Written in the stars…

After weeks of carefully picking the right date, the right price, and the right people to go with, Shari and I finally purchased tickets to see Rent with Broadway in Chicago.

We’re seeing it on a Sunday in April.

We were randomly assigned seats:

Row R, seats 101-102.

It’s great because I’m in room 101, and Shari’s in room 102. And “R” could stand for “room.”

Shari thinks it’s fate. I think it’s a large coincidence. Discuss.

A bigger instrument for an older girl

Today was the first official band concert where I was with my new love.

The bass clarinet, that is.

Since fifth grade, I’ve slaved away on the baby clarinet. The teeny tiny Bb clarinet that you’re all used to seeing. I’ve worked to improve my hole-covering techniques, learned to adjust my embouchure to force out the highest of the high notes, and I’ve drilled runs and trills into my quick fingers with my nails cut short.

But now, I have to do these no longer.

It seems natural that now I’ve entered college and I’ve taken on the bass clarinet. Of course, the real reason I’m playing it is that every band needs a few bass clarinet, and nobody comes into fifth-grade band saying, “Give me the biggest and heaviest woodwind instrument. I want the bass clarinet.” So band directors are left begging for converts, and I volunteered to convert to the lower side of the band.

It just makes sense. I’m in college. My classes are more challenging, I have more responsibilities, I have more freedom. As a more mature individual, it is only logical that I would play a more mature instrument.

A clarinet friend of mine from high school told me today that she can’t believe that I “abandoned my clarinets to go lower.” I responded that though I did go lower musically, I went higher in status.

Bass clarinets can do whatever they want. Well, not everything. But they’re allowed to play loudly. How many times do you hear band directors telling the bass clarinets that the people in Russia are having trouble hearing them? Our parts are WAY easier than the regular clarinets. I looked over to the clarinet player’s music next to me: I had forgotten how difficult it was to play that little thing. Now, I play loud and low, and a lot of cool bass lines and counter melodies. My bass clarinet and I get along great.

Well, mostly great. Sometimes it decides that it doesn’t want to play either the low notes or the high notes. Sometimes neither. And all the time, it’s incredibly heavy. I have to work out my arms extra hard just so I can carry it from my dorm to the band room.

But no matter. I just don’t know why I didn’t find the instrument sooner.

To all my clarinet friends out there: SWITCH OVER! Or learn to play it in addition to the baby clarinet. You might just like it.

I just love the way the whole world seems to vibrate when I play the low Eb.

Ode to Jessi, and other non-blog readers like her

Jessi, my next-door neighbor who I don’t write about as often, appalled me the other day. When asked why she doesn’t read my blog, she responded,

“I live right next door to you. I see you every day. If you have something to say, you can just tell me.”

In a way, she has a good point there. Why bother reading my blog if we live so close? And I’m sure there are hundreds of others like her who do not receive great pleasure from reading blogs. In her honor, then, I dedicate this entry.

Dearest Jessi and friends,

I salute you for not wanting to read my blog. After all, a blog is not a real publication. It’s not real journalism, it’s not real writing, and it’s unprofessional. Nobody reads blogs these days anyway.

You have better things to do with your time. Sitting on the Internet, looking up other Web sites? Chatting on AIM? Heaven forbid, doing something unrelated to your computer and outside your room?

For many, my blog and hundreds of others serve as a form of distraction—a pleasant distraction. Something to do while another site loads; a bit of light reading between research papers; perhaps a way of keeping up on friends’ lives without actually talking to them (is that called “stalking,” these days?). But you, Jessi and company, are beyond that. You don’t lack as much attention as the rest of us. You concentrate fully. You know everything about your friends’ lives. If your friends don’t seek you out to keep in touch with you, you don’t want to hear about them anyway.

And yes, Jessi, I do live approximately six and a half stride lengths from your door. I’m in your room more often than anywhere else. We brush our teeth together, harmonizing with your electric toothbrush. Why should I make you read my online journal, when I could just speak in blogspeak all day long? Yes, that’s what I will do. Every word that comes out of my mouth will be another journal entry. I will discuss school, current events, and the weather. I’ll ask you “what the deal is” with something in a Seinfeld-esqe way, or I’ll educate you on the 14 easy rules to keep in mind when dating a Lehrer. When you ask me how I’m feeling, instead of saying, “Not so great, I have a cold,” I’ll talk in my romantic but still stuffed-up voice and address my cold directly: “Cold, it’s been such a pleasure getting to know you for the past two weeks.” (If you haven’t read that entry, you should. http://lia1031.livejournal.com/35661.html)

Jessi, et al, I thank you again for not reading my blog. It’s just something silly I don’t really care about. Per your advice, I should concentrate less on blogs and more on newspapers, because newspapers are the future of journalism.

Like the smoking signs say: Thank You for Not Caring.

Always,
Lia

Google Smell Search?

I don’t know what mold smells like.

But there’s some kind of unusual odor coming from the lower ceiling of my closet.

Numerous informal polls of neighbors showed that I must be imagining the smell.

Really, though: If I were to imagine a smell, wouldn’t I come up with something more pleasant?

I just want to admit that the thought did occur to me at least once to search the Internet to find out what mold smells like. Now THAT would be a cool Google feature.

Instead of IMing your friend a smiley face or a frowney face, you could IM them smells of hot cookies or of passed gas. Instead of inviting friends to a birthday party with pictures of clowns and present, you could send them an e-flier (an s-filer? Smell flier?) with the smell of waxy birthday cake.
Instead of me trying to describe what I am smelling in my room (and really, I’m very good about hanging up towels and being clean and stuff), I could post the smell and you could all vote on what it is.

But alas, the Internet is not (yet) that cool.

Hmm. In sixth grade I did a project on natural gas (the fossil fuel), and as part of my presentation, I passed out scratch ‘n’ sniff stickers of natural gas created by Nicor to make sure that we can recognize the smell. Maybe mold stickers like that exist. I’ll investigate.

But for now, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the aroma.

How do you pronounce your name? Uhh…”JOE”?

Apparently, apathy is a big trend here at Northwestern. (I know, I know…and I don’t care.)

I understand being apathetic about world politics, what goes on in your dorm, or even what you have for dinner.

But the way people pronounce your name? If you care about one thing, kids, this should be your issue.

Lately, I have run into a problem with the way that people pronounce their name in their native language versus the way we Americans can say their names.

I’ll illustrate with four examples (if you’re reading this and your name is mentioned, feel free to comment with thoughts on how to rectify this problem):

1. Seva. He’s Russian. When he says his name, in his Russian accent, it sounds like “S’yeh-va,” but the syllables are said so quickly and Russianickly that they sound like one. When Americans try to say it “properly,” they’ll say “See-ehva.” I have talked to Seva about this, and he does not like that pronunciation. I told him that I, an American who is proud of her accent, could not physically say his name the way he likes it. Would he rather I say “Seh-vuh” or “Say-vuh”? “Say-vuh,” he says.

          -Side note #1: When I asked Seva to try to pronounce his name in an American accent, he first could not do it. Upon further trying, he made Americans sound incredibly stupid. I forgot how, though.
          -Side note #2: This is pretty much the best story I’ve ever heard. Let me first introduce the players. Seva: you may remember him from such stories as person #1, and side note #1. Jason: an AEpi friend of Seva’s. Random older guy in AEpi (we’ll call him ROGIAEP): sorry, I forgot his name. You can’t win them all.

            ROGIAEP [to Jason]: “So, tell me, do you pronounce your name ‘Seh-vuh’ or ‘See-ehva’?”
            Jason: “It’s ‘See-ehva.’ AND, it’s ‘Jason.’”

2. Yeji. She’s Asian, in my journalism class. First day of class:

            Journalism professor: “How would you like me to pronounce your name?”
            Yeji: “I don’t care.”
            JP: “Well, is it “Yeh-jee” or is it “Yay-jee”?
            Yeji: “Either one is fine.”

          But why don’t you care? You should care! It’s your name! It’s the only thing you’re guaranteed to own for the rest of your life…well, hopefully.

3. Suzanne. She’s English. Like, from England. She’s the news editor at The Daily Northwestern on the nights I copy edit. She pronounces her name “Soo-ZON,” the British way. Consequently, when calling her, most other [extremely American] people in the newsroom also call her Soo-Zon. I refuse to butcher my American accent in such a way. To me, she is “Soo-zan” (rhymes with “you man”). If I pronounced it the British way, it would be a disgrace to my American ancestors who fought to get independence from England. (What? My ancestors lived in Poland? Oh…)

4. Shari. My beloved next-door neighbor from Long Island. Shari fits under this category of people speaking in foreign tongues because, quite frankly, she is from New York. She says “I sawer the sign” instead of “I saw the sign,” and “fah-ren” instead of “foh-ren” (foreign). Her name, she says, is pronounced “Shahh-ree.” My Chicagoan mouth cannot bend that way, my friend. I say and will always say “Share-ee.” She says “Shari” and “sharing” differently, when in fact, they are the same word.

So…a few things to keep in mind.

            -If your name is foreign, and you live in America, deal with it. It will be mispronounced. But don’t try to think that your American friends will figure out the proper way of saying it. Come up with an easy American way to stay it, stick with it, and like it! That’s the best we can give you.
            -You also should care about how your name is pronounced. Unless it’s too complicated and you have not done bullet point #1.
            -If you’re from the east coast, when you’re in Chicago, you may as well be from another country. ASSIMILATE!
            -When in doubt, take the easy way out: “Hey, you! Can you pass the salt?”

Singing about fruits

I have talked to at least four people in the past few weeks who have never heard the following song:

“I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas.
I like to oat, oat, oat opples and bononos.
I like to ite, ite, ite ipples and binihnihs.
I like to ate, ate, ate aypples and banaynays.
I like to out, out, out oupples and bonounous.”

Are they crazy? Am I crazy because I, at 19 years old, still hum (okay, not gonna lie, SING) that song whenever I see, hear about, or eat apples and bananas?

Help me begin to pick a major

Today, I met with my freshman adviser in the Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences, in which I am currently enrolled. I told him that I ruled out being in the School of Music and the McCormick School of Engineering, but that’s about it. He recommended I talk to someone in the Academic Advising Center because he can’t help me.

A few hours later, a friend of mine (okay, Shari, I’ll mention you by name) saw an ad in The Daily Northwestern for a workshop for “undecided majors.” I decided to go and see what it was all about.

In a room set for 50 people, two students showed up, making me feel even more alone in this world of decided people. People who know what they want to do. People who can see into the future. People who aren’t confused.

The guy (who happened to be from the Advising Center) told us that we should talk to people in the departments of possible majors, and maybe sit in on some classes. I didn’t really learn anything new.

For those of you not familiar with Northwestern, the university consists of six schools:
-Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences
-School of Education and Social Policy (SESP)
-School of Communication
-Medill School of Journalism
-School of Music
-McCormick School of Engineering and Applied Science

Right now, I am considering either switching to SESP, Comm, or Medill, or possibly staying in Weinberg.

Possible majors in each school that I am considering:

SESP:
-Learning and Organizational Change
-Social Policy

Comm:
-Communication Studies

Medill:
-Journalism

Weinberg:
-Sociology
-beg and plead to get a Jewish Studies major

I need to decide sort of soon which school I would like to be in, because each school has different requirements. Registration for spring quarter classes begins (too) soon.

Here’s where you come in. You can VOTE HERE (leave a comment) on which school you think I should be in, and why.

I will tally up the votes, and whichever one wins is the school I will transfer into and the school that will determine my life career. Okay, just kidding, maybe not necessarily. Depends on what you vote for.

Thanks for helping me find my place in the world. Really.

What is your mother’s maiden name?

I meant to post this about six months ago, but you know, stuff gets in the way.

On the day I was scheduled to leave for the first day of college, my suitcases were ready to go. I had set out my clothes the night before, I had picked out my comforter, and I had purchased every possible type of cold medicine and shampoo I could possibly want. I had said goodbye to my house and emotionally prepared myself to leave. I had my last home-cooked meal.

There was but one thing left to do: open a checking account.

This was exciting. I’d finally be able to write checks, use an ATM (I still feel special when I use one), and spend my hard-earned money.

My dad and I went to the bank. Why we had left this for the last possible second I do not know, but we did. We waited for the teller to call us while I nervously thought about college. There were so many questions running through my head: What will Northwestern be like? Will I make a lot of friends? Will I like my classes? Will my roommate and I decide to bunk the beds? My mind was cluttered with uncertainty.

The process for filling out the checking account information was relatively straight-forward. Read this, write your home address, sign here. Do you want the Tweety checks or the red-striped ones?

But then, the teller asked me to select a security question. You know, in case I lose my password and I have to e-mail the bank, they’ll ask me this secret question that only I know the answer to. I had to select TWO security questions, actually, from the list.

In which city did you live at age 14?
Who was your childhood hero?
What was the name of your favorite teacher?
What is your favorite movie?

Upon hearing these questions, my dad and I looked at each other, bewildered. How will I possibly remember who my childhood hero was in fifteen years when I forget my password? If I’ve forgotten my password, I’m definitely not going to remember the answer to that. I always have a different answer to that question anyway. Sometimes I say Superman, other times it’s Elphaba from Wicked, other times it’s my parents. Sometimes it’s even the cashier at the Jewel when I’m in the mood.

So, I have come up with some other questions that I recommend my bank adopts. These will be much easier for people like me to answer.

1. What was the first word you ever spoke?
2. If you could pick a Social Security number that best represented your personality, what would it be, and why?
3. In 150 words or less, tell us about a time you overcame an obstacle.
4. What was your mother’s mother’s mother’s maiden name?
5. As a kid, what was your least favorite food?
6. Who was your favorite Olympic ice skater at the Lake Placid games?
7. What is the question to the answer of life, the universe, and everything?
8. What do you get when you take your favorite number, multiply it by the year you were born, add your weight, divide by your target heart rate, and raise it to the power of the number of Grammys your favorite singer has won?
9. On your 12th birthday, what was your favorite present you received?
10. Please explain why you have forgotten your password, and, on a scale of 1-10, describe how sorry you are that you forgot it.

Questions like these will be much easier to remember the answers to, don’t you think?