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!
Showing posts with label Philadelphia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Philadelphia. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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...
----
Friday, October 3, 2008
My love-hate relationship with politics and vodka.
Whoops readers, my bad... I accidentally entered the website of my German blog incorrectly in the last post. It is: http://das-leben-auf-deutsch.blogspot.com.
Nothing really new or interesting to report - I have a lot of midterms next week so this weekend is going to be zero fun. No fun at all. Good thing I crammed all of my fun into tonight! My friends decided to turn the Vice Presidential Debates into a drinking game. So American, I know. Every time Sarah Palin said "energy" or "Alaska" we took a drink. I stopped about 15 minutes in because I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up, but all of them kept going.. and now they're all wasted. Even though I stopped early but I'm still kind of tipsy - I hiked my shoes into my closet football-style and I'm thinking it might be time to go to bed. Now.
I don't watch the debates because I'm interested in politics, I watch them in spite of my non-interest in the topic. Unfortunately, this political exposure is challenging my resolution to not vote. Palin is an idiot who thinks she can relate to people because she's a hockey mom. Coming from Minnesota I should be one of the people most sympathetic to her claim, and I think she comes off as an inexperienced politician who doesn't know her head from her ass when it comes to major political issues. McCain isn't much better - mostly because he's about two breaths away from dying and will probably go senile at some point. Obama definitely has his faults, inexperience being one of them. As someone who wants to move abroad, worldwide opinion and confidence in America is important to me. At this point, I think Obama would be best suited to achieve this goal.
I still don't want to vote out of principle. Whoever has the gold makes the rules, and whichever candidate gets elected will be responsible in the end to their political donors and not to the people. Both our financial and political systems are broken and I don't think either of the candidates is up to the task of fixing them.
p.s. I miss Munich.
p.p.s. I need to go to sleep now-ish before I start writing things I shouldn't. Ah yes, the old "I want to say something but I won't, and if you want to know just ask." Irritating, I know. Deal with it.
Happy Thursday to all, and to all a good night.
---
Nothing really new or interesting to report - I have a lot of midterms next week so this weekend is going to be zero fun. No fun at all. Good thing I crammed all of my fun into tonight! My friends decided to turn the Vice Presidential Debates into a drinking game. So American, I know. Every time Sarah Palin said "energy" or "Alaska" we took a drink. I stopped about 15 minutes in because I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up, but all of them kept going.. and now they're all wasted. Even though I stopped early but I'm still kind of tipsy - I hiked my shoes into my closet football-style and I'm thinking it might be time to go to bed. Now.
I don't watch the debates because I'm interested in politics, I watch them in spite of my non-interest in the topic. Unfortunately, this political exposure is challenging my resolution to not vote. Palin is an idiot who thinks she can relate to people because she's a hockey mom. Coming from Minnesota I should be one of the people most sympathetic to her claim, and I think she comes off as an inexperienced politician who doesn't know her head from her ass when it comes to major political issues. McCain isn't much better - mostly because he's about two breaths away from dying and will probably go senile at some point. Obama definitely has his faults, inexperience being one of them. As someone who wants to move abroad, worldwide opinion and confidence in America is important to me. At this point, I think Obama would be best suited to achieve this goal.
I still don't want to vote out of principle. Whoever has the gold makes the rules, and whichever candidate gets elected will be responsible in the end to their political donors and not to the people. Both our financial and political systems are broken and I don't think either of the candidates is up to the task of fixing them.
p.s. I miss Munich.
p.p.s. I need to go to sleep now-ish before I start writing things I shouldn't. Ah yes, the old "I want to say something but I won't, and if you want to know just ask." Irritating, I know. Deal with it.
Happy Thursday to all, and to all a good night.
---
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Life is better auf deutsch.
I hate writers block. It seriously sucks.
Thankfully, it seems that I only get writers block in one language at a time. So I'm going to use this space to shamlessly advertise for my new blog. It's in German. It kind of rocks. (http://das-leben-auf-detusch.blogspot.com)
Okay well it might not actually rock that much because my vocab is a little limited. Oh well, the only way it's going to get better is to practice, right? I just hope someone corrects me if I repeatedly make some embarrassing mistake (like using the word "Sitzung" for two months without anyone correcting me. Seriously. That must have been realllyyy funny for all of you.)
Now all I have to do is figure out how to make umlauts on my computer. I can do it, but it takes me forever...
Büt I löve thöse weird little letters, sö I dö it änywäy.
I'm ä nerd.
---
Thankfully, it seems that I only get writers block in one language at a time. So I'm going to use this space to shamlessly advertise for my new blog. It's in German. It kind of rocks. (http://das-leben-auf-detusch.blogspot.com)
Okay well it might not actually rock that much because my vocab is a little limited. Oh well, the only way it's going to get better is to practice, right? I just hope someone corrects me if I repeatedly make some embarrassing mistake (like using the word "Sitzung" for two months without anyone correcting me. Seriously. That must have been realllyyy funny for all of you.)
Now all I have to do is figure out how to make umlauts on my computer. I can do it, but it takes me forever...
Büt I löve thöse weird little letters, sö I dö it änywäy.
I'm ä nerd.
---
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I am redhead... hear me roar.
I have never been good at keeping my mouth shut, and yesterday I found out why.
I had to go through three x-ray bag checks at the airport yesterday just to get from the front door of the Munich airport to my gate. On top of that, I had my passport and boarding card checked five separate times. Five times. That's a bit excessive. I sighed and asked the airport employee why I had to do this yet again. He looked down at my passport, laughed, and replied sarcastically, "It is for your Homeland Security, ma'am." He asked me this insane list of questions - who packed your bags, do you own the items in your bags, etc. I really wanted to reply, "Well... I dunno. Some tall guy with a turban put some stuff in my bag earlier, and now it's much heavier and there's this... ticking noise... coming from it. I think it's okay though.. the sound is being muffled by these big bags of white powder that I'm supposed to take on board."
Ah yes, maturity. A slow, painful process where you learn to bite your tongue and realize that five seconds of fun isn't worth two days in a German detention center. I got my subtle revenge - even after all of the bag checks, the security guards never confiscated the two lighters in my carry on luggage. One small victory for Liz, one large victory for frustrated passengers everywhere.
My dad called me yesterday to give me an interesting piece of news; scientists have recently concluded that red-haired people are descendant from neanderthals (http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2003975496_neanderthal26.html) Through forensic discoveries, scientists have learned that neanderthals had similar mechanisms for producing speech and they also figured out what neanderthals looked like: they had red hair and pale skin.
"AHA!" my dad told me. "That's why you have such a temper!" The mystery is solved. I guess I'm still a caveman.
....think I can get in on the Geico commercials??
---
I had to go through three x-ray bag checks at the airport yesterday just to get from the front door of the Munich airport to my gate. On top of that, I had my passport and boarding card checked five separate times. Five times. That's a bit excessive. I sighed and asked the airport employee why I had to do this yet again. He looked down at my passport, laughed, and replied sarcastically, "It is for your Homeland Security, ma'am." He asked me this insane list of questions - who packed your bags, do you own the items in your bags, etc. I really wanted to reply, "Well... I dunno. Some tall guy with a turban put some stuff in my bag earlier, and now it's much heavier and there's this... ticking noise... coming from it. I think it's okay though.. the sound is being muffled by these big bags of white powder that I'm supposed to take on board."
Ah yes, maturity. A slow, painful process where you learn to bite your tongue and realize that five seconds of fun isn't worth two days in a German detention center. I got my subtle revenge - even after all of the bag checks, the security guards never confiscated the two lighters in my carry on luggage. One small victory for Liz, one large victory for frustrated passengers everywhere.
My dad called me yesterday to give me an interesting piece of news; scientists have recently concluded that red-haired people are descendant from neanderthals (http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2003975496_neanderthal26.html) Through forensic discoveries, scientists have learned that neanderthals had similar mechanisms for producing speech and they also figured out what neanderthals looked like: they had red hair and pale skin.
"AHA!" my dad told me. "That's why you have such a temper!" The mystery is solved. I guess I'm still a caveman.
....think I can get in on the Geico commercials??
---
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The pursuit of happiness
I saw an interesting poster in the study lounge at Huntsman today. It said "Sleep. Ask us why."
I barely gave this poster a second glance. It is 10pm on a Monday night and I'm one of the many hundred overtired kids at this school who is still working. I plan to be working for the next several hours, in fact. Tomorrow morning, I'm getting up at 7am to finish my work. Work, shower, class, eat, work, repeat. Oh yeah... sleep. If I have time, I'll consider it.
When I left for college, my dad gave me a list of what my priorities should be:
1. Study
2. Friends
3. Flirt
4. Eat and sleep as needed.
Sleep is a distant fourth. What bothers me the most is that this is not a trend that is solely for America's college students. It is our culture, period. Past the age of ten it is a luxury to get a full eight hours of sleep. Then college, then the real world where, if you're lucky, you'll score one of the prestigious jobs on Wall Street where you sell your soul for 100 hour workweeks and a big fat paycheck. It's not just sleep you sacrifice at this point, it's everything: family, friends, vacation. "Free time" still involves compulsively checking your blackberry for new emails about market movements.
Ironically, it was my many hours of homework that led me to ponder the message on this poster. In particular, an article titled "Travel and Free Time" that I'm reading for German class. It describes how Americans make more money but travel less because our culture is one that values working above everything else. It goes on to ask the question - is the "slow" life a better life? Do we work too much, eat too quickly, and not spend enough time just doing nothing? And if we do live in this "fast" life, is that better? "Work will set you free" seems to be the principle our society abides by. It's not a new idea, but it's not a good one either.
Someone wise suggested that I should decide where I want to work by looking at two things: where am I going to be more successful and where I am happiest. These two things happen in two different places. I am pretty sure I'll be more successful if I stay in the US, meaning I'll make more money. But I'll be happier somewhere else. I guess it's a pretty easy decision to make.
Anyway, the point of this is: I have to get back to work. While I may not live the fast life later, I certainly live in it now... and I just spent 45 minutes writing something that yields me no return (in normal English: I don't get a good grade or job offer based on my blog, unfortunately.)
---
I barely gave this poster a second glance. It is 10pm on a Monday night and I'm one of the many hundred overtired kids at this school who is still working. I plan to be working for the next several hours, in fact. Tomorrow morning, I'm getting up at 7am to finish my work. Work, shower, class, eat, work, repeat. Oh yeah... sleep. If I have time, I'll consider it.
When I left for college, my dad gave me a list of what my priorities should be:
1. Study
2. Friends
3. Flirt
4. Eat and sleep as needed.
Sleep is a distant fourth. What bothers me the most is that this is not a trend that is solely for America's college students. It is our culture, period. Past the age of ten it is a luxury to get a full eight hours of sleep. Then college, then the real world where, if you're lucky, you'll score one of the prestigious jobs on Wall Street where you sell your soul for 100 hour workweeks and a big fat paycheck. It's not just sleep you sacrifice at this point, it's everything: family, friends, vacation. "Free time" still involves compulsively checking your blackberry for new emails about market movements.
Ironically, it was my many hours of homework that led me to ponder the message on this poster. In particular, an article titled "Travel and Free Time" that I'm reading for German class. It describes how Americans make more money but travel less because our culture is one that values working above everything else. It goes on to ask the question - is the "slow" life a better life? Do we work too much, eat too quickly, and not spend enough time just doing nothing? And if we do live in this "fast" life, is that better? "Work will set you free" seems to be the principle our society abides by. It's not a new idea, but it's not a good one either.
Someone wise suggested that I should decide where I want to work by looking at two things: where am I going to be more successful and where I am happiest. These two things happen in two different places. I am pretty sure I'll be more successful if I stay in the US, meaning I'll make more money. But I'll be happier somewhere else. I guess it's a pretty easy decision to make.
Anyway, the point of this is: I have to get back to work. While I may not live the fast life later, I certainly live in it now... and I just spent 45 minutes writing something that yields me no return (in normal English: I don't get a good grade or job offer based on my blog, unfortunately.)
---
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Sex. It's what's for dinner.
My life just keeps getting weirder.
It was a rainy Monday afternoon and I was sitting in a basement classroom, utterly stunned. I am trying to be a model student this semester - perfect class attendance, sitting in the front row with my reading and color-coded notes laying open in front of me, etc. This Monday, my other classmates were laughing while my mouth was open in shock. "Rat sex??"
Welcome to Psychology 001- Introduction to Psychology. On the first day of class my professor brought in a real human brain from some unfortunate soul who died in the 1950's. Note - jars full of brains and preservative fluids do not mix with clumsy professors. There was one rather frightening moment when he tripped over a cable and almost dropped the brain, causing those in the front row (such as myself) to recoil in horror. But this particular rainy Monday afternoon was our second lecture and we had progressed from human brains to... rat sex.
Our reading assignment was an introduction to the brain and nervous system, which is why those of us who actually did the reading were quite surprised when we came to lecture and watched videos of rats having sex. It gets better. An hour later we watched slow-motion rat sex. Apparently the full-speed version skipped over the entertaining highlights such as the difference between an "intromission encounter" and an "ejaculatory encounter." Our professor, who has done many experiments involving rat sex, went into gross detail about how if you stroke a female rat's back just right, she'll arch her back for you and give you access to her... uh... "girly-goodies".... as if you were a male rat. "Imagine that!" he exclaimed in his excitement.
I sat there in the front row with my neat notes about neurotransmitters and thought, "Is this some weird fetish of his? Is this an area we need to devote some time to...?" For example, some professors (and most professors in the finance department) find it difficult to mask their political views from the classroom. Some teachers will even go on at length about how stupid certain politicians are in forming their economic policy. The class is polite and nods along, indulging the professor for a few minutes on whatever rant they've started.
I guess Professor Rozin's view on the world is... rat sex. I have to admit, it was the strangest hour and a half lecture I've ever had. It had nothing to do with the reading or our current topic, it was just "Hi, welcome to the second day of class. Today, we'll be watching rat porn." It got even more awkward as he started comparing the mating habits of rats to those of humans. I understand that we're supposed to be getting a well-rounded education, but this is a little too well-rounded for me.
Now, when people ask me "How's school? How are your classes?" I smile to myself and respond, "I'm learning something new every day."
---
It was a rainy Monday afternoon and I was sitting in a basement classroom, utterly stunned. I am trying to be a model student this semester - perfect class attendance, sitting in the front row with my reading and color-coded notes laying open in front of me, etc. This Monday, my other classmates were laughing while my mouth was open in shock. "Rat sex??"
Welcome to Psychology 001- Introduction to Psychology. On the first day of class my professor brought in a real human brain from some unfortunate soul who died in the 1950's. Note - jars full of brains and preservative fluids do not mix with clumsy professors. There was one rather frightening moment when he tripped over a cable and almost dropped the brain, causing those in the front row (such as myself) to recoil in horror. But this particular rainy Monday afternoon was our second lecture and we had progressed from human brains to... rat sex.
Our reading assignment was an introduction to the brain and nervous system, which is why those of us who actually did the reading were quite surprised when we came to lecture and watched videos of rats having sex. It gets better. An hour later we watched slow-motion rat sex. Apparently the full-speed version skipped over the entertaining highlights such as the difference between an "intromission encounter" and an "ejaculatory encounter." Our professor, who has done many experiments involving rat sex, went into gross detail about how if you stroke a female rat's back just right, she'll arch her back for you and give you access to her... uh... "girly-goodies".... as if you were a male rat. "Imagine that!" he exclaimed in his excitement.
I sat there in the front row with my neat notes about neurotransmitters and thought, "Is this some weird fetish of his? Is this an area we need to devote some time to...?" For example, some professors (and most professors in the finance department) find it difficult to mask their political views from the classroom. Some teachers will even go on at length about how stupid certain politicians are in forming their economic policy. The class is polite and nods along, indulging the professor for a few minutes on whatever rant they've started.
I guess Professor Rozin's view on the world is... rat sex. I have to admit, it was the strangest hour and a half lecture I've ever had. It had nothing to do with the reading or our current topic, it was just "Hi, welcome to the second day of class. Today, we'll be watching rat porn." It got even more awkward as he started comparing the mating habits of rats to those of humans. I understand that we're supposed to be getting a well-rounded education, but this is a little too well-rounded for me.
Now, when people ask me "How's school? How are your classes?" I smile to myself and respond, "I'm learning something new every day."
---
Friday, September 5, 2008
I promise I'm smart... most of the time.
It's 2am and even though I'm unbelievably tired I don't want to go to bed.
My sister has a theory: people who are ridiculously smart in a particular area have to be equally as stupid in another. It's the only way to return to balance. I'm not trying to be a cocky asshole, but standardized tests and college grades have indicated that I am good with economics, finance, history, english, etc. Having a number of academic strengths means that according to my sister, my "stupid" area should also be quite large. Unfortunately, it is. I am extremely gullible. I will believe almost anything. Oh, and I am horrible with directions. Right? Left? North? Don't bother.
Back to gullibility for a minute. I have come to the conclusion over the years that my dad enjoys tormenting me. Not physical violence, of course, but he amuses himself by taking advantage of my extreme stupidity (gullibility). He knows I'll believe almost any story he tells me. For the first ten years of my life I was convinced that my dad played harmonica with Elvis. He told me long stories about Graceland, life on tour, and their songs. Later, when I came home with a shiny new hockey trophy, he explained that they didn't have that sort of technology when he was younger. In fact, they didn't even have metal back then. I must be a very lucky kid to have a shiny trophy - when he was younger they had to carve trophies out of stone. You see, it was a lot of work to make stone trophies. Eventually they switched to metal. Now kids like me, lucky kids like me, could put a trophy on their shelf. I believed him. I actually believed that they had stone trophies.
The saddest part? I was fifteen. I am so ashamed.
My brainpower does not protect me from falling for fantastic stories. By now I should know better than to read scary books before bedtime. In Munich, I read a spy novel about the KGB and couldn't sleep for three nights. I thought a Russian thug was going to break down my door and haul me away to some basement in Moscow to be interrogated about international weapons trade. Tonight, I thought I would take a break from my extremely dull Accounting homework (reading about cost objects...fascinating) and start a new novel. It's called "The Historian."
That was a mistake. It's a book about vampires. Apparently, Dracula still lives somewhere in Turkey and anybody who digs too deep into the history of this time period gets a bite on the neck and joins the un-dead.
I realize this tendency to believe everything is not a good thing. I used to think it wasn't so bad: I only believe stories from people I trust, and only about topics that I know nothing about. If some stranger told me about stone trophies or playing with Elvis I would have laughed at them. I want to think that the people I love wouldn't deceive me for their own amusement. False. I was once confused about how the weatherman got moving world maps on TV every night. My sister, who was eight years old and thought she knew everything, explained that the weatherman stands on the top of the world, obviously. She's 23 and still thinks she knows everything, so I guess that wasn't just a phase. Anyway, I believed that story for a few years and thought being a weatherman must be the coolest job EVER.
I believed these explanations from my family. But why books? I don't believe that Harry Potter and the wizarding world are real. I only believe the scary stuff, apparently. I guess "believe" is the wrong word to use. I don't actually think that vampires exist, or that KGB spies are going to drag me off in the middle of the night. For some reason scary fiction just inspires this irrational fear that is hard to get rid of.
In Munich, I put my KGB book in the freezer before I went to sleep. I have no freezer in my dorm room... I guess my vampire book is sleeping in the hallway tonight.
Sweet dreams.
---
My sister has a theory: people who are ridiculously smart in a particular area have to be equally as stupid in another. It's the only way to return to balance. I'm not trying to be a cocky asshole, but standardized tests and college grades have indicated that I am good with economics, finance, history, english, etc. Having a number of academic strengths means that according to my sister, my "stupid" area should also be quite large. Unfortunately, it is. I am extremely gullible. I will believe almost anything. Oh, and I am horrible with directions. Right? Left? North? Don't bother.
Back to gullibility for a minute. I have come to the conclusion over the years that my dad enjoys tormenting me. Not physical violence, of course, but he amuses himself by taking advantage of my extreme stupidity (gullibility). He knows I'll believe almost any story he tells me. For the first ten years of my life I was convinced that my dad played harmonica with Elvis. He told me long stories about Graceland, life on tour, and their songs. Later, when I came home with a shiny new hockey trophy, he explained that they didn't have that sort of technology when he was younger. In fact, they didn't even have metal back then. I must be a very lucky kid to have a shiny trophy - when he was younger they had to carve trophies out of stone. You see, it was a lot of work to make stone trophies. Eventually they switched to metal. Now kids like me, lucky kids like me, could put a trophy on their shelf. I believed him. I actually believed that they had stone trophies.
The saddest part? I was fifteen. I am so ashamed.
My brainpower does not protect me from falling for fantastic stories. By now I should know better than to read scary books before bedtime. In Munich, I read a spy novel about the KGB and couldn't sleep for three nights. I thought a Russian thug was going to break down my door and haul me away to some basement in Moscow to be interrogated about international weapons trade. Tonight, I thought I would take a break from my extremely dull Accounting homework (reading about cost objects...fascinating) and start a new novel. It's called "The Historian."
That was a mistake. It's a book about vampires. Apparently, Dracula still lives somewhere in Turkey and anybody who digs too deep into the history of this time period gets a bite on the neck and joins the un-dead.
I realize this tendency to believe everything is not a good thing. I used to think it wasn't so bad: I only believe stories from people I trust, and only about topics that I know nothing about. If some stranger told me about stone trophies or playing with Elvis I would have laughed at them. I want to think that the people I love wouldn't deceive me for their own amusement. False. I was once confused about how the weatherman got moving world maps on TV every night. My sister, who was eight years old and thought she knew everything, explained that the weatherman stands on the top of the world, obviously. She's 23 and still thinks she knows everything, so I guess that wasn't just a phase. Anyway, I believed that story for a few years and thought being a weatherman must be the coolest job EVER.
I believed these explanations from my family. But why books? I don't believe that Harry Potter and the wizarding world are real. I only believe the scary stuff, apparently. I guess "believe" is the wrong word to use. I don't actually think that vampires exist, or that KGB spies are going to drag me off in the middle of the night. For some reason scary fiction just inspires this irrational fear that is hard to get rid of.
In Munich, I put my KGB book in the freezer before I went to sleep. I have no freezer in my dorm room... I guess my vampire book is sleeping in the hallway tonight.
Sweet dreams.
---
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Old dogs can't learn new tricks.
Ah, the first day of school. New textbooks, fresh notebooks, and sharpened pencils. I love the first day of school.
Well... I loved the first day of school until I got yelled at in my Marketing class today. Twice. Let me paint you a little picture. My professor is 62 years old, but he looks like he's 100. He has been teaching his course since 1960 and I don't think his marketing principles have changed since then. He tried to get on board with this new thing, "internet marketing," but his company failed. His has been working on his book, "Persuasive Advertising" for 15 years and it hasn't taken into account any of the market or demographic changes that have occurred in that time period. My Marketing class - Principles of Advertising - was one of the ones I was really looking forward to. I understand marketing. I am good at marketing. I thought I would have no problems with it... and I didn't. Well, I didn't have any problems until I suggested to my professor that his core beliefs on advertising were deeply misguided.
My suggestion - his principles of advertising are wrong - came after he asked us to analyze an old ad for Bose speakers. It was an entire page of text, a wall of words that forced your brain into a mind-numbing stupor. Three columns wide, it touted the reputation of Bose's speakers and there was a little picture of a radio in the middle of it. Everyone in the class thought it was horrible. Our assignment was to rate how effective it was, and our class didn't think too highly of it. On average, we scored it a 2 on a scale of 1 - 5 (1 being the worst.) He then proceeded to explain to us that it fulfilled nearly every one of his 250 principles of advertising, all of which we will be covering this semester, and it was one of the best ads ever created. Our jaws dropped. We kept waiting for him to say "just kidding!" but that moment never came. There was just a stony silence.
One daring classmate said he thought there was too much information on it. Our professor answered that having a lot of text in an ad was one of his unbreakable principles of advertising. The consumer can never have too much information. Words are good. Images are bad. The more you write, the better the ad. I agree that having information in an advertisement is good, but I disagree that having a ton of text is the best thing you can put in an ad. If nobody stops to read the text then it won't matter what you write there. Unfortunately, I only got the chance to voice half of what I had to say:
Idiot Professor: "Having a long copy, or a bunch of text, is one of our principles this semester. It's unbreakable. It is the most important thing you can include in an advertisement."
Me: "I disagree, because..."
Idiot Professor: (rudely interrupts as I'm about to explain) "You disagree? Well Ms. Schneider, if you have studies to support your opinions, then I would love to see them. This is not a class based on opinions. This is a class based on studies. Don't even listen to my opinions. Your analysis should be solely based on whether or not advertisements comply with our 250 principles."
I wanted to point out to him that in a study setting the participants would be forced to actually read the ad. My opinion was not that the text wasn't persuasive, but that nobody would take the time to read it if they were flipping through a magazine. I also wanted to tell him that while he said we shouldn't listen to his opinion, he wrote the 250 principles. If we can only base our analysis of advertisements on these principles, and he wrote them, then we basically just have to do what he wants. Whatever happened to lively classroom discussion? What happened to friendly debates? Most professors welcome the opinions of their students. Apparently this is not part of the teaching philosophy of Professor J. Scott Armstrong. We don't even know his first name. He's just a letter. "J." I want to give him the benefit of the doubt - he's old, the field has changed, he is behind the times... but this is Wharton. He should be ahead of the times, not behind them.
My dad wants me to stick with the class, even though "J" took the time to yell at me a second time during class (this time he told me my idea for his book cover was "juvenile." You should have seen his idea for his book cover. It perfectly followed his 250 principles... and looked like shit.) Dad thinks this is a good learning opportunity for the real world - some of my future managers may have their heads shoved up their asses too. I should keep the class, hold my temper, and do what "J" wants.
I dropped the class.
---
Well... I loved the first day of school until I got yelled at in my Marketing class today. Twice. Let me paint you a little picture. My professor is 62 years old, but he looks like he's 100. He has been teaching his course since 1960 and I don't think his marketing principles have changed since then. He tried to get on board with this new thing, "internet marketing," but his company failed. His has been working on his book, "Persuasive Advertising" for 15 years and it hasn't taken into account any of the market or demographic changes that have occurred in that time period. My Marketing class - Principles of Advertising - was one of the ones I was really looking forward to. I understand marketing. I am good at marketing. I thought I would have no problems with it... and I didn't. Well, I didn't have any problems until I suggested to my professor that his core beliefs on advertising were deeply misguided.
My suggestion - his principles of advertising are wrong - came after he asked us to analyze an old ad for Bose speakers. It was an entire page of text, a wall of words that forced your brain into a mind-numbing stupor. Three columns wide, it touted the reputation of Bose's speakers and there was a little picture of a radio in the middle of it. Everyone in the class thought it was horrible. Our assignment was to rate how effective it was, and our class didn't think too highly of it. On average, we scored it a 2 on a scale of 1 - 5 (1 being the worst.) He then proceeded to explain to us that it fulfilled nearly every one of his 250 principles of advertising, all of which we will be covering this semester, and it was one of the best ads ever created. Our jaws dropped. We kept waiting for him to say "just kidding!" but that moment never came. There was just a stony silence.
One daring classmate said he thought there was too much information on it. Our professor answered that having a lot of text in an ad was one of his unbreakable principles of advertising. The consumer can never have too much information. Words are good. Images are bad. The more you write, the better the ad. I agree that having information in an advertisement is good, but I disagree that having a ton of text is the best thing you can put in an ad. If nobody stops to read the text then it won't matter what you write there. Unfortunately, I only got the chance to voice half of what I had to say:
Idiot Professor: "Having a long copy, or a bunch of text, is one of our principles this semester. It's unbreakable. It is the most important thing you can include in an advertisement."
Me: "I disagree, because..."
Idiot Professor: (rudely interrupts as I'm about to explain) "You disagree? Well Ms. Schneider, if you have studies to support your opinions, then I would love to see them. This is not a class based on opinions. This is a class based on studies. Don't even listen to my opinions. Your analysis should be solely based on whether or not advertisements comply with our 250 principles."
I wanted to point out to him that in a study setting the participants would be forced to actually read the ad. My opinion was not that the text wasn't persuasive, but that nobody would take the time to read it if they were flipping through a magazine. I also wanted to tell him that while he said we shouldn't listen to his opinion, he wrote the 250 principles. If we can only base our analysis of advertisements on these principles, and he wrote them, then we basically just have to do what he wants. Whatever happened to lively classroom discussion? What happened to friendly debates? Most professors welcome the opinions of their students. Apparently this is not part of the teaching philosophy of Professor J. Scott Armstrong. We don't even know his first name. He's just a letter. "J." I want to give him the benefit of the doubt - he's old, the field has changed, he is behind the times... but this is Wharton. He should be ahead of the times, not behind them.
My dad wants me to stick with the class, even though "J" took the time to yell at me a second time during class (this time he told me my idea for his book cover was "juvenile." You should have seen his idea for his book cover. It perfectly followed his 250 principles... and looked like shit.) Dad thinks this is a good learning opportunity for the real world - some of my future managers may have their heads shoved up their asses too. I should keep the class, hold my temper, and do what "J" wants.
I dropped the class.
---
Monday, September 1, 2008
The city that kills you back.
Welcome to "The City of Brotherly Love." I left the airport in Philadelphia and took a cab to campus, amusing myself by reading the billboards that claim Philly is "The city that loves you back."
In reality, Philadelphia is more likely to kill you back than love you back. Philly is a city ruled by contradictions. This is the place where the first Continental Congress took place and where the rules and laws of a new nation were debated and decided. Since 1776, law and order has been replaced with crime. This city is far from the city of brotherly love - Philly is divided by racial tensions, class tensions, and whose streets are ruled either by drug dealers or mafia members. The murder rate climbs higher every year, second only to New Orleans (a city ruled by anarchy and crime lords.) Kill-adlephia is, statistically speaking, a more dangerous place to live than New York City, Las Angeles, or Chicago.
As I've written before, every city has two sides - the tourist side and the living side. I'm sure tourists to Philadelphia are pleased with the Old City's charm, the historical attractions, the great restaurants, etc. But if they walked ten blocks away from the tourist center they would realize what this city is really like. Poor city planning put an Ivy League University in the middle of a really bad neighborhood, and the racial tensions between the locals and the university students is an explosive combination.
Welcome home - or at least home for the next nine months. Why stay here? Wharton. The education and it's payoffs are worth encountering cracked-out homeless people daily and the occasional drug dealer. Only 20 more months at this school and then I'm out of here. My mom is thoroughly irritated with my attitude towards coming back to school; she insists I need to look on the sunny side of life. I wrote about this often when I was in Munich - even when things are going poorly, you can always choose to be happy. Optimism. Das Leben ist gut. I have since deleted those posts, because they were ridiculous sounding and trite. I love school - I'm a nerd, I know - but not this school in this city.
Das Leben ist noch gut, aber schlechter. However, I realize that pessimists aren't exactly fun to hang out with, so I'll try to look more on the sunny side of life... I just hope I don't get a sunburn.
---
In reality, Philadelphia is more likely to kill you back than love you back. Philly is a city ruled by contradictions. This is the place where the first Continental Congress took place and where the rules and laws of a new nation were debated and decided. Since 1776, law and order has been replaced with crime. This city is far from the city of brotherly love - Philly is divided by racial tensions, class tensions, and whose streets are ruled either by drug dealers or mafia members. The murder rate climbs higher every year, second only to New Orleans (a city ruled by anarchy and crime lords.) Kill-adlephia is, statistically speaking, a more dangerous place to live than New York City, Las Angeles, or Chicago.
As I've written before, every city has two sides - the tourist side and the living side. I'm sure tourists to Philadelphia are pleased with the Old City's charm, the historical attractions, the great restaurants, etc. But if they walked ten blocks away from the tourist center they would realize what this city is really like. Poor city planning put an Ivy League University in the middle of a really bad neighborhood, and the racial tensions between the locals and the university students is an explosive combination.
Welcome home - or at least home for the next nine months. Why stay here? Wharton. The education and it's payoffs are worth encountering cracked-out homeless people daily and the occasional drug dealer. Only 20 more months at this school and then I'm out of here. My mom is thoroughly irritated with my attitude towards coming back to school; she insists I need to look on the sunny side of life. I wrote about this often when I was in Munich - even when things are going poorly, you can always choose to be happy. Optimism. Das Leben ist gut. I have since deleted those posts, because they were ridiculous sounding and trite. I love school - I'm a nerd, I know - but not this school in this city.
Das Leben ist noch gut, aber schlechter. However, I realize that pessimists aren't exactly fun to hang out with, so I'll try to look more on the sunny side of life... I just hope I don't get a sunburn.
---
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