It's unofficially summertime. The weather has been hot and humid (I even went swimming the other day with some friends). There have been an onslaught of summer T-storms. High school graduations are popping up everywhere. It just feels like the classic summertime, now.
And what better way to celebrate it than with a Father's Day trip to Dodd Stadium?
I still call the Defenders the Navigators. I grew up on Tator the Gator and bright purple uniforms; Cutter just doesn't cut it for me. He's more intimidating, sure, but honestly, what mascot has more personality than a giant reptile named after a potato snack?
Being at the ball park again was just plain nice, despite the misty haze that refused to go away. I engorged myself with fattening chicken tenders and friend dough. I yelled "CHARGE!" about twenty times over the course of the eight-and-a-half innings (the Navs won 8-0). I cheered as I watched fat little dachshunds run across the outfield. My mom was so upset; our little wiener dog Allen would've crushed the competition, if only we had known it was wiener dog race day... and if Allen Leonard was slightly better adjusted to playing with others.
The best summer kick-off for me, however, wasn't just about the baseball field, the game, or the wieners. It was about the classic Dodd Stadium community events. My dad doesn't ever do anything to draw attention to himself. He doesn't even like going to the courtesy desk at ShopRite while I'm working to get my hard earned employee discount. He's a much more "hang in the back" kind of guy, and he likes it that way.
My mother and I, on the other hand, as passive as we can be, will be the first ones to volunteer for any promotion, free thing, or other attention-getting activities. We're not ones to let silly, fun opportunities pass us by.
So, as he likes to put it, we women "shamed" my dad into heading out onto the infield to dig up the baseline with a metal spike to try and find a remote to an unnecessarily large 42" flat screen plasma television.
He didn't win the TV. Sadly he was about 15 feet away from the holy remote.
But that's alright. We didn't need the TV. It was just fun to see my dad getting out there and doing something he never does. The photos on my mom's phone I will cherish forever.
That's the great kind of community activity you can only ever get at a local AA baseball game. Sure, the Sox are great (even though I am a Yanks fan!), but Boston doesn't have the kind of community Eastern CT does. I can't go see a game for $10. I probably won't see any local wiener dog races. And I most definitely wouldn't see my dad digging up Fenway's infield with a metal spike.
In the end, I guess with the kick-off of summertime, I've realized that as much as I miss my college town city, it'll be fantastic to enjoy summer at home. After all, I've got years and years after this to worry about internships and apartments and research assistantships. This is probably one of the last years I can enjoy things like ShopRite and Dodd Stadium and other classic Eastern CT summertime events.
So I might as well enjoy them while I've got the time.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Time Management, part 159
My Dear, Beloved, Faithful Readers,
I admire your perseverance, your willingness to believe that I will eventually update, and your interest in my junior workaholic life.
Thank you.
In honor of that, and in honor of the fact that I have finally worked out my summer schedule, and in honor of the fact that I got yet another scolding e-mail from my Bulletin boss, I'm getting on top of this blogging thing and making one last resolution to regulate my updates.
I will update twice a week, once on Wednesday evening, and once on Sunday evening. These updates will be thoughtful, honest, and edited entries. They will be more than just summaries of my life, but actual observations, including questions (that I'd love responses to!), quotes, anecdotes, and life lessons. It will be more than just the telling of what a soon-to-be-sophomore does, but how I view the world, what I'm getting from it, and ways I think I can learn from all of you.
Insightful, I know. But I'm just sick and tired of this blog being everything but exceptional, witty, and interactive like I originally intended it to be when I began it two years ago. So I'm making one last effort to step back from my crazy lifestyle and get back to doing the things I love to do, like writing.
I remember sitting at home a while back, thinking about how when I grew up I was going to be the next Craig Wilson. I'd travel a lot, live life to the fullest, and write profound things about all the little things in life from my basement.
My, how things change.
What hasn't changed, however, is that I still appreciate the little things, still admire Craig Wilson (even if I do only think to read his column once a month), and still want to express my feelings in the same way he does. I just won't make any money doing it.
So, instead, I'll take the time to do what I enjoy, and completely revamp this blog. After all, I am not a freshman anymore, so the title hardly fits.
Be sure to check back on Sunday, Father's Day, for a more profound entry, and an entirely new look.
Consider it my Mid Year Resolution. I like that far better than the cliche of everyone changing on January 1st.
Cordially yours,
Pamela Suzanne
I admire your perseverance, your willingness to believe that I will eventually update, and your interest in my junior workaholic life.
Thank you.
In honor of that, and in honor of the fact that I have finally worked out my summer schedule, and in honor of the fact that I got yet another scolding e-mail from my Bulletin boss, I'm getting on top of this blogging thing and making one last resolution to regulate my updates.
I will update twice a week, once on Wednesday evening, and once on Sunday evening. These updates will be thoughtful, honest, and edited entries. They will be more than just summaries of my life, but actual observations, including questions (that I'd love responses to!), quotes, anecdotes, and life lessons. It will be more than just the telling of what a soon-to-be-sophomore does, but how I view the world, what I'm getting from it, and ways I think I can learn from all of you.
Insightful, I know. But I'm just sick and tired of this blog being everything but exceptional, witty, and interactive like I originally intended it to be when I began it two years ago. So I'm making one last effort to step back from my crazy lifestyle and get back to doing the things I love to do, like writing.
I remember sitting at home a while back, thinking about how when I grew up I was going to be the next Craig Wilson. I'd travel a lot, live life to the fullest, and write profound things about all the little things in life from my basement.
My, how things change.
What hasn't changed, however, is that I still appreciate the little things, still admire Craig Wilson (even if I do only think to read his column once a month), and still want to express my feelings in the same way he does. I just won't make any money doing it.
So, instead, I'll take the time to do what I enjoy, and completely revamp this blog. After all, I am not a freshman anymore, so the title hardly fits.
Be sure to check back on Sunday, Father's Day, for a more profound entry, and an entirely new look.
Consider it my Mid Year Resolution. I like that far better than the cliche of everyone changing on January 1st.
Cordially yours,
Pamela Suzanne
Sunday, June 01, 2008
You know you're not a kid anymore when...
...your parents turn to you for the science behind everyday phenomena.
Or, in my case, when your dad thinks he knows the science behind everyday phenomena and you prove him wrong.
Or, in my case, when your dad thinks he knows the science behind everyday phenomena and you prove him wrong.
"Have you ever dealt with a dead body before?"
I watched "time of death" being called this morning, and then I helped put the man into a body bag.
I almost feel bad; I was stoic and professional the entire time. Not a single tear or stabbing nausea or any other sign of emotion. I was amazed; I even cry when sitcom characters die on TV.
Weirdest experience of my life.
I almost feel bad; I was stoic and professional the entire time. Not a single tear or stabbing nausea or any other sign of emotion. I was amazed; I even cry when sitcom characters die on TV.
Weirdest experience of my life.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Feel Good Inside
I have two stories for this belated update.
Firstly, I started working at ShopRite last week. I also began volunteering at both Day Kimball Hospital in Putnam and Lawrence & Memorial Hospital in New London. The last two days for me, I've been going straight from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. at one of those three places. And of course, driving in between.
Putnam to New London is not a fun drive, might I add.
But it's worth it. Makes me feel good inside.
Which brings me to my first story. Or anecdote rather. I finished my training at L&M last night, and one of the other volunteers was telling me about this blog he'd been reading. A new doctor was writing it, which automatically got me interested; however the guy I was volunteering with mentioned a funny note. His first year out of med school -- first year of residency, which is a hardcore internship year in which doctors average 80-100 hours per week, for those of you unfamiliar with it-- he didn't update for nine months. When he finally did update, he mentioned that he just did not have time, at all, to blog.
Nine months makes me feel a little bit better about not updating for a week. Although a measly two 12 hour days in a row doesn't exactly compare to a year of 80-100 hour work weeks. I've got something to look forward to!
That's another thing this young man I was volunteering with discussed with me. He is presently looking to apply to medical schools and we talked about the insane working hours required of new physicians during residency. My response to these horror stories was, "Exciting!", in an actually non-sarcastic tone (I am a dork... and a workaholic). The other volunteer just smiled and responded by saying, "That's the thing about pre-med kids: if you hear about long hours and you cringe, you're probably not going to end up doing well as a doctor. It's the people that look at it as a rite of passage that make it."
I'm going to be a physician. You all just wait!
In the meantime, I'll work extremely hard at my engineering course load, volunteer at hospitals and as an EMT (once I finally get my certification), and work diligently at ShopRite to pay for gas.
Which brings me to my second anecdote: my new ShopRite identity.
Coming back to ShopRite after a four month hiatus was weird. I thought it was weird over winter break, but coming back for the summer is even more of a trip. We have funky new machines. You can actually read what's on our monitors now. The lotto machine is no longer that giant green monster (not to be confused with the Red Sox official Green Monster) I'd become so fond of and familiar with. It's this little black computer, and the tickets are printed on nifty multicolored paper. The most impressive addition to my dear ol' ShopRite in Norwich was a Redbox. Redbox, the $1 a night DVD rental machine, has been a college staple for me. And now it's at ShopRite. I was overcome with joy.
Not that I can even afford a $1-a-night DVD. I need that extra dollar for gas.
Another change that occurred sometime in the four months I was gone was the break room. I loved the break room. The fridge was never clean. The soda machines never had anything in them. And the lockers were all locked up and a mangled mess of snack food and extra aprons. The fridge is still a zoo, though apparently it gets cleaned out every Monday. The soda machines still don't have anything in them. And they cleaned out all the lockers-- mine included. They cut my lock off and cleaned it out. Bye bye lock, my apron, the various can-can buttons I still had, several pens, a bottle of lotion, an extra comb, probably a three-year old bag of Cheese Puffs, and my identity: my name tag.
So, I got a new apron, found some new pens, went through the five stages of denial for the loss of the can-can buttons and lotion, laughed at the Cheese Puffs, and became "Olivia" for the last week. "Olivia" had an entire story behind her. She was new at Norwich, but had worked at the New London store for the last three years. She is recently estraged from her parents, who rejected her recent engagement, but she and her fiancee had just gotten an apartment in Plainfield and couldn't afford to travel to New London everyday for work. I was going to make her British, but then I realized my British accent sounded to Australian, and when I tried to do Australian, I sounded like an idiot. So instead, I just am able to live on my own from a generous monthly check I get from my paternal grandmother who lives in Sandwich, UK. She also is paying for my education. This last semester, I did very well at UConn, Avery Point as a bio major, but as soon as I get the money and my transcripts together, I want to transfer out to Washington University in St. Louis and take on a biotech program. The interest is spurred from my grandfather (who also lives in Sandwich, UK) who works at Pfizer and helped discover Viagra. Her favorite movie is Gattaca and her favorite book is The Giver. Her favorite television show (sorry, I had to do it) was going to be Grey's Anatomy. Then I realized I hadn't seen an episode since I began making fun of the second season, so I had to change the favorite show back to its rightful place-holder of House, M.D.. Her favorite colors are Cornflower Blue and Macaroni and Cheese from the 264 Crayola Crayon box.
So I made up this wonderfully elaborate identity, and had a great deal of fun deciding on how I would tell some anecdotes and how I would describe my fiancee that my parents so rudely objected to. How I'd describe my fiesty British grandmother, or my sweet, hard-working grandfather (who, in true English fashion, would always be called Grandmother and Grandfather). How I'd go on and on about my far-fetched plans for my future from my present situation.
And then I realized that I don't work at ShopRite on Senior Discount Tuesdays anymore because that's when I'm going from Putnam to New London volunteering in the ED. Younger people are no fun to tell fake stories to.
So yesterday, my ShopRite higher ups finally got sick of making fun of me and calling me Olivia, and I got a new name tag with my given name on it. I'm "Pam" once again, with my own crazy history and a spew of anecdotes. I go to school in Boston. I drive a '99 Manual Honda Civic with upwards of 215,000 miles on it, but it still gets at least 35 miles to the gallon. I'm a complete dork. I am obsessed with cheese, peanuts, and sparkling cider. I am not engaged (although my boyfriend and I are doing extremely well =D), nor have my parents completely rejected my boyfriend, though they might if I chose to ostracize them, move in with him, and find an apartment in Plainfield. I also don't have British grandparents. My grandpa didn't help invent Viagra, although I do have an anecdote about how Viagra was discovered. And lastly, my name is not Olivia. I'm just me. Pam.
But that's okay. I like being the silly, dorky, rambling (and I like to think good-hearted) me. The me that some of my co-workers didn't even remember (I was traumatized really). But it's me, none-the-less.
My first day back, actually, the first day anyone had seen me with glasses or hair longer than an inch past my shoulders, the first day some people didn't recognize me, and the first day I took on the identity of "Olivia," one of my friends came up to me and said, "You can't be Olivia! No, you can't be anyone other than Pam. I want you to just be Pam."
That made me feel good inside.
Firstly, I started working at ShopRite last week. I also began volunteering at both Day Kimball Hospital in Putnam and Lawrence & Memorial Hospital in New London. The last two days for me, I've been going straight from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. at one of those three places. And of course, driving in between.
Putnam to New London is not a fun drive, might I add.
But it's worth it. Makes me feel good inside.
Which brings me to my first story. Or anecdote rather. I finished my training at L&M last night, and one of the other volunteers was telling me about this blog he'd been reading. A new doctor was writing it, which automatically got me interested; however the guy I was volunteering with mentioned a funny note. His first year out of med school -- first year of residency, which is a hardcore internship year in which doctors average 80-100 hours per week, for those of you unfamiliar with it-- he didn't update for nine months. When he finally did update, he mentioned that he just did not have time, at all, to blog.
Nine months makes me feel a little bit better about not updating for a week. Although a measly two 12 hour days in a row doesn't exactly compare to a year of 80-100 hour work weeks. I've got something to look forward to!
That's another thing this young man I was volunteering with discussed with me. He is presently looking to apply to medical schools and we talked about the insane working hours required of new physicians during residency. My response to these horror stories was, "Exciting!", in an actually non-sarcastic tone (I am a dork... and a workaholic). The other volunteer just smiled and responded by saying, "That's the thing about pre-med kids: if you hear about long hours and you cringe, you're probably not going to end up doing well as a doctor. It's the people that look at it as a rite of passage that make it."
I'm going to be a physician. You all just wait!
In the meantime, I'll work extremely hard at my engineering course load, volunteer at hospitals and as an EMT (once I finally get my certification), and work diligently at ShopRite to pay for gas.
Which brings me to my second anecdote: my new ShopRite identity.
Coming back to ShopRite after a four month hiatus was weird. I thought it was weird over winter break, but coming back for the summer is even more of a trip. We have funky new machines. You can actually read what's on our monitors now. The lotto machine is no longer that giant green monster (not to be confused with the Red Sox official Green Monster) I'd become so fond of and familiar with. It's this little black computer, and the tickets are printed on nifty multicolored paper. The most impressive addition to my dear ol' ShopRite in Norwich was a Redbox. Redbox, the $1 a night DVD rental machine, has been a college staple for me. And now it's at ShopRite. I was overcome with joy.
Not that I can even afford a $1-a-night DVD. I need that extra dollar for gas.
Another change that occurred sometime in the four months I was gone was the break room. I loved the break room. The fridge was never clean. The soda machines never had anything in them. And the lockers were all locked up and a mangled mess of snack food and extra aprons. The fridge is still a zoo, though apparently it gets cleaned out every Monday. The soda machines still don't have anything in them. And they cleaned out all the lockers-- mine included. They cut my lock off and cleaned it out. Bye bye lock, my apron, the various can-can buttons I still had, several pens, a bottle of lotion, an extra comb, probably a three-year old bag of Cheese Puffs, and my identity: my name tag.
So, I got a new apron, found some new pens, went through the five stages of denial for the loss of the can-can buttons and lotion, laughed at the Cheese Puffs, and became "Olivia" for the last week. "Olivia" had an entire story behind her. She was new at Norwich, but had worked at the New London store for the last three years. She is recently estraged from her parents, who rejected her recent engagement, but she and her fiancee had just gotten an apartment in Plainfield and couldn't afford to travel to New London everyday for work. I was going to make her British, but then I realized my British accent sounded to Australian, and when I tried to do Australian, I sounded like an idiot. So instead, I just am able to live on my own from a generous monthly check I get from my paternal grandmother who lives in Sandwich, UK. She also is paying for my education. This last semester, I did very well at UConn, Avery Point as a bio major, but as soon as I get the money and my transcripts together, I want to transfer out to Washington University in St. Louis and take on a biotech program. The interest is spurred from my grandfather (who also lives in Sandwich, UK) who works at Pfizer and helped discover Viagra. Her favorite movie is Gattaca and her favorite book is The Giver. Her favorite television show (sorry, I had to do it) was going to be Grey's Anatomy. Then I realized I hadn't seen an episode since I began making fun of the second season, so I had to change the favorite show back to its rightful place-holder of House, M.D.. Her favorite colors are Cornflower Blue and Macaroni and Cheese from the 264 Crayola Crayon box.
So I made up this wonderfully elaborate identity, and had a great deal of fun deciding on how I would tell some anecdotes and how I would describe my fiancee that my parents so rudely objected to. How I'd describe my fiesty British grandmother, or my sweet, hard-working grandfather (who, in true English fashion, would always be called Grandmother and Grandfather). How I'd go on and on about my far-fetched plans for my future from my present situation.
And then I realized that I don't work at ShopRite on Senior Discount Tuesdays anymore because that's when I'm going from Putnam to New London volunteering in the ED. Younger people are no fun to tell fake stories to.
So yesterday, my ShopRite higher ups finally got sick of making fun of me and calling me Olivia, and I got a new name tag with my given name on it. I'm "Pam" once again, with my own crazy history and a spew of anecdotes. I go to school in Boston. I drive a '99 Manual Honda Civic with upwards of 215,000 miles on it, but it still gets at least 35 miles to the gallon. I'm a complete dork. I am obsessed with cheese, peanuts, and sparkling cider. I am not engaged (although my boyfriend and I are doing extremely well =D), nor have my parents completely rejected my boyfriend, though they might if I chose to ostracize them, move in with him, and find an apartment in Plainfield. I also don't have British grandparents. My grandpa didn't help invent Viagra, although I do have an anecdote about how Viagra was discovered. And lastly, my name is not Olivia. I'm just me. Pam.
But that's okay. I like being the silly, dorky, rambling (and I like to think good-hearted) me. The me that some of my co-workers didn't even remember (I was traumatized really). But it's me, none-the-less.
My first day back, actually, the first day anyone had seen me with glasses or hair longer than an inch past my shoulders, the first day some people didn't recognize me, and the first day I took on the identity of "Olivia," one of my friends came up to me and said, "You can't be Olivia! No, you can't be anyone other than Pam. I want you to just be Pam."
That made me feel good inside.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
No More Summer Slumming
It's a good thing I don't like idling very much, because it looks like I'm going to have a busy summer after all.
I went in to my dear ol' ShopRite today to get taken off summer leave. I'll be there, smiling and ringing up your groceries once again starting Friday. So please! Come in, take advantage of classic ShopRite savings, and say hi to your lovely local blogger.
I also lined up some Emergency Room hospital volunteer opportunities for myself this summer after I was passive-aggressively snubbed by Pfizer (though I did miss the intern deadline, so I guess I deserved trying to sneak in an internship at the last minute). I still have to make it through health screening, orientations, and training, but hopefully, by the end of next week I'll be volunteering at least once a week at Lawrence & Memorial in New London and Day Kimball up in Putnam.
Then once I officially get my EMT certification (hoping for early June!), I'm going to talk to Canterbury EMS and see if I can get involved and actually put my new practical skills to use. I have no idea where that will fit into my schedule, but if I'm only on call evenings, it should work fine.
And then the remaining free time I might have is going to be devoted to housework, catching up on that reading thing I don't do as an engineering student, and getting in quality time with my boyfriend and friends.
Not that I'll have a ton of money to do that with.
One of the hazards of being good with math and being the daughter of my father is that I tend to take financial planning to an extreme. Let's figure I average 5 days, 30 hours a week at ShopRite. Automatically, half of the money I make goes into my college tuition fund. Down to 15 hours. Getting back and forth from Norwich everyday with gas at $4 a gallon is about an hour working at ShopRite. Multiply that by 5 days a week is 5 hours. Down to 10. Putnam's about double the distance it takes to get to Norwich and back, so getting to Day Kimball and back is about two hours at ShopRite. Multiply that by two times a week (even if I only work one shift at DKH, I'll devote at least two days a week to the Putnam area to see old friends from WA), and there goes four hours. I'm down to 6. Going back and forth from Lawrence and Memorial is also about double the distance it takes to get back and forth from Norwich; however, in order to conserve gas and time, I've attempted to arrange my working day so that I go directly from ShopRite in Norwich to New London, therefore cutting the distance in half. I'll only be working one shift there a week, so that's only one hour, making the net working hours that will yield disposable income 5 hours. Subtract taxes and discretionary expenses for things such as food, tampons, birthday gifts, and gas to actually go see my friends, and I might have enough money to see one $9 movie a month.
I'm extremely disappointed that they jacked up the price at the Lisbon Theatre again. We need more competition around here. Hmph.
But, on the bright side, ShopRite got a Redbox, which means nine $1 movie-night-ins a month, no extra travelling required.
Ultimately, I guess I do like those brief moments of idling that things like Redbox might bring. But I'm glad I'll have a non-slumming, classic Pam-workaholic, busy summer after all. Even if I do only have nine spare dollars a month to idle with after the working is done.
I went in to my dear ol' ShopRite today to get taken off summer leave. I'll be there, smiling and ringing up your groceries once again starting Friday. So please! Come in, take advantage of classic ShopRite savings, and say hi to your lovely local blogger.
I also lined up some Emergency Room hospital volunteer opportunities for myself this summer after I was passive-aggressively snubbed by Pfizer (though I did miss the intern deadline, so I guess I deserved trying to sneak in an internship at the last minute). I still have to make it through health screening, orientations, and training, but hopefully, by the end of next week I'll be volunteering at least once a week at Lawrence & Memorial in New London and Day Kimball up in Putnam.
Then once I officially get my EMT certification (hoping for early June!), I'm going to talk to Canterbury EMS and see if I can get involved and actually put my new practical skills to use. I have no idea where that will fit into my schedule, but if I'm only on call evenings, it should work fine.
And then the remaining free time I might have is going to be devoted to housework, catching up on that reading thing I don't do as an engineering student, and getting in quality time with my boyfriend and friends.
Not that I'll have a ton of money to do that with.
One of the hazards of being good with math and being the daughter of my father is that I tend to take financial planning to an extreme. Let's figure I average 5 days, 30 hours a week at ShopRite. Automatically, half of the money I make goes into my college tuition fund. Down to 15 hours. Getting back and forth from Norwich everyday with gas at $4 a gallon is about an hour working at ShopRite. Multiply that by 5 days a week is 5 hours. Down to 10. Putnam's about double the distance it takes to get to Norwich and back, so getting to Day Kimball and back is about two hours at ShopRite. Multiply that by two times a week (even if I only work one shift at DKH, I'll devote at least two days a week to the Putnam area to see old friends from WA), and there goes four hours. I'm down to 6. Going back and forth from Lawrence and Memorial is also about double the distance it takes to get back and forth from Norwich; however, in order to conserve gas and time, I've attempted to arrange my working day so that I go directly from ShopRite in Norwich to New London, therefore cutting the distance in half. I'll only be working one shift there a week, so that's only one hour, making the net working hours that will yield disposable income 5 hours. Subtract taxes and discretionary expenses for things such as food, tampons, birthday gifts, and gas to actually go see my friends, and I might have enough money to see one $9 movie a month.
I'm extremely disappointed that they jacked up the price at the Lisbon Theatre again. We need more competition around here. Hmph.
But, on the bright side, ShopRite got a Redbox, which means nine $1 movie-night-ins a month, no extra travelling required.
Ultimately, I guess I do like those brief moments of idling that things like Redbox might bring. But I'm glad I'll have a non-slumming, classic Pam-workaholic, busy summer after all. Even if I do only have nine spare dollars a month to idle with after the working is done.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Idling.
I'm not a fan of idling. Honestly, when school let out, I thought all I would do was absolutely nothing. I thought it would be wonderful.
Now, I'm sitting in bed in my pajamas, in my own room, on my laptop, doing just that, and I'm bored to tears.
Mother's Day is over (which was nice; my little brother and I (mostly him) cooked my Mom a nice dinner and we watched a girly movie together)); I've exhausted all my Gilmore Girls; Facebook can no longer preoccupy me for hours on end; I find all movies utterly disinteresting. Sadly, I've found myself going over my chemistry notes.
That is really sad.
I need to find a hobby this summer. If my plans for that Pfizer internship fall through or if I can't get a decent volunteer position at Backus. If no doctor allows be to shadow them, or if my friends all come down with meningitis, and I can't see any of them for extended periods of time (knock on wood). I'll need a hobby to keep my mind active. Even if everything does work out, I'm on a college schedule, now: go go go no sleep go some more. I'll need a hobby for times like this, at 11 o'clock at night, when I'm up, hyper, want to go to sleep, but can't, and am feeling totally and completely unproductive.
My mom suggested I go back to reading this afternoon. Getting back into books would be nice; I haven't really read since the beginning of the semester. I could also get back into writing. I could actually update this more than once a week, or get started on that novel I was planning over winter break. Then there's my secret passion of singing and dancing, but I don't think anyone living in this house would appreciate that very much.
I could also exercise. Unfortunately, heading to the gym isn't something I can readily do in Canterbury at 11 p.m. After what happened to Judy Nilan, too, I'm not risking running out in the dark backwoods of northeastern Connecticut alone at night.
I could try art. I'm a great hand at drawing little Smurfs and this cute, flying devil pig I made up in my freshman (high school) earth science class. Then again, that's about the only thing I have a "great hand" for.
Or maybe I'll get into video games; it seems to work for... well... every guy I know. Then again, the last time I was able to understand a console controller was back in '98 when the N64 was cool.
I don't know. I'll figure it out, this whole hobby thing. Cooking! I could always try cooking, too! That would actually be practical, since the only thing I can make presently is pasta and dessert.
But now, I should shove off. Sleep would be an advisable thing to get, and I'm going to go find a book and see if reading sparks my fancy.
Happy evening to you all; may you enjoy your idling much more than I do.
Now, I'm sitting in bed in my pajamas, in my own room, on my laptop, doing just that, and I'm bored to tears.
Mother's Day is over (which was nice; my little brother and I (mostly him) cooked my Mom a nice dinner and we watched a girly movie together)); I've exhausted all my Gilmore Girls; Facebook can no longer preoccupy me for hours on end; I find all movies utterly disinteresting. Sadly, I've found myself going over my chemistry notes.
That is really sad.
I need to find a hobby this summer. If my plans for that Pfizer internship fall through or if I can't get a decent volunteer position at Backus. If no doctor allows be to shadow them, or if my friends all come down with meningitis, and I can't see any of them for extended periods of time (knock on wood). I'll need a hobby to keep my mind active. Even if everything does work out, I'm on a college schedule, now: go go go no sleep go some more. I'll need a hobby for times like this, at 11 o'clock at night, when I'm up, hyper, want to go to sleep, but can't, and am feeling totally and completely unproductive.
My mom suggested I go back to reading this afternoon. Getting back into books would be nice; I haven't really read since the beginning of the semester. I could also get back into writing. I could actually update this more than once a week, or get started on that novel I was planning over winter break. Then there's my secret passion of singing and dancing, but I don't think anyone living in this house would appreciate that very much.
I could also exercise. Unfortunately, heading to the gym isn't something I can readily do in Canterbury at 11 p.m. After what happened to Judy Nilan, too, I'm not risking running out in the dark backwoods of northeastern Connecticut alone at night.
I could try art. I'm a great hand at drawing little Smurfs and this cute, flying devil pig I made up in my freshman (high school) earth science class. Then again, that's about the only thing I have a "great hand" for.
Or maybe I'll get into video games; it seems to work for... well... every guy I know. Then again, the last time I was able to understand a console controller was back in '98 when the N64 was cool.
I don't know. I'll figure it out, this whole hobby thing. Cooking! I could always try cooking, too! That would actually be practical, since the only thing I can make presently is pasta and dessert.
But now, I should shove off. Sleep would be an advisable thing to get, and I'm going to go find a book and see if reading sparks my fancy.
Happy evening to you all; may you enjoy your idling much more than I do.
My Parents' Greatest Gift to Me pt. 2
It's been a big week for me. My birthday was on Tuesday; I'm 19, now. I had all of my finals, and think I pulled off a pretty spectacular end to my freshman year of college. I talked to one of my advisors about picking up a minor in chemistry or applying for an early acceptance program into the BU School of Medicine next year. In a matter of twelve hours, I got curious, did research on, concocted a resume for, and applied for an analytical sciences internship at Pfizer in Groton. I said goodbye to the best roommate a girl could have her first year away from home and I packed up a good majority of my stuff (obviously the laptop is still out, as is my bedding, shower stuff, and clothing for tomorrow). Not to mention, on top of all that, I somehow managed to watch the entire seventh season of Gilmore Girls from episode 1 to 22 in six days.
How's that for a week of accomplishments?
I didn't realize it until this week, but over the course of the last 365 days or so, I've somehow made the transition from kid to adult; sure, I still stand a mere 5 feet 0 inches tall, but I am not little anymore.
I don't exactly know how I grew up. I remember as though it were yesterday, being scared and excited and ridiculously antsy to go out without asking my parents' permission, moving into my college dorm room and wondering how I'd handle my first year. I remember having doubts about everything on move-in day, residual freak-outs from the monumental summer between high school and college. Last summer was an emotionally difficult time for me; I was making a lot of big transitions; I was insecure and my relationships with everyone, friends and family alike, seemed to be falling apart. I had even gotten so worked up that I started buying myself self-help books, and my parents even suggested I go see a therapist. When I finally went away to college, sure, I knew I'd be fine academically, but how I'd handle everything socially, how I'd adjust, how my first year life would pan out-- I just didn't know.
Now, it's 2:30 a.m. the night (morning really) before my parents come to move me out, and I'm completely overwhelmed by how unbelievably grown up I am in comparison with the girl I remember being only a year ago. My academic interest and work ethic has quadrupled and I got glasses, so I officially look and act even geekier than I did in high school. My ability to endure sleep deprivation has increased sevenfold with the combination of 3 a.m. burnt-popcorn fire alarms and pulling all-nighters to get papers and lab reports done on time. I am now almost a certified EMT, which means not only can I conduct emergency field births or stabilize someone on a longboard, but more practically (for a college kid at least), I can tell by vital signs and level of active vomiting if a friend has had just a little too much too drink. I'm also about ten pounds heavier, which one would think would make me ridiculously insecure, but surprisingly, my self-esteem is quite possibly the highest its been since I was four and thought I was a princess.
All those things have comprised the traditional "first-year college experience," but even just writing them down, I realize how superficial they seem in comparison to how and why I've actually grown up so much.
There are no specific things I can pinpoint about my freshman year and say, "Yup, this is why I matured," or "This contributed to my emotional growth as an individual." Life just doesn't work out that way. It was just the combination of living on my own, setting my own priorities, and making my own decisions that got me here, and it didn't happen overnight. Boring, I know. No special anecdotes, no long, drawn-out philosophy here. Day by day, over the course of the last 9 months, I simply figured out who I was going to be as adult, and became her. Weird, I know. Allow me to elaborate.
At the beginning of my freshman year, I would call up my parents to talk. I'd find out what was going on at home, rant about classes, talk about what I would do that week. Nothing more, just a little co-dependence to ease my transition from Mommy-and-Daddy-land to Roommate-land. Later, our calls progressed from just casual conversation to all the goals I had gotten. Med School, Public Health, classes, professors, jobs, etc. I'd dream big and then tell my parents all about those dreams. Then I'd call them, discouraged, about how this girl got this research position through her dad and this guy shadowed his mom, a doctor, and how this other guy here, had no special connections, but could do quantum physics in his head; how come I couldn't be like that? And now I call my parents, yes, to talk; I still love hearing how everyone's doing, but I also rant not just about what I'm going to do, but what I am doing. I went to see my advisor by myself; I planned out and applied for an internship by myself, I chose to set aside four days to study by myself.
What I'm trying to explain is that in high school, and just while I was younger in general, my parents and counselors and older siblings were always a guiding light for me. They'd tell me what to do (or at least strongly suggest), and they'd stay on my butt until I did it. When I got my first job, it was my dad who forced me to drive around for three days straight and apply to as many places as humanly possible. I would never have gotten my job at ShopRite if it weren't for him: I was completely adamant about not working at a big supermarket, and it ended up being the best "first job" for me. Now, I don't have anyone to stay on my butt to force me to do anything; I'm the one that chooses whether or not I go to class or put an application in or go to a party or watch an excessive amount of Gilmore Girls.
That summer before I went away to college, I didn't know how I'd handle all the freedom. I was excited, yes, and sick of being told what to do all the time, but at the same time, I was terribly worried that all my decisions would be wrong. I was worried I had turned down UPenn and gone to BU for the wrong reasons; I was worried I was in the wrong program; I was worried I wasn't going to make friends; I was worried my relationships would fall apart; I was worried I'd gain the Freshman 15 and just plain hate college. I messed up a lot in high school, and especially last summer, I realized just how many mistakes I was making even then. How on earth would I cope with those mistakes if I made them all in college?
Only now do I realize that it was those mistakes, the ones I made when I was younger, while I was in high school that made it so I could survive in college. It was those lessons that I learned because I had messed up that allowed me to set my priorities and make my decisions that have allowed me to grow so much and ultimately do as well as I have this year.
My dad likes to tell an anecdote about my older sister when she was a toddler. My dad was watching her while she was sitting next to a small humidifier, admiring the steam coming out of it. She reached over to grab the steam, and my dad batted her hand away, saying "No, hot, it will hurt." She did this a couple more times, getting testier and testier, and each time my dad batted her hand away. Finally, she started to reach her hand out when she stopped and looked at my dad curiously. This time, he merely shook his head, and again said, "No, Jillian, it's hot, your hand will hurt," but didn't remove her hand. She reached out the rest of the way, burned herself, and promptly began screaming. My mother then lunged up the stairs into the room, an immediately berated my father for letting her little baby get hurt. To this day, my dad still feels bad about his poor toddler's hand, and about the verbal lashing he received from my mom; however, he still believes the general principle behind the burn stands.
You can tell your child as many times as you want not to do something. You can give every explanation in the world, but sometimes, there's no better teacher than experience. The best a parent can do is educate their children as best he can, and if a child makes a mistake, then provide love and support, and allow that child to be responsible and deal with the consequences.
That principle was the single greatest gift my parents ever gave to me. Not only do I have an incredible moral and practical education, but I also have the skills given to me by the responsibility I was forced to take on by the mistakes I had made (through either action or inaction). My parents always, always encouraged me in whatever way they could, and no matter how much I messed up, they always provided love and support. Granted, sometimes they got mad, sometimes we disagreed, and sometimes I felt like they were the most overbearing individuals a teenager could ever have as parents, but most of the time, it was love and support, and a moral of "Take responsibility for all of your actions, both good and bad."
I could go on forever, with a million more examples from this year and many years past; most of you reading this have realized by now that succinctness has never been my strength. This entry, however, is not meant to be a terribly boring rant or tale about my plights and experiences. I want this to be an ode to all my parents have taught me. Living in college, I see so many people who never got the opportunity to learn and grow up the way I did for one reason or another. I see kids who don't know how to manage money, time, alcohol, or school. I see examples of so many people whose parents just never cared or always made all their children's problems "just go away," without having them do any of the work. I see so many kids who hate their parents. That could mean nothing about the parents-- I don't really know; I'm not a parent and in no way am I about to judge anyone. But I do know kids my age, great, compassionate, smart individuals who just don't know how to take responsibility for themselves. It makes me feel so lucky, and so grown up, because I can, and I have.
My dad likes to say that he'll never take the blame for our mistakes, and therefore he can never take the credit for our accomplishments.
Sure, my older sister burned herself when she was a toddler, and my dad doesn't take the blame for that itself. But, she ended up okay, and now, 25 years later, she has a Master's degree, a job, a husband, and a good apartment. He won't take credit for that either.
Dad, I just want you to know that you're right-- my mistakes and my accomplishments are my own and I've become my own person because of them. But Dad, it was because of you and Mom that I got the skills and the responsibility I needed to learn from all those mistakes and continue on to my accomplishments.
That you should take all the credit in the world for.
Thank you.
And with that, a very very Happy Mother's Day to all Mom's out there as wonderful and loving as mine. And even Happy Early Father's Day, too, because I'll forget when it comes around.
How's that for a week of accomplishments?
I didn't realize it until this week, but over the course of the last 365 days or so, I've somehow made the transition from kid to adult; sure, I still stand a mere 5 feet 0 inches tall, but I am not little anymore.
I don't exactly know how I grew up. I remember as though it were yesterday, being scared and excited and ridiculously antsy to go out without asking my parents' permission, moving into my college dorm room and wondering how I'd handle my first year. I remember having doubts about everything on move-in day, residual freak-outs from the monumental summer between high school and college. Last summer was an emotionally difficult time for me; I was making a lot of big transitions; I was insecure and my relationships with everyone, friends and family alike, seemed to be falling apart. I had even gotten so worked up that I started buying myself self-help books, and my parents even suggested I go see a therapist. When I finally went away to college, sure, I knew I'd be fine academically, but how I'd handle everything socially, how I'd adjust, how my first year life would pan out-- I just didn't know.
Now, it's 2:30 a.m. the night (morning really) before my parents come to move me out, and I'm completely overwhelmed by how unbelievably grown up I am in comparison with the girl I remember being only a year ago. My academic interest and work ethic has quadrupled and I got glasses, so I officially look and act even geekier than I did in high school. My ability to endure sleep deprivation has increased sevenfold with the combination of 3 a.m. burnt-popcorn fire alarms and pulling all-nighters to get papers and lab reports done on time. I am now almost a certified EMT, which means not only can I conduct emergency field births or stabilize someone on a longboard, but more practically (for a college kid at least), I can tell by vital signs and level of active vomiting if a friend has had just a little too much too drink. I'm also about ten pounds heavier, which one would think would make me ridiculously insecure, but surprisingly, my self-esteem is quite possibly the highest its been since I was four and thought I was a princess.
All those things have comprised the traditional "first-year college experience," but even just writing them down, I realize how superficial they seem in comparison to how and why I've actually grown up so much.
There are no specific things I can pinpoint about my freshman year and say, "Yup, this is why I matured," or "This contributed to my emotional growth as an individual." Life just doesn't work out that way. It was just the combination of living on my own, setting my own priorities, and making my own decisions that got me here, and it didn't happen overnight. Boring, I know. No special anecdotes, no long, drawn-out philosophy here. Day by day, over the course of the last 9 months, I simply figured out who I was going to be as adult, and became her. Weird, I know. Allow me to elaborate.
At the beginning of my freshman year, I would call up my parents to talk. I'd find out what was going on at home, rant about classes, talk about what I would do that week. Nothing more, just a little co-dependence to ease my transition from Mommy-and-Daddy-land to Roommate-land. Later, our calls progressed from just casual conversation to all the goals I had gotten. Med School, Public Health, classes, professors, jobs, etc. I'd dream big and then tell my parents all about those dreams. Then I'd call them, discouraged, about how this girl got this research position through her dad and this guy shadowed his mom, a doctor, and how this other guy here, had no special connections, but could do quantum physics in his head; how come I couldn't be like that? And now I call my parents, yes, to talk; I still love hearing how everyone's doing, but I also rant not just about what I'm going to do, but what I am doing. I went to see my advisor by myself; I planned out and applied for an internship by myself, I chose to set aside four days to study by myself.
What I'm trying to explain is that in high school, and just while I was younger in general, my parents and counselors and older siblings were always a guiding light for me. They'd tell me what to do (or at least strongly suggest), and they'd stay on my butt until I did it. When I got my first job, it was my dad who forced me to drive around for three days straight and apply to as many places as humanly possible. I would never have gotten my job at ShopRite if it weren't for him: I was completely adamant about not working at a big supermarket, and it ended up being the best "first job" for me. Now, I don't have anyone to stay on my butt to force me to do anything; I'm the one that chooses whether or not I go to class or put an application in or go to a party or watch an excessive amount of Gilmore Girls.
That summer before I went away to college, I didn't know how I'd handle all the freedom. I was excited, yes, and sick of being told what to do all the time, but at the same time, I was terribly worried that all my decisions would be wrong. I was worried I had turned down UPenn and gone to BU for the wrong reasons; I was worried I was in the wrong program; I was worried I wasn't going to make friends; I was worried my relationships would fall apart; I was worried I'd gain the Freshman 15 and just plain hate college. I messed up a lot in high school, and especially last summer, I realized just how many mistakes I was making even then. How on earth would I cope with those mistakes if I made them all in college?
Only now do I realize that it was those mistakes, the ones I made when I was younger, while I was in high school that made it so I could survive in college. It was those lessons that I learned because I had messed up that allowed me to set my priorities and make my decisions that have allowed me to grow so much and ultimately do as well as I have this year.
My dad likes to tell an anecdote about my older sister when she was a toddler. My dad was watching her while she was sitting next to a small humidifier, admiring the steam coming out of it. She reached over to grab the steam, and my dad batted her hand away, saying "No, hot, it will hurt." She did this a couple more times, getting testier and testier, and each time my dad batted her hand away. Finally, she started to reach her hand out when she stopped and looked at my dad curiously. This time, he merely shook his head, and again said, "No, Jillian, it's hot, your hand will hurt," but didn't remove her hand. She reached out the rest of the way, burned herself, and promptly began screaming. My mother then lunged up the stairs into the room, an immediately berated my father for letting her little baby get hurt. To this day, my dad still feels bad about his poor toddler's hand, and about the verbal lashing he received from my mom; however, he still believes the general principle behind the burn stands.
You can tell your child as many times as you want not to do something. You can give every explanation in the world, but sometimes, there's no better teacher than experience. The best a parent can do is educate their children as best he can, and if a child makes a mistake, then provide love and support, and allow that child to be responsible and deal with the consequences.
That principle was the single greatest gift my parents ever gave to me. Not only do I have an incredible moral and practical education, but I also have the skills given to me by the responsibility I was forced to take on by the mistakes I had made (through either action or inaction). My parents always, always encouraged me in whatever way they could, and no matter how much I messed up, they always provided love and support. Granted, sometimes they got mad, sometimes we disagreed, and sometimes I felt like they were the most overbearing individuals a teenager could ever have as parents, but most of the time, it was love and support, and a moral of "Take responsibility for all of your actions, both good and bad."
I could go on forever, with a million more examples from this year and many years past; most of you reading this have realized by now that succinctness has never been my strength. This entry, however, is not meant to be a terribly boring rant or tale about my plights and experiences. I want this to be an ode to all my parents have taught me. Living in college, I see so many people who never got the opportunity to learn and grow up the way I did for one reason or another. I see kids who don't know how to manage money, time, alcohol, or school. I see examples of so many people whose parents just never cared or always made all their children's problems "just go away," without having them do any of the work. I see so many kids who hate their parents. That could mean nothing about the parents-- I don't really know; I'm not a parent and in no way am I about to judge anyone. But I do know kids my age, great, compassionate, smart individuals who just don't know how to take responsibility for themselves. It makes me feel so lucky, and so grown up, because I can, and I have.
My dad likes to say that he'll never take the blame for our mistakes, and therefore he can never take the credit for our accomplishments.
Sure, my older sister burned herself when she was a toddler, and my dad doesn't take the blame for that itself. But, she ended up okay, and now, 25 years later, she has a Master's degree, a job, a husband, and a good apartment. He won't take credit for that either.
Dad, I just want you to know that you're right-- my mistakes and my accomplishments are my own and I've become my own person because of them. But Dad, it was because of you and Mom that I got the skills and the responsibility I needed to learn from all those mistakes and continue on to my accomplishments.
That you should take all the credit in the world for.
Thank you.
And with that, a very very Happy Mother's Day to all Mom's out there as wonderful and loving as mine. And even Happy Early Father's Day, too, because I'll forget when it comes around.
Friday, May 09, 2008
A moment to reflect...
I'M DONE WITH MY FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE!
WOOT!
(Now onto summertime & the future sophomore slump... well, hopefully not slump, but sophomore... there's really no better cliche for sophomore year, now is there?)
WOOT!
(Now onto summertime & the future sophomore slump... well, hopefully not slump, but sophomore... there's really no better cliche for sophomore year, now is there?)
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