitive self had secretly wanted someone to share the experience with.
At this point in our walk, my anticipation was palpable. As we drudged steadily up the hill, I felt like I was on a roller coaster climbing to its peak. I am typically a very anxious person; even the thought of a situation I am unfamiliar with will make me sick to my stomach. I think of it as a vastly magnified fear of the unknown and in the weeks preceding the election I had dreams, or rather nightmares, about voting. In one I got to a polling place and was handed a blank ballot, and no one would acknowledge that there was anything wrong with it. In another, people kept stopping me to talk and eventually my time ran out and the polling place closed- without my vote.
I’ll be the first to admit that this fear about voting is somewhat unjustified. After all, I went to public schools that served as polling places in my hometown, so I knew what they looked like. I knew they were extremely informal and actually really anticlimactic. However, when I thought about people voting in the hallways of my school what really stuck out was being told repeatedly to be quiet and not disturb the adults. Now, I would be that adult hoping for others' silence so I could make conscious and thoughtful decisions.
In reality, I didn't need silence to cast my ballot. My mind was made up months, probably even years ago.
As we approached the doorway to the church, Lisa paused for a moment. She looked at me and said, “I’m the one who’s with you your first time voting.” Yes, I nodded. “And you are always going to remember this moment.” I nodded again. And she’s right. I think this experience can definitely be classified as one of those rights of passage that will never really escape my memory.
When we walked inside, there was no line. I had heard of longer lines at Starbucks with people waiting for their free coffee. Nonetheless, I showed them my id and was given a ballot and a short explanation as to what to do. I couldn’t tell if my voting location just happened to be particularly efficient or if I had just come at a slow time, but there was nothing to be anxious about, or even really excited.
Instead, I did my patriotic duty, got a much sought after “I voted” sticker and walked out proud to be an American, just as the song suggests.
Saturday, 18 October 2008
So, as it turns out senior year is actually really busy. So busy in fact that I haven't blogged in one month, which is terribly sad because I have had quite a few exciting developments in my soon-to-be-a-college-graduate world.
Last month, I had an interview with a recruiter from Southern Progress Corporation, which is the division of Time, Inc. that publishes Cooking Light, Heath, Southern Living, etc. Besides the magazines, this branch also has book publishing, advertising and web development divisions. The interview was an open interview that the J-school sets up so that students can meet recruiters hear more about the jobs/internships and then get their resume in someone's hands before the actual applications are due. The woman I met with was nothing but nice and made me really excited about their 6 month (paid) internships for post grads. I am applying for the graphic design internship, which in the past interns have been able to work with the art directors for different magazines. What an awesome opportunity. The only downfall, I would have to move to Alabama for 6 months... she did say it's near the beach though :)
This week, I found out I was accepted into the most competitive capstone in the magazine department of the J-School: Advanced Magazine Design. I was really nervous because I essentially came to Mizzou so that this would be my capstone, and last semester 40 students applied and only 16 got in. I didn't think I would find out for a couple of weeks, (I turned in my materials on Tuesday) but Thursday night I got an email that I was accepted! Very exciting for me!
Last month, I had an interview with a recruiter from Southern Progress Corporation, which is the division of Time, Inc. that publishes Cooking Light, Heath, Southern Living, etc. Besides the magazines, this branch also has book publishing, advertising and web development divisions. The interview was an open interview that the J-school sets up so that students can meet recruiters hear more about the jobs/internships and then get their resume in someone's hands before the actual applications are due. The woman I met with was nothing but nice and made me really excited about their 6 month (paid) internships for post grads. I am applying for the graphic design internship, which in the past interns have been able to work with the art directors for different magazines. What an awesome opportunity. The only downfall, I would have to move to Alabama for 6 months... she did say it's near the beach though :)
This week, I found out I was accepted into the most competitive capstone in the magazine department of the J-School: Advanced Magazine Design. I was really nervous because I essentially came to Mizzou so that this would be my capstone, and last semester 40 students applied and only 16 got in. I didn't think I would find out for a couple of weeks, (I turned in my materials on Tuesday) but Thursday night I got an email that I was accepted! Very exciting for me!
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Medical Miracle
Thank goodness I was sitting in the library yesterday so that I heard this:
There was a rather rude young man making an appointment (over the phone) with the student health center. He described his symptoms as "my throat. it hurts." He then must have gotten transferred to someone else because he repeated, "yeah, i need an appointment for my throat." After a brief pause he explained to the receptionist, "well, i've been drinking ice water to soothe it, but that didn't do anything."
Duh. What an idiot. And now everyone in Ellis Library knows you are an idiot too.
So for all of you that were looking for that cure-all for a sore throat, it's not ice water. Sorry.
There was a rather rude young man making an appointment (over the phone) with the student health center. He described his symptoms as "my throat. it hurts." He then must have gotten transferred to someone else because he repeated, "yeah, i need an appointment for my throat." After a brief pause he explained to the receptionist, "well, i've been drinking ice water to soothe it, but that didn't do anything."
Duh. What an idiot. And now everyone in Ellis Library knows you are an idiot too.
So for all of you that were looking for that cure-all for a sore throat, it's not ice water. Sorry.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Why I write
In my Intermediate Writing class we were asked to explain, in one to two pages, why we write. I thought my interpretation of how I got interested in writing might be interesting to others:
On a cold February morning, my mother was rushed to Hinsdale Hospital in Illinois to deliver her third daughter. In the most dramatic of fashion, I was ready to enter the world breach with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. While this is ordinarily a difficult pregnancy, and definitely was in 1987, my mother’s doctor was going to attempt to deliver me naturally. A small crowd of doctors, nurses and medical students gathered in the delivery room to watch the doctor perform this difficult procedure. Needless to say my mom was not happy with the audience, but the whole situation now seems rather fitting for the most dramatic of her daughters. Always the little performer, I consider this the first of many grand entrances.
As the youngest daughter in a family of three girls, I have been looking for my own voice since birth. With my sisters being almost polar opposites, the big question when I was growing up was whom I would be more like. To everyone else’s shock and surprise I developed as an exact hybrid of the two, not without my own drama and flair.
As a kid I loved to read and was extremely articulate at a young age. That, along with my petite size, was quite the sight. I thrived on the attention I received and from there my creativity only grew. I can remember narrating my actions in my head as I went through my day, and as my vocabulary grew even self-editing the little stories I created in my head.
Once I grew older, I found that writing came fairly easy to me, which was most likely a result of all my reading and story creation as a child. At some point in my childhood, I developed a great deal of stomach and chest pain that only increased as my oldest sister left for college and my other sister’s wild streak began to emerge. I found myself retreating inward. My extremely vocal and dramatic personality dwindled, and instead I found it easier to express myself in written words as opposed to spoken. In hindsight, my newfound introspection and anxiety triggered my interest in writing.
I was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome accompanied by lactose intolerance as a junior in high school. For those who are unfamiliar with IBS, it can only be controlled, never cured. Most of the treatment involves lifestyle and diet changes, including stress-management programs to control one of the major symptom triggers. At the time, my great stress release was the hours and hours of dance classes I was enrolled in. Not only did I love to perform, just as I had as a child, but I also loved the concentration and body awareness it required.
I had always danced, but developed a real passion for it as a high school sophomore. When I left for college, I not only lost my one sure-fire stress reliever, but also gained a great deal more stress. It wasn’t until I was encouraged to journal by both a doctor and a journalism professor that I finally got the hint. Although I journaled a bit in high school, I didn’t give it a fair shot until college. Most of the time it just helped me to clarify my thoughts and worries. Soon though, I realized how much I enjoyed looking back on not just particular situations, but the honest feelings that accompanied them.
Once I became comfortable with the idea that I was a decent writer, I began to let others in. I spent the last semester in London and kept a blog for family and friends to read. To my shock and amazement, I actually had quite a following. From other teachers at my mother’s school to my sisters’ friends reliving their own study abroad experiences, I got numerous emails about how much people were enjoying my writing, and if the continued praise and feedback isn’t a reason to keep writing, at this point, I don’t know what is.
On a cold February morning, my mother was rushed to Hinsdale Hospital in Illinois to deliver her third daughter. In the most dramatic of fashion, I was ready to enter the world breach with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. While this is ordinarily a difficult pregnancy, and definitely was in 1987, my mother’s doctor was going to attempt to deliver me naturally. A small crowd of doctors, nurses and medical students gathered in the delivery room to watch the doctor perform this difficult procedure. Needless to say my mom was not happy with the audience, but the whole situation now seems rather fitting for the most dramatic of her daughters. Always the little performer, I consider this the first of many grand entrances.
As the youngest daughter in a family of three girls, I have been looking for my own voice since birth. With my sisters being almost polar opposites, the big question when I was growing up was whom I would be more like. To everyone else’s shock and surprise I developed as an exact hybrid of the two, not without my own drama and flair.
As a kid I loved to read and was extremely articulate at a young age. That, along with my petite size, was quite the sight. I thrived on the attention I received and from there my creativity only grew. I can remember narrating my actions in my head as I went through my day, and as my vocabulary grew even self-editing the little stories I created in my head.
Once I grew older, I found that writing came fairly easy to me, which was most likely a result of all my reading and story creation as a child. At some point in my childhood, I developed a great deal of stomach and chest pain that only increased as my oldest sister left for college and my other sister’s wild streak began to emerge. I found myself retreating inward. My extremely vocal and dramatic personality dwindled, and instead I found it easier to express myself in written words as opposed to spoken. In hindsight, my newfound introspection and anxiety triggered my interest in writing.
I was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome accompanied by lactose intolerance as a junior in high school. For those who are unfamiliar with IBS, it can only be controlled, never cured. Most of the treatment involves lifestyle and diet changes, including stress-management programs to control one of the major symptom triggers. At the time, my great stress release was the hours and hours of dance classes I was enrolled in. Not only did I love to perform, just as I had as a child, but I also loved the concentration and body awareness it required.
I had always danced, but developed a real passion for it as a high school sophomore. When I left for college, I not only lost my one sure-fire stress reliever, but also gained a great deal more stress. It wasn’t until I was encouraged to journal by both a doctor and a journalism professor that I finally got the hint. Although I journaled a bit in high school, I didn’t give it a fair shot until college. Most of the time it just helped me to clarify my thoughts and worries. Soon though, I realized how much I enjoyed looking back on not just particular situations, but the honest feelings that accompanied them.
Once I became comfortable with the idea that I was a decent writer, I began to let others in. I spent the last semester in London and kept a blog for family and friends to read. To my shock and amazement, I actually had quite a following. From other teachers at my mother’s school to my sisters’ friends reliving their own study abroad experiences, I got numerous emails about how much people were enjoying my writing, and if the continued praise and feedback isn’t a reason to keep writing, at this point, I don’t know what is.
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