Summer camps are usually meant to bring fun and happiness to a child’s life, but for me, it was not so. I hated camp. My friend Natalie and I were so excited to be in unknown territory; meeting new people and making more great memories. Granted, that was before we were set to head out on our excursion.
When the time to leave my house and head off to Bible camp actually arrived, my 10-year-old mind turned into home-sickness central. I could barely look at my parents’ faces for fear of bursting into tears, and my favorite stuffed animal, Lumpie, was being grasped so tightly by my little hands that her beans may have gushed out.
After we reached the dreaded camp and got settled, my elementary-aged pride tried to hide the tears that wanted to spew out as I said adieu to my parents. What had possessed me to come to this awful and lonely place? The campground seemed like it was overtaken by mean and snobbish children, strange counselors, who at the time were having their own problems with counselor-to-counselor romances, and detestably disturbing bathrooms. I felt like those five days would be the longest of my life, and they more than likely were.
It started out normal enough, I suppose. Orientation time began and everyone was excited, nervous, and full of anticipation. I, however, felt like a visitation of that day’s lunch would soon appear. One feeling I shared with the other children was the noticeable sense of awkwardness which lingered in the air. The face of every child and counselor mirrored each other in judging glances. We then headed over to our assigned cabins once the groups were all formed. My friend Natalie, her friend Kaylee (we never got along), another girl (we’ll call her Debbie) and I stuck closely to each other like peanut butter and jelly.
After the four of us congregated together, we soon met the rest of our cabin mates. One girl reminded me of Joey from “Full House.” Another girl overplayed her maturity and acted like an aged 32-year-old. And yet, another girl reminded me of the Tasmanian devil.
Every night, the whole camp would come together for speakers, activities, and contests in one of the larger wooden buildings. Pew after pew was filled with our camp “family members,” yet I still felt like I was totally alone in this new world. To make matters even worse, all of the other children soon became annoyed with me because of my musical group knowledge. One of the nightly contests during chapel would be to identify which Christian band was being played. They would play a song for a couple seconds and then the guessing would begin. Apparently, I guessed correctly a few too many times.
Towards the end of the week during yet another contest, Debbie said, “Let me guess this time. I know what song they’re going to play and it’s by one of my favorite bands.” I said, “Sure, whatever. Go ahead and raise your hand.”
Feeling very annoyed with her by this point, I still raised my hand, thinking that the counselor wouldn’t pick me again after nights of being the only one guessing. Unfortunately, they did pick me again and not Debbie. This raised havoc on the home front.
“Why didn’t you let me guess,” Debbie said to me with a burst of anger.
“Well, I didn’t think they would pick me again. Besides, you would’ve been cheating anyway.”
My remark caused her to remain silent and I pretended like I was intently listening to the pastor’s message once again.
Another rather unsavory memory from my stay was the bathrooms. As I mentioned before, they were disturbing. They made us kids clean them once that week. I remember wondering if anyone had ever cleaned those dungeons before. Things were falling apart left and right, the wood was decaying, black mold was growing under the sinks ominously, and the floors were caked with a kind of baked-on sliminess due to infrequent and halfhearted cleaning regiments. The stench that radiated from these dwellings was a potpourri of waste and mildew and could be detected 10 feet from the doors. I never showered all week because of these soiled surroundings. I used the daily swim in the weedy lake as my method of hygiene instead. Unfortunately, I still had to visit that coven of crustiness for bathroom breaks and for the brushing of teeth.
The one moment I anticipated was letter time. I remember one boy in particular would get a letter from his “girlfriend” every day. He soon became popular because of those childish love notes. The letter I was waiting for was not from an elementary love, but from my parents. When I finally got the letter, I had a sense of relief. It ended up making me even more homesick than I already was.
On one of the last mornings, a rude awakening greeted two of my senses. I woke up to the sound and smell of sickliness. An unseemly stench entered my nostrils as I heard the regurgitating sounds of discomfort. I poked my head over my bunk and found the cause of my dismay. The wannabe 30-something was obviously suffering from the stomach flu and there was evidence all over the musty cabin. Our two counselors stood there with a bleak expression on their faces while they ordered everyone to stay in their beds. The contorted smell of barf alone made me want to hurl myself, so I went back to hiding under my thin covers to alleviate my disgust and to mentally add to my list of camp memories.
The jubilation I felt when I saw my parents again that joyous Saturday morning was astounding. The sunshine which painted the leaves with light seemed fitting for that day because everything seemed right in my world again. I was on my way towards home again in the safety of our familiar Audi.
When we got back to our home, I felt as though I would never leave my house again. For quite a few weeks, I didn’t. No sleepovers, no trips, nothing. I was content to be amongst my family, the glimmering lake, and my stuffed animals (Lumpie included).
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Stealing the Heart of the Season
Since Valentine’s Day is approaching, maybe I should start talking about Easter. I mean, come on; Easter will already be here in two to three months. We need to prepare. We need to buy plastic grass for our baskets filled with Cadbury Eggs and jelly beans before the world runs out.
Before you scoff at me for jumping too far ahead, please realize I was using extreme sarcasm.
Marketing and advertising strategies these days have grown to be annoying. Do we really need to see ghosts, skeletons and candy corn in August? Why can’t we let turkeys, Pilgrims and Native Americans enjoy their limelight without Rudolph hogging the stage three months prior to Thanksgiving? The only holiday I can think of that doesn’t overshadow the previous one is the Fourth of July. This must be because flags get more than one holiday to be admired.
As someone who starts planning what her next year’s Halloween costume will be by November 1st, you could say I am the worst of the worst when it comes to planning too far in advance. However, my love for wearing costumes and taking on different identities is the reasoning behind my hypocrisy, so give me a break.
Apart from that little side note, the point is this: How am I supposed to enjoy the preparation for the upcoming celebration when the holiday occurring five months later is being advertised?
When I was frolicking in Target in the teens of December, I was shocked and angered by the display of pink and red hearts which had overtaken two aisles by force. These shelves, which should have been displaying eggnog scented candles or fake pine trees, were tainted by Cupid’s presence.
The message I am attempting to embed in your brain is to enjoy each holiday for what it is and when it occurs. I ruined my season of Christmas music enjoyment by letting it seep into my brain too early. I did not carry through on my “no Christmas music is to be played until the day after Thanksgiving” rule, which in turn made it less special when the Christmas season officially began.
Enough about the other holidays though. It’s almost Valentine’s Day. Let’s savor the holiday of love, sweetness, and flirting. It is time to enjoy the rise of jewelry commercials, the abundance of stuffed bears that have recorded songs by Lionel Richie trapped in their innards, and the excess of chalky candies that have heart-warming messages like “Made4U” written with edible ink. It’s time for roses, not carnations; for Lindt chocolates, not Food Club; for frill, not grunge; for classic romantic comedies that display the acting skills of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. No Tim Burton films allowed. It’s an excuse to give guys and gals flirty Valentine’s without seeming like a creep.
So, go out and buy your Care Bear and Disney Princess Valentines (two of my favorite varieties), and please; send me one.
(Column published in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate)
Before you scoff at me for jumping too far ahead, please realize I was using extreme sarcasm.
Marketing and advertising strategies these days have grown to be annoying. Do we really need to see ghosts, skeletons and candy corn in August? Why can’t we let turkeys, Pilgrims and Native Americans enjoy their limelight without Rudolph hogging the stage three months prior to Thanksgiving? The only holiday I can think of that doesn’t overshadow the previous one is the Fourth of July. This must be because flags get more than one holiday to be admired.
As someone who starts planning what her next year’s Halloween costume will be by November 1st, you could say I am the worst of the worst when it comes to planning too far in advance. However, my love for wearing costumes and taking on different identities is the reasoning behind my hypocrisy, so give me a break.
Apart from that little side note, the point is this: How am I supposed to enjoy the preparation for the upcoming celebration when the holiday occurring five months later is being advertised?
When I was frolicking in Target in the teens of December, I was shocked and angered by the display of pink and red hearts which had overtaken two aisles by force. These shelves, which should have been displaying eggnog scented candles or fake pine trees, were tainted by Cupid’s presence.
The message I am attempting to embed in your brain is to enjoy each holiday for what it is and when it occurs. I ruined my season of Christmas music enjoyment by letting it seep into my brain too early. I did not carry through on my “no Christmas music is to be played until the day after Thanksgiving” rule, which in turn made it less special when the Christmas season officially began.
Enough about the other holidays though. It’s almost Valentine’s Day. Let’s savor the holiday of love, sweetness, and flirting. It is time to enjoy the rise of jewelry commercials, the abundance of stuffed bears that have recorded songs by Lionel Richie trapped in their innards, and the excess of chalky candies that have heart-warming messages like “Made4U” written with edible ink. It’s time for roses, not carnations; for Lindt chocolates, not Food Club; for frill, not grunge; for classic romantic comedies that display the acting skills of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. No Tim Burton films allowed. It’s an excuse to give guys and gals flirty Valentine’s without seeming like a creep.
So, go out and buy your Care Bear and Disney Princess Valentines (two of my favorite varieties), and please; send me one.
(Column published in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate)
Crimes of Beauty
Throughout history, various forms of makeup have popped up in every nation under God, very visible, with beauty and coverage for all. Makeup - I love it. However, many females hate the stuff and stay as far away from “getting dolled-up” as their feet can carry them.
Opinions on whether makeup is good or bad aside, I come to you this week with a little history lesson on a few of the more precarious beauty practices of the past. Questionable ingredients have caused homicides, deformities, and other ailments.
To show their pale pride, many men and women as far back as the first century relied on mercury and lead-based powders to make their beauty mark on the world. Centuries later, a French courtesan by the name of Kitty Fisher became a well-known example of lead poisoning after she died from using it a bit too frequently.
Unfortunately, that did not stop its usage. Areas in Asia also practiced these deadly habits. The white makeup Geishas used originally contained lead as well. They, along with European users, often experienced nausea, hair loss, blindness and other rather undesirable effects.
Ingredients like Arsenic were effective but not in quite the way users were anticipating. Signora Toffana had an infatuation with beauty products while living in Italy during the Renaissance. She created a substance known as Aqua Toffana, a type of facial powder that contained a generous amount of Arsenic (cr.middlebury.edu). She told her buyers to put it on immediately prior to seeing their partners. Hundreds of deformed women and 600 dead, Italian husbands later, Signora Toffana was sentenced to death for her crimes of beauty.
Atropa belladonna, a plant known for being severely toxic, was used to dilate women’s pupils. According to botanical.com, this plant was widely distributed and used mainly by Italian women for luminescent eyes. For some reason, it was seen as extremely attractive to have glossy eyes overtaken by one’s pupils. It also increased the heart rate and made focusing nearly impossible. Eventual blindness was inevitable. They knew it was poisonous, but they willingly blinded themselves, drop by drop.
So, why did these men and women put themselves through pain, deformities, and even death for the sake of beauty? Good question. I have no idea. Plautus, a Roman dramatist and philosopher wrote, "A woman without paint is like food without salt." In my opinion, that’s a little harsh. However, all throughout history people have gone to extreme lengths to look attractive.
Today’s version of painstaking beauty would, I suppose, mainly deal with plastic surgeries and injections, but reports of tattooed makeup causing infections have also been recorded. Some victims of the harmful effects of these toxic, so-called beauty aids may not have known what they were getting themselves into. Sadly, many were informed of their morbid futures yet continued to harm themselves due to their obsession with appearances.
Makeup should be used to express creativity and to enhance our already beautiful features, not to hide them or harm our bodies. So please, if you haven’t stopped your nasty little habit of wearing poisonous berry lipstick or your constant use of toxic eye drops that you brewed in your basement, stop now. There are much safer products made by people who somewhat care. Find them.
(Column published in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate)
Opinions on whether makeup is good or bad aside, I come to you this week with a little history lesson on a few of the more precarious beauty practices of the past. Questionable ingredients have caused homicides, deformities, and other ailments.
To show their pale pride, many men and women as far back as the first century relied on mercury and lead-based powders to make their beauty mark on the world. Centuries later, a French courtesan by the name of Kitty Fisher became a well-known example of lead poisoning after she died from using it a bit too frequently.
Unfortunately, that did not stop its usage. Areas in Asia also practiced these deadly habits. The white makeup Geishas used originally contained lead as well. They, along with European users, often experienced nausea, hair loss, blindness and other rather undesirable effects.
Ingredients like Arsenic were effective but not in quite the way users were anticipating. Signora Toffana had an infatuation with beauty products while living in Italy during the Renaissance. She created a substance known as Aqua Toffana, a type of facial powder that contained a generous amount of Arsenic (cr.middlebury.edu). She told her buyers to put it on immediately prior to seeing their partners. Hundreds of deformed women and 600 dead, Italian husbands later, Signora Toffana was sentenced to death for her crimes of beauty.
Atropa belladonna, a plant known for being severely toxic, was used to dilate women’s pupils. According to botanical.com, this plant was widely distributed and used mainly by Italian women for luminescent eyes. For some reason, it was seen as extremely attractive to have glossy eyes overtaken by one’s pupils. It also increased the heart rate and made focusing nearly impossible. Eventual blindness was inevitable. They knew it was poisonous, but they willingly blinded themselves, drop by drop.
So, why did these men and women put themselves through pain, deformities, and even death for the sake of beauty? Good question. I have no idea. Plautus, a Roman dramatist and philosopher wrote, "A woman without paint is like food without salt." In my opinion, that’s a little harsh. However, all throughout history people have gone to extreme lengths to look attractive.
Today’s version of painstaking beauty would, I suppose, mainly deal with plastic surgeries and injections, but reports of tattooed makeup causing infections have also been recorded. Some victims of the harmful effects of these toxic, so-called beauty aids may not have known what they were getting themselves into. Sadly, many were informed of their morbid futures yet continued to harm themselves due to their obsession with appearances.
Makeup should be used to express creativity and to enhance our already beautiful features, not to hide them or harm our bodies. So please, if you haven’t stopped your nasty little habit of wearing poisonous berry lipstick or your constant use of toxic eye drops that you brewed in your basement, stop now. There are much safer products made by people who somewhat care. Find them.
(Column published in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate)
Too Picky
The time for new beginnings has come upon us. A time where turning over a new leaf is encouraged by infomercials and ads promoting diets, exercise equipment, self-betterment books, and gym memberships. Whether your goal is to lose weight, be a better person, or just to stop picking at your nails, the first of the year is like a golden nugget of hope.
At first, the goals seem so attainable. Sadly, life often gets in the way and disrupts our zeal for bettering ourselves.
As with many troubles, this has happened to me before. In fact, this happens to me every year. Two years ago, I had a grand total of 33 New Year’s resolutions, and I could have written more. Thankfully, I refrained. I knew that would be, dare I say it, overkill.
One of my famous resolutions is to go to bed earlier. That has never worked. Once this past autumn, I went to bed at 10:30 p.m. and felt a wave of pride cascade over me. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone to bed so early. Unfortunately, like the majority of the college student population, my usual bedtime is around 2 a.m. New Year’s resolution number one: mission failed.
Another recurring ambition is to stop picking at my poor nails/hangnails/finger tips. My addiction has evolved. Beginning at the age of four, I started biting my nails down to stubs, causing them to bleed. Over time, the ends of my fingers looked like I had been boiling them in acid for two weeks. Raw, red, and repulsive, my poor hands have drawn much attention throughout the years. Eventually, I was a dualist. I not only bit my nails but I picked at them too. They have been infected many times. No biggie. Then, I became primarily a picker, which is the state I am in right now.
I am a masochist. I admit this is an addiction that I must overcome once and for all. I have tried slapping revolting serums on my fingertips many a time, but even those could not stop me. Still I picked on. There have been long periods where I have stopped this atrocious and painful habit, only to return to it again during stressful moments. I’m picking right now. Talk about being too picky. Support groups for nail pickers are not common in these parts.
As you can also deduce from this column, I have an obsession – a seemingly small matter of importance, but a colossal problem nonetheless. The picking of one’s nails and cuticles and everything surrounding them seems a trifle when compared to depressants, carcinogens, hallucinogens, and the like. But, I have self-diagnosed my dilemma to be that of a “subconscious nerviossant.”
While this New Year’s resolution is not solving world hunger, curing cancer, or discovering a way to scarf down chocolate and pizza without gaining an ounce, it is a resolution to be sure. The deadline: my future wedding, whenever and if ever that may be. The goal: to have beautifully delicate hands, so that when we take those pictures of our ring-adorned phalanges, I do not have to fear that Feir herself has hands that compare to those of a gremlin’s.
(Column published in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate)
At first, the goals seem so attainable. Sadly, life often gets in the way and disrupts our zeal for bettering ourselves.
As with many troubles, this has happened to me before. In fact, this happens to me every year. Two years ago, I had a grand total of 33 New Year’s resolutions, and I could have written more. Thankfully, I refrained. I knew that would be, dare I say it, overkill.
One of my famous resolutions is to go to bed earlier. That has never worked. Once this past autumn, I went to bed at 10:30 p.m. and felt a wave of pride cascade over me. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone to bed so early. Unfortunately, like the majority of the college student population, my usual bedtime is around 2 a.m. New Year’s resolution number one: mission failed.
Another recurring ambition is to stop picking at my poor nails/hangnails/finger tips. My addiction has evolved. Beginning at the age of four, I started biting my nails down to stubs, causing them to bleed. Over time, the ends of my fingers looked like I had been boiling them in acid for two weeks. Raw, red, and repulsive, my poor hands have drawn much attention throughout the years. Eventually, I was a dualist. I not only bit my nails but I picked at them too. They have been infected many times. No biggie. Then, I became primarily a picker, which is the state I am in right now.
I am a masochist. I admit this is an addiction that I must overcome once and for all. I have tried slapping revolting serums on my fingertips many a time, but even those could not stop me. Still I picked on. There have been long periods where I have stopped this atrocious and painful habit, only to return to it again during stressful moments. I’m picking right now. Talk about being too picky. Support groups for nail pickers are not common in these parts.
As you can also deduce from this column, I have an obsession – a seemingly small matter of importance, but a colossal problem nonetheless. The picking of one’s nails and cuticles and everything surrounding them seems a trifle when compared to depressants, carcinogens, hallucinogens, and the like. But, I have self-diagnosed my dilemma to be that of a “subconscious nerviossant.”
While this New Year’s resolution is not solving world hunger, curing cancer, or discovering a way to scarf down chocolate and pizza without gaining an ounce, it is a resolution to be sure. The deadline: my future wedding, whenever and if ever that may be. The goal: to have beautifully delicate hands, so that when we take those pictures of our ring-adorned phalanges, I do not have to fear that Feir herself has hands that compare to those of a gremlin’s.
(Column published in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate)
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