The Three Wise Men: Kermit, Ken, and Pickles

I realize I've been a bit of an absentee blogger these days. I apologize for the flagrant neglect. Allow me to share the highlights of the last month for which I was MIA...

1. The last few weeks of classes involved many all-nighters in carrel 3, which ended in a teriyaki beef jerky-smelling blaze of glory.
2. Finals week was a piece of cake after the total clusterbomb that was the last week of classes. Can you say 3 papers totaling 72 pages submitted within 3 days? After that, finals week was a breeze. Until...
3. I got sick as I was finishing my last final paper, and so I celebrated the end of the semester with a fever and sore throat, accompanied by my friends Tylenol and Ricola - their parents thought they'd be pretty unique and clever with names like that.
4. Home.
5. Christmas.
6. Blizzard.

And here we are, my 28th birthday. Reflecting on this day, I can't help but point out that all my friends are having babies (and they are adorable, precious, wonderful little blessings) and all I have is acne. On every birthday, for about the last five years, I have asked myself how old I need to be to no longer have acne. Apparently an age that rounds up to 30 is not old enough. And apparently stubbornness is not something you grow out of, either, so Proactiv can just STOP IT already with those commercials during my favorite, trashy MTV and VH1 reality shows; I'm not taking the bait, you vultures - preying on poor, late-20s women whose faces are minefields! Shame on you...

And then, today, someone pointed out that MAYBE my life has been cursed since March 2006 when Pickles asked me to be the McCartyville St. Patty's Day Queen and I said "no" (sidebar - if you do NOT know about McCartyville St. Patty's Day, you don't know what it means to live) (oh, and if you don't know who Pickles is, you are a nobody - sorry). He warned my mom that no one had ever said "no" to him before and I needed to change my plans. I did not comply. And now I am 28, single, with acne, writing a blog post about my beef jerky-smelling 9' x 14' carrel. What a life.

So let's turn to brighter days: the first five years of my life. You know, back in the days when I didn't have a care in the world. The days when my biggest decision was which outfit in which to dress my Barbie. The days when my hair was naturally blonde. The days when I didn't have to pay my own bills or even dress myself. The days when I thought acne was that company that Wile E. Coyote bought all his contraptions from.

How about my very 1st birthday?

And I'm pretty stoked in this one!

And you can't tell, but I'm dancing like a maniac with the only man I'll ever love - Kermit the Frog - on my 2nd birthday

And on my 5th birthday, I upgraded from Kermit to Ken, in his snazzy tuxedo, which was SO fashionable in 1989.

Tonight, I am sure to revert to adorable, childhood Emily: I will get really excited over gifts, I will make crazy faces, I will dance like a maniac, and I will find that Ken in a shiny silver, pink, and white tuxedo with perfect, plastic, newscaster hair. And he will be mine until I try to pop his head or one of his limbs off, after which, 1989 Ken will be totally beyond repair (now mid-90s Ken, he would survive that).

Peace, love, and happy birthday to me--

Emily

  

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

"Y'all better get to wakin' up now!"

This is usually how my mornings start, as I get off the early bird shuttle to campus. For the last week, however, my shuttle driver - Ron - has been on vacation. On a cruise. With his wife. Where it's warm. And I won't see him again until AFTER THANKSGIVING. Ron - who told me I must have trucker blood in me. Ron - who told me not to wish my life away the last time I went home. Ron - who gets the two-handed, Usain Bolt-style wave from the newspaper man every morning. Ron - who has started calling me trouble here in the last few weeks. Ron - who is the greatest shuttle driver ever.

I thought I'd be okay with the substitute shuttle driver. He's a perfectly nice man; he says hello, he wishes us a good day when we unboard. He has lots of colorful tattoos to admire. Slowly but surely, I've realized how much Ron's little gestures mean to me. And I've realized how much the little things can grate on your nerves.

Let's make a list! Let's make a list! I like organization. Yay.

1. At first, I thought the substitute driver just didn't think to warm up the shuttle before he picks us up in the morning. Nope, he just doesn't turn the rear temperature controls on at all! His own temperature controls are on, but ours are off. Brrrr...
2. He listens to talk radio. I thought I could handle it. Perhaps I was spoiled by Ron's "best of the 80s, 90s, and today" radio station selection. Anyway... It's not just talk radio. The volume is VERY LOUD. Okay, background sound is nice, but I don't want to be forced to listen to this. Now I have no choice. And then, yesterday afternoon, I realized that not only is it talk radio, it's Rush Limbaugh. Okay... I guess I'll wear headphones next time.
3. [#3 omitted because I realized I was just complaining. But seriously, my shuttle needs to run on time]
4. [#4 omitted because, again, I was REALLY complaining. Honestly, though, could it get any colder on this shuttle? Seriously (insert eye roll).] 

Moral of the story: I just want Ron back. I think I'm going to bring him a Diet Pepsi and the peanut butter/cheese crackers he likes. Maybe he'll never leave me again.

Peace, love, and Ron the shuttle driver--

Emily 

This Is No Cinderella Story

I really try to delight you all with a quippy post at least once a week. When the clock's about to strike the one-week mark, and my carriage is about to turn back into a pumpkin, I can usually come up with SOMETHING to post.

Something...

...to post...

Well.

The carriage is now a pumpkin, the dress is tattered rags, my pals are all mice, and prince charming is nowhere to be found. Time is up. In fact, it has been more than a week since my last post, and there's really nothing fantastic happening in my life. Let's face the reality: all I do is read, write, read, write, read, write, which is not very interesting, and most of this happens in Carswell 212-3, my home sweet home for about 40 hours per week. Looks like we're taking a peek into this little slice of heaven, then.

Okay, so the last time you saw my carrel, it looked a little bare. Did you really think I'd leave it that way for long? Let's take a little gander at my carrel NOW--

What have we here? Let me walk you through the necessities that I have accumulated in my carrel:

• a few fleece blankets because A) it's always cold in here, and B) I've been known to nap on my carrel floor
•  a pair of sneakers (see them down there by the floor?) for the weekly comm department jog; next to the sneakers (out of view) is a pair of heels that I slip on to teach on Fridays
• that bulletin board in the background was a luck-of-the-draw sort of item; I happened to have one in my carrel, and I'm not sure that anyone else did
• Ohio Northern pennant - woo! One of my students asked if that was near Wooster, where her mom went. Small world.
• there's also a stress polar bear floating around somewhere
• near my green sneakers, you'll also see my green jacket (it's COLD this week) on top of my green bookbag in which you'll find a green binder and green notebook; you think maybe I like green?
• various papers and books are strewn about the shelves (which you should NEVER try to adjust because they fit ONLY where they are currently mounted)
• water - always (and for the first month, I could only find room temperature water, in the water fountains; since then, I have discovered the water cooler on the fourth floor - heck yes)
• you CANNOT see the paper plates, plasticware in Spongebob mugs, trailmix, chocolate-covered espresso beans, and various other vittles that I have accumulated on the shelves over my desk
• and of course, I'm working away on SOMETHING, which is probably why my classmates (Bulgarian Radio and IDF, to be exact) assumed that I was the only member of the cohort who hadn't procrastinated on our upcoming midterm; they were wrong... sort of
• headphones, rubberband ball, highlighter, colored pens, hand lotion, hand sanitizer, binder clips, paperclips, tiny stapler, and more can be found in here, too         

There you have it, folks. This is all I do with my time. I sit in my carrel, I read, I write, I read, I write, I grade, I read, I tweet, I read, I write, I Facebook, I read, I write, I eat my lunch, and I read some more. Welcome to my life. It's very exciting.

Okay, so for YOUR sake, I suppose I'll try to do something interesting in the next week. Maybe I'll... get a life - who knows. I mean, we do get an extra hour this weekend (you know, daylight savings time), so perhaps I can fit a little excitement in that hour. Or maybe I'll fill it with reading and writing.

Peace, love, and Carswell 212-3--

Emily  

  

There's No Place Like Home

Nothing could make a better introduction to this post than lyrics from Little Big Town, "Boondocks," which is one of the ONLY country songs that you'll find on my iPod, and sometimes it makes me cry (but what doesn't make me cry? so that doesn't tell you a whole lot).

I feel no shame, I'm proud of where I came from, I was born and raised in the boondocks.
One thing I know, no matter where I go, I keep my heart and soul in the boondocks.

For some of you, the picture I'm about to paint is quite familiar, and for others - well - you may know nothing like this. Welcome to this slice of my life.

After contemplating all of the possible topics to blog about after a weekend in Ohio, I decided that the scene at my local bar on Friday night was the best choice to give you all a little of the local flavor. Here we go...

I walk into Patrick's, the bar in McCartyville (population estimated at about 125 people, one blinking stoplight at intersection, Catholic church, bar, drive-thru: that about sums up McCartyville; oh, and did I mention that Patrick's is .9 miles from my mom and dad's house?), where you KNOW you'll always know someone (better yet - you know you'll always be RELATED to someone in there). It's better than Cheers. Door opens: to my immediate right is my godfather, Uncle Crash, who buys the first round for my sister and me. I look across the bar, and there's my dad with the parents of one of my high school classmates (who happen to live across the road from my grandma and grandpa, too). As I walk over to sit next to Dad, I stop to say hi to the husbands of my two best girlfriends from high school who are sitting at the corner of the bar - the wives are at home. All the other people filling my peripheral view are familiar faces; we probably went to the same church, I went to school with their kids, I babysat their kids, they know my dad, or something of the sort.

I'm home.

Dad's decked out in Anna Rocket gear, but he didn't make it to the game. He says his buddy, Tater, didn't show up and he didn't want to go alone. I knew he'd rather shoot the breeze at Patrick's with me than go to a cold, rainy football game that we were probably going to lose. The Heitmans, sitting next to him, confirmed my suspicions. In no time, my older brother arrives with his girlfriend, my cousin Lisa walks in (she lives across the street), cousin Jason shows up later, Pickles - who is pretty much an honorary uncle - takes his usual seat on the opposite side of the bar, husbands and boyfriends of cousins round out the cavalcade of familiar faces. The bartender graduated high school with my sister. The other bartender (and bar owner) is the little brother of my senior prom date. All of us live within, probably, five miles of each other. And my homecoming is in full effect. Oh McCartyville...

The night winds down. After much storytelling between two of the best storytellers in the world (TJ and Lisa) and myself, the jukebox starts playing Johnny Cash. My sister and I perform our meticulously choreographed dance to "Ring of Fire," and the crowd goes wild (not really, but let's just pretend). If Hank Williams had started playing, it would have been a perfect night. Nonetheless, I realized that THIS is something that I can only find here. There can be no replication or imitation of home away from home; this only exists here.

Note to readers: the names in this post have NOT been altered to protect identities. Names like Crash, Pickles, and Tater are the names EVERYONE calls these people (except Grandma Buehler, who calls my uncles Crash, Burrhead, and Buck by their real names - Ray, Greg, and Dick). It's also important to note that Pickles is Tex's brother, and Pickles is the mastermind behind the selection of the St. Patrick's Day Queen in McCartyville, and Tex is usually on special security for that particular event. More to come on McCartyville St. Patrick's Day festivities this spring (I'll give you a teaser: it involves a hay wagon used as public transportation through the 125-person town to jump from house party to house party with ease).

Peace, love, and home sweet home--

Emily

We're Not That Dumb! We're Not That Dumb!

This post is dedicated to my grandma, who I told last week that "I've never felt more dumb in my life" and to my classmates who might be telling their grandmas the same sort of thing. And if you're one of my classmates who does not and/or has not ever felt dumb, well, aren't you just special? You can just stop reading now - please and thanks.

So about a week ago, exactly, my grandma asked how school was going. I responded, "Grandma, I've never felt more dumb in my whole life," to which she expressed total disbelief. I continued, explaining that I'm surrounded by super well-spoken, intelligent people that just make me feel like a small fish in a big pond. At the same time, that's what I asked for: to be the small fish in the big pond. And now I'm lamenting it. It seemed like every time I opened my mouth in class, something stupid came out of it. Great. Maybe I'll just stop speaking? (Do we really think I can do that?)

Time for an intervention.

But before the intervention, let's get something clear: I'm not posting this in an attempt to fish for compliments (So many fish metaphors, so little time! I'm the small fish, fishing for compliments, in the big pond. Let's see if I can add more fish metaphors from here.) I'm hoping that, in posting this, someone else who feels dumb will find that they have company. Misery loves company, right? Well so does the perception of ignorance. This will be the "I feel dumb but I'm really not dumb" support group. I could probably find a more intellectual way to phrase that, but who cares, I feel dumb.

On Monday and Wednesday, validation came my way. FINALLY I received some grades for a few class assignments. Okay, maybe I'm not so dumb after all. Although, the voice in the back of my head was saying, "Or perhaps you are so far gone, that these are pity grades." Let's ignore that voice because validation, my friends, is good. I recognized that maybe I was being a little dramatic (and really, when am I ever dramatic? I don't have a tendency to blow things out of proportion...).

I had lunch with my favorite professor at Wake on Thursday (I know, week 6 and I already have a favorite prof) to talk about the internal struggles that I'm having. Clearly, I'm capable of the work, but inside, I keep telling myself that I'm not. What's the deal, self? Get with it! You're intelligent, you're hard-working, you're capable, and you're usually confident - what is happening?! Our conversation brought to light my unrealistically high expectations for myself. Once again, being a know-it-all perfectionist is not paying off for me. And our conversation also brought to light the notion that my classmates were probably feeling the same way - at one point or another. We are ALL extremely talented with diverse experiences, backgrounds, and interests. We're each going to excel in different areas, and none of us can do it all. While I may feel like the dumbest person on the planet today, someone else might tomorrow.

And last night, I received confirmation of this notion after witnessing a classmate do her impression of me (which I hope to see again). She had to set up the impression, as I think she was super afraid that she'd offend me. Little did she know, it was exactly what I needed to hear this week. She started by explaining that the impression is based on the way I ask questions in class and that I must not realize how smart I really am because I always ask questions that help everyone else understand what's going on, but everyone else is afraid to ask them. Ah-ha! I DON'T ask the dumbest questions in the world! I'm NOT the only one who doesn't get it! In "taking one for the team" and asking questions all the time, I'm not airing my ignorance, I'm coming to the aid of my classmates (most of them, that is; the rest of you that just "get it"... well, I just don't understand you, and I can't help you in any way). We are all in the same boat (and in that boat, we are fishing for knowledge... And she does it again, folks!).

So to my classmates, and all of you out there who feel dumb every now and again: we're not that dumb! We're not that dumb! When we take a moment to assess our own talents and skills, we may reclaim our confidence and move forward. Shake that stress off and just keep doing what you do best. And we should applaud the talents and skills of others, even though they make us feel inferior, because maybe they need that validation to see the light. We don't all have to be good at the same things, but we need to recognize that we're all good at something.

Another thought for the day: I'd really like to start a Perfectionists Anonymous group. A recent Google search revealed that SOMEBODY has started a blog on this exact topic. http://perfectionistsanonymous.com/ The motto is "Get rid of stress and prosper in life." Let's do that. However, she hasn't posted anything except an "About me" section that contains some great insights about the plight of perfectionism. This is a brilliant blog idea! Help us! Perfectionists support group - GO! Speak for the masses, perfectionistsanonymous.com!

Peace, love, and fish and ponds of all sizes and shapes--

Emily

Return to the Original Palindrome

On my two-month anniversary of moving to Winston-Salem, I reflect on my first trip back home since I moved, which was this last weekend. If my return to the original palindrome is news to you, and you're upset that you didn't know, allow me to explain the troubles of coming home for the weekend, which I hope to remedy in the future.

First of all, my ratios are all out of wack. (What, Google? "Wack" isn't a word? Shut it.) My driving-to-Ohio to awake-in-Ohio to asleep-in-Ohio ratio was nearly 1:1:1. Seriously. 17 hours driving, 20 hours awake, 17 hours asleep. This is problematic. I've ruled out the possibilities of driving faster, sleeping less, and teleporting, which doesn't leave me with many other options. I need to get that ratio to at least 1:2:1, though. And if you factor in the time spent on school work within the time awake in Ohio... forgetaboutit.

Okay, so the ratios need work. Next.

I have determined that the drive from Ohio back to NC feels shorter than the drive from NC to Ohio. And for those of you considering a trip down to see me (wink, wink; nod, nod), this should be delightful news to you. It takes about three hours to get through Ohio, and it flies by on the way to NC. If you're on your way from NC to Ohio, though, you hit that Ohio border and it seems like your home should be around the next corner. Nope, not so. Three more hours. From there, you're in the mountains of WV for about two hours, Virginia for about an hour, and NC for about an hour before you arrive in Winston. These diminishing increments of time spent in each state make the drive FLY BY on the way to North Carolina.

Luckily, I know when I'm getting closer to Winston when I start seeing exit signs for towns that are on the weather map of my local news station. When I reached Galax, VA, I was a happy camper! Woot! I'm in the foothills! Almost there.

Ratios - check. Ohio to NC: good, NC to Ohio: sucky. Next.

And at the risk of sounding like a recovering drug addict - I'm off the GPS. Yes, people: I'm off the stuff. I'm officially able to make the drive without the GPS - I'm like a baby weaned from my bottle or an actor who's finally memorized the lines and has gone off the book. Admittedly, I have to rely on it every now and again to find my desired mealtime destination or fuel stop (seriously, on Sunday I let my tank get down to less than 1 gallon of gas in the foothills of Virginia, and the GPS was a necessity to insure I was within driving distance of a gas station).

Ratios, Ohio to NC v. NC to Ohio, off the GPS.

Speaking of stops, if you're really trying to make good time (and I'm ALWAYS trying to make good time), you'll only stop for gas once and you'll pack a meal. If you follow this advice, the drive takes seven hours. I suggest beef jerky and Mt. Dew. It's my favorite road trip meal.

Ratios, Ohio, NC, GPS, limited stops.

And don't forget your sunglasses for the day time. Oh, and don't wear all black because you'll be hot the whole time. And if someone would invent the opposite of sunglasses for the night time, that would be freaking fantastic. I thought I was hallucinating at night after staring into the bright and shiny light of the day all afternoon.

Let's see if I can improve my skills/strategies in some of these areas before the next trip.

Peace, love, and an oil change--

Emily

Let's Talk About Nouns, Baby

Think back to grade school; you know, back in the days when you learned about addition and subtraction, that Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492, and parts of speech - among many other things. Oh, how life was so simple back then. Everything made sense, and if it didn't, there was a rhyme or a song to help you remember it. Allow me to take one of those elementary school concepts and use it to help you (and myself) make sense of your complicated, crazy, stressful life: let's talk about nouns.

Okay, so nouns are people, places, or things, right? I'm going to make a big, old, logical leap here and assert that people are the most important nouns of them all. And people are the most important part of your life.

I found myself thinking this morning (on the shuttle, by the way. And we've been riding on a substitute shuttle the last few days, which my driver calls "the short bus," and told me we're still riding on it because we've been bad). Wow, that sidenote was really long; let's go back to what I was thinking this morning. So this morning, I found myself thinking, "Without the people in my program, I don't know what I'd do," and then I laughed at myself because I'm pretty sure I've said this at every juncture of my life. 

"I couldn't have done this without you guys."

"I would be miserable if it weren't for my friends."

"Without my coworkers, work wouldn't be as much fun."

"This would totally suck without you guys by my side."

From there, I decided that people are more important than places and things. Who cares about the job, the title, the degree, the apartment, the city - any place or thing - none of that can make me as happy as the people around me, the people I come home to, the people I miss, the people that miss me, the people I'll go visit, the people who will visit me, the people I have yet to meet but I know they'll make those future situations easier.

Life is all about people, people. So to all my people out there - thanks for being awesome. And for those of you who know my gestures that correspond with the word "people," you can picture me doing them now, but you can stop laughing and making fun of me about it (Andy Buehler). Wait, I think I have a picture of it; let's add it for the people who feel left out of this inside joke.


Peace, love, and PEOPLE--

Emily

Long Live the Ice Queen!

So I'm one of the teaching assistants for relational communication. People always ask me what that means - relational communication - it's basically studying the communication behavior/processes of people in close relationships: romantic relationships, family relationships, friendships. As a TA, I sit in on lectures Monday and Wednesday, and then I teach two small discussion labs on Fridays.

My classes are full of wonderful students from all over the country and the world - South Africa, Abu Dhabi, Florida, New York, New Jersey, Virginia, Maryland - you name it, I got it (except Ohio - womp womp). There are some really interesting names... Blakeney, Renier, Parke, Grayson... They're all years (freshmen through seniors), they encompass all sorts of majors, and all sorts of interests. I even have a few of the guards and the center (he's 6'10"!) from the basketball team, one of the pitchers from the baseball team, one of the QBs, the libero from the volleyball team, and a few tennis players. And don't you worry, I've already been instructed not to treat the athletes any different, not to take bribes from them, and not even to accept tickets from them to their games.

Now there's one student in particular that I'd like to focus on today. He hasn't shown up to discussion lab since the first week of class; back then, it was August. He shows up to lecture, I know that. How do I know? Well, I grade their pop quizzes, and I definitely graded his from this week. I'm pretty sure I know which of the 45 students in the 9 am lab he is, but, you know, I only met him in person once, so who can be sure? And I think I know why he isn't coming to discussion labs. It has something to do with the ice queen emerging from her frozen lair after more than five years of frosty obscurity.

Before I tell you the story about him, let me remind you of the ice queen story. Back in the day when I was student teaching, I had five periods of students. Everybody LOVED me. I still talk to some of my students - that's how much they loved me! Everybody leved me except third period. One day, my cooperating teacher said, "You know third period calls you the ice queen? They told me not to tell you, but I just had to." HA! Me?! Ice queen?! Clearly their perceptions of me were a reflection of the way they treated me - if you want to be disrespectful, I'll be an ice queen. You want to be normal, I'll be the dancing queen - take your pick.

Anyway... back to 2012...

The second week of lecture, I caught the student in question watching pitches in slow motion on his laptop and checking baseball scores on ESPN.com during class. I called him out for it (discretely and nonthreateningly), encouraging him to read the prof's laptop policy in the syllabus. He promised he was taking notes. "I saw some notes," I said, "and I saw a bunch of other stuff too." I smiled all the while. Didn't want him to think he was in major trouble, but wanted to give him a warning. I was pretty sure he was in my lab section, and I thought, "he might be annoyed with me now, but I'll win him over again in lab. I'm such a delight in lab, he won't be able to stay mad at me for long."

Welp, I can't win him over if he never comes back to class.
Later that week, he missed discussion lab. Dang! There goes my first chance to win him back. I didn't think much of it until just a little while later. Walking up to the shuttle stop RIGHT AFTER class I saw - oh wait, who is that? - THE KID THAT SKIPPED MY CLASS! (or so I think; it was the laptop student, either way) Insert awkward eye contact and smile, which would have been really great subject matter for discussion in lab today as the topic was nonverbal cues, but since he didn't show up for the THIRD WEEK IN A ROW, we didn't have a chance to talk about it - OR active listening OR interpersonal needs and compatibility. Good luck with all of that material on the exam next week, Mr. Baseball.

I have concluded that he thinks I'm the ice queen. He's just like that third period class - everyone else loooooooves me, and he thinks I'm an ice queen. And if he keeps this up, the ice queen will have to give him a zero for participation and attendance in labs, and there goes 10% of his grade, all because I made him stop watching baseball in class, which made him never want to see me again.

You can't win 'em all.

Peace, love, and hope (that he'll show up next week!)--

Emily

Not like Oriental Trading or 50 Shades of Grey

I've been pretty frazzled for about the last week or so. As a result, I had a little conversation with myself (and "hit on a wall," as you read about in my last post). The discussion with myself went a little something like this (cue intro to Funky Cold Medina)...

ME: Self, you need to get out of this funk.
SELF: I know. What will people think? I can't just talk about sleep deprivation and stress all the time, they'll worry about me.
ME: Yeah, so... Tell me something good!
SELF: Ok, ummm... well, the novelty of living in a new place hasn't worn off yet.
ME: Good! Let's tell the people about that.
SELF: Yeah, because they don't get to see this stuff everyday, and as NBC would say, "If you haven't seen it, it's new to you!"

My mornings have started off the same way for the last three weeks, yet the landmarks and people that are part of that routine are still quite novel to me. I take the early bird shuttle to campus every morning, and I wish I had a video of my driver because he is absolutely delightful. When he drops off his little troop of early birds, he always says, "Y'all get to wakin' up now!" among various other -isms he regularly uses. I also wish I had a video of the guy that bee-bops down the median of University Parkway, selling newspapers in the morning. He sort of conducts to the music that plays over his headphones while nodding in rhythm with his conducting and bee-bopping as he points to the drivers of the cars that pass by. My shuttle driver gets a special point - the bee-bopping newspaper salesman prolongs his point at my shuttle driver with two hands in a Usain Bolt sort of pose. I wonder if he knows how cool my shuttle driver is, too? Is that why he gets a special point and nod?

Now, to put my morning ride into context, you must know that I park in the boonies, aka the lot by the football stadium. Because people tailgate in this lot, it is complete with port-a-potties and tailgate vehicles that haven't moved yet this fall, AND I get a great view of the stadium EVERY DAY. The port-a-potties are significant because yesterday, as I arrived at about 7:10 am for the early bird shuttle, I watched in horror as a fellow early bird entered the port-a-potty pictured to the right, did her business, returned to her car to grab her bookbag, and boarded the shuttle with me. Seriously?! It takes all types to make this world go 'round, I suppose.

This morning provided a much nicer view: I think they were testing the jumbo-tron at the stadium, so it was all lit up, bright and early, with no one to see but me and the guy walking laps in the parking lot. Apparently the jumbo-tron knew it was early because it demanded QUIET.

If we're Facebook friends (and who am I NOT Facebook friends with? Besides my grandma and grandpa who read the print version of my blog. Yes, the print version - the one that my mom prints for them. Hi Grandma and Grandpa!), you are already aware that going to a small, D-I school is like the Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana concert tour: the best of both worlds. I relish the view of BB&T Field that is a part of my morning routine. From Deacon Tailgate Town tucked away in a little wooded area to the bronze statue of the Demon Deacon to the perfect lines that the grounds workers mowed into the grass this morning - it's such a great part of my morning view.

And once I get to campus, I take my little walk to Carswell Hall in the silent, morning air. After mounting the stairs to the second floor, I open the oddly asymmetrical double-doors to greet IDF and Minor League. Why all the doors in Carswell are like this, I don't know. I bet my dad has an answer for that. I think about the rationale for those asymmetrical doors every time I walk through them.

Yesterday, I found myself missing the "familiarity" and "predictability" of the last five years of my life - work, friends, family, Ada. I think I just had a revelation about my newfound familiarity and predictability, which I really didn't originally intend to include in this post, but that's where my thoughts have led me. Welcome to the new normal, people (to steal from NBC once again).

Peace, love, and my awesome shuttle driver--

Emily

How NOT to Hit on a Wall

I hit a wall on Thursday. Some of you can bear witness to the wall-hitting, and it wasn't pretty (sorry Mom). And the first time I typed that sentence, it read, "I hit on a wall on Thursday," and that made me laugh, so at least there's some comic relief to the situation. And then I changed the title of this post to reflect that hilarious error in typing, and hopefully that will entice more people to read this post. Ha! Gotcha!

When one hits a wall, though, they re-evaluate the way they've been doing things and come up with a new system in an attempt to not hit the wall again (or, at least, not to hit the wall in the same way again). My system (or "routine" as the original title of this post signified) can be divided into five major areas of interest:

• reading strategies
• physical location of laptop
• caffeine supplies and caffeination methods
• bony butt remedies
• avoiding the devil, aka Thursdays

When it comes to reading strategies, skimming is a necessity not a suggestion. If you are an example in a textbook, you will be skipped over, but thanks for playing. I appreciated you in weeks one and two, and in week three, you've simply lost your luster. Another strategy will also be discussed in the fifth major area - avoiding the devil, aka Thursdays - if you have class only one day a week, don't wait until the night before to read everything.

Today, I moved my laptop to the bathroom. And today, I've been tweeting and Facebook posting, and I'm currently writing this post, perched on my toilet (lid down, don't worry - no funny business, or business at all! ha!). Okay, so physical location of laptop has proven a problem. Sitting it next to me in my fallout shelter under the guise that "I'll only use it to listen to music" was a joke. So here we are. In the bathroom.

From the bathroom to the kitchen, I've amassed quite an arsenal of coffee stuffs. What better to aid the doomsday prepper in her fallout shelter? From Starbucks Via to Maxwell House iced latte packets, International Delights cartons of whatever in the refrigerator to the Dunkin Donuts coupons that came in the mail today - I'm equipped to caffeinate an army. For those of you who know my caffeine consumption habits and the effects of caffeine on my naturally-energized body, you may be shocked by the sudden spike in caffeination. Perhaps it explains my crash on Thursday that caused me to hit on a wall, er, hit a wall. I probably WOULD hit on a wall, you know. I AM suffering from caffeine-induced delusions.




I have also transformed one of my standard, wooden, kitchen chairs into a La-Z-Boy of sorts using pillows and a blanket. I'd attach that pic, but it's far less glamorous than those that I've posted from my bathroom, pantry, refrigerator, and kitchen counter #1. Nothing screams glamour like wire racks, a tiny bathroom, and Dunkin Donuts coupons. There are certain standards of decorum that I must uphold, you know.

Last but not least, let's talk about the devil: Thursdays. If you encounter me on a Thursday: beware. I am likely possessed by the devil, which is the day itself. I apologize for my behavior on those days of the week, which may include but is not limited to:

• crying at the shuttle stop in front of strangers
• crying ON the shuttle
• crying over things like, oh, I don't know, whether my stipend direct-deposits or not
• crying while driving while on the phone while not knowing if NC is a state where you can drive and talk on the phone while a cop follows me
• crying while recounting the moments I cried that day
• crying because I'm wasting time crying that I could be using on other, more important things

Thursdays... grrr...

Nonetheless, I've turned a new leaf, and I'm back in the saddle! Back in the saddle of hitting on walls, that is. Who knows, when I come home for Thanksgiving break, I may well be engaged to some handsome, non-load-bearing partition wall. Just don't ask him if he's reinforced. And don't try to add him on Facebook until you meet him in person, either (Mom).

Peace, love, and study breaks--

Emily

Plato, Crazy Straws, and Caffeine

After my first late night of studying in graduate school, I determined that my "late nights" will be classified using a three-level system:

1. Level 1 Late Night: up until 2 am, characterized by a pretty good night's sleep and little need for caffeine.
2. Level 2 Late Night: up after 2 am but asleep before 4 am, characterized by moderate consumption of caffeine and other tactics (i.e. turning air conditioning colder) used to keep subject awake and alert.
3. Level 3 Late Night: also known as "the all-nighter," awake after 4 am, characterized by complete lack of sleep, copious amounts of caffeine, and probably some sort of sacrificial offering to the gods of grad students (which may include ritual dance or song in living room while scantily clad).

Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I experienced a Level 2, and there were no casualties (although my half gallon of International Delight mocha iced coffee MAY beg to differ). The product of my immersion in Level 2 Late Night was the construction of my own fallout shelter of sorts, where I had everything I needed to survive the onslaught of Plato readings, outlining, and total confusion produced by terms such as "operational linkage," "univariate and bivariate analyses," and "construct validation." The fallout shelter has become my home within my home - my little slice of paradise.

As you can see, I have everything I need:

• green bookbag
• pencil case full of favorite pen (yes, one single favorite pen; I bought him some companions last night) and colored pens for outlining
• textbooks and two editions of The Bedford Handbook (just in case the transition from MLA to APA proves to be insurmountable)
• water bottle
• iced coffee in Kentucky Derby loser's cup with Jimmy Buffett flip-flop crazy straw
• cell phone (only to keep time and remind me every hour to close my eyes for five minutes to avoid eyestrain)
• my dinner, which I ate at about 11 pm
• laptop, which I kept closed as much as possible to avoid distractions
• manila folders containing syllabi and other documents for each class
• notebook
• ample lighting (you see, you must choose your fallout shelter based on appropriate lighting - again, to avoid eyestrain - and although the couch would be a comfortable fallout shelter, there are no overhead lights there)

There you have it, folks: Emily's fallout shelter. You're welcome to visit any time, and I'll give you the full tour, complete with plaques marking significant events in the history of Emily's 1 1/2 weeks of graduate school.

Peace, love, and a complete set of my favorite pens--

Emily

Welcome to My 'Hood

I've lived in my apartment complex long enough to pay rent twice, so I feel qualified to make broad generalizations about the other tenants that live here. In my mind, my residency at this complex is likely to turn into a scene of Cocoon at any given moment. I mean, most of the components of the movie are already in place: pool, warm climate, a number of senior citizens - who knows, Steve Gutenberg could even live here! Does anyone really know what he's doing these days?

Before I go any further, I need to check for understanding; do my readers understand the 1985 movie reference I just made? To really envision the community in which I'm describing to you, let's take a gander at the trailer for Cocoon, complete with appearances from Wilford Brimley, Jessica Tandy, that goofy-acting old guy who is in lots of movies but no one knows his name, and Steve Gutenberg.

Let's get back to business and focus on the task at hand: the majority of my fellow tenants appear to be senior citizens. How do I know? Well. I haven't actually counted all the handicap parking spots and the percentage that are used every day, but I assume the answers are: a lot and a lot. Most of the people I see out and about are over the age of 65.

And then there's Exhibit A, found outside the apartment across from mine on Sunday afternoon...

I predict that a television set of this maturity is not owned by someone under the age of 25. And probably not someone under the age of 35. Dare I go as high as 45 or 55? Yes, I dare. In fact, I speculate that this piece of furniture/electronics is owned by someone over the age of 65. And I believe that this individual has owned this piece of furnitronics for several decades. And I also believe that the owner of this piece of electroniture was probably quite distraught when it stopped working on Sunday afternoon. I wonder if his/her Atari still works, though?

Age of tenants and furnitronics aside, the benefit of living here is that it's pretty darn quiet. The other residents here are very respectful, and I don't hear much out of them. It's a good environment in which to study. Although, if you follow me on Twitter, you DO know that there was some hooligan revving his engine for a good 12 minutes in the parking lot the other night. Kids these days and their confounded loud engines. In my day, engines didn't make a sound. Those little whipper-snappers better stay off my lawn!

Peace, love, and septuagenarians--

Emily

Good News: I'm NOT the Old Lady

In the last week, I've been told "oh geez... you're old" and that graduating from college in 2007 would make a person "really old," which is a real blow to the ego of a young woman who was told she was "middle-aged" just a few years ago (am I over the hill now? at 27 years old?). I had developed a bit of a complex after the middle-aged comment, which carried through to my enrollment in graduate school. One of my biggest fears was being the old lady. As a matter of fact, every program I visited, I asked about the demographics of the grad students.

Fast-forward.

When first meeting my classmates, I thought that my five years of work experience made me unique, and I actually publicized my fear of being the old lady. Oh my friends, I had no idea the company I was keeping. It turns out that there are two major factions in my cohort: the '84s and the '90s. Nearly one-third of my classmates were born in '84 and another third were born in '90 (and one-third we don't really know about because they're debaters). The first time I heard one of the '90s announce the year he was born, I shrieked in horror. They're so young! My peer group has always been comprised of people born in the 1980s - sometimes even late '70s. All of a sudden, the '90s have infiltrated my peer group... and I'm okay with it.

So we have the '84s, the '90s, The Professional (who's right in the middle), and Bulgarian Radio, who is simply timeless (I owe him that compliment after calling him Bulgarian Boy Band last night). Timeless as he is, one would probably guess he's an '84, so we'll make him an honorary member.

Numbers game aside, my fellow '84s have assuaged my fear of being the old lady, and they bring valuable and interesting experience to the table. I'm not the only one who stepped away from a career, from coworkers, from familiarity with the fear of being the old lady/man. I'm not the only one who hasn't been in a classroom for half a decade. I'm not the only one who will turn 30 the year we receive our MAs from Wake Forest. I see some MAJOR 30th birthday celebrations in the future... stay tuned.

And last night, the '84s, the '90s, The Professional, Bulgarian Radio, The Married One's husband (whom I think we'll call Beer Snob) and a fantastic second-year (yet to be nicknamed) hit the streets of downtown Winston. Good times.

YOUR treat for making it this far is a glimpse of the girls from my cohort: me, The Married One, R&B, and App Ad.

Peace, love, and 1984--

Emily

My Brain is a Ticking Time Bomb

Before sitting down to tackle this post, I had some "ants on a log." For those of you who aren't familiar with this childhood delicacy, ants on a log IS edible, and the culinary creation is made up of celery (sometimes carrots, sometimes both) smeared with peanut butter and topped with raisins. This return to my childhood was necessary before expounding the mind-numbing subject matter in which I've been immersed this week. The juxtaposition of ants on a log and "Empirical Research and Theory" and/or "Rhetorical Theory" creates a nice balance. If you get scared or overwhelmed by the content of this blog post, revert to the simpler times of your childhood, grab some ants on a log, and keep reading.

If you talked to me on Wednesday evening, I was on top of the world! I had floated through my first graduate class, and I LOVED it! "Personal Relationships and Health" is the only class I chose for myself this semester, and it is taught by the professor for whom I'm TAing. We're reading about physiological effects of social networks, social support, and close personal relationships on mortality, the immune system, health behavior, etc. How cool! I was walking on sunshine after that day.

And then Thursday came.

The first indication that I was in over my head was all the terms I wrote in the margins that I needed to Google later in order to understand the lecture. Let me give you some examples straight from my five-subject, college-ruled notebook: empirical, rhetorical, empirical v. rhetorical, prospectus, rhetoric. It turns out that the definitions of these words and/or the differences/similarities/overlapping of these words is blurry for many people. That makes me feel better. It still makes my brain feel like a ball of tangled yarn.

And then I entered hostile territory - territory on which I have stepped once before, and the results were not good. Talk of the Fertile Crescent, the Sumerians, cuneiform, hieroglyphics, ancient Romans and Greeks... it took me back to Western Civ... and that was a very dark time in my life. As a matter of fact, it was the worst grade I received in college. Nay! The worst grade I received in my LIFE! I left class that evening in a fog. So much reading. So much jargon. So much writing (okay, let's be honest, I'm excited about the writing).

Oh, and I wrote something else in the margins of my notebook as I was reading for class this afternoon. This is a direct quote from one of the sixty million books I had to buy for "Empirical Research and Theory":

"About the only solace we can give those about to embark on theory building is that it probably won't kill you and that if it doesn't kill you it probably will make you stronger."

I like this author's sense of humor, and I suppose this will be my mantra for the first year of grad school: it PROBABLY won't kill you.

Alright, readers: I promise more delightful and visually stimulating posts in the very near future. I can promise this because I'm headed out on the town with my cohort this evening. Hopefully I'll have some tales of The 1984 Club, a subgroup of my cohort that you're sure to hear more about soon.

Peace, love, and rhetoric (whatever the crap THAT is)--

Emily

And So It Begins

Here I am, staring down my last few hours of freedom before classes begin. Like an adolescent, I'm secretly hoping that the flood warning we're currently under continues through the morning, resulting in cancelled classes. Postponing reality, however, will do me no good. And I should act more like a mature adult, right?

I feel as though there's one item of business I must take care of before the semester begins: introducing you to some of my peers in my cohort. They are quite a bunch, and I'm sure much of my posts from here on out will refer to them. Have no fear, they know I have a blog, and I've promised them some anonymity. To construct this anonymity, I've begun creating nicknames for each of them, so you won't really know who they are (unless you're one of them), but I'm sure you'll grow to love them just as I have in the five (or so) short days we've known each other.

IDF (Israeli Defense Forces), Minor League, and Bulgarian Radio were the first classmates I met, and they've proven good companions thus far, suffering through the various workshops, sessions, and orientations involved with the role of first-year TA. Another TA, whom I met later, goes by many names, as he's from China, and no one can seem to pronounce his name. He's asked us to call him Stephanie and Bob, among many others, so far this week. For now, I'm going to call him Texarchina (teks-arch-eye-nuh; you know, like Texarkana - he's from China and went to school at Texas-Austin), but I feel like I can come up with something better, as he's quite a lively individual. Stay tuned on that one.

In the last twenty-four hours, I've had the fortune of getting to spend time with a few others, which has helped to create a few more nicknames. One has a very James Dean vibe and James Franco looks. The name that seems most appropriate for him, though, is Pineapple Express. Appalachian Advocate is a potential future roommate of mine, and she graduated with Pineapple Express last year. App Ad may get a new nickname in the future, as I learn more about her, but after tonight's dinner conversation, she's App Ad. Still working on a good name for R&B, so she's R&B for now. For my HOBY people out there (or those who have done True Colors personality testing using the colors gold, orange, green, and blue), I think R&B's a blue. And for those of you who know me and my color, you know I'm a super blue. Let the lovefest begin.

Oh, and let's not forget about The Cool Married One. I considered calling her "The Married One," until I realized that she and her husband are super cool married people; they've joined us for hikes, drinks, know the city very well, AND she has already proposed some department sightseeing downtown. I like this girl. And she's married. Thus, The Cool Married One. There's also The Professional, who has a full-time job at Wake Forest. With experience in PR and higher ed, I have a LOT in common with The Professional. He speaks my language, and it's good to find someone with whom you can speak your language.

Finally, you have The Great Debaters, which encompasses all of my remaining classmates who are debate coaches for Wake Debate. They are a bit of a subculture of our department, and if I get to know them better, they'll probably emerge with individual identities in the context of the blog. For now, they're grouped together.

So far, we get along REALLY well, which is why I anticipate the need to reference them on this little thing I call my blog. Look forward to hearing more about them - they are really rad people.

Peace, love, and one heckuva cohort--

Emily

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

The period of time from Friday afternoon through Saturday afternoon served as a lesson in peer pressure. And for one of my classmates, the lesson proved to be painful - and sweaty. And I learned that peer pressure isn't just for adolescents anymore.

For those of you who keep really close tabs on me, you know that I have been looking forward to my department's hiking adventure at Pilot Mountain, which was scheduled for Saturday morning. Who would have thought that the things that get me excited are the polar opposite of the things that get the majority of people excited? Friday afternoon, I learned that the Pilot Mountain trip was the LAST thing my classmates wanted to do on Saturday morning. From the sounds of things, NO ONE was going. Dare I cave to peer pressure?

As our enthusiastic prof passed her little notepad around the group, one-by-one, that little notepad was quickly cast to the next, to the next, to the next - no signatures. I stood firmly to my ground; even if I was the only one, I was still going. Bless her soul, one of my classmates penned her name on that little pad. Victory! Now, I could add my name with confidence! The notepad continued to the next, to the next, to the next. At least there would be two of us. Then, in a dramatic change of events, ANOTHER classmate added his name before the notepad reached the end of its line. This second classmate would soon regret that he folded to peer pressure.

To make a long story short: we ended up taking a 2.2 mile "strenuous" trail at Pilot Mountain, although none of us had really confessed much prowess in the hiking sector (besides my first classmate who signed up, her husband, and their dog, who appeared to hike regularly, according to their Camelbak water backpacks). Classmate #2... not so fortunate. He confessed last night (at my SECOND, free Dash game - man, I know the right people) that he threw away the t-shirt he had worn hiking when he got home. Let's be honest: if I threw away every sweaty piece of clothing, I'd be running naked as a jaybird 95% of the time. However, I understand the horrifying symbol that his grey t-shirt must have become after that hike.

Here we are after: (sans classmate who tossed his t-shirt afterward; he's our adept photog for this shot)

Wait, I'm not sure you can read that sign. Let's take a closer look:

My enthusiasm for this hike may have been based on the definition of "hike" in West Central Ohio, where any slight hill is hard to find. I remarked to a few of my fellow hikers that "hiking" in Ohio is much different from "hiking" in North Carolina. Lesson learned, but now I'm prepared for the next one!

Peace, love, and sweaty t-shirts--

Emily

Carrel 3, Carswell: My New Office

Yesterday, I picked up my student ID and the key to my office in Carswell Hall. Some might say that I'm really going places - that I'm really moving up in the world. Others (who are visual learners and scrolled down to the photos before reading) would disagree. I am the proud inhabitant of carrel three of the second floor of Carswell. Yes, my "office" is a mere carrel, but I'm pretty gosh darn proud of it. The door locks, there's a light bulb in one of the three  sockets, it looks dusty but it's not, and it's all mine.

My carrel isn't the only highlight of the last two days; and, no, I'm not being facetious. I was most delighted to learn about the TLC, Teaching and Learning Center, at Wake. Now, the TLC is oft-confused with the Learning Assistance Center, however, my friends, they are not the same center. The Learning Assistance Center is for students and the TLC is for faculty and TAs! It's a resource for us, so we can be the best teachers we can be. They offer regular workshops. OUTSTANDING! When Wake says they're a teaching-centered institution, they mean it! Little known fact: nationally, WFU is ranked 12th overall in terms of Best Undergraduate Teaching (according to our dear friends at U.S. News & World Report, America's Best Colleges).

Oh, did I mention what greeted me at TA orientation yesterday? A cooler emblazoned with the Mountain Dew logo (and full of Mt. Dew and other Pepsi products, as logic would have it). GREAT way to start orientation. And the day ended with an ice cream social. Pssshhhh. Awesome. I mean, Dew and ice cream socials pale in comparison to the teaching-centered mission of the school, but they're up there!

Today, I met more fellow commies (that's what the department named their intramural softball team last year, as I learned today).  I'm sure I'll describe my compatriots in more depth in future posts. The department wants to start a group run, group walk, intramural teams, and we ended tonight at Dr. Giles' house (on Faculty Drive, so YES, there are faculty who live on Faculty Drive!). Tomorrow, a few of us are going hiking at Pilot Mountain. Tomorrow night, we're catching a Dash game.

As Dave Matthews would say, "So much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say." Expect more posts as orientation continues and classes commence. For now, here's a look at part of Carswell Hall. That lower level is where my "office" is located (see the open door on the right? that's me!). While my carrel doesn't look like much on its own, I hope you agree that the overall ambiance is very nice.

Peace, love, and my new office--

Emily