Do y’all remember the story I wrote a while back about burning my left boob with my curling iron and then hanging out with my new boyfriend instead of going to the hospital? Well I always meant to write a second chapter to that tale…
When I was a freshman in college I lived with Wesley and he had a friend named Chris who would come over and hang out at the house. One day Wesley, Chris, Kenny, Robby, and I all went to Jims for breakfast. (Jims being a local 24 hour diner) It was right after Wesley and I began living together so it was nice and hot in the Texas heat and I was wearing a little halter top and shorts.
Anyway, we were seated in a round booth and after we all ordered our food I noticed Chris kept staring at my chest. After a few minutes I totally called him out on it.
Me: “Chris! Stop staring at my boobs!”
Everyone else at the table: “Hahahahahahah!!!”
Chris (turning very red): “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I really am sorry, but are you okay?”
Me: “I’d be a lot better if I knew I could eat in peace without having you droll over my lady lumps.”
Chris: “No, really… What happened?”
Me: “What do you mean what happened? Stop leering at me, man.”
Chris: “Are you okay? (Pointing at my left boob) There I mean. Are you okay?”
Me (looking down): “Oh! You mean my scar?”
Chris: “It looks pretty bad. Did you hurt yourself?”
Wesley: “You never heard the story of Lemon Lady’s scarred boobie?”
Chris: “No. What happened?”
Wesley: “Well this one day in Ger…”
Me: “I HAD A BREAST IMPLANT!”
Wesley, Robby, and Kenny: “snicker snicker…”
Chris: “Oh… wait. Breast implant? Breast? Singular? As in only one?”
Me: “Yes, my left tata just never grew like the other so as a graduation gift my parents paid for me to get one implant to even things out.”
Wesley: “Yeah, and man, she’s kinda self conscience about it, so stop staring and bring it up.”
Chris: “Oh, Lemon Lady. I’m so sorry. I mean I never knew. No one told me. (turning to the other boys) You guys should have told me!”
Three years later when I lived in Austin and that same group of people came to see me and go out downtown, we finally let Chris in on the fact that no, I didn’t have one boob implant and both my breasts are natural. He got angry and threatened to leave the bar unless we fed him large amounts of vodka. We obliged.
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Worst, Most Awful, Most Embarrassing Story of My Life...
I know I said this week is Hospital Week, but I’m going to stretch “hospital” to also mean “doctor’s office”.
Okay so you know how I usually state how this is going to be another embarrassing story about myself and then I go on to type a funny little happening that caused me to blush at the time or even put my hand over my eyes and say to myself, “Wow. How awkward and weird can I be?” This is not one of those little funny quips. This is the Granddaddy of all embarrassing stories. This is the Big Enchilada, the Head Honcho, the Story to End All Embarrassing stories. I am pretty sure, like 90%, that I’ve never told this one to anyone. I mean even after drinking three bottles of wine with Davis Girl or downing Purple Margaritas made from Everclear with LSU Friend until they cut us off … still never told this story.
Also, tacos are not involved.
Here goes…
While I was in college I routinely went to the same doctor. I feel like I need to say that I saw her more than once because, just like hair dressers, I usually never go to the same one twice. I don’t know why really. I can get great medical advice or an awesome haircut and still never go back to that person again. I think it has to do with the fact that I am a procrastinator. I usually don’t go to the doctor until I’m convinced I’m about to die from Ebola or I’m about to run out of birth control. Also, I don’t ever get my hair cut until it has been 2 months overdue and I’ve had a crappy week at work and I just got paid. Magically those stars align about every 6 months. Because I wait and put off these appointments I usually spend an hour calling around trying to find some person (doctor or stylist) who can see me that afternoon.
My doctor was a young woman named Dr. Nguyen. I really liked her a lot. Davis Girl recommended me to her after she started seeing Dr. Nguyen about six months before my first visit. Davis Girl liked her because she was young and still really excited about medicine, gross illnesses, and curing people. At this time Davis Girl wanted to be a doctor and Dr. Nguyen helped her get a job as a tech at one of the local hospitals. I liked her because she explained procedures and medication in easy to understand terms, she was quick but I didn’t feel rushed, and she gave me lots of free samples for pills when I was trying to figure out something to help my back pain. (Turns out all I need is a bottle of Vodka and a large hot bath.)
For the Big Enchilada of embarrassing stories, I’m at Dr. Nguyen’s office one afternoon for my yearly pap smear and to renew my birth control. As I’m hanging out in the waiting room Dr. Nguyen’s totally hot boyfriend comes in the front door with her totally adorable dog. He introduces himself to me and then explains to the receptionist and me that he was out running with the dog and he got called into work and doesn’t have time to take him home, so he needs to leave the dog here with Dr. Nguyen. The receptionist says it’s no problem, takes the leash and hot boyfriend leaves.
10 minutes later I’m in the exam room with the tech/nurse lady (the one who takes your temperature and blood pressure) when Dr. Nguyen pokes her head in and asks me if it’s okay if her dog hangs out in my room because one of her partner's patients, who is in the waiting room, is allergic. I say it’s okay. She smiles at me and tell me his name is Ed and that he is very sweet. Dr. Nguyen then says she will be back very shortly once I’ve changed clothes. She and the nurse/tech/assistant person exit the room leaving only Ed and myself.
Being the dog lover that I am, as soon as the door closes I immediately crouch down to play with Ed. He comes rushing over, wagging his tail, and starts licking my hands. I pet him and talk to him and have myself a gay ‘ol time. The receptionist told me Dr. Nguyen and the Hottie rescued him from the shelter and I did see the Town Lake Animal Shelter ID on his collar. I also noticed that his full name was Special Ed, not just Ed.
After playing with the Ed for a few minutes I undressed and put on the soft white robes Dr. Nguyen has for her patients instead of the usual paper gown. (This information is not needed for the story but I always thought it was nice of her to have robes and not paper dresses without backs.) She knocks on the door and I tell her it’s okay for her to come in. When she enters Ed gets up from my side where he was sitting and goes over to her, wagging his tail. Dr. Nguyen pets him for a few minutes and we small talk until she tells the dog to go lay down so she can wash her hands and put on gloves.
We talk for a few minutes about why I’m here and how my back is doing.
Nothing weird happens.
She does a breast exam.
Nothing weird happens.
She has me do some back stretches.
Nothing weird happens.
Then she has me lie on my back so she can press on my stomach and feel my organs or something… I never know why doctors do this. Okay I mean I know it’s to make sure I don’t have giant Spleen tumor or to check to see that my Liver is in fact still there, but there is no point to do this to me because I am so ticklish. You know how three year olds are ticklish. That’s how ticklish I am. I laugh until I cry and sometimes I can’t breathe. Just like a three year old, you can look like you’re about to come across the couch to tickle me and I’ll burst into laughter. Now, I don’t know if you think this is funny or just sad that a 25 year old can’t control herself anymore than a 3 year old, but it’s true. Boyfriend even has strict rules about how and where he can touch me as not to tickle me. I know… weird. Yeah I get it. Back to the story…
Dr. Nguyen: “Okay, now I’m going to check to make sure your Intestines are still inside you.” (Or some other medical talk like that…)
Me: “Sure thing.”
Dr. Nguyen: Press… Press…
Me: (tying to hold it in) "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
This is when my appointment starts to go downhill. Although I can’t see this because I’m laughing up on the exam table, evidently my laughing has caused Ed to get extremely uncomfortable. Over my snickering and giggling I hear him start growling and get up from where he had been laying down all appointment.
Dr. Nguyen: “Ouch!!!! WFT!!!!!”
Me: (sitting up) “What? Are you okay?”
Dr. Nguyen: “I think Ed just bit me…”
Me: “Seriously?”
Yeah, my sweet little Doctor has just been bitten in the leg by her adorable rescue dog because she was tickling me. I quickly start apologizing for making noises like a rabid 3 year old, while Dr. Nguyen starts apologizing for her retarded dog. (Yeah, retarded. There is a reason his full name is Special Ed.) She stops my exam to clean her bloody wound and bandage it. Five minutes later, after a lot of “Wow that was weird” talk, my doctor is ready to finish my appointment. I should mention that she did ask me if I wanted her to put Ed in an empty room for the remaining time of my exam. Poor Ed was trying to hide in the corner, had his tail between his legs, and that look that all dogs get when they know they’ve done something seriously wrong. “Oh. Shit. I’ve seriously messed up. Why did I bite her? Why did I bite her?” You know, that look. I'm a big softy, so of course I said I didn't mind if he stayed. I mean he didn't bite me.
Five minutes later I’ve got my feet in the stirrups and Dr. Nguyen is… um… doing her doctorly thing down there, when I feel something brush by my feet. (Okay Time Out. Remember how I said I’m like a 3 year old when it comes to being ticklish and I giggled and laughed out loud when my doctor tried to do her job by seeing if my insides were in fact where they should be. Well, I’m like a three year old on crack when it comes to people touching or messing with my feet. I explode. I can’t help it. Something inside of me snaps and I can’t keep it together. Okay Time In.) Something just brushed against my foot. Then that something, which I can tell is very furry, stops under my foot and move his head back and forth causing his head hairs to tickle my feet. I can’t hold it in even though my doctor has her F-ing fingers inside me!!!
Me: “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
But I don’t just laugh. Oh God, if only I just laughed I could have said at the beginning of this post that this is just another tail of me being my awkward, weird self. But this is the story to top all stories, so no, I don’t just laugh. The dog’s fur makes me laugh so much that my foot spasms and jumps out of the stirrup and I knee my doctor in the face which causes her nose to start bleeding which causes her dog to freak out and start barking wildly.
(Yeah, go ahead and read that sentence again. I’ll wait.)
Fuck my life.
If you are waiting for a cute end to this story, there isn’t one. If there is an upside to this story, a very small upside, it is that Dr. Nguyen was done with my exam so I didn’t have to wait for her to stop her bloody nose and control her dog to finish my appointment. She left to tend to her nose, I got dressed in record time, and was out of there ASAP. I did have to go back the next day to get my new birth control prescription that I hadn’t waited around for the day before (because there was no way I was going through that ordeal and not getting anything out of it). Dr. Nguyen had left it at the counter and the receptionist practically threw it at me when I asked for it.
And I’ve never been back since.
And that just might be the worst, most awful, most embarrassing story of my life.
Okay so you know how I usually state how this is going to be another embarrassing story about myself and then I go on to type a funny little happening that caused me to blush at the time or even put my hand over my eyes and say to myself, “Wow. How awkward and weird can I be?” This is not one of those little funny quips. This is the Granddaddy of all embarrassing stories. This is the Big Enchilada, the Head Honcho, the Story to End All Embarrassing stories. I am pretty sure, like 90%, that I’ve never told this one to anyone. I mean even after drinking three bottles of wine with Davis Girl or downing Purple Margaritas made from Everclear with LSU Friend until they cut us off … still never told this story.
Also, tacos are not involved.
Here goes…
While I was in college I routinely went to the same doctor. I feel like I need to say that I saw her more than once because, just like hair dressers, I usually never go to the same one twice. I don’t know why really. I can get great medical advice or an awesome haircut and still never go back to that person again. I think it has to do with the fact that I am a procrastinator. I usually don’t go to the doctor until I’m convinced I’m about to die from Ebola or I’m about to run out of birth control. Also, I don’t ever get my hair cut until it has been 2 months overdue and I’ve had a crappy week at work and I just got paid. Magically those stars align about every 6 months. Because I wait and put off these appointments I usually spend an hour calling around trying to find some person (doctor or stylist) who can see me that afternoon.
My doctor was a young woman named Dr. Nguyen. I really liked her a lot. Davis Girl recommended me to her after she started seeing Dr. Nguyen about six months before my first visit. Davis Girl liked her because she was young and still really excited about medicine, gross illnesses, and curing people. At this time Davis Girl wanted to be a doctor and Dr. Nguyen helped her get a job as a tech at one of the local hospitals. I liked her because she explained procedures and medication in easy to understand terms, she was quick but I didn’t feel rushed, and she gave me lots of free samples for pills when I was trying to figure out something to help my back pain. (Turns out all I need is a bottle of Vodka and a large hot bath.)
For the Big Enchilada of embarrassing stories, I’m at Dr. Nguyen’s office one afternoon for my yearly pap smear and to renew my birth control. As I’m hanging out in the waiting room Dr. Nguyen’s totally hot boyfriend comes in the front door with her totally adorable dog. He introduces himself to me and then explains to the receptionist and me that he was out running with the dog and he got called into work and doesn’t have time to take him home, so he needs to leave the dog here with Dr. Nguyen. The receptionist says it’s no problem, takes the leash and hot boyfriend leaves.
10 minutes later I’m in the exam room with the tech/nurse lady (the one who takes your temperature and blood pressure) when Dr. Nguyen pokes her head in and asks me if it’s okay if her dog hangs out in my room because one of her partner's patients, who is in the waiting room, is allergic. I say it’s okay. She smiles at me and tell me his name is Ed and that he is very sweet. Dr. Nguyen then says she will be back very shortly once I’ve changed clothes. She and the nurse/tech/assistant person exit the room leaving only Ed and myself.
Being the dog lover that I am, as soon as the door closes I immediately crouch down to play with Ed. He comes rushing over, wagging his tail, and starts licking my hands. I pet him and talk to him and have myself a gay ‘ol time. The receptionist told me Dr. Nguyen and the Hottie rescued him from the shelter and I did see the Town Lake Animal Shelter ID on his collar. I also noticed that his full name was Special Ed, not just Ed.
After playing with the Ed for a few minutes I undressed and put on the soft white robes Dr. Nguyen has for her patients instead of the usual paper gown. (This information is not needed for the story but I always thought it was nice of her to have robes and not paper dresses without backs.) She knocks on the door and I tell her it’s okay for her to come in. When she enters Ed gets up from my side where he was sitting and goes over to her, wagging his tail. Dr. Nguyen pets him for a few minutes and we small talk until she tells the dog to go lay down so she can wash her hands and put on gloves.
We talk for a few minutes about why I’m here and how my back is doing.
Nothing weird happens.
She does a breast exam.
Nothing weird happens.
She has me do some back stretches.
Nothing weird happens.
Then she has me lie on my back so she can press on my stomach and feel my organs or something… I never know why doctors do this. Okay I mean I know it’s to make sure I don’t have giant Spleen tumor or to check to see that my Liver is in fact still there, but there is no point to do this to me because I am so ticklish. You know how three year olds are ticklish. That’s how ticklish I am. I laugh until I cry and sometimes I can’t breathe. Just like a three year old, you can look like you’re about to come across the couch to tickle me and I’ll burst into laughter. Now, I don’t know if you think this is funny or just sad that a 25 year old can’t control herself anymore than a 3 year old, but it’s true. Boyfriend even has strict rules about how and where he can touch me as not to tickle me. I know… weird. Yeah I get it. Back to the story…
Dr. Nguyen: “Okay, now I’m going to check to make sure your Intestines are still inside you.” (Or some other medical talk like that…)
Me: “Sure thing.”
Dr. Nguyen: Press… Press…
Me: (tying to hold it in) "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
This is when my appointment starts to go downhill. Although I can’t see this because I’m laughing up on the exam table, evidently my laughing has caused Ed to get extremely uncomfortable. Over my snickering and giggling I hear him start growling and get up from where he had been laying down all appointment.
Dr. Nguyen: “Ouch!!!! WFT!!!!!”
Me: (sitting up) “What? Are you okay?”
Dr. Nguyen: “I think Ed just bit me…”
Me: “Seriously?”
Yeah, my sweet little Doctor has just been bitten in the leg by her adorable rescue dog because she was tickling me. I quickly start apologizing for making noises like a rabid 3 year old, while Dr. Nguyen starts apologizing for her retarded dog. (Yeah, retarded. There is a reason his full name is Special Ed.) She stops my exam to clean her bloody wound and bandage it. Five minutes later, after a lot of “Wow that was weird” talk, my doctor is ready to finish my appointment. I should mention that she did ask me if I wanted her to put Ed in an empty room for the remaining time of my exam. Poor Ed was trying to hide in the corner, had his tail between his legs, and that look that all dogs get when they know they’ve done something seriously wrong. “Oh. Shit. I’ve seriously messed up. Why did I bite her? Why did I bite her?” You know, that look. I'm a big softy, so of course I said I didn't mind if he stayed. I mean he didn't bite me.
Five minutes later I’ve got my feet in the stirrups and Dr. Nguyen is… um… doing her doctorly thing down there, when I feel something brush by my feet. (Okay Time Out. Remember how I said I’m like a 3 year old when it comes to being ticklish and I giggled and laughed out loud when my doctor tried to do her job by seeing if my insides were in fact where they should be. Well, I’m like a three year old on crack when it comes to people touching or messing with my feet. I explode. I can’t help it. Something inside of me snaps and I can’t keep it together. Okay Time In.) Something just brushed against my foot. Then that something, which I can tell is very furry, stops under my foot and move his head back and forth causing his head hairs to tickle my feet. I can’t hold it in even though my doctor has her F-ing fingers inside me!!!
Me: “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
But I don’t just laugh. Oh God, if only I just laughed I could have said at the beginning of this post that this is just another tail of me being my awkward, weird self. But this is the story to top all stories, so no, I don’t just laugh. The dog’s fur makes me laugh so much that my foot spasms and jumps out of the stirrup and I knee my doctor in the face which causes her nose to start bleeding which causes her dog to freak out and start barking wildly.
(Yeah, go ahead and read that sentence again. I’ll wait.)
Fuck my life.
If you are waiting for a cute end to this story, there isn’t one. If there is an upside to this story, a very small upside, it is that Dr. Nguyen was done with my exam so I didn’t have to wait for her to stop her bloody nose and control her dog to finish my appointment. She left to tend to her nose, I got dressed in record time, and was out of there ASAP. I did have to go back the next day to get my new birth control prescription that I hadn’t waited around for the day before (because there was no way I was going through that ordeal and not getting anything out of it). Dr. Nguyen had left it at the counter and the receptionist practically threw it at me when I asked for it.
And I’ve never been back since.
And that just might be the worst, most awful, most embarrassing story of my life.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
What I Learned In College... Jews, Beer, and Midieval Lit
You know what upsets me about my college education??? What upsets me is I can’t for the life of me think of one thing I learned in college that helps me do my job every day. I’ve already talked about how I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (except for Anthony Bourdain’s stylist and you never see that on Craigslist) and I didn’t know in college either. So instead of learning how to run a business or how to build a skyscraper or how to clone something, I learned… well what’s the complete opposite of those productive things???
Things I learned in college…
A Whole Lot About Jews. You see my minor was history and you have to take a variety of history classes from around the world. Religion and religious people in general fascinate me and for some reason I just always ended up in “Jew class” every semester. I took History of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Ancient Jew Rules Class), Living in the Time of Jesus (Jew Life 101), and How American’s View the Holocaust (How to Deal With Your American Jew Guilt). Now there is a Jewish Studies major at the university that I went to and, as you can probably imagine, there are only so many Jew classes. Therefore I had a lot of the same kids in my Jew classes because the majority of them were Jewish Studies majors. They were like… really Jewish… and kinda rude. I mean these are small classes and you’ve seen the same people in them for the past year and a half, wouldn’t you want to say hi or something??? Not these Jews. My close Jew Friend, who just to confuse you really isn’t Jewish and wasn’t in any of my Jew classes, told me to walk up to them and say Shalom because he thought I could pass for being Israeli. So I walked right up the leader of the group, in his longhorn yamaka, and said Shalom just like Jew Friend (who really isn’t Jewish) told me. I then got the Jew stare… and crickets… But seriously, if you need to know about the ancient Jewish Sects, how to make Jew breed in the desert, or how to compose a symphony or write a comic book about how your family didn’t survive genocide but you did and now you feel guilty… I’m here for you. (I hope the last part of that sentence doesn’t sound like I’m trying to make a joke because A: The Holocaust… not so funny and B: That class was probably the best class I took all five and a half years I was in school. It was extremely interesting and someday I’ll tell you all about it and let you borrow some good books if you too are interested.)
How to Appreciate Beer for Breakfast: I was not exactly a novice of beer drinking when I entered college. I defiantly wasn’t an alcoholic in high school, but I had my share of hung over Sunday breakfasts with the family. I spend two years of high school in Germany where I learned how to drink... legally! But it wasn’t until freshmen year of college until I learned the how Beer for Breakfast might be as awesome as ponies are when you’re eight. Ex Roommate/Ex Best Friend/Now I’m Married to a Complete Raging Lunatic with Teeth Like a Shark used to come into my room in the morning, wake me up by shaking me violently, and hand me a beer. He would have one as well and we would shotgun them together on top of my bed. Loser had to drive to school. I’ll be honest I was never very good and lost the majority of the time, but I swear it was so much easier getting out of bed for Spanish class with a warm Miller Light in my stomach.
Leading Class Discussions in Classes I Know Nothing About: During my second to last semester I took a history class called Medieval Literature. It was on Wednesdays from 3-6. For three hours I sat in a small room in the history building (you remember the one that housed the American Studies department in the attic) and tried to be interested in the book we had to read that week. Yeah, that week… We had to read a new book every week… A new “medieval” book, every week. It kinda crushed my soul. Every Wednesday we came into class and someone in the class would lead the discussion of that week’s book. I was extremely nervous to do this for a few reasons.
Reason #1: Miles. Miles was this nerdy, short history major who on the first day of class before the professor even entered the room stood up and asked everyone what their major was because, “This is a 400 level class and only for history majors because other majors won’t be able to keep up.” Um Bullshit little nerdy dude. The class was also an upper level English class and many majors, including American Studies, requires you to take upper level history classes. He scared one of the only other girls away! Seriously, how bright could she have been, but she got up and left before the professor had even entered the room. Then, that first day our professor passed a paper around with all the books we were going to read and we had to sign our name next to the one we wanted to lead the class discussion for. I picked the only book written by a woman, The Book of Margery Kempe by Margery Kempe. After class I was sitting on a bench in front of the building looking for something in my backpack when Miles sat down next to me and decided to let me know why the book I picked sucked and how hard it will be for me to lead a group of male history majors in an intelligent conversation about a stupid woman for three hours. I knew then he was a little twerp, but he still got to me and made me nervous because as good of a bullshitter that I am… three hours is a long time.
Reason #2: I knew (well still know) nothing about medieval history besides things I’ve learned from Robin Hood, and I don’t think a “how Margery Kempe and Robin Hood were alike” lecture would fly. Seriously I didn’t take a single European history class the entire time I was in school except for Early Christianity (When Jews Rebel) and only then did we sometimes talk about Rome.
Reason #3: I don’t like to look stupid and I was 99.9% sure I was going to make an ass out of myself by talking about the wrong Pope or King or something.
I lucked out one way, though. The book I picked was one of the very last books we were going to discuse meaning I got to see how other people lead the class first. I saw what worked and want didn’t. (Oh, and Mile’s discussion was horrible. Hehe…) When It came my week to bravely step to the front of the room I was totally prepared. I had almost finished skimming the book, but I had read every review and critique I could find online. I had a nice list of open ended questions to talk about and quotations I knew I understood (thanks to Sparknotes) to discuss. What made my lecture the best of the class, seriously at the end of the semester I was called out by our professor for being the best guest lecturer, was that the semester before I had taken an Early Feminist Literature class. Sure, all those boys could talk medieval royalty and monks for days, but none of them knew women writers from the 40’s and 50’s. None of them could answer how Margery Kempe was like Phyllis Wheatley. It was awesome to ask questions that Miles didn’t know the answer to, or questions he couldn’t BS his way out of, and then get recognized by a “400 level history class” professor for doing better than the little history geek in the corner. I’m awesome.
Things I learned in college…
A Whole Lot About Jews. You see my minor was history and you have to take a variety of history classes from around the world. Religion and religious people in general fascinate me and for some reason I just always ended up in “Jew class” every semester. I took History of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Ancient Jew Rules Class), Living in the Time of Jesus (Jew Life 101), and How American’s View the Holocaust (How to Deal With Your American Jew Guilt). Now there is a Jewish Studies major at the university that I went to and, as you can probably imagine, there are only so many Jew classes. Therefore I had a lot of the same kids in my Jew classes because the majority of them were Jewish Studies majors. They were like… really Jewish… and kinda rude. I mean these are small classes and you’ve seen the same people in them for the past year and a half, wouldn’t you want to say hi or something??? Not these Jews. My close Jew Friend, who just to confuse you really isn’t Jewish and wasn’t in any of my Jew classes, told me to walk up to them and say Shalom because he thought I could pass for being Israeli. So I walked right up the leader of the group, in his longhorn yamaka, and said Shalom just like Jew Friend (who really isn’t Jewish) told me. I then got the Jew stare… and crickets… But seriously, if you need to know about the ancient Jewish Sects, how to make Jew breed in the desert, or how to compose a symphony or write a comic book about how your family didn’t survive genocide but you did and now you feel guilty… I’m here for you. (I hope the last part of that sentence doesn’t sound like I’m trying to make a joke because A: The Holocaust… not so funny and B: That class was probably the best class I took all five and a half years I was in school. It was extremely interesting and someday I’ll tell you all about it and let you borrow some good books if you too are interested.)
How to Appreciate Beer for Breakfast: I was not exactly a novice of beer drinking when I entered college. I defiantly wasn’t an alcoholic in high school, but I had my share of hung over Sunday breakfasts with the family. I spend two years of high school in Germany where I learned how to drink... legally! But it wasn’t until freshmen year of college until I learned the how Beer for Breakfast might be as awesome as ponies are when you’re eight. Ex Roommate/Ex Best Friend/Now I’m Married to a Complete Raging Lunatic with Teeth Like a Shark used to come into my room in the morning, wake me up by shaking me violently, and hand me a beer. He would have one as well and we would shotgun them together on top of my bed. Loser had to drive to school. I’ll be honest I was never very good and lost the majority of the time, but I swear it was so much easier getting out of bed for Spanish class with a warm Miller Light in my stomach.
Leading Class Discussions in Classes I Know Nothing About: During my second to last semester I took a history class called Medieval Literature. It was on Wednesdays from 3-6. For three hours I sat in a small room in the history building (you remember the one that housed the American Studies department in the attic) and tried to be interested in the book we had to read that week. Yeah, that week… We had to read a new book every week… A new “medieval” book, every week. It kinda crushed my soul. Every Wednesday we came into class and someone in the class would lead the discussion of that week’s book. I was extremely nervous to do this for a few reasons.
Reason #1: Miles. Miles was this nerdy, short history major who on the first day of class before the professor even entered the room stood up and asked everyone what their major was because, “This is a 400 level class and only for history majors because other majors won’t be able to keep up.” Um Bullshit little nerdy dude. The class was also an upper level English class and many majors, including American Studies, requires you to take upper level history classes. He scared one of the only other girls away! Seriously, how bright could she have been, but she got up and left before the professor had even entered the room. Then, that first day our professor passed a paper around with all the books we were going to read and we had to sign our name next to the one we wanted to lead the class discussion for. I picked the only book written by a woman, The Book of Margery Kempe by Margery Kempe. After class I was sitting on a bench in front of the building looking for something in my backpack when Miles sat down next to me and decided to let me know why the book I picked sucked and how hard it will be for me to lead a group of male history majors in an intelligent conversation about a stupid woman for three hours. I knew then he was a little twerp, but he still got to me and made me nervous because as good of a bullshitter that I am… three hours is a long time.
Reason #2: I knew (well still know) nothing about medieval history besides things I’ve learned from Robin Hood, and I don’t think a “how Margery Kempe and Robin Hood were alike” lecture would fly. Seriously I didn’t take a single European history class the entire time I was in school except for Early Christianity (When Jews Rebel) and only then did we sometimes talk about Rome.
Reason #3: I don’t like to look stupid and I was 99.9% sure I was going to make an ass out of myself by talking about the wrong Pope or King or something.
I lucked out one way, though. The book I picked was one of the very last books we were going to discuse meaning I got to see how other people lead the class first. I saw what worked and want didn’t. (Oh, and Mile’s discussion was horrible. Hehe…) When It came my week to bravely step to the front of the room I was totally prepared. I had almost finished skimming the book, but I had read every review and critique I could find online. I had a nice list of open ended questions to talk about and quotations I knew I understood (thanks to Sparknotes) to discuss. What made my lecture the best of the class, seriously at the end of the semester I was called out by our professor for being the best guest lecturer, was that the semester before I had taken an Early Feminist Literature class. Sure, all those boys could talk medieval royalty and monks for days, but none of them knew women writers from the 40’s and 50’s. None of them could answer how Margery Kempe was like Phyllis Wheatley. It was awesome to ask questions that Miles didn’t know the answer to, or questions he couldn’t BS his way out of, and then get recognized by a “400 level history class” professor for doing better than the little history geek in the corner. I’m awesome.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Why this blog. American Studies... What???
Why.
Why this blog…
Four years ago I had a professor who sat me down and told me she was going to give me a D on a paper I wrote for her class. I almost started crying. Not because I was getting a D, because I had received at least one failing grade before (okay maybe more than one but chemistry is hard.), but because I actually worked hard writing this paper. Now I know you’re about to start judging because I can’t actually remember the famous, African American woman I wrote this paper about.. but seriously it was an amazing piece of charisma and pizazz. She was this eccentric, alcoholic who would paint her face white to ride on trains, and only write in the nude. The paper was supposed to be 10 pages, give biographical information about the person, and discuses their work.
Now I think you, the reader, need to understand that I was an American Studies major. Yeah, run that thought through your head. American Studies. It is pretty much the most ridiculous major known only to the gays. American studies was a major some idiot made up apparently after he pissed off the women, the Blacks, the Asians, the Hispanics, and sociology department. It’s the History department’s slightly retarded little brother. The best way to describe what American Studies is, is to ask you to think about to high school history. After you spent two weeks learning about WWII, at the end of the chapter in your textbook there would be a little box. That box would go something like this…
“Did you know that women were alive during WWII as well? Did you know that because all the men were fighting for our freedom in many glamorous locations all over the world, women had to work? Crazy I know!!! All over the country these petite little dewdrops of femininity put down the wash and picked up screw drivers. And guess what happened??? They liked to work!!! Again, crazy I know. These Rosie the Riveters’ did everything their husbands, fathers, and brother used to do. (But don’t worry it was for less pay.) And did you know that African Americans fought for your freedom, even while at home their wives weren’t allowed to work with all those white women at the airplane factory? And guess what we did to our Asian friends? Mandatory Vaca!!!!”
Those boxes turned into American Studies. Now you might ask, “But wise Lemon Lady, why did this major called American Studies need to exist if universities already had an African American Studies program? A Gender Studies program? An Asian Studies Program? A Religious Studies Major? A History Department? And a Sociology Department.” My only answer is because of the gays. Sometime in the 1980s someone, I’m assuming gay but maybe not, decided the gays needed a major, too. Apart from one class offered to Gender Studies majors. There were no queer classes. Thus, American Studies was born! Part women, part minorities, part sociology, part Jesus loving, part gay. Bam!!! New major. Now where can we put the offices of these poor shmucks? A new nice building on Dean Keaton? No. A classic structure on the six pack? No. Then where? Then someone had a momentary flash of brilliance…
“You know that amazing, original to the university, gorgeous brick building where we house the History Department.”
“Yes, I am aware of the awesomeness of that architectural delight.”
“Let us put part women, part minorities, part sociology, part Jesus loving, part gay Department in… THE ATTIC!”
“That is a fantastic idea. This way none of the advisers or professors will be able to stand up in their offices because of the slant of the roof. Oh and that’s a horrible name, we’ll have to change it.”
The point I’m trying to make is not that my degree is dumb. Any education is good education. And any degree from the school I attended is a good degree, but if you put my degree next to a BS in Engineering it’s no surprise which one gets more job calls and prestige. With an engineering degree you actually learned how to do something. Make something. Solve something. Me, not so much. I learned how homosexuals in the 1960’s fought back at Stonewall. I learned how racial lines were blurred in the 1940s in rural Tennessee because of water disputes. I learned how Americans think through problems like how to build National Parks and the Holocaust. I learned about doing things instead of actually doing them. One sentence to sum it up… My classes were weird.
Anyway… Back to this horrible paper I wrote. I thought it was amazing. I mixed all the biographical information about this crazy poet into a beautiful mixture of quotes from her poetry, and fiction I created to put myself in her shoes to fully understand her work and bring it into the modern day. She was a rebel in so few words, so I thought I would go rebel and not write the boring research paper I knew everyone would be drafting the night before. I thought my professor, who I had had previously for How Americans View and Understands Property, would applaud my creativity and my out of the box thinking to a research paper. This professor had given me an A for my final paper in the property class that was about airplane seat hierarchy narrated from the view of four different airplane seats on the same international flight. She praised personifying damn airplane seats for crying out loud!!!
I got a D. She told me although I’m funny and kinda witty, and she enjoyed reading my paper I didn’t follow the syllabus therefore I got a D. Then this was said,
“Lemon Lady, do you like to write?”
“Yeah…”
“Did you let anyone read this paper before you handed it to me?”
“Um, the proof reader from the English department.”
“And what did he say?”
“He says I spell at a third grade level, have poor sentence structure, and form paragraphs like I’m talking to my best friend.”
“You should start a blog.”
Four years later.
You’re welcome Ms. Thompson.
Why this blog…
Four years ago I had a professor who sat me down and told me she was going to give me a D on a paper I wrote for her class. I almost started crying. Not because I was getting a D, because I had received at least one failing grade before (okay maybe more than one but chemistry is hard.), but because I actually worked hard writing this paper. Now I know you’re about to start judging because I can’t actually remember the famous, African American woman I wrote this paper about.. but seriously it was an amazing piece of charisma and pizazz. She was this eccentric, alcoholic who would paint her face white to ride on trains, and only write in the nude. The paper was supposed to be 10 pages, give biographical information about the person, and discuses their work.
Now I think you, the reader, need to understand that I was an American Studies major. Yeah, run that thought through your head. American Studies. It is pretty much the most ridiculous major known only to the gays. American studies was a major some idiot made up apparently after he pissed off the women, the Blacks, the Asians, the Hispanics, and sociology department. It’s the History department’s slightly retarded little brother. The best way to describe what American Studies is, is to ask you to think about to high school history. After you spent two weeks learning about WWII, at the end of the chapter in your textbook there would be a little box. That box would go something like this…
“Did you know that women were alive during WWII as well? Did you know that because all the men were fighting for our freedom in many glamorous locations all over the world, women had to work? Crazy I know!!! All over the country these petite little dewdrops of femininity put down the wash and picked up screw drivers. And guess what happened??? They liked to work!!! Again, crazy I know. These Rosie the Riveters’ did everything their husbands, fathers, and brother used to do. (But don’t worry it was for less pay.) And did you know that African Americans fought for your freedom, even while at home their wives weren’t allowed to work with all those white women at the airplane factory? And guess what we did to our Asian friends? Mandatory Vaca!!!!”
Those boxes turned into American Studies. Now you might ask, “But wise Lemon Lady, why did this major called American Studies need to exist if universities already had an African American Studies program? A Gender Studies program? An Asian Studies Program? A Religious Studies Major? A History Department? And a Sociology Department.” My only answer is because of the gays. Sometime in the 1980s someone, I’m assuming gay but maybe not, decided the gays needed a major, too. Apart from one class offered to Gender Studies majors. There were no queer classes. Thus, American Studies was born! Part women, part minorities, part sociology, part Jesus loving, part gay. Bam!!! New major. Now where can we put the offices of these poor shmucks? A new nice building on Dean Keaton? No. A classic structure on the six pack? No. Then where? Then someone had a momentary flash of brilliance…
“You know that amazing, original to the university, gorgeous brick building where we house the History Department.”
“Yes, I am aware of the awesomeness of that architectural delight.”
“Let us put part women, part minorities, part sociology, part Jesus loving, part gay Department in… THE ATTIC!”
“That is a fantastic idea. This way none of the advisers or professors will be able to stand up in their offices because of the slant of the roof. Oh and that’s a horrible name, we’ll have to change it.”
The point I’m trying to make is not that my degree is dumb. Any education is good education. And any degree from the school I attended is a good degree, but if you put my degree next to a BS in Engineering it’s no surprise which one gets more job calls and prestige. With an engineering degree you actually learned how to do something. Make something. Solve something. Me, not so much. I learned how homosexuals in the 1960’s fought back at Stonewall. I learned how racial lines were blurred in the 1940s in rural Tennessee because of water disputes. I learned how Americans think through problems like how to build National Parks and the Holocaust. I learned about doing things instead of actually doing them. One sentence to sum it up… My classes were weird.
Anyway… Back to this horrible paper I wrote. I thought it was amazing. I mixed all the biographical information about this crazy poet into a beautiful mixture of quotes from her poetry, and fiction I created to put myself in her shoes to fully understand her work and bring it into the modern day. She was a rebel in so few words, so I thought I would go rebel and not write the boring research paper I knew everyone would be drafting the night before. I thought my professor, who I had had previously for How Americans View and Understands Property, would applaud my creativity and my out of the box thinking to a research paper. This professor had given me an A for my final paper in the property class that was about airplane seat hierarchy narrated from the view of four different airplane seats on the same international flight. She praised personifying damn airplane seats for crying out loud!!!
I got a D. She told me although I’m funny and kinda witty, and she enjoyed reading my paper I didn’t follow the syllabus therefore I got a D. Then this was said,
“Lemon Lady, do you like to write?”
“Yeah…”
“Did you let anyone read this paper before you handed it to me?”
“Um, the proof reader from the English department.”
“And what did he say?”
“He says I spell at a third grade level, have poor sentence structure, and form paragraphs like I’m talking to my best friend.”
“You should start a blog.”
Four years later.
You’re welcome Ms. Thompson.
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