Our Dumb Blog

I came home this evening, after making a fool of myself at the forum, to find
two envelopes waiting for me on the stairs, where my mom places my “real”
mail. One was from US Air. A promotion, no doubt. The other bore the words
“The Heritage Foundation” in the upper left hand corner. “A letter of
rejection,” I predicted as I, nontheless, ran excitedly up the stairs and
dumped the other things I was carrying on my bed. “Don’t think,” I told
myself in the time it took me to rip open the envelope, unfold the paper
inside, and read, “I regret to inform you that The Heritage Foundation is
unable to offer you an internship for the summer of 1996…” The rest of the
letter was more of the same.

But another sheet of paper in the same envelope caught my attention. I
turned it over and was suddenly surprised to see a copy of a memo “From- Sara
J. Fitzgerald.” I almost jumped. Across the top was the logo for Americans
For Tax Reform. It was about internship oportunities at ATR. I guess
Heritage included the memo in all their rejection letters? It said for
interested applicants to send resumes to their address. I’d already done
that.

Amazed at this, I took the letter downstairs to show mom. “Sara Fitzgerald,”
she said, “She called today. I told her you would be home this afternoon.
She asked you to call her to set up a phone interview.”

“Today?” I blinked.

“Yes. If you’d call home sometimes, you’d find out these things!” mom
answered, somewhat irritably.

So I’m going to call her in the morning. I dunno. This much coincidence in
one day…

Perhaps, as my favorite quote from the movie _Close Encounters of the Third
Kind_ says, “This means something.”

My friend Cris is absolutely insane. That’s probably why I like her.

We’re running together for Senior Class officers of SGA. We ran last year as
well. She won, and I lost. This year we’re running unopposed, however.
Being sure shoe-ins, we weren’t real concerned about the forum held tonight
for candidates to introduce themselves and make campaign statements to
whoever showed up. Only 15 of us did. Of them, only four were not running
for office. They included the present Executive President, who kind of had
to be there; his girlfriend, who was taking notes for an article for the
school paper; and the two work studies, who were running lights and sound.

Almost everyone was running unopposed. I go to a really apathetic school.
All of the candidates were female (except for Stephen, who won’t go have an
meeting with the Faculty Director of Student Stuff Like This, didn’t show up
at this forum, and won’t be on the ballot). They were all dressed up. As
Cris said, “You wouldn’t want to light a match in this room on account of all
the hair spray.” This was in contrast to the two of us. I was wearing my
usual jeans, t-shirt, flannel shirt, and black high tops, and Cris was in a
pair of cutoffs and t-shirt. Before it started, the two of us sat on one
side of the auditorium singing “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oreo, what’s in the
middle, the white stuff,” as everyone else glanced at us nervously.

Since we’re the only ones running for senior stuff, we went close to the end.
I’d written a speech beforehand after asking one of the tech guys what he
wanted out of SGA. Cris read it and chuckled. “Let’s go up there together,”
I suggested, as our turn approached. She shook her head. “Aw, come on,” I
whined in a whisper, “I don’t want to be up there all by myself.” She looked
dubious. “Hey,” I added, “how ’bout I give my speech while you perform an
interpretive dance?”

“Okay!” she agreed. We walked up to the podium on stage. Cris gave her
little introduction saying what we were running for. Then we switched
places. I gave my name and announced, “I’ll be a senior next year, which is
a good thing, considering I’m running for senior class vice president. I’ve
prepared a little speech outlining my campaign promises.

“As senior class vice president, I will make it my goal to bring about
several changes to benefit the student body and especially the senior class.
First off I would address the issue of security guards. I would work to
make them stop delivering so many tickets and start handing out coupons for
McDonalds. Speaking of fast food, the snack shop should offer a wider
variety of selections such as anchovies on pizza. On the same note, the
cafeteria should make items like Twinkies available. Another problem is the
bookstore. Have you been over there lately? They carry absolutely no comic
books! Chapel is an issue that also needs to be addressed. It’s just way
too boring most of the time. Perhaps we could do something about making more
work study jobs available. Maybe have students dressed up in chicken suits
to be present at UM events. They could even dance on the stage during chapel
to liven things up a bit. Finally, if you vote for me, I will work to give
free Skittles to all seniors. And if you don’t vote for me, that’s okay too.
Thank you, and God bless America.”

The nervous, occasional giggle ceased, and we stepped down from the stage to
a smattering of applause. When everyone had completed their shpeels, all the
candidates gathered up front to have their pictures taken. On the one with
all of us in it, Cris and I knelt facing each other, me peering over my
sunglasses at the camera. In the one of the candidates for Senior Class
officers, Cris and I sat back to back with one knee up, me with my sunglasses
still on. I can’t wait to see them posted out for the students who are
voting

I hate it when my face turns a brilliant shade of embarassed red.

It doesn’t happen very often. When people try to embarass me, I simply
revell in the noteriety, making their insinuations even bigger than they
planned. I love it when someone gets embarrassed themselves while trying to
make me blush. I like to say that the only person who can embarass me is
myself. Even when I do something stupid, I’m usually able to turn it into a
joke. But tonight that wasn’t really possible.

I attended a Seder, the traditional Jewish Passover feast, put on by a local
Messianic Jewish congragation and held at a local hotel ballroom. It was
fun. This is the third time I’ve attended it. I drank two glasses of wine.
But although they made my ears buzz, that was AFTER my face had turned
crimson.

Before the ceremony began, I took my grandmother, who uses a wheelchair to go
long distances, to the restroom. While I was waiting for her, I noticed
three rings sitting on the counter. Closer examination revealed a monogram
ring, what looked like an engagement ring, and another expensive looking
piece of finger jewelry. I told my grandmother I’d be right back and trotted
downstairs to the front desk to tell the man behind the counter about my
find. He suggested I bring them to him, so I ran back upstairs, retrieved
the rings, and left them at the front counter.

About halfway through the ceremony, someone at the front announced that one
of the ladies there had lost three rings that were very special to her in the
ladies room and that… “They’re at the front desk,” I spoke up, figuring
that was a good enough place to interrupt. Every head in the room turned
toward me. It was about then that I felt the blood rushing upward. “You
took them to the front desk?” asked the announcer. “Yeah, I took them
there.” “You found them?” “Yes,” I answered again, “I found them. They’re
up front.” Whatever else the person up front was saying was lost as the room
was suddenly filled with applause. That was when my face probably turned a
color akin to purple.

I was chewing a bite of chicken a little later when a woman walked up to me,
sniffled, and asked, “Are you the lady who found my daughter’s rings?” I
nodded while hurriedly swallowing. “Thank you so much!” she sobbed, throwing
her arms around my neck. “Mmmmff,” I replied into her shoulder. “You don’t
know how much this means to her!” she continued and rattled off something
about how one of them was her grandmother’s ring, and she died last week or
some such. She finally released me and said thank you one more time. “No
problem,” I shrugged.

Another lady, I guess her daughter, the one whose rings they were, came up.
She looked like she had been crying. “Thank you, thank you! Give me your
address! I’ll send you Christmas cards! Birthday cards!” “Uh,” I shifted
uneasily and shrugged uselessly while she continued to chatter excitedly.
Finally, they all left me alone so I could finish my dinner.

It’s a bad feeling to wake up in the morning and think, do I have a paper due
today? I try not to do this very often, but it happened, nonetheless,
yesterday at 8:16 a.m. I habitually set my alarm for 8:15 every Tuesday and
Thursday mornings, but it takes me a minute or so to exit dreamland and
achieve sentience in reality. The next thought was equally abrupt but not
quite as disturbing: perhaps I have a test today. Then I remembered taking a
test in that class the last time we met. No, there would be no test. But…
my only answer lay in the syllabus enclosed in the three-ring binder in my
book bag. I didn’t have far to reach for it. My bed is queen sized, and I
have a custom of putting things of importance on my bed to deal with later.
I may be a slob, but I do make an effort to make my bed every day to give my
room at least one corner of order. Otherwise, my living space is an
excellent example of the Second Law of Thermodynamics in action. What I
found, however, is that I could sleep on half of my bed and leave all the
other things that had piled up during the day on the other side. Only rarely
do I have such a restless night that I inadvertently kick one of the items of
importance over and off onto the floor, waking up when whatever it was thumps
to the ground.

So sitting up in bed, I reached over and pulled my book bag over, opened it,
and flipped to the appropriate section. Two page paper on Rousseau’s Second
Discourse, due April 2. April 2, was that today? My slumber filled mind
struggled with this new concept of chronology. Yesterday was April Fool’s
Day, unless someone had been playing an elaborate joke on me. Today was
April 2. I had a paper due. I’d forgotten all about it. Modern Political
Theory was my first class of the day. There was no way I could read the
Second Discourse and write a paper on it when I’d set my alarm for just
enough time to get to school without being late. The frustration of these
realizations overwhelmed me. My first utterance that day was not an
uplifting one.

The good news is that I have a good average in that class. By handing the
paper in late, I only get docked one point from a four point scale. And we
write several papers. And they get averaged in with the tests. So I’m not
really in danger of much of anything as a result of my absentmindedness.
Well, not in this case. But this is the first paper I’ll have ever handed
in late. And that irritates me. Because it’s for no good reason at all.

I registered for the Fall Semester today.

Usually the excitement of picking new classes to take in the coming months is
outweighed by the annoyance I feel at the red tape one has to go through in
order to achieve this task. I remember registering for my second semester of
college. I talked to my advisor, stood in line at the registrars office
where they told me, in a very haughty tone, that I needed his signature. I
walked across campus to go back to him, got him to sign it, waited in line,
and was told that I needed to go the business office first. Stood in line
there… etc… It was a memorable, but not pleasant, experience.

The people in those offices are not very nice. Let’s leave it at that.

Today I figured it would be a breeze. I’ve gone through the procedure so
many times that I must have it down pat. Except that I tend to forget
exactly how to go about it. Fortunately, for the first time, they’ve posted
instructions in plain sight on how to register. Double checking the list
taped to the wall to make sure I needed to go to the business office first, I
waited behind a couple of people. When my turn came, I was told to proceed
to the Financial Aid office to get a memo. “Financial Aid. Memo,” I
repeated to myself, making my way down the hall.

The Financial Aid office is actually kind of nice. The Registrars and
Business Offices are separated from the hall by a counter and glass with
holes to talk and push papers through. That makes it a little hard to
communicate with the people on the other side, but I suppose it keeps them
from getting strangled by irate students. I don’t blame them. The students,
that is. But the Financial Aid office is a real office where one opens a
real door, waits on real couches, and talks to someone behind a real desk.
Every time I’ve been in there, the employees have been helpful and patient
as they tried to explain the intricacies of getting money. Or not paying as
much.

This time was no exception. The lady was quite courteous (at least as
opposed to the attitude usually emanating from the talk holes under the sign
marked “Business Office”). “Memo,” I said with my best puzzled expression
that says, please don’t ask my any questions because I really don’t
understand the significance of the word I’ve just spoken. There was no need
for it, however. The lady immediately took the papers in my hand and typed
purposefully into the computer on her real desk.

I looked around me. A guy from my World Religions class was filing folders
nearby. A couple I know was standing behind me. I sensed an audience. “You
know,” I began, “it sure is nice to come into this office and be greeted by
such courteous service. Every time I’ve been in here it has been a pleasant
experience.” “Oh,” answered the woman behind the real desk, grinning warmly,
“I wish you’d tell that to people down the hall.” “I should do that,” I
said, “I’ll go into Mike Magnoli’s office and tell him what a wonderful job
the people in the Financial Aid office do. Because every time I come in
here, it makes my day that much more pleasant.” The couple behind me began
to giggle. The lady was starting to laugh. “I’m serious,” I added not at
all seriously, “Everyone in here is cheerful, helpful, and polite. It makes
me happy just standing in this room.” The woman stopped laughing to get out,
“You need to fill out the Alabama Student Grant forms. I’ll give them to
you, and you can just bring them back sometime.” “Oh, I could fill them out
right now,” I offered. “That’s okay, just bring them to me,” she insisted.
“Well, if you want me to leave…” I began to pout. “You can do it here!”
she grinned. “All right. This way I can stay within this aura of happiness
even longer,” I sat down on one of the real couches and began scribbling in
the information it demanded.

When I was done, I brought the papers back to the real desk. The lady took
them from my hands once again and skimmed over them, “Good, very good.”
“Wow,” I exclaimed softly, “Not only this feeling of happiness but I get
affirmation for doing a good job as well. This is too much.” I walked to
the door, turned and said, “Thank you very much for making my day more
pleasant.” She grinned again and answered, “Come back sometime!”

I headed straight for the president Dr. Magnoli’s office. Magnoli has an
“open door” policy so that any student can come in, but hardly anyone ever
does. Most of the students don’t even know what he looks like. But the door
to the office of the presidency was open, so I walked in. I could see the
“Big Man on Campus” in the inner office talking to someone on a couch. I
wouldn’t ask to talk to him since he was busy. Instead I directed my
attention to the secretary sitting behind a huge desk in front of me. She
was directing her whole attention on me walking in with my greasy hair,
t-shirt, denim shirt, jeans, and untied high tops.

“I just came over from the Financial Aid Office,” I started, my brow wrinkled
seriously, “and I just wanted to say that every time I’ve been in there, they
have been very courteous and helpful and have made my day more pleasant.”
Her face was a torn combination of shock and elation. “Well, ah,” she
seemed unsure of what to say as she grabbed for a pen and scrap of paper,
“Thank you! We don’t get many positive comments. Usually people just
complain, it’s the other way around. I’ll be sure to let Dr. Magnoli know.
What’s your name?” I’m not sure why she needed my name, but I gave it to
her anyway, spelling my last name.

Finally I made it to the business office where the lady behind the glass said
through the hole, “You have a credit of 536 dollars. Would you like a check
request for it?” I have no idea where that extra half a grand came from, but
thinking on my feet, I answered, “Sure!”

Maybe it does pay to be nice.