5th Column: Hello, Kitty… Welcome to College

Thursday night is a sacred night in college.  People go out, people study, people hibernate in preparation for a crazy weekend – Thursday night is unspeakably important.
Last Thursday night, as I snuggled down under my blankets, feeling responsible for getting Friday’s homework done and excited to get a good night sleep, I said to myself, “Wow, how lucky am I to live in America, where my fellow kinsmen appreciate the hallowed events of Thursday night.” My roommate, who has just recently gotten over the fact that I always talk to myself before falling asleep, nodded and went back to cramming for her major history exam.

Just as all the week’s troubles began to disappear with that magic Thursday night slumber, the most horrible noise woke me up.  It was worse than the kids in the room above me when they sing Hannah Montana, it was worse than drunken shrieks, it was even more vile than my alarm clock.  It was the fire alarm, and it was definitely unwelcomed at 2:30 in the morning.

My roommate urged me to get up and get out of the building.  I calmly grabbed a jacket and started sliding on boots, looking around the room, wondering if there was anything else I should take – books? Too heavy.  Jewelry?  Too silly.  Pillows and blanket in case Flather burns down and I have to live on the streets?  Nah, too much trouble.

I realized how dazed I was as I tried to walk out of the room, tripping over my own feet and wondering aloud if my boots matched my sparkly Hello Kitty pajamas.  My roommate and I found a stampede erupting in the stairwell, but made it to the first floor un-trampled.

My fellow Flather residents spilled out into the chilly outdoors wearing robes, pj pants, or like some of the more unlucky ones, just boxers.  Some complained, some huddled together for warmth, some even tried to study.  One of my friends tried to dry his hair, as he had just jumped out of the shower.  Ironically, the group closest to me lit up cigarettes, and through the haze of smoke and naturally bad eyesight sans glasses or contacts, I saw that the magic of Thursday night had been ruined.

There are so many milestones that we were warned about before college: the sleepless nights, the tough professors, living on your own.  It could have been the hour of sleep, it might have been the cold, but, standing outside in my pajamas I wondered if this was a milestone.  Yes, some idiot pulled the fire alarm.

That probably happens all the time.  But people were standing in groups, looking out for friends – just three months ago, I didn’t even know any of these people existed.  Imagine who we will be in three years.  Hopefully we won’t be getting dragged out of our beds in the wee hours of the morning.  Maybe by senior year, none of us will even be in bed by 2:30.

Who will we be?  Do we have to grow up?  As I continue my “journey” at CUA, do I have to give up things like Hello Kitty pajamas?  Do I have to start doing adult things like folding my socks?  I’m BAD at folding clothes! Is there any hope for me? What if I decide to change my major to Political Computer Spanish History? What if I have to graduate late?  What if I don’t graduate at all?!  Then, I will have to roam the streets.  I cursed myself for not grabbing my pillow and blanket.  That would have made the transition to hobo life way easier.

My inner panic attack was cut short by my RA shuffling us back into the building.  I almost forgot my anxieties when one of the boys on the fifth floor laughed at my pj’s.  Back in my warm, cozy room, I realized that this fire alarm had been a sort of awakening, both literally and metaphorically.  Over-thinking the future is lame.  Milestones are for old people.  Just enjoy the moment, even if it means huddling close to your relatively new friends for warmth or laughing at the kid who didn’t get a chance to put clothes on before evacuating his dorm room.

Oh, and P.S. Whoever pulled that fire alarm: Don’t do it again.  Thanks.

My Thoughts on CUA’s Prayernet

Full disclosure, y’all: I am not an actively religious person. Despite being raised in the church, I do not consider myself a Catholic or even a believer in God. I appreciate Catholicism’s cultural heritage and acknowledge the role it had in shaping my life, but it’s not for me, and I have chosen to remain ignorant of spiritual extracurricular activities here on campus. I’m totally ignorant of any of the on-campus faith-related activities, and despite having been a CUA undergrad for three years now, I only became hip to Father Bob, like, two months ago. (Sorry, Father!)

I know what you’re thinking: um, thanks but no thanks for the emo autobiography, Emily. Why am I telling you this, you ask? Well, it is with this uninformed and agnostic eye that I recently peeped CUA Prayernet on the Campus Ministry website and noticed that their front page is a long list of anonymous prayer intentions. What a cool and vibrant little pocket of devotion in the normally humdrum world of CUA Internet.

Why is this cool, you ask? I am obsessing over the presence of these intercessions for several reasons. First, I love the analog-to-digital translation: what is normally a temporal moment in a mass is now essentiallywhat we Inter-nerds refer to as a messageboard. These intentions are present 24-7, available day or night for anyone feelin’ inclined to pray. This format also unfetters the content somewhat, enabling more colloquial requests – you’d never hear anything so informal and personal during mass.
Plus, as an incorrigibly nosy person, I am fascinated by these little glimpses of people’s personal lives. For example: “Please help my friend who is struggling with fears, anxieties, and alcohol.” OMG! How universal is this problem? I, too, have many “friends” who struggle with fears, anxieties, and alcohol. One posted on Oct. 10th simply says “Uncle Eddie.” Who is Uncle Eddie? Is he still with us? Is he struggling with something? Is he hoping for something? Is this a euphemism? An alias?

Another one that has me scratching my head: “Dear Lord, Please help me to be more fiscally responsible. My husband is upset with my overspending. Please help me and give me the strength to change. In this I ask, Lord God.” Now, what’s really going on here? Is this person really “fiscally irresponsible” or are they just married to a tightwad? Maybe this alleged overspending only became a problem in the last few weeks as the economy has melted into a little puddle of sadness. Prayer can function as historical document too! What is this person overspending on, anyway? Do they go to Whole Foods instead of Giant? (Um, guilty as charged!)

My favorite one says simply “Let me love” - a truism if I have ever heard one. My friends often throw around the phrase “Let me live” when things are getting in their way – and getting to live is important. But like, once you’ve been allowed to live, I think it’s important to also entertain the idea of loving. And I’m not talking about getting with people. I am talking about not really yelling at the person who hit me with their car on Tuesday morning.

Golly, what’s the point of rhapsodizing over people’s messages to God? I don’t know. If you’re like me, you see the world as populated by magical little creatures who run around inventing things and writing books and asserting their beliefs and trying to stave off fear and death for long enough to enjoy a meal. Seeing people’s and anxieties laid bare before God, the congregation, the community, and the Internet is so … deep. It’s sort of like the JuicyCampus.com of the spiritual world. JK! JK! It’s way more meaningful than that.

5th Column: A Tough Cookie

It happens almost every day.  It creeps up around 11:30, 11:45—a quiet moment between classes when my mind is allowed to wander. I find myself gravitating toward the Pryzblya Center for no apparent legitimate reason: I need to use the ATM or prowl the bookstore for Sharpies. Yeah, right—we all know why I’m there.

Eventually, I find myself on the first-floor dining hall, somewhere between the sushi and the bananas, faced with an inescapable conundrum: will there be a Big Cookie in my future today?

Who invented the Big Cookie? I am mad at this person. Cookies were entirely sufficient until some renegade baker came along and decided they weren’t. Now, every day is a struggle—I have to force myself to reach for a banana, that boring old standby that will not saturate my skin with its evil ingredients, nor cause a debilitating sugar crash in the middle of my senior seminar. Sometimes I hesitate—I could get Big Cookie and a banana, right? No, Emily. You’ll just eat Big Cookie first as the banana quietly cries in your backpack, knowing that its nutritional value will go to waste yet again. (Poor banana. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.) Like Orpheus walking ahead of Eurydice, I can’t help but turn around to take one last look at Big Cookie—but instead of descending back into Hades for all eternity, it sits there and laughs at me. “You’ll be back,” it says to me. It sounds like Oscar the Grouch, only it looks like a cookie! Wouldn’t you begin to doubt your sanity at this point?

Can you let me live, Big Cookie? Is it possible for you to not beckon from within your clear wrapper, your luscious chunks of chocolate? Could you be less pillowy; less perfectly chewy and infused with chocolate-y sweetness?

I do not think I’m alone in my unhealthy obsession with the Big Cookie. The famous 4th Street Cookie Co. in Philadelphia has capitalized on the power of the Big Cookie by selling braised tempeh served with a dollop of wasabi-garlic mayonnaise. (Haha, no. They sell Big Cookies!)  There is the almost unholy Salty Oat cookie, the recipe for which is kept under lock and key by its purveyor, local café Teaism. DoubleTree hotel, in their quest to make me do their evil bidding, provides - are you sitting down - COMPLIMENTARY Big Cookies to their guests at check-in! Why, I ask you, WHY has their marketing coordinator not been awarded a Nobel Prize? Do I even need to reference the episode of “Seinfeld” known colloquially as “the black and white cookie episode?” This particular Big Cookie provided enough for an entire plot arc. I will say no more lest I be accused of “spoiling” (although if you haven’t seen this episode, I confess I’m a little worried about you).

The best thing about the Big Cookie is that it provides an extra-large template for any sort of dessert-mutation that your sick little heart might desire. Oatmeal raisin? Be my guest. Cranberry walnut? Please.

Peanut-butter macadamia? Do it now! The potency of any pre-existing ingredient combination can be amped up ten fold by their inclusion in a Big Cookie. I personally would love to see Every cookie - a big cookie overflowing with every possible cookie fixin’. Even better would be a Big Cookie bar, where you could select your ingredients and have a Big Cookie custom-made for you on the spot. Amsterdam Falafel and Coldstone Creamery have already capitalized on this methodology and are experiencing raging success. Get on that bandwagon, Big Cookie! It’s time to man up.

I want us to reach an accord, Big Cookie. I want to be able to be in the same room with you and not want to cry. My body says yes but my heart says no. Why does what’s wrong feel so right?

5th Column with Emily Ruane

O, October! What a funny little month you are. You lack the frenzied, back-to-work energy of September and the cozy fatitude of November. The quiet middle child of fall, it’s a month where we wear hoodies during the day, and then zip them up and pull the drawstring really tight so that our faces are squished and moan about forgetting our jackets at night. October is a little unpredictable, a little crazy – will it cool down quickly or will summer-like temperatures prevail?

Whatever ends up happening this month, I can’t help but notice the number of ethnicities, associations, and vocations that are taking advantage of this sleepy little month to celebrate their awesomeness. If you spend any significant amount of time on campus (which, if you’re reading this, I assume you must) you’ve probably noticed that we are in the midst of both Filipino American History Month (thanks for the bubble tea, it was delicious!) and National Hispanic Heritage Month (the theme of which is “Honoring the Awesome Way of Life.” And how!) There’s beaucoup Pryzbyla signage instructing us on how to party in the style of either of these months.

However, some other nationalities are trying to get in on the action. New York (”the largest Italian city outside Italy”) celebrates Italian Heritage and Culture Month in October – a month of Italian-themed hang sessions that began as a mere week in 1976. The festivities of this month include the Third Annual “All U Can Eat” Family Spaghetti Fest (that’s their abbreviation, not mine) that is inexplicably taking place in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

Does “you forgot Poland” ring any bells? Not this time, my friend! Compensate for John Kerry’s omission by remembering that October is Polish American Heritage Month, headquartered at the Polish American Cultural Center Museum in Philadelphia. One way to show your love for these pierogie-popping party animals is to participate in their annual Coloring Contest. Go to their website and download a PDF of a black-and-white drawing of Polish settlers in Jamestown. (Colonial outfits and Native Americans serve to authenticate this vignette.) Color it in (”using crayon or crayon pencils only”) and send it in to the museum – first prize is $100!

You should also boogie because National Physical Therapy Month is upon us. There does not appear to be stringent protocol for honoring this month. Last year, the Cape May County Health Department (of New Jersey) made a presentation to a local second-grade class, instructing them on stretching, posture, and “proper body mechanics while lifting and bending.” Judging from the thank-you notes that the department received from the second grade class, the presentation was a runaway success. Some excerpts: “Thank you for coming Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Recipi. Happy Halloween Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Recipi. Sean lifted the chair”; “Dear Mr.s Fish and Mrs. Recipi Thank you forcomming I learn abuot pikkinup chars”; “hank you for shoin my haw to do srgaches. I lyrod the srach.” I, for one, would lyrod to get in on whatever party these physical therapists are having. Shine on, you crazy diamonds!

Did you know that it’s National Dental Hygiene Month, too? Each week of this month has a theme – my favorite is week four, the theme of which is “Take a Potential Member to Lunch.” (This instruction is aimed at American Dental Hygienist Association members.) “ADHA is the community for all dental hygienists,” instructs the organization’s website. “Show them the value, but remember, it’s not a sales pitch – just a friendly gesture on behalf of yourself and the profession.” Alert: seriously posi vibes coming your way courtesy of the ADHA. This month gets the Tower seal of approval for supporting one love. Jah provides, you know?

In sum, I would posit that Months rule. While all of these cultural and vocational celebrations honor different, like, modes of self-identification or whatever, they all seem to agree that their Months should involve eating, partying, hanging out, and talking about how awesome their respective modes are.

5th Column with Emily Ruane

Damn, son. The economy is eating it this week. I feel bad! What do you with your friends when they’re having a really bad week? Bring them brownies? Booze? 27 Dresses? (The latter, for the record, will make anyone feel better, be they man, woman or child. I’m serious.) This isn’t exactly a situation that food and hugs will solve.

Unfortunately, since we’re dealing with a fat, faceless behemoth, I’m sort of at a loss for how to deal with this particular situation.

If this were a more typical scenario, I would sit the economy down and ask it if it felt like talking about how it was feeling. I would plan to listen really carefully, with an ever-so-slightly knitted brow to connote seriousness and contemplation. If the economy was like, “Oh, you don’t want to hear about my problems,” I would insist that the economy’s problems are my problems too. I would remind the economy that sometimes just talking about your problems can make them seem a little less scary.

If the economy got kind of quiet at that point, I would say, “Hey. Whatever you’re feeling is ok right now.” When the economy still didn’t say anything, I would say, “You know, this is a lot for one faceless behemoth to handle on its own.” When the economy remained silent, staring blankly into space at a point that only it could discern, I would say, “You did the best you could. Everyone knows that.”

Then the economy would stand up really suddenly, almost upsetting the cookies and milk that I’d laid out when it arrived. “No I didn’t!” it would shout, its voice thickening. “I’ve - ” It would stop for a moment in an effort to collect itself. (The economy doesn’t like to let anyone see it lose its composure.) “I’ve f-f-failed,” it would mumble, its voice beginning to crack. At that point, I would look the economy in the eye. “It’s not your fault, economy,” I would say. “We pushed you to a breaking point.”

Tears would well up in the economy’s eyes. “I’m not s-s-supposed to break,” it would say. “I’m supposed to be s-s-strong!” it would cry, finally letting go. “America needs me to function!” I would run into the kitchen for some tissues. The economy would sit down on the couch with its head in its hands. “All the other economies must think I’m so stupid. I’m the laughingstock of the world!” it would sob. “How can I ever show my face in the global market again?”

I would pat the economy on the back. “Eggs are f-f-four dollars for a dozen. How are we going to live?” I would hand the economy tissue and it would loudly blow its nose. “I don’t understand how this happened,” the economy would say, its voice shaky. “Everything was going so well. People were buying houses. Thanks to me, the American dream was becoming a reality. Now I’m an embarrassment. A has-been!” The economy would start sobbing again, and I would sit next to it, wishing that I could console it and knowing that I never could. The economy is its own harshest critic, and it’s hard to convince a perfectionist that their failures are not the end of the world. In that sense, the economy is a victim of its own hubris – but you can’t tell the economy that, not when it’s so upset.

I would wait for the economy to calm down. “Look at me,” it would say, blowing its nose again. “I’m such a mess. You must think I’m such a drama queen.” I would shake my head. “No! Of course you’re upset. We’re all a little upset.” The economy’s face would start to crumple again. “Don’t cry,” I would plead. “We’re not mad at you. This is just as much our fault as it is yours, economy.” The economy would sniffle a little. “It takes 300 million to tango, right?” I would say. “I guess, the economy would reply. “It’s just so humiliating.”

I would give the economy a hug. “The only thing we can do now is move on. What’s important is that we learn from our mistakes.” The economy would nod. “You’re right.” It would give me a small smile. “Thanks for making me feel better.” “Of course,” I would say. “We’re all in this together.”

But I since this isn’t a typical scenario, I’m not really sure how to approach it. Any idea? Thoughts? Suggestions?