Narcissism--it's not just for breakfast anymore!

Things that should mean automatic rejection from grad school

2009-07-24T09:28:00.000-05:00

(AKA Things that may or may not have actually happened while I worked in Admissions):

Abbreviating your city or street name on applications, or using a scrawl that more closely resembles satanic symbols than your own native language, so that I have to spend 10 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out where the hell to send your application. But it doesn't matter, you're not getting in anyway. Might as well save the stamp for your porn magazine order form. They might actually be willing to look up your address.

Bringing parents to your admissions meetings and/or letting your parents do all the talking while you sit and look bored. So sorry all this talk about opportunities that are only available to a minuscule portion of the population bores you. Let's fix it by tossing you from a top floor window. At that point it's always classy to wish the parents better luck with their next child, or alternately, offer them pamphlets on sterilization.

Asking our admissions office to transfer you to the admissions department of another school. We are not an answering service, we are a business. If you call Lowe's and ask to be transferred to The Home Depot, they will likely come to your house and pin you to the fence with a staple gun. We are legally obligated to follow suit.

Sending form emails or letters in which you were too lazy to change the name of the school. I'm so glad you're excited to apply to the University of Illinois. I'm excited to put your application at the bottom of my bird's cage and watch him take a shit on your already abysmal GPA.

Bringing parents to the interview day. Most of us had the placenta severed about 45 seconds after birth. Having failed that, you continued on a path of failure that will inevitably end in a quiet death some place cold, damp and alone.

Submitting narrative grades. I'm sorry the current educational system is as deeply flawed as it is, I truly am. However, all your narrative grades prove is that you're a nice poo-baby who needs a ream of paper to describe to you not only that you truly are sub-average, but expound on the myriad ways in which you do not measure up.

Putting a fake phone number on your contact sheet. 1-234-456-7890? Really? Wow. Fortunately, I had nothing to call you about anyway, as you will not be getting in to grad school.

Applying to a Masters-level or Doctoral program when you do not have, and are not in the process of earning, a Bachelor's degree. I suppose you may not be able to see this particular red flag in the face of all the other red flags that are waving due to your impossibly ridiculous life, so I'll just give you a heads up on that one.

Rolling your eyes when asked to respond the writing sample prompt. Yes, you do have to give a writing sample. Yes, grammar and spelling do count. I would love to hear the rationale behind NOT taking into consideration grammar and spelling on a writing sample. It seems somewhat analogous to: "It's a urine sample, but don't worry! We're not looking for drugs or anything strange. We *really* just want a cup of your piss."

Submitting your application to a doctoral program 2 weeks before the start of the term and expecting to get in. Some people spend the better part of a year gathering their admissions materials, picking out schools, and making important decisions. But hey, we should shove them aside for you, a half-wit who woke up naked in someone else's basement, smoked a bowl and said "Fuck it, I'm going to grad school!" Makes perfect sense.

Bringing parents to your tour of the school. This could almost be forgiven unless (and this actually happened) you happen to be pregnant and your parent decides quell the upsurge of congratulations and smiles by somberly informing everyone that it is a "mixed baby." Perhaps the student in that case could be admitted, but only with the understanding that she should never speak to her parents again. It's what's best.

Having something stupid on your voicemail. Do NOT sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" in your voicemail message. In fact, I would advise you to worry very much about the fact that your inability to produce even 30 seconds of appropriate utterances for a voicemail message may doom you to a life of waitressing at bad titty bars.

Repeatedly calling the admissions office to ask mundane questions that could either be answered by A) reading the materials you've already been sent or B) taking 30 seconds to stop talking, grow a pair and actually make a decision. I am not your mother. I will not make this decision for you. Even though she and I may share the same general loathing for your existence and a deep-seated shame that we occupy the same planet, we are not, in fact, the same person. Nut up.

Ringback tones. Your music sucks. Most people listen to those songs quietly, in a bathroom with the fan on so their friends--should they be so lucky--don't know they listen to music that sucks that bad. You choose to broadcast it over your phone. Interesting choice.

Arguing with an admissions counselor about whether you need letters of recommendation. You do. You may not be able to get them because of your rampant assholery, but that's a moot point. You're not getting in anyway.

Love always,
Admissions Work Study Student

life in the big city

2009-05-01T09:14:00.002-05:00

I'm seriously weirded out by how downtown Chicago sometimes smells like brownies. It's like some sort of perverse witch-in-the-candy-house thing. "Come to Chicago! See how nice it is? Smell the delicious brownies?" And then you find yourself mugged, naked, layed off and voting for Blagojevich. Sometimes, in those paranoid hours between 1:13am and 3:46am, I wonder if the city isn't some kind of malevolent entity. Then I wake up and smell the brownies. It's seven or eight different kinds of wrong.

On the topic of things that are NOT wrong, however: Happy May Day.

Pickleship 003

2008-08-07T19:02:00.001-05:00

Moving at the speed of...

2008-07-31T09:12:00.002-05:00

The final stage of our moving project is almost complete. Down to packing the boxes full of things that weren't important enough to be packed the first, second, or third time around. All the stuff I know I'll be throwing away later rather than unpacking. It's a real bitch to have insight without initiative. I know what I'm doing, I can see what I'm gonna do, but I'm not stopping any of it. Oh well.

In the meantime I'm studying like mad for an assessment of my skills as a Rorscacher (It's a psych word ^_^). The whole thing is very tightly scripted for the person administering the Rorschach--and yes, it is still used and is fairly widely accepted within the psychological community. I think the Wikipedia article is a little harsh on the Exner comprehensive system of scoring and interpretation. Actually, I think the scoring is kinda fun. It's like a puzzle. A puzzle that directly impacts the potential access and use of services for another human being. *swims in the power*

Pickleship 002

2008-07-23T14:11:00.002-05:00

An invasion of space

2008-07-23T13:50:00.002-05:00

I had always counted myself fortunate that I'd never really suffered any kind of theft. Sure, I had a purse stolen from a gym once, but the whole thing (minus my cucumber melon hand sanitizer--go fig) had been returned. Then Sunday night I came out to find my car's window had been completely smashed. My stereo faceplate and GPS were gone, along with other less valuable items (i.e. cell phone charging cord). I was...immensely perturbed. Someone broke into my space and grabbed my stuff. Now, I'm the first to admit that I had a tumultuous relationship with my GPS, calling her many derogatory nicknames, including Maggie the snaggle-toothed crack whore, but she was MY snaggle-toothed crack whore! Of course insurance is only as helpful as they can see profit in doing so. They'll replace the window, but I hafta eat the stereo faceplate and GPS. (For the record, they said the GPS was not covered because it's a home or personal item--and all this time I thought it was for use in my car. I guess it would've been very useful when I was completely snockered, trying to drive my couch around the living room)
Concerning the faceplate - my insurance company said I'd need to replace the whole stereo (they were not volunteering to pay for this, of course) because the faceplates are "specially coded" to work only with the stereo they came with. Uhhh....can I get a bullshit on this one? It's heartening to remember that this bit of wisdom came from the guy in the CAR AUDIO department of the insurance company. I'm buried under the avalanche of incompetence.

In happier news, after days of epic battle, my glass is currently being replaced. In just a few short hours, I will have a new and improved little Baja. And a security alarm. And motion sensors. And a gun.

The green fairy and the morning after

2008-06-11T05:39:00.004-05:00

The joy of living in the city finally dawned on me--cool crap happening everywhere. Last night my hubby and I went to an absinthe tasting. It was...amazing. The price of admission was very reasonable, and went toward a large amount of absinthe and a free Kubler absinthe spoon to take home. My favorite absinthe of the evening is a local Illinois creation, Sirene, by the North Shore Distillery. During the tasting they handed out small vials of the herbs used in creating absinthe, and to my taste, Sirene seemed to taste like the purer forms of the herbs. The Kubler absinthe blanche was also very good, but clear (as all blanches are). I guess the color shouldn't matter so much, but I like my fairies and my absinthe green. It had a very smooth taste, but nothing like the richness and aroma of Sirene. I think the Kubler would be a very good absinthe for popping your green cherry, while Sirene will take you to a whole new level. It's not even like drinking alcohol. After enough sips (oh yes, and it needs to be sipped) the wormwood oil, the main ingredient and the origin of the green color, lightly coats and numbs the inside of your mouth. It's a strange experience. And speaking of experiences--no, it will not make you hallucinate. Thujone (a chemical component of wormwood and a bone fide neurotoxin) is present in absinthe but not conclusively linked to psychoactive responses. For more information on the studies on thujone and its effects, read the Wikipedia article linked above. Bottom line: bad research led to absinthe getting a bad rap. Historically it is the only alcoholic substance to be singled out for prohibition. But fear not, the green fairy has returned.

Guh....not even 7 am and I'm writing about alcohol. The light of the monitor is almost enough to kill me. Later I'll do more research on where to buy absinthe-related goods. There seem to be several reputable sites, but I need to shop and compare before dropping $150 out of my financial aid refund to buy an absinthe fountain.

But for now, it is time to shower and go act like an adult...an adult with a very specific headache.

nothing good ever comes from drunk blogging

2008-05-25T20:15:00.002-05:00

So that's why I'm blogging before I drink. Ha! I didn't get my college degree for nothing, you know.

This semester I'm studying the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 (or MMPI-2 if you're that kind of cool). Neat stuff. Apparently I'm a slightly neurotic control freak. Whatever. I just think I could've made a better test :P School is getting marginally better. The truth is, I find myself distracted by my old life. I wonder what's going on in Missoula right now. I think about how the mist looks tumbling down Mt. Sentinel at 8 in the morning when I used to be rushing to work. I think about all the people laying in the Oval, kissing and playing music as if 1969 never left. Life here is so loud. Wherever you are, someone is shouting. On the train, at home, at school--the noise is omnipresent. I miss mountains. I miss certainty. I miss feeling like I could come out here to the city and make it my bitch. I might complain about school or about Chicago, but the truth is, I'm most disappointed in myself. I'm not urban. I thought I'd find myself here, as if I was trapped in Montana but that the City of Giant Shoulders might free me. Instead, I find myself staring out at Lake Michigan, wondering if there's a better place for me on the other side.

Now then, I've stalled long enough. No school tomorrow means plenty of drinking tonight. Cheers to a morning of Alka Selzer and bad eggs.

physics makes us all its bitches

2008-02-26T16:54:00.002-06:00

Seriously, I need to stop listening to "Gronlandic Edit" (by Of Montreal) on continuous loop. But that's another story.

Reason number #1 to hate public transit:
The guy who randomly begins making bird noises. Now I'm not talking about a pleasant little whistle here. Think giant egg-bound ostrich gargling Drain-O. There are some seriously unhinged individuals in this town. And they're all on the Red Line.

uhh...wtf?

2007-12-03T11:48:00.000-06:00

Perusing the local paper, I found an article that was, well, deeply disturbing: At purity dances, virgin belles ring. Purity balls are, according to www.PurityBall.com, "a Christ-centered evening that encourages biblical values and strengthens the bond between fathers and daughters." That sounds innocuous enough on first blush, but I must say, my feminist leanings are all aquiver. Consider the quote: "It's like I'm devoting my virginity to my dad" (taken from the article above). Umm...I guess this sounds a little icky to me. But more than that, the idea that young girls as property and sex as a commodity are exemplified by this fine Tshirt, sold at purity balls:
Excuse me? "This Property"?! Not to launch into a diatribe (no promises) but this is ridiculous. It is also interesting to note that there is no Mother-son purity balls in which young boys pledge their virtue and virginity to their mothers. But then, that flies in the face of the idea, outlined in Purity Ball propaganda, that the act of sex and sexual purity is a gift a woman can give her husband.

I read this article the other night, and I keep coming back to it. I'm truly bothered by the issue. Now, this is not to say I promote wanton sexuality; I fully intend to educate my children, MALE AND FEMALE, about sex, about the importance of waiting until they are emotionally more mature, and about the emotional fallout from sexual relationships gone awry. But this isn't the same as treating my daughters like chattel, who damn well better keep their legs shut so that they don't ruin their marital prospects. Our sons and our daughters deserve to know about their bodies, about sex, about what we, as parents, expect from them, and what behavior our individual moral codes suggest.
But back to the article. At purity balls, fathers give their daughters promise or purity rings that the daughter will keep until her wedding, where she will return the ring to the father who, in turn, passes it on to the husband. First off, a promise ring is a ring exchanged to show the intent to become engaged. Now I love my dad, but I'm not promising to become engaged to him. Secondly, this smacks of the idea that a woman belongs to her father until she belongs to her husband (the ring as a symbol of ownership passed from one to the other). I, for one, belong to neither my father nor my husband. I belong to me. And as an individual, I am free to love my husband wholly, not as my owner or master, but as my equal and my companion. I just wish we could teach our children that sex is not a commodity, women are not property, and that relationships should not be based on a master-servant model.

More articles/information about Purity Balls:
Wikipedia.org entry
Generations of Light (originators of the Purity Ball)
Glamour Magazine article
USA Today editorial
Father-Daughter Purity Ball website

Pickleship 001

2007-11-29T00:36:00.000-06:00

oh god...not again.

2007-11-28T23:33:00.000-06:00

A fresh new blog to document the travels and travails of my new (wedded) life in Chicago. Or, maybe just something to do while Mr Muffins (the other half of 'wedded') is off being productive. To begin *ahem* SEX TOURISM: omigod. Well, now that THAT's over with. *cracks knuckles and passes out*