Around the Horn

I watched Mrs. Doubtfire last week.  No good reason, just felt like resurrecting a childhood classic.  However, seeing the movie this time left a slightly different taste in my mouth than it did 10 years before.  The slapstick was still there, the funny impressions; you simply can’t deny Robin Williams’ ingenious sense of humor.  But–and I’m noticing this a lot more with these “family films”–I picked up very subtle adult jokes laced throughout the movie.  A lot of indirect borderline inappropriate jokes that children would never understand, but I found myself chuckling and gawking at the same time.  Watching this movie over 10 years ago, the line “You see that Nattie, that’s called liposuction,” would have never elicited a smile, let alone a laugh.  There were a lot more risque stabs in the movie, but I’ll refrain from posting those–IMDB it, and I’m sure you’ll be chuckling as well.  I guess there needs to be some draw with these movies for parents, to be willing to accompany their kids and not be in movie purgatory watching cartoon characters dance across the screen.

I am impatiently awaiting the arrival of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of alumni who will be returning to Cornell for Homecoming. I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep on Saturday with the amount of hustle and bustle this Saturday night. Homecoming is earlier this year, which will definitely spike attendance levels, since it’s not as cold in late September as it is in mid-later October. That being said, it is supposed to rain this weekend. Guess we can’t win them all.

Music 2241: Opera!  Do I sing in the class?  I wish, but no, and consider yourself lucky; I haven’t sung since high school, where I was belting out high notes, simultaneously sashaying across the stage in 80’s attire (we performed Fame my senior year).  I’ve always wanted to get involved with music here, and had signed up to audition for the orchestra the August before stepping onto campus.  The one problem was that while I made it to campus, my cello didn’t (I do recall Daddy Lin and I getting into a big tiff over this).  So, four years later, trying to take advantage of the breadth of courses offered here, I finally enrolled in a music class.

The class is smaller; around 15 students or so.  Every opera takes up two weeks of semester, and we began with Puccini’s La Boheme.  Following the libretto, we examine how the music serves as the main storytelling device in an opera.  Contrary to popular depiction, operas aren’t all just rotund men and women in viking caps screeching at the top of their lungs; there are a lot of younger up-and-coming (and fit) singers that are taking on more challenging operatic roles.  Not only is this a sight for sore eyes, but breaks down the stuffy and archaic stereotype of opera.

“What classes are you taking again?”
“Two econ classes, one City & Regional Planning class on Green Cities, Wines, and Opera.”
“Wow.  That’s not snobby at all.”

Introduction to Wines, widely known as a senior rite of passage on campus.  The moment I heard about Wines my freshman year, I knew that I had to take the class before I left the Hill.  So what’s all the hype for?  The class involves developing your taste and appreciation for wine with a little winetasting.  Plus, with 700 other seniors swirling, sniffing, and sipping with you, it’s a Wednesday senior reunion of sorts.  Seating is alphabetical, which forces all of us to reconnect (albeit awkwardly) with classmates/hallmates from freshman year.  But that’s besides the point.  Happy hour aside, the class has the reputation of “most failed” on campus.  Go figure.

We tried seven different California wines today.  The hardest part of the class is not trying to smell all the aromas Professor Mutkowski picks up, but rather keeping everything on your tray from knocking over.  It’s risky multitasking.  I’d have my notebook and pen for notes, an aroma wheel, charts, and other handouts that I’m always shuffling around when tasting.  Each student has 3 wine glasses and a spit cup. Wine is distributed down the row, and weaving bottles through is a recipe for disaster.

So, while wine-snobbery is not my goal for the semester, being a good friend and hostess is.  Hopefully I’ll develop a decent understanding of wine, and carry that with me whenever I take on NYC (and the real world. gulp.).

After reading the news on Friday about Lehman Brothers’ call for help, I spent most of the weekend refreshing the New York Times, Bloomberg, MarketWatch, and all the other business-related webpages.  It’s surreal being bubbled off in Ithaca, not realizing the global impact that Lehman’s bankruptcy and Merrill Lynch’s merger with Bank of America will incur over the next few weeks.  I decided to hit the hay around midnight, thinking that nothing new would develop in the wee hours.

Just as I’m about to doze off, I hear a faint high-pitched tone.  I brush it off, grouchy that I have to re-fall into my dozing state.  Five seconds later, my housemate Courtney runs in.  “Jen, get up, the fire alarm’s going off.”  The house is pitch black.  I shuffle around my desk for my glasses and look at my phone.  1:28 am.  Wonderful.  After putting on a shirt (yes, it was that hot in my room), I drowsily head downstairs to the porch, where my other housemates nervously waited.

Linden Avenue looked like Kansas just before Dorothy and Toto were swept into Oz.  Leaves and trash were everywhere. The wind gusts had cut the power, and our house was not the only one with blaring fire alarms.  Little by little,  other Linden-ites crept out of their bedrooms.  The thrifty ones ran straight to Collegetown Pizza and CTB, since no power meant free food.   Our house called the police, and within 5 minutes, a firetruck was barging down the street to silence fire alarms.  We were back in bed by 2 am.

Everything seemed back to normal this morning until I read about speculation of the next Black Monday due to the Lehman and Merrill dealings.  The Collegetown blackout seems so petty when compared to the latest developments in the financial crisis, and that was the biggest wake up call of all.

My Dell just went ker-plutz on me. Three weeks ago. It was about time. I’m not mad at my Dell; after all, it did give me a couple of signs that it wasn’t going to make it past 4 years. At age 1 (or 35 in computer years), the mouse broke down, which was an easy fix. However, as age 2-3 passed through, my Dell would make an obnoxious BEEEEP sound, always in the library, or would just shut down at random points, usually in the midst of a paper-writing session. The last straw came last month, when my Dell could no longer sense the charger, the battery breathed its last 34 minutes (100% charged!) and died.

I made do with the library computers and laptops, but in the end, I needed a computer. It’s agonizing to leave an inbox unchecked for a few hours. I went straight to the Cornell store and checked out their collection of laptops. However, after fiddling with Windows Vista–and consequently running away–I veered over to the MacBooks. Yes, I know about the rumors that new MacBooks are on the horizon, but I’m not that computer savvy to really make justify going computerless for a month. Regardless, I want my computer to be a companion, not a nuisance. I’m done with PCs. No more obnoxious beeping, no more overheating WHIRRING fans, no more broken trackpads. I now have a white iconic MacBook on my desk, and may we live life harmoniously.

Disclaimer:  If you get the willies thinking about blood and/or needles, spare yourself from reading this entry.  
I try to be a good samaritan at all times; I show up for jury duty, hold open doors, and donate blood.  I’ve been donating for about 5 years now.  A seasoned vet, with 2 blood donor cards (one for CA, one for NY).  However, yesterday was a whole new bone-tingling experience.

The Panhellenic Council on campus holds an annual blood drive, which I dutifully attend.  While many freak out at the sight of needles and blood, I continue to donate blood because I can, and because I’ve never had any horrific experiences.  I’m a quick donor, to the relief of many Red Cross staff; I usually fill the bag within a couple of minutes, rest for 20, and walk out with a hot pink bandage and a smile.

The preliminary procedures were same old same old; I had to verify my identity and answer questions to ensure that my blood is acceptable by Red Cross standards.  Once lying on the donating gurney (?), the initial poke was fine, with blood flowing right through.  A few minutes later, however, the nurse comes back and shoots me a perplexed look.

“You’re still squeezing the stress ball, right?” she asks.
“Yep. Why, am I done?” I respond, somewhat confused.
“Uh…hm….shoot…GREAT…hold still.”
The nurse proceeds to wiggle around the needle.  Left to right, up and down, cranking away.  I have a pretty high pain tolerance, but HOH-KAY, I’m feeling it now.  That needle definitely just hit some bone and/or nerve endings.  The nurse then pivots the bugger.  Wonderful, my vein is being pulled out.  This might get messy.  I can feel the blood rushing from my face.

“Are you sh-sure you know what you’re doing?  This normally doesn’t happen to me.”
“Yea, let me see if I can do anything else.”
Okay, she’s pulling, AH!, tingling, PAIN. “OW!”
After another eternity of playing around with my needle, the nurse gives up and pulls the plug.  She bandages my arm, and I lightheadedly head over to the snack table.  Like a 3rd grader running to mommy after falling off a bike, I meekly approach the snack table, nibble at Teddy Grahams and sip on Capri Sun.  I’ll need a few to recover from my vein-y painful incident with the Red Cross.  Am I still going to donate?  Sure, but you better promise me three times more Teddy Grahams.  And throw in some Lorna Doones.

I’m taking an opera class this semester, which I’ll have to write more about when I have a moment to breathe, and whenever Time Warner decides to show up and hook up the internet in my house.  I’ve been reading librettos, and seeing how the Italian text–the actual lyrics–synchronizes with the composer’s orchestration has given my somewhat-nerdy classical music interest a good shake up.  But that’s neither here nor there.

Maybe it’s because I LOVED the documentary Spellbound, down to the kid whose dad hired people in India to pray for his son for a potential victory in the National Spelling Bee.  Gosh, how we hold our breaths with those kids, hoping the bell won’t ding after they finish their spelling execution (A very “hhhhnnngggg” moment).  That, along with my sudden immersion into Italian text, got me thinking:  Do spelling bees exist in other countries?

English has got to be one of the most inconsistent languages because there are so many exceptions to rules, so many foreign influences.  In that regard, it’s easy to stump kids trying to spell ‘alopecia’ or ‘derailleur’ (two words I picked out of the “frequently used” word list, posted on the National Spelling Bee’s official website. Credibility is key.). But looking at Italian, or any other romance language, it seems phonetically consistent: what you see is what you’ll get, and maybe you’ll run into a special rule here or there.  After picking up the rules, spelling out a word doesn’t seem too complicated.  Come to think of it, Japanese would probably be a piece of cake, since they follow even stricter phonetic rules, with the hiragana and katakana writing systems differentiating a word’s origin.  On the other hand, I have no idea how a Chinese spelling bee would work…

Anyway, just a thought.  I went to my Development of Economic Thought class today, and the professor described himself as “nuts, but harmless.”  How apropos to my own stream of consciousness.