Never before have I taken a Spring Break trip with friends and never will I be able to top the last week. It was, in a word, AWESOMENESS.
I'm not sure what my favorite part was. Maybe it was when we went to a John Legend concert in Paris and Kanye West showed up as a surprise performer. But then again, Versailles was pretty awesome, as was going to the top of the Eiffel Tower at night, being surrounded by Ingram's Southern friends, and getting hit on by street artists at Montmartre. "It is a shame you do not pose for me!" Munich was pretty awesome too - Starnberger See, the Starkbierfest, walking around the old city at night, gettin' silly at the Hofbrauhaus, staying up all night with some American soldiers we found in Munich, and getting a job at Retarus for the summer.
And that doesn't even start to dive into the types of trouble we got into. Good trouble, as always, but trouble nonetheless. For instance, I tried to take a bottle of Champagne to the top of the Eiffel Tower because we wanted to pop some bottles at the top. No dice. The guard, who didn't speak English and was very rude (but then again I was very drunk), made me go hide my huge beer and bottle of Champagne in the nearby garden. I thought my alcohol was a goner, however the French wine-snobs clearly thought that my 2 euro bottle of Champagne was an insult to their palette, and my alcohol was safe and sound when we got down. We got into far more trouble in Munich than we did in Paris. I told Ingram two things about the city - I had never, ever felt uncomfortable walking around at night and I had never, ever gotten my ticket checked on the U-bahn. Both of those things happened within a matter of 24 hours. I'm pretty sure Ingram is just bad luck.
Our first night in Munich we decided to go to this little Mexican place that was down the street from my old apartment. I'm pretty sure I've had the same blonde, old, slightly haggard looking waitress every time I've eaten there and I'm sure she's gotten sick of me ordering my jumbo mojitos and stumbling out sloppy every time I'm done with my meal. Needless to say, Ingram's southern drinking habits have rubbed off on me and we walked out of the restaurant and down to the altstadt where I tried to explain the history of Munich's buildings. We talked to everyone we saw - young men, old men, the girl who worked at Haagen Daaz, etc. Eventually we came across two old Turkish men and instead of just telling us where another bar was (like we needed one... right) they wanted to take us there. It got really uncomfortable, especially since they were old enough to be our fathers. We ended up ditching them by ducking into a nearby bathroom and I explained, in German, to the waiter that we needed a side exit NOW. He snuck us through the kitchen, Mission Impossible style, and we paid him for his escape services. The next day after coming back from Salzburg, GI fucking Jane stopped us on the U-bahn and asked for our tickets. Of course we didn't buy tickets because, of course, I never get stopped. I whipped out my long-distance train ticket from Salzburg prepared to play the "stupid tourist card" and praying she would be lenient. For some reason I'll never comprehend, she accepted our long distance train ticket as valid and we didn't have to pay the 40 euro fine for being a schwartzfahrer.
The Starkbierfest had trouble written all over it from the start. Imagine this: 13% alcohol beer, served in liters, in a hall full of drunken Germans in lederhosen who are singing "itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini" at the top of their lungs and dancing on tables. We sat next to two seemingly sweet old men who looked exactly like my father.. well they did, until they started trying to pull down my shirt. I don't understand it. We were old men magnets the entire trip. I'm going to sum up the night by saying that I have more bruises than I can count and my lips hurt from kissing too much. Good thing those were separate instances - I got the bruises from falling off of the table (because naturally we climbed on top of them to dance) and my lips hurt, well, for the obvious reason. Four hours of making out will do that to anyone.
Hm. I'm noticing a trend. All of our "trouble" also involved alcohol. Good to know. Magically, Ingram and I didn't get separated and nothing was lost or stolen, so it was definitely fun trouble and not bad trouble.
I'll write more about our trip later, but if you're über bored definitely listen to the song "Cowboy und Indianer" on youtube and learn the dance. After two liters of Starbier it is the best. song. ever. The dance that accompanies it is pretty awesome too.
I'm going to give my liver a break for awhile and go get some homework done...
----
Monday, March 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Poison Ivy
The summer internship search has begun at Wharton. It's not called job-hunting, it's called "recruiting." It's like we're ten years old again and picking teams for a dodge ball game and everyone is secretly hoping they won't be the last person left. What an awful process. I want a recruiter that picks their interns with the same approach Herb Brooks had for hockey. He didn't pick the best players, he picked the right ones. Crazy? The US Olympic Committee certainly thought so. In the end, he pulled off the biggest upset in hockey history in a game we now refer to by one noun only - miracle.
Somehow, I think I'll have a hard time convincing a UBS recruiter that my lack of 4.0 is analogous to beating the snot out of the Russians.
Since I'm pretty sure I'll end up unemployed and living out of a box in a few years, I have decided to write a book. I'll post it chapter by chapter, and feel free to leave comments (even mean ones.) So here it is, the introduction to Poison Ivy, by Elizabeth Schneider.
Introduction:
I believe you should give credit where credit is due. This book would never have existed without one rather special writing instructor of mine – Kristine Bender*. She was my inspiration. She inspired me to prove her wrong. Indeed, Poison Ivy is my personal salute to the University of Pennsylvania and their worthless writing requirement that taught me absolutely nothing about writing: Cheers.
To begin my tale, I guess I should start from the beginning, it’s a very good place to start (or so I hear.) When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you go to college you begin with “regurgitate this information on the next test and you will get an A, or maybe a B, or maybe a C.” At least, that is how the writing program is structured at Penn. I understand the need to study different forms of writing. However, I don’t think following cookie-cutter outlines is effective way to learn how to write. Enter: Kristine Bender, a graduate student on a power trip with a no-nonsense curriculum, and you have a very spicy recipe for conflict.
It was the perfect storm of ingredients. As a freshman I was naïve enough to believe that I could help a teacher see the error of their ways and stupid enough to pick a fight about it. My argument was grounded on the principle that forcing students to write in a pre-packaged, outlined form doesn’t help them to develop better writing skills. Instead, it makes them master imitators, purely parroting the teachers’ wishes. The following example is not the first time I clashed with Kristine, and certainly wasn’t the last. The assignment was simple enough; write a narrative with a moral. While writing I came across a roadblock. Great thinkers have been arguing about morality since the beginning of time. If they hadn’t come up with a solution, I didn’t see why I had to.
So, I wrote a narrative about one of my many less-than-perfect actions. Then came the one moment, the climactic sentence, the part where I would assert my moral superiority - the part that I never wrote. Instead, I concluded with, “There is no neat, gift wrapped ending to this tale. Instead, I leave the lesson for you to ponder, discard it as rubbish if you please, or find your own meaning within it. The end.” I thought it was a mature way to end an unrealistic assignment. Kristine thought otherwise. My essay got a C - for “… failing to meet outlined objectives.”
So in part, this book is motivated by revenge. This is for Kristine Bender, who constantly told me, “No, you can’t.” With this work (and my middle finger straight up) I say, “Watch me.”
---
Comments are always appreciated!
Somehow, I think I'll have a hard time convincing a UBS recruiter that my lack of 4.0 is analogous to beating the snot out of the Russians.
Since I'm pretty sure I'll end up unemployed and living out of a box in a few years, I have decided to write a book. I'll post it chapter by chapter, and feel free to leave comments (even mean ones.) So here it is, the introduction to Poison Ivy, by Elizabeth Schneider.
Introduction:
I believe you should give credit where credit is due. This book would never have existed without one rather special writing instructor of mine – Kristine Bender*. She was my inspiration. She inspired me to prove her wrong. Indeed, Poison Ivy is my personal salute to the University of Pennsylvania and their worthless writing requirement that taught me absolutely nothing about writing: Cheers.
To begin my tale, I guess I should start from the beginning, it’s a very good place to start (or so I hear.) When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you go to college you begin with “regurgitate this information on the next test and you will get an A, or maybe a B, or maybe a C.” At least, that is how the writing program is structured at Penn. I understand the need to study different forms of writing. However, I don’t think following cookie-cutter outlines is effective way to learn how to write. Enter: Kristine Bender, a graduate student on a power trip with a no-nonsense curriculum, and you have a very spicy recipe for conflict.
It was the perfect storm of ingredients. As a freshman I was naïve enough to believe that I could help a teacher see the error of their ways and stupid enough to pick a fight about it. My argument was grounded on the principle that forcing students to write in a pre-packaged, outlined form doesn’t help them to develop better writing skills. Instead, it makes them master imitators, purely parroting the teachers’ wishes. The following example is not the first time I clashed with Kristine, and certainly wasn’t the last. The assignment was simple enough; write a narrative with a moral. While writing I came across a roadblock. Great thinkers have been arguing about morality since the beginning of time. If they hadn’t come up with a solution, I didn’t see why I had to.
So, I wrote a narrative about one of my many less-than-perfect actions. Then came the one moment, the climactic sentence, the part where I would assert my moral superiority - the part that I never wrote. Instead, I concluded with, “There is no neat, gift wrapped ending to this tale. Instead, I leave the lesson for you to ponder, discard it as rubbish if you please, or find your own meaning within it. The end.” I thought it was a mature way to end an unrealistic assignment. Kristine thought otherwise. My essay got a C - for “… failing to meet outlined objectives.”
So in part, this book is motivated by revenge. This is for Kristine Bender, who constantly told me, “No, you can’t.” With this work (and my middle finger straight up) I say, “Watch me.”
---
Comments are always appreciated!
Friday, December 5, 2008
On Break.
I think of myself as an overly verbal person.... and now I'm experiencing writers block. Sorry readers, but I won't be updating for awhile.
When the next post comes out - probably next semester when my life gets more interesting working for the Flyers - I'll let you know.
Thanks for sticking with me!
Your humble writer,
Elizabeth
When the next post comes out - probably next semester when my life gets more interesting working for the Flyers - I'll let you know.
Thanks for sticking with me!
Your humble writer,
Elizabeth
Sunday, November 16, 2008
College Life.
I wrote a lot about life in Germany because I wanted my American friends to know what it's like. Now that I'm back in America, I've been having some writers block because life here is boring: same shit different day. Then it ocurred to me that while it may be the same shit for me, American college life is maybe something new and novel to my readers (if any of you out there in internet-land have been patient enough to stick with me through my sporadic posting schedule).
But first, some exciting news - I got an internship with the Philadelphia Flyers! I am one of two people chosen for the Finance department and I couldn't be more thrilled about it. Hockey + Finance = awesomeness in the first degree. I start in the spring and continue into the summer, which means I'll have to stay in Philadelphia forever (or what seems like forever.) Major bummer. Who knows, maybe I'll use this as an opportunity to jet off to London when I can't stand it any longer. A girl can dream, right?
So here it is, the topic du jour: college. A day in the life of Elizabeth Schneider.
Mondays start with my 10:30 principles of retailing class. I usually walk in two minutes late, large coffee in hand, and sneak into the back row as quietly as possible - which never works, but I try anyway. My professor, wearing a hideous shirt and ridiculous jeans, has just started his lecture on some retailing framework he designed which is pointless but slightly entertaining. His PowerPoint slides are colorful and they hold my attention for a bit. My mind starts to wander so I start to look around the class - we have the Asian overachievers who sit in the front row, scribbling down every word the professor says; the ken-doll lookalike who sits in the back row and constantly rearranges his hair between throwing out buzzwords like "branding" and "value-chain management" but doesn't really understand their meaning; the arts and sciences girls who are scattered throughout the class and have blank looks on their faces; and then me, tired and drinking coffee in a futile effort to look alive. It's early. I snap back to attention when my professor says something ridiculous (which is often) such as, "I have great taste. I can't teach it to you, but I just have it." Two minutes later he brags about how he bought his jeans for $3 at Costco. I am a fan of bargain shopping, but his $3 look like something out of a bad 90's movie so that's really not something to brag about. I'm beginning to question his "good taste" and have come to the conclusion that this class is a total waste of my time.
I buy another coffee at ABP before running halfway across campus to German class. Yes, we call it ABP because none of us come from France and we all butcher the pronounciation of "Au Bon Pain." In fact, I don't even know if that' show you spell it. It's just ABP. Magically I get to German early and spend a few awkward minutes talking to my German professor who speaks with a very... interesting... german accent. Lots of "sssssss" and hand gestures. He looks like a caricature and it's highly entertaining. The temperature in Williams is never right - they have the heat on when it's hot outside and the air conditioning on when it's cold. We're not in the Wharton building anymore, Toto. It's a fun game to try and pick the right seat that doesn't have hair all over it; there's some girl with dark hair in the class before me who sheds all over every seat. The static electricity helps to make a very modern-art abstract hair sculpture on the chair that nobody wants to sit in. It's pretty nasty.
The cycle repeats with Finance (and my hilarious professor who wears pink ties everyday) and my Marketing reserach class (which is so boring I have considered inflicting serious bodily harm to get out of going.) Weeknights are spent studying with a healthy dose of procrastination and weekends deserve a blog post of their own, once I've done something worth writing about. Sleep, class, eat, class, study, repeat. The life of an college student isn't as party-filled as it would seem... at least at Penn. Maybe I should have gone to a state school, my oh my life would have been so much easier.
Hopefully this was interesting or at least a pleasant distraction from your same-old, same-old.
Happy Saturday night!
But first, some exciting news - I got an internship with the Philadelphia Flyers! I am one of two people chosen for the Finance department and I couldn't be more thrilled about it. Hockey + Finance = awesomeness in the first degree. I start in the spring and continue into the summer, which means I'll have to stay in Philadelphia forever (or what seems like forever.) Major bummer. Who knows, maybe I'll use this as an opportunity to jet off to London when I can't stand it any longer. A girl can dream, right?
So here it is, the topic du jour: college. A day in the life of Elizabeth Schneider.
Mondays start with my 10:30 principles of retailing class. I usually walk in two minutes late, large coffee in hand, and sneak into the back row as quietly as possible - which never works, but I try anyway. My professor, wearing a hideous shirt and ridiculous jeans, has just started his lecture on some retailing framework he designed which is pointless but slightly entertaining. His PowerPoint slides are colorful and they hold my attention for a bit. My mind starts to wander so I start to look around the class - we have the Asian overachievers who sit in the front row, scribbling down every word the professor says; the ken-doll lookalike who sits in the back row and constantly rearranges his hair between throwing out buzzwords like "branding" and "value-chain management" but doesn't really understand their meaning; the arts and sciences girls who are scattered throughout the class and have blank looks on their faces; and then me, tired and drinking coffee in a futile effort to look alive. It's early. I snap back to attention when my professor says something ridiculous (which is often) such as, "I have great taste. I can't teach it to you, but I just have it." Two minutes later he brags about how he bought his jeans for $3 at Costco. I am a fan of bargain shopping, but his $3 look like something out of a bad 90's movie so that's really not something to brag about. I'm beginning to question his "good taste" and have come to the conclusion that this class is a total waste of my time.
I buy another coffee at ABP before running halfway across campus to German class. Yes, we call it ABP because none of us come from France and we all butcher the pronounciation of "Au Bon Pain." In fact, I don't even know if that' show you spell it. It's just ABP. Magically I get to German early and spend a few awkward minutes talking to my German professor who speaks with a very... interesting... german accent. Lots of "sssssss" and hand gestures. He looks like a caricature and it's highly entertaining. The temperature in Williams is never right - they have the heat on when it's hot outside and the air conditioning on when it's cold. We're not in the Wharton building anymore, Toto. It's a fun game to try and pick the right seat that doesn't have hair all over it; there's some girl with dark hair in the class before me who sheds all over every seat. The static electricity helps to make a very modern-art abstract hair sculpture on the chair that nobody wants to sit in. It's pretty nasty.
The cycle repeats with Finance (and my hilarious professor who wears pink ties everyday) and my Marketing reserach class (which is so boring I have considered inflicting serious bodily harm to get out of going.) Weeknights are spent studying with a healthy dose of procrastination and weekends deserve a blog post of their own, once I've done something worth writing about. Sleep, class, eat, class, study, repeat. The life of an college student isn't as party-filled as it would seem... at least at Penn. Maybe I should have gone to a state school, my oh my life would have been so much easier.
Hopefully this was interesting or at least a pleasant distraction from your same-old, same-old.
Happy Saturday night!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Great American Game.
Ah yes, October baseball season has arrived. By "arrived" I mean "almost over" because I usually don't follow baseball. Minnesota is a hockey state. The Twins haven't been good since the early nineties and I was too young to remember most of it. My single memory from our glory days is when Kirby Puckett hit a home run - I waved to the TV screen, and he chose that same moment to look up into the camera and wave as he was rounding the bases. For five years I was convinced that he saw me and was waving back. My parents didn't have the heart to tell me the truth. But this October, I have been given a rare treat - the Phillies are in the World Series.
The great thing about going to college in a different state is that you get your pick of sports teams. If the Twins don't make the playoffs it doesn't really matter... I guess I'm a Phillies fan this year then. Tonight, my substitute team was -- -- this close to winning the title. Literally. They are leading the series 3-1 and the potential final game is delayed because of the rain.
In general, Americans prefer football and baseball. Slow sports. You can go get a hot dog and beer during the game and not really miss much. You could, for instance, sort-of watch the game and sort-of do your Psychology reading and you would still understand what was going on. They're multitasking sports. Baseball even has a "stretch" in the 7th inning - only Americans would enjoy physical activitiy that not only has pauses between every three outs, but a designated extra rest period. The experience of going to the game is rarely to actually watch the game - the experience is the tailgating, drinking, and bad (yet wonderful) stadium food.
Europeans, on the other hand, like the fast sports: soccer, hockey, etc. If you don't watch the game you're going to miss something. And your 90 minutes of attention is rewarded by witnessing the one, two, or three goals that happen. It's a waiting game, yet an intense one. Western Europeans are more into soccer - cheer, drink, but pay attention. Russians are cold, stoic, disciplined, and fast. Hockey dominates their sporting arenas. The Chinese don't play sports. They study. One isn't necessarily better than another, but it does provide another interesting lens through which a culture can be examined.
I was watching the game with one of my Australian friends who asked, "why is it that when Americans win at something in their country, they think they're the greatest in the world?" Aside from the fact that it's titled the World Series, I have no clue. She attributed it to our all-around arrogance. I might have to agree.
And now, I will end my multitasking to see if the game has resumed. GO PHILS!
---
The great thing about going to college in a different state is that you get your pick of sports teams. If the Twins don't make the playoffs it doesn't really matter... I guess I'm a Phillies fan this year then. Tonight, my substitute team was -- -- this close to winning the title. Literally. They are leading the series 3-1 and the potential final game is delayed because of the rain.
In general, Americans prefer football and baseball. Slow sports. You can go get a hot dog and beer during the game and not really miss much. You could, for instance, sort-of watch the game and sort-of do your Psychology reading and you would still understand what was going on. They're multitasking sports. Baseball even has a "stretch" in the 7th inning - only Americans would enjoy physical activitiy that not only has pauses between every three outs, but a designated extra rest period. The experience of going to the game is rarely to actually watch the game - the experience is the tailgating, drinking, and bad (yet wonderful) stadium food.
Europeans, on the other hand, like the fast sports: soccer, hockey, etc. If you don't watch the game you're going to miss something. And your 90 minutes of attention is rewarded by witnessing the one, two, or three goals that happen. It's a waiting game, yet an intense one. Western Europeans are more into soccer - cheer, drink, but pay attention. Russians are cold, stoic, disciplined, and fast. Hockey dominates their sporting arenas. The Chinese don't play sports. They study. One isn't necessarily better than another, but it does provide another interesting lens through which a culture can be examined.
I was watching the game with one of my Australian friends who asked, "why is it that when Americans win at something in their country, they think they're the greatest in the world?" Aside from the fact that it's titled the World Series, I have no clue. She attributed it to our all-around arrogance. I might have to agree.
And now, I will end my multitasking to see if the game has resumed. GO PHILS!
---
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Good night, sleep tight.
I hate sleeping. It is 3:01am on a Saturday night (well... technically Sunday morning) and I am awake. I didn't go out with friends, I got minimal work done... there's no reason for me to be awake. When I was little my parents often had their adult friends over for dinner parties. Us three kids, after saying a charming "hello" and flashing our childish smiles (or waving tentatively and hiding behind our parents, like I did), were sent upstairs to go to bed. Bed? Not me. I had a plan. After I heard everyone get settled in the dining area I would take my pillow and Blankie, tip-toe out into the hallway, and curl up on the landing above the stairs to listen to the grown-ups talk. If I was feeling adventurous, I would carefully go down the stairs and listen from the living room or admire our guests' shoes. But most of the time I drifted off to sleep laying on my stomach in the hallawy, curled up with my pillow and blanket. I would wake up when the adults were gathering to say goodbye and sneak back into my room. Mission accomplished.
I didn't really like my parents' friends - I was too young to have an opinion about them. I got distracted by Paul's wild safari shirts or Bill's strong cologne, and Grandma always gave us wet, sloppy kisses that I tried my best to avoid. I just felt that if I went to sleep, I would miss something. I liked hearing the sound of wine glasses clinking and people laughing as I fell asleep - it made me feel like I was a part of the fun instead of getting ready for bed. Small side note: it's amazing how creative kids can be with naming things. The yellow knit blanket (with snuggly silk edging) that I dragged out with me in the hallway was appropriately named "Blankie." I carried Blankie with me everywhere for about five years and cried every time it ripped or when the silk started to wear through. My other partner-in-crime was a white, stuffed cat imaginatively named "Kitty." I clearly thought outside the box.
Every night it's the same old fight - my will versus my biological need to sleep.Our Psychology professor asked us one day to think about how much more we could do in one day if we didn't have to sleep. If our bodies didn't have to sleep, would we want to? Half of the class would still want to sleep and half wouldn't. Just think of all the amazing adventures you could add to your life if you had an additional 8 hours a day. It's fascinating.
Unfortunately, sleep is winning this fight tonight. Sleep well...
----
I didn't really like my parents' friends - I was too young to have an opinion about them. I got distracted by Paul's wild safari shirts or Bill's strong cologne, and Grandma always gave us wet, sloppy kisses that I tried my best to avoid. I just felt that if I went to sleep, I would miss something. I liked hearing the sound of wine glasses clinking and people laughing as I fell asleep - it made me feel like I was a part of the fun instead of getting ready for bed. Small side note: it's amazing how creative kids can be with naming things. The yellow knit blanket (with snuggly silk edging) that I dragged out with me in the hallway was appropriately named "Blankie." I carried Blankie with me everywhere for about five years and cried every time it ripped or when the silk started to wear through. My other partner-in-crime was a white, stuffed cat imaginatively named "Kitty." I clearly thought outside the box.
Every night it's the same old fight - my will versus my biological need to sleep.Our Psychology professor asked us one day to think about how much more we could do in one day if we didn't have to sleep. If our bodies didn't have to sleep, would we want to? Half of the class would still want to sleep and half wouldn't. Just think of all the amazing adventures you could add to your life if you had an additional 8 hours a day. It's fascinating.
Unfortunately, sleep is winning this fight tonight. Sleep well...
----
Monday, October 13, 2008
21 year old body with a 5 year old heart.
It is a beautiful fall rainy day in Minnesota. Currently, I'm reading Harry Potter and eating Barnum's Animal Crackers, also known as "childhood in a box." When I was little, my sister and I only got to eat these crackers on very special occasions: most often when my mom dragged us to the furniture store and wanted us to be quiet and behave. Back then, my lion crackers chased her giraffe crackers across expensive sofas and leather chairs (and naturally I always won.) My sister is currently in Atlanta so here I sit, making my lion cracker chase my giraffe cracker across the top of my book. Soon after they both met an untimely death... in my mouth. Yum.
Have I mentioned that I'm 20?
In a few short weeks I will turn 21, the magical age in American society where you celebrate your "adult" status by getting rip-roaringly drunk and making a few profoundly stupid decisions. Technically I became an adult when I turned 18 but recently I've started to wonder, "Where did my childhood go?" When you're little, all you want is to grow up and act like an adult. Now that I am one, all I want to do is play with my animal crackers and not get weird looks from my parents.
Sometimes, I look at little kids playing with their parents and I start to wonder - what kind of adult will they turn out to be? Will they be shy? Kind? Rude? Will they get into drugs, alcohol, and crime? Will they be an excellent student? I saw the movie "The Parent Trap" the other day and I had trouble enjoying it for two reasons: first, it's not a very good movie, and second because Lindsay Lohan was such an adorable little girl who has turned into such a train-wreck of an adult. What happened?
There are some perks to being an adult - one of them being a drivers license. Instead of jumping through the huge puddles created by all this rain, I'm going to drive through them. Besides, high-speed puddle driving is better than wet, dirty clothes any day. I'm off to go make some trouble.
I guess I'm still a kid after all.
---
Have I mentioned that I'm 20?
In a few short weeks I will turn 21, the magical age in American society where you celebrate your "adult" status by getting rip-roaringly drunk and making a few profoundly stupid decisions. Technically I became an adult when I turned 18 but recently I've started to wonder, "Where did my childhood go?" When you're little, all you want is to grow up and act like an adult. Now that I am one, all I want to do is play with my animal crackers and not get weird looks from my parents.
Sometimes, I look at little kids playing with their parents and I start to wonder - what kind of adult will they turn out to be? Will they be shy? Kind? Rude? Will they get into drugs, alcohol, and crime? Will they be an excellent student? I saw the movie "The Parent Trap" the other day and I had trouble enjoying it for two reasons: first, it's not a very good movie, and second because Lindsay Lohan was such an adorable little girl who has turned into such a train-wreck of an adult. What happened?
There are some perks to being an adult - one of them being a drivers license. Instead of jumping through the huge puddles created by all this rain, I'm going to drive through them. Besides, high-speed puddle driving is better than wet, dirty clothes any day. I'm off to go make some trouble.
I guess I'm still a kid after all.
---
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