From http://www.newsweek.com/id/32225/page/4
Hottest Women's College
Smith College, Northampton, Mass.
With 2,800 students, Smith is the nation's largest women's college, and the first to start an engineering program. It is part of the Five Colleges consortium with nearby Mount Holyoke, Amherst, Hampshire and UMass Amherst. The facilities, particularly the cottage-style houses where students live in groups of 13 to 80, are so attractive that visitors originally preferring a coed college often change their minds. "Smith kind of won me over," says Katie Green, who thought she would go to a school with men. "When else in your life can you get the experience of being surrounded by smart, motivated young women who really care about what they're doing?"
AND
Apparently there are private men's liberal arts colleges. Still today. Which (kind of) nullifies Mr. Doesn't-a-women's-college-count-as-discrimination's arugment. Or at least adds to it a new dimension:
Hottest Men's College
Morehouse College, Atlanta, Ga.
Morehouse has long been known as an educator of black leaders like Martin Luther King Jr., Samuel L. Jackson and Spike Lee. But it may be equally important as an exemplar of single-sex education. With 3,000 students, it is the nation's largest private men's liberal-arts college. Recent grad Marcus Edwards calls the school "the No. 1 institution for black men." Goldman Sachs has just donated $2 million to endow a new leadership professor, and the Ray Charles Performing Arts Center is now going up.
[guess who suddenly has developed an interest in going to Georgia?]
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Finally some "me" time
I had a dream that was completely in French Thursday night. It freaked me out.
I was at a lunch with a group of people, I don't exactly remember why but I think it was to celebrate the wedding/engagement of one of them. And there was conversation.
It was weird because it captured all of the awkwardness/pronunciation problems I have when I was talking in the dream, but when the others were talking, it was just normal.
I think this is my first real "French" dream. Weird... but cool.
~~
In other news, today I finally had a nice and relaxing day that was fun at the same time. After endless weekends of travels (Hamburg, Brussels, Normandy), this was much needed time. And no, I totally didn't do any work at all today, and I'm not about to start now. I'll worry about that tomorrow.
Waited in line to see the Marie Antoinette exposition at the Grand Palais with a fellow intern from work. The line was épouvantable (more than one hour's wait), and the ticket price assez cher (8 euros, and with our exchange rate at an all-time low, I don't even want to know how much that is in dollars), but honestly well worth it. I loved it -- the design of the exposition was impeccable, dividing Marie Antoinette's life into "3 actes" -- childish princess of Austria, admired dauphine of France, and finally detested queen. In one of the areas, the walls were covered in design paper that imitated the gardens of her estate at Versailles (the Trianon). That area led to a beautiful painting of the Temple of Love, another part of the Trianon. Whoever designed that exposition is a genius.
I didn't much care for Sophia Coppola's movie, but after seeing this exposition I kind of want to watch it again, if only for the beautiful costumes. (I still maintain, though, that Kirstin Dunst totally does not fit the role, even if she is ditzy enough)
The afternoon went by in a breeze. The fellow intern bought an electronic cigarette -- I didn't even think that was possible!! She showed it to me, and it looks like a very elegant pen. Apparently, there are cartridges that you load into the thing, which have the nicotine/tobacco in them. Except according to her, there are cartridges that don't have nicotine or tobacco. I was just confused... oh, well. Figures that the French would find a way around that pesky new law that says you can't smoke inside public spaces.
(It could almost donner moi l'envie de l'essayer une fois)
All of a sudden it was 8PM. She went home, very tired, and I was left to reflect on what fun things I could do on a Saturday night. Why, go to the Comédie Française, of course! They sell tickets at low, low prices (I had heard 5 euros) for students starting 1 hour before the start of each play. And that night Vie du grand dom Quichotte et du gros Sancho Pança was playing at 8:30 (I had marked it on my calendar -- tonight was opening night).
I'm a nerd, complètement nulle, totally agreed. So yeah, I went. But there were only 4 places left, and a line of definitely more than 4 people before me. The bells were ringing for curtain call, it was 8:20. I made some nice conversation with the German couple in front of me about the dismal state of our respective economies (you know, the whole "yeah, the U.S. economy is dying" "well, the European one isn't doing too well either" "how can you have one currency, one monetary policy for 13 countries?" "how can you have one for 50 states?"). Anyways, sadly for them and luckily for me, a woman walked up to me and told me she had one ticket that she would sell to me for 15euros instead of the full-price 20. No, it wasn't sketchy - she was with her beau frère and his wife, all nice, middle-aged, French family types. When I asked her why she didn't want it anymore, she said it was because they sent her 4 as a part of her abonnement.
So I bargained a little (10 euros instead of 15) and a few minutes later, there I was, in the theatre! Which is beautiful! And our seats (I say "our" because they were right next to me) weren't bad, either. 2ème balcon -- so up one level, but still full view of the stage.
Not to mention the play. Unlike the plays I've seen so far as part of that maudite (damned) theatre class, I would happily write a report on this play. I could watch it every week from now until the end of its run (in July) without losing interest. Maybe because I've read Don Quijote in the U.S. (as part of the best English class EVER, Western Classics in Translation) -- the play is a retelling of the events of volume II, which occurs after the events of volume I have been published and are already known. In other words, Don Quijote is already a "hero" in Spain because everyone's already read his adventures. Then this story begins. It's confusing, I know (try reading the entire thing).
Everything, from the puppets (yes, there were puppets, but not what you'd expect) to the stage decor to the acting and improvising (Mont Parnasse, bienvenuë), everything, was genius. It captured all the complexity of Don Quijote, even in translation (framing devices, romance/satire all in one) without being tacky. And the ending, with Sancho!! I loved it. If I had the time/money, I'd go watch it again.
It's experiences like this one that remind me of why I chose Paris. Nothing (and especially not a year staying at Smith) could compare. So if my GPA falls, so be it. (Okay, no, actually that's a lie. I'm not at that point yet, but I'm trying, I promise)
~~
On the metro on the ride back from Chatelet there was a bum with all these different puppets. I thought it was sort of cute until he looked at me a pulled out the Chinese puppet girl and made it say "ni hao" and I don't know what. All the while pointing it in my direction. That was awkward.
In the end, you can only laugh. Besides, he did call me a "jolie demoiselle." Rest assured, though, he didn't get a single piece of change from me.
I was at a lunch with a group of people, I don't exactly remember why but I think it was to celebrate the wedding/engagement of one of them. And there was conversation.
It was weird because it captured all of the awkwardness/pronunciation problems I have when I was talking in the dream, but when the others were talking, it was just normal.
I think this is my first real "French" dream. Weird... but cool.
~~
In other news, today I finally had a nice and relaxing day that was fun at the same time. After endless weekends of travels (Hamburg, Brussels, Normandy), this was much needed time. And no, I totally didn't do any work at all today, and I'm not about to start now. I'll worry about that tomorrow.
Waited in line to see the Marie Antoinette exposition at the Grand Palais with a fellow intern from work. The line was épouvantable (more than one hour's wait), and the ticket price assez cher (8 euros, and with our exchange rate at an all-time low, I don't even want to know how much that is in dollars), but honestly well worth it. I loved it -- the design of the exposition was impeccable, dividing Marie Antoinette's life into "3 actes" -- childish princess of Austria, admired dauphine of France, and finally detested queen. In one of the areas, the walls were covered in design paper that imitated the gardens of her estate at Versailles (the Trianon). That area led to a beautiful painting of the Temple of Love, another part of the Trianon. Whoever designed that exposition is a genius.
I didn't much care for Sophia Coppola's movie, but after seeing this exposition I kind of want to watch it again, if only for the beautiful costumes. (I still maintain, though, that Kirstin Dunst totally does not fit the role, even if she is ditzy enough)
The afternoon went by in a breeze. The fellow intern bought an electronic cigarette -- I didn't even think that was possible!! She showed it to me, and it looks like a very elegant pen. Apparently, there are cartridges that you load into the thing, which have the nicotine/tobacco in them. Except according to her, there are cartridges that don't have nicotine or tobacco. I was just confused... oh, well. Figures that the French would find a way around that pesky new law that says you can't smoke inside public spaces.
(It could almost donner moi l'envie de l'essayer une fois)
All of a sudden it was 8PM. She went home, very tired, and I was left to reflect on what fun things I could do on a Saturday night. Why, go to the Comédie Française, of course! They sell tickets at low, low prices (I had heard 5 euros) for students starting 1 hour before the start of each play. And that night Vie du grand dom Quichotte et du gros Sancho Pança was playing at 8:30 (I had marked it on my calendar -- tonight was opening night).
I'm a nerd, complètement nulle, totally agreed. So yeah, I went. But there were only 4 places left, and a line of definitely more than 4 people before me. The bells were ringing for curtain call, it was 8:20. I made some nice conversation with the German couple in front of me about the dismal state of our respective economies (you know, the whole "yeah, the U.S. economy is dying" "well, the European one isn't doing too well either" "how can you have one currency, one monetary policy for 13 countries?" "how can you have one for 50 states?"). Anyways, sadly for them and luckily for me, a woman walked up to me and told me she had one ticket that she would sell to me for 15euros instead of the full-price 20. No, it wasn't sketchy - she was with her beau frère and his wife, all nice, middle-aged, French family types. When I asked her why she didn't want it anymore, she said it was because they sent her 4 as a part of her abonnement.
So I bargained a little (10 euros instead of 15) and a few minutes later, there I was, in the theatre! Which is beautiful! And our seats (I say "our" because they were right next to me) weren't bad, either. 2ème balcon -- so up one level, but still full view of the stage.
Not to mention the play. Unlike the plays I've seen so far as part of that maudite (damned) theatre class, I would happily write a report on this play. I could watch it every week from now until the end of its run (in July) without losing interest. Maybe because I've read Don Quijote in the U.S. (as part of the best English class EVER, Western Classics in Translation) -- the play is a retelling of the events of volume II, which occurs after the events of volume I have been published and are already known. In other words, Don Quijote is already a "hero" in Spain because everyone's already read his adventures. Then this story begins. It's confusing, I know (try reading the entire thing).
Everything, from the puppets (yes, there were puppets, but not what you'd expect) to the stage decor to the acting and improvising (Mont Parnasse, bienvenuë), everything, was genius. It captured all the complexity of Don Quijote, even in translation (framing devices, romance/satire all in one) without being tacky. And the ending, with Sancho!! I loved it. If I had the time/money, I'd go watch it again.
It's experiences like this one that remind me of why I chose Paris. Nothing (and especially not a year staying at Smith) could compare. So if my GPA falls, so be it. (Okay, no, actually that's a lie. I'm not at that point yet, but I'm trying, I promise)
~~
On the metro on the ride back from Chatelet there was a bum with all these different puppets. I thought it was sort of cute until he looked at me a pulled out the Chinese puppet girl and made it say "ni hao" and I don't know what. All the while pointing it in my direction. That was awkward.
In the end, you can only laugh. Besides, he did call me a "jolie demoiselle." Rest assured, though, he didn't get a single piece of change from me.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Friendship is forever
Now vs. then.
They're all so skinny now, especially Ginger. Why do all the famous females just keep getting thinner and thinner?
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Le temps qui glisse est un salaud
This semester feels like it's going by way too quickly, and I feel lost in the midst of it all. I guess I'll have to just take one day at a time, because if not I'll really get freaked out.
Yesterday was yuck. I was literally shaking with frustration in my Stats class after we receieved our exams. No, not so much because of the grade, but rather because of the illogical (in my view, anyways) of the grading method. I don't want to go into detail, but suffice it to say that the French, apparently, like to "suivre une certaine démarche" and don't really tolerate deviations, even if the end response turns out to be practically the same. But all in all, I didn't do too poorly:: 13.5 out of 20, which was better than the majority of the class I believe. But of course Smith has the wonderful conversion system, so that grade automatically becomes a B. I'll save my complaints about the inconvertibility of the French grades for another day.
Orchestra, last night. Our conductor had enlisted the help of a few people from the Conservatoire (like, real musicians). One of them, a viola player, was really something. The second chair violinist didn't show, and I found myself in the seat next to him. Oh, dear... how utterly painful and embarrassing. For me. I get so self-conscious around people like that, because I swear he was some kind of muscial genious/prodigy. (and for some reason I didn't get the imperssion he's a very humble guy, either)
So I played like a fourth-grader and it was just awkward. I didn't get the chords right during one part of Beethoven, and the conductor made the violins play it alone. I still mess it up. I'm pretty sure I heard a SHRILL LAUGH coming from the blond-haired violist next to me. Damn you, pretty boys who play string instruments like it's nothing. I didn't look at him the whole time (surprisingly easy considering I was right next to him) and talked to him only once at the very end when he was trying (unsuccessfully) to fold my stand, thinking it belonged to the orchestra. The conversation went like this:
He: *is folding it the wrong way*
Me: ça c'est à moi *fold it the right way*
Him: oh, bon.
Me: *try to show him how to fold the other part*
Him: *gives up* donc, reprends-le *gives it to me and walks away*
Yeah, lame I know. But we are all reduced to shy, awkward types some time or other. That's the definition of a real crush, I suppose -- somebody who you like because you 1-- admire him 2--think he's good-looking 3-- combination 1+2 or maybe 1 leads to 2 or vice versa. But in reality you know you wouldn't even go well together (music is his life, I know nothing about it, etc.). It's just fun imagining (oh now I really do sound like a grade schooler). In 7th grade I had a crush on this really popular guy. That crush was strictly a 1. But in any case I would get so shy around him, and if we had even the slightest exchange of words or gestures (i.e. he handed me the worksheets for English) I would think about it for hours on end.
I'd thought I'd moved past that stage. Apparently not. In any case, rest assured I will be practicing violin a LOT before rehearsal on Saturday.
===
Back to my theme of le temps (revenons à nos moutons, as they say). I agree with Carla Bruni's (I refuse to call her Sarkozy) sentiment. In the end of the day I wonder if I've accomplished what I had set out to accomplish at the beginning of the semester. Did I even have goals? Vague ones, but they've since changed. Making lots of French friends, for example. That didn't really happen...
Improving my French. Obviously it's improved, but to what extent? I feel stupid saying this, but since hearing my flatmate's objectives I realized that my level of Frence isn't nearly good enough. Could I work in an all-French environment? Could I carry on a decent conversation in French without reverting to English? Could I improve my horrendous accent?
I know I'm hard on myself, but really I want to be better. And I'm running out of time.
Yesterday was yuck. I was literally shaking with frustration in my Stats class after we receieved our exams. No, not so much because of the grade, but rather because of the illogical (in my view, anyways) of the grading method. I don't want to go into detail, but suffice it to say that the French, apparently, like to "suivre une certaine démarche" and don't really tolerate deviations, even if the end response turns out to be practically the same. But all in all, I didn't do too poorly:: 13.5 out of 20, which was better than the majority of the class I believe. But of course Smith has the wonderful conversion system, so that grade automatically becomes a B. I'll save my complaints about the inconvertibility of the French grades for another day.
Orchestra, last night. Our conductor had enlisted the help of a few people from the Conservatoire (like, real musicians). One of them, a viola player, was really something. The second chair violinist didn't show, and I found myself in the seat next to him. Oh, dear... how utterly painful and embarrassing. For me. I get so self-conscious around people like that, because I swear he was some kind of muscial genious/prodigy. (and for some reason I didn't get the imperssion he's a very humble guy, either)
So I played like a fourth-grader and it was just awkward. I didn't get the chords right during one part of Beethoven, and the conductor made the violins play it alone. I still mess it up. I'm pretty sure I heard a SHRILL LAUGH coming from the blond-haired violist next to me. Damn you, pretty boys who play string instruments like it's nothing. I didn't look at him the whole time (surprisingly easy considering I was right next to him) and talked to him only once at the very end when he was trying (unsuccessfully) to fold my stand, thinking it belonged to the orchestra. The conversation went like this:
He: *is folding it the wrong way*
Me: ça c'est à moi *fold it the right way*
Him: oh, bon.
Me: *try to show him how to fold the other part*
Him: *gives up* donc, reprends-le *gives it to me and walks away*
Yeah, lame I know. But we are all reduced to shy, awkward types some time or other. That's the definition of a real crush, I suppose -- somebody who you like because you 1-- admire him 2--think he's good-looking 3-- combination 1+2 or maybe 1 leads to 2 or vice versa. But in reality you know you wouldn't even go well together (music is his life, I know nothing about it, etc.). It's just fun imagining (oh now I really do sound like a grade schooler). In 7th grade I had a crush on this really popular guy. That crush was strictly a 1. But in any case I would get so shy around him, and if we had even the slightest exchange of words or gestures (i.e. he handed me the worksheets for English) I would think about it for hours on end.
I'd thought I'd moved past that stage. Apparently not. In any case, rest assured I will be practicing violin a LOT before rehearsal on Saturday.
===
Back to my theme of le temps (revenons à nos moutons, as they say). I agree with Carla Bruni's (I refuse to call her Sarkozy) sentiment. In the end of the day I wonder if I've accomplished what I had set out to accomplish at the beginning of the semester. Did I even have goals? Vague ones, but they've since changed. Making lots of French friends, for example. That didn't really happen...
Improving my French. Obviously it's improved, but to what extent? I feel stupid saying this, but since hearing my flatmate's objectives I realized that my level of Frence isn't nearly good enough. Could I work in an all-French environment? Could I carry on a decent conversation in French without reverting to English? Could I improve my horrendous accent?
I know I'm hard on myself, but really I want to be better. And I'm running out of time.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Why do we never learn?
It's really hard to change. And one day it's going to come back and bite me in the ass. The day is probably now.
Ever since the fourth grade (maybe even before that), I've had this issue about time management. Procrastination came quite easy to me, I don't know why. It's not like I had a bunch of friends that I played with all the time; mostly I just hung out in my room reading Sweet Valley Twins or Baby Sitters Club or even the parts in my textbook about Queen Elizabeth I and Sir Francis Drake; anything to escape doing actual work, really. I got Cs during these years of my life, and I wouldn't say I was okay with that, but it didn't completely throw me off. Tant mieux pour moi.
Everything changed in the summer before 7th grade, when I moved. At my new school, I felt like I belonged more, like I was sort of part of the "popular group" (although not really, but this school was much bigger and I didn't feel so isolated), and thus worked harder? I don't know if that makes any sense. Or maybe I was placed in the "special" classes because the teachers thought I was "challenged" after seeing my grades. In any case, whatever. That's when the "straight-A Christine" mentality was born.
Fuck it. I wish I could say that. Could really feel that. Fuck grades, damn GPA, screw it all, do what you like and say fuck you to the rest as they said in Little Miss Sunshine. Well, I can't. The truth is, there's some little miss Asian mentality in me that'll always want to succeed, that wants that 4.0 more than anything else. How the hell do you think I pulled through that torturous first year of college and not much better second year with a freaking 3.95 GPA?
It was my safety net, something I knew would always be there for me, while others worried about their whether or not they could submit their resume for so-and-so company because their GPA was lower than 3.7. Not me.
But now it's all crumbling and I'm freaking out. And a lot of it (okay 98% probably) is my fault. I don't work hard enough here in Paris. Sure, I'm having the time of my life the majority of the time, but I'm not on fucking vacation. I'm here to study. To work. This is actually a year abroad. One that's going to make a major dent in my perfect little transcript. And no, I'm not okay.
And yet, somehow, I can't seem to get myself to work more. To stop procrastinating. To actually sit down and get things done. I woke up to freaking 'stomach ulcers' today but we all know it's just stress and guilt weighing me down. Finishing up a written critique of a play and preparing for an exposé in the morning while you're feeling like you'd really rather just curl up and disintegrate is not good. Why didn't I start earlier? Things could have been so different, I could have gotten a good grade.
The last grade I got was a 13. Out of 20. Which roughly translates to a B-. FUCK. I should have worked harder, then, on my next assignment. And what do I do? Procrastinate until the last minute and do a shitty job on both the exposé and the paper. Get your act together, Christine, or you're really going to fuck up everything.
Getting good grades is a way of self-gratification, of feeling like you are better than somebody even when you're not necessarily smarter. When you've worked harder. Or not. And get a higher grade.
I've been trying to change, but in the end, I guess our director is right. I do care too much about my GPA. Why? Because I'm not interesting enough of a person to have any substance without it.
Ever since the fourth grade (maybe even before that), I've had this issue about time management. Procrastination came quite easy to me, I don't know why. It's not like I had a bunch of friends that I played with all the time; mostly I just hung out in my room reading Sweet Valley Twins or Baby Sitters Club or even the parts in my textbook about Queen Elizabeth I and Sir Francis Drake; anything to escape doing actual work, really. I got Cs during these years of my life, and I wouldn't say I was okay with that, but it didn't completely throw me off. Tant mieux pour moi.
Everything changed in the summer before 7th grade, when I moved. At my new school, I felt like I belonged more, like I was sort of part of the "popular group" (although not really, but this school was much bigger and I didn't feel so isolated), and thus worked harder? I don't know if that makes any sense. Or maybe I was placed in the "special" classes because the teachers thought I was "challenged" after seeing my grades. In any case, whatever. That's when the "straight-A Christine" mentality was born.
Fuck it. I wish I could say that. Could really feel that. Fuck grades, damn GPA, screw it all, do what you like and say fuck you to the rest as they said in Little Miss Sunshine. Well, I can't. The truth is, there's some little miss Asian mentality in me that'll always want to succeed, that wants that 4.0 more than anything else. How the hell do you think I pulled through that torturous first year of college and not much better second year with a freaking 3.95 GPA?
It was my safety net, something I knew would always be there for me, while others worried about their whether or not they could submit their resume for so-and-so company because their GPA was lower than 3.7. Not me.
But now it's all crumbling and I'm freaking out. And a lot of it (okay 98% probably) is my fault. I don't work hard enough here in Paris. Sure, I'm having the time of my life the majority of the time, but I'm not on fucking vacation. I'm here to study. To work. This is actually a year abroad. One that's going to make a major dent in my perfect little transcript. And no, I'm not okay.
And yet, somehow, I can't seem to get myself to work more. To stop procrastinating. To actually sit down and get things done. I woke up to freaking 'stomach ulcers' today but we all know it's just stress and guilt weighing me down. Finishing up a written critique of a play and preparing for an exposé in the morning while you're feeling like you'd really rather just curl up and disintegrate is not good. Why didn't I start earlier? Things could have been so different, I could have gotten a good grade.
The last grade I got was a 13. Out of 20. Which roughly translates to a B-. FUCK. I should have worked harder, then, on my next assignment. And what do I do? Procrastinate until the last minute and do a shitty job on both the exposé and the paper. Get your act together, Christine, or you're really going to fuck up everything.
Getting good grades is a way of self-gratification, of feeling like you are better than somebody even when you're not necessarily smarter. When you've worked harder. Or not. And get a higher grade.
I've been trying to change, but in the end, I guess our director is right. I do care too much about my GPA. Why? Because I'm not interesting enough of a person to have any substance without it.
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