You know I'm working on a paper when I'm updating this...

It's been too long since my last update.

And by this, I mean "it's been too long since my last writing assignment at Pitt."

I've had high hopes of having this paper written by now. I promised myself at the beginning of the semester, "Sammi - do yourself a favor. Don't get work done on time: get it done early." So far, this promise has been broken at least once a week. In the case of this paper, multiple days in a row.

I received an email from my independent study leader (aka, a teacher for a self-paced class; aka, I should not be taking this). He suggested that, in order to stay on track with the course, it would behoove us to submit paper #1 by the weekend.

That was two weeks ago.

"Behoove," of course, was my word choice just now. Perhaps if he had used that word, I would have attacked the paper immediately, but that's all behind us now.

Last week, I decided to be a good girl and write this paper. Then a friend of mine suggested we go to a bookstore together and both work on our respective assignments and as anyone could guess, that quickly fell by the wayside. Though in my defense, I did try - I got as far as the heading for the paper. I even inserted the page numbers in the footer. According to my own writing process, I'm already a tenth of the way there.

So now I am sitting in the David Lawrence building on a Saturday, having been asked to take my brother to his ACT testing here, and once again I'm faced with the unrelenting temptation - nay, desire, to completely slack off and allow myself to be distracted. I even planned for a way to distract myself: I brought not one, but two novels I have either started or want to start reading. These, however, will be last resorts.

First, I started combing through my hair with my fingers. It's too hot and humid to bother straightening my hair, so it's wavy, tangled mess and certainly needs for this to be done.

Once I can't do that any longer, I decide to at least make a go at the paper. I get out my laptop, my book, my notes. I decide to jot down an outline. I realize I have no pen, no pencil, not even a marker with which to write. But I am in a college lecture building's lobby, so I decide to go on a pen hunt. I've had many classes in this building and have often found abandoned pens on tables, under chairs, or in the middle of the lobby, having fallen from the backpacks or purses of their previous owners.

After about seven minutes of this, I realize I probably look pretty silly crouching about in this way, so I resign myself back to the table with my laptop etc. and decide to just take the notes on my computer in a Word.doc.

And as fate would have it, Facebook calls to me and I waste fifteen minutes checking it and then my email.

And now, we come to this: me updating. I must ask myself the question - why do I do this to myself? I know that I am a good writer, that I could (and do) pull words out of a hat and, with little effort, splatter them on a page like a modern artist. And, like the modern artist's audience, my teachers seem to deem them as masterpieces. Does this make me proud to say this? I'm merely stating a fact. But perhaps even recognizing this fact makes me proud. No - humble writers wouldn't mention this...they wouldn't stall the way I do, either. They'd see this ability as a gift not to be squandered, a weapon only to be used in the most dire of situations, to be held back for only the emergency situations.

I know I'm wasting my potential by doing this. I know I could be putting so much more into my work, so much more depth, so much more detail.

I broke my nail. Great, now I'm a proud, vain writer.

I need to stop this. End of. I need to write my paper.

Check out what's been keeping me from posting...

My latest essay for Pitt entitled "Naughty Bones," or "Sinister Ribs."

[[and for some exciting news, see my last post!]]

I decided to take a “from the ground, up" approach to this post, looking not for a question’s answer but rather for a question, and I was surprised at what I found. I tried to think of a word that I knew was used throughout the text, and the word rib came to mind. It turns out that it’s used in many different contexts and is not exclusive to the Adam and Eve story. Rib is first used in Book I’s narration of the establishment of Pandemonium:

…Soon had his crew

Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 690

And digged out ribs of gold.

One definition of rib is “a bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure.” (OED, –8. a.) My original intention, however, was to look at this word in context to Book X during Adam’s angry rant about his disobedience being Eve’s fault:

…But for thee
I had persisted happy, had not thy pride
And wand’ring vanity, when least was safe, 875
Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
Not to be trusted, longing to be seen
Though by the Devil himself, him overweening[…]
And understood not all was but a show
Rather than solid virtue, all but a rib
Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears, 885
More to the part sinister from me drawn,
Well if thrown out, as supernumerary
To my just number found.

Adam then proceeds to blame Eve excessively, wishing God had never created her. Here, rib is used in a very different way – he is referencing it in the anatomical sense (which anybody can tell), but also in a sort of slang, with rib being another word for a person's wife or – more generally put – a woman. (OED, –3.) First, he describes what the anatomical rib looks like: naturally crooked, “bent;” the same way he now sees Eve – “crooked” meaning deceitful. It was at this point that I noticed the word sinister. Today, we usually take this word to mean “given with intent to deceive or mislead, especially so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will.” (OED, I. 1. a.) But while this does fit the description Adam has just assigned to Eve, there is more to sinister than our modern comprehension of the word. It also means “situated on the left side of the body.” (OED, II. 9. a.) This really brings about a separate interpretation when taken into account. The image created by these two interpretations is as follows: Adam saying (1.) that Eve was the evil which was drawn out of him and (2.) that Eve was drawn from his left side. One way this could be read is that God pulled the rib from the left side so that it would be closer to the heart, but another perspective is that God pulled the rib from Adam’s weaker side.* The left side of the body has never been regarded highly throughout Western history. During Milton’s era, many believed that being left-handed, for example, meant that you were demon-possessed; children, therefore, were broken of the habit when they started attending school (this practice – while likely not associated with this superstition any longer – was still in effect even as recent as the 1940s and ‘50s, even in America). In addition to these modern day opinions, Milton has given a more obvious comparison to this scene – in Book II, Satan’s offspring “Sin” is introduced as being

In darkness, while thy [Satan’s] head flames thick and fast
Threw forth, till on the left side op’ning wide, 755
Likest to thee in shape and count’nance bright,

As God created mankind in His own image, Sin was created (spawned) in Satan’s image. When Adam is describing the parallel event to this in Book X, he too remarks that the rib from which Eve was formed came from his left side (even though this isn’t actually ever stated in Genesis). By inserting this memory of Sin’s, Milton plays on the literal and metaphorical meanings of the word sinister, directly linking Eve - and women as a whole - to evil.

~~~~~~~~~~

RIB.

I. The bone, and related senses.

1. a. Each of the series of long, narrow curved bones articulated in pairs to the spine in humans and other vertebrates, enclosing or tending to enclose the thoracic (or body) cavity and protecting the main internal organs within it; usu. in pl. Also (in pl.): the part of the body in which the ribs are contained, the upper torso.
movable, short, skinny-rib, etc.: see the first element.

a1616

SHAKESPEARE

Othello (1622) I. ii. 5 Nine or ten times, I had thought to haue ierk'd him here, vnder the ribbes. 1667

MILTON

Paradise Lost X. 512 His Visage drawn he felt to sharp and spare, His Armes clung to his Ribs. 2005

T. HALL

Salaam Brick Lane i. 15 He suffered a broken nose, five broken ribs and a lacerated ear.

3. With allusion to the biblical account of the creation of Eve from Adam's rib (Gen. 2:21): a person's wife; (occas. more generally) a woman. slang in later use.

1589 KING JAMES VI Let. 19 Feb. in Calderwood's Hist. Kirk of Scotl. (1844) V. 82 Recommending me and my new rib to your daylie prayers. 1732

H. FIELDING

Mock Doctor ii, Go thrash your own rib, sir, at home. 1939 P. STURGES Great McGinty in Five Screenplays (1986) 105 Can you see me telling some rib where I been till two o'clock in the morning? 1991 Washington Post (Nexis) 2 July E5 It's all so confusing, this business of having to be politically correct... Can you still get away with referring to your wife as ‘the rib’?

8. a. A bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure. Also fig. and in figurative contexts.

1600

SHAKESPEARE

Much Ado about Nothing IV. i. 152 Confirmd, confirmd, O that is stronger made, Which was before bard vp with ribs of yron. 2002 J. L. HULL in C. A. Harper Handbk. Plastics, Elastomers, & Composites (ed. 4) ix. 586 Designing parts with thin reinforcing ribs rather than thick sections often reduces or eliminates such distortion.

SINISTER.

I. 1. a. Of information: Given with intent to deceive or mislead, esp. so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will. Obs.

1411 Rolls of Parlt. III. 650/2 And of all that by sinistre information, I havyng doute of harme of my body,..dyd assemble thise persones. 1566 Reg. Privy Council Scot. I. 416 Upoun sinister informatioun maid to thair Lordships,..the said Robert wes lattin to libertie; albeit the saidis Lordis perfytelie now undirstandis the contrarie.

2. Of opinions, etc.: Prejudicial, adverse, unfavourable, darkly suspicious. Obs.

1432 Paston Lett. I. 35 That the said Erle may have knowleche therof, to th' entent that he may..not dwelle in hevy or synistre conceit or opinion. a1713 T. ELLWOOD Autobiog. (1765) 67 Some evil Suspicion or sinister Thoughts concerning me. 1795 Sewel's Hist. Quakers I. Pref. p. xv, This is a very sinister and preposterous conceit.

II. 9. a. Situated on the left side of the body.

c1475 Partenay 3049 The sinistre Arme smote he vppon. SHAKES. Tr. & Cr. IV. v. 128 My Mothers bloud Runs on the dexter cheeke, and this sinister Bounds in my fathers. 1682 DRYDEN Mac-Fl. 120 In his sinister hand..He placed a mighty mug of potent ale.

Comb. a1658 LOVELACE Poems (1864) 158 That which still makes her mirth to flow, Is our sinister-handed woe.

* I cannot take full credit for this idea: we discussed this in another class I’m currently taking. :-)

Happy Hump Day

How does one find herself going from a nice, cool bed under a soft sheet to a smelly bus stop with a deranged pregnant woman singing along with her iPod and digging at her crotch? Answer: slowly. Painfully, dreadfully, slowly.

This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.

I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.

Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.

These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…

Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.

This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.

The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.

The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.

Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.

Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.

I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.

Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.

Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.

I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.

For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.

Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.

Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.

Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.

Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.

I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.

Happy Hump Day, readers.

And the Saga Continues...

Last Monday I received an email via my Pitt webmail from a mysterious sender "Duane Dangerous." Tuesday's class was canceled and we were to come Thursday "as scheduled," even though on the syllabus we were scheduled not to come. Confused as I was, I came anyway. Instead of my professor showing up though, a woman came to our class telling us that "[my professor] is gravely ill" and that she would be finishing out the term with us as our sub. We discussed possibilities for the final since it had not yet been assigned, and we all agreed on a take-home final that would be emailed to us the next week.

Fast-forward to Thursday the 16th. I get a Facebook message from a friend in that class saying our professor WAS BACK and ended up holding class for a party. I checked my Pitt webmail (which I never check) and sure enough, there in my inbox was the invitation to the class party along with 5 paragraphs-worth of essay topics for our new final that would be due the next week on Wednesday by midnight. I got this email Monday the 20th. Luckily I was able to write it and turn it in on time, but boy am I relieved to be done with that class.

In other news, my mom pawned off a bunch of assorted teas that she had acquired on me the other day - one of which was this white vanilla grapefruit tea by Harney & Sons. Conclusion: BEST TEA EVER. It was so smooth...like silk...the vanilla perfectly accented the hint of citrus from the grapefruit. Both existed harmoniously in this perfect sweet and fruity blend....sort of deal....or whatever. I can't even put it into words how good this tea was. All I can say is that you need to try some for yourself!

Mommy, guess what I learned in class today!

So today went as any other Thursday does: work for two hours in the mornings, then head to a long day of classes. My third class of the day is Advanced Shakespeare, and for the most part, it's pretty interesting. The professor is definitely young at heart - he has us addressing him on a first name basis, jokes around the entire class time, swears incessantly, and loves to show random films as long as they make even the smallest reference to Shakespeare. We all know he's a goof-off, but something was just not right today.

He made his grand entrance five minutes late, pushing his way through the desks rather than walking around them. He then proceeded to wrench the contents from the torn jeans he was wearing and throw them across the room, completely missing the table onto which he was (I'm assuming) trying to toss them. After fumbling with his manbag, he ripped a DVD from it and threw open the entertainment cabinet. The door kept falling shut, and this must have ticked him off because he kept slamming it back against the wall with his hand (and then eventually with his foot). Although the air conditioner was blasting, he decided to open all the windows to let in the forty degree air. The hair at the nape of his neck was wet with sweat, as was the back of the stained white tshirt he chose to wear to class. And even though his eyes were darting about wildly, he would suddenly begin nodding off (sometimes right in the middle of speaking).

He turned on the film (which was, by the way, Vincent Price's "Theatre of Blood"), stayed long enough to mutter a few incoherent phrases having to do with amphetamines and morphine, then left the room for the rest of the hour and fifteen minutes of class.

And this is the education I'm getting for thousands of dollars a semester.

T-SHIRTS!

As Skythrock would say, UPDEDIT:

check out this awesome tshirt site: Rethink Clothing.


I love t-shirts. In fact, I think I may have too many of them. There are just so many good ones out there though, you know? Band tees, funny tees, cute-tees (pun intended), team tees (especially Pitt!)...the list goes on and on.

It was only today that I realized just how many t-shirt websites I like to visit. Here's the short list:

• Woot Shirt
• Snorg Tees
• Loiter Apparel
• The Cotton Factory
• BustedTees

Anyway, tees are awesome. This is the one I most recently would die for: the Three-Eyed Owl.

Happy Spring Break to me...

With the submission of this paper, I thee (Spring Break) wed...

Symbolism in The Crying of Lot 49 and The Scarlet Letter

Who would have ever thought there could be so much meaning placed in such inanimate objects as an uber-geometric doodle of a “muted” horn or a red and gold piece of “A”-shaped fabric? In nearly all of the books our class has read during the course of this semester, there has been at least some semblance of symbolism (or some similar literary device) in each of the stories that all of us could identify. Having said this, I feel that two of the more recent books we have read, Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, have exhibited not only copious amounts of symbolism, but also have displayed it in ways that (though I’m sure the authors never intended this) are relative to one another.

I would first like to discuss the “main” symbols and their meanings (and by “meanings” I mean “potential meanings, or lack thereof” since, in many cases, we are never explicitly told what they mean). I would first like to establish them as symbols of fixation. In Pynchon’s Lot 49, the muted horn surfaces fairly early on as the object of Oedipa (the main character)’s obsession – from the moment she first spots the horn penciled onto the bathroom wall (Pynchon 38), she is from then on consumed by curiosity and desire to find out what it means. Both likewise and in contrast, in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter, the Puritan townspeople are obsessed with Hester (the main character)’s ornate crimson “A” that has been sewn front and center onto her dress and constantly mock, chastise, and shun her because of it (at least in the early part of the book). However, their fixation over the scarlet letter is not one of curiosity – everyone knows that Hester wears the letter as a symbolic reminder of the sin she has committed: adultery.

As stated previously, I would like to present some of the meanings given to these symbols throughout both books. The muted horn seems to claim multiple meanings since it has multiple groups using it as their trademark. What Oedipa feels is that it belonged to the “Trystero,” an old mail distribution organization. She believed that, after following the trail that horn left, she had possibly uncovered the centuries old conflict between the Trystero – a fictional company dreamed up by the author – and its rival company, “Thurn und Taxis” – a company which actually existed. The muted horn also served as the symbol for some sort of swingers group (being advertised on the wall of a bathroom) looking for free love and multiple partners, and again as the “emblem” for the anonymous inamorato’s “society of isolates (Pynchon 94).” Although we are given several various possibilities for the use of this symbol, we are never made known of its initial working use or of its original purpose. We could assume that its origin was that of the Trystero, but the book is so chaotic and wild-goose-chase-esque, that it is hard to tell; we are left dangling. We react similarly to Hester’s “A” in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter in that the author never actually comes right out and says that “A = Adulteress” (or some such form of the word). I believe, however, that we can assume it is what the author wanted us to at least think it to mean. Plus, it is what the townspeople believed, and they are mightily responsible for many of the opinions produced throughout the book (of Hester’s betrayal of loyalty to her husband, of her pride, of her inability to raise her child well, etc.). On the other hand, further down the road when Hester begins to reintroduce herself into society as a working member, the townsfolk change how they interpret the meaning from “Adulteress” (assumedly) to “Able” – by that, we can guess they mean any number of things: “able to overcome adversity,” “able to make herself useful,” the list could go on and on. By the end of the story, the people of the New England town see her “A” as a symbol to be revered. So just as in The Crying of Lot 49, the symbol of The Scarlet Letter morphs in and out of different meanings, taking on new definitions constantly.

I would like to focus next on the way symbols contrast the themes (perhaps not the themes, but certainly possible themes) of their respective stories. In The Crying of Lot 49, I see a major theme of “chaos” throughout. Moving away from the muted horn, I would like to postulate the idea that the story’s “Maxwell’s Demon” can serve as a symbol of order. The issue with the Demon is that it cannot be operated because it requires a certain unattainable level of communication (or a “sensitive” person). Since another theme would undeniably be “a breakdown in communication,” I feel as though this supports my theory when including this idea of a theme, as well. In The Scarlet Letter, I see the theme of “human frailty and sorrow” handed to us at the closing of the book’s first chapter (Hawthorne 46). In contrast, the rose is portrayed as a symbol of endurance and hope, or as the author would phrase it, “some sweet moral blossom (Hawthorne 46).” Just as Hester’s “A,” we are never actually told the true significance of the rose, though it is mentioned a few more times within the story; yet, like so many things in The Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne seems to like to keep some matters a secret from his audience.

Lastly, I find a similarity in the use of evocative names by both authors, whether it be blatantly intentional (like Pynchon) or perhaps not intentional at all (like Hawthorne), though we don’t know. In Pynchon’s work, the mailing system “W.A.S.T.E” is in fact a “waste” of time since only a few people actually know of it and because its users are required to deliver mail once a week even if they have nothing to say. The main character’s name is “Oedipa,” which is strikingly similar to Sophocles’ character “Oedipus,” a Theban king whose curiosity got the best of him when he dug too deep trying to find answers to a crime which turned out to be one of his own. His unearthing of the information drives him mad; likewise, Oedipa feels as though she either is going insane or perhaps already is insane by the end of her story. Her doctor, Dr. Hilarious, lives up to his surname as he does, in fact, go insane by the end of the book. The Crying of Lot 49 is rife with sexual references, and Pynchon does not limit the boundaries of said references. Oedipa’s husband Mucho’s radio station, for example, is named “KCUF,” which if read backwards, spells out a vulgar word. Mike Fallopian’s last name is an obvious reference to a part of a woman’s anatomy. Professor Dribelette, whose last name resembles the word “dribble,” is a weak character that gives information to Oedipa in spurts, much like the meaning of “dribble,” a weak, unsteady stream of saliva. Stanley Koteks shares his last name with a brand of feminine supplies. John Nefastis’ last name is fairly close to the word “nefarious,” which means “extremely wicked” – a definition I think I would happily apply to the man after he tried to force Oedipa to have sex with him. The list could obviously go on and on; there is a trick to each character’s name. In The Scarlet Letter, however, I only found a few. Hester, I noticed, is very close to the name “Esther,” a Biblical heroin, if you merely move the “h” down between the “t” and the “e.” Since Hester is the heroin of this story, I feel this to be a possible play on the name. Her husband, who decided to take on the alias name “Chillingworth,” did do his share of “chilling” the other main characters of the book, and even the townspeople since they soon were fearful of him and thought he was the devil. Dimmesdale’s name – who, if you take the first three letters of his name, you get “dim” – seems to suggest his “dimness” or weakness (physically, emotionally, etc.). Finally, there is Hester’s daughter Pearl whose name we know to be intentionally symbolic from Hester who named her thus because she was her only treasure. I also see a subtle Biblical reference in Pearl’s name that evokes allegorical device—the “pearl of great price” used in relation to Christ purchasing us on the Cross, or salvation.

In conclusion, I would like to clarify that not everything I have stated is solid fact; much of it is opinion. Yet I feel that much of the purpose of symbolism is that the reader is to take it in and decide for himself whether or not there is more to it than just its surface meaning. In both stories cases, I believe the authors have done just that: wrote riveting works that serve as excellent works of literature for both audiences – those who take the text at face value, and those who like to read between the lines.

Works Cited

Pynchon, Thomas. Crying of Lot 49. New York: Harper Perennial, 2006.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. New York: Penguin Books, 2003.

(PS: Posting this, I didn't feel like going through and re-italicizing everything, so you can just imagine it to be there since it didn't copy over.)

The Walk

(experimenting with some second person perspective writing…)

She stepped onto the escalator marked “DOWN” and, due to state of her sopping (and now sagging) pant legs which had worked their way underneath her shoes, nearly missed her footing. She steadied herself by grabbing on to both sides of the moving staircase and thought to herself That was a close one – I have a feeling rolling down these steps would hurt much worse than tumbling down the wooden ones at home. She was having a relatively good day, all things considered, and not much was going to get her down that Friday afternoon. Pittsburgh’s wintry weather streak had finally been broken and that day and the previous one had been a comfortable fifty degrees. For Friday, however, there was some off-and-on rain tacked on to the forecast.

She reached the bottom of the last escalator and exited the Victoria Building. As she did so, she flipped open her phone, scrolled down through her list of previously called numbers, and hit “SEND” when she reached the contact “Dad.” After a short wait, she heard the cheery voice of her father on the other end. “Hello, Sammi!” he greeted. “Hey, Dad, how’s it going?” she asked.They chatted back and forth as she walked, heading down towards Fifth Avenue. About a minute into the conversation, she cut herself off mid-sentence: “Oh crap, wait a minute – it just started raining out of nowhere.” She dug deep into her tote bag, if one could even call it that anymore. It was more like a threadbare, faded, stained sack with an “Alice in Wonderland” theme in silver on its black canvas body; but it was her favorite. Her fingers stumbled across the parachute-like object that she recognized as her umbrella and yanked it out of the depths of her bag. “Man,” she continued, “it’s been really off and on today, the rain. One minute, it’s fine; the next, it’s a torrential downpour.”

She wrapped up her conversation with her father then pocketed her flip-phone so that she could better grip her flimsy, two-dollar miniature umbrella. The wind whipped all around her as she turned left onto McKees Place. Denying it the pleasure of doing it for her, she rested the thin pole of the umbrella against her forehead to keep the wind from sending it back and hitting her in the face. She looked down and examined herself as she trudged through the rain: her brown velour pants were now even more wet than before, soaked all the way up to her knees. Just my luck again, she thought. Every time I wear these, it rains. And every time, the material sops up all the water like a sponge. She also noticed that she not only picked the wrong pants to wear, but also the wrong shoes. Her green plaid Chuck Taylor “lo-tops” – also canvas, like her shabby tote – were absorbing just about as much of the rain as her pant legs, as though they were in some kind of strange competition. She rolled her eyes to herself as she reached the revolving door to her office building. As she made the half-circle to enter, she let out a sigh of relief, knowing that within a few moments she could rid herself of her wet shoes. She boarded the elevator and rode it to her floor.

She proceeded to her office suite, unlocked the door, and headed straight for her office. When she finally stepped through the doorway, she tossed her bag onto the chair nearest her, rolled up her pant legs, pulled off her shoes and socks, and plopped herself into her own seat. Bending down, she turned the knob to activate the little fan she kept underneath her desk for the summertime and aimed it at the wall next to her; then, feeling resourceful, she propped her shoes against the wall, draped her socks over them, and adjusted the fan so that it was angled in her footwear’s general direction. Then, leaning back in her chair, she began to type.

Sick.

So last night I passed out way earlier than usual (around 11:00). I figured that maybe I was just really worn out from the long session I had with a research study in which I had enrolled, which another thing entirely.

Monday afternoon, I had my first appointment with a researcher who was doing a one-time study with the students from my Intro. to Psych. class for credits. I'm not real big into the idea of studies, but it's a requirement for the course (yeah, required to volunteer...hm). So I spent an hour and a half playing "Cyberball," looking at ink blots, and deciphering recipes (where I have to guess what the meal would look like after made), all done on the computer. Turned out that it wasn't a "visualization" study at all but instead was a "ostracization" study. What the bloody heck did you need to have us look at shapes and recipes for an extra hour then??? Very annoying, and quite a waste of my time, in my opinion.

So today I woke up with a headache, just like yesterday. I took 400 mg Ibuprofen and went to work, then went to class at 9:00. I was still SO tired though. I actually fell asleep in class. Between my first class (West. Civ.) and my next class (American Lit. Traditions), I tried to take a nap. I did, but it didn't do the job. By the time I got to class, I was sweating bullets, and twenty minutes into class, I had to run out for fear of wretching all over the Israeli nationality room's floor. So I bussed it home and crawled right into bed. I ended up sleeping from 1:30 to 6:30, got up and watched American Idol with the family, and am now so wide awake that I don't know what to do with myself. So I'm about to watch the season premiere of Burn Notice that I'd missed. Hopefully that will tire me out since I've got to get up again at 5:30. *sigh*

Of Spicy Subs and Juicy Jumpers

As I said in my previous post, I've set up my class schedule so that I can work eight-hour days on Monday and Friday, have off Wednesday, and have all my classes on Tuesday and Thursday. While it's nice to be able to work without interruption and have that extra day-off like a mini-weekend, the whole classes-from-nine-to-five is pretty intense. I'm so glad they're all fun classes, because if this were my schedule last semester, I think I would have blown my brains out by now.

Because of these long Tuesdays and Thursdays, I no longer have the luxury of riding home with my dad those evenings. Usually we commute back and forth since he works at Magee Hospital (and I work only a block over from him). It's always worked out well because I've made a point to schedule everything to end by 4:00 so that I could leave with him. So how do I get home now? The public transit system, of course.

I'm no germaphobe, but I'm not gonna lie: those buses are sick. There's gum, graffiti, and God-knows-what everywhere. It's populated by crabby old codgers and creepers. Did I mention creepers? (...so then what does that make me? *shudders*) The bus stops aren't much better: it seems like 75% of those waiting at my bus stop are freaking chain smokers. And, as Fate would have it, no matter which direction I choose to angle myself away from that corrupt fog, the wind blows it right into my face.

[I despair, I really do.]

In the past, when I'd get fed up with it, I'd just step inside the Subway (restaurant) that's on that block to save my lungs. Unfortunately, the little Indian manager caught on to me and actually stepped out from behind the counter to tell me so. About five bus stop waits later, I figured it out: to get in and be allowed to stay in, you've got to buy something. Ah, I now see how his foul little mind works...

So since then, when I have to take the bus and I know it's going to be awhile, I just pop in, buy myself a flavored Aquafina, and chill by the window sipping my water like a good girl until my bus comes. Occasionally, I'll even by dinner (turkey bacon sub with lettuce, green peppers, cucumbers, and lots of jalapenos) there since I don't get home until 7:00 now. Although, I'm not even sure if I'd have to do even that anymore. There's a new manager, at least for the new time I get down to the bus stop. It's always the same two guys working now: two Hispanic guys, about my age, who look almost identical (and who do they look like? ADAM RODRIGUEZ from CSI: Miami!). And they both speak crystal-clear English, but only when waiting on customers. Otherwise, they're chatting fluently in Spanish to one another. The first time this happened, I have to admit: I felt uneasy. Hey, wait a minute? What are they saying that they don't want me to understand? Is there something on my face? *checks*

This Tuesday when I came back, same thing. Only this time the other guy took my "order." While making change though, he kept shooting me these sheepish grins (that and -- again -- speaking casually yet intensely to his co-worker in Spanish). Finally, after having taken his blessed time making change for $1.50 out of $2.00, he held out the two quarters, palm facing up (presumably so I had to pick them out of his hand) instead of just dropping the money into my hand. He then looked up at me, blushing, and said (and I quote): "I -- I love your sweater...it's....very....JUICY!" Taken aback, my head jerked downward almost involuntarily to remind myself of what I was wearing: a fitted hooded hunter green knit sweater with other colors stitched in around the cuffs and neckline, which plunged deeper than I guess I'd noticed before. Could he have meant "juicy" as in "sweet"? Like the way we use it now as "cool"? Or is he referencing...? Nahhhhh...OH GOSH.

"Um...thanks!" I mustered awkwardly. Flustered and blushing, I shot an absent glance towards the store front as if there were a teleprompter over there waiting for me. "Gotta go...uh...thanks...er, for the water...I mean..." At that point I figured you've dug the hole already, you idiot -- now don't throw yourself into it! and just darted out the door.

"Juicy."

Yeah...

NEW POST?! COULD IT BE TRUE?!

Yes, 'tis true. So let's dive in.

I'm finally a sophomore, so I guess I should change that in my profile. :-)

This semester, I'm taking:
*Western Civilization (History)
*American Literary Traditions (Literature)
*Advanced Shakespeare (Literature)
*Introduction to Psychology (Psych.)

I'm only taking 4 classes this time so that I can stay home and help my sisters with their homeschooling, which is working out nicely.

I'm about to run to class, so here's a paper I just pounded out in the last half hour (feedback is welcome). Hope to post again soon!


Wealth and Social Strata

I think it was the lyrics of the song Gatsby’s pianist played – “The Love Nest” – that said it best: “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer/ The rich get richer and the poor get – children.” Such was the case in the early 1900s society; such was the case for Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan.

The first time we meet Daisy, we are told that she’s married to a real jerk, Tom, and that she has a young child. Daisy reflects on when she first had the baby that she had wished the child to grow up to be a “foolish girl” since the foolish women wouldn’t notice or care that their husbands were having affairs. Even though Daisy was considered “sophisticated” and “fashionable” (her husband had gone to Yale, was successful, and they lived in East Egg – a ritzy area), she felt poor in that there was an emptiness inside her.

Gatsby, likewise, had everything a man could wish for, yet had not the only thing he wanted in life: Daisy. In fact, the whole reason he even bought that gaudy mansion by the Sound was so that he could show off for Daisy and feel closer to her (staring out at the “enchanted” image of the green light on the dock). When he left for war (if I was reading this correctly), it seemed as though he lost his purpose in life and didn’t care whether he lived or died. It turned out that he, in his depressed state, led a group of men into a heated area of battle and made it out alive; he was even decorated and rewarded. That, combined with what his family left him and the business he conducted, made him a very wealthy man; he was able to turn his dreams of success into a reality (which is what, I’m guessing, makes him “the Great Gatsby”). This is something he really enjoys showing off, perhaps too much. Because of that, I feel as though Gatsby’s dreams of fame and fortune came true but then got in the way of his dream to be with Daisy. I think Nick – or F.S. Fitzgerald – is both directly and subtly implying that when the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of wealth collide, something’s got to give. Both were rich by society’s standards, but when they looked inside their hearts, they were as poor as peasants.

Wow.

It's been so long since I've updated - apologies!

Now that I've wrapped up this semester, I promise to post something soon.

Until then, here's a picture of a cute little cat.

The Final Product

Here's the final copy of my article on Pitt's Fall Fest (previously referenced) Primanti Brothers eating contest. I'll post my grade later if it's any good. Well, even if it isn't, I'll just fib and make up a good, round number to post as my grade. *wink*

Anyway, feedback is welcome - both praise and criticism (but by all means, praise away).

Pitt’s Fall Fest brings Primanti to the table

"The show must go on" - never a statement rang more true for the Pitt Program Council than last Saturday during Pitt's annual Fall Fest when one of the sandwiches for a competitive eating competition was stolen from its table on Bigelow Boulevard.

However, despite the setback, the Primanti Brothers eat-off was still a huge hit.

Allie Miller, PPC's Recreation Director, has been organizing competitive eating competitions since she first became part of the PPC team. Before, it was always perogies or hotdogs, but this year, Miller wanted to go bigger and better.

And that she did: this year, Miller arranged to have real Primanti Brothers cheesesteaks for the eat-off's ravenous participants. "It's intense," said Miller. "The people that do want to do it really get into it." Miller noted that having Primanti's cheesesteaks works both ways: it reels in interest from those who already love the sandwiches and also works as some free advertising for the business.

If those delicious cheesesteaks weren't reason enough to compete, the prizes certainly were: the first place winner would be awarded a $100 Visa gift card with second and third place winners being awarded $50 and $25 cards. "We like to give [students] incentive to sign up and compete," Miller explained. "We want to be up to par with other contests like these."

It goes without saying that PPC spares no expense for each year's Fall Fest. Even the cheesesteaks were paid for by the Pitt Program Council, bought at regular price. "We're looking to expand upon getting donations," was all Miller had to say about the subject.

Perhaps having to pay for each sandwich is what impacted the decision of how many sandwiches would be used for the competition. Whatever the reason though, some who came to watch what they expected to be an "all-you-can-eat" contest could be heard complaining about "false advertising" when they saw just one sandwich at each place setting.

But Miller wasn't paying attention to the few griping crowd members - she was too busy trying to hunt down the thief who had stolen one of the cheesesteaks off of the fenced-in table.

Upon questioning some who had come early to watch the event, Miller discovered that someone had seen the man who took the sandwich and could name him. Blushing, Miller admitted, "I know this kid." Grabbing a nearby megaphone, Miller shouted for the thief - identified as Jesse King - to "bring me back my sandwich," threatening that if he didn't she would tell everyone not to join his fraternity.

The sandwich was never returned, and Miller was forced to make the decision that someone would have to bow out. With only 14 cheesesteaks left, one of the men who had registered to compete volunteered to drop out and was given a Fall Fest T-shirt as compensation.

Since the race was not timed, it came down to whoever was first to raise his or her hand. After only a minute or so, Pitt senior Ben Gillespie, eyes pinched shut, threw his hand into the air, followed shortly thereafter by two other men.

When asked about the techniques used to bring about his success, Gillespie said that the secret was all in smashing the sandwich flat then pouring water over it to make it "nice and soggy." In addition, he "warmed up" the night before by eating three pounds of pasta and drinking a gallon of water.

This wasn't his first victory for this kind of competition: Gillespie has won three other types of competitive eating contests, one which involved eating an entire pie in 30 seconds, another which involved eating 20 hotdogs in five minutes.

Overall, students seemed to be in agreement that the event was a success and that they are looking forward to what PPC will dish out for next year.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round...

...until they hit someone. Then they stop. For a very long time.

Fridays now are always my least favorite days of the week. "Why?" you may ask - "it's the last day of the work and school week! You should be happy!" Well, maybe I could be if it weren't for my statistics recitation. Any joy and happiness that could possibly come from knowing that it's the last day of work and school for the next two whole days literally gets sucked from my soul by my Dementor-like recitation TA. Don't be fooled by her seemingly meek exterior: this chick is cruel. When I first came to her to get help with catching up (from previous posts, you'll remember that I missed a class and recitation and, as a result, fell majorly behind with homework), she wanted me to turn in three (3) weeks worth of homework plus the homework due the coming recitation all in one day! I'm thinking, "Lady, there are ~20 problems per homework assignment. You do NOT expect me to get these all done in 18 hours." But she did. And when I didn't turn them in because I was so busy with the homework actually due for that week, I asked if they could be turned in late and she wasn't even going to accept them(!!!) until I pleaded with her! She has the grumpiest attitude and makes you feel stupid if you even dare raise your hand to attempt to answer a question but get it wrong. The Hungarian accent only further exacerbates the problem since half the time I can't understand her and am having to ask, "Come again?" or "Can you repeat that?" She gets angry at me because I can't understand her broken English.

Well Expecto Patronum to you, TA. Expecto Patronum to you.

Okay, now that I'm way off topic...

So last-last Friday (two Fridays ago) I had to take the bus home. I literally chased the bus as it was pulling out, but those [expletive] Port Authority drivers wouldn't stop for a little old lady if she were waving them down. So I had to wait an extra half hour for a bus I could have taken immediately if she would have stopped for me.

To make matters so much worse, I board the second bus, it rounds the bend, and he "hits" a lady getting onto the bus. Seriously, we didn't even make the turn fully and this happens. I didn't see the entire thing because I'm so freaking short, but by the talk of the riders who did see, some woman (who they recognized from her daily riding that bus as well) was getting onto the bus, but she claims it was still moving and knocked her down as she was stepping up. One of the passengers thought aloud that she was probably doing it for some good lawsuit money.

Seriously. Of all the buses in downtown Pittsburgh to do this to, it had to be mine.

So the bus driver is trying to figure out if she's okay - "Ma'am? Are you hurt? Can you stand up?" - and, naturally, this lady is milking it for all it's worth and is groaning and mumbling that "[her] back and neck hurt." Well everyone knows that when someone says their back/neck hurts, then you shouldn't move them. Nice move, homie. Twenty-five minutes later, the Port Authority police and the Pittsburgh police arrive at the scene and are asking the lady, the driver, and the other passengers what happened. People are getting frustrated by this point (I already was 20 seconds after her act), and they're checking their schedules to see when the next bus comes. I hear the girl next to me say that one should be coming in about 10 minutes. Ten minutes, huh? Well I gather up my stuff, walk to the front of the bus, leap gracefully over the faking pile of flesh - aka, the homeless-looking woman - and walk all 15 steps back to my bus stop. Within five minutes, I hear the sirens of the ambulance. (It's about time - good thing the woman wasn't REALLY hurt.) Traffic is all backed up now since the bus is straddling two intersections and the ambulance and police cars are hogging up the rest of the road. I see them carry her off on a stretcher and figure the bus is going to get moving after all. But I'm sure you've already guessed it: I walked over, as did two other riders, and waved what the driver must have taken as "bon voyage" to the bus.

Long story short, I boarded the third bus which made it all of 10 stops before declaring that we were going to take some of the second bus's passengers since it's schedule was backed up; and that anyone going straight to Tarentum could go get on the other bus since it was going to go straight there, no stops. Yeah, well that wasn't the most even exchange. We gave two, we got thirty-two. So I rode home next to a man reeking of whiskey. How did I know it was whiskey? Because the guy, with one eye half shut and breath smelling of booze, looked over at me and slurred out, "What a day. When I get home, I'm drinkin' a whole bottle of whiskey."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Fast-forward to this past Saturday.

As you'll see in a soon-to-come post, I took my sister Ali with me to Pitt's annual Fall Fest since I was going to be covering an event there for a journalism project. We had to take the bus. If it wasn't bad enough that our local creepy cross-dresser was on the bus (talking to himself and playing with his hair, as usual) on the way out and back, the bus heading home was driven by the Abominable Snow Monster. We could see our breath on the bus, it was that cold. And he completely ignored the hollers from the back of the bus as two girls called out to him to turn on the heat. But the best part had to be the adventure of Clumsy, the little-known eighth dwarf in Snow White's posse (the guy had the height, the roly-poly belly, the long white beard, and even the funny little hat). The poor guy pulled the "Stop Requested" line and started walking to the front of the bus, but the driver slammed on the brakes and poor little Clumsy was projected forward. Luckily, he was able to grab on to one of the poles and hold on for dear life. But just as he steadied himself and started walking forward, AGAIN, the bus driver slams on the brakes; this time however, Clumsy wasn't so lucky. He went sailing towards the front of the bus, BACKWARDS. He tried to catch himself on anything, but failed and instead landed on his butt then slipped effortlessly into a backwards tumble, knocking his head on something next to the driver. If it weren't so sad, I'd have laughed, and if he weren't so old, I'd have given him a 9 (he didn't stick the landing well enough for a 10). He stood up, and it was at that point with him holding his wrist and rubbing his head that I thought we were going to go through this all over again. I called my mom and made her aware of the situation and that we may be awhile. Ali was mortified. Thankfully, the man didn't ask to be checked out and got off the bus at his stop.

Twitter says it best:

Killing me softly...

...with homework.

Here's how my life has been this week:

Sunday: working until 2 a.m. on an article discussing a book reading for my journalism class.

Monday: class all day, then coming home and working on a critical reading essay and anthropology essay until 1:30 a.m. then studying statistics until 2 a.m.

Keep in mind I leave for work every morning at 6 a.m.

Tuesday: class all day, then working on an article discussing a family selling their farm for my journalism class, then working some more on that anthropology essay until 1:30 a.m. then studying statistics until 2:30 a.m.

Wednesday: class all day, church, finishing that anthropology essay, then being too whooped to even look at my statistics book.

Today: work until 10 a.m. then studying statistics for the EXAM I have today. Yeah. Then anthropology lecture at 11, anthropology recitation at 12, stats exam at 1 (!!!), and critical reading at 2. Then I've got to make a trip to the campus bookstore to pick up the newest book for my critical reading class. Then I have to catch a bloody city bus into downtown Pittsburgh THEN catch ANOTHER one into my town since my dad has a gig tonight (I usually ride home with him). Then I have to work on some homework for stats before going out to the gym to play volleyball until God knows how late to work out all my frustrations. Of course I'll probably just bring my homework to the gym and work in the lobby. It will be more peaceful there than at home anyway.

Lord, help me harness my emotions long enough today to keep from killing someone.

The only instance in which laziness pays off:

I absolutely love Caribou, but I don't like using my debit card there because the receipts are so large and therefore difficult to cram into my wallet for safe-keeping until I balance my checkbook. The solution? 'Bou Bucks, of course! It's like a refillable gift card for yourself. Problem is, I drained mine two weeks ago and haven't gotten around to refilling it yet. So last week I was like the typical alcoholic, not wanting to drink but not being able to help it when passes right by the bar (or in my instance, coffeehouse) each day on the way to work. And dang it, my wallet is stuffed full now of these mile-long receipts that I have to plug in now to my checkbook. (In Caribou's defense, they're only long because either a.) there's a survey code at the bottom or b.) they're attaching a coupon, so it's very nice of them to be so thoughtful, but it gets bothersome after awhile.)

So to address my drinking problem, I've had to come up with an alternative route to work so as to bypass Caribou completely to avoid temptation:



As you can see, my new route (in purple) takes me through the creepy alley behind Caribou. So much better. But hey, I've done it the past two mornings, and I'm still making it to the office $3.48 richer each day than I would have been had I gone my usual route.

See how laziness saves you money?

Just for the health of it.

This past Wednesday was Pitt's annual Panther Wellness Carnival. Each year Pitt hosts a day of carnival-like activities that promote and spread awareness of good health practices. There was free food, candy, games, and door prizes, including a "Go Green" tote, a gigantic magnet with the Student Health Services phone number on it, a gift card to Chipotle (rock on), and best of all? Free OCCs! (Out of Class Credits)
Booths were set up outside the William Pitt Union displaying brochures, facts, and games with prizes to help communicate the purpose of their table.

Here's a t-shirt I got at one of the booths that was promoting wise drinking habits. I still have no clue what OHEP stands for...



And here's the booth at which I got the shirt! You'd pick a rubber ducky out of the pool, tell them the number that was written underneath it, and they'd ask you that number question off the quiz sheet (all of which pertained to drinking habits). For playing, you got a free shirt.




Next booth over was the smoking awareness table. They had a breathalyzer set out to test how much smoke was in your lungs.

As you can see, there were a bunch of local businesses who helped out with donations for the activity. There were lots of prizes involving gift cards (one of which was a $15 Target gift card...I wanted that one).

This had to be the strangest of all the tables. This is the HIV awareness booth. The game involved popping "condom balloons" (yes, I saw the girls blowing up the balloons - and they were ribbed. It was nasty.) with a dart and then answering the question number off of the sheet based on the number behind the balloon you popped (make sense?). To give you a window through which to look through that should tell you a little about myself, I got probably the easiest question: "What does HIV stand for?" and I couldn't answer it. I did, however, get a free pack of condoms for trying (which I nonchalantly tossed back on the table in passing). Go abstinence. :-)

This was the coolest table. It was a handwriting analysis booth. And the guy seriously knew what he was doing. He pretty much nailed me. And not just the ultra-vague "I see that you had a dark time in your past" mumbo jumbo; this guy was very specific. He was able to tell the girl next to me that she had either broken or sprained an ankle in the past year (just based on her handwriting!) and he was correct. He was able to tell me my favorite color, that I sing, and lots of other facts about myself. It was pretty impressive...

This was another cool one. It was a DUI awareness booth where you'd toe the black line as shown then try toeing it again but with the "Fatal Vision Goggles." Seriously, it was hilarious to watch people do this. They would try to walk straight but end up walking off towards a tree or the group of bystanders, not even realizing it.

This guy was especially fun to watch: he nearly fell over twice.

All in all, fun session! I got lots of cool stuff from it, the best of which was an awesome pen. I love pens. I'll steal your pens the first chance I get if I think it writes nicely. Must be a left-handed thing...

Go Pitt!

...like a chicken with its head cut off.

Life went from busy to nearly-out-of-control-losing-my-mind busy (wow, that WORD was busy).

Since the last time I updated (read "really updated"), school has started back up for me here at Pitt. I really love it here: there's such an atmosphere about it. Everything from the buildings like the Cathedral of Learning to the faculty and staff - all is wonderful. Well, actually, I can't say that. But we'll come back to that in a bit.


Anyway, school has also started up for my siblings. In fact, we all started the same day (the 25th). To be honest, this fact alone has made my life a living hell - even trumping my college homework - over the past two weeks. Between my brother needing help with geometry and the twins needing help figuring out how to work the PA Cyber school online program PLUS all of their homework, I barely have enough time to do my own. It's actually resulting in a lot of last-minute (what I like to call) "puke-up" homework where I pretty much BS my way through the assignment to get enough length on it even though I probably didn't do the reading needed to write the essay/paper/short answer well. Alas. But I am apparently good at it though, because I haven't had any poor gradings on them yet.

On the other hand...

I don't think one needs to be a Hindu to believe in the idea of Karma, which is (as one definition reads) "the effects of all deeds actively create past, present, and future experiences, thus making one responsible for one's own life, and the pain and joy it brings to him/her and others." I usually see this mostly in the teams I end up on when playing volleyball on Thursday nights: I get on the elite team at the beginning of the night and we dominate every other team, laughing in their faces and making them kiss our big toes (okay, I embellish); then Karma kicks in and I get stuck with the clumsy, uncoordinated people of the group, and we lose every game.

Anyway, back to how this relates to school.

I'm taking a Statistics course and my teacher is positively off the wall. On top of being down-right scary looking, she's flighty, absent-minded, and clueless to the fact that all the students know it and are making fun of her. I missed my very first recitation for this class due to circumstances outside of my control. I told her this and asked if there were a way to make it up. She told me to just wait a week and go to the next one. I did this (already a week behind in homework, mind you) and lo and behold! No one was there! Apparently, they moved recitation and didn't tell me. So that's two weeks of homework in the hole. Finally, I am able to make it to the third week. The TA is Hungarian and very soft spoken, so I had a difficult time making out what she was saying over the two air conditioners in the room. The period seemed short: she spent the first 15 minutes milling about jotting things on the board and the remainder of the class was spent showing us how to take a survey on the Stats website and assigning a quiz to us (which I ended up taking and definitely bombing). I met with her afterwards to schedule a meeting to get me caught up. The guy next to me was nice enough to give me the website with the homework syllabus on it. I was ready to pull all of my hair out.

So one bogus class out of five isn't bad, right?

...right? :-(