Biggest Letdown of my Life
Years ago, when everyone else was asking their parents for iPods, cellphones and a new fangled DVD player, I only had one thing on my Chanukah list. All I wanted was a Clapper.
I was in the ninth grade and my life was full of typical high school stresses like three page papers, braces for the 2nd time, and coming up with reasons why I didn’t want to go to the holiday formal. The last thing I needed was the added stress of having to get up and manually turn a light on and off.
So I was beyond thrilled when I opened up my present and found that it was the clapper. I immediately plugged it in and expected my life to change. Within minutes everyone from my class would be calling to come over and see it. But I quickly learned the clapper came with a small problem.
It has two settings, quiet and loud. The quiet setting meant I could lightly clap my hands together and the lights would go on and off. However the quiet setting also meant everytime my dog barked, the phone rang, and someone spoke the lights would also go on and off. The loud setting meant I would have to literally clap my hands with an airhorn to make it go on and off. Suddenly my high-tech clapper meant I either had to live with a constant strobe light or bruise my hands everytime I wanted some light.
So during this holiday season, when the annual clapper commericals start appearing, I try to stay strong and resist plugging mine back in.
A few thoughts on Horsepower
Why are they still using the term horsepower? I understand using it when cars were first invented. Back then it was a reasonable comparison. Why now Thaddeus, thou car has 7 horsepower and its cheaper than even five horses. Now I’m watching commericials and hearing 10,000 horsepower and I have no idea how to comprehend that. I went on a pony ride in 4th grade. So I guess times that speed by 10,000. It would make much more sense to be using more modern terms. Like 1/100th of an airplane power. That I understand. Or maybe the power of an airplane when its waiting to take off on a runway. That’s a speed I comprehend very well. Then again I don’t think they need to advertise the speeds at all. I think we’ve had cars for almost a hundred years now and everyone is pretty clear on how they run and how fast they go. But what do I know, I’m not a horse farmer.
Diagnosing the Facebook Status Problem
I’ve written about my various issues with Facebook before. But the improper use of the Facebook status now tops my list of things that drive me crazy.
I don’t believe in Facebook status’s. I find 93% of them unnecessary and the other 7% contradictory. What am I supposed to think when someone’s facebooks status says you’re doing work ALL night, your away message says you’re wasted, and you gmail status says you love the new Beyonce song. Where do I even try to start a conversation? Should I meet you in the library at 4 a.m with a tray of shots and the lyrics to If I were a Boy?
But that’s not even my biggest concern with the status’s. My issue is the “IS.” Over a year ago Facebook removed the obligatory “IS” from the Status. BUT everyday I sign on and people are not only still using the “IS” but they are using it incorrectly.
Gena is CoUlD iT bE aNy CoLdeR?
Mallory is LOST MY PHONE. LOL.
Sharon is HAHA Beverly Hills chihuahua was soooo funny.
And the problem is always very easy to fix.
1. If you just love the “IS” so much that you can’t not have it then add a few more words
Gena is curious to know if it could be any colder
2. Delete the “IS”
Mallory lost her phone. LOL.
3. Reconsider posting a status that reflects badly on yourself
Sharon has no status.
Even though I will never like status’s, I will always appreciate a grammatically correct one.
P.S- It took me 14 attempts and one google search to figure out how to spell chihuahua
Why I’ve Accomplished Nothing This Semester
After my 10th consecutive night of getting no work done, I decided it was time to figure out where all my time was going. I mean, it’s not like I have been out with friends, or at work, or…anywhere. I’ve been home.
Doing nothing, apparently…
5:03: Look at my planner and see what work I have. It’s not too much and I should be able to finish it all in an hour.
5:04: Check Facebook.
5:05: IM my roomate to see if she was actually serious about tagging that photo of me.
5:07: Take my book out.
5:08: Peel the used sticker off and place it on my printer.
5:09: Start reading.
5:10: Wonder if the used sticker is going to stick to my printer. Decide it looks cool.
5:11: Realize I’m starving and head to the kitchen to get food.
5:12: Man oh man the kitchen is a mess. Do dishes, wipe counters, and mop floor.
6:20: Check e-mail and facebook.
6:23: Resume reading.
6:25: Attempt to peel used sticker off printer. Why did I do that? My printer isn’t used. It’s practically new. Think about if I can count it as new if I’ve had it since freshman year.
6:30:Pick up my book again and read the back cover. I’ve been reading since five and I have no idea what it’s about. Wow, slavery, this looks intense.
6:31:Hear that fly again. Where is it???
6:32: Start reading chapter 1 and get really into the book. I can’t believe some people actually went through this, it makes me realize that -
6:32: Spot the fly and debate which shoe to grab.
6:33: Grab my heels. I hope they hurt the fly as much as they hurt me.
6:34: Chase the fly around my room trying to kill it. There is no way that it can fly forever.
6:40: I’m winded after six minutes and the fly is still going strong. Look up flies on Wikipedia and try to figure out their lifespan.
6:45: Pick up book. How am I only on page 2?
6:50: Remember I never called my mom back. Call her and then get frustrated because she is asking too many question on how to work the DVR.
6:57: Read pages 2-4.
7:03: Make dinner from scratch.
7:56: Sit down with roommates to eat and complain about how much work I have.
9:14: Read pages 5-11
9:22: Whatever happened to that Yahoo account I made in 7th grade?
9:25: Finally remember the password to the Yahoo account I made in 7th grade and log in.
9:26: Am amazed at the amount of junk mail that accumulated in the past 9 years.
9:29:Reread pages 6-11 before realizing I’ve already read it.
9:35: Give up on the reading for the night. If I’ve read for four hours and still haven’t gotten through it, it’s not my fault, it’s the books.
A Love Letter to the Upper East Side
Dear Upper East Side,
I’m writing this letter with sadness in my heart and hot fudge in my hair. I’ve spent the last two months scooping your ice cream and ringing up orders and now its time for me to go home. But even though I must leave, I wanted to spend a few final moments reflecting on our time together.
Like remember all those times when you came in with your Blackberry in one hand, your Bugaboo stroller in the other, and you didn’t even look up from your phone to place your order? I always respected you for your determination to complete your conversation, even if it sometimes meant you couldn’t make eye contact with me.
Or haha, I’m cracking up about that time I gave you two cents in change and you held your hand out waiting for it so you could put it back in your Prada wallet, which you shoved into your Fendi bag instead of the tip jar. That was a great time.
Oh wait, an even better memory is the time you got your toddler an ice cream cone and the precocious little thing dumped it all on the floor and, instead of offering to help pick it up, you demanded a a new ice cream at no extra charge. And even though there was a line in front of you, I admired you for teaching your child resilience by cutting the entire line so your baby could have their second ice cream immediately.
I know this letter is supposed to be full of good times and laughs but I really need to take this moment to apologize for asking you to repeat your order twice. It was completely my fault that after working an eight-hour shift; I couldn’t remember exactly which yogurt you wanted in which size after you rattled them off to me. So I totally appreciate that after I asked you to repeat the order, you spoke incredibly slowly as if I had the IQ of a sugar cone.
But back to the good times. Like remember that one time you had a last-minute impromptu birthday party in the store and you totally forget to tell anyone that worked there? That was a great surprise and it was even more fun when you spent the entire time complaining because we couldn’t give you personal attention. Our ice-cream-scooper-party-
planner-waitress-nanny was out that day and I have to thank for your understanding.
And it was totally reasonable that you didn’t leave any kind of tip. The eye contact we made when I was on my hands and knees wiping slices of melting ice cream cake off the floor was tip enough.
I really hope your son had a wonderful birthday because the celebration continued long after you left. We got to get the broom, the mop, and every other cleaning product out in order to clean up after your party. I wish more parents had your appreciation of suspense and gratitude. I knew that when you said, “your store is completely disorganized and unable to put on a party,” you really meant thank you.
Even though I’m having a wonderful time writing this letter, I really must get back to my internship. Internship? you might say. Yes, the days when I wasn’t scooping ice cream and pouring skim milk into your coffee, I was interning. I know, its crazy to think that underneath that ice-cream stained shirt, was a college student who was just working in the store for a little extra money.
You are probably wondering how I could be a college student and still have messed up your change that one time. But don’t feel bad. After all, once I put on that highly attractive ice cream uniform I only existed to listen to you complain about your frozen yogurt melting too fast. Ice cream melting when its hot out. It’s completely my fault and I take full responsibility. I only hope that one day, twenty years from now, when those precious little babies you brought into the store are working their summer jobs, wherever that might be, someone treats them with the same respect you gave me.
P.S. I might have underestimated the calories in the frozen yogurt. Whoops.
Flying to New York
I was standing in the line for security when I saw that they had posted a flyer listing the most wanted terrorists right next to the flyer about using ONLY a quart sized bag. I immediately did my duties as an American citizen and I began eyeing every single passenger in line up and down. I didn’t spot a single terrorist, but there was one suspicious baby who refused to make eye contact with me as she went through security. I was relived. Not only because my inspection meant the airport was terrorist free, but also because I wasn’t sure what I would do if I actually spotted one. Would I whisper and point with the person in front of me? Would I alert security by yelling and screaming? Would the store that sells overpriced gum and magazines know that they should tell someone? I guess the first logical step would be updating my facebook status.
I found my gate and settled in a pay-phone cluster so I could use my computer and plug it in at one of the forty million outlets. However, not one of the outlets worked. I shook my head and felt like an idiot, of course non of the outlets worked, this was for pay-phones. No one still used pay-phones so they totally forget to fix the broken outlets. I was patting myself on the back for my revelation until someone sat at the phone next to me, proceeded to put in quarters and make a call. I was just about to tap him on the shoulder and let him know that none of the phones worked when I heard him start talking enthusiastically into the phone. Is this airport kidding? Not one outlet works but everyone travels with laptops. Yet the pay-phones work. No one, except for the back-to-the-future extra sitting next to me uses a pay phone anymore. Ludicrous.
The taxi driver’s name was Jon White. That certainly ruined every joke I ever heard about NYC taxi drivers.
Madrid Epilouge
I don’t know how long I’ve been back from Madrid. Numbers are too American and I refuse to be part of that world any longer. However, I do know I sat in my pajamas on the couch for a week straight catching up on television. When people ask me questions I respond with Si si and they give me a weird look. I hate having to explain to everyone that Si means yes in Spanish. But I don’t hate it enough to stop doing it. If I don’t speak Spanish, how will anyone know where I spent my semester. I’ve been told my Madrid t-shirt, Madrid mug, Madrid key-chain, and Emi tattoo over my heart are a dead giveaway, but I’m not too sure.
I went to trade in my Euros and the exchange rate was so low that I somehow lost money in the process. I’m glad Europe became affordable right after I left it. I wouldn’t want it to have been any other way.
I can’t stop comparing everything to Spain. There is nothing that anyone does that not merit my new cultural perspectives. The supermarket bagged all my groceries and I informed them that in Spain, they charge 3 cents for that. My mom serves my dinner at seven, I inform her that the Spanish are just eating lunch at that hour. My neighbor uses his car to get to work, I made sure that he was aware that they have a phenomenal metro system in Madrid. A homeless man hits me up for change and I let him know that in Madrid, he would be called a gypsy and he would have to sing for that.
And that is why I make my sister sing for her dinner every night. I need to have some reminder in my life that I did just spend the last four months studying abroad.
