The last couple of weeks have been crazy, and I'm glad to finally get back into the swing of things. Here's the Quick 'n' Dirty © on my life:
- Designed a website for Bonnier's Science Illustrated that was actually pretty well-received.
- Produced a 90-slide Powerpoint that pretty much eclipsed any work that I've done in my life thus far. I know it sounds weird, but just believe me when I say that this quarter has propelled me to Powerpoint Level Wizard/Desperate Crying on the Floor Semi-Wench.
- I am now a Master of Science! Never thought that would happen, huh?
- Also managed to get employed, which I also never thought would happen. I'd always suspected that I would work for corporate communications and, well, here we are.
- Signed a lease for my first real-life person apartment!
I'm now living right off of the Purple Line in a cute little apartment with hardwood floors and radiators that were made circa Great Depression era. I have a 3rd floor address, but technically it's the 4th floor because I live above a little folk art gallery, which I've been meaning to visit. It scares me a little bit that I'm now officially in charge of keeping track of bills and everything (student loans had covered my Engelhart apartment), but it's kind of a good feeling, I guess. It feels like a step in the right direction, no matter how much it scares me.
I packed for several hours on Monday, and 3 of my intrepid friends (Tyler, David, Meg) offered to help me move in Tuesday morning. I put half an hour on their meters and we hauled all my various boxes and little bags up the 4 flights of stairs in record time. When we were done, they still had 5 minutes on the meters--which mean I got moved in in twenty-five minutes flat. Talk about amazing, right?
The more I settle in, the more I'm realizing just how lost I would be without friends. It was only because of my friends that I could get out to the Schaumburg IKEA to get furniture. It was only because of friends that I even got the furniture assembled (Chuckie is a god-like genius with power tools and Meg is a secret muscle queen). And it was only b/c of Meg that I got to Target to buy a microwave, figured out how to light the gas stove (MATCHES, we actually had to light the STOVE with MATCHES WTFFFFFF), and basically not die from gas leaks and burning hot oven racks. It's been quite the week.
But one by one, my Chicago friends and acquaintances have moved out and away. I was invited out to a movie tonight, but for some reason decided to stay in instead and reduce the amount of boxes and bags that are strewn all over my living space. So I've rearranged the kitchen a bit, put stuf away in the bedroom, and then spent most of the evening parked in front of the TV eating leftover Thai food and catching up on my InStyle and Marie Claire. It was a very calm, sort of reflective evening, and it kind of hit me like...is this how it's going to be for the next year or two? Nights of Guy Fieri on the Food Network and increasingly cold take-out next to a radiator that's about as cuddly as a lukewarm fence post. To live in the city...by myself? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a little time to myself as much as the next person, maybe even a little bit more so. But the solitary-ness was really only enjoyable in knowing that was precious, in knowing that it was temporary, that Tyler or David or Monica would be knocking down my door at any minute to get dinner or just to talk or go shopping or whatever.
I'm pretty sure I was in this exact same funk when I graduated from W&M and left the cozy home of Nicholas 107. Guess another chapter's over, and part of me will always wish that it wasn't.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
multi-colored saturday
First off, my apologies for not being better about updating this blog in the last few weeks. I think I have a valid excuse though...we've all been pulling 12-15 hour days in the newsroom, including weekends and days/hours that we technically don't have class. Our presentation looms in a little over a week, and I have yet to put together the slideshow to show Bonnier Corporation what our little graduate class has come up with in the last 3 months or so. Really kind of nervous about screwing up.
Lately I've begun to dream about the Magazine Publishing Project. One time, Chaz was telling me about the finer points of this one font...perhaps Univers, but I could be wrong. Another time, the whole class had trooped off to a diner and Ileana had to help Tyler remember what waffles were. Another time, I dreamt that one of our speakers came in and cut me open in the middle of class and told everyone that I had "the greasy intestines of a 13-year-old" and me screaming "NO I'M 23!" and no one believing me. Last night, I dreamt that Murph decided to do a stand-up routine instead of talking about digital branding at the presentation. I'm not much of a dream interpreter, but I think it's probably safe to say that this Project's got me a little bit stressed out.
I spent Thanksgiving with Tyler's family, which was nice. Kind of interesting to have a "real" traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but must admit that I missed my family's hodgepodge of Asian American dishes. Black Friday shopping also just wasn't the same. Don't get me wrong, it was still fun. But somehow not the same w/o wandering around in the backroads trying to avoid the toll road with my cousins and Sunny drawing up battle plans and directing us through the Leesburg Outlets. Tyler's cousin really wanted to get a Coach purse, so I waited in line with them from 11pm to 1:30am when they finally let us in. By that time, I couldn't feel my toes, and my gratefulness to be let into the store may or may not be directly related to my purchase of two Coach purses (one as a Christmas present por mi madre). Granted they were on sale like crazy ($270 reduced to $99 + 20% off coupon), but um, I definitely had wanted to get boots, not a purse. Sigh. That was really the only store I went to, so all told the damage wasn't TOO too bad. I have the worst post-purchase anxiety though, it is actually kind of ridiculous. Sigh. My toes will just have to freeze a little bit more this winter, I suppose!
Not too much of a break though. Tyler and I came back to Chicago this afternoon, and then went to cover a basketball game together for this local sports website that he's been freelancing for (I was his photographer). It was kind of neat, since I've never actually worked with him before on a story. Just finished photoshopping the pics though, so am going to send them off. Perhaps this will be my first photocredit!
Lately I've begun to dream about the Magazine Publishing Project. One time, Chaz was telling me about the finer points of this one font...perhaps Univers, but I could be wrong. Another time, the whole class had trooped off to a diner and Ileana had to help Tyler remember what waffles were. Another time, I dreamt that one of our speakers came in and cut me open in the middle of class and told everyone that I had "the greasy intestines of a 13-year-old" and me screaming "NO I'M 23!" and no one believing me. Last night, I dreamt that Murph decided to do a stand-up routine instead of talking about digital branding at the presentation. I'm not much of a dream interpreter, but I think it's probably safe to say that this Project's got me a little bit stressed out.
I spent Thanksgiving with Tyler's family, which was nice. Kind of interesting to have a "real" traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but must admit that I missed my family's hodgepodge of Asian American dishes. Black Friday shopping also just wasn't the same. Don't get me wrong, it was still fun. But somehow not the same w/o wandering around in the backroads trying to avoid the toll road with my cousins and Sunny drawing up battle plans and directing us through the Leesburg Outlets. Tyler's cousin really wanted to get a Coach purse, so I waited in line with them from 11pm to 1:30am when they finally let us in. By that time, I couldn't feel my toes, and my gratefulness to be let into the store may or may not be directly related to my purchase of two Coach purses (one as a Christmas present por mi madre). Granted they were on sale like crazy ($270 reduced to $99 + 20% off coupon), but um, I definitely had wanted to get boots, not a purse. Sigh. That was really the only store I went to, so all told the damage wasn't TOO too bad. I have the worst post-purchase anxiety though, it is actually kind of ridiculous. Sigh. My toes will just have to freeze a little bit more this winter, I suppose!
Not too much of a break though. Tyler and I came back to Chicago this afternoon, and then went to cover a basketball game together for this local sports website that he's been freelancing for (I was his photographer). It was kind of neat, since I've never actually worked with him before on a story. Just finished photoshopping the pics though, so am going to send them off. Perhaps this will be my first photocredit!
Monday, November 2, 2009
Coffee and Love Letters
When I was younger, I tried not to drink coffee very often because I didn't want to be addicted to it. This was hard because I love coffee for its taste, not so much for the jittery effects of caffeine. So coffee kind of became a special treat for me because I didn't want my life to be dependent on it. I wanted a no-regret life experience--no addictions for me! Also because I've seen my mom try to quit coffee, and it went something like this:
Mom: I haven't had coffee for two days!
Family: Yay! Good job!
[5 minutes later]
Mom: I can't get this jar open [freaks out] Why does this happen to me?! I am so upset!! RAWRRRRRRRRRRR I AM GRUMPY RAWRRR
Family [traumatized]: Please just drink the coffee!!
Lately though, coffee has become a necessary part of my functioning. The publishing project takes up so much time and energy, I'm pretty sure I would get nothing done if I didn't have my morning cup of Joe. There was a bit of a snag last week with our class's Coffee Club where I think something got confused and so we had no coffee for most of the week. I literally almost started a riot. It was that bad. I've finally given up pretending that I didn't need coffee, and am beginning to accept my pseudo-addiction. But so much for no life regrets, right?
I've been thinking about regret a lot in the last couple of weeks. Old relationships are especially good at spawning regrets, the kind that persist even after any romantic feelings have long since evaporated. I regret things that I said, things that I did. But I'm particularly bothered by the things that I wrote.
I don't know if it's a combination of having Asian parents who never showed affection or because of an affinity for words, but expressing myself with writing has always been the most natural outlet of affection for me. I poured my feelings and hopes and fears into late-night emails and heavy writing paper spritzed with perfume. I wrote pages and pages and pages of love and anxiety and desire, pages that I tucked into pockets or backpacks as the guys I loved were heading out the door, or perhaps were walking away permanently. They were letters that I think back on now with some regret, and a little bewilderment, like "Man, I really cared about that guy, didn't I? I don't even know why anymore." I wrote things that kind of make the vain part of me go "Oh man, if I were ever a famous writer, he could totally use those letters against me."
I re-read an old letter from an ex-boyfriend the other day, and was kind of taken aback by how cold it was. At first I thought, "Wow, that's kind of smart, to not say anything that could be incriminating or embarassing a couple years down the line." His wording was careful, almost calculated, from the perspective of someone who was looking at our relationship from some point in the future where we were no longer together. It was certainly not ever anything that he might think back on and cringe at. "I'll always remember you," I think, was the most personal thing that he wrote. Not "I'll always love you," not even "I care about you so much." I will always remember you. I wrote that for dozens of people in high school yearbooks. It's a phrase that's about as intimate as handing someone a sandwich that you didn't even make yourself--solid, but impersonal.
But then I got mad. Why didn't he write anything more personal? Why wasn't I worth an "I'll always love you," or even something as cheesy as "The times we had together were the best that I've ever known"? I had opened myself up to him. Why couldn't he give just a little of himself in return? It was then that I realized something: I don't think he ever cared enough to regret losing me. I don't know if it was because he was scared, or just unable to. He was not willing to say anything personal that might be damning to him in the future. Or maybe he just never liked me all that much. But at that moment, I lost a lot of respect for him. What kind of person takes and takes another person's vulnerabilities without giving any in return? To me, that's a coward's move. The move of a little boy who is not enough of a man to care deeply enough to have regret. So as awkward or painful or even truly awful as the memories of my love letters are, I'm kind of proud that I've cared and loved as much as I did.
So here I am, thoroughly enjoying a coffee spiked with ice cream (I donated my creamer to the Coffee Club last week and forgot to buy a new one) and eating a leftover ghost cookie that Anna made last week for Treat Team. Maybe a life without regrets isn't how it's supposed to be. Maybe it's okay to indulge in a little bit of vice. And maybe it's better to be able to say that you really cared about something or someone once upon the time than to coast through life without ever getting attached to anything at all. I have regrets because I've let people touch my life. And I think that's just fine.
Mom: I haven't had coffee for two days!
Family: Yay! Good job!
[5 minutes later]
Mom: I can't get this jar open [freaks out] Why does this happen to me?! I am so upset!! RAWRRRRRRRRRRR I AM GRUMPY RAWRRR
Family [traumatized]: Please just drink the coffee!!
Lately though, coffee has become a necessary part of my functioning. The publishing project takes up so much time and energy, I'm pretty sure I would get nothing done if I didn't have my morning cup of Joe. There was a bit of a snag last week with our class's Coffee Club where I think something got confused and so we had no coffee for most of the week. I literally almost started a riot. It was that bad. I've finally given up pretending that I didn't need coffee, and am beginning to accept my pseudo-addiction. But so much for no life regrets, right?
I've been thinking about regret a lot in the last couple of weeks. Old relationships are especially good at spawning regrets, the kind that persist even after any romantic feelings have long since evaporated. I regret things that I said, things that I did. But I'm particularly bothered by the things that I wrote.
I don't know if it's a combination of having Asian parents who never showed affection or because of an affinity for words, but expressing myself with writing has always been the most natural outlet of affection for me. I poured my feelings and hopes and fears into late-night emails and heavy writing paper spritzed with perfume. I wrote pages and pages and pages of love and anxiety and desire, pages that I tucked into pockets or backpacks as the guys I loved were heading out the door, or perhaps were walking away permanently. They were letters that I think back on now with some regret, and a little bewilderment, like "Man, I really cared about that guy, didn't I? I don't even know why anymore." I wrote things that kind of make the vain part of me go "Oh man, if I were ever a famous writer, he could totally use those letters against me."
I re-read an old letter from an ex-boyfriend the other day, and was kind of taken aback by how cold it was. At first I thought, "Wow, that's kind of smart, to not say anything that could be incriminating or embarassing a couple years down the line." His wording was careful, almost calculated, from the perspective of someone who was looking at our relationship from some point in the future where we were no longer together. It was certainly not ever anything that he might think back on and cringe at. "I'll always remember you," I think, was the most personal thing that he wrote. Not "I'll always love you," not even "I care about you so much." I will always remember you. I wrote that for dozens of people in high school yearbooks. It's a phrase that's about as intimate as handing someone a sandwich that you didn't even make yourself--solid, but impersonal.
But then I got mad. Why didn't he write anything more personal? Why wasn't I worth an "I'll always love you," or even something as cheesy as "The times we had together were the best that I've ever known"? I had opened myself up to him. Why couldn't he give just a little of himself in return? It was then that I realized something: I don't think he ever cared enough to regret losing me. I don't know if it was because he was scared, or just unable to. He was not willing to say anything personal that might be damning to him in the future. Or maybe he just never liked me all that much. But at that moment, I lost a lot of respect for him. What kind of person takes and takes another person's vulnerabilities without giving any in return? To me, that's a coward's move. The move of a little boy who is not enough of a man to care deeply enough to have regret. So as awkward or painful or even truly awful as the memories of my love letters are, I'm kind of proud that I've cared and loved as much as I did.
So here I am, thoroughly enjoying a coffee spiked with ice cream (I donated my creamer to the Coffee Club last week and forgot to buy a new one) and eating a leftover ghost cookie that Anna made last week for Treat Team. Maybe a life without regrets isn't how it's supposed to be. Maybe it's okay to indulge in a little bit of vice. And maybe it's better to be able to say that you really cared about something or someone once upon the time than to coast through life without ever getting attached to anything at all. I have regrets because I've let people touch my life. And I think that's just fine.
Monday, October 19, 2009
musings of an ABC...DEFG...
Most of the time, I know who I am.
I'm Vicky. I like to write. I also like to draw, and I really miss painting. Sometimes I like to do a crossword on the train, but most of the time I just like to look out the window. I'm getting pretty good at InDesign.
And I'm Asian. Well, Asian-American, to be exact. But sometimes more Asian, and sometimes more American. Cliche, yes. But easy? No.
Lately, I feel like I've been more and more American.
My boyfriend doesn't think that it's a bad thing. But then again, I think he has the luxury of never having to question what American means. It's just what he is, all that he's known. It's not something that's even on his radar. But I think it's an issue that's figuring very predominantly in my life, and is something that many second-generation kids struggle with. I have no easy answer for it. I don't even know how to explain why bothers me.
Why does it matter?
Why do I feel uneasy about my assimilation? It's only natural...isn't it?
Should I just accept that I'll probably eventually lose my Chinese heritage because I'm in this new country? And is this a bad thing, or just a given?
Why don't my parents try harder to learn English, or I to learn Chinese?
Why does it matter??
Here in Chicago, I feel like I'm slowly losing pieces of who I am, or maybe just who I thought I was. Maybe I was too comfortable with my W&M family--that congenial mix of Americans and second-generation kids and Third Culture kids and international students and people who didn't really belong to any label but still kind of cared about where they fit in the global puzzle. People who've struggled with pairing nationality with identity, their faces with their hearts. Some have it resolved, tied up in a bag, happy to go along their way. Some continue to search, and will probably produce wonderful things out of that effort. Most, I think, cared about it sometimes, but didn't really think about it most of the time. That's where I'm at usually--more or less content.
Right now, I'm the only Asian person in my newsroom, the next closest Asian person being my good friend, Anna, who did a Fulbright in Malaysia. Normally it's fine--I love most of my classmates, and a couple of us have gotten really close. But still, there was sort of a rift that only I could feel, something that I could never really bridge because of my background. I couldn't relate to them on some level because of my experiences, and vice versa. Which is probably normal, but it was something that they could only try to understand, but would never really be able to empathize. Sometimes, I just felt so terribly...Asian.
So then on 10/10 (Double Ten Day), the Taiwanese kids had a little celebration in the lounge of my apartment complex. I decided to attend--I did love the Asian community at W&M, after all. I walked in, and felt overwhelmed by how alien I felt to be in that room full of chattering students--people around own age, of similar coloring and stature. I literally froze with fear, because I didn't know what to say to them (way to go, communications major...). I pretended to look at a list of email addresses on the sign-in sheet (I wasn't on it), and then picked up a plastic Taiwanese flag and fled. I felt so terribly...American.
I know what you're thinking. "Way to be melodramatic," or maybe even "Okay, Ms. Angsty-Emo-Middle-Schooler, just go out and make some friends already." It's not that easy! Assimilation is not that easy! It's like...okay, it's like religion. Religion plays a huge role in some people's lives, it shapes your views of the world and how you see yourself. I feel like my culture played that same role. And when that huge force seems to be slipping away...what does that mean for the rest of me? For my POV? Am I betraying myself somehow, by denouncing the very thing that really made me who I am today? But, as my boyfriend likes to say, being Italian-Catholic or Polish-Catholic doesn't make you any less of a Catholic. No matter where you end up going or living, that core force will stay the same. But when your core force is culture, and that's so readily lost through assimilation (it's encouraged, even!)...what takes its place? Who are you, if the very thing that shaped you, is somehow lost?
I think I just really miss just being around people who know what I mean when I say "I think I'm losing my heritage" and understanding why it's a big deal, even if I can't really articulate it. I miss people who can just nod, empathize, and just leave it at that, both of us knowing that some sort of understanding was just shared between us, something that I didn't have to explain and they didn't have to respond to. And maybe then we'll all go and eat some ramen, with eggs. Or maybe have a huge honkin' burger. And that'll be it.
I'm Vicky. I like to write. I also like to draw, and I really miss painting. Sometimes I like to do a crossword on the train, but most of the time I just like to look out the window. I'm getting pretty good at InDesign.
And I'm Asian. Well, Asian-American, to be exact. But sometimes more Asian, and sometimes more American. Cliche, yes. But easy? No.
Lately, I feel like I've been more and more American.
My boyfriend doesn't think that it's a bad thing. But then again, I think he has the luxury of never having to question what American means. It's just what he is, all that he's known. It's not something that's even on his radar. But I think it's an issue that's figuring very predominantly in my life, and is something that many second-generation kids struggle with. I have no easy answer for it. I don't even know how to explain why bothers me.
Why does it matter?
Why do I feel uneasy about my assimilation? It's only natural...isn't it?
Should I just accept that I'll probably eventually lose my Chinese heritage because I'm in this new country? And is this a bad thing, or just a given?
Why don't my parents try harder to learn English, or I to learn Chinese?
Why does it matter??
Here in Chicago, I feel like I'm slowly losing pieces of who I am, or maybe just who I thought I was. Maybe I was too comfortable with my W&M family--that congenial mix of Americans and second-generation kids and Third Culture kids and international students and people who didn't really belong to any label but still kind of cared about where they fit in the global puzzle. People who've struggled with pairing nationality with identity, their faces with their hearts. Some have it resolved, tied up in a bag, happy to go along their way. Some continue to search, and will probably produce wonderful things out of that effort. Most, I think, cared about it sometimes, but didn't really think about it most of the time. That's where I'm at usually--more or less content.
Right now, I'm the only Asian person in my newsroom, the next closest Asian person being my good friend, Anna, who did a Fulbright in Malaysia. Normally it's fine--I love most of my classmates, and a couple of us have gotten really close. But still, there was sort of a rift that only I could feel, something that I could never really bridge because of my background. I couldn't relate to them on some level because of my experiences, and vice versa. Which is probably normal, but it was something that they could only try to understand, but would never really be able to empathize. Sometimes, I just felt so terribly...Asian.
So then on 10/10 (Double Ten Day), the Taiwanese kids had a little celebration in the lounge of my apartment complex. I decided to attend--I did love the Asian community at W&M, after all. I walked in, and felt overwhelmed by how alien I felt to be in that room full of chattering students--people around own age, of similar coloring and stature. I literally froze with fear, because I didn't know what to say to them (way to go, communications major...). I pretended to look at a list of email addresses on the sign-in sheet (I wasn't on it), and then picked up a plastic Taiwanese flag and fled. I felt so terribly...American.
I know what you're thinking. "Way to be melodramatic," or maybe even "Okay, Ms. Angsty-Emo-Middle-Schooler, just go out and make some friends already." It's not that easy! Assimilation is not that easy! It's like...okay, it's like religion. Religion plays a huge role in some people's lives, it shapes your views of the world and how you see yourself. I feel like my culture played that same role. And when that huge force seems to be slipping away...what does that mean for the rest of me? For my POV? Am I betraying myself somehow, by denouncing the very thing that really made me who I am today? But, as my boyfriend likes to say, being Italian-Catholic or Polish-Catholic doesn't make you any less of a Catholic. No matter where you end up going or living, that core force will stay the same. But when your core force is culture, and that's so readily lost through assimilation (it's encouraged, even!)...what takes its place? Who are you, if the very thing that shaped you, is somehow lost?
I think I just really miss just being around people who know what I mean when I say "I think I'm losing my heritage" and understanding why it's a big deal, even if I can't really articulate it. I miss people who can just nod, empathize, and just leave it at that, both of us knowing that some sort of understanding was just shared between us, something that I didn't have to explain and they didn't have to respond to. And maybe then we'll all go and eat some ramen, with eggs. Or maybe have a huge honkin' burger. And that'll be it.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
hair today
Before we start, I just want to say HI SUNNY b/c she told me last night that she read my blog. So, hello, friend!
Anyway. So Picasso went through several phases with his art. There was the Blue Phase, the Pink Phase, the Cubist Phase, the Lots of Prostitutes Painted in Unflattering Ways Phase. And Guernica.
I've experienced similar phases with my hair. For most of my life, it was the Please Don't Be Foofy Phase. As I learned to manage it (aka, using conditioner), the higher my aspirations for my hair became. I briefly went through a Short & Breezy phase in college, which was then followed by the Reddish-Brown Phase; the Long & Straight Phase; the Swingy Bangs Phase; the Dark & Darker Phase; the Sleek & Soft phase. Some of these phases made repeat visits, particularly the Long & Straight and the Sleek & Soft.
Lately, I'm in a Soft & Shiny state of mind. My hair's not quite long enough to merit being very straight (I think very straight, mid-length hair looks weird on me), and so my obsession has been having really shiny hair. But because I don't want to look like I've shellacked my hair follicles, softness is key. Brittany used this great Bio Silk hair serum on me one time that makes hair super shiny and soft, but unfortunately I don't have $25 to spare for a smallish bottle of the stuf, so I've had to turn my search elsewhere.
My obsessions have not gone unnoticed. Case in point, the following conversation with my boyfriend:
V: Hey, I'm going to the bank and then to CVS--
T: NO. NO MORE SHAMPOO.
V: [pout] I'm not getting more shampoo!
T: You ALWAYS say that you're not getting more shampoo, and what do you get? Shampoo. So no, I say! No more shampoo!
V: [grumpy] Fine! I won't get shampoo. Do you need anything?
T: A Kit Kat would be nice.
I didn't get any more shampoo, but I found this GREAT conditioner (and for half-price!) It's Garnier's 3-minute Undo Dryness Reversal Treatment--the one in a tube, not the bottle. It's got some sort of secret combination of avocado oil and apricot seeds that makes hair super soft, shiny, flyaway-free and deliciously swingy. So that's my product pitch for today--absolutely love the stuf!
Anyway. So Picasso went through several phases with his art. There was the Blue Phase, the Pink Phase, the Cubist Phase, the Lots of Prostitutes Painted in Unflattering Ways Phase. And Guernica.
I've experienced similar phases with my hair. For most of my life, it was the Please Don't Be Foofy Phase. As I learned to manage it (aka, using conditioner), the higher my aspirations for my hair became. I briefly went through a Short & Breezy phase in college, which was then followed by the Reddish-Brown Phase; the Long & Straight Phase; the Swingy Bangs Phase; the Dark & Darker Phase; the Sleek & Soft phase. Some of these phases made repeat visits, particularly the Long & Straight and the Sleek & Soft.
Lately, I'm in a Soft & Shiny state of mind. My hair's not quite long enough to merit being very straight (I think very straight, mid-length hair looks weird on me), and so my obsession has been having really shiny hair. But because I don't want to look like I've shellacked my hair follicles, softness is key. Brittany used this great Bio Silk hair serum on me one time that makes hair super shiny and soft, but unfortunately I don't have $25 to spare for a smallish bottle of the stuf, so I've had to turn my search elsewhere.
My obsessions have not gone unnoticed. Case in point, the following conversation with my boyfriend:
V: Hey, I'm going to the bank and then to CVS--
T: NO. NO MORE SHAMPOO.
V: [pout] I'm not getting more shampoo!
T: You ALWAYS say that you're not getting more shampoo, and what do you get? Shampoo. So no, I say! No more shampoo!
V: [grumpy] Fine! I won't get shampoo. Do you need anything?
T: A Kit Kat would be nice.
I didn't get any more shampoo, but I found this GREAT conditioner (and for half-price!) It's Garnier's 3-minute Undo Dryness Reversal Treatment--the one in a tube, not the bottle. It's got some sort of secret combination of avocado oil and apricot seeds that makes hair super soft, shiny, flyaway-free and deliciously swingy. So that's my product pitch for today--absolutely love the stuf!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
do you dream in chocolate?
Why, yes, Lindt Lindor Truffle Balls, I do dream in chocolate! Thanks for asking. My hips say thank you, too.
As some of you might know, I'm planning to buy a professional-grade camera with a few of my classmates, which means I am in dire need of cold hard cash. One of the student performance groups on campus is looking for a new logo, and is willing to offer a monetary prize for it. So even though I have basically zero experience in designing logos, I've decided to give it a shot. Basically this meant that I shot a semi-frantic email to Britt asking for design tips and doing sketches in-between Mag Proj stuf.
Britt was nice enough to call me today and gave me some very helpful tips. I've only used Illustrator once prior to today, so I'm still kind of trying to figure out all the ins and outs of the program. I think it's going well.
In between designing, I spent the afternoon with Daniel Craig (Casino Royale was on USA...yum!) and discerning the finer points of difference in a mound of men's white athletic socks. I lost a bet to Tyler a while ago, and had to fold his laundry as a result. I almost gave up and just paired them off indiscriminately...would he really have noticed if I had paired the white sock with the tiny grey Champion logo on the back of the heel with the one with the tiny Champion logo on the top of the heel? Never had this problem folding crazy colorful girl socks, that's for sure!
As some of you might know, I'm planning to buy a professional-grade camera with a few of my classmates, which means I am in dire need of cold hard cash. One of the student performance groups on campus is looking for a new logo, and is willing to offer a monetary prize for it. So even though I have basically zero experience in designing logos, I've decided to give it a shot. Basically this meant that I shot a semi-frantic email to Britt asking for design tips and doing sketches in-between Mag Proj stuf.
Britt was nice enough to call me today and gave me some very helpful tips. I've only used Illustrator once prior to today, so I'm still kind of trying to figure out all the ins and outs of the program. I think it's going well.
In between designing, I spent the afternoon with Daniel Craig (Casino Royale was on USA...yum!) and discerning the finer points of difference in a mound of men's white athletic socks. I lost a bet to Tyler a while ago, and had to fold his laundry as a result. I almost gave up and just paired them off indiscriminately...would he really have noticed if I had paired the white sock with the tiny grey Champion logo on the back of the heel with the one with the tiny Champion logo on the top of the heel? Never had this problem folding crazy colorful girl socks, that's for sure!
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
quickie post on a tuesday night
We are now well into the 3rd week of the Magazine Publishing Project, and there's something about sticking 17 people in two very small rooms (connected by a door, like one of those hotel suites) for an average of 10 hours a day that makes people very odd and quirky. Consider some of these quotes:
[killing time during elections by telling jokes]
Patti: Why was 6 afraid of 7?
Monica: BECAUSE 8, 9, 10!!
[discussing digital strategy]
Sarah: So yeah, we want our website to be for kids, with lots of graphic content.
Pardon me, I must go attend to my boy-person, who is distraught over his fantasy football outcome and various other things in life. Because he doesn't drink, I bought him a Mountain Dew. It felt kind of weird to be buying a grown man a soda instead of a beer, but I guess there are stranger things in life.
[killing time during elections by telling jokes]
Patti: Why was 6 afraid of 7?
Monica: BECAUSE 8, 9, 10!!
[discussing digital strategy]
Sarah: So yeah, we want our website to be for kids, with lots of graphic content.
Pardon me, I must go attend to my boy-person, who is distraught over his fantasy football outcome and various other things in life. Because he doesn't drink, I bought him a Mountain Dew. It felt kind of weird to be buying a grown man a soda instead of a beer, but I guess there are stranger things in life.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
why i hate engelhart reason 24597193
As some of you might know, I've had some considerable problems with my apartment. Here is a brief timeline of my troubles:
Winter:
- Toilet that constantly fails to flush. According to the guy in the office, it's a common problem--apparently, people in the building like to pour grease in the toilets, which stops up the floors below it. I have no idea why you'd pour grease into a toilet.
- Window frame won't close. This is a problem because Chicago is, on average, about negative 10 degrees in the winter.
- Faucet that explodes with water when you turn it on. Sink that fails to drain. Staff tells me it's not their problem, and I can go buy a new sink if I want. Eff that. I decided to just deal with it.
Spring/Summer:
- Window frame that refuses now to open.
- People continuing to pour grease into toilets
- AC won't work
Fall:
- Window opens, but no longer locks
- Grease continuing
- Sink/faucet continuing
The RA staff here know me pretty well, since they've had to handle numerous fix-it requests from me. The latest problem occurred earlier tonight, around 1 am as I was getting ready for bed. Two very loud, bone-permeating chirps emitting from my doorway area, with no apparent cause. I thought, "Well, that was random, but probably just a one-time thing" and proceed to get on with my bed-going.
False. Every half hour for the next 3 hours, the chirping went on. Just as I'd be drifting off to sleep, one or two quick blips would jolt me awake, the kind that says "THERE IS SOMETHING URGENTLY WRONG AND YOU NEED TO ATTEND TO IT. LIKE THERE IS A FIRE. OR SOMETHING."
Except...there was nothing the matter. I checked my oven (it was off), reset the outlets in the bathroom, and waved frantically at the smoke detector hoping that it would give me some clue as to why it might be beeping.
Finally, at 3:17 am, I could stand it no longer. I called the RA on duty, a very nice and tall guy named Alex. I wasn't sure if he'd actually pick up (my friend once got locked out of her room for a whole night b/c the RA didn't pick up), but he did. After I explained to him what the problem was, our conversation went something like this:
Alex: Okay, well the battery in the smoke alarm is probably low. Why don't you check it? I think it takes a 9-volt battery.
Vicky: A 9-volt battery?
A: Yeah. If you have one lying around.
V: No.
A: Okay, well test it out to see if the alarm is working.
V: [pushing random areas of the alarm] Okay I'm testing it--ARGHRGHGHGH [alarm goes off. V dashes across the living room in sheer terror]
A: Okay you need to turn it off! Press the button again!
V: BUTTON WHERE ARRRGHHHHH [manages to turn it off] Oh! Got it!
A: Ha! Bet you're wide awake now aren't you!
V: ...I've been wide awake.
A: Hmm. Okay, well let me call the campus police's non-emergency line and see if they can get someone out there to look at it for you. What's your name?
V: Victoria.
A: Oh! Hey! I know you. Hello!
V: ...Yes. Hello. How are you.
A: Ah. Right. Uh, I'll just call them now.
Campus police sent a very nice, potbellied man with a faint Irish-y accent who changed out the battery in the smoke alarm and told me to call him if it went off again.
I decided that the problem must be fixed, so I climbed back into bed. 15 minutes later...BLIP. BLIP. By this time, I am not even mad...I'm just so freaking tired. Called Alex again. Called the campus police. Guy came back. Told me he had no idea why it was doing what it was doing. Took apart the alarm, and blew on it like it was a video game cartridge, saying that he'd never heard of it doing the 30-minute blipping, and that maybe it was a piece of dust. Told me he'd be back in half an hour to check if it went off again.
And that is why I am still awake at 5 am. Waiting to see if the stupid alarm will go off, and if I can finally go to bed. And that is why I'm hating my apartment, just a little bit.
Winter:
- Toilet that constantly fails to flush. According to the guy in the office, it's a common problem--apparently, people in the building like to pour grease in the toilets, which stops up the floors below it. I have no idea why you'd pour grease into a toilet.
- Window frame won't close. This is a problem because Chicago is, on average, about negative 10 degrees in the winter.
- Faucet that explodes with water when you turn it on. Sink that fails to drain. Staff tells me it's not their problem, and I can go buy a new sink if I want. Eff that. I decided to just deal with it.
Spring/Summer:
- Window frame that refuses now to open.
- People continuing to pour grease into toilets
- AC won't work
Fall:
- Window opens, but no longer locks
- Grease continuing
- Sink/faucet continuing
The RA staff here know me pretty well, since they've had to handle numerous fix-it requests from me. The latest problem occurred earlier tonight, around 1 am as I was getting ready for bed. Two very loud, bone-permeating chirps emitting from my doorway area, with no apparent cause. I thought, "Well, that was random, but probably just a one-time thing" and proceed to get on with my bed-going.
False. Every half hour for the next 3 hours, the chirping went on. Just as I'd be drifting off to sleep, one or two quick blips would jolt me awake, the kind that says "THERE IS SOMETHING URGENTLY WRONG AND YOU NEED TO ATTEND TO IT. LIKE THERE IS A FIRE. OR SOMETHING."
Except...there was nothing the matter. I checked my oven (it was off), reset the outlets in the bathroom, and waved frantically at the smoke detector hoping that it would give me some clue as to why it might be beeping.
Finally, at 3:17 am, I could stand it no longer. I called the RA on duty, a very nice and tall guy named Alex. I wasn't sure if he'd actually pick up (my friend once got locked out of her room for a whole night b/c the RA didn't pick up), but he did. After I explained to him what the problem was, our conversation went something like this:
Alex: Okay, well the battery in the smoke alarm is probably low. Why don't you check it? I think it takes a 9-volt battery.
Vicky: A 9-volt battery?
A: Yeah. If you have one lying around.
V: No.
A: Okay, well test it out to see if the alarm is working.
V: [pushing random areas of the alarm] Okay I'm testing it--ARGHRGHGHGH [alarm goes off. V dashes across the living room in sheer terror]
A: Okay you need to turn it off! Press the button again!
V: BUTTON WHERE ARRRGHHHHH [manages to turn it off] Oh! Got it!
A: Ha! Bet you're wide awake now aren't you!
V: ...I've been wide awake.
A: Hmm. Okay, well let me call the campus police's non-emergency line and see if they can get someone out there to look at it for you. What's your name?
V: Victoria.
A: Oh! Hey! I know you. Hello!
V: ...Yes. Hello. How are you.
A: Ah. Right. Uh, I'll just call them now.
Campus police sent a very nice, potbellied man with a faint Irish-y accent who changed out the battery in the smoke alarm and told me to call him if it went off again.
I decided that the problem must be fixed, so I climbed back into bed. 15 minutes later...BLIP. BLIP. By this time, I am not even mad...I'm just so freaking tired. Called Alex again. Called the campus police. Guy came back. Told me he had no idea why it was doing what it was doing. Took apart the alarm, and blew on it like it was a video game cartridge, saying that he'd never heard of it doing the 30-minute blipping, and that maybe it was a piece of dust. Told me he'd be back in half an hour to check if it went off again.
And that is why I am still awake at 5 am. Waiting to see if the stupid alarm will go off, and if I can finally go to bed. And that is why I'm hating my apartment, just a little bit.
Monday, September 28, 2009
curry fail update
So Britt called me as I was in the midst of a curry non-thickening panic. The conversation went something like this:
B: Try putting in a spoonful of flour.
V: [wailing] I don't have flour!
B: Okay, how about the Bisquick that you sometimes use?
V: [wailing] I don't have Bisquick!
B: [getting exasperated] Corn starch! Just mix a little bit of corn starch with cold water and--
V: [more whining now, less wailing] I don't have corn starch!
B: WELL, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!!? WHY DOES YOUR KITCHEN SUCK?!?!?!?
No, she didn't really say that last line, but I'm sure that's what she was thinking. As a matter of fact, that is what I am currently thinking. Why doesn't my kitchen have these basic staples? It is absurd. (But also strangely representative of my lifestyle...)
So dinner wasn't curry and rice after all. I roasted some potatoes and mashed them, and brought it up to my friend's for the little potluck thing she was having. Dinner was a delicious salmon + greens salad, and my impromptu mashed potatoes.
I was full and happy, but still determined to fix the curry. I threw in 2 handfuls of rice (surprise! I did have some rice), and after 15 minutes, the sauce thickened right up and it's full of rice, to boot. Of course, I'm not hungry anymore, and Tyler is doing his best to get out of eating a 2nd dinner a mere 30 minutes after his 1st dinner. But I guess this means I won't have to worry about tomorrow's dinner! So that's good.
To make myself feel better from an afternoon of curry-making fiasco, I decided to test out my new Revlon Raspberry Bite lipstick. It's like a fuschia explosion on my face, which I strangely kind of like, especially paired with apple green sweatpants and my Hack&Slash pirate shirt. That's right, people: I'm wearing lipstick and sweatpants, like a crazy desperate housewife. Good start to the week.
B: Try putting in a spoonful of flour.
V: [wailing] I don't have flour!
B: Okay, how about the Bisquick that you sometimes use?
V: [wailing] I don't have Bisquick!
B: [getting exasperated] Corn starch! Just mix a little bit of corn starch with cold water and--
V: [more whining now, less wailing] I don't have corn starch!
B: WELL, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!!? WHY DOES YOUR KITCHEN SUCK?!?!?!?
No, she didn't really say that last line, but I'm sure that's what she was thinking. As a matter of fact, that is what I am currently thinking. Why doesn't my kitchen have these basic staples? It is absurd. (But also strangely representative of my lifestyle...)
So dinner wasn't curry and rice after all. I roasted some potatoes and mashed them, and brought it up to my friend's for the little potluck thing she was having. Dinner was a delicious salmon + greens salad, and my impromptu mashed potatoes.
I was full and happy, but still determined to fix the curry. I threw in 2 handfuls of rice (surprise! I did have some rice), and after 15 minutes, the sauce thickened right up and it's full of rice, to boot. Of course, I'm not hungry anymore, and Tyler is doing his best to get out of eating a 2nd dinner a mere 30 minutes after his 1st dinner. But I guess this means I won't have to worry about tomorrow's dinner! So that's good.
To make myself feel better from an afternoon of curry-making fiasco, I decided to test out my new Revlon Raspberry Bite lipstick. It's like a fuschia explosion on my face, which I strangely kind of like, especially paired with apple green sweatpants and my Hack&Slash pirate shirt. That's right, people: I'm wearing lipstick and sweatpants, like a crazy desperate housewife. Good start to the week.
curry fail
Today was a class-free Monday, mostly by virtue of the fact that my photography instructor is currently in Oregon. Chicago is very windy and blustery today--I guess it's already that time of year.
I took advantage of today's classlessness to work on some cover letters for potential internships, as well as make foods to last me through this week. Since today was kind of grey and blah, I figured what better way to make today better than making a big pot curry? Just think: deep golden yellow, punctuated by rounds of orange carrot and wedges of potato. Yes. Perfect.
I started off by sauteeing some onions and carrots together, and putting them in a pot of water. Added chunks of chicken and curry powder (forgot the potatoes). But even after an hour of dutiful simmering, all I've managed to produce is a sandy-colored broth with pieces of vegetable and chicken floating about in it.
Emergency curry conference with my mother, who, as it turns out, was also making curry. "Yes, mine's almost done, and it looks great!" she chirped.
"That's nice," I grumbled, glaring at my pot of curry soup. She pointed out that I had forgotten to add the potatoes--the starchiness should help thicken it. She also said that I could add another square of curry powder, since it seems like maybe I started off with too much water.
It's been about an hour now, since I've added the potatoes and extra curry, and the mixture is still stubbornly refusing to thicken. It's boiled over once (caught it just in time), but for the most part is just bubbling away, oblivious to the fact that some crucial reaction is supposed to take place so it will thicken to a yummy gravy-texture, rather than a watery blah.
I know you're all super concerned about the state of my curry, so I'll be sure to update later with how it all turns out.
I took advantage of today's classlessness to work on some cover letters for potential internships, as well as make foods to last me through this week. Since today was kind of grey and blah, I figured what better way to make today better than making a big pot curry? Just think: deep golden yellow, punctuated by rounds of orange carrot and wedges of potato. Yes. Perfect.
I started off by sauteeing some onions and carrots together, and putting them in a pot of water. Added chunks of chicken and curry powder (forgot the potatoes). But even after an hour of dutiful simmering, all I've managed to produce is a sandy-colored broth with pieces of vegetable and chicken floating about in it.
Emergency curry conference with my mother, who, as it turns out, was also making curry. "Yes, mine's almost done, and it looks great!" she chirped.
"That's nice," I grumbled, glaring at my pot of curry soup. She pointed out that I had forgotten to add the potatoes--the starchiness should help thicken it. She also said that I could add another square of curry powder, since it seems like maybe I started off with too much water.
It's been about an hour now, since I've added the potatoes and extra curry, and the mixture is still stubbornly refusing to thicken. It's boiled over once (caught it just in time), but for the most part is just bubbling away, oblivious to the fact that some crucial reaction is supposed to take place so it will thicken to a yummy gravy-texture, rather than a watery blah.
I know you're all super concerned about the state of my curry, so I'll be sure to update later with how it all turns out.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
sunday power couples
So two of my favorite people at Medill have finally managed to hook up. It all happened in a very interesting way in that when I found out about it I was kind of annoyed out of my mind about some other things, so wasn't able to properly be excited for them. Incidentally, that really must be one of the most horrible things to do to someone--to not be properly excited for two people who are bursting to tell you some good news. But that's neither here nor there, since everything is settled and well again.
It's very interesting to see them together now, and hear one talk about the other, b/c just a few weeks before we were all just good friends. And now we're all couples! It's kind of weird, actually.
A lot of times I don't consciously think of myself as being part of a couple, maybe because most of the people around me are single. But now, it's almost as though their couple-ness (compounded by the fact that it's new and exciting and they're still really into each other and the newness of everything) reminds me that, oh yeah, I guess I'm also part of a couple. In some small way, the newness of their relationship is rubbing off on me and how I feel about Tyler (yes, total ick moment, I know, and I'm sorry), so I thought I'd let it all out with these song lyrics:
My baby has a one track-mind
with Sunday football games
he knows every player by name
My baby has a one-track mind
and he's so fine (yes, he's so fine)
(loosely adapted from a Mayer Hawthorne song, which was actually about a girl who loves shopping for expensive things)
And we will end on a non-sappy note, with a quote from Mr. Blue:
[after witnessing complicated weekend drama]
"This is why women can't be in charge of the world. If someone goes and forgets to send a Thank You note, that'll be the start of World War III."
It's very interesting to see them together now, and hear one talk about the other, b/c just a few weeks before we were all just good friends. And now we're all couples! It's kind of weird, actually.
A lot of times I don't consciously think of myself as being part of a couple, maybe because most of the people around me are single. But now, it's almost as though their couple-ness (compounded by the fact that it's new and exciting and they're still really into each other and the newness of everything) reminds me that, oh yeah, I guess I'm also part of a couple. In some small way, the newness of their relationship is rubbing off on me and how I feel about Tyler (yes, total ick moment, I know, and I'm sorry), so I thought I'd let it all out with these song lyrics:
My baby has a one track-mind
with Sunday football games
he knows every player by name
My baby has a one-track mind
and he's so fine (yes, he's so fine)
(loosely adapted from a Mayer Hawthorne song, which was actually about a girl who loves shopping for expensive things)
And we will end on a non-sappy note, with a quote from Mr. Blue:
[after witnessing complicated weekend drama]
"This is why women can't be in charge of the world. If someone goes and forgets to send a Thank You note, that'll be the start of World War III."
Sunday, September 13, 2009
luggage regulation
Luggages never know when they're supposed to get lost.
At the behest of my mother, I originally went home with one suitcase zipped inside the other like Russian nesting dolls. "Bring an empty suitcase in case you have lots of things to take back," she said, advising me like I was some sort of tourist. But because I loved her (and because she is usually right), I did as she said.
Good thing, too. In two weeks' time, the few shirts and two pairs of jeans that I brought home had somehow evolved into a smorgasbord of old dresses, a smattering of DVDs (must admit, stole them from my brother), packets of milk tea and sweet Chinese sausage. Unwrapping a big greenish fitted sheet revealed a cheery orange ricecooker housing a jar of chocolate spread and a little pot of BBQ sauce, like a very squat Mother Ginger. I'm still not all the way unpacked yet, but I'm sure other random items are going to pop up.
Now, I had gotten to the airport via bus, and I had planned to get back to my apartment the same way. Having two monstrous pieces of luggage put a damper on that plan somewhat, as I had trouble even dragging them, much less hauling them onto a bus and then walking the 1/2 mile or so home.
"Do not accept rides from strangers at the airport," my mother said firmly. She added a glare for good measure. (How did she know about my riding-in-car-with-stranger episode? She can't possibly read this blog, she barely speaks/reads English. Or does she know more English than she's letting on? Or...EDDIE YUE, ARE YOU READING THIS RIGHT NOW AND TELLING MOMMY THINGS?!?!)
"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I will take the bus."
"Are you out of your mind?" she countered swiftly. "Do you really expect to lift those things on the bus? And then walk home? Who do you think you are? Just take a taxi."
"But taking a taxi would be like, $40," I said, mentally visiting my bank account. "And taking the bus is only $2."
My mother reconsidered. "$2, that's a lot cheaper," she said.
"Well, my luggage got lost that first time that I went to Chicago. Maybe it'll get lost again," I said hopefully. "Then I can just take the bus, and it'll be delivered to me in the morning."
While this seemed to be a decent plan to me, my mother was doubtful. Nevertheless, we made sure that all the perishable stuff was put in my backpack, which I was bringing on the plane with me. The two suitcases were duly checked in at the airport, and before I left, my dad asked me if I had enough money for the taxi ride. I assumed that I could use my credit card to pay for it, so I just told him yes, and didn't stop by the bank before going to the airport. Besides, I was still hoping that the luggage would get lost and I wouldn't have to worry about getting a taxi.
But when I got off at O'Hare, the smaller of my two grey suitcases was already bobbing around the baggage claim like an ex that just won't go away--you know, the kind that leaves you Facebook messages like "So you're back in Chicago, huh? Me too! We should get a taxi together and go back to your place!" The second suitcase surfaced soon after, and I resigned myself to spending a week's worth of grocery money to get back to Engelhart.
So I hailed a cab. I asked if I could pay with credit. The driver said yep, and went back to talking on his Bluetooth or whatever. I texted Eddie and Tyler to let them know I was alive. I probably should've started feeling uneasy when the driver didn't know how to get to Maple Ave and I had to give him directions (directions not being my strongpoint, as some may know). When we got to my apartment, it turned out that his credit card machine was broken and I didn't have much cash on me. Blargh. Not the best situation. After some panicking, he said that he'd just take the money and that would be fine, which was really nice of him. So now there's a very nice taxi driver out there who is short $10 b/c I was counting on the incompetence of airlines to save me from having to take said taxi. He drove cab number 3673, so if anyone somehow finds themselves in his cab, please give him an extra $10 and I will pay you back.
Anyway, my point is that this would not have happened if my luggage had had the good sense to get themselves sent out to Pennsylvania or something. Sigh. Silly luggages.
At the behest of my mother, I originally went home with one suitcase zipped inside the other like Russian nesting dolls. "Bring an empty suitcase in case you have lots of things to take back," she said, advising me like I was some sort of tourist. But because I loved her (and because she is usually right), I did as she said.
Good thing, too. In two weeks' time, the few shirts and two pairs of jeans that I brought home had somehow evolved into a smorgasbord of old dresses, a smattering of DVDs (must admit, stole them from my brother), packets of milk tea and sweet Chinese sausage. Unwrapping a big greenish fitted sheet revealed a cheery orange ricecooker housing a jar of chocolate spread and a little pot of BBQ sauce, like a very squat Mother Ginger. I'm still not all the way unpacked yet, but I'm sure other random items are going to pop up.
Now, I had gotten to the airport via bus, and I had planned to get back to my apartment the same way. Having two monstrous pieces of luggage put a damper on that plan somewhat, as I had trouble even dragging them, much less hauling them onto a bus and then walking the 1/2 mile or so home.
"Do not accept rides from strangers at the airport," my mother said firmly. She added a glare for good measure. (How did she know about my riding-in-car-with-stranger episode? She can't possibly read this blog, she barely speaks/reads English. Or does she know more English than she's letting on? Or...EDDIE YUE, ARE YOU READING THIS RIGHT NOW AND TELLING MOMMY THINGS?!?!)
"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I will take the bus."
"Are you out of your mind?" she countered swiftly. "Do you really expect to lift those things on the bus? And then walk home? Who do you think you are? Just take a taxi."
"But taking a taxi would be like, $40," I said, mentally visiting my bank account. "And taking the bus is only $2."
My mother reconsidered. "$2, that's a lot cheaper," she said.
"Well, my luggage got lost that first time that I went to Chicago. Maybe it'll get lost again," I said hopefully. "Then I can just take the bus, and it'll be delivered to me in the morning."
While this seemed to be a decent plan to me, my mother was doubtful. Nevertheless, we made sure that all the perishable stuff was put in my backpack, which I was bringing on the plane with me. The two suitcases were duly checked in at the airport, and before I left, my dad asked me if I had enough money for the taxi ride. I assumed that I could use my credit card to pay for it, so I just told him yes, and didn't stop by the bank before going to the airport. Besides, I was still hoping that the luggage would get lost and I wouldn't have to worry about getting a taxi.
But when I got off at O'Hare, the smaller of my two grey suitcases was already bobbing around the baggage claim like an ex that just won't go away--you know, the kind that leaves you Facebook messages like "So you're back in Chicago, huh? Me too! We should get a taxi together and go back to your place!" The second suitcase surfaced soon after, and I resigned myself to spending a week's worth of grocery money to get back to Engelhart.
So I hailed a cab. I asked if I could pay with credit. The driver said yep, and went back to talking on his Bluetooth or whatever. I texted Eddie and Tyler to let them know I was alive. I probably should've started feeling uneasy when the driver didn't know how to get to Maple Ave and I had to give him directions (directions not being my strongpoint, as some may know). When we got to my apartment, it turned out that his credit card machine was broken and I didn't have much cash on me. Blargh. Not the best situation. After some panicking, he said that he'd just take the money and that would be fine, which was really nice of him. So now there's a very nice taxi driver out there who is short $10 b/c I was counting on the incompetence of airlines to save me from having to take said taxi. He drove cab number 3673, so if anyone somehow finds themselves in his cab, please give him an extra $10 and I will pay you back.
Anyway, my point is that this would not have happened if my luggage had had the good sense to get themselves sent out to Pennsylvania or something. Sigh. Silly luggages.
Friday, August 28, 2009
my first freelance story!
If you're in the Chicago area tomorrow, go and check out this event. If you're interested in helping undocumented students or concerned about immigrant issues, check out this article. Either way, read my story! I am needy! And pretty excited that I'm finally starting on what many of my classmates have been doing for the last couple of years.
http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/illinois/article_0361f934-5ccb-5ddc-900d-8a1057219c68.html
http://www.nwitimes.com/news/local/illinois/article_0361f934-5ccb-5ddc-900d-8a1057219c68.html
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Saturday Night Lights
Not much going on these last couple of weeks, just madly trying to finish up our final projects and hope that no lasting damage is done to our spirits (although it might be too late, for some...). Grad school is hard, yo!
My group for our Audience Insight class spent 6 solid hours today working on what we called "Week Zero Lite"--namely, designing a product for a targeted audience but without all the business/marketing planning side of it. We made a website for homeschoolers, which turned out pretty kick-ass, if you ask me. I am currently in love with the "Rounded Corners" feature in InDesign: it turns all boxes into boxes with ROUNDED corners! Eee! Excitement abound!! I'm trying to think of ways to incorporate the round-cornered boxes into my News Graphics/Design final...they just make me so happy! Clearly, I need to get out more.
Tomorrow will be devoted to my REAL Week Zero group, where we have to come up with a complete product plan for parents of children with autism. The designing part and thinking up story ideas and stuf is actually not so bad...what I'm really worried about is our presentations where we have to pitch our product to a panel of pros...and how we do is basically our grade for the quarter. Umm. Apparently it's pretty brutal and they just try to rip apart your product. I'm in charge of editorial/design strategy so...yeah. Tomorrow might be a bit iffy. Luckily, I like all of my teammates. Ooo! Maybe I will make granola for them! That would be fun.
Hmm...I wonder what it means when rounded corners and granola are the high points of my day...
My group for our Audience Insight class spent 6 solid hours today working on what we called "Week Zero Lite"--namely, designing a product for a targeted audience but without all the business/marketing planning side of it. We made a website for homeschoolers, which turned out pretty kick-ass, if you ask me. I am currently in love with the "Rounded Corners" feature in InDesign: it turns all boxes into boxes with ROUNDED corners! Eee! Excitement abound!! I'm trying to think of ways to incorporate the round-cornered boxes into my News Graphics/Design final...they just make me so happy! Clearly, I need to get out more.
Tomorrow will be devoted to my REAL Week Zero group, where we have to come up with a complete product plan for parents of children with autism. The designing part and thinking up story ideas and stuf is actually not so bad...what I'm really worried about is our presentations where we have to pitch our product to a panel of pros...and how we do is basically our grade for the quarter. Umm. Apparently it's pretty brutal and they just try to rip apart your product. I'm in charge of editorial/design strategy so...yeah. Tomorrow might be a bit iffy. Luckily, I like all of my teammates. Ooo! Maybe I will make granola for them! That would be fun.
Hmm...I wonder what it means when rounded corners and granola are the high points of my day...
Friday, August 7, 2009
Miss Havisham and a Cat Named Magic
Background info: For my audience insight class, my group is making a news product geared towards families who homeschool. Part of our research required us to actually go out and talk to a member of that community. I scored an interview with Cindi, the founder of a group called Homeschooling Gifted Students.
The day of the interview (today) was kind of grey and dreary. I was also running kind of late b/c I foolishly decided to, um, prepare a beef brisket with a seasoning rub, instead of, say, prepare for the interview by printing out the questions and whatnot. So I kind of dashed out of the door in a whirlwind of panic and trepidation that Cindi would find me sweaty and ill-kempt. Just another one of those maladjusted "public school kids" who can't self-organize my way out of my apartment (which is partially true).
I get to Cindi's house 10 minutes via speed-walking, and just took like 5 minutes to take in her house. Guys...I felt like I was Oliver, peeking up at Miss Havisham's home. It was painted an aging white, covered with vines and bits of leaves and pollen caught in elaborate spiderwebs all around the door and windows. Lace curtains dropped the length in all of the windows. The door was a dusty blue with an actual mail slot--none of the houses on the street had mail boxes, which means they have an actual door-to-door mailman. And the doorbell button was broken. If it hadn't been for the light blue car in the driveway, I might've thought that no one actually lived here. I pressed the doorbell anyway, and a few moments later, Cindi came to the door, and she was everything and nothing like what I thought she would be.
She was soft and plump, with a soft voice to match. Her hair was caught up loosely in a bun, and she wore a flowy sky-blue blouse, a colorful peasant skirt and sandals. She has a BA in government from Cornell and two long-haired white cats, Magic and Snowy. The kitties scurried over to check me out, kind like they were making sure I was okay for Cindi to talk to. Snowy seemed uninterested, but Magic jumped up and sat down next to me, butting my hand with its head for attention, so I petted it throughout the interview, which was enormously fun and seemed sort of just...right, given the space that we were in.
And her house was amazing. To the right when you came in was an actual little coat area, with red velvet curtains instead of doors. Her living room was spacious, her furniture and rug somewhat antiquated looking. Instead of a sofa, she had one of those really long, backless couches with very high arms on the sides. It was a faded blue, threaded with gold. A huge painting of a field of wildflowers perched behind the sofa. We did the interview in the living room, so I didn't get to see the other rooms of her house, but from what I could see, it was quite large and decorated with things that look like they should be in a museum. The flatscreen TV on the wall and a multi-tiered cat stratcher-thing by the bay window seemed oddly out of place amidst all the other pieces that seemed from some other time.
Cindi was super gracious and I had a really fun time interviewing her. She was very helpful about homeschooling resources, but mostly I was really kind of enchanted by her, her cats, and her home. Everything seemed kind of surreal, but in a good way. I half-expected her to serve tea in fine china, maybe go apple-picking in an organic orchard and make a pie to cool on the windowsill.
After that horrible rude interview with the tattoo artist earlier this week, this was a welcome breath of fresh air. There ARE nice people out there who want to be interviewed! I like doing this journalism thing after all!
The day of the interview (today) was kind of grey and dreary. I was also running kind of late b/c I foolishly decided to, um, prepare a beef brisket with a seasoning rub, instead of, say, prepare for the interview by printing out the questions and whatnot. So I kind of dashed out of the door in a whirlwind of panic and trepidation that Cindi would find me sweaty and ill-kempt. Just another one of those maladjusted "public school kids" who can't self-organize my way out of my apartment (which is partially true).
I get to Cindi's house 10 minutes via speed-walking, and just took like 5 minutes to take in her house. Guys...I felt like I was Oliver, peeking up at Miss Havisham's home. It was painted an aging white, covered with vines and bits of leaves and pollen caught in elaborate spiderwebs all around the door and windows. Lace curtains dropped the length in all of the windows. The door was a dusty blue with an actual mail slot--none of the houses on the street had mail boxes, which means they have an actual door-to-door mailman. And the doorbell button was broken. If it hadn't been for the light blue car in the driveway, I might've thought that no one actually lived here. I pressed the doorbell anyway, and a few moments later, Cindi came to the door, and she was everything and nothing like what I thought she would be.
She was soft and plump, with a soft voice to match. Her hair was caught up loosely in a bun, and she wore a flowy sky-blue blouse, a colorful peasant skirt and sandals. She has a BA in government from Cornell and two long-haired white cats, Magic and Snowy. The kitties scurried over to check me out, kind like they were making sure I was okay for Cindi to talk to. Snowy seemed uninterested, but Magic jumped up and sat down next to me, butting my hand with its head for attention, so I petted it throughout the interview, which was enormously fun and seemed sort of just...right, given the space that we were in.
And her house was amazing. To the right when you came in was an actual little coat area, with red velvet curtains instead of doors. Her living room was spacious, her furniture and rug somewhat antiquated looking. Instead of a sofa, she had one of those really long, backless couches with very high arms on the sides. It was a faded blue, threaded with gold. A huge painting of a field of wildflowers perched behind the sofa. We did the interview in the living room, so I didn't get to see the other rooms of her house, but from what I could see, it was quite large and decorated with things that look like they should be in a museum. The flatscreen TV on the wall and a multi-tiered cat stratcher-thing by the bay window seemed oddly out of place amidst all the other pieces that seemed from some other time.
Cindi was super gracious and I had a really fun time interviewing her. She was very helpful about homeschooling resources, but mostly I was really kind of enchanted by her, her cats, and her home. Everything seemed kind of surreal, but in a good way. I half-expected her to serve tea in fine china, maybe go apple-picking in an organic orchard and make a pie to cool on the windowsill.
After that horrible rude interview with the tattoo artist earlier this week, this was a welcome breath of fresh air. There ARE nice people out there who want to be interviewed! I like doing this journalism thing after all!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Weddings & Procrastinations
I have a lot of work to do. I need to interview some people for this profile that my classmate and I are writing for a trade magazine, but more importantly, I need to find someone who's gotten a tattoo removed via laser surgery so I can finish my feature story on tattoo removals/cover-ups by Tuesday. This is a huge problem b/c I have yet to find someone to interview, and the deadline's creeping up kind of quickly.
So naturally, I decided that now would be a good time to update ye olde blog instead of actively calling tattoo parlors in desperation (some parlors are very nice; some are very, very, VERY mean).
I went to a wedding with Tyler on Saturday in Indiana (3rd wedding that I've gone to with him in 3 months...hopefully this is not one of those "8 times a wedding attendee, 0 times having own wedding" kind of things). His cousin, Jilliene, planned a beautiful outdoor wedding on a terrace overlooking a lush lawn and trees. She had one of those trellis things all adorned with purple flowers and roses, and all the rows were bookended on the aisle side with lovely flower arrangements.
Of course, it rained. It began to sprinkle mid-ceremony, so there was really no point in stopping the wedding after the bride had already processed down the aisle. It wasn't really raining in earnest, but it was just enough that everyone's programs got soaked and people were shivering from the cold, damp, grey Midwest summer day.
At one point in the ceremony, Jilliene and Eric performed a "Unity Sand Ceremony," where they took tall glasses filled with purple and grey sand and mixed it together in a bowl to signify their unity. I don't know if it was because I was cold/wet, or because I'm somewhat cynical about marriage in general, but this little ceremony struck me as, well, kind of hokey. I was feeling a little bit bad for thinking those thoughts during a wedding until Tyler leaned over and said, "At my wedding, I'm going to have a Unity Kitten Ceremony. It's where we'll each take a kitten out of separate baskets and put them together in one basket, to signify that we're now united, in kittens." We decided later than a heavy blanket should be thrown on the unity basket so that the kittens won't be able to escape.
Yes. Best symbol of unity, ever.
So naturally, I decided that now would be a good time to update ye olde blog instead of actively calling tattoo parlors in desperation (some parlors are very nice; some are very, very, VERY mean).
I went to a wedding with Tyler on Saturday in Indiana (3rd wedding that I've gone to with him in 3 months...hopefully this is not one of those "8 times a wedding attendee, 0 times having own wedding" kind of things). His cousin, Jilliene, planned a beautiful outdoor wedding on a terrace overlooking a lush lawn and trees. She had one of those trellis things all adorned with purple flowers and roses, and all the rows were bookended on the aisle side with lovely flower arrangements.
Of course, it rained. It began to sprinkle mid-ceremony, so there was really no point in stopping the wedding after the bride had already processed down the aisle. It wasn't really raining in earnest, but it was just enough that everyone's programs got soaked and people were shivering from the cold, damp, grey Midwest summer day.
At one point in the ceremony, Jilliene and Eric performed a "Unity Sand Ceremony," where they took tall glasses filled with purple and grey sand and mixed it together in a bowl to signify their unity. I don't know if it was because I was cold/wet, or because I'm somewhat cynical about marriage in general, but this little ceremony struck me as, well, kind of hokey. I was feeling a little bit bad for thinking those thoughts during a wedding until Tyler leaned over and said, "At my wedding, I'm going to have a Unity Kitten Ceremony. It's where we'll each take a kitten out of separate baskets and put them together in one basket, to signify that we're now united, in kittens." We decided later than a heavy blanket should be thrown on the unity basket so that the kittens won't be able to escape.
Yes. Best symbol of unity, ever.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Peanut Butter and Tennis Balls
It's about 8:30am and I've just eaten a small banana and a spoonful of peanut butter b/c Women's Health tells me that people who don't eat within 3 hours of waking up are more prone to belly bloating. I regularly violate this breakfast rule, so I'm trying to be better about it for the sake of my stomach, which has gotten somewhat poofier lately with stress and irregular dinnertimes.
Also, I'm about to go play tennis. For the second time. In about a month.
Shocking, I know. A year ago, even two months ago, I probably would not ever have expected those words to come out of my mouth. Not willingly, anyway. But the folks at Engelhart like to play tennis and I promised Anna that I would play with them someday (definitely lying, of course). Then she, Tyler and Chuckie called my bluff by coming up to my apartment and literally backing me into a corner until I accepted Chuckie's extra tennis racket and we set up a play date.
And it was fun! I'm quite terrible, but there was absolutely no intimidation factor b/c everyone is so casual and chill. So we're playing again at 9am, and I'm rather looking forward to it.
On a side note, what on earth are my new neighbors doing?! It is either the loudest, bed-breakingest sex I have ever heard, or they are moving their furniture around in a rhythmic manner. It is so loud, I'm not entirely sure which direction it's coming from. Sigh. Oh, silly neighbors...
Also, I'm about to go play tennis. For the second time. In about a month.
Shocking, I know. A year ago, even two months ago, I probably would not ever have expected those words to come out of my mouth. Not willingly, anyway. But the folks at Engelhart like to play tennis and I promised Anna that I would play with them someday (definitely lying, of course). Then she, Tyler and Chuckie called my bluff by coming up to my apartment and literally backing me into a corner until I accepted Chuckie's extra tennis racket and we set up a play date.
And it was fun! I'm quite terrible, but there was absolutely no intimidation factor b/c everyone is so casual and chill. So we're playing again at 9am, and I'm rather looking forward to it.
On a side note, what on earth are my new neighbors doing?! It is either the loudest, bed-breakingest sex I have ever heard, or they are moving their furniture around in a rhythmic manner. It is so loud, I'm not entirely sure which direction it's coming from. Sigh. Oh, silly neighbors...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
so it's been a while...
It's been a while since I've written in this blog--actually, it's been a while since I've done, well, anything. Anything that's remotely creative, anyway. The last 6 months have been pretty grueling in terms of schoolwork and getting a handle on life, but the summer quarter promises to be a little bit kinder so I'm going to try to update more regularly, and also actually be able to follow other people's updates (like Kim's! I miss Kim). Of course, Medill also has a history of lying and breaking spirits, so we'll see how it goes.
It's also been a while since I've cleaned my apartment.
I'm kind of OCD about keeping a clean bathroom and kitchen, so that was okay, but I don't think I've vacuumed since...February...ish. The carpet's been undeniably crunchy, and after Tyler sheepishly flicked a fleck of couscous on floor yesterday, I decided that enough was enough. I don't have class until 3pm, so I decided that I was going to get my butt down to the duty office and rent a vacuum.
This is the elderly machine that the office staff bequeathed upon me:
Seriously, this thing better transform into a battle-fighting, protective guardian-type alien robot, b/c I cannot think of another reason why someone would keep something like this around. I almost felt bad putting it to work. It moved with effort, like it was trying so hard to do its job, but it was just too old and too tired. It actually creaked.
Be kind, Engelhart, and retire your elderly vacuums.
It's also been a while since I've cleaned my apartment.
I'm kind of OCD about keeping a clean bathroom and kitchen, so that was okay, but I don't think I've vacuumed since...February...ish. The carpet's been undeniably crunchy, and after Tyler sheepishly flicked a fleck of couscous on floor yesterday, I decided that enough was enough. I don't have class until 3pm, so I decided that I was going to get my butt down to the duty office and rent a vacuum.
This is the elderly machine that the office staff bequeathed upon me:
Seriously, this thing better transform into a battle-fighting, protective guardian-type alien robot, b/c I cannot think of another reason why someone would keep something like this around. I almost felt bad putting it to work. It moved with effort, like it was trying so hard to do its job, but it was just too old and too tired. It actually creaked.Be kind, Engelhart, and retire your elderly vacuums.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
accepting offers from strangers
So much has happened in the last month, I don't even know where to begin. I think I'll start with the most recent, and then go back to recount the other fabulous December adventures later.
The past four days have been riddled with mishaps and fantastic strokes of luck. My panic-process began almost as soon as we landed at O'Hare: my luggage could not be located. After waiting 3 hours at the airport (where they promised that it was coming...LIES), Ted and I continued our way to Evanston. My apartment is small but rather cozy, and I have a nice view of the street. That first night, I slept in my coat on a bare mattress because I had no sheets.
My incredible bank-account-depleting process began almost immediately, what with taking a taxi from O'Hare to my apartment. Later, we decide to take the bus to Target so I could pick up household-y essentials (like soap and toothpaste and toilet cleaner), which is when I managed to feed a $10 bill into a bus fare machine that only accepts exact change. Luckily, our driver was incredibly nice and arranged to pick us up on his way back, so it wasn't an entire waste of money.
But my God. Why didn't anyone tell me how much it costs to obtain basic household supplies?! Oh my God. Damn me and my need to have cleaning supplies and, I don't know, FOOD. Whole Foods is my closest grocery store, and I was so hungry when I went in, I bought a $5 hunk of cheese and $4 slab of butter, nevermind the fact that I don't ever use butter (but I will now!). Since then, I've been back to Target to pick up, among other things, pillows ($5.99 apiece) and a 16-piece dishware set ($49.50). This purchase was made on the assumption that I might one day make friends and invite them to dinner, and they will want to eat from something that is not a plastic flowered plate or a big green mug. (Those of you who lived in Nicholas 107 may remember these two items.) So I am now even more motivated to make some friends, or else there really isn't any point for me to own four salad plates.
Then I accidentally bought a $10 mojito with dinner on Tuesday. I almost had a panic attack when I saw the bill, and Ted had to hurriedly calm me down before I hyper-ventilated myself into a red haze. But it's true, I'm an idiot.
Speaking of food and idiocy, I decided to walk a mile and a half to Dominick's today to save on potentially screwing myself over with bus fare. Dominick's is part of the Safeway chain, I think, because some of the products there have a Safeway label. But anyway, it's like the Bloom or Giant of the Midwest, I suppose. It took me about an hour to walk there (did I mention that it's VERY cold and windy in Chicago right around now?), and somewhere along the way, I decided that I was definitely NOT walking back.
Dominick's is a little bit smaller than the Giant that I normally go to, and they have all their aisles helpfully labeled with suggestions for what their contents may be used for, such as "BREAKFAST" or "LUNCH/DINNER" or "SEASONAL GREETINGS." I felt like a walking stereotype when I found myself getting a little distraught when I couldn't find soy sauce or Spiracha (the proper name for what I normally call "cock sauce") in the condiments section--but honestly, I don't know how to season things with stuf like, I don't know, whatever it is that people marinade their foods with that's not soy sauce. I am a little embarrassed to admit that a tear or two may have sprung into my eyes when I discovered the ethnic foods section tucked in by the baked goods. I may or may not have bought half a dozen packets of Shin Ramyun just because it was there.
After about an hour of perusing the grocery store, I came away with hand soap, mustard and 120 sheets of recycled paper napkins (yes! for being green!). The people at the info desk were very helpful in directing me to the nearest bus stop. Seriously, people here are super nice. After locating the bus stop, I waited for about 30 minutes before realizing that it was New Year's and that I hadn't seen any buses passing all day. During this time, I managed to miss another phone call from Kang, which added to my distress of being stranded at a grocery store.
Getting desperate, I noticed that there was a guy walking towards me in a grey sweatshirt. I decided to flag him down.
"Excuse me, do you know if the buses are running today?" I called as he approached.
The guy squinted at the sign over the bus stop, and then explained that since it was a holiday, the next bus wasn't probably until, oh, tomorrow. "I wouldn't wait for it," he said.
Fantastic. I thanked him, and picked up my bags, resigned to walking home in the dark. He noticed that we were walking in the same direction (or maybe he thought that I was following him), and asked where I was going.
"Um, Maple Avenue? Around the university?" I said.
"Oh yeah, I know where that is. I mean, I can take you there. You want a ride? It's no problem."
This was a problem. On the one hand, he was a complete stranger. On the other, I was very cold and did not fancy walking a mile and a half home in the encroaching night. On the OTHER other hand, he was a complete stranger.
I said okay.
Admittedly, my judgment may have been questionable and this whole venture may have ended very poorly. But fabulous strokes of luck as they may, he was very nice and relatively harmless. His name is Craig, and he used to play basketball for Northwestern and is now applying for med school. His car's battery had died, and he had gone to fetch something to re-charge it (he explained what was going on, but there was a lot of spark plugs and alternators that got in the way of my comprehending what he was saying), and that was the only reason he passed by me this afternoon. We got to his car and he attached the recharger thing to his battery.
"Man, this puts a serious cramp on my day," he said, glaring.
"I'm really sorry about that," I said.
"Oh no, it's not your fault!" he said hurriedly. Then, in a decidedly more vicious tone, he muttered, "FUCK, me."
"I'm sorry!" I apologized again for inconveniencing him.
"Oh no no, it's not you!" he exclaimed. "It's this piece of shit car. Oh, FUCK! Me!"
We finally managed to get his car started and headed towards NU. Our conversation was rather pleasant, sprinkled with his invectives ("Oh, FUCK, me" being his go-to expletive phrase of choice) towards his car/driving in general. He deposited me right by my building and rumbled off into the darkness, leaving me to wonder what exactly had happened and if my decision-making skills were seriously shot.
I shook my head as I trudged towards my building, saying a prayer to the powers that be that got me out of this alive and in one piece. I mean, what were the odds that he wasn't a creeper? I mean, how dumb am I, really? The words "Fuck, me" may have occurred once or twice in my prayer, but I think that's acceptable given everything that happened.
So no worries, I don't plan to accept rides from complete strangers as a regular mode of transportation in the future, but if anyone gets stuck around Evanston and they happen to run into a very very tall guy driving an old Legacy with automatic seat belts, it's okay to accept. He's nice.
The past four days have been riddled with mishaps and fantastic strokes of luck. My panic-process began almost as soon as we landed at O'Hare: my luggage could not be located. After waiting 3 hours at the airport (where they promised that it was coming...LIES), Ted and I continued our way to Evanston. My apartment is small but rather cozy, and I have a nice view of the street. That first night, I slept in my coat on a bare mattress because I had no sheets.
My incredible bank-account-depleting process began almost immediately, what with taking a taxi from O'Hare to my apartment. Later, we decide to take the bus to Target so I could pick up household-y essentials (like soap and toothpaste and toilet cleaner), which is when I managed to feed a $10 bill into a bus fare machine that only accepts exact change. Luckily, our driver was incredibly nice and arranged to pick us up on his way back, so it wasn't an entire waste of money.
But my God. Why didn't anyone tell me how much it costs to obtain basic household supplies?! Oh my God. Damn me and my need to have cleaning supplies and, I don't know, FOOD. Whole Foods is my closest grocery store, and I was so hungry when I went in, I bought a $5 hunk of cheese and $4 slab of butter, nevermind the fact that I don't ever use butter (but I will now!). Since then, I've been back to Target to pick up, among other things, pillows ($5.99 apiece) and a 16-piece dishware set ($49.50). This purchase was made on the assumption that I might one day make friends and invite them to dinner, and they will want to eat from something that is not a plastic flowered plate or a big green mug. (Those of you who lived in Nicholas 107 may remember these two items.) So I am now even more motivated to make some friends, or else there really isn't any point for me to own four salad plates.
Then I accidentally bought a $10 mojito with dinner on Tuesday. I almost had a panic attack when I saw the bill, and Ted had to hurriedly calm me down before I hyper-ventilated myself into a red haze. But it's true, I'm an idiot.
Speaking of food and idiocy, I decided to walk a mile and a half to Dominick's today to save on potentially screwing myself over with bus fare. Dominick's is part of the Safeway chain, I think, because some of the products there have a Safeway label. But anyway, it's like the Bloom or Giant of the Midwest, I suppose. It took me about an hour to walk there (did I mention that it's VERY cold and windy in Chicago right around now?), and somewhere along the way, I decided that I was definitely NOT walking back.
Dominick's is a little bit smaller than the Giant that I normally go to, and they have all their aisles helpfully labeled with suggestions for what their contents may be used for, such as "BREAKFAST" or "LUNCH/DINNER" or "SEASONAL GREETINGS." I felt like a walking stereotype when I found myself getting a little distraught when I couldn't find soy sauce or Spiracha (the proper name for what I normally call "cock sauce") in the condiments section--but honestly, I don't know how to season things with stuf like, I don't know, whatever it is that people marinade their foods with that's not soy sauce. I am a little embarrassed to admit that a tear or two may have sprung into my eyes when I discovered the ethnic foods section tucked in by the baked goods. I may or may not have bought half a dozen packets of Shin Ramyun just because it was there.
After about an hour of perusing the grocery store, I came away with hand soap, mustard and 120 sheets of recycled paper napkins (yes! for being green!). The people at the info desk were very helpful in directing me to the nearest bus stop. Seriously, people here are super nice. After locating the bus stop, I waited for about 30 minutes before realizing that it was New Year's and that I hadn't seen any buses passing all day. During this time, I managed to miss another phone call from Kang, which added to my distress of being stranded at a grocery store.
Getting desperate, I noticed that there was a guy walking towards me in a grey sweatshirt. I decided to flag him down.
"Excuse me, do you know if the buses are running today?" I called as he approached.
The guy squinted at the sign over the bus stop, and then explained that since it was a holiday, the next bus wasn't probably until, oh, tomorrow. "I wouldn't wait for it," he said.
Fantastic. I thanked him, and picked up my bags, resigned to walking home in the dark. He noticed that we were walking in the same direction (or maybe he thought that I was following him), and asked where I was going.
"Um, Maple Avenue? Around the university?" I said.
"Oh yeah, I know where that is. I mean, I can take you there. You want a ride? It's no problem."
This was a problem. On the one hand, he was a complete stranger. On the other, I was very cold and did not fancy walking a mile and a half home in the encroaching night. On the OTHER other hand, he was a complete stranger.
I said okay.
Admittedly, my judgment may have been questionable and this whole venture may have ended very poorly. But fabulous strokes of luck as they may, he was very nice and relatively harmless. His name is Craig, and he used to play basketball for Northwestern and is now applying for med school. His car's battery had died, and he had gone to fetch something to re-charge it (he explained what was going on, but there was a lot of spark plugs and alternators that got in the way of my comprehending what he was saying), and that was the only reason he passed by me this afternoon. We got to his car and he attached the recharger thing to his battery.
"Man, this puts a serious cramp on my day," he said, glaring.
"I'm really sorry about that," I said.
"Oh no, it's not your fault!" he said hurriedly. Then, in a decidedly more vicious tone, he muttered, "FUCK, me."
"I'm sorry!" I apologized again for inconveniencing him.
"Oh no no, it's not you!" he exclaimed. "It's this piece of shit car. Oh, FUCK! Me!"
We finally managed to get his car started and headed towards NU. Our conversation was rather pleasant, sprinkled with his invectives ("Oh, FUCK, me" being his go-to expletive phrase of choice) towards his car/driving in general. He deposited me right by my building and rumbled off into the darkness, leaving me to wonder what exactly had happened and if my decision-making skills were seriously shot.
I shook my head as I trudged towards my building, saying a prayer to the powers that be that got me out of this alive and in one piece. I mean, what were the odds that he wasn't a creeper? I mean, how dumb am I, really? The words "Fuck, me" may have occurred once or twice in my prayer, but I think that's acceptable given everything that happened.
So no worries, I don't plan to accept rides from complete strangers as a regular mode of transportation in the future, but if anyone gets stuck around Evanston and they happen to run into a very very tall guy driving an old Legacy with automatic seat belts, it's okay to accept. He's nice.
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