Sunday, November 29, 2009
Bathroom etiquette
I would like to think of myself as a fairly standard bathroom user. Possibly even an advanced bathroom user (as evidenced by my impressive ability to change the roll). What has become evident to me is that I somehow developed these skills in a vacuum, as my family members appear somewhat mystified by the proper use of each apparatus found in the small room. Exhibit A: The toilet paper roll. This is a fairly standard complaint and as such needs no further comment. Exhibit B: toothpaste all over the bathroom. I don't just mean the sink, I mean the sink, the countertops, the floor, and the shower. Apparently, someone was bathing a coked-up ADHD basset hound with Crest Ultrawhitening in my bathroom. But I saved my best piece of evidence for last. And this probably would have escaped my attention but for the ramifications it had on my cat. Earlier today, my extremely well-behaved and well-kitty box trained cat peed in the bathtub. As I sat, considering the possible sins I may have committed in a past life to deserve the day I had, my husband shouts from the other room: "You know, it says online that cats usually only do that if they notice that other creatures in the house have been using the tub that way." Hmmm....well, there's me and my husband, who were not raised in a cave by bears and are well initiated into the mysteries of proper bathroom use, and the one pet, Ms. Titters, whose guilt slowly circled down the drain. So that would leave one or all of the family members who visited last weekend to celebrate Thanksgiving and the liberating feeling letting it all hang out in someone else's shower. Jesus jumping Christ. All I know is, I'm going home for Christmas, and the revenge is going to be sweet.
School rant, version 1.0
Sometimes things happen in graduate programs that make you really question the decision to come to a program:
Things that should mean automatic rejection from grad school (AKA Things that may or may not have actually happened while I worked in Admissions):
Abbreviating your city or street name on applications, or using a scrawl that more closely resembles satanic symbols than your own native language, so that I have to spend 10 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out where the hell to send your application. But it doesn't matter, you're not getting in anyway. Might as well save the stamp for your porn magazine order form. They might actually be willing to look up your address.
Bringing parents to your admissions meetings and/or letting your parents do all the talking while you sit and look bored. So sorry all this talk about opportunities that are only available to a minuscule portion of the population bores you. Let's fix it by tossing you from a top floor window. At that point it's always classy to wish the parents better luck with their next child, or alternately, offer them pamphlets on sterilization.
Asking our admissions office to transfer you to the admissions department of another school. We are not an answering service, we are a business. If you call Lowe's and ask to be transferred to The Home Depot, they will likely come to your house and pin you to the fence with a staple gun. We are legally obligated to follow suit.
Sending form emails or letters in which you were too lazy to change the name of the school. I'm so glad you're excited to apply to the University of Illinois. I'm excited to put your application at the bottom of my bird's cage and watch him take a shit on your already abysmal GPA.
Bringing parents to the interview day. Most of us had the placenta severed about 45 seconds after birth. Having failed that, you continued on a path of failure that will inevitably end in a quiet death some place cold, damp and alone.
Submitting narrative grades. I'm sorry the current educational system is as deeply flawed as it is, I truly am. However, all your narrative grades prove is that you're a nice poo-baby who needs a ream of paper to describe to you not only that you truly are sub-average, but expound on the myriad ways in which you do not measure up.
Putting a fake phone number on your contact sheet. 1-234-456-7890? Really? Wow. Fortunately, I had nothing to call you about anyway, as you will not be getting in to grad school.
Applying to a Masters-level or Doctoral program when you do not have, and are not in the process of earning, a Bachelor's degree. I suppose you may not be able to see this particular red flag in the face of all the other red flags that are waving due to your impossibly ridiculous life, so I'll just give you a heads up on that one.
Rolling your eyes when asked to respond the writing sample prompt. Yes, you do have to give a writing sample. Yes, grammar and spelling do count. I would love to hear the rationale behind NOT taking into consideration grammar and spelling on a writing sample. It seems somewhat analogous to: "It's a urine sample, but don't worry! We're not looking for drugs or anything strange. We *really* just want a cup of your piss."
Writing on your form that you would like to begin your studies in the Spring of 2009. Get a calendar. Better yet, drink this kool-aid.
Submitting your application to a doctoral program 2 weeks before the start of the term and expecting to get in. Some people spend the better part of a year gathering their admissions materials, picking out schools, and making important decisions. But hey, we should shove them aside for you, a half-wit who woke up naked in someone else's basement, smoked a bowl and said "Fuck it, I'm going to grad school!" Makes perfect sense.
Bringing parents to your tour of the school. This could almost be forgiven unless (and this actually happened) you happen to be pregnant and your parent decides quell the upsurge of congratulations and smiles by somberly informing everyone that it is a "mixed baby." Perhaps the student in that case could be admitted, but only with the understanding that she should never speak to her parents again. It's what's best.
Having something stupid on your voicemail. Do NOT sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" in your voicemail message. In fact, I would advise you to worry very much about the fact that your inability to produce even 30 seconds of appropriate utterances for a voicemail message may doom you to a life of waitressing at bad titty bars.
Repeatedly calling the admissions office to ask mundane questions that could either be answered by A) reading the materials you've already been sent or B) taking 30 seconds to stop talking, grow a pair and actually make a decision. I am not your mother. I will not make this decision for you. Even though she and I may share the same general loathing for your existence and a deep-seated shame that we occupy the same planet, we are not, in fact, the same person. Nut up.
Ringback tones. Your music sucks. Most people listen to those songs quietly, in a bathroom with the fan on so their friends--should they be so lucky--don't know they listen to music that sucks that bad. You choose to broadcast it over your phone. Interesting choice.
Arguing with an admissions counselor about whether you need letters of recommendation. You do. You may not be able to get them because of your rampant assholery, but that's a moot point. You're not getting in anyway.
Things that should mean automatic rejection from grad school (AKA Things that may or may not have actually happened while I worked in Admissions):
Abbreviating your city or street name on applications, or using a scrawl that more closely resembles satanic symbols than your own native language, so that I have to spend 10 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out where the hell to send your application. But it doesn't matter, you're not getting in anyway. Might as well save the stamp for your porn magazine order form. They might actually be willing to look up your address.
Bringing parents to your admissions meetings and/or letting your parents do all the talking while you sit and look bored. So sorry all this talk about opportunities that are only available to a minuscule portion of the population bores you. Let's fix it by tossing you from a top floor window. At that point it's always classy to wish the parents better luck with their next child, or alternately, offer them pamphlets on sterilization.
Asking our admissions office to transfer you to the admissions department of another school. We are not an answering service, we are a business. If you call Lowe's and ask to be transferred to The Home Depot, they will likely come to your house and pin you to the fence with a staple gun. We are legally obligated to follow suit.
Sending form emails or letters in which you were too lazy to change the name of the school. I'm so glad you're excited to apply to the University of Illinois. I'm excited to put your application at the bottom of my bird's cage and watch him take a shit on your already abysmal GPA.
Bringing parents to the interview day. Most of us had the placenta severed about 45 seconds after birth. Having failed that, you continued on a path of failure that will inevitably end in a quiet death some place cold, damp and alone.
Submitting narrative grades. I'm sorry the current educational system is as deeply flawed as it is, I truly am. However, all your narrative grades prove is that you're a nice poo-baby who needs a ream of paper to describe to you not only that you truly are sub-average, but expound on the myriad ways in which you do not measure up.
Putting a fake phone number on your contact sheet. 1-234-456-7890? Really? Wow. Fortunately, I had nothing to call you about anyway, as you will not be getting in to grad school.
Applying to a Masters-level or Doctoral program when you do not have, and are not in the process of earning, a Bachelor's degree. I suppose you may not be able to see this particular red flag in the face of all the other red flags that are waving due to your impossibly ridiculous life, so I'll just give you a heads up on that one.
Rolling your eyes when asked to respond the writing sample prompt. Yes, you do have to give a writing sample. Yes, grammar and spelling do count. I would love to hear the rationale behind NOT taking into consideration grammar and spelling on a writing sample. It seems somewhat analogous to: "It's a urine sample, but don't worry! We're not looking for drugs or anything strange. We *really* just want a cup of your piss."
Writing on your form that you would like to begin your studies in the Spring of 2009. Get a calendar. Better yet, drink this kool-aid.
Submitting your application to a doctoral program 2 weeks before the start of the term and expecting to get in. Some people spend the better part of a year gathering their admissions materials, picking out schools, and making important decisions. But hey, we should shove them aside for you, a half-wit who woke up naked in someone else's basement, smoked a bowl and said "Fuck it, I'm going to grad school!" Makes perfect sense.
Bringing parents to your tour of the school. This could almost be forgiven unless (and this actually happened) you happen to be pregnant and your parent decides quell the upsurge of congratulations and smiles by somberly informing everyone that it is a "mixed baby." Perhaps the student in that case could be admitted, but only with the understanding that she should never speak to her parents again. It's what's best.
Having something stupid on your voicemail. Do NOT sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" in your voicemail message. In fact, I would advise you to worry very much about the fact that your inability to produce even 30 seconds of appropriate utterances for a voicemail message may doom you to a life of waitressing at bad titty bars.
Repeatedly calling the admissions office to ask mundane questions that could either be answered by A) reading the materials you've already been sent or B) taking 30 seconds to stop talking, grow a pair and actually make a decision. I am not your mother. I will not make this decision for you. Even though she and I may share the same general loathing for your existence and a deep-seated shame that we occupy the same planet, we are not, in fact, the same person. Nut up.
Ringback tones. Your music sucks. Most people listen to those songs quietly, in a bathroom with the fan on so their friends--should they be so lucky--don't know they listen to music that sucks that bad. You choose to broadcast it over your phone. Interesting choice.
Arguing with an admissions counselor about whether you need letters of recommendation. You do. You may not be able to get them because of your rampant assholery, but that's a moot point. You're not getting in anyway.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Funerals: A great place to spark up
Not until a funeral do you really get the full flavor of family dysfunction. Nothing like a little anomie to throw a bit of spice into the stories you get to tell to your friends at a more socially acceptable later date. Or maybe on a blog. So there I was, dressed in my funeral best (which, I might add, is also my conference best, presentation best, and general purpose awkward family gathering best), for my grandfather's funeral when my cousin K comments how all of the female cousins get better looking every year. Pause here to experience the awkwardness in its full glory. Got it? Good. So then off to the funeral we go. Before the services, we peruse the floral arrangements, gossiping about who sent flowers and who did not and what nefarious reasons underlie their obvious refusal to acknowledge and honor the occasion. Bastards! This is an important step in the grieving process, apparently. At the service I sat next to my grandmother, who has the blessing of dementia on her side. At one point, my grandmother turns to me and asks if I knew the deceased. I have a moment to consider my options before replying honestly. "Ah," she said. "Did I know him too?" "Yeah, I think so." "Oh...well that is sad." "Yep." It is a moment that makes me believe for a second we are drinking beer in an alley, A la King of the Hill, rather than sitting in a poorly appointed funeral parlor.
But the best piece of any Midwestern family gathering is always the reception afterward, and this one did not fail to disappoint. Mysterious jellos and puddings of all varieties adorned counter and tabletops as we stacked plates with cold meats and other church-lady fare. As we all took our places, cousins filtering into one room with other family members migrating to other rooms, the most interesting and completely inappropriate conversations ensue--Again, lead by the intrepid cousin K. For a few moments we are regaled with the 30-second Bunny Theatre version of events which landed his older brother in prison, or as K likes to call it, "some sort of day camp." You know, the day camp they send convicted felons to. Where you get to wear stripes and choose the bitch that best suits your personality. Perhaps even a shiv-making class in the afternoons, if your behavior at "camp" awards such privileges. But if you thought the fun and games would end there, you're in a rare bit of luck. The discussion evolved (devolved, perhaps?) into the pros and cons of heroin and methamphetamine use. Now, we didn't dive into this conversation lightly. Thirty-something year old Cousin K made all the necessary safety checks by looking over his shoulder to make sure is mother could not hear his rhapsodies about the substances. He must be the smart cousin. Participating also in the conversation was Cousin T, whose auditory hallucinations, delusions, unusual thinking and flat affect have given rise to many a family conversation about the need for her to pray more often. Cousins K and T, who enjoyed quite the heroin-addled tear in the mid-1990s, ended the conversation with each staring wistfully off into a corner, wondering (out loud) where they could find "the good stuff" like they used to. (Especially now that their source is in day camp).
Escaping to the garage to find desserts for the family members who were fortunate enough to miss out on that conversation, I find myself once again in the presence of Cousin K. Distant warning bells, the kinds that let our ancestors know that whatever is making that rustling noise in the bushes isn't a surprise birthday party, began to ring. "So do you, like, imbibe?" I stick my head into the fridge farther, pretending to be really interested in the particles lost and floating in the sea of red jello. "'Cuz I know a guy who lives down the street a ways. You could drive us over there." Hmmm...that last part was a pretty good sales pitch. I mean come on, I could blow off my entire family at my grandfather's funeral to go buy drugs with my convicted felon cousin who made a pass at me earlier in the day. And I would get to be the get away driver! Temptations abound. Spooning mystery pudding onto a plate and wondering what my Chicago life was doing without me at that moment, I brace myself to turn around. "Well, umm....that sounds good and all, but I think I'm going to stick with my current plan of delivering this pudding to grandma. But thanks, really, for thinking of me." I leave him with his puzzled look, fighting the urge to lock the door once inside the house and tell everyone he was eaten by jello microbes.
And that's not even including the part where my mom couldn't tell me from my sister (who is seven years younger, 6 inches taller, 50 pounds lighter, and a brunette) in the family photos. Oh families.
But the best piece of any Midwestern family gathering is always the reception afterward, and this one did not fail to disappoint. Mysterious jellos and puddings of all varieties adorned counter and tabletops as we stacked plates with cold meats and other church-lady fare. As we all took our places, cousins filtering into one room with other family members migrating to other rooms, the most interesting and completely inappropriate conversations ensue--Again, lead by the intrepid cousin K. For a few moments we are regaled with the 30-second Bunny Theatre version of events which landed his older brother in prison, or as K likes to call it, "some sort of day camp." You know, the day camp they send convicted felons to. Where you get to wear stripes and choose the bitch that best suits your personality. Perhaps even a shiv-making class in the afternoons, if your behavior at "camp" awards such privileges. But if you thought the fun and games would end there, you're in a rare bit of luck. The discussion evolved (devolved, perhaps?) into the pros and cons of heroin and methamphetamine use. Now, we didn't dive into this conversation lightly. Thirty-something year old Cousin K made all the necessary safety checks by looking over his shoulder to make sure is mother could not hear his rhapsodies about the substances. He must be the smart cousin. Participating also in the conversation was Cousin T, whose auditory hallucinations, delusions, unusual thinking and flat affect have given rise to many a family conversation about the need for her to pray more often. Cousins K and T, who enjoyed quite the heroin-addled tear in the mid-1990s, ended the conversation with each staring wistfully off into a corner, wondering (out loud) where they could find "the good stuff" like they used to. (Especially now that their source is in day camp).
Escaping to the garage to find desserts for the family members who were fortunate enough to miss out on that conversation, I find myself once again in the presence of Cousin K. Distant warning bells, the kinds that let our ancestors know that whatever is making that rustling noise in the bushes isn't a surprise birthday party, began to ring. "So do you, like, imbibe?" I stick my head into the fridge farther, pretending to be really interested in the particles lost and floating in the sea of red jello. "'Cuz I know a guy who lives down the street a ways. You could drive us over there." Hmmm...that last part was a pretty good sales pitch. I mean come on, I could blow off my entire family at my grandfather's funeral to go buy drugs with my convicted felon cousin who made a pass at me earlier in the day. And I would get to be the get away driver! Temptations abound. Spooning mystery pudding onto a plate and wondering what my Chicago life was doing without me at that moment, I brace myself to turn around. "Well, umm....that sounds good and all, but I think I'm going to stick with my current plan of delivering this pudding to grandma. But thanks, really, for thinking of me." I leave him with his puzzled look, fighting the urge to lock the door once inside the house and tell everyone he was eaten by jello microbes.
And that's not even including the part where my mom couldn't tell me from my sister (who is seven years younger, 6 inches taller, 50 pounds lighter, and a brunette) in the family photos. Oh families.
It is witty?
Really witty? An important distinction between a question and a statement. And perhaps, between sentence fragments and real sentences. But I digress. This is where my fingers tapdance their way through the things in my life that make me stop and say, "Huh...this really just happened to me." Enjoy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)