I have one English class this semester, and it is taught by a Scottish woman. She looks eerily like Sinead O'Connor, with the shaved head and everything. I can't recall at this moment what nationality Sinead O'Connor is, but I know she is from one of the British Isles, which means she has an accent. This got me thinking. What have you heard of Sinead O'Connor these days? Not a whole damn lot. Another interesting note; since Sinead was a singer, she was probably a songwriter too. Songs are often likened to poetry...which is literature. Which could, techincally,
qualify someone to be a professor. Possibly. Hmmm. Maybe my professor IS Sinead O'Connor?
No. That's just nonsense. And not at all what I wanted to discuss today.
What I actually wanted to discuss was how totally unqualifed Sinead (which is what I will refer to the professor as for the duration of this note, since I forget her real name) is as an English teacher. I mean, she's Scottish. She's not English. Doesn't that make her first language...Gaelic or something? Or is that the Irish? I think it is the Irish. However, I'm pretty sure that the Scottish spoke, or quite possibly still speak, some language other than English.
I'm in Canadian history, not History of the British Isles, so give me a break.
Anyways, as I was saying. I got a close reading assignment back today. For those of you not in English, a close reading is essentially an analysis of a paragraph or two from a larger novel. It was a two page assignment, and I was pretty damn proud of what I had wrote. I thought I had done a smashingly great job. She, apparently, did not agree. She gave me a 55%. But what made it worse...again...was the comments. The very first sentance was, "Krista, you write wonderfully." Okay. I thought this was quite good. I read on: "However, you apparently do not know how to do a close reading." My jaw dropped. I did not get to fourth year, as an English minor, without learning how to properly do a close reading. In fact, I usually get stellar marks in English. This mark was a complete shock. Coupled with the fact that she wrote such nice comments, and then proceeded to rip me apart, it was too much for me. I sat for the rest of the class dumbfounded. I didn't absorb too much of what the professor was lecturing on, because I could not wrap my head around the fact that I got a 55% on something. Previously my lowest mark ever was a 71%. That's almost a 20% difference. Then I started to conclude that the problem wasn't with ME. It couldn't possibly be my fault. I wrote wonderfully, she said so herself. Just because my idea of a close reading wasn't her idea of a close reading doesn't mean I'm stupid. Clearly people in Scottland do close readings differently than close readings in Canada. Obviously that's the problem. She's just not used to how Canadian students do close readings.
Yah. That's it. It's not my fault she's a bad English teachers. After all, she is Scottish.
A moderatly well-written account of a 20-something Canadian woman's experiences in the world. Be warned...this could get personal.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
It's Cold Outside, and Dull Inside
I woke up this morning with the intention of going to the University library, to get some work done. It seems as if I cannot concentrate on doing schoolwork when I am at home. I've puzzled over this for some time, because it doesn't really make sense. The only additional element that I have at home is the television. However, it seems to be irresistible. I cannot escape the lure of the TV, even during the dreaded "daytime" programming hours, that consist of soap opera's and various home/fashion/personal interest shows. I guess if it is there, I have to have it on.
So if I were to study at home, I would have to avoid the living room. Okay....that leaves my bedroom. I suppose I would study in my room more often, if my desk were not so atrocious. I hate to use it, because it's a rather cheap item I picked up from Staples. In retrospect, it was a bad purchase, since it's not the right height for me, and hence is very uncomfortable to use for more than five minutes. That means I usually end up trying to do work on my bed (with my laptop, of course), which almost always ends up in my falling asleep. Obviously. Beds are not meant for homeworking - in fact, I would argue that beds are good for two things ONLY (which I don't need to go into detail about, since I'm sure everyone knows what two activities I am referring to).
Clearly, since I cannot resist my television, and since my bed is entirely too comfortable, the library is the only place for me (in my studious moods, that is). So I packed my laptop, a few books, pens, and my wallet, and prepared myself for the long day that was ahead. I didn't plan my exit too well though, because I ended up waiting fifteen minutes for the bus to come. I also did not dress in accordance to the weather. I had only looked outside, and it looked glorious and sunny out. I assumed that since the last few days had been fairly warm, with temperatures above zero, that I would be safe in leaving my scarf and mittens at home. Extra bulk at the library usually ends up lost or stolen. So I donned my down jacket, and headed out with my supplies stores in my lovely shoulder-bag. Upon locking the door, and facing the world, I had a few doubts about leaving my winter accessories inside. However, thinking that the bus would be along to pick me up momentarily, I decided to abandon them anyways. However, as I already stated, the bus was not on time, and I ended up freezing my hands off at the stop. Sure, you can put your hands in your pockets, but that's not even close to being as warm as a great pair of mittens (which I have).
There were maybe 5 people on the bus with me. It became very clear to me that almost all my fellow students were not in Guelph this week. No doubt a majority of them are somewhere sunny and warm, sipping on some tropical (alcoholic) beverage of some sort, thinking about what level of sunscreen they should put on today. Those bastards. The only good thing about their departure was that I actually got a seat on the bus. I usually end up standing up, grabbing on to one of the poles for dear life, while the insane bus drivers whip around every corner, and generally drive like crazy people. Honestly, I think it is mandatory that all bus drivers have lead feet. I realize that they have to really push the buses, on account of all the additional weight...but is it really necessary that they are so gas-pedal happy? It's like gas gas BRAKE, gas gas BRAKE. When I'm standing up, this sort of driving is really not appreciated. And they KNOW they make frequent stops. So why gun it the short distance to the next stop?! I think they do it just to watch everyone standing lunge forward, trying to keep their balance.
But I digress.
I spent a good 7 hours in the library today, doing research for my Canadian Cultural Identity class. It's a fourth year seminar course, and it has potential to be super easy. We got to pick any topic (on Canadian Cultural Identity) to write about. Of course, this is when I seem to encounter a drought in creative thinking. I couldn't figure out what to write about. I ended up choosing something I thought was rather clever - Quebec Nationalism - until I got the face-slapping of a lifetime last week. We had to hand in an essay proposal, outlining what we wanted to write about, with a list of sources we'd consulted to far. The professor hands them back, saying how excited he is to read about MOST of the papers. One of the girls in my class then got the "great" idea to have him tell us some of the topics people were writing about. He launches into this list including hockey, maple syrup, provincial park systems and camping, curling, bilingualism, and a few other things. He doesn't mention my topic. I start to panic, obviously. He clearly hated my idea, why else wouldn't he have mentioned it in his slew of other topics. I decide to check the mark he gave me. I quietly flip to the back of my proposal, and am horrified to see a 68, crossed out in red pen, with a 70 scribbled beside it.
The comments, in a bold and authoritative typeface, go on to tell me that "This is not a particularly well focused proposal. It is far too loose in its conceptualization and background research to make a strong enough case that you can write this paper effectively." It goes on, but it's too depressing. Just take that sentence, and magnify it about a million times, and that's what the rest of his comments entailed. I stared hopelessly at the wall, wondering when class was over, so I could run, horrified, from the room. He had no faith in my paper. He basically told me I was a retard, and that I had no hope of writing a decent paper like the rest of my classmates. The thing that really puzzled me was how he justified giving me a 70 while at the same time doubting my ability to write the paper effectively. His comments seemed to signify a crappier mark that 70. Hell, even a crappier mark than the 68 that he crossed out.
He did offer me some pointers on what to research on though, and that's what I spent my day doing. I read through some pretty dry material, but I think I've got enough information that I CAN write this paper effectively. I really want to prove him wrong now. Yet somehow I doubt that he will be pleased with anything that I write. I mean, if you take Quebec nationalism in the 1960s and 70s, and compare that to an essay on hockey....well....COME ON. No contest. Mine will be a supreme bore, and a total flop.
Although, in my defence, what kind of moron writes a fourth year HISTORY paper on the cultural significance of hockey. Seriously. I think that person is a cop-out, and a total moron. At least I've got the balls to do a scholarly paper.
Anyways, my eyes are killing me, so I think I will pop in my iPod and prepare myself for the bus ride back home. Tonight has wonderful things in store for me, in the form of more reading. Oh, the joys of being a student in their final year of their undergraduate degree. I swear to god, when I graduate I am not reading a single (scholarly) thing for a least a month. I've completely forgotten what it is to read for pleasure.
Or to not read at all, for that matter.
So if I were to study at home, I would have to avoid the living room. Okay....that leaves my bedroom. I suppose I would study in my room more often, if my desk were not so atrocious. I hate to use it, because it's a rather cheap item I picked up from Staples. In retrospect, it was a bad purchase, since it's not the right height for me, and hence is very uncomfortable to use for more than five minutes. That means I usually end up trying to do work on my bed (with my laptop, of course), which almost always ends up in my falling asleep. Obviously. Beds are not meant for homeworking - in fact, I would argue that beds are good for two things ONLY (which I don't need to go into detail about, since I'm sure everyone knows what two activities I am referring to).
Clearly, since I cannot resist my television, and since my bed is entirely too comfortable, the library is the only place for me (in my studious moods, that is). So I packed my laptop, a few books, pens, and my wallet, and prepared myself for the long day that was ahead. I didn't plan my exit too well though, because I ended up waiting fifteen minutes for the bus to come. I also did not dress in accordance to the weather. I had only looked outside, and it looked glorious and sunny out. I assumed that since the last few days had been fairly warm, with temperatures above zero, that I would be safe in leaving my scarf and mittens at home. Extra bulk at the library usually ends up lost or stolen. So I donned my down jacket, and headed out with my supplies stores in my lovely shoulder-bag. Upon locking the door, and facing the world, I had a few doubts about leaving my winter accessories inside. However, thinking that the bus would be along to pick me up momentarily, I decided to abandon them anyways. However, as I already stated, the bus was not on time, and I ended up freezing my hands off at the stop. Sure, you can put your hands in your pockets, but that's not even close to being as warm as a great pair of mittens (which I have).
There were maybe 5 people on the bus with me. It became very clear to me that almost all my fellow students were not in Guelph this week. No doubt a majority of them are somewhere sunny and warm, sipping on some tropical (alcoholic) beverage of some sort, thinking about what level of sunscreen they should put on today. Those bastards. The only good thing about their departure was that I actually got a seat on the bus. I usually end up standing up, grabbing on to one of the poles for dear life, while the insane bus drivers whip around every corner, and generally drive like crazy people. Honestly, I think it is mandatory that all bus drivers have lead feet. I realize that they have to really push the buses, on account of all the additional weight...but is it really necessary that they are so gas-pedal happy? It's like gas gas BRAKE, gas gas BRAKE. When I'm standing up, this sort of driving is really not appreciated. And they KNOW they make frequent stops. So why gun it the short distance to the next stop?! I think they do it just to watch everyone standing lunge forward, trying to keep their balance.
But I digress.
I spent a good 7 hours in the library today, doing research for my Canadian Cultural Identity class. It's a fourth year seminar course, and it has potential to be super easy. We got to pick any topic (on Canadian Cultural Identity) to write about. Of course, this is when I seem to encounter a drought in creative thinking. I couldn't figure out what to write about. I ended up choosing something I thought was rather clever - Quebec Nationalism - until I got the face-slapping of a lifetime last week. We had to hand in an essay proposal, outlining what we wanted to write about, with a list of sources we'd consulted to far. The professor hands them back, saying how excited he is to read about MOST of the papers. One of the girls in my class then got the "great" idea to have him tell us some of the topics people were writing about. He launches into this list including hockey, maple syrup, provincial park systems and camping, curling, bilingualism, and a few other things. He doesn't mention my topic. I start to panic, obviously. He clearly hated my idea, why else wouldn't he have mentioned it in his slew of other topics. I decide to check the mark he gave me. I quietly flip to the back of my proposal, and am horrified to see a 68, crossed out in red pen, with a 70 scribbled beside it.
The comments, in a bold and authoritative typeface, go on to tell me that "This is not a particularly well focused proposal. It is far too loose in its conceptualization and background research to make a strong enough case that you can write this paper effectively." It goes on, but it's too depressing. Just take that sentence, and magnify it about a million times, and that's what the rest of his comments entailed. I stared hopelessly at the wall, wondering when class was over, so I could run, horrified, from the room. He had no faith in my paper. He basically told me I was a retard, and that I had no hope of writing a decent paper like the rest of my classmates. The thing that really puzzled me was how he justified giving me a 70 while at the same time doubting my ability to write the paper effectively. His comments seemed to signify a crappier mark that 70. Hell, even a crappier mark than the 68 that he crossed out.
He did offer me some pointers on what to research on though, and that's what I spent my day doing. I read through some pretty dry material, but I think I've got enough information that I CAN write this paper effectively. I really want to prove him wrong now. Yet somehow I doubt that he will be pleased with anything that I write. I mean, if you take Quebec nationalism in the 1960s and 70s, and compare that to an essay on hockey....well....COME ON. No contest. Mine will be a supreme bore, and a total flop.
Although, in my defence, what kind of moron writes a fourth year HISTORY paper on the cultural significance of hockey. Seriously. I think that person is a cop-out, and a total moron. At least I've got the balls to do a scholarly paper.
Anyways, my eyes are killing me, so I think I will pop in my iPod and prepare myself for the bus ride back home. Tonight has wonderful things in store for me, in the form of more reading. Oh, the joys of being a student in their final year of their undergraduate degree. I swear to god, when I graduate I am not reading a single (scholarly) thing for a least a month. I've completely forgotten what it is to read for pleasure.
Or to not read at all, for that matter.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Grey's Anatomy Always Makes Me Cry
So I watch Grey's Anatomy every Thursday night. Coincidentally, every Thursday night, without fail, I cry. I mean this honestly. I cry every Thursday night. Not just a few little tears. Oh no, that would be fine. I get a steady stream of tears a'comin down. It's almost...embarrassing. Except that I watch it alone. So, I don't have to feel embarrassed, because no one else is there to see it. Only now whoever reads this knows. Which...means I SHOULD be embarrassed. However, oddly enough, I am not. It's fantastic. I love how anonymous the Internet can be.
So why did I cry today? If you follow the show, at all, you should know who Denny is. He's this amazing guy that Izzy...well married I guess...and then he died. When I say amazing, I mean it in the strongest sense of the word. I wasn't at all attracted to him when he first came onto the show. But slowly, as we started to see more of his personality come out...I fell deeply in love with him. He became one of the most attractive people on the face of the earth. I was rooting for Izzy and Denny the entire time. When he died, I balled and balled. I was so sad.
Anyways, back to today's crying. So Meredith was "dead" for awhile. She was talking to Denny, and he was telling her that when you die, all you get is moments with the people you love that are still living. As in, you will pass by them in the same space, and they may or may not feel you there, and you may or may not feel THEM there. So the rest of the episode was pretty sad, with Meredith dying, and then FINALLY coming back. I did not cry ONCE during that entire part. I thought, for once, that I was going to make it to the end of an episode without crying.
Then the episode ends with Izzy walking down the hallway. I saw it coming. Suddenly she stopped, dead in her tracks. And there was Denny...brushing shoulders with her. She paused, and you KNOW she knew Denny was there. In spirit. Cue the waterworks.
Why did that make me cry?! I'll tell you why. It made me want to have that kind of connection with someone. Well, someone alive. I don't know. I'm such a hopeless romantic, and a total dork. And, if you couldn't already tell, I am a bit of a crybaby.
But I'm also tough, dammit. Grrrr.
So why did I cry today? If you follow the show, at all, you should know who Denny is. He's this amazing guy that Izzy...well married I guess...and then he died. When I say amazing, I mean it in the strongest sense of the word. I wasn't at all attracted to him when he first came onto the show. But slowly, as we started to see more of his personality come out...I fell deeply in love with him. He became one of the most attractive people on the face of the earth. I was rooting for Izzy and Denny the entire time. When he died, I balled and balled. I was so sad.
Anyways, back to today's crying. So Meredith was "dead" for awhile. She was talking to Denny, and he was telling her that when you die, all you get is moments with the people you love that are still living. As in, you will pass by them in the same space, and they may or may not feel you there, and you may or may not feel THEM there. So the rest of the episode was pretty sad, with Meredith dying, and then FINALLY coming back. I did not cry ONCE during that entire part. I thought, for once, that I was going to make it to the end of an episode without crying.
Then the episode ends with Izzy walking down the hallway. I saw it coming. Suddenly she stopped, dead in her tracks. And there was Denny...brushing shoulders with her. She paused, and you KNOW she knew Denny was there. In spirit. Cue the waterworks.
Why did that make me cry?! I'll tell you why. It made me want to have that kind of connection with someone. Well, someone alive. I don't know. I'm such a hopeless romantic, and a total dork. And, if you couldn't already tell, I am a bit of a crybaby.
But I'm also tough, dammit. Grrrr.
The Begining of the End
So this is how it starts. I'm not even sure I should really be doing this, since the last time I attempted to write down my thoughts, it ended up disastrously. It seems that people don't really like to read about themselves, especially if what is being said is even slightly negative. Hopefully this time I will manage to keep this both anonymous and discreet. We'll see how that goes. I'm guessing that, with my luck, it will be found ONLY be those whom I do not want to read it, while everyone else in the world remains completely clueless as to my existence.
That's usually how it goes. Besides, my life is hardly interesting enough to garner a large following. This is not to say that I lead a boring existence. In fact, I think I have entirely too much drama. Or at least I did. Things seem to have calmed down for the time being. Thankfully.
So I suppose I should begin by describing myself. My name's Krista. I'm twenty-two years old, and I'm approaching the last few weeks of my University career. It's kind of scary, because I'm unsure of what the future holds. My degree is going to be in History, with an English minor. I know what you're thinking. "What are you going to do with that?" is a standard question I have to field. In response, I usually grimace and explain that there are many options for someone with a history degree. Hell, if I wanted to, I could apply to Law School and become a top notch lawyer. Or I could...well...I could do a lot, thank you very much. However, I usually disappoint people by telling them that I've applied to teachers college. Stop laughing. I actually want to teach. I can see the look on your face. You think I am crazy. I think you are stupid. So we're even.
I find out in April whether or not I got in anywhere. I know for a fact (well...not for a fact, but...the statistics basically make what I know a fact) that I will not get in anywhere this year. Almost no one gets in their first time applying. It's insanely competitive, and a bunch of other excuses. Frankly, I hate the fact that I have to wait until April to receive the worst (or best, if heaven decides to open up and grant one of those "miracles" that I hear so much about) news of my life. I can't even really start to plan my life until then. If I knew now that I did not get in, I could have a good cry, and then move on with my life. Maybe sign a new lease here in Guelph. Instead, I have to wait around, and then find a place to sublet for the summer. Then, if I didn't get in, I've got to sublet some more, or find a lease that starts in September...which I doubt is very easy to find in a University town. The best scenario would be that I get into teachers college, sublet in Guelph until September, and then pack things up and move to my wondrous new (and short) life in Teachers College.
So that's one horrible waiting game that I have to play. The other, of course, concerns my love life. Ugh. Now that one is even messier, and unlike the deadline for Teachers College, this one has no definitive date in which everything will become clear. I've got to wait around, and see what happens. Bullshit. I should state here and now that I am THE most impatient person on the face of the earth. Honestly. Don't underestimate the level of my impatience. It's legendary. I get cranky, etc. etc. Anyways...
As I was saying, I've got to wait around until something falls into my lap. The thing is, I'm not entirely sure that I would even know it when it finally did fall. I don't really seem to know what I want from life in general, and from a man in particular. My friends all tell me that I can't be so guarded and picky. I disagree. I think more people should be picky. Working in retail, I see a lot of couples. A lot of mismatched couples. A majority of them consist of a very attractive man with a not so attractive woman. What is that about!? I want that attractive man, dammit! Why should he settle for someone who is sub par, looks wise? Oh sure, maybe she's a gem in the sack, or perhaps she's the most intelligent thing since Stephen Hawking's (or whatever that guys name is). But dammit, everyone knows that you've got to be attracted to a person! PHYSICALLY. Ha ha ha. Wow, I can't believe I got that far. I'm totally joking. Kind of. Looks are key, but not totally key. They must be part of a complete package. And I mean complete. If I guy is going to get with me, he's got to be a number of things: smart, driven, funny, considerate, attractive, and REAL. What does real entail? I'm not entirely sure, by definition, but I know it when I see it. Fake people can just...go away. I have no use for them. They are a waste of space.
Anyways. As you can see, I have very specifically vague requirements of men. I'm a complicated being, I know. I know what I want, and yet I don't. Hence my troubles.
Life is so irritating. I can't wait for everything to fall into place. Too bad that won't be for ages.
Or so it seems.
That's usually how it goes. Besides, my life is hardly interesting enough to garner a large following. This is not to say that I lead a boring existence. In fact, I think I have entirely too much drama. Or at least I did. Things seem to have calmed down for the time being. Thankfully.
So I suppose I should begin by describing myself. My name's Krista. I'm twenty-two years old, and I'm approaching the last few weeks of my University career. It's kind of scary, because I'm unsure of what the future holds. My degree is going to be in History, with an English minor. I know what you're thinking. "What are you going to do with that?" is a standard question I have to field. In response, I usually grimace and explain that there are many options for someone with a history degree. Hell, if I wanted to, I could apply to Law School and become a top notch lawyer. Or I could...well...I could do a lot, thank you very much. However, I usually disappoint people by telling them that I've applied to teachers college. Stop laughing. I actually want to teach. I can see the look on your face. You think I am crazy. I think you are stupid. So we're even.
I find out in April whether or not I got in anywhere. I know for a fact (well...not for a fact, but...the statistics basically make what I know a fact) that I will not get in anywhere this year. Almost no one gets in their first time applying. It's insanely competitive, and a bunch of other excuses. Frankly, I hate the fact that I have to wait until April to receive the worst (or best, if heaven decides to open up and grant one of those "miracles" that I hear so much about) news of my life. I can't even really start to plan my life until then. If I knew now that I did not get in, I could have a good cry, and then move on with my life. Maybe sign a new lease here in Guelph. Instead, I have to wait around, and then find a place to sublet for the summer. Then, if I didn't get in, I've got to sublet some more, or find a lease that starts in September...which I doubt is very easy to find in a University town. The best scenario would be that I get into teachers college, sublet in Guelph until September, and then pack things up and move to my wondrous new (and short) life in Teachers College.
So that's one horrible waiting game that I have to play. The other, of course, concerns my love life. Ugh. Now that one is even messier, and unlike the deadline for Teachers College, this one has no definitive date in which everything will become clear. I've got to wait around, and see what happens. Bullshit. I should state here and now that I am THE most impatient person on the face of the earth. Honestly. Don't underestimate the level of my impatience. It's legendary. I get cranky, etc. etc. Anyways...
As I was saying, I've got to wait around until something falls into my lap. The thing is, I'm not entirely sure that I would even know it when it finally did fall. I don't really seem to know what I want from life in general, and from a man in particular. My friends all tell me that I can't be so guarded and picky. I disagree. I think more people should be picky. Working in retail, I see a lot of couples. A lot of mismatched couples. A majority of them consist of a very attractive man with a not so attractive woman. What is that about!? I want that attractive man, dammit! Why should he settle for someone who is sub par, looks wise? Oh sure, maybe she's a gem in the sack, or perhaps she's the most intelligent thing since Stephen Hawking's (or whatever that guys name is). But dammit, everyone knows that you've got to be attracted to a person! PHYSICALLY. Ha ha ha. Wow, I can't believe I got that far. I'm totally joking. Kind of. Looks are key, but not totally key. They must be part of a complete package. And I mean complete. If I guy is going to get with me, he's got to be a number of things: smart, driven, funny, considerate, attractive, and REAL. What does real entail? I'm not entirely sure, by definition, but I know it when I see it. Fake people can just...go away. I have no use for them. They are a waste of space.
Anyways. As you can see, I have very specifically vague requirements of men. I'm a complicated being, I know. I know what I want, and yet I don't. Hence my troubles.
Life is so irritating. I can't wait for everything to fall into place. Too bad that won't be for ages.
Or so it seems.
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