This past weekend, I spent my Friday night taking what I would call a skate down memory lane. Though I know I have been to this place before (or so my mother says), I do not have any recollection of it.
Skateland. Oh, what a place! As soon as I walked through the front doors I was whisked away to simpler times by the atmosphere of decades past. The lobby smelled like smelly feet and mildew unsuccessfully masked by the aroma of Applejack potpourri spray. The carpet had a regurgitation of geometric shapes reminiscent of bygone days. A few of the ceiling tiles had water damage which seemed like age spots on a once youthful face. To top it off, they still accept checks but not debit or credit cards.
Accompanied by Angie, one of my sweetest and most enjoyable friends, we opened the large red doors after paying by check and entered a portal to the past. It was like I was four again or an adult version of myself in an earlier generation. I felt like I could have been on an episode of “Saved by the Bell.” The only thing missing was a human look-a-like of a Ken doll and Screech.
We grabbed our skates and headed toward a bench to tie up the laces of our beige roller skates with pride. I originally had more confidence in my skating skills since I know how to shave the ice with hockey skates, but reality hit me as soon as I tried walking towards the roller rink. I felt like a toddler on wheels, a dangerous combination.
While surveying the area after I was somewhat stable on my skates, I noticed the rink had a large population of little boys and girls supervised by their loving parents and two roller refs. There was also a surprising array of high school boys passing us on their roller blades. However, our main concern dealt with the lonely men of the FM area who have nothing to do on Friday nights but to roller skate by themselves with the hope of impressing fast (on roller skates, that is) women.
One man in particular was obviously a regular. His ponytail, which exceeded my own by a foot, was tied back like any responsible sportsman to ensure visibility on the fast track. He towered over us as he asked me whether or not I was going to join the limbo contest, which I would have if wheels weren’t involved and if the competition would have been taller than four feet. After trying to strike up a few more conversations with us, he whizzed by backwards as he gave me helpful tidbits of advice that I never followed. He displayed his skating skills like it was a male mating call. This forced us to put our ignoring abilities on high.
After 45 more minutes of Angie and me trying to zone him out while we became accustomed to roller skating and avoiding the collapsing kids surrounding our every move, we noticed a little drama on the opposite side. Our skating stalker was keeled over and a large mass of nine-year-old girls and two adults were trying to aid him in his time of need. The word on the rink was that he had to jump over a fallen child which forced him to land in a painful and precarious manner. He had to sit on the sidelines after that scrape. That daring deed escalated his coolometer to hero level in the eyes of all Skateland kiddies. “To skate and protect” is surely a motto to stand by.
Though I do not wish sprained ankles (or whatever happened to him) upon anyone, it was especially enjoyable being there after that occurrence without the obtrusive advice from that pony-tailed predator.
Published April 21, 2011 in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Indecent Exposure
NOTE: This was for The Advocate's SPOOF Edition...
We’ve all seen it; skirts barely able to cover your derriere and tops that hardly hide your bosom. Fashion no longer has reason to exist because mere scraps of clothe used to cover the most private of areas cannot be considered clothing in any universe. The need for such nicknames as whale-tails and muffin-tops are a sure sign of how polluted our brains have become due to the necessity of having to name such occurrences.
Men sporting v-necks are showing off their chest hair, or lack-of. Their pants are practically on the ground highlighting whether each man prefers boxers or briefs, maybe as a sort of personality profile on what they particularly like. Some even dare to sport penny loafers with bundled up skinny jeans which highlight their bony ankles and calves.
Indecent exposure is a daily occurrence and can be seen on every corner of this campus, which is why we are in dire need of a dress-code.
Imagine how glorious it would be if we never had to worry about seeing these detestable sights. With the way things currently are, one can barely walk out their front door without witnessing immodesty. However, if there was a dress-code enforced by the Public Safety officers, professors and the like, everything would be fixed. Our eyes would once again be untainted.
I propose a few suggestions. From Nov. 1 through April 1, all students and faculty would be required to wear loosely fitted turtlenecks and wide-legged pants that go up past your bellybutton. Close-toed shoes (preferably black or brown with slip-grip) with a heel not exceeding one inch and knee-length socks would also be required to ensure complete coverage.
Makeup is a matter that needs no discussion. It shouldn’t even exist. Everyone should be seen as who they really are without bells or whistles. This will promote confidence in young women which will be seen on grade reports and first dates.
Things such as makeup give women an excuse to hide behind a mask, which in turn makes them vainer and more self-conscious at the very same time. Makeup requires women to check their grease levels much too frequently in little handheld mirrors. Makeup also enables men to be even shallower than they already are and base opinions of women on only face value. Plain Jane should be the name of the game.
Hair should also be changed for the better. No strands should be untidy, no pieces blowing in the breeze as if you are modeling for Tresemme.
The closer we look like each other the easier and more manageable life will become. Many think this would stifle individuality, but on the contrary; it would highlight each other’s differences because our true selves would not be hidden underneath distracting makeup and fashion. Cover yourselves from top to bottom with a cascade of confidence by not adhering to foul fashion!
Published April 14, 2011 in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate - Spoof Edition.
We’ve all seen it; skirts barely able to cover your derriere and tops that hardly hide your bosom. Fashion no longer has reason to exist because mere scraps of clothe used to cover the most private of areas cannot be considered clothing in any universe. The need for such nicknames as whale-tails and muffin-tops are a sure sign of how polluted our brains have become due to the necessity of having to name such occurrences.
Men sporting v-necks are showing off their chest hair, or lack-of. Their pants are practically on the ground highlighting whether each man prefers boxers or briefs, maybe as a sort of personality profile on what they particularly like. Some even dare to sport penny loafers with bundled up skinny jeans which highlight their bony ankles and calves.
Indecent exposure is a daily occurrence and can be seen on every corner of this campus, which is why we are in dire need of a dress-code.
Imagine how glorious it would be if we never had to worry about seeing these detestable sights. With the way things currently are, one can barely walk out their front door without witnessing immodesty. However, if there was a dress-code enforced by the Public Safety officers, professors and the like, everything would be fixed. Our eyes would once again be untainted.
I propose a few suggestions. From Nov. 1 through April 1, all students and faculty would be required to wear loosely fitted turtlenecks and wide-legged pants that go up past your bellybutton. Close-toed shoes (preferably black or brown with slip-grip) with a heel not exceeding one inch and knee-length socks would also be required to ensure complete coverage.
Makeup is a matter that needs no discussion. It shouldn’t even exist. Everyone should be seen as who they really are without bells or whistles. This will promote confidence in young women which will be seen on grade reports and first dates.
Things such as makeup give women an excuse to hide behind a mask, which in turn makes them vainer and more self-conscious at the very same time. Makeup requires women to check their grease levels much too frequently in little handheld mirrors. Makeup also enables men to be even shallower than they already are and base opinions of women on only face value. Plain Jane should be the name of the game.
Hair should also be changed for the better. No strands should be untidy, no pieces blowing in the breeze as if you are modeling for Tresemme.
The closer we look like each other the easier and more manageable life will become. Many think this would stifle individuality, but on the contrary; it would highlight each other’s differences because our true selves would not be hidden underneath distracting makeup and fashion. Cover yourselves from top to bottom with a cascade of confidence by not adhering to foul fashion!
Published April 14, 2011 in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate - Spoof Edition.
It's Always a Good Time to Care
With roughly 21 full school days left to complete before our joyful hearts depart from school for the summer, parents should start thinking about what their darling children (ages 18 and up) need in their care packages before finals.
I saw my mother today and she brought me thoughtful and useful goods. Resting in this grocery bag of love was special tea for soothing sore throats (such as mine), shake mix, a few freshly washed items of clothing, a devotional and homemade gingersnaps. She gave me a care package and it’s not even close to finals yet. My heart was warmed.
If your parents are too busy to put together sweet necessities or just don’t want to, they can venture the internet in search of provisional gifts. Many sites are devoted to aiding the poor – the poor college students in people’s lives, of course. Sites such as hipkits.com, boxobo.com, from-mom.com among others are devoted to comforting the collegiate.
After visiting one of these sites, I entered a previously unknown dimension of pre-packaged kindness. If your ma is too busy to make one for you herself, all she has to do is spend hours deciding which package best fits your needs. “Would he prefer the Passover or Get Well kit? No. Maybe I should get him the April Fool’s package. Ugh. I don’t know!”
For exam time, there’s a kit called the Exam Cram which claims to include “Tools, treats, and tips for the final crunch.” It consists of copious amounts of “caffeine, sugar, vitamin C, quick healthy snacks, cool stress relief toys, inspirational messages, plus some practical supplies.” In the picture, a slinky was shown. That toy alone is worth the $39.97 (plus tax). With any luck, a sticker saying, “You rock!” “You go girl!” or “Hey, smarty pants!” would be included as well. Maybe the inspirational messages would say heart-warming phrases like, “You can do it!” or, “You better do it.”
Instead of doing homework, a new form of procrastination is also available: cleaning. If you aren’t exactly a clean freak, your parents could send you a kit devoted to inspiring cleanliness. If you already are a clean freak, this array of cleaning goods would make you the happiest kid on the block. Since I already revert to cleaning as a form of escapism, I would enjoy this kit greatly.
At first glance, I was a little disturbed by the “Sealed with a Kiss” care package. With items such as a Passion Journal, a Love Duckie and hot chocolate titled “Cocoa Amore” I started getting a little uncomfortable. It was then that I read the fine print advising to send this package to boyfriends/girlfriends, husbands/wives and the like. Good, because I’d get a little nervous if someone’s parents were buying them books on “The Art of Kissing,” as is included in this passionate package.
The Wall Street Journal named Hip Kits as the best care package producer because of the overall quality and price, so spread the news to your elders if you desire kindness in a box.
Personally, I would find any of these boxes intriguing and sweet, but I prefer the sweet thoughtfulness my mother thinks of herself. My mom made those gingersnaps for me. She knows I suffer from sore throats almost daily. She knows I love nutrition shakes.
She also knows I don’t have finals right now, but she cares so much she brought these items to me anyway. That’s what I call a care package.
Published March 31, 2011 for MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate.
I saw my mother today and she brought me thoughtful and useful goods. Resting in this grocery bag of love was special tea for soothing sore throats (such as mine), shake mix, a few freshly washed items of clothing, a devotional and homemade gingersnaps. She gave me a care package and it’s not even close to finals yet. My heart was warmed.
If your parents are too busy to put together sweet necessities or just don’t want to, they can venture the internet in search of provisional gifts. Many sites are devoted to aiding the poor – the poor college students in people’s lives, of course. Sites such as hipkits.com, boxobo.com, from-mom.com among others are devoted to comforting the collegiate.
After visiting one of these sites, I entered a previously unknown dimension of pre-packaged kindness. If your ma is too busy to make one for you herself, all she has to do is spend hours deciding which package best fits your needs. “Would he prefer the Passover or Get Well kit? No. Maybe I should get him the April Fool’s package. Ugh. I don’t know!”
For exam time, there’s a kit called the Exam Cram which claims to include “Tools, treats, and tips for the final crunch.” It consists of copious amounts of “caffeine, sugar, vitamin C, quick healthy snacks, cool stress relief toys, inspirational messages, plus some practical supplies.” In the picture, a slinky was shown. That toy alone is worth the $39.97 (plus tax). With any luck, a sticker saying, “You rock!” “You go girl!” or “Hey, smarty pants!” would be included as well. Maybe the inspirational messages would say heart-warming phrases like, “You can do it!” or, “You better do it.”
Instead of doing homework, a new form of procrastination is also available: cleaning. If you aren’t exactly a clean freak, your parents could send you a kit devoted to inspiring cleanliness. If you already are a clean freak, this array of cleaning goods would make you the happiest kid on the block. Since I already revert to cleaning as a form of escapism, I would enjoy this kit greatly.
At first glance, I was a little disturbed by the “Sealed with a Kiss” care package. With items such as a Passion Journal, a Love Duckie and hot chocolate titled “Cocoa Amore” I started getting a little uncomfortable. It was then that I read the fine print advising to send this package to boyfriends/girlfriends, husbands/wives and the like. Good, because I’d get a little nervous if someone’s parents were buying them books on “The Art of Kissing,” as is included in this passionate package.
The Wall Street Journal named Hip Kits as the best care package producer because of the overall quality and price, so spread the news to your elders if you desire kindness in a box.
Personally, I would find any of these boxes intriguing and sweet, but I prefer the sweet thoughtfulness my mother thinks of herself. My mom made those gingersnaps for me. She knows I suffer from sore throats almost daily. She knows I love nutrition shakes.
She also knows I don’t have finals right now, but she cares so much she brought these items to me anyway. That’s what I call a care package.
Published March 31, 2011 for MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate.
An Ambassador of Conversation
Thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, my international communications have flourished over the past five years.
It was the year 2006. Many of my older friends had graduated and I was left in the dusty hallways of our high school to fend for my lonely, 16-year-old self. Missing them terribly, I started my own Facebook account to stay in touch with my older comrades. Back then, Facebook was pretty much a college kid thing to do. I was a bit leery at first to sail in such uncharted territory reserved for more mature participants, but I threw my qualms aside and joined this social network so I could “stay connected” with my beloved friends. I was the second child in my high school to create an account.
After joining this virtual world of status updates and friendly profile-stalking, I soon found a new calling: creating groups. I made various groups that year, two of them for outcasts of society (Strawberry Blondes), one titled “Pizzaholics Anonymous (PA),” and a group dedicated to Zorro which reached over 1,200 members at one point. I also joined random groups like, “Stuffed Animals are Your Friends,” “I Still Can’t Find Waldo” and “I’m a Fermata… Hold Me.”
That was where it all began. That was when my long list of virtual friends started to accumulate. In my overly sociable and curious state of teenhood, I managed to befriend people from Germany, Brazil, Italy, Turkey and other countries.
Many are aware of my menagerie of, as one of my friends titled them, “e-friends.” Joseph was the first internet friend I made. I added the Canadian tennis player after he joined my Zorro group and caught my eye with his witty remarks he had posted on the group’s wall. He then invited me to his “I don’t know you, but I really like pancakes” group. We’ve been virtual friends ever since. In fact, we Skyped for the first time last week. After being Facebook pals for five years that webcam-to-webcam chat was long overdue.
Later that very same year my gregarious cyber self was introduced to a German man named Sascha. He was mutual friends with an exchange student I had known. Since I thought he was cute I asked him to be my newest friend. Our light flirting over MSN messenger spanned across four years of broken-up English and the level two German I took in high school. I like to think that his modeling career took off because of my unwavering encouragement.
Cem and I started our friendship in a different manner. I actually met him in person, and I even met him before we added each other on Facebook. While I was playing the piano at a resort on Pelican Lake, this handsome Turk walked into the room to hear me play “Clair de Lune.” Conversation soon took flight. After spending one afternoon and evening talking to the man, I’ve never seen him again. Thankfully, the World Wide Web has helped us stay in touch. He is now engaged to a beautiful woman and is serving his required 6-month term in the military. A 2012 wedding is planned. I better receive an invitation.
Social networking sites have allowed people to make friends they will never have to face in person. I have only grazed the surface of my collection of e-friends I’ve acquired over the years. However, these “friends” will never be able to meet me for a chat over a cup of coffee. Instead, I’ll be eating a taco and doing homework while we chat by way of keyboard with minutes of time lapses in-between each sentence. Oh, the thrill of it all!
Being a sort of ambassador of conversation with unknown people can be rather fun, but it has grown stale in recent years. I suppose I’ve already grown out of that phase of my life, for now anyway.
Published March 10, 2011 in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate.
It was the year 2006. Many of my older friends had graduated and I was left in the dusty hallways of our high school to fend for my lonely, 16-year-old self. Missing them terribly, I started my own Facebook account to stay in touch with my older comrades. Back then, Facebook was pretty much a college kid thing to do. I was a bit leery at first to sail in such uncharted territory reserved for more mature participants, but I threw my qualms aside and joined this social network so I could “stay connected” with my beloved friends. I was the second child in my high school to create an account.
After joining this virtual world of status updates and friendly profile-stalking, I soon found a new calling: creating groups. I made various groups that year, two of them for outcasts of society (Strawberry Blondes), one titled “Pizzaholics Anonymous (PA),” and a group dedicated to Zorro which reached over 1,200 members at one point. I also joined random groups like, “Stuffed Animals are Your Friends,” “I Still Can’t Find Waldo” and “I’m a Fermata… Hold Me.”
That was where it all began. That was when my long list of virtual friends started to accumulate. In my overly sociable and curious state of teenhood, I managed to befriend people from Germany, Brazil, Italy, Turkey and other countries.
Many are aware of my menagerie of, as one of my friends titled them, “e-friends.” Joseph was the first internet friend I made. I added the Canadian tennis player after he joined my Zorro group and caught my eye with his witty remarks he had posted on the group’s wall. He then invited me to his “I don’t know you, but I really like pancakes” group. We’ve been virtual friends ever since. In fact, we Skyped for the first time last week. After being Facebook pals for five years that webcam-to-webcam chat was long overdue.
Later that very same year my gregarious cyber self was introduced to a German man named Sascha. He was mutual friends with an exchange student I had known. Since I thought he was cute I asked him to be my newest friend. Our light flirting over MSN messenger spanned across four years of broken-up English and the level two German I took in high school. I like to think that his modeling career took off because of my unwavering encouragement.
Cem and I started our friendship in a different manner. I actually met him in person, and I even met him before we added each other on Facebook. While I was playing the piano at a resort on Pelican Lake, this handsome Turk walked into the room to hear me play “Clair de Lune.” Conversation soon took flight. After spending one afternoon and evening talking to the man, I’ve never seen him again. Thankfully, the World Wide Web has helped us stay in touch. He is now engaged to a beautiful woman and is serving his required 6-month term in the military. A 2012 wedding is planned. I better receive an invitation.
Social networking sites have allowed people to make friends they will never have to face in person. I have only grazed the surface of my collection of e-friends I’ve acquired over the years. However, these “friends” will never be able to meet me for a chat over a cup of coffee. Instead, I’ll be eating a taco and doing homework while we chat by way of keyboard with minutes of time lapses in-between each sentence. Oh, the thrill of it all!
Being a sort of ambassador of conversation with unknown people can be rather fun, but it has grown stale in recent years. I suppose I’ve already grown out of that phase of my life, for now anyway.
Published March 10, 2011 in MSUM's campus newspaper, The Advocate.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Camp: A Child's Worst Nightmare
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).
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).
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)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)