When I transferred to Punahou (my high school alma mater) as a sophomore, I read YA “school stories” to prepare myself for dealing with the ups and downs of tenth grade. The pubescent protagonists of these novels assured me that I could achieve my own high school happy ending by following a few simple steps:
- Bonding with fellow outcasts and eventually creating a ragtag band of allies
- Joining a nerdy organization and immediately falling for one of its adorkable yet unattainable members
- Eventually capitalizing on my fame amongst the commoners and defeating the Super Hot Popular Babe in the epic battle for Senior Class President.
Unfortunately, life is neither a Taylor Swift song nor written by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. I did find a clique, but most of them had already been friends since middle school. My presidential campaign posters, which featured a supportive-looking Yoda and my last name typed in the Star Wars font, were hijacked by a group of anonymous punks who plastered the campus with pictures of Vader captioned “Rise, Lord Keely!”
So, with two strikes, I had one last hope: finding comraderie in a league of extraordinary teenagers with similar interests. Except the Punahou club scene never really did much for me. I signed up for the French Club, Model UN, the Environmentalist Club and a wide variety of others, but didn’t stick with any. It would be a year until I finally had time to join the Speech Team or the lit mag. In the meantime, sophomore Keely had a grand plan: she’d just make her own clubs.
I wanted to start not just one new organization, but two. The first was fairly generic–a vegetarian support group, which Punahou desperately needed to combat the idiotic guild known as the “Meat Club.” The second was a Lord of the Rings fanclub whose members were to be called the TASLs.
Forming a group of one’s own, though, was much more difficult than I thought. I had to find an advisor as well as a significant number of members from each grade level. Then, provided I completed these tasks, my application would be assessed by a committee consisting of some select students and one of the crankiest women I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet.
Needless to say, Punahou remains unadorned by TASLs to this day.
That’s why I assumed Cornell was, to use a professional term, totally lying when I heard that it was simple for students to form their own organizations at Big Red. Cornell is obviously at least fifteen billion times bigger than my high school–how could it be easier to start a club here?
Forming <3 A Cappella this year taught me otherwise. Though we’ve been singing since last fall, <3 only very became official. Based on my past experiences, I had no desire to go through the madness again: I thought it would take weeks for us to finally have our own listing on the CU RSO website.
Make that approximately three days, guys.
We found an advisor, snagged his autograph, filled out some personal information and now–bam!–we’re eligible to reserve rehearsal spaces for free, apply for funding, and generally brag about how legit we are.
In short, don’t be afraid to create something new if Cornell’s massive amount of pre-existing clubs doesn’t hold anything that strikes your fancy! And hey, if anyone feels the need for a Middle Earth group, shoot me a line. I promise my acronym-making skills have improved since the last time I was a sophomore.
At first, I thought the queue was only as long as the small hallway that led into the center of the greenhouse. As my friend and I slowly crawled forward on the trail of the quipping hipster and his pierced photographer girlfriend in front of us, though, I began to realize that this line was bigger than I’d so innocently believed at first. I’m the sort who gets impatient when waiting for, say, a mere group of six people at One World Cafe to order their choice of vegetarian sandwiches, and there I was, stuck in the kind of epic crowd normally found only at Disneyland (or, to go with an example that’s closer to home, Slope Day).
These folks weren’t waiting to snag a photo with Mickey Mouse or Ariel, though. Instead, we were united by our mutual eagerness to catch a glimpse (and, unfortunately, a whiff) of Cornell’s own blooming specimen of Titan arum, otherwise known as the “corpse plant.”
According to a fact sheet distributed to the assembled masses, the titan arum (its scientific name is Amorphophallus titanum, but anybody with working knowledge of Latin might see why this rather PG-13 appellation isn’t used often when discussing the plant in public) is native to Indonesia, and blooms very rarely during its comparatively long life. A chance to view the flower, whether in captivity or in the wild, is extremely rare, and I’ve read that some people actually “travel around the world” in search of one of these blossomin’ beauties.
Well, we Cornellians are just spoiled rotten. While it took a bit of a walk in the springtime sunshine to get from Risley to the Ag Quad, I didn’t even have to leave campus to experience this apparently once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. It wasn’t until we finally reached the corpse plant’s sacred chamber, however, that I breathed in and suddenly fully understood the reason for the titan arum’s rather macabre name.
The corpse plant expels this lovely odor to attract a type of insects that feed upon rotting meat. The flies, tempted by (what is to them) such an appealing scent, are lured into the titan arum’s clutches, where they’re imprisoned until they have been sufficiently covered in pollen to fertilize the female parts of the flower on the way out.
(I bet you thought the plant was going to eat those little dudes, right? Hey, you’re not the only one. Even though the titan arum is not carnivorous, I still can’t shake the feeling that it belongs in Little Shop of Horrors.)
Of course, there aren’t many carcass-eating flies soaring about Cornell’s greenhouses. The resident fly impersonators–I mean, botanists, therefore, were forced to hand-pollinate the plant. Since I grew up watching my mother “be a bee” by artificially pollinating some of the plants in our garden, this fun fact about the flower’s history made me feel right at home. Obviously, these phony pollinators were successful, too: the flower was impressive, the stench despicable and the guest book filled with entries made by visitors hailing from all over Tompkins county and beyond.
(I’m going to briefly hark back to a previous post, though, to point out that even the titan arum attracted more on-campus attention than last Thursday’s wayang kulit performance. Pretty good for a foul-smelling, super-tall plant monster, right?)
Want to learn more about the titan arum? Of corpse you do! (Sorry, that one just never gets old.) Check out Cornell’s Titan Arum Blog for more updates and to spy on the “corpse plant cam.”
The jealousy started about three weeks ago, when the bragging did. Fellow classmates casually shared their plans to go to Vegas and Prague, Facebookers posted statuses like “My mom booked me a surprise spring break Bahamas cruise!” (you may think I’m exaggerating, but I assure you, that’s a true (though paraphrased) story), and even my friends began revealing how excited they were to have a chance to go home and relax. Like a collegiate Phantom of the Opera, I was forced to crawl away into my secret lair in the basement of Risley Theater and write dark music to express my spring break sorrows.
Then a miracle occurred. As it turned out, I managed to book bus tickets (Greyhound there, Cornell’s Campus-to-Campus back) to New York City for this weekend. Thanks to the hospitality of my mother’s college friend, I experienced the whirlwind joys of the quickest, most action-packed mini-spring break imaginable.
As soon as I disembarked my bus (which, by the way, was disappointingly not a “true” Greyhound but a New York Trailways. So much for my Simon & Garfunkel dreams!), we rushed over to Times Square to pick up same-day tickets for a Broadway show, and, after a long period of waiting and dodging the black-hatted temptresses encouraging queuers to attend Chicago, we scored seats for Warhorse, the Tony-award-winning play based on a similarly acclaimed novel.
The most praiseworthy aspect of Warhorse is its use of phenomenal life-size, equine puppets, each controlled by a group of three handlers. These horses move across the stage, breathe and are ridden so naturally that it’s very easy to forget they’re not alive. Considering what I’ve been studying in my Shadowplay seminar, this example of Western puppetry was an excellent contrast to the wayang kulit performance I saw the night before.
Speaking of connections to art history, Saturday afternoon’s activities included a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Many of the pieces at which I had the pleasure of looking were discussed at length in my Renaissance & Baroque class last semester–it was certainly thrilling to see these classic paintings as something bigger than a Powerpoint slide!
Of course, as much as I admire Rococo paintings or works from the Northern Renaissance, my favorites are, as always, examples of ancient and medieval art. The Met didn’t disappoint there either: notable exhibits include a Byzantine gallery (featuring fragments of clothing and books) and a really impressive Egyptian collection, complete with an in-house reconstructed temple and tomb. My childhood dreams of becoming an Egyptologist (though honestly, how many children don’t have such dreams? Ancient Egypt is so romanticized in our society) returned to haunt me as I wandered around glass cases of sarcophagi and lapis lazuli jewelry.
Our final stop of note was at the American Museum of Natural History, where I learned, among other things, that Night at the Museum totally lied about everything. Still, it was an incredible experience that included stops in the exhibits about marine life, African mammals, Oceanic peoples, Precolumbian art and tribes of the Amazon (which annoyingly kept referring to the Amazonian natives as “Indians,” which I object to simply because they are in no way from India at all. Ugh!).
Thank you to Lydia for taking me on such a grand adventure, and to my parents for not totally freaking out when I had to stop at the relatively sketchy Port Authority bus terminal! All in all, it was an amazing weekend, though I’m definitely looking forward to spending some quiet time in the natural beauty of Ithaca and riding the TCAT instead of the subway.
These days, the internet is filled with folks affirming their individual awesomeness by annoyingly lamenting the degration of our society. If you spend any time on Facebook, tumblr, or any other image-sharing site, you’ve probably seen those poorly-crafted MS Paint images that bemoan the world’s supposed lack of culture. Typically, such pictures juxtapose two popular figures, one “bad” and one “good”–let’s say, for example, Miley Cyrus and Aristophanes. A caption over Hannah Montana will read “If you know who this is,” while the Helvetica text superimposed onto Aristophanes’ sad little bust will be something along the lines of “and don’t know who this is, then YOU’RE what’s wrong with the universe/today’s culture/[whatever].”
As much as I hate following trends, I feel it’s necessary to create a comparison of my own.
If Cornellians bought out every seat of the massively large Bailey Hall to see some aged pop singer talk about his college drop-out days, drinking habits and bad relationships for three hours (okay, and sing like five songs as well), but an extremely sophisticated performance of Javanese wayang (shadow theatre) piece by a world-renowned master didn’t even draw enough of a crowd to fill up the orchestra level, there must be something wrong with the world.
The opening of the exhibit I helped to curate for my Art History seminar (Shadowplay: Asian Art in Performance) was meant to coincide with the residency of Ki Purbo Asmoro, a famous and incredibly talented dhalang. Before I took the class, my knowledge of shadow plays was based on a single performance I attended during “New Year’s Day at Sturbridge Village” when I was six or seven. The show featured a costumed 19th-century granny singing a pitchy (yet kitschy) musical story that featured the charming refrain of “The bridge is broken and it must be fixed!” Because that’s all I remember (which is probably for the best), I had relatively low expectations for wayang.
A dhalang, however, isn’t just some history buff who pulls on leather boots and high-necked crinoline each January 1st. (Please note that I am in no way hating on those who work at historical reenactment sites like Sturbridge Village. Honestly, that’s probably my ideal career.) A puppetmaster like Purbo Asmoro has to be a poet (composing the narration), an improv comedian (tying in popular culture to his plays–for instance, a puppet Barack Obama made an appearance during the comedic interlude last night), a musician (leading the gamelan ensemble), and a business manager as well as a skilled actor capable of giving each one of his hundreds of characters an individual voice.
Our exhibition focuses on a very old Javanese tale, the Arjuna Wiwaha (translated as “Arjuna’s Profound Meditation”). Characters like Arjuna were carried along trade routes to Indonesia when the Mahabharata traveled from India. The Arjuna Wiwaha story, however, does not appear in the Indian epic at all. Arjuna, the protagonist, is aptly described by my professor as “the playboy of the Mahabharata.” The princely Arjuna manages to find the perfect balance between being a charming, intelligent ladies’ man and a formidable warrior. In this story, Arjuna’s attempt to live an ascetic’s life and commit himself to meditation are interrupted by the gods, who fear that the raksasa Niwatakiwatja will destroy the heavens if Arjuna does not stop him. I won’t go into the rest, though, because you can go to the museum and read it yourself! (I helped to write the wall panel that appeared there, anyway).
There are many factors concerning why Billy Joel’s show had a larger audience. Asmoro’s performance was a rarely-mentioned event on a Thursday during prelim season, while I received a Facebook invite to Billy’s Friday night talk months before tickets even went on sale. Still, last night’s performance was one of the best shows I ever seen–not just at Cornell but in my entire life.
(And I’ve had the pleasure of watching both The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and They Might Be Giants in concert. So, you know, that’s pretty high praise.)
This is the blog post that shouldn’t be.
I had some fantastic writing lined up for this weekend, I promise! On Saturday, I planned to travel with my dear friend to Seneca Falls in honor of International Women’s Day to view various landmarks of feminist significance. This trip was free, courtesy of Residential Life’s activity programming.
As I double-checked the marigold-colored itinerary, however, I realized that we were scheduled to return at 5PM, and not (as the trip’s Risley sponsor had previously stated) 3:30. Because I already had a 4:30PM commitment (a movie date with my ”little sister”/mentee in the Ithaca Youth Bureau College Discovery Program), I was left with no choice but to slink away sadly while everyone else boarded the bus. Hey, Balch? Thanks a lot for neglecting to pass that friendly li’l change on to us Risleyites. I really appreciate it. (I’m not bitter at all! I swear, on the Precious!)
Therefore, if chance will have me sans Seneca Falls, why, chance may…give me the opportunity to assess the Cornell Shakespeare Troupe’s production of Macbeth instead.*
I was very excited to put on my metaphorical snobby theatre critic’s hat and write this review of the tragedy I saw at Risley Theater on Friday night. (In case you were wondering, said hat is a slouchy beret made of cruelty-free faux silk. Metaphorically speaking, that is.) Since “the Scottish play” is my ultimate favorite work written by Shakespeare ever ever ever, I was all prepared to be absolutely scandalized by what could only be a horrible performance. What can I say? I’m an optimist!
Sadly, hats or otherwise, I’m unable to be as critical as I’d like. Most actors were good, and some were incredible, particularly the Macduffs: Lady ‘duff should win an award for Best Female Performance Shorter Than Ten Minutes (though, ironically, she acted better in those nine and a half minutes than any other woman did in the entire play), and I can’t even begin to talk about Mr. MacD himself. This man is amazing. I hope someday I can sell my program with his name for millions on eBay.
Strangely enough, Risley plays are often, in my experience, significantly better than any of the Schwartz Center’s “mainstage” productions. This seems rather paradoxical: why would the plays presumably filled with theatre majors be less amazing than those done by CALS kids and poli-sci peeps who only act in their spare time? Granted, Macbeth featured a lot of the Schwartz/theatre major folks, and they certainly didn’t give shabby performances. Perhaps the more intimate Risley Theater environment simply lends itself to a more immersive experience.
Honestly, the aspect of Macbeth that bothered me most was the unnecessary presence of weird projections cast onto the curtains behind the players in the style of wannabe-avant-garde installation art pieces. Now, admittedly, I’m sure I’d be singing a much different tune had all the projections actually loaded: I had the opening-night delight of watching Macbeth’s monologues occasionally interrupted by a giant, floating “Image Not Found.” Still, no production can be perfect, and, given the time constraints and limited budget, I will reluctantly take off my cynic’s cap (this one’s a jaded plaid derby) and admit that it was a quality show.
(Though it did irk me that the poster appeared to have been taken straight out that creepy episode of Dr. Who. And the gas mask only showed up in the play once. Come on!)
*That’s a quote from the play, in case you were wondering about the archaic phrasing. I try.
It’s campaignin’ time again. Everywhere, this year’s candidates and their loyal supporters are advertising their platforms through paper propaganda, social media, chalkings…
I am, of course, referring to the folks running for the Cornell Student Assembly, not those involved in the 2012 presidential election.
It’s so easy to pick out an SA wannabe on campus. They’re the guys and girls often found randomly chatting people up. Right when you start to think “Oh, boy, why is this person talking to me? My hair must look so attractive today,” your admirer suddenly bids you farewell with a “Well, nice to meet you, please remember my name and give me your vote!”
As a freshman, I forgot to vote and, honestly, wasn’t that interested in it. My experiences in high school elections taught me that student government elections are usually nothing more than overblown popularity contests. This year, though, in celebration of the fact that I’m finally eighteen and able to vote In Real Life, I decided it was time to play my part in the Cornell democratic process.
In my opinion, there are a couple of ways in which college students make their voting decisions.
1. “I know your face!”
If you’re a Cornellian who lives, breathes and goes to classes, odds are you’ll run into a candidate at one point or another. Folks running for the individual colleges’ representatives, for example, often lurk in common gathering spots for their respective schools’ students. (My boyfriend (an engineer) and I (A&S, obviously) met a Hum Ec Representative hopeful while eating lunch at Martha’s (in the Hum Ec building) and awkwardly had to tell him that we couldn’t vote for him even if we tried.)
When election time comes ’round, then, and every candidate has written the same bombastic drivel for their platform description, why not pick that dude who came up to you at the bus stop and asked you which of two catchphrases you thought would be best for his campaign? (True story!) Choosing someone you’ve met in real life ensures you can at least hunt him/her down if s/he totally messes up the student government. (On a side note–Dear English language: please decide on a grammatically correct gender-neutral pronoun. PLEASE.)
2. The Dr. Horrible Method.
Maybe you’re a free spirit. Maybe you like to hide out in your lair writing blog posts and thinking about how the world would be a better place if you could just rule it.
(I don’t identify with this characterization at all. Nope, not me!)
If you’re a Dr. Horrible, you can’t be expected to have any interest in something as easily corruptible as the Student Assembly. What happens, though, if your nemesis is running for office? Even if you couldn’t care less who the Second-In-Command Treasurer’s Assistant Person is, you definitely don’t want your dread enemy in power. Vote for his/her biggest competition instead: at least that’ll keep Captain Hammer from taking over.
3. Voting for people because you approve of their platforms, admire their records, and generally think they’d be just awesome at the job.
Well, that’s boring. Next!
4. The Buffet Voter.
Buffet voters aren’t in it for the whole deal. They pick and choose which positions they care about and don’t waste their time voting for the rest. As much as I associate myself with Dr. Horrible in real life, I have to say that no. 4 best describes me. I knew, going into elections, that I wasn’t all that worried about the President or Executive VP. Unless some weirdo runs under the platform of “Yo, bros, I’m totally lame at math and stuff and I can’t even organize my own life but I will make a ROCKIN’ treasurer, pinkie promise!”, I’m going to say that all those candidates are probably similarly qualified.
The most important people for me to consider, then, were candidates for the Arts & Sciences Rep and the LGBTQ Representative At Large. I also wanted to vote against a student whose platform involved changing pre-enroll time from 7AM to 10PM to “better convenience students.” Um, night owl bias, anyone? Early birds are students too!
When I write happy posts about how much I love Cornell, it’s not because the Big Red Bear threatened to eat my computer if I don’t say nice things. I’m lucky to be part of a blogging program that does not censor student contributors. Today, I’m going to take advantage of my freedom of speech and do some complainin’.
I was inspired to write about what I perceive as the Cornell administration’s contribution to the hypersexualization of the college environment when reading through several old Daily Sun opinion pieces on Filthy/Gorgeous, the annual sex-positive dance party hosted by the Cornell Gay Straight Alliance.
From what I’ve seen, Filthy/Gorgeous–which allegedly features “half-naked male and female dancers” and advertises with provocative posters–tends to polarize the Cornell QUILTBAG community. Some folks celebrate it, while others feel alienated by the raciness. Personally, though I’m all for the event’s philanthropic efforts (proceeds benefit Sylvia’s Place and other shelters and programs for LGBTQ youth), you won’t find me shaking it at Filthy/Gorgeous this Saturday. Hey, I just don’t like parties. So sue me.
My real point today, of course, doesn’t have to do with Filthy/Gorgeous specifically but with the promotion of assumptions about college students’ sexual activities in general. Once again, my complaints are directed at that Cornell institution I most love to hate: Gannett.
Long-time readers may remember a previous post in which I discussed how a Gannett worker asked me if I was interested in an STI test while I writhed in pain from a burned hand. It’s great that Gannett provides sexual counseling services, birth control, and other safer-sex related items for students who need it. However, Gannett seems convinced that every college student has sex on a regular basis.
On Valentine’s Day, I was approached by a pair of Gannett workers handing out “goody bags” containing a piece of candy and a couple of festively colored condoms. These bringers of joy didn’t even politely ask ”Would you care for this Ziploc full of sugar and safer sex supplies?” Oh, no. They stalked down students to deliver their wares.
Look, it’s great to have condoms available for free inside Gannett’s lobby. I wouldn’t mind the goody bag program either if the bags were distributed in a less agressive fashion.
Imagine, if you will, that you’ve just gone through a terrible break-up. On Valentine’s Day, you can’t stop remembering how exactly a year ago you and Mr./Ms. Ex were so in love. You’re walking across Ho Plaza after munching some therapeutic curly fries from The Ivy Room when you run into the Gannett Lady. As she strides away to find her next victim, you stare at condoms in your hand and wonder what’s wrong with you. Around you, your fellow students have happily stuffed these bags into their pockets. They’ve probably got some February 14th sexcapades planned. Probably even Gannett Lady has a hot date for this Valentine’s evening too.
And what do you have? A baggie full of red rubbers and a lonely dorm room to come home to. Forever alone.
Okay, new theoretical situation. You are in a relationship. Mr./Ms. Not-Ex-Yet wants to take your physical relationship to the next level, and you’re reluctant to do so. The two of you are skipping arm-in-arm from Collegetown, and Gannett Lady hands you each a little present the moment you successfully jaywalk across the street. Your partner opens the bag and says “Hey, even Gannett thinks we should do it.” S/he laughs, but both of you know that it isn’t a joke. A single encounter forces you to confront these issues with your comfort level in a very public fashion.
Or, you know, you could just be like me and think it’s super awkward to have a woman old enough to be your mother ply you with condoms in the middle of Ho Plaza where everyone can see you. Come on, Gannett.
Happy March, y’all! Even though it remains 2012: The Winter That Wasn’t, I expect springtime to make its way to Ithaca soon enough. I’m looking forward to all the traditional signs of a change in the seasons: small patches of baby plants sprouting up, leaves budding, dragons arriving–
Well, actually, the dragons have been here since the middle of February.
Each spring, first-year Cornell Architecture students construct a fantastically enormous dragon. “Dragon Day,” as this hallowed practice is called, is over 100 years old, and was started by that good ol’ goofball Willard Straight ’01 (that’s 1901, not 2001, guys). Before Will started having buildings named after him and stuff, he was a prankster with a lot of architect pride who thought his college should have its very own day. For whatever reason, Willard picked St. Patrick’s Day as the perfect time to celebrate his school.
Where do the dragons come in, though? Well, because I’m committed to promoting the well-being of dragons everywhere–I mean, committed to providing accurate Cornell history on this blog, I did a little more research. According to Cornell’s Archives, Willard and his buddies spent one early Dragon Day constructing a full-sized St. Patrick and a serpent for him to drive away. Presumably because assembling a massive saint would get boring after a while, St. Patty fell by the wayside while the dragon stayed on for generations to come.
Now, calling me a dragon fan might be the understatement of the 21st century. In sixth grade, I wrote an extensive report examining the roots of cross-cultural examples of dragon mythology. My room back home has dragons on the curtains and bed-quilt, in bowls and hanging from the walls. Heck, the pajama pants I’m wearing as I type this very post have a dragon embroidered on the left leg! Therefore, I was a little shocked when I learned that the Cornell dragon was traditionally burned at the end of this rigmarole. How terrible! Fortunately, this modern age is more dracofriendly than Willard’s time: today’s dragons apparently merely suffer a symbolic auto-da-fé after doing “battle” with the engineers’ phoenix.
When answering a question on the “Which My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic character are you?” quiz (to all prospective students reading: you may want to go elsewhere if this does not sound like your ideal Friday night activity), I must admit that I did, at one point, assert that I do not believe in Santa Claus. (Who knows how that’s relevant to whether I’m more like Fluttershy or Twilight Sparkle, but whatever). Sorry, Saint Nick.
Fortunately, the Risley free bin has taken over this rotund joy-bringer’s role as a bearer of gifts–all year round. Every floor of Risley (except, of course, my own, but my friend and I might have something to do about that!) has a cardboard box into which passerby can deposit various items of clothing with which they are no longer in love. Discovering this has changed my life forever, and it’s not just because I keep adding totally awesome upcycled ensembles to my wardrobe. Honestly, it’s also hard to get rid of stuff at Cornell. If you don’t have a car, the nearest Goodwill might as well be in New York City. While I love shopping at Trader K’s, too, (a downtown designer secondhand store), they only accept the fanciest of clothing.
Thus, the benefits of the free bin are twofold: I can abandon those freaky pants I’ve had since freshman year (of high school, that is) in exchange for…well, take a look!
Why am I so interested in free things, you ask (besides, of course, the fact that I attend a university that costs thousands of dollars to attend)? Well, today was one of those weekends when I was forced to head over to Target and Tops to invest in some expensive essentials. With printer cartridges and breakfast foods costing an arm and a leg these days, I’ll take all the free shoes I can get.
Shirley Jackson never had it this good, folks.
Crowds of people staring at taped-up floorplans? An epic amount of fun-sized chocolate bars? More name-calling than you’d find in a second-grade classroom? Must be Housing Lottery time.
Of course, it’s important to note that the housing madness I experienced yesterday is nothing akin to the true craziness that is the real Housing Lottery (the yearly battle between hundreds of underclassmen for coveted West Campus suites). Since Risley is a program house, I only had to fight with a few scores of students for the best remaining rooms. When I submitted my “Returning Member Application Form” for Risley a few weeks ago, I already had my sights set on the beautiful single neighboring a dear friend’s. Apparently, though, random number generators hate me: my assigned lottery number was 77. At around 7PM last night (forty-five whole minutes before my time slot), an informant let me know that my beloved room had been snapped up, and I was heartbroken.
But that didn’t last long. Although I planned on just picking out my current room for another year, I somehow managed to choose the most awesome room on the fourth floor instead. Purely by accident.
Guys, this room is twenty square feet larger than my already sizable single. It’s directly across from the kitchen so my freaky introverted self will be able to spy from the peephole to make sure there aren’t people afoot whenever I want to cook. (I’m not creepy at all.) And, and, get this: there are two doors. Imagine the possibilities! I could have one for going in and going out! I could…
I must admit, though, that I’m not looking forward to bringing my laundry down four flights of stairs. It’ll be like descending into the heart of Mount Doom on a weekly basis with a big ol’ basket instead of a teensy Ring of Power. Beat that, Isildur.