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Not fit to be a politician, and almost too old for student committees -
In an effort to ease student transitions next semester, among other things, the student body association at my "old" school (the one I loathe to return to) has set up this task force to address environmental, housing, and general life concerns which the administration has seemingly not bothered with. As I was supposed to have led a student organization this year, I got a call (during my daytime minute hours, quite contrary to my instructions) asking me to chair one of the task force sub-committees. Thirty minutes of talk later and a lot of eye-rolling on my part, I sort of weasled my way out of being coerced into volunteering as the chair. Maybe I'll succeed in dodging it altogether and they won't call me again.
1) The person said in not so many words (or too many, depending on your view) that they were looking for diversity on this sub-committee. I don't know what y'all's gut reaction is to that, but I can't help but think I'm being recruited because I'm a token minority. There are only a handful of us at my old school, and I'm sure my face will look good in the sub-committee. However, I refuse to be on something if I'm in demand because I'm needed to fulfill a quota.
2) Even if that is not the case - and there may be an argument for that because I am the elected head of an organization, after all - they are looking at the wrong person to be on any sort of task force that has to deal with the city, the student body, and above all, the administration. The student body association can't read my mind (at least I hope they can't), so it's not its fault, but I'm so disenchanted with everything down there that I'm one of the last people they should contact to up the student morale.
A lot of people have spewed ugly vitriole on the old school's discussion boards, and I'm not one of them, but my disappointment and frustration are real. It didn't take me very long to decide that I really disliked the city and never wanted to live there again if I could help it. I don't care for the self-absorbed, often-drunk student community with the exception of a few close friends. I have no respect for the administration or faculty with the exception of a handful of professors. In other words, I DON'T REALLY CARE what the hell happens back there. My old school has done nothing for me, but has instead done everything to me, including taking my tuition money but providing no service whatsoever, giving me unsatisfactory offering of classes next semester, demanding my faith, more of my money, and the sacrifice of my health to keep itself alive, constantly reminding me of how crappy the administration/people are compared to my host school, and aggravating the whole situation.
On the other hand, my host school has done everything for us - if I were to name every single thing, you'd be shocked and incredulous at how it is possible for a group of people to be so generous and understanding to students not of its own. In a way, its generosity has put us in a better position than we would've been in had we stayed down there, but no one came here expecting any of the freebies. I was already too glad that a school would host me and that I'd be in a safe, healthy, comfortable place.
Oh, and my crazy landlord who has threatened to sic a lawyer on us doesn't help, either.
Which is why I recommended that the student body association try to contact other students here, who are excited about going back, satisfied at the class offerings, waiting to hang out at bars again, and have another go at Mardi Gras - the last two being genuine reasons people have given but which seem to me as incredibly assinine. (My roommate has offered to slap such people upside the head with her large umbrella.)
It's admirable that people do want to rebuild and try to make the situation a little bit more tolerable. But that ain't me. I have no ties to that community and I can't wait to get out of there. I am convinced that "a little bit more bearable" is unacceptable when there are alternatives that do not use students as sacrificial lambs in order to rebuild an institution/a city. Make no mistake - regardless of what you've heard and how the city/school spins it, that is EXACTLY what is happening to us.
I'm not about to fake a happy politician face and devote time to a cause I totally don't believe in.
Any more hints, and I am going to start getting really paranoid about age!
First, the eye cream incident. Then, I shared some pictures of my night out on the town with one of the accompanying girls. She called me today: "I got the pictures you took the other day. You know, you look really cute in green eyeshadow and peach blush. They make you look so young!"
I am not quite sure what to make of that. Maybe it is my age showing (ha ha), but I've always had the preconceived notion that makeup is supposed to make you look older and more mature, not younger. With many folks, being told that you look younger than you are may be a compliment - not saying it's not a compliment for me either - but this makeup = young thing is coming from someone who already thinks I look 6 years younger than I really am. I went to the thrift shop a few months ago with my dad; at the checkout counter, the woman couldn't believe that I wasn't 14 years old.
*looks stealthily at that cartoony self-portrait that makes me look about 12*
Um, not that ladies who work at thrift shops have a tendency to tell people they look young. Not sure why I mentioned that except it was the honest to god scenario. Anyway. Any more "you look so young!" + makeup comments and I might as well crawl back into the womb.
But, I swear I'm getting my first grey hair. Eeek. A sort of glisten caught my eye while I was looking int the mirror the other day. Upon several closer looks later, I am 80% positive that there isn't just one but actually several light-looking hairs popping out the top of my head. It's a little difficult to determine if they are grey hairs, or if they just got lighter because I have been exposing my hair to the sun quite a bit. (Oh gods of trichology, please let it be the latter.) I am afraid to either accept or deny their existence, but gee, I remember helping my mom pick out her grey hairs when she was well into her 30s...
With my luck, the grey hairs are popping up just as I feel assured and confident about my looks, which is of course coming about 10 years too late. And I haven't even hit my prime yet.
Don't get into the irony of my looking younger by the day but with a head of slowly greying hair, either!
My roommate is totally addicted to Orisinal, thanks to me. I was addicted way before her and even purchased a chicken clock and an Orisinal mug when I still had an income to play with.
The graphics are so adorable and the background music so soothing that the games almost should be outlawed.
ETA: Barely in season for the winter, there is an equally adorable game of snowball fight from SnowCraft, as mentioned in the comments. In case you never got sent this via email several years ago, it is downloadable either from about.com or from PCWorld.com, you can play it right online from here.
Susan Ivanova
Fiercely dedicated to bringing an end to corruption and exploitation, you are a strong-willed and courageous force of light.
Ivanova is always right. I will listen to Ivanova. I will not ignore Ivanova's recommendations. Ivanova is God.
Susan is a character in the Babylon 5 universe. You can read her biography at the Worlds of JMS fansite.
My old landlord wants September and October rent.
Uh, no. LA may be crazy and not big on consumer protection, but we had a mandatory evacuation to leave. No way on principle that I'd pay her for services she couldn't provide and for a city in ruins. We may have to fight her for October, however, but seriously, the city is still not functioning, and we haven't gotten all of the utilities back yet. How is that habitable? One of my poor neighbors has a tree through his wall.
It's unconscionable for landlords to be charging people rent when we had to flee for our lives. But believe it, it is happening all over the city. It is just yet another reason why I have absolutely no desire to return to the place: None of the people there - the government, the police, the citizens - gives me any confidence or faith in humanity.
At Sephora yesterday, I was trying to goad one of the sales reps into giving me a makeover. Unfortunately for my efforts, she didn't really take. In fact, she suggested that I use an eye cream as to minimize the dark undereye circles I have (they're there regardless of how much sleep I get). Plus, she said, the right type of concealers will reduce the fine lines and wrinkles.
She failed to tell me what kind or brand I should've gotten.
Is it time to start feeling old, when they tell you to use eye creams?
What she said may have an inkling of truth, but I am going to pretend that she was a bad sales rep. Not even pretend - she was a bad sales rep, because she wouldn't even show me how to do a smokey eye effect with the trio of shadows she was trying to sell me. Pffft.
I ended up availing myself of the stuff at the store and giving myself a makeover using the green shadows from the Beaming Popette palette by Pop Beauty and Sari Lip Shine by Fresh, finishing up with spritzes from Yves Saint Laurent's Baby Doll EDT. I dare say it didn't turn out too poorly - at least the two girls who were with me overwhelmingly approved.
Take that, Sephora sales rep!
On the question of how to ask for the bathroom in French (see comments), I've consulted with one of my favorite native French speakers. Here is her answer:
Concerning your French question: "Ou sont les toilettes" is the right question. If you ask "Ou est la salle de bain," it is an absolutely informal way to ask about the restroom and so you will ask that when you are invited to your best friend's place, for example. Oh, and "Ou sont les W.C." is not really a nice way to ask it but everyone will understand and thus refers to "Ou sont les toilettes."
So, everyone stands corrected.
Just to show that what we're "taught" isn't always correct by common usage standards, the only reason why I thought asking "Ou est le W.C." would be appropriate was because it was in the "Common Phrases" section of the 9-language dictionary published by Merriam-Webster, which we bought in 1990.
I'm ready for France!
ETA: The irreverent version of common French phrases! Oooh.
Various things happening (and have happened) in my life are giving fuel to the following ranty rhetorical question: Why are people in charge almost always incompetent?
National politics notwithstanding, the ability of incompetent people to place themselves into positions of power is astounding.
Academically, I am facing an administration that has caused me and many others a big dilemma, a lot of headache, and frustration. If given a choice, how many people would be willing to go back into a city that has been buried in mud, bacteria, filth, and mold? Despite what the people in power may tell you otherwise? Didn't think so.
And poor R, he's going through something right now that I cannot say, but I feel for him.
Sigh. I don't know where to go or what to do or how to change the current circumstances.
Do you want to hear about the movie I saw this afternoon, or do you want to hear about my being the victim of drunk-dialing?
Well, since this is Saturday night, yet I am sitting here reading some drier than dry law texts, might as well talk about what it's like being a student who would've otherwise gone out with friends (probably) and gotten a little buzzed.
I get this phone call, clearly from my friend S. Except, it was a guy on the phone. "Hi, my name is Andy. You don't know me, but I've been told that you're Asian, and that you're really hot."
Ah, instantly I was reminded of being 18 again. Although I've never been the victim of drunk-dialing, 18 is a good, proper age to be getting this kind of phone call, no? "Oh really? Did S tell you to call?" I had a feeling what was up, but of course, the guy denied it. Instead, he passed the phone over to yet another dude, who was apparently Chinese. He kept trying to start a conversation in Chinese, but it was so poor and the background was so loud that I feigned not understanding anything, thereby ruining all of his fun, I'm sure. I'm also pretty sure that S was in the back, trying to tell him to say things that only an unsocial, horny 13-year-old would say, but apparently his Chinese is really so bad that he couldn't come up with any vulgarities, either.
Isn't that sort of the way it goes? People don't know how to speak a language, yet they've managed to learn some cuss words here and there, just for kicks?
However immature that might've been, it's an amusing break from reading about 6th amendment rights in criminal trials, believe me. Apparently they were playing a game, whereby people yelled out a letter in the alphabet, and S had to pick a name starting with that letter to call. I was the lucky winner from S's contact list.
Don't let my friend S's drunken craziness fool you, though. She drinks, smokes, cusses like an old sailor, and beds like no one I know can, but she is also down to earth and has a heart of gold. If it wasn't for her and her parents, I probably could've gone nowhere immediately after my flight from disaster. No food, no showers, no bed, no roof, no clothes, no human contact, except for them. Her entire family cusses like a house of old sailors, but that's the way they are - no pretentions, you know exactly where they stand, and they don't expect anything back from you.
Crazy or not, the only thing I really miss about my old home is not being able to hang out with S.
Sitting at our dining room table I shared a plate of couscous with my grandmother. She began to pick at the couscous with her hands, picking out all the pieces of raisins from the plate. Surprised, I asked her what she was doing. She mentioned something about weight.
Then, I woke up. I awoke to the darkness of the evening. I had fallen asleep from having lunched with friends earlier in the day. I got up, went to the only other bedroom in the house. I knocked on the door, went in, and turned on the light. I started to confront my SO, who had decided to sleep in this room instead of the other room. He started to argue that I had fallen asleep in someone else's bed, and he didn't feel comfortable coming to sleep with me, so he slept in this other room. I proceeded to point out that he owned this goddamn house; this bed, that bed, it was all his. I was starting to get angry and ready for an argument.
As it often happens with dreaming, I wake up when I start to get excited, angry, or frightened. It also happens that I often remember my dreams with extreme clarity and detail.
I woke up to a grey sky, just barely morning, and me, lying underneath a sleeping bag that has been my comforter. Except, this IS reality. Upon a minute of half-asleep reflection, I realized what had just happened: sleeping within sleep. But not only that - it was a dream within a dream. I've had dreams where I dreamed I've just woken up and started my morning routine, when in fact I was still asleep. Never have I dreamed within a dream, and woken up to remember all of it.
Has this happened to anyone else? I wonder what Freud would make of all this.
Mayor Ray Nagin of New Orleans asked at a town hall meeting today, which garnered him much applause: "What can I do to make sure that this town isn't overrun with Mexicans?"
As if having Mexican workers in your town is like having the plague.
I liked Nagin when he cussed out the federal government for failing to bring aid to the city, but he just lost his gold star and brownie points with me.
Don't blame it on the Mexicans, man. They're trying to earn a living, and guess what, they're willing to work at a wage much lower than other people are, be it legal or not. Don't single them out. If people want to direct their concerns, blame the contractors who are trying to pay lower than minimum wage for projects for which FEMA is giving the contractors much money. Get those contractors to pay what people should be paid and to lose the greed. Then you'll have poeple, Mexican or not, wanting to take the jobs and being paid the right wages. Then you won't have a town "overrun with Mexicans."
ETA: Correction. The exact quote is: "How do I ensure that New Orleans is not overrun by Mexican workers?" Sorry for the misquote; I was listening to the news. That changes it a bit; I wish I could find a transcript of it, but I don't think the people were clapping because he was asking a rhetorical question or being outraged at being asked to do something he didn't want to do.
ETA again: Ok, apparently this didn't happen today, or yesterday, but rather on October 8. Here is an article from CBS news on who's cleaning NOLA - and they are immigrants, both legal and illegal, who have come from Mexico and Central America. It's the same old complaint with how immigrants and illegal aliens are coming over to take our jobs, etc. And still I say, put the blame and pressure on the contractors. Contractors are blaming the fact people aren't returning to the city, while people who have returned are complaining about not having jobs. No matter what, you can't blanketly blame the Mexicans.
Random bits of the day -
Try not to drop your deodorant on your foot. Gravity never fails at doing its job; even the lightest of objects can draw blood when landed on your toe. Also, be sure to put a band-aid on immediately, even if it didn't look like it was bleeding. Waiting until after you've walked to the bus station with that bloody toe can make a bit of a mess.
* * *
I finally found out this past weekend what happened to my ex-favorite drink, Fresh Samanthas. For those that never had the pleasure of drinking Fresh Samanthas, they were smoothie-like concoctions that started out in Saco, Maine, by a guy who decided he wanted to make juice for a living and named it after his daughter. The drinks were popular in the 90s; one could always find them in whole foods stores. They featured the most adorable artwork of a curly-haired Samantha for various juices and had the cutest names like, "Desperately Seeking C," "Get Smart" (which had gingko and was yummy), "Madam Bridge Water's Raspberry Limeade," "Mango Mama," "Oh Happy Day" (fortified with St. John's wort), "Super Juice" (which had echinacea), and "The Big Bang." They were often expensive, coming in between $2.49 to $3.49 a bottle, but they were delicious and oh so worth it. And being the liberal that I am, it felt even better that I was supporting a budding company with a social conscience, much in the lines of Ben & Jerry's.
But then, Fresh Samanthas disappeared. Last I heard of them, I was still working, but I knew the company had plans to ship juices out to California. Then I kept hearing this Odwalla juice thing that's apparently similar and very popular on the West Coast. This past weekend, I got really curious as to why so few people have heard of Fresh Samanthas, and why they have simply disappeared. It turned out that Fresh Samantha was bought out by the giant that is/was Odwalla, and Odwalla in turn had been purchased by the Coca-Cola Company. Sure, I'll drink a coke every now and then, but I'm leery of giant, big capitalist companies taking over small, socially progressive companies and turning the names into shells of what they used to be. Giant companies don't really have to be accountable to anyone. (An aside: I used to love body & haircare products from St. Ives. Years ago. St. Ives really was a Swiss company that proudly displayed on its products that the company did not test on animals. Then it got bought out by Alberto-Culver (sp?), maker of brands like Alberto VO5, which does test its products on animals. The no-testing label is now gone from all St. Ives products.)
So, capitalism wins and functions in the mainstream, and there are no more Fresh Samanthas. In a way we're worse off.
