See you around

Freshman year at SU, when I was still figuring out how to make friends and navigate university life, I often thought about how everyone said college would be the best four years of my life. At the time, I didn't believe it, and I sincerely hoped it wasn't true. I would stare out my dorm window at menacing gray skies, cold slabs of concrete, and huddled kids running from dorm to dining hall through the freezing rain. The outlook seemed grim. If the best four years of my life meant exhaustion, awkward living situations, and unfulfilling academics, then whatever was coming after graduation must be incredibly bleak.

Well four years later, my opinions have definitely changed. I graduated last weekend, and for the past few days, have said goodbye to some of my best friends. The moment I waited for for so long--getting a diploma and moving on--was suddenly the moment I dreaded the most. The summer before I arrived here, when I was worried about buying the right books, taking the best classes, and picking the most fitting majors, I remember my father told me that my line of thinking was way off base. He said college isn't so much about what you learn. It's who you meet and what you do that make the lasting impressions. Of course, I'm incredibly grateful for my education. In my time here, my mind has been tugged, stretched, pulled and expanded. I've gotten good at things I didn't know I could do and filled my brain with perspective and skills I'll use forever.

But leaving the classroom behind isn't what makes you cry. It's leaving the people. My dad was right about this one. I can get a degree in a lot of places, in a bunch of different ways. But I couldn't have made the friends or lived the life I did here anywhere else, and I'll never live like this again. A dozen friends won't live down the block, always ready to come over and watch a movie and split a bottle (box) of wine. There is no real-world equivalent to lying on the quad or heading to the bar and seeing every person on campus you know. Staying up until 3 a.m. to finish assignments has much less appeal when there's no one sitting next to you, sharing coffee and filling you in on Facebook updates.

So yes, leaving all of this is hard. Watching people slowly trickle away from campus is depressing. Packing up all over your things for the last time brings back every memory and makes you wish for just a few more days.

But there is relief. We're sad because we had four great years here. We're weepy and on edge because we're saying goodbye to people we love, people we didn't know a couple of years ago, but now, we can't fathom going more than a few weeks without them. We're crying when we say goodbye because we're so happy we got to be here, with each other. We lived a little bit, we learned a lot, and we're leaving with thousands of memories.

So it hurts to go. It's unbelievable that our time here is over. When I arrived freshman year, I felt like I was in the wrong place. Now I walk through campus and resent that a new class is coming in, and it's time to loosen my grip on a university and neighborhood that feels so familiar.

But every time I feel sad about it, I remember that the reason I feel that way is because I'm so grateful to have people and a place to be sad about leaving. When I pack up my last bag next week, the only thing I'll be able to think is how lucky I am to have been here.

Word wench

I knew I had a problem when I was 11-years-old, standing in my small town's newly remodeled supermarket, beaming proudly at the new express checkout lanes. The sign no longer read “10 items or less,” but instead “10 items or fewer.” Somewhere along the remodel process, in the big building where supermarket signage is manufactured, a person--no, a hero--corrected decades of grievous grammatical error. You see, the word “fewer” is used for a countable number of items, and less is used for items that cannot be counted. It should always have been 10 items or fewer, and shame on copy writers everywhere for not correcting this sooner. (Example: People who go through the express checkout with fewer items spend less time at the store!)

The erection of these new signs was a victory for grammar, and if the excitement pulsing through my veins was any indication, I felt it was a tiny victory for me too.

An 11-year-old should probably care about other, less mature topics, like kickball, sleepovers, and the Backstreet Boys. But not me.

As long as I can remember I've harbored what some would call an inappropriate emotional investment in all things spelling and grammar. One of my proudest life moments was when I finished my first New York Times crossword puzzle without assistance. It was my own personal “Rocky” moment. I danced in circles, waved my arms over my head, leapt from toe to toe. Except I had no fans cheering in the stands, and no one really understood the sincere depths of my elation. Similarly, one of my most crippling life moments was when a self-described verbally challenged boyfriend beat me in Boggle, a battleground on which I always reigned supreme. The worst? He beat me on a technicality, writing down a combination of letters which may or may not have formed a legitimate word. Of course he made me check it, and when it came up on dictionary.com, my vision went blurry and I felt for a moment as if I might lose consciousness.

You know, sometimes it feels like word games are all I have. It is the only area of life when I know I will perform better than the majority of players. When I don't, it feels like my one talent is pulled violently from my grasp. Remember in Titanic, when the passengers get locked up in steerage, and that lovely Irish bloke pleads, "Let us have chance!" I feel like that.

So yes, if you beat me at a word game or correct my grammar, the emotional fallout that results is equivalent to what I would feel if I was locked on the bottom of the world's greatest ocean liner. No keys, merciful ship crew, ravishing Kate Winslet, or Carpathia in sight. Devastation does not begin to describe it. But as low as my lowest points are, oh! The highs are even higher!

Imagine the dizzying glee I feel when I find an error or style inconsistency in anything from a publication to commercial product packaging (typically rife with error). Every day is like a scavenger hunt. It reaffirms my existence when I find a spelling or grammar mistake in a book. The world needs me so I can find this. I saw it; I know it's here; I want to fix it. Sometimes if I'm having a bad day, I pick up flyers or brochures for the specific purpose of editing them. I feel a rush of relief when I make an edit. I render order in my small corner of the world for a few brief seconds, when the words are lined up just like I want, perfectly punctuated so a new reader can breeze easily through.

I guess you could call this compulsion a mental illness, since I've all but given up on a career in writing, editing, or publishing of any kind. Why do I continue to care so much if all of this anxiety, emotional investment, and red-penning won't lead to a paycheck? In order to get hired, apparently, you need to do more than be able to find missing emdashes and compound modifiers in print. Also, apparently the touchdown dance I do every time I find a mistake isn't "workplace appropriate."

Well, I'll be. Brandi Chastain took her shirt off when she won the Women's World Cup game in 1999. Is my victory over run-on sentences any less meaningful?

My only regret in all of this is that on occasion, especially when involved in a game of Scrabble or Bananagrams, I've let my feverish competition get the best of me. I have yelled at strangers when they ask if proper nouns are acceptable. I've sent shivers down the spines of my friends by unleashing tortured screeches from the depths of my soul when I'm beaten. This is not how a lady should act. I would hate to think that my death grip on the English language has frightened people, or prevented the development of new friendships. My inner circle nicknamed me "the word wench," and even I am forced to admit a more fitting nickname has never been bequeathed.

Hi, is this gas station clothing optional?

It is impossible for me to talk enough about how much I love Habitat for Humanity. I took my first week-long Collegiate Challenge trip my sophomore year to Eastman, Georgia and had the time of my life. The people I've met on Habitat trips, whether from the SU volunteer group, or the members of the local community and H4h affiliate, are always the most delightful. A week bonding with new people, doing something good, meeting local homeowners, and working up a sweat is my idea of a perfect vacation. It is oddly freeing to let your mind wander away from textbooks and deadlines and focus on a particular, unfamiliar task at hand. I always chuckle finding skills I never knew I had (roofing!) and the things no one should ever allow me to do again (using a nail gun--my inner Terminator took over when I mistook it for an automatic weapon and fired four nails into one hole).

Last week I spent my spring break in Palm Beach, Florida working on a 27-home build. So much happened, I can't possibly recount it all (though you can read some of my play-by-plays on Twitter). We know I love a good list, so I'll recount some of the top highlights and lowlights for you here.

HIGHLIGHTS
- I took my first H4h trip all by myself. Quite the leap of faith, but I made some great friends and was happy to throw myself out of my comfort zone. But this trip was extra special because it was my senior year, and I went with one of my best lady friends, Paige. We grew even closer (5.a.m. heart-to-hearts through torrential rain in North Carolina), but also let each other be alone long enough to harass new people into being our friends. I had a great time with you, boo!


- You may find this impossible to believe, but the car rides are some of my favorite parts. By the end of them, you can recite the complete dating history, favorite childhood pets, and social security numbers of all of your fellow carmates. Long car rides breed intense intimacy. However, they also breed a little bit of insanity. Somewhere between New York and Florida, I thought it would be HILARIOUS to deem everything clothing optional. Libraries? Clothing optional. Starbucks? Only if it's topless. Habitat work sites? Soooo clothing optional. This was one of the week's catchphrases, and I immediately gained a reputation as being the group's biggest creeper. Which is okay. I would typically be the last person to suggest group nudity, but you know? Sometimes it could be fun. I got some people to disrobe, and fun was had by all.

-Related highlight: Tuesday, after a lobster dinner, we all hit Palm Beach for a night on the town. At the beginning of the night, on a whim, I asked a bartender if the bar was clothing optional. He said "Absolutely, it's encouraged," and the new dress code was announced over the microphone three times. Cha-ching. People went buck wild; dancing on bars ensued, booty contests galore, strange cougars macked on our SU boys. Paige and I just stared in disbelief. These people came to party.

-New construction skills! Our work site was extra special because several houses were in different stages of completion, so we were assigned a variety of tasks. We framed the walls of an entire house, fastened tar paper on its roof, shingled another, gave one nearly completed house three coats of interior paint, and laid sod and planted trees. So many new skills to add to my resume.

- Beach. Ocean temps were in the 70s. The weather all week was heavenly, dry and sunny in the lower 80s. We went to the beach almost every day after work, and played board games, Bananagrams, and ultimate frisbee. Small buzzkill: whenever I play a sport, I assume the mindset of a 300-pound toothless rugby player, so I got some ferocious sandburn scrapes from diving (okay, and a little falling). All the beach time made this trip feel much more like a real vacation than my past trips.


-Cuse games. We watched all four games that week, including the incredible, heart-attack-inducing UConn game. We were absolutely beat after long days of building and beaching, but sipping a mojito in an outdoor bar and watching the Orange make us proud was the perfect end to the day.

(Edited to add)- Becoming a local celebrity. Monday night, on our way home form a Marlins/Tigers spring training game, I got pulled over for the first time ever. Quite the blow to my ego, but earlier in the day, we had been featured on the local news while we were working at the re-store. The officer recognized us from the broadcast and let me go with a warning!

LOWLIGHTS

No church dinners! One of the reasons my GA trip was so meaningful was because of our interaction with the community there. One night the ladies at the local church cooked a huge meal for us. We learned about them, their town, and the Habitat affiliate. We spent time with the homeowners of the house we worked on, and heard their stories. I'll never forget how sincerely grateful they were to us, and the disbelief in their eyes as they watched strangers put their house together, just because we wanted to. We had similar experiences in Louisiana when we met people displaced by Katrina, and ate dinner every night with volunteers at the church where we stayed. Unfortunately we didn't meet any homeowners this time, and I missed the focus on getting to know the community we came to serve.

Lack of participating in state park activities! We stayed in Jonathan Dickinson state park (read a creepy story from the park's history here), and they have hiking and biking trails, horseback riding, and loads of wildlife (our group saw an armadillo...ew). Alligators are frequently seen in the river, where you can canoe and kayak. Paige and I wanted to go, even if we were sortofkindof terrified, especially after we were told that a little boy was eaten a few years earlier. We ran out of time and never got to canoe, and I never got to see an alligator. The siren song of the Jupiter beaches just drew us back day after day, and I loved every minute of it.

I could go on forever, but I'm sure you're all sick of hearing me talk nonstop about Habitat. But for any of my legions of readers who have time left in college, take a trip with Habitat. These trips are my favorite things I've done at SU, and they'll be yours too. Promise.

Everything's the same back in my little town

As you know, I took a semester off from college. I apparently took leave of my senses and thought it would be a wise idea to live at home for the fall. I could work and intern, all while making some money (not) and gaining more professional experience. While it was certainly nice to save myself a semester's tuition bill, other aspect haven't been so sweet.

I think I'm most tired of explaining what it is exactly I'm doing. People see me around town, and either a) think I dropped out or b) graduated and have done nothing but hang around and work the dead-end same jobs I always did. So I get a lot of hairy eye balls and awkward stares, and when someone asks and I explain the situation, they are disbelieving my story. How did I have enough credits to just leave? What am I running away from? They figure it's much more likely I got busted for something bad or failed out of college, shaming the family name.

The other deleterious aspect of this homeward sojourn is the toll it takes on my social life. Principally the problem is that I no longer have one. All of my friends are in Syracuse, and it's not exactly like my suburban bubble has a bustling nightlife scene. While downing a pint with the locals is certainly an option, I'm more of a "let's drink too much and embarrass ourselves in the company of strangers kind of gal." The hardest part of all of this is being apart from the people I like to be around the most. There are lots of times when I really wanted to relay an anecdote to Connie or complain to Paige about something related to the self-torture that is journalism. Thankfully there's the Internet, so we keep in touch, but sometimes I long for an afternoon spent in the cozy confines of Funk 'N Waffles wtih my nearest and dearest. And I am sure they really miss getting their butts whipped at Bananagrams.

To be fair, I've gained a few things by being home this semester. Mainly I have another line to add to my resume, this time a credible publication people will recognize. I dipped my feet in the churning waters of the real world, and depending on the day, my crippling lack of confidence in my professional future is either somewhat lessened or multiplied by a factor of 10. Stepping out of the protective bubble of a college campus has helped me think more critically about what I really see myself doing in the future. (I said it helps me think; I certainly haven't made any decisions.) I've realized I need to be honest, and not try to force myself into a career because I think it would be the easier, or "right" thing to do.

I have also read more books for pleasure than I have in the last four years at college. The two-plus hours I spend each day commuting allow me to read about a book a week. This may sound like a stupid thing to list as a pro of living at home and dropping out of college, but I certainly value it. And they say to become a writer, you have to read a lot of good writing, so I like to tell myself it's educational.

The last aspect of my somewhat-impromptu sabbatical (got fifteen minutes? fill out those withdrawal papers!) is that it has made me appreciate my college experience so much more. I'm not exactly a recruiter for Syracuse University, and at times I've been rather disenchanted with the whole thing. But after getting a taste of what life could be like after graduation (poverty-stricken, boring), I am prepared to live up my last semester to the fullest. This is our last chance to be irresponsible, to be surrounded by friends, and in a place where it's OK to routinely drink on school nights instead of taking a shower (don't ask). I am exceptionally eager to come back. I hope you guys are ready for me.

OMG , is she pregnant?

Paige's recent post about transgressing gender norms got me thinking about the many character traits that keep me from being your typical female. Oh, let me count them. Pull up a chair, it could take a while.

Kidding aside, one of the things that immediately popped into my head was that I hate shopping. I actually loathe and dread it. The act of gleefully driving to the mall on a busy Saturday to rummage through clearance racks or hold mini-fashion shows in the Misses department is as foreign to me as, oh, I don't know, avoiding inappropriate eye contact with strangers (I could never!).

I only go clothes shopping if it's a dire situation (must have a skirt for that interview! All sweaters are now rags suitable only for dusting!). Part of this, I think, is because I am not from what you would call a shopping family. My mother hates shopping. When I was little, we shopped at a lot of thrift stores and I wore a considerable amount of my older brother's clothing (which was especially charming during the eye patch and short hair phase). An afternoon at the mall putting purses on plastic was never a typical event. To this day, if I ever spend a lot of money at once, I get all anxious and clammy about it, simply because I come from thrifty folk, and all this time with high-falutin' FASHION could be better spent sewing my niece a new poppet out of rags and dried corn stalks.

My other issue is that I've had this life-long issue with purchasing ill-fitting clothes. I only truly came to this realization when Connie told me as gently as possible that sometimes my threads look like they were made for a 50-year-old twice my size. (Case in point... I thought I was so clever when I found it on clearance..)

So of course it would be case that I am bopping around in awkwardly baggy tops and jeans that are unintentionally low-slung. When you hate shopping, you'll grab the large instead of trying on the medium because you know the large or extra-large will fit! If you try on a smaller size, that means lines for the fitting room, surly attendants, and several moments of flustered self-loathing while you stare at the unforgiving mirrors, wondering if the people waiting can see your hairy ankles.

But now I know, when I go out to The Store, I will have to be better. The need for this was really driven home last week when I got a glimpse of myself in the window walking down the street. The crotch of my pants was hanging at least three inches below where it belonged. When I got to the subway stop, I pulled a Stacy and Clinton to inspect the fit, and came away with a fistful of fabric from the hip region. I (like everyone) have issues buying pants because of the drastically different sizes and fits among brands, or the fact that I am often in between those sizes. But enough is enough. I looked like a cross between M.C. Hammer and a plumber. Things were not looking good. I couldn't even blame it on a miraculous weight loss (as if!) or stretched-out fabric. I bought the pants--hell, let's call them SLACKS-- recently, and they were freshly washed!

Anyway. That's all I have to say. There is no real point to this post except to tell you that I don't know how to buy clothes. Think of it as a plea for help. And what more to do you want for me after I've pledged 20 posts in 30 days. Not everyone can be a winner. Or dressed in nice clothing. That fits.

A homeless wanderer lands in Syracuse

Fergie pees her pants on stage. She is a former meth addict. A stranger once offered her a muffin when Fergie was wandering among bushes on the side of a street. The muffin-bearer thought she was homeless. Most of her lyrics are so idiotic and incomprehensible that they send listeners into a) a blind rage or b) a state of delirium. I still don't really know what a "London Bridge" is, and frankly, I hope I never find out.

On Tuesday, Fergie will be coming to Syracuse.

Her appearance has been met with a great deal of bitterness and misplaced anger on campus. Naysayers are complaining that they don't ever listen to Fergie; they don't like her; and why couldn't University Union--the student organization that books acts for our big annual spring concert-- have found someone better?

I am here to say: define better. Whether you like it or not, Fergie is a big name who has had great success. Her songs are on the radio, oh, CONSTANTLY. And you would be a bold-faced liar if you said you've never danced inappropriately to a Fergie song in a grungy basement in the wee hours of a weekend morning.

Better yet, the day of Fergie's concert coincides with SU's Mayfest (held in April) celebration. By definition, Mayfest is day when faculty and students stop classes to celebrate academic accomplishments and present their work.

But in reality, Mayfest is a day when students celebrate the fact that after six long months, the sun has finally returned to Syracuse. Most students spend the day at outdoor parties, playing games and living up the last few weeks before everyone packs up for the summer. When the University offered up some of its own money to bring Fergie to campus, in my view, the administration was asking us to bask in the glow of our youth and its ridiculous pop culture, and revel drunkenly in the confusing lyrics and mystifying sounds of Stacy Ann Ferguson.

Ashley and I will be pulling out all of the stops this Mayfest. We definitely deserve it after this particularly grueling semester. Keep your eyes peeled later this week for a rundown of Tuesday's drunkfest Mayfest. It will surely be glamourous.

Is this my life?

My love for Tyra Banks comes from a very confusing place deep inside my soul. It is an impure love, tinged with dislike and mockery, peppered with genuine admiration and appreciation. It is a love that most cannot begin to fathom.

What's that? Get a grip? Okay, but in the words of one of my traveling companions, Ms. Paige, let's be real. I am a Tyra fan, but not a true Tyra fan. I came to love her out of mocking her, and that is also how I came to arrive at her show. Ashley and I realized that we could apply for Tyra tickets on her Web site. As a joke, thinking we would never actually go, we applied.

A few weeks later, my boy Mike from Tyra called to tell us we had tickets. And so it began, a weeks-long planning extravaganza. We were going to Tyra-- Paige, Katie, Ashley and Me, and oh! it would be glorious. I told everyone I knew, and even the occasional stranger. Weeks in advance, Ibegan wracking my brain for an outfit that was Tyra-worthy. (The Tyra show has a strict dress code that makes one wonder how anyone gets in. Some people who attended our taping clearly did not read the guidelines. Most were subsequently placed in the back rows, where the outfits deemed inappropriate or garish by the Tyra staff, could not be seen by the discriminating eyes of the camera... or Tyra).

After several hours of traveling patiently with my lady friends, we arrived at Tyra's studio in Chelsea. Tyra's studio is immediately next to Martha Stewart's. What a unique pairing those two would make. My mind wandered, imagining the limitless possibilities of a Tyra/Martha friendship.... or showdown? I hope Martha invites Tyra on her show. And I hope she interviews her with the same gumption that she did with Lindsay Lohan, here.

After we stood on a ramp for about an hour, we were shuffled into a waiting room where Tyra propaganda spewed from several 13-inch televisions. But I found it hard to focus on the screens because of all the incredible opportunities to people watch. What an extraordinary cross-section of people that Tyra attracts. There were a multitude of Jersey girls who ranged greatly in their allegiance to traditional Jersey stereotypes. Middle-aged women wander aimlessly and look confused about where they are and how they got there. There is the occasional male companion, who you just know got dragged along by a particularly unrelenting mate. There was a girl dressed all in white who pestered a Tyra staff member for at least fifteen minutes about where she would be seated and whether the staff was concerned that she would detract attention from Tyra (bitch, please).

Fast forward to the good stuff. We are shuffled to the studio in a gargantuan freight elevator, which we learned was used to transport an elephant to Howard Stern six years earlier. Note to Tyra: Invite more Circus animals.

We were seated in prime Tyra-viewing territory. The pink and purple lights cascade over the audience. Smoke from dry ice is flowing out onto the aisle next to us. The audience was instructed to get on their feet, clap like they're bringing back every dead fairy non-believers ever killed, and to scream like wild banshees. So that is exactly what we did.

Tyra emerged, an even more breathtaking spectacle in person. Okay, I said it, a breathtaking spectacle. Ashley was not fully on board with my use of the word ''breathaking" but I am not ashamed that I was quite swept up the appearance Ms. Banks.

The show continued, with Tyra spending much of it perched on the stair immediately in front of our row. We stared in awe and excitement as Tyra employed expert Dr. Braverman to assess the lifestyles of various women on stage and pinpoint the exact age of their death.

Sound morbid? A little farfetched? It is, but show topic was ''When will I die?" and really, you can't expect too much from the Tyra Show. After being presented with a few key facts, the audience would cold-heartedly scream out the name of whichever woman they thought would die first. It felt odd and wrong to predict death dates for relatively healthy, vibrant people, but with Tyra looking on approvingly, any shame I felt quickly evaporated. I was so overcome by the spell of the Tyra Show, there is no telling what else I would have done. Equally spellbound, Ashley even got up and answer a question about why she thought one woman was doomed to a particularly early demise. I certainly hope this makes it into the final cut, however disgruntled that may make her. It'll be a story for the grandkids (which we seem to be accumulating at an ever more rapid pace).

For the last couple of segments, two 100+-year-old were wheeled out to reveal the secrets to a long and healthy life. Both of the old women seemed quite taken by Tyra, one stroking her hair and looking with earnest wonder at the cameras and lights, saying ''I have been all over the world and have never seen anything like this."

Even a woman that has survived two world wars and the holocaust can still be awestruck by the Tyra spectacle. Imagine the wonder that would take place if she took me up on the circus suggestion.

The other woman made her an afghan blanket, which made Tyra tear up, as it was made using same stitch that Grandma Tyra had taught her many moons ago. Ms. Banks proceeded to drape this blanket over her lap, where it remained for the rest of the show. I expect that Tyra will keep this blanket in a special place and wax poetic about it on a ''best of" clips show in the future.

Though we left without so much as a wave or a thank you from Tyra, or even a free goodie under our seats, I couldn't have felt more satisfied. The experience at The Tyra Show was a truly unique one, and made even better by the fact that I got to share it with three other girls who find Tyra as simulatenously wonderful, hilarious and ridiculous as I do.

Riding home in sleepy satisfaction, we people-watched some more on the train. The main attraction: a May-December couple playing vigorous tonsil hockey next to two disbelieving high school girls. In the car we played frustrating games of 20 questions, our brains too swollen with left-over adrenaline from Tyra to come up with simple answers. We arrived home at 12:40am, exhausted but in the best way possible. The 5am wake up call was entirely worth it as we snuggled into our beds. Any day filled to the brim with good friends, Tyra Banks and the many joys of train travel (Katie), can't be much less than perfect.