Kiss me at midnight, dance until the morning light...

Dear 2010,

In just a little over a week you will be here. You will be the third decade that I have welcomed. I plan to ring you in with all the bells and whistles that you deserve. I'm beginning to think that my recent years have treated me according to the circumstances in which I greeted them. I spent 08/09 with my pregnant sister, pregnant sister-in-law, and their pregnant friends. The celebration was low key and, incidentally, so was this past year.

2010, you don't just mark a new year, but a new decade. I like to think you are ushering in a new era just for me. Last year at this time, I told 2009 that I didn't have high expectations for him, but let's face it, I hid my concern behind faux encouragement. Really I just didn't want to put too much faith in a year that could ultimately disappoint me. But I digress. I have high hopes for you 2010. I plan to make you MY year. I will be calling the shots, dear year, but don't worry, if you cooperate with me, you will enjoy our time together too. 365 days isn't all that much, so lets fill them with fabulous opportunities, new friends, and incredible experiences.

However, there are several events from 2009 I wouldn't mind reliving...



Our kayaking adventure was my favorite favorite favorite moment of 2009. I don't believe that I ever told the GAGWAGgers, but I hadn't been that happy in a long time. I want this to happen over and over again in 2010. It was the best thing I did all year.




ArtPrize invigorated my city. MY city. I was never prouder to be a Grand Rapids born kid than this past fall. So many fabulous contributions and so much great publicity. Loved it.




We decided to follow these boys all over West Michigan over the past year. We just like to get in on the ground floor, or we like cute boys who play instruments, or we appreciate good local music. Whatever it is, it was worth the death-drives up and down 131.

2009 Witnessed the birth of my beautiful nieces, the final demise of DUFFy, my evil mini-van, and excessive time at the bank, excessive booze, and a little bit of heartbreak.

2010, don't let me down. You know my goals. I'm counting on you to help me out here. Lets do this.

All my love,
Stephanie Gamble

Sitting in the slow-mo, listening to the daylight...

In two weeks we will begin a new year.

The last two years I have written letters to the incoming years, outlining my expectations and my previous disappointments. I'm not sure what became of my letter to 2009, for those of you interested, 2008's is still on my Facebook.

This may be the last new year that I ring in as a Michigan resident. Weird.


2010 kicks off a new decade. While I have my typical resolutions in mind, you know the ones, eat healthier, exercise more, save money, do something good for my community, etc. I have several others as well.

1. Avoid the veggie burrito at Q'doba



Thanks to this little beauty, and another cave-in to my insatiable desire for tasty Mexican cuisine, I spent four to five days in the fetal position, guzzling Gatorade and Pepto Bismol. Too much? Sorry.

2. Remember that Pineapple jello shots are yellow, and therefore not patriotic.



Yes, quite the faux pas at Matt Kahl's Fourth of July celebration. Even though the party guests didn't mind, I was uncomfortably aware that red white and blue became magenta, yellow, and blue.

3. Create opportunities, rather than avoid them.



I limit myself. I can't blame my lack of experience in almost every area of my life on anyone or anything but myself. So yes, I plan to sack up and take advantage of 2010. Who knows, maybe I will start a revolution.

4. Never ever be the girl who others look at and think "Oooh, she should NOT be wearing that".



I'm learning. While in high school and during my first two years at WMU, I was a train wreck. I went from oversized tee shirts and ill fitting jeans, to cheap unflattering attempts at being trendy. I think I have found a pretty good place now, clothing wise. However, I'm getting a bit too comfortable with trends like leggings, dresses, and costume jewelry. If I go overboard, please let me know.

5. Stop over-thinking.



Mary Wanch smeared dog poop all over my big wheel shortly after this picture was taken. She was weird. Over thinking was not my biggest issue in 1991. Things are simpler when you don't let them get to you.

So yes, here comes 2010, its chug-a-luggin' along.

A year of change? Inevitably.

Good things? I'll do my best.

Somewhere in the Middle

Welcome to the end of another semester. Another move closer to the end of my college career.

This has been a long semester, as the three of you have witnessed. My finals week was a perfect ending to a stressful fifteen weeks devoted to my computer and ability to BS papers. We had a potluck in one and met at Uccello's for another. The others were more conventional but I survived them.

As much as I have complained this semester, I really really learned a lot. In all honesty, this has been one of the most valuable semesters I have had.

I developed a long(ish) term goal of combining my love of art, history, culture, and writing. I have been in communication with Kerri Vanderhoff, the communications director at the Grand Rapids Art Museum. She does not have a PR degree. In fact, her degree(s) are in communications and humanities. There is hope for me. I want her job. Or something similar.

This is a big development boys and girls. I never really thought that there was anything I could do with a technical writing degree. I assumed I would be at the bank forever. (Of course, if this happens, its not the end of the world, I like my job and I believe that PNC will be a great company to work for.) Heading up communications for a museum would just make my life. Now I have a direction for my internship search.

I learned more about writing well than I thought there was to learn, thanks to Christina Olson and Dianna Booher.

Finally, I would like to share a little George Orwell with you:

Orwell's rules of effective writing: (Circa 1946)

1. Never us a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.

2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.

3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.

4. Never use the passive when you can use the active.

5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.

6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

This is essentially what I spent the semester learning. I recommend that anyone who has a love for the English language and writing properly seek out Orwell's "Politics and the English Language".

He says what we're all thinking. :)

Gotta ask yourself the question, where are you now?

With the exception of the post regarding my solitary drives up the beltline, this blog has proven to be a bit of a downer.

I don't consider myself a downer, or at least, I didn't used to. In fact, if you see me at work, or in Christina Olson's class, or yes, even Doc. Design, I'm pretty chipper.

However, you are not the only ones to notice the consistent downward slope my former sunniness has taken. I've blogged on this before, kind of, but I didn't do myself justice.

The truth is that I have been restless. Really really restless. Not senioritis restless, not wintery-restless, but an all encompassing kind of restlessness that has taken the simple pleasures I used to love and made them mundane.

Its not a secret that I don't love where I am. I no longer feel connected to this place. My best friend is galavanting through Chicago, embarking on new and exciting adventures, and no, I'm not jealous of her. I'm excited for her, I'm proud of her, and I know she still needs me as much as I need her.

I'm not tied down to anyone here. If I stay, I might just end up being single forever.

I feel as though I've become disjointed from my family. Jon is married and raising a beautiful baby girl. Bethany is married and raising a beautiful baby girl. Both have careers, mortgages, in-laws, and grown up friends. Jim is working in St. Joe, being all grown up...

The four of us will never live under the same roof, we'll never take part in a family vacation again, and it was shock to see all of us together for Thanksgiving.

They are living their lives, and I suppose I feel like its time to go live mine, but I can't because I am tied down to a school that I despise. (However, I have been really good about keeping my anti-gvsu rants to a minimum this year!) GVSU is little more than an obstacle for me to cross. And I will. Soon.

Yes, I have my lovely Gagwaggers. But it would be naive of me not to acknowledge that we don't really NEED each other any more. We are growing up, pursuing very different lives. Growing apart is inevitable. With the exception of me and Robyn, we are all moving in very different directions, Chrissy with her music performance degree, Katie with her accounting degree, Annie with her radiology, Jenny with Speech Pathology, and Robyn and me with our writing degrees. We've each expressed interest in leaving Grand Rapids at some point. I don't know that we'll all wind up together somewhere else.


Its a time of transition. Its uncomfortable. Its awkward. This too shall pass.

The Weather Outside is Frightful.

I don't want to throw out the term "Seasonal Depression". Gambles are taught not to believe in things like ADHD, Bipolar disorder, and other fairly recent additions to the DSM.

But its snowing.

And my mood is foul.

I have experienced white Christmases for twenty-two years now. I'm telling you, they are all overrated. For some reason, these icy white shards of death, that have the power to turn the gorgeous trees we worshiped all autumn into bony skeletons, are romanticized. The snow and ice that latch onto the tires of my car and shove them towards snow banks and deep watery ditches are heralded in 80% of all Christmas carols.

It was easy for Bing Crosby to dream of a white Christmas, he had the option of spending his holiday in a swanky, retro LA sound stage, sipping martinis and slapping Rosemary Clooney around between takes.

I haven't spent the last twenty-two years hating snow, but I never LOVED it. Sledding was never a pleasure for me, and I've only gone skiing once.

The last time I greeted snow with a smile was during my freshman year at WMU. I remember the glee that rushed over all the girls of fifth floor LeFevre when those first flakes of the season fell. Christmas music filled the hall and everyone was in good spirits.

I think my absolute contempt for this weather began the winter I totaled my car (2007).




I was on my way to pick up Ann from her apartment near campus, and I slammed into the back end of a pick up, completely destroying the front end of my car. The roads weren't even all that bad at the time, but it was winter. I had to stand in the snow waiting for the police and tow truck to show up. Since then my hostility towards the snow has only grown.

I've done 180s on the way to class, slid into snow banks on the way to work, and white-knuckled my steering wheel while taking an hour and half to drive twelve miles.

My friends used to tell me: "If you hate winter so much, why don't you move out of Michigan?"

Now that I am seriously considering a move to warmer weather, I'm getting "Really? You're going to leave everything behind because of snow?"

Stop.

I can't live in a place where I'm terrified to leave my house four months out of the year.

They are forecasting a blizzard that is supposed to last from Tuesday night to Thursday. I've had enough of this.

When did I start using just lyrics to title my posts?

So I finally got some satisfaction from a paper I turned in for Austin Bunn's class.

I've been struggling a bit because I hated the profile piece so much, it totally bled through into my writing and a reader can obviously tell when the writer does not care about the success of their writing. I wish I had approached that completely differently, but what's done is done. I will now be sending some positive energy towards the next major assignment. The memoir.

Anyway.

I wrote a flash-non-fiction piece about the night I witnessed a pick-up truck/pedestrian collision.

Here it is:

Another red light in the dark. Not even the same corner. Still flash back.

Drivers abandoned their cars in the middle of the intersection. Headlights illuminated the darkness, turning midnight into an awkward hazy afternoon. Some left their doors wide open, not concerned with anything but the pile of arms and legs splayed on the pavement in front of my former elementary school.

I stared at the tiny figure. Her right arm bent backwards at a sickening angle beneath her. Her left arm was raised above her head, shoulder blade extending further back that anyone’s I had ever seen. I watched her chest.

“Please move,” I silently begged, “please.”

Shake my head. Focus on real time. Still hear them.

“Nobody touch her! Oh GAWD! Nobody TOUCH her!”

Plugging my right ear, I strained to hear the 9-1-1 dispatcher. Her voice buzzed in my ear like a fly in a room full of screaming alarms. “I’m s-sorry?” I pushed my finger deeper into my ear, a failed attempt to block out the distractions.

A small crowd assembled near me. “What happened?...where’d that boy go?...Is she dead?...I saw him running…” Witnesses and non-witnesses tried to sort out the scene.

“Is. The. Girl. Breathing?” the dispatcher repeated.

I advanced closer and crouched down next to the body on the pavement.

“Don’t TOUCH her!” The hysterical man in the Marathon parking lot screamed again. “Oh my Gawd!” This time his panicked voice jumped an octave.

Shut my eyes. Reach for the volume knob. Still feel it.

Robyn released the bone shattering scream from my passenger seat. Before either of us could do anything the girl disappeared from the crosswalk, snatched off the street by the front end of a red pick-up. My heart stopped and my entire body flooded with red-hot panic. We watched her roll over the cab, her legs flailing as if disconnected from the rest of her body. She flew over the truck bed and skidded to a stop on her right side in the left turn lane.

I felt the blood drain away from my face. The thick July heat dissipated and I froze in an icy shell. With trembling hands I pulled the keys out of my ignition and fumbled them under the steering wheel. I ignored them and hastily reached for my cell phone. I didn’t realize I was biting my lower lip until the familiar taste of metal filled my mouth.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Exhale. Green light. I move forward.

###

I love writing creative non-fiction. I don't know that I am creative enough to write fiction, I struggle with balancing between "brilliant imagery" and the cliche. With creative non-fic, you just dress up what actually happened. These are the stories I enjoy reading.

Sweet Valley Twins really ruined all other fiction for me. A good five years of my life were spent following two fabulous blondes with perfect lives and adventures that took them to Hawaii, London, Manhattan, through earth quakes, ski trips, and first kisses. Its like gorging on cupcakes, or in my case, raspberry flavored liquors. The saccharine gets to you and you can't even stomach the idea of ingesting something so sweet and perfect ever again.

With the amount of non-fiction I read, I shouldn't have much of a problem writing this memoir. I think my biggest struggle will be finding a common thread between the events I want to share.

I've been playing around with the idea of focusing the piece on my neurotic behavior and how its limited me in pretty much every aspect of my life (academic, romantic, professional) but I am afraid it would turn into a whiny, self-depricating sob fest. Its not something I have overcome yet, so there would be a very minimal (if any) turning point in it. Not much of a winner.

Still hatching.

Ch-ch-changes (Where's Your Shame?)

I don't know that I have found myself in such unsteady territory ever before in my life.

Everything at work is changing. My manager is being sent out to our Marketplace Crossings branch, Luke bailed, We're hiring a new guy very soon to take over Luke's office (not his job though), and we are in the process of transforming into a completely different bank. There is much to learn and much to adjust.

I am winding down my final year of school. I have one more semester after this one (in case you haven't been paying attention). No one really tells you about all the ways you will have to grow up after graduation. I probably thought/felt the same way after high school, but really you just move from one cocoon to another. I know that I will still have my place at Mom and Dad's house post GVSU, and I will probably still have my job with National City, but I feel like the "free ride" will be over.

After picking up 40 hours a week, Dave and Sharon won't be paying my car insurance anymore, I won't be covered by their health plan, but I am blessed to have an employer that will offer me benefits, even if it comes out of my paycheck, and parents who don't feel the need to kick me out as soon as I get a diploma. Student loan payments will come due and as I have stated before, I would like to be out of Michigan before the next winter hits. (How weird is it that I spelled "weiner" before winter?)

For some reason, part of me feels like like post-college will be a breeze. 40 hours, a raise, no homework. However, being the youngest of four, I watched two of my three silblings rough it for a couple of years.* As the Black-Sheep Gamble, I'm guaranteed a rough patch. If I could just bring myself to make good decisions, I could prepare myself for the upcoming changes.

*Bethany tends to always do the right thing, therefore things usually work out for her. As far as I can tell, she was fine and fairly comfortable post college.

Sentimental Valium

I like blogs with lists. I also like blogs with pictures. I love my friends (who find themselves in my blogs more often than they'd probably like).

Anyway- for the amount of time I spend talking about these girls, the three of you who follow this blog know very little about them. Let's fix that.

GAGWAG

G
Katie G. (Kates McGee, Katie Vig Bagina, and once in a while Katerade)

Katie is the epitome of a Good Sport. She puts up with a lot from us. We are constantly ragging on her and she takes it with a smile and replies with a witty come-back. We are never bored when this girl is present and there are very rarely awkward silences. Katie draws people in with her fabulous sense of humor and general friendliness. I just love her.

A

Chrissy A. (C-Bear or Mary)

I feel bad for Chrissy. Its not easy being gorgeous and insanely talented. She is always in such high demand. Poor girl gets tuckered out. When she isn't flexing her golden pipes at one of the many weddings people pay her to attend, she is flitting about town with random admirers. Chrissy says the things that I am scared to say, usually regarding bodily functions or body hair, but she can get away with it. There is no pretense with Chrissy, she should be an intimidating powerhouse, but she keeps herself grounded. I plan to ride on her coattails of success. She's the type of person who will let me.

G
Robyn G. (RoGo, Robby, Rob)

Robyn has been in my life since the first day of seventh grade. Her locker was four down from mine (I was 527, she was 531). She couldn't open her locker due to her inability to handle a combination lock. I opened it for her and she stuck around. Robyn is a charmer. She can pee her pants in public and everyone will still love her.* She knows how to make people laugh, she knows how to laugh at herself, and is all around just a winner. She is currently in three out of my five classes, so its like junior high all over again for us.

W

Jenny W. (Jay, J-Train, Jayba)

Jenny is a smartie-pants. She goes to Northwestern. She frequently tells me she doesn't know how to be anything but a student. However, she knows how to be an actress, she knows how to make people laugh, and she knows how to put in her two weeks notice.** Despite her 36 inch inseam and her crazy good looks, she is one of the most humble people I know. If Jenny could have her way, everyone would be happy, safe, and feasting on dark chocolate/steak/pumpkin bread and coffee every single day. Covered in barbeque sauce. She loves. I wish I could love the way she does.

A
Ann U. (Annie, Annie-pants, Annie-sans-pants)

Ann is always down for whatever. I could say "Hey Ann, lets drive two hours north to LeRoy, find a backwoods bar and sing Vanessa Carlton songs to an empty room." Ann would simply respond "Shotgun not driving!" and we would head up to the Traveler. I don't know what I will do when she leaves for London for an entire semester. Who will I strong arm into random outings? She listens to my stories about my neices, because she loves babies more than anyone I know, and always has crazy fun people to introduce me to. I love it.

Obviously I would be the final G, but seeing as how this entire blog is about me, I don't really feel the need to profile myself.

I just love my friends, It is bizarre that we have stuck together for so long.

*Robyn has peed her pants in public more times than I can remember. No exaggerating here.
**Jenny hates having a job. She rarely lasts more than a month. Its endearing.

Goodnight Hollywood Boulevard

Chrissy has demanded that I update my blog.

I'm sorry that I have been neglecting it since the semester started. When you are popping out a paper or two each week, pleasure writing finds itself on the back burner.

I have five weeks left of this semester. Despite the frequent frustration and in class humiliation, I think I have learned a lot. I'm not sure how much will translate to my future career, but I know plenty of people who have nice jobs and do not utilize their college degrees.

Perhaps college seems silly to me because I'm experiencing it. I can't really fully appreciate because I will never be someone who didn't go to college. I will never seek out a career without a college degree behind me.

I have to write a memoir/personal essay for Austin Bunn's class. I'm 22. What life have I lived? I wonder if I could resurrect my old Xanga and weave those together in a retelling of Stephanie Gamble, the High School years.

Oh goodness, it would be full of thespian society drama, me hating Corin, dangerous drives in Jenny's Blazer, and probably some whining about particular boys not liking me.

(High School aged Gagwaggers at Michigan's Adventure)

Austin Bunn gave us some ideas on how to start a memoir. I don't know that they are particularly effective but here they are:

a. A bad decision we've made:

Now, I have made at least 6,798,243 bad decisions in my life. However, I don't know any that warrent a memoir. The Black Sheep Gamble is starting to feel a bit more vanilla. Perhaps I should review that post.

b. A Quirk or Obsession:

I am one big walking quirk. This is not something I want to share with the class. As for obsession? What am I obsessed with? Receiving accolades? Being told I'm right/awesome/pretty/funny/intelligent/a winner? Again, not sure that I want my class to know that my strongest hunger is for compliments, one that is closing in on obsession.

c. A subject about which we are curious:

One thing about Gambles, we are not curious folks. We tend to interpret things at face value and we are not the ones to ask why or why not.*

So I need to write a personal essay.

Maybe I can pull a James Frey and use a little "creative liberty". :)

*I believe that this stems from my parents answering, "because that's the way God made it" when we asked why as children.

You're not bigger than this, not better, why can't you learn?

As we all know, I am currently in a non-fiction workshop.

Today we workshopped the piece I submitted.

Remember how I was frantically searching for a new subject the day of my deadline?

Yes. We remember.

I grabbed the Lanthorne (Grand Valley's silly attempt at a news paper) and found Tyler Way. Tyler designs and markets shoes to NBA stars. He's met Rip Hamilton, LeBron James, Tayshaun Prince, etc. They wear his shoes.

Yes. Please.

So I skimmed the piece, noticed it was focused heavily on the design process and not so much on him as a person. I thought, hey, I can write this better.

So I did.

I thought I did.

We workshopped my piece in class today.

In typical professor fashion, Austin Bunn facilitates discussion, demanding that we first cover the strong points. One person says they like my opening. Thanks, whoever said that.

The rest of the time was spent telling me how the Lanthorne piece covered everything I did, the prof even pulled out a copy of it and handed it out to the class, and asked them to compare the two pieces.

Now, anyone will tell you, I love being made into an example. Its not humiliating or belittling at all.

Let me be honest here. If I really believed that my writing was a carbon copy of the Lanthorne's piece, I would have completely restructured it. I am far too critical of my own writing to turn in something that I thought would be poorly received.

If I am too blind to see the major flaws that a class of fifteen other people all caught on to, what am I doing?

Twenty five more weeks.

I believe in a thing called love

I have two classes that I love. Three that I don't.

I know I have been talking about school a lot these past few weeks, but I have been spending close to 20 hours on campus each week. Its to be expected.

My two classes that I love: Business Com and Non-Fiction workshop.

I know, business com. Its all the prof though. She's fabulous, as is having that class with Robyn and a bunch of socially defunct computer science majors. Really.

(Insert adequate segue here.)

The past few weeks we have been working on writing profiles for my Non-Fiction workshop. I had the bright idea to profile the Executive Director of Grand Rapids' Local First organization.

This has been one of the most frustrating projects of my collegiate career. I have all the resources, the skills, and preparation to complete this assignment (and do it well, mind you) but I have been trying to set up a meeting with this woman for weeks. She kept pushing it back. Finally it sunk in that she really had no desire to be profiled for my WRT 360 class.

Too bad it hit me the day that my first 3 page observation report was due. I'm sure that this would have worked out if I had only disclosed the deadlines and pushed harder. I am not driven enough to be a reporter/journalist. That's okay though --really-- I don't want to be one.

Unfortunately the assignment is still due and now I have to find a new person to profile. By Tuesday. I promised.

Crap.

Know of any one interesting enough to be profiled?

If You Wanna Come and Take a Ride Wit Me...

I love driving.

And since JC Chasez the Second* has come into my life, I love driving even more (despite the fact that his rear speakers do not work, a problem which will be remedied upon the next payday).

As banking has proven to be a bit more stressful than I'd like (see previous posts), I have begun taking advantage of my lunch breaks and using them as early afternoon drive time. I take this fabulous route north on the East Beltline. Once you get passed the 196 on ramp its not so bad. I head north towards four mile road where there is substantially less traffic. I turn left by Robinette's Applehaus and Giftbarn and I drive along the apple orchards. The first time I did this, I got lost somewhere around Knapp.

I open my windows, turn on some Ingrid Michaelson, and soon the bank is the last thing on my mind. Its glorious. I'm telling you.

Our breakroom is a tiny 10 x 6 windowless room. It is dreary and crowded, thanks to the fridge, table, two chairs, two water coolers, and TV. While I enjoy the every-so-often viewing of old episodes of 24 and the Office, I love my daily escapes.

*"JC Chasez the Second" is the current name of the fabulous black Alero I drive around Grand Rapids.

Push it real good...

Today is labor day.

To me, this means a paid holiday. Paid holidays are better than any other day of the year.

Because I didn't have to be up and functional at 6:30 this morning, I opted to "go out" last night with some friends. We selected the Crush nightclub, which is located inside the B.O.B.. Now, I had never been to the Crush, but I like booze and dancing. I figured it couldn't be too terrible. Unfortunately Sunday nights are designated for individuals that are 18 and up. I have not been to an 18 and up club since that terrible night we went to the Margarita Grill, my freshman year at WMU.

Never in my life have I seen more boys with their hair shellacked straight up with more gel than a frat house formal. The trendy club was packed with girls and boys drenched with so much sweat that the giant "M"s scrawled across the backs of their hands were dripping off. At one point I removed myself from the dry humping masses and leaned up against the wall, just watching the overexcited children interact.

Imagine these boys, but wearing mirrored clear glasses and Ed Hardy tee shirts.

It appeared as though each group of boys had at least one super confident leader, the one coming up behind girls, grinding, bumping, whispering into their ears, and two less comfortable, more awkward boys who try to dance, but are obviously out of place, too young to have developed into the wingmen I am used to seeing.

The girls are a bit more evenly matched in their clusters. The pretty, confident, fabulous girls all moved in a choreographed rhythm, while the awkward, portly girls, in ill fitting tank tops and khaki shorts/drawstring jeans bumbled together near the corners.

While leaning on the wall, a future meth addict in a hot pink polo parked himself next to me. I humored him briefly, however, he too sported the M's. I was not impressed.

Overall, I was not impressed with the Crush. I will stick with trusty mojo's and their fabulous wednesday night drink specials when I need a club atmosphere, and HopCat when I find myself wanting an easy night.

I am too old for the 18 and up crowd, and I am so pleased with myself that I recognize that.

How long must we sing this song?

Week one of my final year of school is finished. For the first time in my college career I find myself taking classes that I don't absolutely hate. This is the first time in my five years of higher learning that I am not stuck taking a science class, a math class, or a foreign language.

Et oui, j'aime apprendre le français, mais seulement quand c'est convenable.

Five attempts at Algebra, I finally mastered it.*

The last science class I took was BIO 120. Train. Wreck.

But here we are, I am embarking on something fantastic.

After a week in class:

Writing 350- Business Communication

From what I can tell this class is essentially a reprise of Writing 250, intro to professional writing. That's okay though, perhaps my two semesters spent with Keith Rhodes will give me a leg up on all the computer science and accounting majors in the class. The professor, Christina Olson seems cool. I like my profs the way I like my winter roads, dry and slightly self deprecating. And she, dear friends, is very dry. It doesn't hurt that I find myself sitting next to Michael Vartan's identical young cousin and in front of my best friend from seventh grade. Resumes, memos, data reports, blah blah blah... Hello to the rest of my life.

CJR (Journalism) 256- News Reporting I

I do not aspire to be a journalist. I am not sure why this class is required of professional writing majors. I suppose that successfully gathering and reporting information by a deadline is key to any writer's prosperity. I feel like this is a class where the prof wants me to work. Let's face it kids, I'm pretty lazy.

Writing 360 - Intermediate Non-Fiction Workshop

I have been dying to take a class with Austin Bunn since I saw him speak on a panel at Kirkhof last year. Unfortunately my indiscreet admiration of him may be a hindrance to my writing. We turned in a memory piece on Thursday and I was so concerned with his approval that my writing was not in my natural, even-flowing, perfectly professional, and smooth style.** I am excited to learn how to become, if nothing else, a better blogger. Who knows, maybe someday they will make a movie about my mundane and non-impressive life. It will follow my unnatural obsession with a similarly named individual that no one under 40 cares about. Someone like ... Steven Seagal. Yes. Stephanie and Steven. I will blog about my year spent suffering through the entire Seagal movie collection***, Good Morning America will do a profile on me. Austin Bunn will not love it.

COM 203 - Argument and Analysis

What. On. Earth. I think that the professor uses this class as an excuse to rape our minds. She is insane!! I had to return my textbook to make a car payment. I will go back and buy it again next week. However, I think that her... eccentricities... will allow for leniency and light grading. When you get down to year five of college, I feel that you can go one of two ways. You either realize the importance of what you're learning and buckle down and dominate, or you constantly seek the easy way out. Guess which way the black sheep Gamble is going?

Writing 251 - Document Design

My professor is probably two years my senior and he has a chin strap beard. No. Oh, and I have already threatened to meet one of my classmates in the parking lot. He doesn't know this, he was too busy providing the class with a poorly constructed, yet colorful, commentary on the lecture, to hear my idle threats. Robyn heard them. That's what matters.

So here we are, fifteen weeks that will bring me that much closer to my much desired diploma. College cannot be over soon enough.

*By mastered, I mean that I passed with a C+. I do not need Algebra. I have a calculator on my phone.
**Ha.
***I have yet to watch a single Steven Seagal movie.

The luckiest people of all

I have been in the customer service industry since I was thirteen. I had a paper route in the seventh grade. It was short lived due to the whole getting up early on Sunday mornings and on Holidays to make sure my customer's newspapers were placed correctly on their front porches. (Riding your bike in the winter time is not easy under snow pants and a friggin' parka.)

I've had my fair share of irate individuals, and if there is one thing I have learned in my nine years of customer service, it is how to deal with these people. Swallow your pride and agree with everything they say. If their voice rises, keep yours low. They are only making a spectacle of themselves. Take the blame while they are present, explain yourself later. Yes it sounds smarmy, but in all honesty, its the easiest way to diffuse the situation and get them out the door.

Yesterday, for the first time in the fifteen months that I have been with National City, I had a customer bring me to the verge of tears. He came in the door blazing. Feeling the need to protect sweet little baby Nihada-bear, I called him to my window.

"Gimme a pen" he demands.

I oblige.

"Gotta deposit slip?"

"For checking, or savings?" I ask, out of instinct.

Silence. I look up.

"Checking..." he says, shaking his head once, the way my uncle Jerry does when he is talking about interacting with people with disabilities or of different races.

I hand him the slip, he fills it out, but not without first berating me for the "stupid" mat on the counter that asks "Does YOUR employer offer a Bank at Work Program?"*

He slides the deposit slip back at me with his driver's license and his unemployment card.

"There's too-thurdy-fore on that card" he says. "I want 200 uhthat in my checking."

Once again, I oblige. I do an advance on his card for $200. I deposit that into his checking account. I complete the transaction, and I hand him his card, account balance, and a receipt. Smiling. Naturally.

"Where's my thirdy-fore dollurz?"

"Oh I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you, that's my fault." I reply, with the eloquence of a royal. He hands me his card, I re-run it for the additional $34. Just as I finished that transaction he points out that "they charge me evertime you do that."

"I realize that sir." I reply. Again, eloquence.

Needless to say, what happened next was a series of me trying desperately to please this man, all to no avail. (The conclusion of this story involves a bit of banking jargon, and who has the patience for that?) He grew redder in the face, his voice grew shrill, and other customers began to stare. He began to sputter, telling me how ridiculous the situation was, demanding his money, demanding to use the phone, demanding that I call the unemployment office, demanding to know how anyone could mess this up.

I'd like to say that I sacked up and punched him in the jaw, but I didn't. I kind of like not having to rely on unemployment for my habit of paying bills and putting gas in my car. Instead my eyes began to well up, I began to shake a little bit, and I began to blush. Fortunately my fearless leader, Suada, our head teller (or "Customer Service Leader" in Nat City speak) comes to my defense. She finally ushers the customer out of the branch.

Unfortunately in a banking environment, people are not patient enough to let tellers excuse themselves into the break room and shake off unpleasant interactions. So I plastered on a smile, tried to swallow the quiver in my voice, and turned my attention to the next person in line.

This customer returned today, fulfilling my wildest fantasies. Once again, he induced a flustered and shaky reaction. This time I received a little help from Luke, the fabulous LFC. He told this customer everything I told him, word for word, and while the customer was still irate, he left.

This whole interaction makes me wonder who this guy is. What makes him think that it is okay to interact with people in such a down right dick-like manner? I was taught to treat people with respect and not blow things out of proportion. I understand the frustration of $34 suddenly being out of reach, but the man had a fairly strong balance in his checking account. waiting 24 hours for this amount to be credited to his card was not going to break him.

He vowed that he would return tomorrow, in the event that he had still not been reimbursed.

In my nine years of customer service experience, I have never been dreading a customer interaction more that what is about to happen tomorrow.

And please, dear friends, don't make nice bank tellers cry. They are doing their job the best that they can.

She had dumps like a truck

I like to present myself as a cultured, mature, intelligent, and rational individual. I try to speak well and look grown up. All the professionalism that I display at work is hard to maintain once I hit the parking lot.

The top ten things that keep me connected to my suburban white girl roots:

10. Cosmopolitan:

Yes, I have a bookshelf that holds 3 years' worth of Cosmos. I started buying cosmo after I moved into my first apartment. My mother would be horrified to see the issues that I have collected over time. (Once she found a book titled "Why Men Love Bitches" in my possession and it quickly ended up in the trash.) I don't read Cosmo for the sex tips. In fact I usually flip to those after I've pored over the new beauty tips, real life stories, and sexy vs. skanky column. I don't really think anything in this magazine should be taken too seriously, but it is an excellent deflating tool.

9. Greek:

Greek is my shame show. I can't help it. I am so completely enamored with the campus of Cyprus Rhodes University. I need to know if Casey will choose Cappie or Evan, or Max. (Although last we saw, Max and Casey were going their seperate ways). I need to know how stereotypical conservative backwoods Dale and ultra cool jock/gay Calvin will ever get along, and I am pulling for Rebecca to go back to being a bitch. I've never wanted to "go greek" but I love the Zeta Betas and the Kappa Taus.

8. Pop-Country:


I hate legitimate country music. I tend to change the channel as soon as I hear the twangy voices of Alan Jackson, Toby Keith, and Hank Jr. The "steel guitar" doesn't get me all hot and bothered, but as soon as Kenny Chesney's "Young" comes on, or Taylor Swift/Brad Paisley/Carrie Underwood/Rascal Flatts filters through my speakers, I have it cranked to an obscene volume and suddenly I am prepared for the "Grand Ole Opery".

7. Not-quite-designer shoes:

One of my best friends used to work at Aldo shoes. She got 50% off. This means I got 50% off when I gave her cash. Amongst the shelf of Aldos in my closet, sit bcbg, guess, diesel, and a few others. I don't know that I will ever have the cash for Minolos, louboutins, or Jimmy Choos, but thats okay. I'm content with my mall shoes.

6. The ultra-trendy hipster church:


Most Sundays you will find me amidst hundreds of other church goers in the grey plastic seats at Mars Hill Bible Church. They play instrumental versions of Arcade Fire and Coldplay before the services. They distribute trendy bumper stickers with messages like "God is Green" and "Love Wins." (However, I believe that this "large" "impersonal" church has more substance than the traditional bible church in which I grew up.)

5. Make up:
So my vanity is littered with enough make up to make the cast of Cats jealous (in shades that would make drag queens blush). You never know when shimmery teal shadow or burgundy mascara will come in handy (although I can't see that happening at the same time). The fact that I can sit with my magnifying mirror in one hand and my eye liner in the other for an hour should be raising some red flags. But really, perhaps I just enjoy a good trial run.

4. eXtreme Tanning:


That would be the name of the place where I pay $25 bucks for 200 minutes of tanning. I go there, lay in a metal box full of light bulbs for 12 minutes a couple of times a week. I have decided that everything causes cancer. By the time I'm forty, face lifts will be routine procedures, and I will not be nearly as leathery as 75% of the girls I graduated with from high school. Therefore, it is okay for me to do this. I wear my goggles.

3. Millenium:


Not only do I own this album, but I still pull it out every now and then. Yes BSB, you will always be in my heart (or at least, let me show you the shape of my heart). In addition to BSB, I have my fair share of NSYNC, BBMak, 98 degrees, and O-Town. I came of age during the boy band era. While their faces no longer decorate my locker, I simply cannot abandon the boys who professed their love for me during my formative years.

2. GVSU rec:



Rather than walk out my front door and go for a jog, I drive the fifteen minutes to the GVSU campus to spend a half hour on the eliptical and a half hour on the bike. I am too prissy to work out in public where people drive by and see that I am getting sweaty and having trouble breathing.

1. Drink of Choice:

A friend once told me that vodka-sodas are the "healthiest" alcoholic beverage you can order (they have the fewest calories). They are an acquired taste and I feel like an old man when I order them, but I don't feel as guilty after putting away three of these as opposed to three Amaretto sours or Jack and Cokes. Being a "calorie conscious" booze hound is such a contradiction, and if I were really going for nutrition, I wouldn't be ordering the loaded potato skinz or nachos at the bar.


Don't judge me too harshly on my secret prissiness, I usually keep it hidden. I'd better go pop in the Decemberists and put on some home made jewelry before I completely slip into barbie land.

Stormy Weather (just can't get my poor self together)

A close friend of mine has been updating her facebook status almost daily with things like:

"is real f-ing tired of feeling financially exploited!"
or
"then today comes and its horrible (just a ton of stuff which was topped by a $75 speeding ticket)... really can I just have a break!?!?"
or
"is having pretty much the worst day ever... I swear it rivals the day me and ______ broke up"

True to form, I feel the need to swoop in and provide her with the reassurance she needs. Just days ago I bestowed upon her a little cliche-riddled gem of "Things will fall into place, it just sucks because right now it feels like things are just falling."

Isn't it true that when it rains it pours?

As we all know, last week my sweet mini-van decided that she wanted to take a nap in the middle of Byron Center and 28th Street. Papa bear took DUFFy into a mechanic who wrote us a lovely bill of $450. Now, I don't know much about vehicular maintenance, but a check for $450 seems like it should cover something substantial.

This morning, I was running about three minutes late for work, which is fine because I can usually cover my tardiness by pushing 60 most of the way to the bank. I pull up to the corner of my street, preparing to turn right on red.

This is the corner of my street, I do not attend that church, despite its proximity to my house.

Just as DUFFy comes to a stop, she begins to lurch, she begins to buck, and she decides to pass out. The 100 yard drive from my house to this corner clearly overexcited her. This time I maintained my cool. Called the boss, told her I'd be late. Called Papa bear (no tears this time) and reported my situation, and motioned for the cars behind me to go around. (Seriously, the fact that I maintained such cool should be rewarded!)

I somehow get her going again, we go straight, I turn around in a driveway, and come back down my street and make it into the driveway, despite periodical lurching. (This stupid vehicle.)

So long story short, I end up taking Mama bear's car to work, Papa bear takes the van into the same mechanic, and I'm out another $200.

So we've thrown $650 into an eleven year old vehicle that I could probably sell for $650. Awesome.

This week has been a bit stressful, as my bosses are bearing down on us to boost our numbers. (Who would have ever though I would have a job that inclines me to make that statement?)

I have been bouncing from Plainfield to Eastbrook, handling on-sites, preparing Work Perks presentations, and digging myself a lovely little hole financially.

If someone were to say to me, "things will fall into place, right now it just feels like they are falling." I would look them dead in the eye and make sure they understood that they are by no means ever allowed to talk to me again.

M-m-m-m-my Sharona.

You know how when you're at an intersection, and the light turns green, and you accelerate, and your vehicle moves forward?

Well, that was an experience that I had apparently been taking for granted.

(This picture is thanks to street view on google maps, that is not actually my car,
however that is exactly where I got stuck.)

There I sat, on the corner of Byron Center and 28th Street, one vehicle in front of me and several behind me. The light changed from red to green and the car in front of me began to move. Eager to escape the heat and traffic, I excitedly pushed on my own gas pedal. Nothing.

I pushed it again, this time to the floor. The mini van gave one last feeble shake and closed her eyes.

"No." I said out loud.

I pushed harder on my accelerator. She remained still and silent.

"No, no no!" I repeated with increasing volume.

I pushed the button with the red triangles and my hazard lights began to flash.

I thrust my hand out of the open window in an attempt to notify the growing line of cars behind me that this was all I knew to do in such a situation.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

I shifted into park.

I turned the car off.

I turned the car on.

I shifted into Drive. No dice.

Repeat performance with a few more "no"s, and some other choice words. Nothing. I looked into my rear view to see my fellow drivers with their own frustrated hands in the air. Some told me where to go as they blew by me, others simply honked, and one or two cast me a sympathetic look.

Panic. Call Dad.

Dad is the savior of all things car-related. He comes to the rescue when I run out of gas, when I need a jump, when I'm stuck in a snow bank, or when I crash into other cars. He'll even come when I can't figure out how to put air in my tires.

He answered. I told him what had happened and where I was. I asked (about thirty six times) what I should do. Despite my heaving tears and incessant babbling, he stayed calm (he's good like that) and told me that a police officer would be along soon.

By this time two light cycles had come and gone.

Two boys that had been walking across the street came up to my window while I asked my dad (for the thirty seventh time) what I should do.

"We're going to push you." The taller one said.

Unfortunately I was in the inner lane, and traffic was lined up on both sides of me. I smiled through my tears, wondering where the hell they were going to push me.

The boys looked around, looked at each other, looked at the stop light, and looked at D.U.F.F.y. (as that is now the name of my van, more on that at a later time).

"Man, I saw those tears and I knew we had to do something" I overheard the shorter one say.

He went behind my van and stopped the traffic in the right hand lane. The two boys pushed me around the corner and all the way into that CVS parking lot, shown earlier. I thanked them repeatedly, almost to the point of being obnoxious.

I called my Dad two more times. He could not come out, but mama bear did.

As for now, D.U.F.F.y sits in the CVS parking lot, crossing two spaces and leaving me nervous that someone will pillage her for my National City swag, two jackets, umbrella, granola bar wrappers, and my itrip.

Discombobulation

Today I am working at our Plainfield branch.

Its always strange to fill in at another bank. The teller windows are different at each location.

I don't have my three cubbies under the counter where I neatly display my phone, breath mints, stapler, and sticky notes. I don't have the 8 to 10 pictures of GAGWAGGERs, former roommates, and family members smiling back at me. My containers of paper clips and rubber bands are missing.

I don't have the security of looking up and seeing Luke schmoozing old ladies in hopes of an investment or Jen maintaining a smile while a customer berates her for another overdraft charge or denied credit application.

Nihada isn't next to me, asking me if a half dollar equals fifty cents or if a customer named Jonathan can cash a check made out to Jon. Its weird.

The Plainfield branch employees are nice and friendly, but they're not MY employees. I don't know if they will find me as funny as the Eastbrook people will (or at least humor the way that they do).

I keep reaching to my left for my scissors, here they are on the right.

This phone rings and I want to answer with my customary "Thank you for calling National City Eastbrook, This is Stephanie, How can I help you?"

Unfortunately I remember where I am just as I get to the "eas-". As a result my greeting sounds like "Thank you for calling National City-ese... (awkward pause) how can I help you?"

Plainfield is very slow.

It is slow, strange, and disconcerting.