When I was in high school I was arguably far less at ease with my own body. I was never overweight in any (really) noticeable way, I just jiggled more than I was comfortable with. It did not help that I had a number of rather svelte friends (actually, I should really qualify this: they were just a lot smaller than me in general. It's really easy to feel like a giant if your friends are all 5-nothing and 98 lbs. At the same time, I was rocking a 5/6 at Express and worried that traveling ranchers--those who travel routinely to the D.C/Metro area-- might mistake me for straying cattle) who loved to discuss how their doctors told them to gain, rather than lose, weight. My mom spent most shopping trips telling me to go up a size. I was 19 before I realized I wasn't actually a large at the Gap (never haven been really, thanks mom!) I want to think that she assumed I would still "grow into things" even in high school.
This paranoia was only compounded by costumes I was shoved into during high school. When I was in 10th grade I played Medea in our present-day adaptation (set in the ghetto, yeah. I can prove it. I have it all on DVD) of the Euripides tragedy. I had to wear a cropped one-sleeve shirt. You know how hard it is to stay that sucked in for two hours and yell (ahem, "project') at the same time. Not cool. The next year, I was a Hot Box dancer in Guys and Dolls. Of the four costumes I had to wear, two required sit-ups (one of those was a bikini...always a good choice when teachers are present) and one was sewn too small. Way too small.
One of the tiny girls was usually the costumer.
The point of explaining all this? It all went through my head yesterday when, after doing a body composition test on me at the gym, a personal trainer told me I needed to gain 5 lbs and I have a body age of 18. apparently my body composition is only 15.1% fat (I have 123~ lbs of lean muscle and 23~ of fat, which amounts to 15%...or something like that.) 18.1% and under is where athletes want to be. 14% and under is unhealthy for women. Apparently if I lose two pounds I will be unhealthy. Here's where I get confused. Paul, the trainer whose services I will not be requiring, wants me to gain 5 pounds of lean muscle. Not fat. Wouldn't that make my fat to muscle ratio lower, thereby putting me closer to the "dangerous" range? I'm not good with math.
Other than that, I didn't learn anything about my body I didn't already know. I'm smack dab in the 50th percentile of women my age when it comes to strength. I need to work on that.
I'm in the 90th percentile in terms of flexibility (though not in the 90th percentile of any dance class I've ever taken). They made me take a sit-and-reach test. Total Presidential Physical Fitness test flashbacks (always did well in those, by the by).
The only really crappy thing is that he suggested I spend more time in the scary free weight section of the gym and far less time on the Nautilus machines. I really like some of those machines (some of them are admittedly lame). I don't know what to do in the scary free weight section. It's scary. All the men (because it's mostly men over there) growl in front of the mirrors and say vaguely erotic things to each other, without being attractive enough that I'm cool with it.
I'm going to the gym tonight, we'll see if I can brave the free weights.
On a completely unrelated note, I came home from the gym last night and found Bagel, my faithful ward, hanging out in the kitty litter. Not eating kitty shit (mercifully) just chilling in the box. If she would learn how to use it, that would be one thing. As it is, she's getting a bath when I get home tonight. Maybe two.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Don't forget the legwarmers...
Walking to work from the Metro, I could see college students in matching shirts (presumably RAs or other organization who volunteers their members to help with student move-in days) congregating outside various GWU dorms. I miss move-in day. I miss refusing my parents' help unpacking because I couldn't remember into which box the contraband items. I never thought to mark them in a manner that would be obvious to me and not them. I miss having to make three trips to the store because on the first two trips, I forgot to buy Command hooks. I miss textbook shopping.
I bought new pens the other day because I just couldn't handle it anymore and had to buy some form of school supply. Mayhaps this is the first sign of some sort of academe-psychosis?
*********************
Last night at Tysons with Walt, while shopping for adult-type work clothes, I was thinking of all the things I cannot throw on in the morning and run out the door--namely leotards. I usually had a dance class first thing in the morning. Leotards matching nothing and therefore everything and I wore them religiously. So inconvenient, yet comfortable. If I couldn't get back home to change, I wore them into the afternoon and no one thought that was strange (if they did, I was gleefully unawares). Now, my only excuse for leotards is if I take up yoga classes again or find a place to take dance (this is harder after the age of 14). This is not happening immediately, so there the leotards and capezio tights sit underneath my bed. Sad negleted leotards.
On a related note, I am now almost to a week's worth of pants if I could just remember to take the one way too big pair to the tailor. Actually, I'm going to need to a few things in soon if I keep going to the gym. This is more inconvenient than it seems. Once the weather gets legitimately cooler I will have far more in the way of "work-appropriate clothing." Then I will be able to occasionally buy fun things and avoid stores whose color scheme revolves around beige.
Blah.
I bought new pens the other day because I just couldn't handle it anymore and had to buy some form of school supply. Mayhaps this is the first sign of some sort of academe-psychosis?
*********************
Last night at Tysons with Walt, while shopping for adult-type work clothes, I was thinking of all the things I cannot throw on in the morning and run out the door--namely leotards. I usually had a dance class first thing in the morning. Leotards matching nothing and therefore everything and I wore them religiously. So inconvenient, yet comfortable. If I couldn't get back home to change, I wore them into the afternoon and no one thought that was strange (if they did, I was gleefully unawares). Now, my only excuse for leotards is if I take up yoga classes again or find a place to take dance (this is harder after the age of 14). This is not happening immediately, so there the leotards and capezio tights sit underneath my bed. Sad negleted leotards.
On a related note, I am now almost to a week's worth of pants if I could just remember to take the one way too big pair to the tailor. Actually, I'm going to need to a few things in soon if I keep going to the gym. This is more inconvenient than it seems. Once the weather gets legitimately cooler I will have far more in the way of "work-appropriate clothing." Then I will be able to occasionally buy fun things and avoid stores whose color scheme revolves around beige.
Blah.
Friday, August 22, 2008
If she'd taken my doubleshot on ice, I would have shanked her.
There are a number of things about Starbucks I really love:
-The Venti Iced Americano
-Knowing that where ever I am, there is one nearby should I need the aforementioned beverage.
There are also a number of things about Starbucks I do not really love:
-That the company name does not include an apostrophe. Starbucks is the first mate in Moby-Dick, as such, he is a single entity. Granted, there are multiple iterations of Starbucks but it would be like calling a coffee shop "Jones". It really requires possession.
-Sometimes baristas fuck things up irreperably. I ordered an iced coffee one day and what I received tasted like old oranges. It was, however, affective in keeping me awake. I cannot be sleepy with evil in my mouth.
-people who populate Starbuckses. Actually people who populate coffee shops in general. I walked into the Saxby's outside Mason on afternoon earlier this year and saw a guy busily typing away on his MacBook in a shirt that read "GMU MFA Student". I suddenly and violentely regretted every afternoon I spent at the Coffee Mill trying to crank out a draft for Fiction Writing.
But that is not the kind of coffee shop patron that necessitated that post. In D.C., everyone is v. busy and important...or would like to give that impression to the rest of the known universe. I got in line and ordered my usual Iced Venti unsweetened Iced Coffee. The girl behind me order an identical drink. Not unusual at all. It's a simple, yet effective, order. However, after I paid and moved over to the bar where orders are picked up, the girl that was behind me, started hovering in front of me. I knew what she was doing. She kept mentioning to her Gay BBF how much time it seemed to take for her order to come up. Let me remind you that this is the GWU Starbucks at 8 AM. It's going to be busy. The one across from the Warner Theatre outside Metro Center is much worse and the the one outside the GW hosptical has a line out the door most mornings. Girlie-girl got off light. I've stood in those other lines. Many, many mornings.
She kept looking at me behind her and smiling. We both knew she would grab the first iced coffee down the pike. She clearly was raised by ravenous, caffeine-starved wolves who, in their turn had to be continually remined to wait in line and decided not to raise their daughter with such restrictions. Way to go wolves. Way the fuck to go.
Coffee-bandit also proceeded to pour part of her illicit brew into the trash to make way for cream. Where I a bigger bitch this is wear I would point out that despite the flowiness of her top, she was sporting some serious muffin-top. Crumble topping. I am not, however, a bigger bitch. She did have pretty cool glasses. Not cool enough to explain her behavior.
It's ok. She'll get hers. The universe has a way of straightening this sort of thing out.
-The Venti Iced Americano
-Knowing that where ever I am, there is one nearby should I need the aforementioned beverage.
There are also a number of things about Starbucks I do not really love:
-That the company name does not include an apostrophe. Starbucks is the first mate in Moby-Dick, as such, he is a single entity. Granted, there are multiple iterations of Starbucks but it would be like calling a coffee shop "Jones". It really requires possession.
-Sometimes baristas fuck things up irreperably. I ordered an iced coffee one day and what I received tasted like old oranges. It was, however, affective in keeping me awake. I cannot be sleepy with evil in my mouth.
-people who populate Starbuckses. Actually people who populate coffee shops in general. I walked into the Saxby's outside Mason on afternoon earlier this year and saw a guy busily typing away on his MacBook in a shirt that read "GMU MFA Student". I suddenly and violentely regretted every afternoon I spent at the Coffee Mill trying to crank out a draft for Fiction Writing.
But that is not the kind of coffee shop patron that necessitated that post. In D.C., everyone is v. busy and important...or would like to give that impression to the rest of the known universe. I got in line and ordered my usual Iced Venti unsweetened Iced Coffee. The girl behind me order an identical drink. Not unusual at all. It's a simple, yet effective, order. However, after I paid and moved over to the bar where orders are picked up, the girl that was behind me, started hovering in front of me. I knew what she was doing. She kept mentioning to her Gay BBF how much time it seemed to take for her order to come up. Let me remind you that this is the GWU Starbucks at 8 AM. It's going to be busy. The one across from the Warner Theatre outside Metro Center is much worse and the the one outside the GW hosptical has a line out the door most mornings. Girlie-girl got off light. I've stood in those other lines. Many, many mornings.
She kept looking at me behind her and smiling. We both knew she would grab the first iced coffee down the pike. She clearly was raised by ravenous, caffeine-starved wolves who, in their turn had to be continually remined to wait in line and decided not to raise their daughter with such restrictions. Way to go wolves. Way the fuck to go.
Coffee-bandit also proceeded to pour part of her illicit brew into the trash to make way for cream. Where I a bigger bitch this is wear I would point out that despite the flowiness of her top, she was sporting some serious muffin-top. Crumble topping. I am not, however, a bigger bitch. She did have pretty cool glasses. Not cool enough to explain her behavior.
It's ok. She'll get hers. The universe has a way of straightening this sort of thing out.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
It's a lot of look...
This weekend I will, yet again, take my meager earnings to the mall. If getting into heaven rests on my ability to refrain from covetousness, I am totally and completely screwed. Like, table-of-one-at-the-ninth-layer-of-hell screwed.
I can stop myself from over-indulging in most anything--cupcakes, alcohol, dangerous men. The fall line from Michael Kors ready-to-wear collection makes me feel things I cannot politely describe.
I spent a lot of high school trying to look "different". I died my hair various shades of black cherry. I had fuschia-colored fishnet stocking (I wore whenever humanly possible). I had 42" wide pants (at the bottom, not the top--I've managed to negotiate a 6 most of my mid/post-puberty life, which has lately slid down to a 4 at some stores...my new favorite stores.) I rocked plaid mini skirts and shirts with PUNK! written on them in red glitter(the irony did not entirely escape me, thank you very much.)
I eschewed twinsets (still do, unless they are leopard print or otherwise necessary) and khaki. But I find myself compelled to explore this wonderful structured retro-schoolgirl glamour. Mostly it's this dress (forth down from the top) that does it to me. I could do that. I can do that hair. I've had similar glasses. I already own a pair of brown leather peep-toe heels that would compliment the overall feel. It's so...structured. I prefer structure else where in my wardrobe. Why would I think that etherial works in my wardrobe better that darting and a sleek sillohuette? Frankly, it also works better with my body type. Flimsy looks big on curves.
Now I must attempt my Michael Kors fantasties (also D&G this season) on my Forever21 budget.
Alas and woe is me.
I can stop myself from over-indulging in most anything--cupcakes, alcohol, dangerous men. The fall line from Michael Kors ready-to-wear collection makes me feel things I cannot politely describe.
I spent a lot of high school trying to look "different". I died my hair various shades of black cherry. I had fuschia-colored fishnet stocking (I wore whenever humanly possible). I had 42" wide pants (at the bottom, not the top--I've managed to negotiate a 6 most of my mid/post-puberty life, which has lately slid down to a 4 at some stores...my new favorite stores.) I rocked plaid mini skirts and shirts with PUNK! written on them in red glitter(the irony did not entirely escape me, thank you very much.)
I eschewed twinsets (still do, unless they are leopard print or otherwise necessary) and khaki. But I find myself compelled to explore this wonderful structured retro-schoolgirl glamour. Mostly it's this dress (forth down from the top) that does it to me. I could do that. I can do that hair. I've had similar glasses. I already own a pair of brown leather peep-toe heels that would compliment the overall feel. It's so...structured. I prefer structure else where in my wardrobe. Why would I think that etherial works in my wardrobe better that darting and a sleek sillohuette? Frankly, it also works better with my body type. Flimsy looks big on curves.
Now I must attempt my Michael Kors fantasties (also D&G this season) on my Forever21 budget.
Alas and woe is me.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
She only comes when she's on top...and other reasons people should hire me to write the break-up letters.
More on that idea I mentioned last time:
Since starting to look what I need to do to a)apply to graduate school and b)go there while in good standing with creditors/the government, I've been trying to come up with ways to sneak a little extra cash here and there.
I will write your break-up letters. I think I can do this. I'll set up an eBay account, crank out a few samples of various styles and get PayPal up and running. This can be done. I can create transcripts to be passive-agressively left on answering machines while (ex)loved-ones are abroad. I can write break-up letters, e-mails, post-it notes (handwriting is an extra, non-negotiable charge).
I can also write why-did-you-break-up-with-me letters. I've actually received a couple of those. Also, I'm-sorry-I-broke-up-with-you-because-you-look-fuckin'-great letters.
On an unrelated note, Former Professor asked me to take a look at a story he's working on. This is strange in ways I cannot fully explain, least of which is that I don't think I'm actually qualified to critique the work of more successful (in that they have been published) writers. In asking me he called me a "rigorous critic". Don't know what that means beyond "annoyingly particular".
Hopefully the story isn't total shit.
Since starting to look what I need to do to a)apply to graduate school and b)go there while in good standing with creditors/the government, I've been trying to come up with ways to sneak a little extra cash here and there.
I will write your break-up letters. I think I can do this. I'll set up an eBay account, crank out a few samples of various styles and get PayPal up and running. This can be done. I can create transcripts to be passive-agressively left on answering machines while (ex)loved-ones are abroad. I can write break-up letters, e-mails, post-it notes (handwriting is an extra, non-negotiable charge).
I can also write why-did-you-break-up-with-me letters. I've actually received a couple of those. Also, I'm-sorry-I-broke-up-with-you-because-you-look-fuckin'-great letters.
On an unrelated note, Former Professor asked me to take a look at a story he's working on. This is strange in ways I cannot fully explain, least of which is that I don't think I'm actually qualified to critique the work of more successful (in that they have been published) writers. In asking me he called me a "rigorous critic". Don't know what that means beyond "annoyingly particular".
Hopefully the story isn't total shit.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Dear John...
I had planned to take tiny bits of my bi-weekly earnings and spend them on building a respectable work/rest of life wardrobe, saving for school and imaginary-in-the-future rent and all the other fees that go along with. Nope. Not gonna happen.
I have to replace my iPod. About two weeks ago I dropped it coming out of the Vienna Metro and it's been acting skishy since. It won't turn off or sync, and it makes laborious computer hard drive dying sounds whenever I request a change of song. So that's like, $250 bucks. Gone.
Also, my dearest Bagel has a stye in her eye. I only noticed last night. I'm pretty sure that means it only showed up then as I get a pretty good look at the girl once a day. I was just going to let it be for a week but then I made the mistake of looking up the condition online. It turns out it could be completely benign...or Bagel will be blind by the time I pull up to my house this evening. I stopped looking up people symptoms online because of this. Why did I think it would be any different for animals?
I really should look into my own online-breakup letter writing service. I could set up a Paypal account. Get something going on eBay. This could be done.
I have to replace my iPod. About two weeks ago I dropped it coming out of the Vienna Metro and it's been acting skishy since. It won't turn off or sync, and it makes laborious computer hard drive dying sounds whenever I request a change of song. So that's like, $250 bucks. Gone.
Also, my dearest Bagel has a stye in her eye. I only noticed last night. I'm pretty sure that means it only showed up then as I get a pretty good look at the girl once a day. I was just going to let it be for a week but then I made the mistake of looking up the condition online. It turns out it could be completely benign...or Bagel will be blind by the time I pull up to my house this evening. I stopped looking up people symptoms online because of this. Why did I think it would be any different for animals?
I really should look into my own online-breakup letter writing service. I could set up a Paypal account. Get something going on eBay. This could be done.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The sirens that went off during the vows were're harbingers at all...
It's been quite a couple of days and I don't think I've mentioned the wedding of the year.
After begging off the actual "wedding of the year" up in Boston, Walt and I took a mini-road trip down to the Radford/Christiansburg for a weekend of matrimonial festivities/dropping off graduate rec. forms to former professors and employers. The latter went smoothly and both Tims seemed more than glad to aid in my post undergraduate asperations. We opted to stay with my college roommate and her husband (of about two months) over one of Walt's friends from school I only recently met (but who is, ostensibly, awesome.) If we stayed with my roommate we could bring my dog. At the time, this seemed like a simple solution to the problem of who would walk the dog while I was away. Bad idea. College Roommate lives in a town infested with fleas that (which?who?) latched on to Bagel the moment we took her outside. Totally not cool considering a)fleas bring plague and I don't like posies, b)I had no means of preparing Bagel for fleas or aiding in their immediate demise and the stuff CR put on her did not work...at all, and c)how do you conveniently forget about a massive pest control issue after your friend/weekend guest asks if it is ok to bring her pet with her? I spent the weekend alternately convinced I had fleas and picking them off the dog. Neither of us was pleased with spending our time in such a manner.
If only this had been the totally sucky thing about the weekend. Nope. Not with a wedding on the docket. After handing out the rec forms, we (me, Walt, Walt's friend, CR and Spouse) went to lunch at the local mexican place. CR proceeded to drink a 32 oz. beer. I also had a, comparably diminutive 22 oz. beer (for the purposes of full disclosure). I wouldn't mention this at all except CR drank so much during the reception that she fell, hit her head, puked on herself, and had to be transported via ambulance to the hospital.
Totally fucking classy.
I say this out of genuine regard for her safety and well-being, but also overwhelming ire. When I talked to her after the fact, she said that she'd probably be drunk constantly were it not for the "scrutiny of [Spouse]." Granted, Spouse also apparently took a picture of her during the apex of her shenanigans. I'm kind of amazed by his forethought. When we were talking she kept mentioning how she's been down on herself and how this was all very embarrassing. Given how she chose to vent these feelings, I don't have a ton of sympathy. I hate that she lives so far away and I wish they had the means/opportunity to move somewhere better. Still, she kind of ruined someone else's wedding. Frankly, she was doing good job messing up the day way before she passed out. She fell on the dance floor and couldn't manage to say anything in a decibel range that did not include the entire wedding party in the conversation. Repeated requests that she switch to water or soda were met with "you're not the boss of me." No, I'm not. And clearly you aren't either.
Granted, this was a long-time coming. This is the girl who, if money allows, will drink 7 beers when the occasion calls for none. But that was college. The rest of us have since moved on to lifestyles far more forgiving of our livers' limitations. Personally, I've discovered a whole world of things that can get done on Sunday morning if one is not asleep/nursing a hangover/desperate for macaroni and cheese. Also my clothes fit much better. Much. Much. Better.
I don't know if I should wait until I'm less mad to tell her she has a drinking problem. I also don't know how to even go about telling her. We're not really phone people but this is not a AIM conversation. I think a letter is in order, not an e-mail.
...
After CR went to the hospital, Walt and I called his friend. We took my flea-ridden pup over, where I washed her repeated, and fell asleep on his couches. I woke up the next morning with a wicked head cold.
I had to leave work Monday morning at 11am after my boss suggested that I go get lots and lots of sleep.
So to recap: Dog got fleas. Took college roommate to hospital. Got sick=Best Weekend Ever.
After begging off the actual "wedding of the year" up in Boston, Walt and I took a mini-road trip down to the Radford/Christiansburg for a weekend of matrimonial festivities/dropping off graduate rec. forms to former professors and employers. The latter went smoothly and both Tims seemed more than glad to aid in my post undergraduate asperations. We opted to stay with my college roommate and her husband (of about two months) over one of Walt's friends from school I only recently met (but who is, ostensibly, awesome.) If we stayed with my roommate we could bring my dog. At the time, this seemed like a simple solution to the problem of who would walk the dog while I was away. Bad idea. College Roommate lives in a town infested with fleas that (which?who?) latched on to Bagel the moment we took her outside. Totally not cool considering a)fleas bring plague and I don't like posies, b)I had no means of preparing Bagel for fleas or aiding in their immediate demise and the stuff CR put on her did not work...at all, and c)how do you conveniently forget about a massive pest control issue after your friend/weekend guest asks if it is ok to bring her pet with her? I spent the weekend alternately convinced I had fleas and picking them off the dog. Neither of us was pleased with spending our time in such a manner.
If only this had been the totally sucky thing about the weekend. Nope. Not with a wedding on the docket. After handing out the rec forms, we (me, Walt, Walt's friend, CR and Spouse) went to lunch at the local mexican place. CR proceeded to drink a 32 oz. beer. I also had a, comparably diminutive 22 oz. beer (for the purposes of full disclosure). I wouldn't mention this at all except CR drank so much during the reception that she fell, hit her head, puked on herself, and had to be transported via ambulance to the hospital.
Totally fucking classy.
I say this out of genuine regard for her safety and well-being, but also overwhelming ire. When I talked to her after the fact, she said that she'd probably be drunk constantly were it not for the "scrutiny of [Spouse]." Granted, Spouse also apparently took a picture of her during the apex of her shenanigans. I'm kind of amazed by his forethought. When we were talking she kept mentioning how she's been down on herself and how this was all very embarrassing. Given how she chose to vent these feelings, I don't have a ton of sympathy. I hate that she lives so far away and I wish they had the means/opportunity to move somewhere better. Still, she kind of ruined someone else's wedding. Frankly, she was doing good job messing up the day way before she passed out. She fell on the dance floor and couldn't manage to say anything in a decibel range that did not include the entire wedding party in the conversation. Repeated requests that she switch to water or soda were met with "you're not the boss of me." No, I'm not. And clearly you aren't either.
Granted, this was a long-time coming. This is the girl who, if money allows, will drink 7 beers when the occasion calls for none. But that was college. The rest of us have since moved on to lifestyles far more forgiving of our livers' limitations. Personally, I've discovered a whole world of things that can get done on Sunday morning if one is not asleep/nursing a hangover/desperate for macaroni and cheese. Also my clothes fit much better. Much. Much. Better.
I don't know if I should wait until I'm less mad to tell her she has a drinking problem. I also don't know how to even go about telling her. We're not really phone people but this is not a AIM conversation. I think a letter is in order, not an e-mail.
...
After CR went to the hospital, Walt and I called his friend. We took my flea-ridden pup over, where I washed her repeated, and fell asleep on his couches. I woke up the next morning with a wicked head cold.
I had to leave work Monday morning at 11am after my boss suggested that I go get lots and lots of sleep.
So to recap: Dog got fleas. Took college roommate to hospital. Got sick=Best Weekend Ever.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Kids today with the hair and the endless excuses.
I came home Sunday after The Best/Worst Wedding Ever (more on that later) only to be met by my mother flailing this in my face. I already had a headache and it was only make exponentially worse by listening to the petulant whining of unrepentant cheaters.
The questions raised by this article should not be, "are the standards of one of Virginia's, and moreover the United States', most prestigious universities 'too harsh'?" It should be, "why do students continually think they can skirt rules and nothing will come of it?"
I went to a far less impressive Virginia university but the honor system there was no less clear. Citing improperly is tantamount to plagiarism because you are not adequately attributing the work of others and instead, passing it off as your own. The students in the article seem to have paraphrased parts of Wikipedia entries (I'll get to why that's an awful idea in a minute) and did not remember where their notes ended and the language used in the article began. There is an exceedingly simple solution to this: if the assignment calls for you to watch a movie and summarize it, you do exactly that. If you actually watch the movie (and perhaps take your own notes if necessary), you shouldn't need a wiki-summary. You can write your own in your own voice. Problem solved. Yes, the two summaries might say the same thing but with different words and syntax. You have a writing fingerprint and the people whose job it is to read your stuff will invariably notice when you stop writing like yourself.
If you absolutely must reference an article in your summary (a dead giveaway that you didn't actually watch the movie), cite. Not hard to do. If you take an idea and reword it, cite the idea. Every style guide I've ever used (MLA, APA, and Chicago) has a way for you to cite a paraphrase. Here's an example of how to do it in MLA:
The students also argue that research in the online age actually makes drawing the line between your own thoughts and the notes you take from others more difficult. The opposite is actually true. Unlike looking something up in a book, you don't have to hand-copy titles and site URLs. You can copy-paste everything into a word. doc and have all your notes in a convenient location. You can know what you borrowed and where you borrowed it from without so much as a hand cramp.
Admittedly, I did not know all of those going into college. But these students are not first-day freshmen. Plagiarism issues are made painfully clear to incoming students, both in the universally issued student handbook and in every freshmen composition and/or research class, required at pretty much every college. Ever.
No excuse for this. None. At. All. Damn, I have to get my doctorate and start teaching. Actually, I might start teaching with my masters just to put the kibosh on this everyone-gets-out-of-jail-free bullshit.
Now a word on Wikipedia...
While the open-source, peer-edited encyclopedia is immensely helpful when you want to, say, remind yourself who wrote Gravity's Rainbow. It is not a reliable research tool, though. Certainly not at the collegiate level. Far too many articles are not adequately researched or cited. Many are bias or one-sided. It has too many flaws not to be used with the utmost caution.
Ok, end of rant.
The questions raised by this article should not be, "are the standards of one of Virginia's, and moreover the United States', most prestigious universities 'too harsh'?" It should be, "why do students continually think they can skirt rules and nothing will come of it?"
I went to a far less impressive Virginia university but the honor system there was no less clear. Citing improperly is tantamount to plagiarism because you are not adequately attributing the work of others and instead, passing it off as your own. The students in the article seem to have paraphrased parts of Wikipedia entries (I'll get to why that's an awful idea in a minute) and did not remember where their notes ended and the language used in the article began. There is an exceedingly simple solution to this: if the assignment calls for you to watch a movie and summarize it, you do exactly that. If you actually watch the movie (and perhaps take your own notes if necessary), you shouldn't need a wiki-summary. You can write your own in your own voice. Problem solved. Yes, the two summaries might say the same thing but with different words and syntax. You have a writing fingerprint and the people whose job it is to read your stuff will invariably notice when you stop writing like yourself.
If you absolutely must reference an article in your summary (a dead giveaway that you didn't actually watch the movie), cite. Not hard to do. If you take an idea and reword it, cite the idea. Every style guide I've ever used (MLA, APA, and Chicago) has a way for you to cite a paraphrase. Here's an example of how to do it in MLA:
Ahab’s insistence that he can develop a blueprint for the whale’s movement, coupled with his private sense of injustice, serves to create the egocentric Western binarisms that cannot penetrate the whale any better than Ishmael’s meandering definitions (MD, 178).Would you look at that. I managed to get across the gist of a quote without actually quoting the passage, at the same time making it clear to my audience that I didn't make this shit up. And it only took me two seconds. Incidentally, that's from my senior thesis on Moby-Dick. For which I did not use Wikipedia.
The students also argue that research in the online age actually makes drawing the line between your own thoughts and the notes you take from others more difficult. The opposite is actually true. Unlike looking something up in a book, you don't have to hand-copy titles and site URLs. You can copy-paste everything into a word. doc and have all your notes in a convenient location. You can know what you borrowed and where you borrowed it from without so much as a hand cramp.
Admittedly, I did not know all of those going into college. But these students are not first-day freshmen. Plagiarism issues are made painfully clear to incoming students, both in the universally issued student handbook and in every freshmen composition and/or research class, required at pretty much every college. Ever.
No excuse for this. None. At. All. Damn, I have to get my doctorate and start teaching. Actually, I might start teaching with my masters just to put the kibosh on this everyone-gets-out-of-jail-free bullshit.
Now a word on Wikipedia...
While the open-source, peer-edited encyclopedia is immensely helpful when you want to, say, remind yourself who wrote Gravity's Rainbow. It is not a reliable research tool, though. Certainly not at the collegiate level. Far too many articles are not adequately researched or cited. Many are bias or one-sided. It has too many flaws not to be used with the utmost caution.
Ok, end of rant.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
He wasn't even a fun drunk...
Almost directly before starting this experiment in actually keeping and up-to-date record of my goings-on, I stumbled upon the intricately detailed online journal of an ex-boyfriend's (possible) ex-girlfriend. The ex was wholly unremarkable, save for introducing me to the nuanced genius of Bruce Springsteen (something I actively fought, mind you, not particularly caring for the "Dancing in the Dark" phase of the Boss's career.) We dated from my junior year of high school to the end of my first year of college. We suffered, not at all surprisingly, from a total lack of compatibility and I can't remember now what worked well enough that we stuck it out as long as we did. I suppose that's how it goes with high school boyfriends. The end, and the little bit of unwashed history that followed directly, was not my proudest moment and somewhere in there (or before, this was never clear) he started dating her.
When I spoke to him some time a little less than two years ago, he'd broken up with her on account of her perceived insanity. He was also going through considerable family problems, though the two were unrelated. I felt for the kid (despite how little I felt for him in general) and thought he might finally be able to get out of the rut he'd been in as long as I'd known him. Such, apparent in her diary, is not the case.
I don't know that my entire life is together. I only just started my first big-girl job, I'm still at home and all the plans I've made for myself since starting college have not, yet anyhow, come to fruition. But I felt bad for this girl. She always, despite my general distaste for her while I was still with the aforementioned ex (she would call at 2 am asking him to come kill a bug in her dorm. It seemed suspect then and still does now) seemed smart. I can't remember what she looked like but she wasn't unattractive by any stretch of the imagination. She was a good photographer when we were in high school. How does their relationship still hinder her so much? I just can't fathom it. I can't imagine getting so worked up over someone like that.
When I spoke to him some time a little less than two years ago, he'd broken up with her on account of her perceived insanity. He was also going through considerable family problems, though the two were unrelated. I felt for the kid (despite how little I felt for him in general) and thought he might finally be able to get out of the rut he'd been in as long as I'd known him. Such, apparent in her diary, is not the case.
I don't know that my entire life is together. I only just started my first big-girl job, I'm still at home and all the plans I've made for myself since starting college have not, yet anyhow, come to fruition. But I felt bad for this girl. She always, despite my general distaste for her while I was still with the aforementioned ex (she would call at 2 am asking him to come kill a bug in her dorm. It seemed suspect then and still does now) seemed smart. I can't remember what she looked like but she wasn't unattractive by any stretch of the imagination. She was a good photographer when we were in high school. How does their relationship still hinder her so much? I just can't fathom it. I can't imagine getting so worked up over someone like that.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
I didn't have the heart to be gay. I'll disappoint my parents by writing.
The story I've been working on for a few weeks now (longer really but this is active work) is, save a few misplaced commas, done. This means that I'll have to send my ever-so-slightly retarded baby out into the world soon. I've done this before and don't expect the results to be any different. I sent this one out (to Glimmer Train of all places in a moment of undergraduate well-I'm better-than-the-dipshits-in-my-intro-fiction-writing-class-I-must-be-publishable! grandiosity) and it was promptly (a relative term) rejected...albeit politely. I've since sent a few poems back and have heard nothing. I think I sent them out around the middle of May. I can't image that the poety editors at Magazine-that-shall-remain-nameless have been sitting on these poems beucase they cannot yet form the words required to admire and appreciate my genius. They have probably just forgotten that I exist.
Oh well. This is the life of an unprofessional writer, right? It takes years to get published, if that little. I suppose I will have to finally shell out the cash for a copy of the Writer's Market and stop pretending to do thing and actually, you know, do it.
More on this later. Especially after the second rejection comes it. That should be a good read.
Oh well. This is the life of an unprofessional writer, right? It takes years to get published, if that little. I suppose I will have to finally shell out the cash for a copy of the Writer's Market and stop pretending to do thing and actually, you know, do it.
More on this later. Especially after the second rejection comes it. That should be a good read.
Monday, August 4, 2008
It's a shame I won't get to buy that dress I'm never going to wear again...
After receiving an e-mail this morning from the the maid of honor in one of the 19 million weddings I'm attending this year (did I miss the part of graduation where they passed out that Kool-Aid?) and one of two I in which I was asked to be a bridesmaid, I had to beg off. This particular wedding has seemed semi-ridiculous since jump but I kept hoping it would mellow. It has not.
Today I found out how to go through an entire paycheck in one fell swoop (without having anything to show for it):
$877
-200 (getting there and back)
-250 (staying there for the weekend)
-160 (being clothed during the ceremony. This includes, but is not limited to, dyeable shoes.)
-60 (the present, which could not include bacon-of-the-month at this price.)
-200 (boarding my dog, may not be necessary but I have to assume it because the rest of my family will be at my cousin's wedding.)
_____
7.00
What can you do for &7?
- buy two Venti iced coffees from Starbucks (You get change!)
-Pay my current overdue charges at the library.
-go to and almost get home from work for one day (in 14).
-go to an afternoon movie and sneak in some gum and soda you stole from your mother.
-lie in bed and cry (but not so much that you require kleenex, it's cost prohibitive) until you get paid again.
-
Today I found out how to go through an entire paycheck in one fell swoop (without having anything to show for it):
$877
-200 (getting there and back)
-250 (staying there for the weekend)
-160 (being clothed during the ceremony. This includes, but is not limited to, dyeable shoes.)
-60 (the present, which could not include bacon-of-the-month at this price.)
-200 (boarding my dog, may not be necessary but I have to assume it because the rest of my family will be at my cousin's wedding.)
_____
7.00
What can you do for &7?
- buy two Venti iced coffees from Starbucks (You get change!)
-Pay my current overdue charges at the library.
-go to and almost get home from work for one day (in 14).
-go to an afternoon movie and sneak in some gum and soda you stole from your mother.
-lie in bed and cry (but not so much that you require kleenex, it's cost prohibitive) until you get paid again.
-
Saturday, August 2, 2008
It's not like I gave her sprinkles.
At Woody's earlier tonight, while enjoying some soft serve with Walt and my trusty Bagel, I was confronted by a woman waiting in line for her own ice cream.
"You know most dogs are lactose intolerant, right?" This was not offered out of the kindness of her heart or stemming from a general concern for the lactic tolerance of our four-legged friends. She was just taking a shit on the best part of my day. I didn't quite know what to say to her and at the time could only manage,
"She's fine, thanks." With the same fake smile she used to impart to veterinary wisdom. Later on, in the car I thought of better, pithier things to say:
" If that bother you, you should see my cat down scotch."
" Yes, but she needs something to take the edge off all those martinis she lapped up earlier."
" Well the ice cream offsets the gin."
" You're a miserable cunt who should not be eating ice cream but instead actively adjusting the size of your ass. Stop shitting on my life."
...Perhaps that last one was unnecessary. But it would have felt nice.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Conversations I've had with people after they find out I majored in English. OR-- A PSA for the pseudo-literary.
CONVERSATION 1:
Sherpa-on-Metro: (After I have dozed off during trek home while reading Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut) Must not be a very interesting book.
Me: (waking up suddenly because he's also kind of a close talker) No, no, it is. Just didn't get much sleep last night.
Sherpa: Vonnegut, huh? Have you read Slaughterhouse-5?
Me: Yes, actually a number of years ago. I loved it, he manages to suffuse an obvious tragedy irreverence and irony without tempering the narrative.
Sherpa: I've never read it. Is Cat's Cradle any good?
Me: Yes it is, I read it originally as part of a class on Eco-fiction.
Sherpa: NPR is also interesting.
Me: This is my stop. Enjoy your weekend.
CONVERSATION #2
Dude-at-work-who-doesn't-look-people-in-the-eye: So what's your degree in?
Me: English Literature
Dude: Do you read Poetry Magazine?
Me: When I can pick it up, but I have to say many of my favorite poets are dead.
Dude: Do you enjoy the modernists?
Me: Actually one of my favorite classes at school was on the British and Irish Modernists
Dude: My favorite is John Updike.
Me: Is he a modernist? (note--I know he is not a modernist. I was trying to be nice. Updike is a modernist only if you extend the definition of modernism to include people who have written since the Modern Era of the English language began...before Shakespeare.)
Dude: Well I mean, he wrote in the 20th century.
Me: That doesn't necessarily make him a modernist, it all depends on his style. Would you call it stream-of-conscience?
Dude: I also like Wallace Stevens
Me: "The Emperor of Ice Cream" is one of my favorite poems. The thing about Stevens was the rich internal life he created as a contrast to his 'real' life.
Dude: So what are your favorite books?
Me: Moby-Dick and Ulysses, the one by Joyce...not Homer.
Dude: I've read some Melville, just not Moby-Dick.
Me: That's a shame, it's far and away his best work. Really the culmination of his particular vision.
Dude: I'm going to the park to eat my sandwich now.
CONVERSATION #3
Any-number-people-I've-discussed-my-collegiate-career-with-since-2004: What are you majoring in again?
Me: English Literature
Rest-of-the-World: Oh, so you want to be a high school teacher then?
Me: Nope, maybe I'll get my doctorate, but I could never teach. I don't especially like children.
Rest-of-the-World: ah, ok...Have you read The Lovely Bones?
Me: (looking down at my imaginary watch) You know, I've really got to run. We'll catch up sometime, ok?
Sherpa-on-Metro: (After I have dozed off during trek home while reading Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut) Must not be a very interesting book.
Me: (waking up suddenly because he's also kind of a close talker) No, no, it is. Just didn't get much sleep last night.
Sherpa: Vonnegut, huh? Have you read Slaughterhouse-5?
Me: Yes, actually a number of years ago. I loved it, he manages to suffuse an obvious tragedy irreverence and irony without tempering the narrative.
Sherpa: I've never read it. Is Cat's Cradle any good?
Me: Yes it is, I read it originally as part of a class on Eco-fiction.
Sherpa: NPR is also interesting.
Me: This is my stop. Enjoy your weekend.
CONVERSATION #2
Dude-at-work-who-doesn't-look-people-in-the-eye: So what's your degree in?
Me: English Literature
Dude: Do you read Poetry Magazine?
Me: When I can pick it up, but I have to say many of my favorite poets are dead.
Dude: Do you enjoy the modernists?
Me: Actually one of my favorite classes at school was on the British and Irish Modernists
Dude: My favorite is John Updike.
Me: Is he a modernist? (note--I know he is not a modernist. I was trying to be nice. Updike is a modernist only if you extend the definition of modernism to include people who have written since the Modern Era of the English language began...before Shakespeare.)
Dude: Well I mean, he wrote in the 20th century.
Me: That doesn't necessarily make him a modernist, it all depends on his style. Would you call it stream-of-conscience?
Dude: I also like Wallace Stevens
Me: "The Emperor of Ice Cream" is one of my favorite poems. The thing about Stevens was the rich internal life he created as a contrast to his 'real' life.
Dude: So what are your favorite books?
Me: Moby-Dick and Ulysses, the one by Joyce...not Homer.
Dude: I've read some Melville, just not Moby-Dick.
Me: That's a shame, it's far and away his best work. Really the culmination of his particular vision.
Dude: I'm going to the park to eat my sandwich now.
CONVERSATION #3
Any-number-people-I've-discussed-my-collegiate-career-with-since-2004: What are you majoring in again?
Me: English Literature
Rest-of-the-World: Oh, so you want to be a high school teacher then?
Me: Nope, maybe I'll get my doctorate, but I could never teach. I don't especially like children.
Rest-of-the-World: ah, ok...Have you read The Lovely Bones?
Me: (looking down at my imaginary watch) You know, I've really got to run. We'll catch up sometime, ok?
Do you ever get the feeling that it just isn't your day?
The sandals I wore to work this morning have proceeded to give me blisters on each foot and in various locations on and around my toes. They also, having a leather sole, make a farty sound whenever I walk, not unlike that armpit trick I never mastered. Little did I know I could re-created it with the help of my now-inflamed feet.
At least I didn't spill coffee on myself today. That was yesterday. I was wearing a white dress. I knew well enough not to pack chips and salsa for lunch (opening refrigerator for jar immediately conjured images of horrible salsa/stigmata/period stain on nice, white, bias-cut Ann Taylor cotton), but did not take into account that once the lid was put on the coffee at Starbucks that I should not, under any circumstances, remove it. Especially not to add ice to my "iced" coffee (quotation marks necessary as it did not resemble anything cold and was, in fact, too hot to drink easily with a straw. Much like sucking down broth or those evil Campbell's Soup-to-go cups that seem like a scalding waiting to happen.) In replacing the lid, I crumpled the cup and emptied the contents on to the floor of the office kitchen and the lower half of me. Right when the managing editor walked by. This is how she knows me now.
This is also not the first time I have managed to spill coffee onto a white article of clothing in the month that I've had this job.
At least I didn't spill coffee on myself today. That was yesterday. I was wearing a white dress. I knew well enough not to pack chips and salsa for lunch (opening refrigerator for jar immediately conjured images of horrible salsa/stigmata/period stain on nice, white, bias-cut Ann Taylor cotton), but did not take into account that once the lid was put on the coffee at Starbucks that I should not, under any circumstances, remove it. Especially not to add ice to my "iced" coffee (quotation marks necessary as it did not resemble anything cold and was, in fact, too hot to drink easily with a straw. Much like sucking down broth or those evil Campbell's Soup-to-go cups that seem like a scalding waiting to happen.) In replacing the lid, I crumpled the cup and emptied the contents on to the floor of the office kitchen and the lower half of me. Right when the managing editor walked by. This is how she knows me now.
This is also not the first time I have managed to spill coffee onto a white article of clothing in the month that I've had this job.
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