Posts published during April, 2003

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With a Rebel Yell

The days keep coming without fail, and as I inch closer to *the* day, the graduation day, things seem to be getting more bizarre. The residents are getting a little testy, (I could write a whole blog on this, calling it, “adventures in babysitting”), and the internship coordinators, like Jesus on the third day, keep rising from the tomb of my memory (where I wish to keep their experience), to tell me I need to eat burgers and do surveys for them.

Additionally, I’m in a last ditch race to become Greek – i know, don’t condemn me – it’s not what you think. Also, I have oft found myself these days a weeping willow each time that sad “goodbye, i’m leaving soon” commercial for Dawsons Creek comes on.

Someone dies in the last three episodes of DC by the way. A core character. I already told Angelface he’s on alert – I’m gonna be an absolute wreck. My throat is getting all tight at this very moment. Must. Stop. talking about beloved Dawsons and it’s ultimate, and untimely end.

In other news of the weird, ZP has had some run ins with the housekeepers in his building. I must preface with a story from last year. Last year in O’Hännisey, I became good friends with ZP who was also an RA at the time. ZP had some bad boys. One night the group decided to steal all the erase boards on the floor, throw them in the bathroom and then piss on them. ZP, unaware of these festivities, was alerted to them by the housekeepers, whose job it is to clean up these messes, should they occur.

Here’s how ZP found out: ZP gets home from class to see a nice note on his door saying something to the effect of “holy lord, there’s piss all over the bathroom floor. Have fun cleaning it up.” They left a lonely pair of plastic gloves on his door knob.

Now in case you don’t know, RAs are not allowed to touch what we call “body spills.” In fact, should we see the aforementioned body spill, we are to alert the housekeepers post haste. Because they have been trained to do so, housekeepers are the only people authorized to clean piss off the floor.

As you can imagine, ZP was very angry.

Cut to this wacky week. ZPs RA has posted a bulletin board, it’s one of those “gripe if you will” boards. Some resident had written “the elevators are too slow.” This is a very inocuous remark from a hall full of testosterone-filled eighteen year olds. Plus it’s true, those elevators are slow as crap.

Regardless, the next day there is a note tacked on to elevator comment which reads, “at least they work.” Yep, it was in the housekeepers’ scrawl. The housekeepers were defending their castle.

ZP, recognizing the housekeepers commentary wrote next to “at least they work”… “Yeah, unlike some lazy asses who sit around watching daytime tv and eating junk food instead of doing their jobs.”

This is not a defamatory comment, because it is the truth. Those housekeepers are Laaaaazy.

The next day, ZPs comment has been conventiallly ripped off the butcher paper board. Uh oh, housekeeper ladies are angry.

How will it all end? No one can say. All I can say is that these are the days my friend, let’s hope the bizareness never ends!

1 test, 1 quiz, 2 finals and a partridge in a pear tree. I’m almost a college graduate, baby! I’ve just got those four pesky test-type things to deal with, then it’s sayonnara hallowed halls of academia!

I went to visit my academic advisor, Waggs today. She always puts me in a fabulous mood. She congratulated me on my engagement to Angelface, and stopped to admire my gorgeous jewel. She told me to go through the “senior checklist”, and if i was a good girl and came prepared, she would read my name off the list at graduation. V. funny lady.

Today I turned in my final eval of internship-o-horrors. It felt *so* good that I decided to ceramonialize the event.

As I was leaving the old main street office I turned, and gave a symbolic salute. Graceful as a swan, I faced the old renovated townhouse. I decided to memorialize the “good times,” but then I remembered there really weren’t any, save the day manager Smitty was out of the office, leaving me to my own devices. Instead of working I emailed anyone I could think of, called Angelface a few times on the company dime, and ate stinky hummus at my desk – eating food in the back office is highly illegal, after all!

And so, with the memories of an internship not so far past, I gave the final hurrah. With palms out, head turned back, a look of serenity passing over my face, I presented my tribute. Carefully, concertedly, I pulled four fingers down towards my thumb. The middle appendage, straight as a flag pole, traced a line straight to heaven. It was glorious.

And I got an email today from my worthless office manager asking if we’d like to “do dinner” before our group goes off into parts unknown. I feel like I can’t go – like with that final salute, I had given every last bit I could give to those people.

However, as I am a very poor college student, I will probably go. It’s a sin to turn down free food you know?

Oh it’s so difficult having convictions!

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Coup d’e Tat

It has been one crazy, careening out of control, flying off-the-tracks rollercoaster-o-rama around h䮮ihouse. In the past ten days I’ve ranted, raved, laughed, smirked and schmoozed – oh how i’ve schmoozed! I’ve slept in $1,300 seats and bathed in three states. I feel like I’m moving at both one hundred miles an hour, and two, all at the same time.

This is the frantic, last hurrah before grad after all.

The Internship-o-crap has finally wound down – but not because our tyranical bosses have given their blessing. Get this: so we sell like crazy to get this career fair off the ground. Our group of seven has outsold last year’s group of ten interns, and in fact, has had the most sales ever in the history of the event.

You’d think the big bosses would give us a break. I mean, the Super Seven kicked butt and took names, and we did it all for just three paltry credits.

Read: we sold space at the cost of 500 benjamins a pop, but, as we were interns (read: not earning a red cent) the only thing we reaped from this experience was the knowledge that being a sales intern blows goats.

So anyway, we do all this and some of us are whisked up to the mothership, the homebase, under the guise that we will be offered employment, as a reward for all our hard labors.

Long story short, we are lectured for three grueling hours on how to sell the next show. Keep in mind we are seniors. We have about 1.5 weeks left to party and sleep in. We are tired. We are angry. We are *not* offered jobs, and frankly, 0 cents/hour is not enough to keep me a motivated sales woman extraordinaire.

Consequently, a small coup d’e tat is occuring at my intern site. Most of us aren’t showing up anymore, this girl included. Take that intern slavemasters!

And I’m so looking forward to moving to Florida in the fall. I’ve decided that I need to get the heck out of dodge – Virginia’s alright, but palm trees and sunshine are better. And so, after pulling my hair out in frustration over the intern deal, I took a mini-trip to Orlando with Angel this week. We flew free the whole way, even sitting with the aristocrats in first class on the Orlando-Atlanta leg.

In Florida I had some job-search schmoozing, sundress wearing, apartment hunting good times. The anger of internship abated and I was at peace.

Now I’m back. The intern office called Friday – my manager says he’s taking a half day and Happy Easter, I don’t have to come in. It seems the home office took the day, but expected us blacksburgians to keep on truckin. I don’t think so honey.

In conclusion, and to quote the immortal 80’s hair band, Twisted Sister, I would just like to say we’re not gonna take it. No we ‘aint gonna take it.

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Ghetto Fabulous

I live in a quasi – old folk’s home in the projects.

Why “quasi – old folk’s home” – I think PMC is where spunky upperclassmen go to live out their college years in relative peace and tranquility. The suite environment allows the kids to continue their participation in those oh so fun indiscretions of youth, because no one can bust them for downing forties in their room if no one knows about it!

See, in traditional halls you have to yak in the same toilets that Wanda, your bushy-eyebrowed hallmate uses. Partying doon, if you will, is a public event in other halls.

This suite – liberation has a curious reversal effect, however. You see, the thrill of the chase, the danger in the chance is gone, and so the kids of PMC are all mellow. The “old folks” that live here enjoy watching TLC on Saturday nights, instead of going out to boogie at the club. PMC kids’ idea of a perfect date involves a healthy serving of fat-free angelfood cake and some fuzzy slippers… Or maybe that’s just me.

Regardless, you may still be wondering why do I say I live in the “projects.” The answer is simple. PMC consists of subsidized government housing. If you think about it, that is what the projects are. These hallowed cinderblock homes are just fancy-assed ghetto cribs.

And all I have to say is, watch out 50 Cent, there’s a new Ho in the hood and I’m representing at this hizzy. Pass the government cheese.

So I have to chuckle. Everytime someone complains about PMC’s ac, ants, flooding, peeling paint, I think it could be worse. At least we don’t have any shady crack dealers in our study lounges, we don’t have any hookers named “Vixen” offering 5 dollah sucky sucky in our kitchen, nor do we have homeless men writing their names with urine our the stairwells.

I guess not every government project can be this f*a*b*u*l*o*u*s.

It’s the nicest of days here at hannihouse. The sun is pouring through the windows, my tummy is full of hotdogs and spinach (delish!) and it’s my day off at the internship-o-dread. Simple pleasures, I know.

Am feeling so great today. Sunday an abrupt three-inch snowfall had me all frowny faced – Ruby and I were going to go shopping, but the snow foiled our plans! So, I just went out and wiped the snow off her top and told her she was beautiful. I couldn’t reach the very middle though, and a strip of thick, fluffy snow made a nice little mohawk for rebel Ruby.

So I’m just sitting here on this glorious weds listening to John Mayer, contemplating the cosmos. I think tomorrow I may go hike the cascades after classes. I think Friday I will ditch internship work and take that aforementioned shopping trip. I think Saturday I will fly to Paris and dance the polka on the moonlit steps of the Louvre. Then I will dine at a fine patiserie and have my portrait painted by a new bohemian named Madelline.

Yes, yes I think that sounds entirely lovely.

Also in the entirely lovely department is the fact that Dawson’s Creek has finally gone into syndication. And I’m wondering why it only took 6 years for those network bigwigs to grow a brain and syndicate the greatest show on television. the greatest show on television, ever.

There’s only 9 episodes until the show ends May 14th, but with syndication, I am proud to announce, the show goes on. Dawson’s will live forever.

In the interim between now and D-day (May 14) TBS is showing ‘the creek in 4 hour blocks, beginning at 8am and running until noon every day! After the 14th they will air in two hour blocks, from 10am until noon daily. And I’m in heaven. God bless you TBS.

Oh dawsons, sunshine, hotdogs, Ruby, I love you more than words can express. Today is truly the nicest of days here at hannihouse, and I wish you, my loyal readers days filled with nothing but magic, tranquility and surprises!