Adventures in the Rain

Things seem to happen to me the most in the rain, don't they? The last time I did a post about rain, I talked about being mistaken for a prostitute (I think...or at least a runaway), and thist ime...well...see for yourself.

So on Sunday, I was still at Interlochen, to watch the commencement ceremony for the class of 2012. Only problem was, it was pouring rain, and my former high school is not exactly what you would call weatherproof. The pavilion where the graduation ceremony itself was held is under a roof, to be sure, but at Interlochen there are these giant spaces between buildings...also, we were parked in No Man's Land, because we got there fifteen minutes before the ceremony. So, naturally, there was a lot of "running for it." But luckily, just after the ceremony was over, it stopped raining, just long enough to get some pictures.

But after the reception, when Smilelover had to run back to her car before it started storming again, I forgot where we parked. A friend of ours was waiting in the dorm that just so happens to be at the ass-end of campus....and we were at the OTHER ass-end of campus, because as I said, we had to park in No-Man's land. Smilelover ran ahead--she's a good runner; I am not--and I got lost somewhere in the concourse. By that time, it was pouring. I mean really pouring. Thunder, lightening, enough water to drown Noah and everything on his Ark...the whole nine yards. And there I am, standing under the awning of the science building, with a totally unprotected Canon T2i. There was NO WAY I was going out in that. I frantically tried to call Smilelover upwards of 20 times, but my phone was nearly dead already and it died just as I finally managed to reach her. In desperation, I borrowed a plastic grocery bag from a teacher and prepared to run for it.

I ended up calling the dorm from the science building. Smilelover told me to come to TJ, the dorm, and I agreed to meet her there. I made it down the concourse, but of course outside it was still pouring. I stood at the door, trying to gather the courage to run out into that, when lo and behold, Soup Nazi appears, sees my plight, and offers to walk me over to TJ with his umbrella. (No, not the actual Soup Nazi...but this guy is hands down the most wonderful Soup Nazi impersonator I have ever witnessed, so that shall be his nickname for my blog.)

Initially I was exceedingly grateful...and then, he opened his umbrella, and I experienced a sinking feeling in my stomach. Umbrella? More like parasol. It looked like he'd picked from the six-year-old side of the umbrella store. The only way we were both going to get underneath this thing was to cuddle together...so we did, me holding up my long skirt (yes, I KNOW I'm a dumbass for wearing a long skirt when I knew there would be rain) and supporting my camera with one hand, the other arm around his waist, and his very long, very slender arm around my shoulders. On the count of three, we took off, tearing through main campus.

Two problems: 1) The puddles were about half a foot deep...and about half a mile wide. Our campus already sits between two lakes; seemed like a third was forming on our campus. Good thing I was holding up my skirt, because I was ankle-deep in icy water. 2) Remember when I said I wasn't a good runner? Well, turns out Mr. Soup Nazi is. He runs like a freaking gazelle. I, on the other hand, run like a drugged sheepdog. So after half a minute, not only was I staggering like a wino, but his arm had slipped from around my shoulders to around my neck, with his hand sort of dangling down my chest, so he was half-choking me, half-groping me as he skipped through the rain, upright and smiling like he was in a commercial of some sort, while I galumphed behind him feeling like a total idiot.

But oh, wait. It gets even better.

We make it to the hotel/cafeteria, which just happens to connect to the dorm...and where Soup Nazi's parents just so happened to be waiting. Oh, no. Much as I adore this boy, the last thing I wanted at that point in time was to meet anyone's parents. I was rocking the drowned-rat look, complete with a very disgruntled expression in addition to soaked hair and a white skirt that was so damp you could easily see my underwear. But Soup Nazi dragged me over to a couple that HAD to be either his parents or someone exremely closely related to him. I was silently praying for them to be maybe an aunt and uncle...but no such luck. He introduced me to his mother: "Mom, I'd like you to meet Avery...she's VERY special to me." *wink*

Time out here. You see, Soup Nazi is that special kind of Interlochen boy who is not "Gay by May," he's ALREADY gay when he arrives at the 'Lochen...but he will go to his grave insisting that he's straight. I always feel so awful for these boys, because I hate to see anyone be uncomfortable with all of the awesomeness that they are. Moreover I understand that some parents are not as accepting as they should be, and I totally get the need to make your parents happy (believe me, I do!). I would have happily posed as Soup Nazi's girlfriend...if he had asked me to. But I was tricked into it, and totally thrown off, and yes, I have been trained in improv acting, but I was never the best at it and, uh, on top of all that, let's not forget that I'm still a bit disoriented from being dragged through Main Camp by my throat.

At this point, I dearly wanted to take Soup Nazi's little lamp-shade umbrella and put it in a location that a doctor would have to remove it from...but I didn't. I played along. But I didn't make it easy on him. For instance: when he was explaining that I'd graduated the previous year, he blanked on my college name. He did guess that it was in Maryland, lucky for him, but I honestly enjoyed watching him squirm for those few seconds, just the tiniest bit. But the real icing on the cake was at the very end, when I finally managed to impress upon him that my friends were waiting for me, and he said good-bye by hugging me close and saying in an elaborate stage-whisper, I'd kiss you good-bye but my mother is watching us. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen--he WANTED his mother to hear that.

I wanted to reply, That's okay, I'd kiss YOU good-bye but that would be a little counterproductive, seeing as I'm about to murder you. But I didn't. I sweetly, politely said good-bye to his mom and walked away.

He insisted on walking me to the cafeteria, and just before leaving me there--wait, this requires a bit more explanation. You see, I knew this guy last year, when I was still a student at Interlochen, and he, like half the campus, knew about my feelings for Saxophone Boy and, also like half the campus, was under the impression that Saxophone Boy and I were about to get married and ride off into the sunset. So, his parting shot to me--accompanied by a blown kiss and a wink--was, "Don't worry, I won't mention this to Saxophone Boy." And then he wisely got the hell out of there before I could throw something at him.

And I swear to God I am such a film student, because even as I turned around to walk away, even as I was so annoyed that I was actually considering running along behind him and beating him with his own umbrella, I thought to myself, Someday, this little anecdote is going into one of my screenplays.

As long as we're together, gonna kick some ass

The title of this post is a line from "Goin' Back to Hogwarts" from AVPM. I figured it fit, because today I went back to Interlochen for Festival (basically, reunion + graduation + a ton of performances, because hey, we're an art school) and I've always kind of seen that place as my Hogwarts...except at Interlochen, art is our magic. (Yes, I am fully aware of how corny that was.)

I fully plan to post pictures of the campus and of my lovely friends, but right now I just want to explain why I STILL miss high school. Not that I'm not "over" high school, as Hermione (the girl who went to my sorority formal, to refresh your memory) puts it, but I still miss my school...and hopefully, I can manage to explain why, without droning on forever and giving SOMEONE an excuse to remind me once again, "Avery, you're not in high school anymore."

I started this blog and abandoned my old one because I needed to get away from Alien Water Torture. Because I was still caught up in Interlochen, rather than being caught up in my college, and I needed to let go of things that I was still holding onto that, trust me, I didn't need to hold onto. So I made myself turn away. Not that I severed ties with Interlochen--far from it. But I stopped letting Interlochen define me. I stopped thinking "What would I have done at Interlochen?" and modifying the answer to fit my situation at McDaniel, and started thinking more along the lines of, "What can I do now that I'm on my own?"

So, I made myself move on. But I still feel homesick for my school sometimes--how could I not? Essentially, I had what I'd always wanted there--a giant, close-knit extended family. Let me put it this way: my relatives live all around the country. Texas, Maryland, West Virginia...and I live in Michigan. Most people traditionally see their extended families at family reunions, holidays, that sort of thing...but at Interlochen it felt like having my extended family there all the time. Not just a bunch of cousins, either. We had our roles. I had a "wife" and "child" there; I had "sisters" who I still talk to over Skype. It's crazy what happens when you take four hundred whimsical-minded art students and put them all on a small campus together. Really amazing. I had conversations I didn't even think were possible. Anyone who is here via Alien Water Torture, this is where my love of Stolen Dialogue comes from. Anyone who hasn't seen AWT...well, here's a sample of what I'm talking about:

Person one: Hello darling, how are you?

Person two: Student senate was bullshit, how are you?

Person one: Oh well spotted, Sherlock...I'm fine, thanks.

 

Person one: Is there anything technological you can't do?
Person two: I'm sure there's a few things...when I find out what those are, I'll just learn how to do them.
Person one: Can you make it look like this movie wasn't edited by a hormonal overemotional teenage girl?
Person two: Sure...but I didn't know you were asking Justin Bieber to edit your movie...

 

Person one: So, Valentine's day is coming up. I think you should profess your love.

Person two: I think so too!

Person three: Yes! I could sing it to him!

Person two: NOT LIKE THAT! Oh God, bring out the steak knives!

 

Person one: So we were playing the airplane game, where you sit with a group of people and try to figure out, if the world ended while you were up in an airplane with these specific people and you were the only survivors, who would you choose to mate with so you could repopulate the planet?

Person two: Well...technically...everyone would have to screw everyone else.

 

Person one: There is nothing gay about these boots.

Person two: Are you kidding me? There's nothing STRAIGHT about those boots!

 

Person one: Was he telling me to get lost? I can never tell.

Person two: The boat? I think the boat was saying "Get out of the way or I'll hit you."

Person one: No, not the boat, Harry! I KNOW what the boat was saying, it's your roommate I can't decipher!
Person three: ...Wait, you speak boat now?

 

Person one: I'm going to list you as my brother on FaceBook.
Person two: Oh, awesome!
Person one: Except...your boyfriend is already listed on my FaceBook as my brother.
Person two: Oh...well, we'll just pretend we're in the south.
Person one: Oh, that reminds me, there's this movie we HAVE to watch in GSA, it's about incestuous brothers!

 

Person one: Talking to you is like knitting a sweater out of mashed potatoes.
Person two: I've never done that before.
Person one: Do you knit?
Person two: I don't knit with mashed potatoes.
Person one: Actually, it's about as fun as knitting a sweater out of potatoes too, because--
Person two: Whoa, is that a compliment or the other way around?
Person one: I was SAYING, if you'd let me FINISH--yes, it's about as fun as knitting with mashed potatoes, because it's such a novelty. Every conversation is different, you know?
[silence, while Person Two looks at Person One like P1 is insane]
Person one: Oh, come on, admit it...you're glad to have me in your life.

 

And finally, my favorite:

 

Person one: You have to see Let the Right One In, you will see so many parallels to our friendship...except I'm not a vampire...and neither are you...

Person two: How do you know if I'm a vampire?

Person one: If you were a vampire, I would know.

Person two: Yes, but it's been mostly overcast since we met...so how do you know if I sparkle?

 

 

Yes. These are the kind of conversations that take place at Interlochen. (That was all stolen dialogue lifted straight from my blog, by the way. Just in case you didn't pick up on that.) Most of those conversations were mine. As in, I didn't just overhear them, I actually took part in them. The last one, especially. I'm always and forever going to cherish that moment. (Yes, Saxophone Boy, I'm looking at you right now.)

 

Oh, yes. Saxophone Boy. I always seem to forget him, don't I? But he was a big part of what made my senior year special. I think he knows that. (If he doesn't know it by now, I don't know what the hell he's doing in an Ivy League school; I'm not exactly what you would call subtle when it comes to emotions.) But to this day, we will still answer any random question the other asks with, "Because Edward loves Bella and vampires have two extra chromosomes!"--and neither one of us is a Twilight fan. Those are inside jokes you just can't force. They have to come naturally, and with us, they always did. That's the kind of friendship that can only grow at Interlochen. If I say something utterly ridiculous in a letter to Saxophone Boy, he will grab it and run with it. In fact, I can't say something stupid in a letter to him--he turns it into comedic gold. Again--you can't force that kind of chemistry in a friendship; it only develops naturally, and ours didn't wilt when we stopped seeing each other every day.

 

And that, right there, is why I love Interlochen.

 

You know what? It's not just him. All of the friends I made at Interlochen are like that. And I'm not talking about the nice seeing you every day at lunch, ok we graduated now we'll never see each other again we'll just 'like' each other's statuses once in awhile friends--I'm talking about the people I still regularly contact because I miss them too damn much to stop speaking to them. (You know who you are.) I can log onto Skype and within moments be virtually assaulted by Goddamn Gypsy, and her insistence that I read her latest story or that she be allowed to read mine. Similarly, I can receive at least ten skype calls a month from Smilelover, who has a charming knack of waiting until I fall asleep at my computer, forget to turn my computer off, or get into class and am using my laptop to take notes, and then calling me. (But on the occasions that she actually manages to catch me, we have epic, lovely conversations.) Saxophone Boy painstakingly responds to my rambling, ridiculous letters. VanSant2 responds to every one of my IMs, even if he only has time to tell me he can't talk right then. (Isn't that sweet? I think it is.)

 

Today I went back, and was afraid that I would find it changed. I was afraid that I would feel unwanted, as I had often felt on-campus (I've explained this before--long story short, I didn't do as well in my major as I would have liked; most of my friends were outside my discipline). I love Interlochen--I love the friends I've been fortunate enough to make there--I love my teachers--but it wasn't always sunshine and butterflies, and I was afraid that stepping back on-campus would remind me of that.

 

It didn't.

 

Yes, there was a little bit of regret mixed in with the nostalgia. But you know what? I was not unwanted. I'd been missed. I got some of the best hugs of my life. People I didn't even remember knew who I was. I realized that I had, in some way or another, left my mark on that school. Is my picture up in the concourse? Am I remembered as well as certain other members of my graduating class? No, and of course not. But I wasn't immediately forgotten--and that was what I was afraid of. But that didn't happen. People missed me--people I didn't even know would miss me, missed me. (If that rambling makes sense. Give me some credit here; it's been a very long, very emotional day...and I'm damn tired.)

 

A member of my class, whom I'd always considered something of a rival, revealed that not only did he stalk my YouTube, but that he liked my films. That, to me, was the biggest triumph. (Yes, I realize that only a film major would say this.) He praised my work, told me he wanted me to continue, complimented my junior thesis (I'm still not sure that praise was deserved), and told me not to give up on Alien Water Torture. And maybe he was just being polite...but I don't think so. This was almost as amazing as last year, at the end of my senior-year film screening, when the hardest-to-please MPA came up to me and told me my film was one of his favorites. (What can I say? I'm a sucker for a film-related compliment.)

 

I missed this place more than I can express. But you know what? Coming back to it now, when I've grown and changed and know how to define myself without it, makes seeing it so much sweeter. Will I always wish, on some level, that I'd done things differently in high school? Without a doubt. But I know now that I can stand on my own--and that lets me see Interlochen through entirely different eyes. And that is a reward in itself.

 

 

Wildflowers and Strawberry Yogurt

Finals are over, the warm weather is finally here, and I'm back in Michigan with my parents. It's not quite summer yet, but dear God, is summer ever on its way. Right now I can look out my window and see a lovely in-ground pool calling my name...but, sadly, I can't swim right now, thanks to a cough so loud and violent it makes a rottweiler's bark sound like a mewling kitten. But I can see the pool outside, and the dandelions and little purple wildflowers growing on the golf course behind it (yes, I live on a golf course, and yes, this does provide endless entertainment when I occasionally find golf balls in my backyard). I'm eating strawberry yogurt cake topped with fresh strawberries--does anything SCREAM summertime like fresh fruit?--and all the windows are open, so it's sunny and bright and pleasant in here.

Now, if only my throat would stop hurting...

It feels weird being home for the summer, because I've gotten so used to being at McDaniel. But what feels really weird is knowing where I'll be in the fall. So far, there's only been one time that I knew where I was going and how it was going to be when I went back to school--and that was when I went back to Interlochen for my senior year. Now, I know it will be different when I go home to McDaniel. I won't be living in a dorm, for the first time in three years. I'll actually be living in a house, with seven other girls (now THAT is going to be interesting, I can tell you that right now). We're not a sorority house, though--we're Allies House, and damn proud of it. (Yes, Kerouac Boy, I can see you rolling your eyes and making comments about me living in "the Gay House" and all the terrible things the Carroll County residents are going to do to us--call me delusional if you must, but I'm staying optimistic.) Also--I have THREE classes in my major in the fall. Count 'em--THREE. Acting (just kill me now, please), Intro to Cinema (with Professor Brett--yay!) and...drumroll, please...SCRIPTWRITING.

Yes.

I am in a college scriptwriting class. 3000-level, to be precise. May I remind everyone, I'm a rising sophomore?

Now, my teacher knows I've been taught to write screenplays. In fact, this is actually my fourth screenwriting class--sixth if you count the workshops--but it's the first class where I'll be expected to write a feature script. Not gonna lie, I'm a bit nervous about that. I love writing, yes, but my feature screenplays are...there's no polite way to say this...not very good. I draw from what I know far too much. But I know Professor Brett is a good teacher, and I've got all summer to come up with ideas that don't scream, "Avery wrote this script about her life."

Just realized...I have two classes with my favorite teacher next semester. I mean, I knew this already, but it seriously just hit me. Okay. Now I REALLY can't wait for fall.

I'm peer mentoring...yes, this is an actual thing at my college...for my freshman advisor, who taught the most epic gender studies class EVER...and I already have a plan to make my freshmen thnk I'm completely insane. (Which, trust me, wouldn't take too long even if I didn't do what I'm planning to do.) I'm going to waltz into the room on the first day wearing a floor-length skirt, carrying a parasol and speaking in Nadsat, then let one of my guy friends (I'm looking at you again, Kerouac Boy) pop into the room wearing one of my Vagina Monlogues t-shirts. And then we'll proceed to mimic scenes from A Clockwork Orange, and then we'll stand back and watch the fireworks. (Don't worry, Dr. Carpenter...I'm not actually going to let it get that far.) If they don't think I'm absolutely batshit by the end of all this, this means one of two things: Either I'm in very, very big trouble, or I have the best FYS mentees in the entire program. It all depends on how they react.

I've got so much to look forward to it's impossible not to be excited about next semester...but I'll still enjoy my summer. After a few days I'll post some of my parents' stolen dialogue, and you will see why.

In direct contrast to the last post...

This is my definition of a “perfect” day:

After staying up all night to be with a friend and write a screenplay that I hopefully will actually make into a film (no, really, I’m going to do it this time), and then waking up at nine AM to interview a Catholic Buddhist, I fall asleep at two PM, meaning to wake up at four, and end up waking up to the sound of my parents calling me at 6:30. I’d suspected they were coming—but I planned to be awake, at least, if/when they got here. I run to the window when Mom tells me to do so, and squeal when I see them. I run downstairs, filthy hair and all, and get two of the best hugs I’ve ever received. They have driven from Michigan to Maryland, a twelve-hour drive, just to see me and a vaguely-explained awards ceremony tomorrow (I'm getting some kind of award, but we're not sure what it is). I can't believe it they actually did this...I really cannot believe it. Yes, I know they love me. They're my parents; it's part of their job. But to actually come, to get up at God-knows-how-early o'clock and drive for twelve mother fluffing hours, just for something that really isn't that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things...that's the kind of thing that it took me a long time to learn not to take for granted. The day was already good; now, thanks to my parents, it has gone straight into the "great" category.

I have less than an hour and a half to shower, do my hair, do my makeup, and get dressed for my sorority formal. I rush through the wash hair/dry off/shave legs process, spend a good five minutes in epic battle with my dress and underlayer before hurrying upstairs so my mother can do my hair. Like a gift from God, one of my friends (for clarity’s sake, let’s call her Penguin for now) appears out of nowhere and offers to help. Between her and my mother, I am transformed into a 1940s movie star within the hour.

Then, enter Wingmanatee (yes, I do call her that), arms full of junk food because the damn Pub is closed thanks to alumni weekend. My parents offer to feed her, and she accepts. While Penguin is busy taming my hair, Wingmanatee sits on the floor with Buttonwood (one of the few non-aliases in this post—it’s her plush manatee) and charms my parents. Then, in comes Hermione, my “friend-date” for the night, and she looks so pretty—and here I am, not even finished with my makeup yet…

Let me explain here, I fought for a long time against a “friend date.” I badly wanted a “real” date, a romantic date. I wanted to feel like Cinderella, complete with my Prince Charming, and when it became clear that I wasn’t going to have that, not this time at least, I did the incredibly immature thing and decided not to go, just a few days before the dance. Wingmanatee offered to go with me. I pouted like a child and turned her away, saying I wanted a “real” date. My friends then pointed me in the direction of Care Bear. (Care Bear is my Un-Evil Twin, by the way. He makes videos with me. He’s my latest partner-in-crime—sorry, Saxophone Boy, but you couldn’t really help me raise hell all the way from Connecticut, could you?) I sulked. I turned down this suggestion too—and this made even less sense, because we’d gone to a dance together and had a great time, but no, I wasn’t going to back down. I asked a young man I’d had my eye on for a long time (let’s see…I think I’ll call him Hamlet), but he was too skittish about going with me—he works at my college cafeteria, you see, and though we’re precisely the same age and it’s an off-campus event, it was too risky for him to come with me. Two days before the formal and still dateless, I childishly decided that instead of just taking a friend, I wouldn’t go.

Hermione would have none of it. She told me, “If you go the worst that can happen is you don’t have a great time. If you don’t go you’ll see all the pictures on Facebook, and hear all the stories, and you’ll regret not going.” With less than 48 hours’ notice, she promised to accompany me to the dance.

Now, with ten minutes until we’re theoretically supposed to be at the dance, she patiently waits while I finish getting ready to go. Penguin puts the finishing touches on my eye makeup, I put on my heeled sandals (the only dress shoes I own that don’t make walking damn near impossible), and I think I’m ready when another catastrophe arises: my mother realizes that she can see through my skirt. I run downstairs for a slip and put on my lipstick as I run back upstairs. Penguin is still in the Whiteford lobby with her friends. Wingmanatee is still waiting with Hermione and my parents. I stop in my tracks when someone calls me “pretty.” It’s not that I’m not used to hearing that from my too-kind friends, it’s just that I’m not used to believing it. Every time my dad calls me “beautiful”—he has a bit of a knack for doing this when I’ve just woken up or finished doing some sort of hard task, and feel about as beautiful as a moldy dog biscuit—I mentally cringe and ask myself, really Dad? Really? And every time I hear it from a friend, my first thought is, “They’re being nice. They have to say that, because really, what else can they say—‘You’re an ugly troll?’”

Tonight I can let myself believe it, and so I do. I feel like I’ve just stepped out of the 1940s in this dress. I have a bruise on my arm. Two, in fact—one from an injury that I actually can’t remember getting, and one from attempting to give blood (which I do not plan to do again for a very, very long time)—and while I was getting dressed all I could think was, how am I going to hide that?—now, I don’t care. I step in for a picture with Wingmanatee and Hermione. I usually hate pictures. Right now, I don’t. I smile, and hug my friends close. Right now, I don’t think there is anyone in the world who I’d rather have in this room with me.

Then it’s time to go. I say good-bye to Wingmanatee and Penguin, and wait for my parents to pull up the car. It’s raining when we leave. I urge Hermione to get into the car first, as she gets there ahead of me. Instead she opens the door for me, makes sure I’m fully inside, then runs around and gets in on the other side. My mother teases us about this, just a little: “You’ll make a good bridesmaid for her later,” she tells Hermione. Were I here with a “real” date, the kind where you spend all your time worrying that they won’t like you if you do the least little unattractive thing, this would probably make me cry. Instead I laugh and agree with her.

We make it to the dance a little late, only to find that they’re still setting up. The first part of the dance—the meal—drags, just a little. The food isn’t that great, and the music is far too loud. But Hermione and I laugh about it and joke about it and make generally snarky comments that we find hilarious, but no one else would…but that just makes them even better. At one point, I realize that almost every girl here brought a female friend as a date. I mention this to Hermione, adding, “Almost everyone I know has reason to say ‘I told you so’ to me right now. She doesn’t say “I told you so. She says, “If you have to go to one of these things, never ‘not go,’ and never go alone.” I actually feel a little overwhelmed right then. I can’t believe that I’ve been blessed with such an amazing friend. She could be anywhere she wanted right now, and she is here with me. She chose to be here—I didn’t drag her. (Actually, it was almost the other way around.)

“I Kissed A Girl” comes on as we eat, and I sing along—“I brought a girl and I liked it, hope my boyfriend don’t mind it!”—just to make her laugh. She sees them bring in cupcakes and gets excited for that, but when I head to the bathroom to check my slip (sorry to all you confused males out there—ladies, I’m sure you understand), and see some of the formal committee running a sherbet can under hot water. I go back to the table and tell Hermione, “I think they’re trying to thaw out dessert.” We share a groan over this until we realize the sherbet is for the punch. Oops.

Something’s wrong with the music: it’s all the same. All of it. It’s hip-hop street-dance-type music, and I don’t have a problem with it, but I’m a little annoyed that they played all of the best dance songs while we were sitting down and now they’re only playing grind-able music now that we’re actually dancing. Some of us, you see, did not bring a male date—and some of us don’t know how to dance like we’re in a club. But we make the best of it anyway, and we dance with Cuddlegirl, and her boyfriend Phantom, a.k.a. two of the friendliest, most adorable people you’ve ever met (except Cuddlegirl continually tries to teach me “how to be sexy,” and does not seem to understand that she will never, ever achieve this objective).

Eventually the music does pick up again. They play “Party Rock Anthem,” a request from Hermione, and later on “We R Who We R”—a song I have long considered one of my theme songs, a song that never fails to take me back to the night of my senior prom, one of my favorite memories. (Saxophone Boy, you know why.) We dance like we’ll never stop, like the world is our own personal music video set, stopping only to enjoy punch and red velvet cupcakes (yes, they do finally feed us cupcakes, much to Hermione’s delight).

At one point they stop the music, and our pledge mom presents all of the different classes of Gamma Sigma Sigma with white roses, ending with my class, the Alpha Alphas. We get our roses and then have a dance as sisters, to one of my favorite songs—“Don’t Stop Believing.” (Yes, yes, I know, I’m a cliché.) I dance with Cuddlegirl and let her twirl me around so that the my skirt flares, enveloping me in fluttery bits of gauze—secretly, I refer to this as my Hunger Games dress, because I feel like Cinna designed it just for me, I love it that much—and we sing along, pretending to use our white roses as microphones.

We leave shortly after this. I remember too late to call my mother and let her know that Cuddlegirl and Phantom will take me home (I’m sorry, Mom. I wish I hadn’t done that). It’s raining hard when we leave and I accidentally drag a bit of my skirt through the puddles. It’s not that noticeable, but I’m still thankful I’m only a few minutes from campus and can give it a once-over with my tide pen as soon as possible. We drop off Hermione first and I give her a last hug and thank-you for coming with me. Then it’s off to my dorm, where Cuddlegirl calls me sweetie when she says good-bye.

I’m so happy and I can’t stop giggling, prompting one friend to ask me if I’m drunk. No, I’m not, and when I get an offer to change this status, I’m intrigued, but ultimately say no. I go back to my room, still giggling and twirling and feeling like a movie star in my white dress, and a friend stops me just before I get into my room and tells me I look beautiful. And, again, just this once, I tell myself, just this once, I can believe her.

Has everything gone according to plan? No. But would I change a thing? Yes—one—I’d remember to call my parents. That’s it. As far as I’m concerned, Hermione was right. Not going would have been a huge mistake.

Remind me to thank her again when I see her tomorrow.

Me with Hermione (left) and Wingmanatee (right, with Buttonwood). I love these girls and am more grateful for their friendship than I can possibly express.

So...

It's just been one of those days.

"One of what kind of days?" one might ask, whilst looking at me as if I'm insane.

You know.

One of those days.

One of those days when you try in vain to get your schoolwork done, but by this time you're just so sick of your classes that you can't force yourself to look at Daughters of Anowa for one more second, so you try to work on your outline, but your thesis changes so often you have no idea what point you're trying to make because your topic is such a gray area, and then you try to read Buddhist scriptures but the very cover of the book makes your head hurt, so you spend far too much time talking to your best friend over Skype because she's just so much more pleasant than any of the above.

And then, you kick your own ass, because you wonder how the flying hell you ever could have considered being a Religious Studies minor, because you thought it'd be an easy way to get those pesky International Nonwestern credits, and now you hate the mere thought of religious studies and never want to take another religion class as long as you live. And you want so very badly to go back to those days in which your hardest assignment was making a topographical map of your own backyard, because that was just so much easier. You hate the very thought of your religion teachers, even though they aren't bad people, they're just not the best teachers, because one of them is so lovely but she just reminds you of a grown-up Luna Lovegood, and her assignments make your head hurt...and the other is one of the kindest, funniest, most sincerely good-hearted people you've ever met, but he is also the dangerous combination of being a vague lecturer and a harsh grader. So, you're not too happy about your classes right now.

Then you decide, well, since you can't make yourself work, you'll make yourself walk to Jo-Ann Fabrics and get those things you've been needing to finish making presents for your sorority Big, because you've been putting off that long walk for awhile now. And you do find what you need, if only barely, but you know you can make it work because you're creative like that.

But then what happens when you try to check out? Your card doesn't work. So you use a gift card, but that doesn't work either, the stupid machine just beeps at you as if scolding you. And you only have fifteen dollars cash, but your purchase is twenty-two dollars, so you end up having to borrow money from your friend (who just so happens to be a cashier at this particular store--finally, thank God, SOMETHING that works out in your favor). But it's so embarrassing you could cry.

Then you get outside only to discover that it's raining. Not a big deal, you think, because it's not raining very hard at all, your purchases are protected by a plastic bag, and it's only about fifteen minutes' walk from here to your dorm. But, guess what? During those fifteen minutes, it goes from raining very lightly to raining so hard you feel like you're drowning. And so you almost start crying as you walk, because it was so sunny and so pretty when you left and you were so happy to be outside, but now it's a rainy, icky mess and you feel like a rainy icky mess.

And the worst part of all? You were so happy, so confident, when you left, that you wore jean shorts. Cutoff jean shorts. Not Daisy Dukes, exactly--but not bermudas, either. Oh, and your Vagina Monologues cast t-shirt. And this year's concept for the shirt was just the word vagina, in roughly 20 different languages. So you are walking along the street in the rain, soaking-wet, carrying a plastic bag, wearing lipstick, shorts, and a t-shirt that says vagina in multiple languages. And yet it takes you awhile to figure out the concerned, amused, and suspicious looks coming at you from the passing cars.

This, my dear friends, is a textbook example of a really fucking bad idea.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. Next time, check the bloody weather, and make sure you always have cash with you. Just in case.

Oh, and one more thing...if your really smart friend tells you not to wear that Vagina Monologues t-shirt off-campus? Listen to her.

Homesickness, Receding

As you can probably tell from my previous post, I've been feeling very homesick today. But this evening, just when I was on the verge of crying, I went on Facebook and found out that this guy at my school, who shall henceforth be known as Hal 9000 (thirty gold stars to whoever gets the reference), found a "stray" cat that still had its collar, and took it into his room. He then proceeded to feed it lettuce and, drumroll please, POSTED A PICTURE OF THE CAT ON FACEBOOK.
*facepalm*

Two things wrong with this. 1) Obviously, CATS DO NOT EAT LETTUCE. My roommate, upon hearing about this, said, "If you try to feed a cat lettuce, it'll just look at you like, 'What are you, stupid?'" I don't even have a cat and I know that. 2) McDaniel College students are NOT allowed to have animals in their dorms. Hal knows this, and he is terrified of Campus Safety, so why in the HELL he would post evidence of his rule-breaking on Facebook is far beyond me.

In addition: There could be fleas on that thing. Hal and his roommate moved out of one dorm already due to bedbugs. (The way the freshmen boys treat their dorms, I'm not surprised.) Now, they could potentially get other things from that cat, depending on how long it's been lost...which, according to my cat-expert roommate, is not very long, because while Hal described it as "fairly thin and dirty," my roommate pronounced it well-fed...and, y'know, I'm going to go with her judgment on that, seeing as, well, SHE IS NOT THE ONE WHO BROUGHT IN A STRAY CAT AND FED IT LETTUCE.

Thank you, Hal. I wasn't expecting to laugh much this evening. House of Mouse, one of my favorite comfort shows, failed to make me laugh. You, however, were successful. Congratulations. You get gold stars. (And, considering how annoyed I was with you before this, you need all the gold stars you can get.)

Also today I found out who my Big (Sister, for Gamma Sigma Sigma) is...and it is a lovely, lovely girl whom I have been friends with since the beginning of this semester, who shall henceforth be known as Haymitch (that was her nickname before I knew she was my Big - in Gamma Sig, we don't get to know who our Bigs are until Activation). She's given me plenty of presents throughout the process, but tonight she gave me four adorable little plushies and a hand-me-down panda bear dressed in a superhero costume. That panda, I swear...we don't remember his real name, so we're calling him Mr. Cuddles. And he is cuddly, I will tell you that right now. That might actually be the most comforting object I have ever held, that bear.

Also, it was chicken nugget day in Glar, so I actually got a decent lunch, which made me very happy.

I'm having the usual trouble with men...a.k.a., I can't read their minds, and it's very frustrating. Today, a certain male friend of mine, who I'll call Joker (because that's who he reminds me of) said that my lipstick looked like it belonged on a 1950s whore. Knowing that he was probably joking, I retaliated by leaving a lipstick print on his cheek...and when he complained that he had a presentation, I tried to pat it off with a dry napkin. He said he wanted to keep it on, and it wasn't coming off anyway, so I told him, "Good, because it doesn't want to come off." He sulked about that, so I later told him that a wet paper towel would probably take it off...and he completely disregarded that, because later on I saw him with the lipstick print STILL on his cheek. I'm not sure if I find this whole incident amusing or very, very frustrating.

I don't generally do diary-style postings like this. This is a new experience for me.

Should I sign off? I think I should.

Goodbye? Later? Meh.

VIVE LA RESISTANCE.

There. That's better.

;)

What I Miss

I miss sitting under the table instead of at the table, for no reason other than I damn well want to.

I miss reciting random poetry, or passages from my favorite books, and having at least one person gasp and say, "Oh my gosh, that's A Clockwork Orange/A Wrinkle in Time/Anne of Green Gables/Emily Dickinson/J.R.R. Tolkien/Jack Kerouac, right?" instead of giving me a blank look.

I miss knowing even before walking into class that I am going to get a hug from at least one person.

I miss being able to call my best friend and say, "I'm having an awful day," and hear, "I'll be over in a minute, love" instead of "I wish I could be there."

I miss cuddling with gay boys.

I miss running around barefoot in a thunderstorm without worrying about stepping on a cigarette butt.

I miss people understanding why a certain song, book, movie, or poem makes me cry.

I miss quoting Cyrano de Bergerac with the secure knowledge that half the people in the room will know exactly what I'm referencing.

I miss being compared to obscure--or not-so-obscure--literary or film characters (Zelig, Scarlett O'Hara, Violet Baudelaire, Molly Aster, Hermione Granger, Edward Scissorhands, Katrina Van Tassel, Beetlejuice--thank you, Person Who Called Me That, you know who you are--and my personal favorite, Sal Paradise). Instead, I've been labeled, even by non-Glee watchers, "the cinema-centric version of Rachel Berry." Thanks a lot, guys. Thanks. A. Lot.

I miss walking into Post-Production class and knowing that the teacher understood me thoroughly--and I miss being called "dedicated" rather than "weird."

I miss staying up until four AM writing scripts. Where did all my ideas go?

I miss playing Neopets with my roommate.

I miss being a Hottest Suitemate.

I miss saying "Hey, let's do something crazy" and hearing the reply, "Sure, what'd you have in mind?" instead of, "Why should we?"

I miss Saxophone Boy.

I miss Organ Girl.

I miss Goddamn Gypsy.

I miss my Dead Poets.

I miss Interlochen.

(I know I said I wasn't going to do this...excuse me while I feel a little--okay, a lot--homesick.)