One time, I e-mailed the Chapman Crew coach to see if I could come to a practice, and then I rowed religiously for two years of my life. It's kind of a funny story.
I came to college looking for something exciting that I could put my time and effort into, other than my classes. I'd had a freakin weird summer, and I was kinda ready to just throw myself into something completely new and fulfilling. I thought it was going to be Greek life, but I lost interest in my sorority in like .4 seconds, and dropped it. I'm not usually a quitter, but I am when there are that many bonding activities. If there's one thing that will drag me to hell one day, it's bonding activities. When I came to my first crew practice, I was both barely awake and super alert (which is how I spent all subsequent 8:30am classes), trying to figure out who was who, what they were teaching me on the rowing machines, and why every time I thought I was pulling really hard, my numbers kept decreasing. I learned later in the week that the smaller the number, the better you're pulling. 4am is early to learn things, okay? Obviously, one week is too early to figure out if you love a new sport, especially since we hadn't gone out on the water yet. It was just rowing on the ergs, and conditioning with extremely challenging land practices at the campus football field for the first few weeks. In that time, I got to know, and absolutely love my teammates; hard workouts and early mornings are the best way to bond with a new group of girls. Maybe Kappa Alpha Theta should have tried that instead. Now that I had fallen in love with my team, I had a better chance to fall in love with the sport, and I did. I was so fulfilled by the workouts, which challenged me more than any sport I'd ever done in my life. I literally put my blood, sweat, and tears into rowing. A lot of times I hated it, and wished I had a little more sleep in the mornings, or that Saturday regattas didn't make me want to fling myself off the dock. But mostly, I was super into it. It's highly rewarding in so many different ways: you can feel yourself improving in the boat, and you can literally see your growth on the screen of an erg, which times you per 500 meters. After a 2K test, my team and myself could be found on the floor of the boathouse, sometimes crying, or vomiting, but always relieved that those 8 minutes from around 5:15- 5:23am were goddamn over. Two of my teammates, Katie and Lexi, became some of my best friends, and practically took me under their wings for these two years. They just graduated in May, and college will never be the same without them, so I am going to Prague this Fall to forget that they won't be at Chapman when I return. Actually, I'm studying abroad, but that feels like a large and valid reason for it. The three of us together were definitely able to make the mundane parts of crew into a party, which was sometimes not smart of us, but everything always turned out fine! Our combined men's and women's team was so overly dramatic at all times that it was impossible to have a boring night with them-- someone was always stirring the pot. Morning practices were no exception. We all became a messed up yet hilarious family pretty quickly, and I saw way too much of them all, but that's what made the whole thing so much fun. I can't imagine that I would have stuck with a sport that early in the morning if my teammates were anywhere near boring!
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Brown paper packages tied up with strings...
Now that we’ve gotten that joke out of the way, I should mention that it’s actually so true— the joy of your Amazon package showing up on the doorstep is truly fantastic, and should be part of my list of favorite things. Gotta love prime shipping. I know Fräulein Maria would have my back on this. One of my favorite things is watching movies, especially those that are cleverly written, well-cast, and amazingly executed. And even better than that, is knowing a movie well enough to quote it at the perfect moment. And even better than that is when I’m with people who understand and appreciate the quote. My family is the best at recognizing and returning them. A prime example of this was a few years ago at a Giants game; one of the players hit a ball that soared right into McCovey Cove, which prompted Kruk and Kuip to announce that it had “splashed into the pond.” I leaned over to face my parents and brother, and with deep concern on my face (I may have even grabbed my mom’s wrist for emphasis), I drew in a sharp breath and said, “Michael’s in the pond.” To anyone else— a random and unrecognizable line from Jaws— but to them, an impeccably timed application. Moments like that happen, I kid you not, every single day at my house, if not multiple times a day. The references span old, new, bad, and brilliant works, whether it’s a movie, TV show, YouTube video, or even a previous dinner conversation we had as a family. Those are often so funny and unforgettable that we just start to quote ourselves. Another one of my favorite things is learning. I KNOW IT’S SO CHEESY BUT IT’S TRUE. Watching movies and TV, and learning new things, are two of my favorite parts of life. Both give me information that I can take in, and then use later in other situations (hence my love for quotes). Learning about history or literature allows me to understand the allusions in film and TV that make the jokes funny. Learning about politics and current events helps me participate in the conversations going on around me, and supply valid and educated opinions. Doing my own research on subjects I find interesting can keep me occupied for hours at a time, because once I delve in, I like to become an expert. I like to ask questions to understand things, and I love being able to consequently answer those questions for others. It never stops. There’s a general life principle: Once you're aware of something, you'll see it everywhere. It's almost a phenomenon, in my opinion. You learn a new word, and all of a sudden hear it in conversation the next day. You read about a historical event in the morning, and then catch a reference towards it on the news that same week. It makes you wonder how many times you've heard those things casually thrown around, but didn't really hear them because you didn't understand them. It's kind of a crazy, cosmic coincidence how often this occurs, and it never fails to amaze me. Learning, understanding, and applying, makes me so happy. Lastly, at least for this post, I love to write. It’s my favorite creative outlet, and I love being able to produce something concrete out of my random thoughts and daydreams. I like to write about what I’ve learned, whether from books, or just from life. I love to tell stories, and make people laugh, or think, or say to themselves, I see what she did there. Combining words and theories and allusions into something that will entertain someone else is exhilarating to me. So, you probably see where this is going. Film and TV, learning new things, and writing— all my favorite things, for as long as I can remember. And, all three of which combine perfectly into my job— writing clever copy to advertise film. I know I’ve talked a little bit about how much I love my internship, but hopefully this explains it best. It is a job that consists entirely of my favorite things about life. I get to watch new movies, write copy for a mass audience, and build each sentence and joke I write out of the expansive collection of knowledge, references, and events that surround my every day existence. Soaking in as much of it as I can is what fuels the work I produce every day, and what makes it so much fun. I am finding so much happiness, affirmation, and success in this line of work, and I know it’s because I’m doing what I love. I’m sitting at Starbucks on a sunny LA day, drinking an iced coffee and writing this, and I find myself wishing I had gone into the office today on my day off. I think I will next time. :) A hornet just flew past my head. I've never seen one in person, but it whizzed by my ear and I instantly knew that by God, that was a hornet. The entrance hall is now a red zone that is no longer safe. I'm ready to get out of this house.
I'm not quite sure where all the bugs are coming from. And just to clarify, I don't mean to imply in any way that this house always keeps the doors closed, or that no one ever leaves food out, or that there naturally aren't insects outside that want in, so why would we have bugs? I'm aware of how bugs work. What I mean is, I didn't know this many bugs existed, and why they have collectively agreed upon Sigma Chi for their congregation headquarters. The house was relatively creature-free for the first half of the summer, with a few minor exceptions, but nothing that is uncommon for any normal house. But about three weeks ago, one little fucker slid through and decided to alert the entire rest of the phylum, it seems. I've always been kinda scared of bugs in an indoor setting. Not really ants or flies, which just annoy and gross me out, but pretty much everything else will make me jump or scream, depending on the size. I am pleased and nauseated to report that after 7 weeks here, I am a stronger woman. This house is hardening me. I've killed more bugs here than I have in my entire life, which is saying a lot, because I'm surrounded by men who can do it for me, and I've still had to react to enough critters in a timely fashion to sum a greater number than all times previous to Sig Chi. Myself and all other girls in this house now greet each other in the hallways not with salutations such as "hey" or "good morning," but with strong words of encouragement or mutuality, such as "we'll get through this" or "I can't wait to move out!" It's comforting. They say misery loves company, but in our case, I would say that the company loves to commiserate. We all live our own fine and dandy lives each day, feeling swell, but when we band together, the ranting begins. I'm not usually one for spreading negativity, but when a hornet flies past your head, your standard of living leaves something to be desired. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ My parents are pretty clever. I’ve always known this; their actions just serve as a reminder, like, every single day.
They know I am obsessed with Hamilton (the man, his life, the play, the music), and they also know that my obsession led to extensive research on the American Revolution, and I consequently became fascinated with good old Ben Franklin as well. He was a philosopher, an inventor, a founding father, a diplomat, and most impressively, a fashion icon in France. I proclaimed that if I had lived in 18th century Philadelphia, I would have loved to be his friend. I could talk about either of these men for days. The weekend before I moved out of my house in Orange, I was home briefly to see Steven graduate at Cal. I then had to fly back to finish finals, and move half my stuff to USC, and the rest of it home when I would drive back to Sacramento a week later. Before I returned to Orange for this last feat of the school year, my dad gave me some money for gas and the expenses of moving. He slid me a $100 bill, and attached was a sticky note on top of Ben’s head, with the sentence, “Hi Olivia—I’d love to be your friend!” written on it. Of course, $100 is always a nice gift regardless, but the clever little note he wrote is what made me smile and laugh. And, realize that I could have easily wished to be friends with George Washington—good choice on my part! Last week, my mom sent me an envelope in the mail. Inside, there was a note that read: Three portraits: Kill, marry, or screw. Choose wisely. Along with the note, there were three bills: a $20, a $10, and a $5. I laughed out loud at her clever little game, and then got down to business. Two presidents and a founding father were in contention for me to dub accordingly. And choose wisely I did. Marry Hamilton, obviously—I mean, the guy was a hero and a scholar (points to anyone who just finished that lyric in their head). Founding father, first secretary of the treasury, zealous writer, kick-ass lawyer, female magnet— Definition: Jack of all trades with whom no one could compete. Also, I already have an intellectual and physical crush on the dude, powdered wig and all, and for that I have to give him mad props. Screw Lincoln, which feels really wrong to say about Honest Abe, but the game is the game, and I gotta play it. Finally, kill Jackson, because what the heck did he do for this country that earned him a spot on the twenty? Wish I knew. Sorry Andrew, but you’re scrapped. And then I called my mom to give her my final tallies and respective justifications. She was in full agreement. So the moral here, besides that my parents are generous and hilarious, is that of course it’s always nice to receive money and all, but it’s way better when the men on the bills become your equals and you get to decide who you befriend, marry, screw, and kill. When I was a little kid, as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be famous. I wanted to sing, and act, and be a movie star. For a brief period of time when I was ten, I wanted to be in adult movies, which in my mind meant that I wanted my acting career to take off when I was already an established age, like Anne Hathaway, rather than some Disney star who starts young. It wasn’t until I shared this dream with an older neighbor at a block party that I was told to rephrase my dreams, sweetheart, or I’ll end up in porn. My best friend Lauren and I were always on the same page. We had very similar dreams, which we would share with each other during sleepovers which consisted of a lot of embarrassing, make-believe scenarios. But, what else do you do with someone you’ve known since you were born? Many a time, we would put on ridiculous outfits from the dress up bins (and when we were tweens, we would use our real clothes, but somehow fashion outfits that we wouldn’t be allowed out of the house in) and prance around. I recall quite clearly that my boyfriend was Zac Efron for a while (I still approve of this choice), until our tumultuous breakup by cell phone, when I would confess my infidelity with Joe Jonas (even in my own kid-fantasies, I took the heat) and was resultantly forced to shield myself from the paparazzi. Lauren was always courted by much classier men from the Broadway stage, like Santino Fontana, or other guys I’d totally pretend to have heard of. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in Broadway— Lauren and I have shared a passion for musical theater since our separate wombs, and that has not left me to this day. However, I never did imagine it to be my claim to fame. In other words, I wanted the glamorous, paparazzi filled, can’t-go-to-Whole-Foods-without-being-mauled kind of life at the time, and Lauren was always much more logical and reserved even in our younger days. She astounds me. Lauren and I went on to act together in Sacramento Theater Company in high school, even though we attended different schools. It became our main way of keeping in touch. Sophomore and junior year, we carpooled either every Monday night for acting class, or every single day if we were in a show together, and became closer than we had ever been, since we were old enough to discuss real ambitions and talk about things that mattered. Sophomore year, I was still full speed ahead with my dreams to major in theater in college, and start a scrappy, bohemian lifestyle in Los Angeles (since it’s so cheap, obviously). I got cast as the female lead in the first show I did there, and I was feeling pretty confident about my talents, even among a sea of people who I knew in my heart were levels above me. In reality, they were all getting cast in the main stage shows that ran for a month and were advertised in the newspapers, whereas I was the lead in the Young Professionals Conservatory show which had a four day run, two of which were performed by the other cast. It was not until my junior year that I realized how in-over-my-head I was in the talent department, and started exploring other options for my future. However, my blinded sophomore year experience was phenomenal. I costarred in Pippin as Catherine, and met one of my best friends to this day, Justin Baker, who starred as the title character. If you don’t know much about it (I feel like only a very niche audience does), Pippin is a Commedia dell’arte style show about a man who is guided through phases of his life by characters and scenarios, in a Truman Show sort of fashion, in his search for happiness and fulfillment. After being a war hero, ruling the people, pulling several one-night-stands, and deducing that his life is not really all that, he is introduced to his love interest— enter, me. Their love and affection is very theatrical and over-done, and during one of the love songs, we are sitting criss-cross-applesauce (I’m 5, okay?) and facing each other, holding hands, singing about things we love that aren’t actually each other. You can imagine that Justin and I had the time of our lives rehearsing it all. If you’re a Broadway junkie, picture Lea Michele and Jonathan Groff in Spring Awakening. Now, take away all the professionalism, and you’ve got me and Justin. At the end of the song came our on-stage kiss, which we only actually rehearsed once; the other times, when we were sent off to the dressing room to practice our big scene, we would run through everything except that final moment, when we would instead lean all the way in, look into each other’s eyes, and then start over. (It’s super weird to rehearse a kiss if there’s no director there. Also, we were usually laughing too hard at each other already from the actual scene, and we decided it would be fun to take a chance and hope it went well when the time finally came).
So, we saved the big one for the first production. I should mention that Justin, lovable bastard that he is, never learned this song. Oh, he could fake it all right, but he did not know the words and he will openly admit that. So, the whole time, we were on such the brink of laughter that it became hard to sing theatrically while staring into each other’s eyes and reveling in the wonders of love. Finally, it was over and we did the kiss, which turned out to be extremely awkwardly placed; the audience had already started clapping for our outro of the ballad-- then they stopped momentarily when they realized what was happening-- and then resumed after only about two seconds, since that’s approximately how long the big kiss was. I recall that this only tickled us further, and we were forced to cheat away from the audience to let out our laughter before the applause ceased. After all, we were nothing if not young professionals. Welcome to the tales of a self-described germaphobe living in a unanimously-described mansion of filth. Let’s embark on this journey together. I’ll start with a quick About the Author. I am not a fan of germs. I have germaphobic habits, but I couldn’t be clinically germaphobic because I share drinks with people, and eat their food, and exchange chapsticks, because life would be nothing if not inconvenient if I didn’t do those things. But if the words “I feel nauseous” escape someone’s lips, I will absolutely leave them in their time of need. Out the door. I’ll let it hit them on my way out, I don’t care. If this serves as any self-redemption since you probably think I totally suck now, I will say that if you really, really required my presence, I would be there for you, mask in hand. If you have a cold or the regular flu, I’ll buy you medicine and crackers, but I’ll toss them to you from beyond the threshold of the room. However, if it’s the stomach flu, I won’t step into your area code unless you’re one of my three immediate family members. But if you’re sick from alcohol or a really hard workout, I can deal because I won’t catch it. I have to like… really love you though. The list of qualifications is quite extensive. Despite all of this, here I am, living in the Sigma Chi fraternity house at USC. Prior to my move-in date, I had been informed— nay, warned, of the lack of cleanliness exhibited here. By adults, USC students, and one-time visitors of the house alike. I did not take this information with a grain of salt; I registered it, accepted it, and embraced it. You know how there are five stages of grief? Those were my three stages of preparation for the five stages. What am I doing living in a frat house? Valid question. Long story kind of short: I thought I was going to live and intern somewhere at home this summer, and I was really looking forward to that. And if not live at home, then at my grandparents’ house in East Bay, if I found work there instead. During the spring semester, I searched for internships in Sacramento and the Bay Area, until I finally asked my Chapman advisor if he had any places in mind for me to apply. When he asked what kind of work I was looking for, he lit up— he is full of awesome connections for my field. But when he asked me where I’d been sending my resume, he lit down, and was forced to remind me that those are the wrong cities to look, and that the metropolis right in front of me was bleeding opportunities for where I was headed. So after that conversation, I refocused my search and found a job down south. I needed to find a place to live for the summer kind of quickly, and my cousin’s frat house turned out to be hundreds of dollars cheaper than even the cheapest apartment sublets. Damn you, LA. So now that I’ve moved in, I can compare my visualizations to the real deal. *Sigh.* You win some, you lose some. Brief interruption: I just want to say that despite any negative things I say, they will all be said with a blithe, loving attitude. I’m super grateful to have found a place to live, smack in the middle of the LA skyline that has mesmerized me since before I can remember. The people I've met in the house are incredibly nice, and I have had a ton of great experiences since moving in. The first day was just suuuuper interesting. Upon arrival, two of my roommates from Chapman who came to help move me in, and I, emerged from my van and took in the sights of the backyard. To paint a word picture: Garbage! Everywhere! Not sure how old. No problem. It’s not smelly, it’s just broken glass, outdated TVs, old kegs and cardboard. Nothing a tetanus shot and closed-toed shoes couldn’t combat. We progress past the volleyball sand court, hop over the garbage pit onto the sidewall that leads to the backdoor, and punch in the code for the front door. My room is not far down the hall, and when I punch in another separate code to enter, we are greeted by an untouched 30 rack of Coors Light and a pair of nunchucks hanging on my wall. Score! My mental pro-con tally board is back at equilibrium after being weighed down by the garbage pit. Zack and some buddies help me move my furniture in, I clean a few pounds of dust from my bedroom floor, and voila— I get to live the frat life. I make some friends, and some discoveries. For instance, a keg was found in one of the women’s showers. When alerted and asked if he knew it was there, one tenant responded “Yeah. It’s shower keg.” Message received: Don’t find yourself in a situation where alcohol is not readily available. And if you do, don’t fret. Stick a keg there and know better for next time. I’ve met some awesome people! I’ve stuck with two of my hall mates, Paige and Madisen, for the past five weeks now, and we have gotten through the highs and lows of frat living together, which has been quite the saving grace. I have learned, or at least the knowledge has been reinforced for me, that three 20 year old women, when put together, especially in an unfamiliar environment, become multi-purpose friends to each other: the moms, the instigators, the confidants, the fashion critics, and the adventure pals. Sometimes we come home from our work days and share stories over a few glasses of wine. Sometimes we do laundry together or embark on an all-day errand run. Other times, one will provide a glass of bourbon while the other prepares a sterilized needle to pierce the third’s cartilage in the bathroom. Or sometimes, a relaxing girls day at the pool. It’s just hard to predict, you know? This one time, at band camp--
Pause. You just thought of American Pie, right? Of course you did. Who wouldn’t? Me. Let me just interrupt really quick to say that I’ve been wanting to start a blog for a really long time. A really long time. I’ve started countless posts, but I’m always deterred from putting them on the internet. I’m working on writing for a mixed audience instead of just for myself, and it is a whole new ballgame. One of the things that is tricky about writing for other people is that I never know who will actually end up reading it, or what kinds of things they will be interested in hearing about. Or, vehemently uninterested in ever knowing about. So I'm doing a little mixture of both here I suppose, and hopefully I'll get better at this. Okay, back to my intro. Hearing or reading those words would take me right back to the craziest night of my life. It makes me think of the people who were part of it, and all of the things I was feeling, and the events that had already transpired that led right up to the grandest of all shit-shows. That quote is just one of the puzzle pieces that built the story; it makes me laugh to myself at the memory, and sometimes cringe at it. But to everyone else: American Pie. The point I wanted to make here is this: We are all living, and doing, and experiencing, and laughing, and making mistakes, every single day, and we’re all doing it so differently than everyone else; we constantly are making everything our own. Many of the things we all do are memorable to ourselves, but most of what we do is not. Most of what we all do is the daily, I-knew-and-expected-that-to-happen-to-me-today stuff. But when life takes a sharp turn and jabs you, or lifts you up, or catches you off guard— you tend to remember those things, and they become the great stories that you’ll tell. And all those stories consist of certain random, but almost always tiny, seemingly insignificant components, that surround the memorable things that happened-- whatever they may be for each person. And then all of a sudden, those seemingly insignificant components become the things that remind you of each story forevermore. It is crazy to think that all of those details that make my life original are completely ordinary to the next person, and vice versa. It makes you wonder what people are thinking about when they laugh or smile out of nowhere and say “sorry, just thought of something funny that happened.” Am I standing next to the coffee maker that reminded them of their funniest office mishap? I could go on and on. There is just so much significance in the little things in life. The sum of a story’s parts are greater than the whole of the experience, because the parts are always popping up to remind you and take your mind right back to those moments. Most of the time, you’ll never know when someone else internally relates a song, or artifact, or outfit to their own life, but the accumulation of your own little relics are one of the most curious aspects of each new day. They’re kind of fun to think about, or notice on the fly. For instance, I can’t hear Drunk In Love anymore without being mentally transported to junior prom. Taco Bell freezes will always remind me of my best friend. I’ve got a 25 cent tin ring sitting in my jewelry box that I will never throw away. No one else knows these things unless I divulge the significance behind them, and launch into the string of events that one little detail ended up being such a big part of. And I love telling stories, so I usually will. Except the band camp one. Wouldn’t tell it if you paid me. |
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