Category Archives: Suckool

official statement I have final exams this week…

Suckool

official statement

I have final exams this week, and am therefore taking a break from weblogging. Not necessarily other blogs, but definitely mine at least. Knowing me, I’ll probably still be lurking around blogs anyway; just don’t take it personally if I refrain from commenting. Anyway, at the moment I desperately need the focus and freedom of studying intensely for prolonged periods of time without the added distraction of composing weblog entries in my head, which is something I’ve been engaged in doing far too often for my own good this quarter. [And, damn, that was one heckuva run-on sentence!] Du’as are much appreciated, as always. Much love, peace, and good health to you all. Stay out of trouble, kiddos.

‘cause it’s me, and my life/it’s my life, it’s my …

Suckool

‘cause it’s me, and my life/it’s my life, it’s my life

I got a letter in the mail a few days ago. I had been expecting it but not watching for it, waiting patiently but not wondering unduly. After a while, I even forgot that it was supposed to be coming.

But I came home the other night to find an envelope lying across my bed. The front bore the name and address of my university, and the name of the college. I already knew what it was all about, of course. Funny, I thought, how even the letters asking for registration fees and tuition payments are far more formal-looking than this one. I had expected more from this one, you see. I tore a strip down the right-hand side of the envelope and flipped open the letter itself, which was unprepossessing in appearance, to say the least. The elegant university seal at the top was nice. The stamped signature at the bottom of the page – belonging to the associate dean of the college – was not so nice. I mean, please, how difficult must it be to get a real live signature using a real ink pen on these things? Someone could have at least had the heart to fake a signature, but using a pen. It’s not as if I would have known the difference anyway. And the paper. Good Lord, the paper! So flimsy, I could almost see right through it, even though I wasn’t holding it up against the light. Even the paper we buy for our household printers/copier/fax usage is much better quality. The largest university in the UC system…please don’t tell me they can’t afford quality stationary for such monumental notices. My fees just increased by 30%, so I know they can.

The letter starts off:

Dear Yasmine:

Your petition to change your major from Neurobiology, Physiology, & Behavior to Human Development has been:

X Approved and filed with the Registrar.

_ Denied because of insufficient scholarship.

_ Held, pending an appointment with the undersigned Associate Dean.

_ Other:

Nice. Alhamdulillah. ‘Bout time, peoples. ‘Bout time, Yasminay. The funny thing is, though, that I was being facetious when I called it a “monumental notice.” I feel I’ve mentally been a Human Development major for so long that a piece of paper doesn’t really make all that much difference to me. Actually, I’ve mentally been a non-NPB major, pre-med or otherwise, for so long that it’s almost ludicrous to receive a formal notice confirming it. A couple weeks ago, I got a letter stating something along the lines of, “Please stop by the Division of BioSci and make an appointment to see an advisor soon. We are concerned that you have not been fulfilling the requirements for your NPB major.” I laughed, and said with mock incredulity, No way? ‘Bout time you figured it out, and tossed the letter into the trash bin.

If I had thought of this letter as important, I would have mentioned it to my family as well. But I didn’t, and so I tucked it away in my bag and didn’t even bring it up. The other night, though, I made an offhand explanatory remark about my change of major while conversing with a guest. My sister’s jaw dropped, and she sputtered, “You didn’t even tell us!” “Get over it,” I said impatiently. “Daddy!” she called across a roomful of guests, “did you know Apaji got her major changed?” I rolled my eyes. The daddy-o raised his eyebrows inquisitively and retorted, “Which one?” I laughed, and so did the guests, though they really had no idea what it was all about. It’s a family joke – with some basis, I might add – that my major changes every quarter. My father finds my academic vacillation extremely amusing, which is a good thing, since he’s the one paying my enormous tuition in full.

But hey, at least, I can finally stop responding to the inevitable, “So what do you study?” questions with the long-suffering, “Well, technically, I’m a pre-med Neurobiology, Physiology, and Behavior major, but…” Too many explanations and stories and details and exclamations involved in that. Fine, I admit it: This makes life easier. Sort of. But not really.

Bartering is the way to go

Glorious mundanity, Suckool

For iftar today, I ate a kit-kat bar and three mini Reese’s peanut butter cups. But wait, don’t worry, there’s still more left. I have here at my elbow: one king-sized Snickers bar, two mini Snickers, five mini Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a pack of Mambos (they taste just like Starbursts). Yes, this is my life as the weird college student who’s all-too-often stuck inside the computer lab typing up papers while turning down the free iftar (real food!) held at the local masjid down the street. I mean, who in their right mind would make conscious decisions like that?

What I really want right about now is a slice (or two or three) of pizza, and a cold water bottle, but I’ve just rummaged through my wallet, and considering the fact that I have merely $0.71 in there, that’s a pretty ambitious goal at the moment. Dammit, I shoulda cashed in my paycheck this morning.

I’m supposed to be working on a paper. Instead, I’m contemplating what I consider a brilliant idea (these epiphanies always occur when I’m supposed to be immersed in academic pursuits, you notice?). In the spirit of interactive weblogging, let’s have a bartering session. I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of bartering: I give you something, you give me something of comparable value in return. So nice and simple. It’s still practiced in many parts of the world, you know.

So, let’s trade. I’ll give you all my candy bars. I’ll even walk around the corner and down the hall and get you a blue raspberry slurpee, because that I can afford on $0.71. Ooh, I even have some cashews. And a mini-stapler, lots of highlighters, and a couple of legal pads. If y’all are nice, I may even give away my headphones and my beloved TI-83 graphing calculator (dead battery included). But that’s stretching it. Or not. Depends entirely on you.

In return, what do I get?

Y’all can barter with each other, too.

How ‘bout it?

[Apologies to all those of you reading this while fasting. I know how you feel, I really do. I’ll brace myself for hate-mail, but meanwhile join in on the fun, okay?]

what? what? what? Just got done spending almost…

Suckool

what? what? what?

Just got done spending almost two hours checking out 115 tables worth of college/university reps extolling the virtues of their respective graduate school programs.

After all those questions descriptions conversations brochures pamphlets smiles quizzical glances handshakes endless filling-out of information cards, I have only two things to say:

– If I thought I was even anywhere remotely close to figuring things out, I was pretty damn wrong.

– And, you know what, forget next June; that fifth year is sounding pretty appealing all over again.

Graaaaaand, as Seher would say. Add in some intonations/inflections of sarcasm frustration dejection confusion annoyance bitterness tension chaos (did I mention confusion?), and there you have it, Yasminay the perpetually confoozid child. Great. So, Seher-woman, don’t worry, you’re not the only confused one out there.

Life is such a process sometimes. Geez.

[Update: This evening, I went to a lecture that opened my eyes and made me think. I went out to dinner with an crazy group of friends who made me laugh ’til my stomach hurt – and you know that’s the best type of laughter. The crescent moon out there is looking absolutely beautiful – go see. I feel better now, because insha’Allah I can handle this, too, just like everything else. And if I still decide to go ahead with a fifth year, big deal. Random ladies will still think I’m in high school, and the high school kid who bags my groceries every week will still persist in calling me “Ma’am.” And one of these years, I’ll figure out what I’m trying to do with my life. Meanwhile, blue raspberry slurpees are the key to happiness. Go buy yourself one, too. You know you wanna.]

Even vampire children need respite, sometime

Suckool

When I fall asleep during lecture, do not wake me up.

When I shrug into my sweater – mentally kicking whoever raised the air conditioning unit to such a high level – and then sink down into my seat with a long-standing, comfortable disregard for good posture, don’t you dare so much as blink.
When I put my pen aside and close my eyes and begin to tune out the professor, don’t look at me smugly, critically, and roll your own eyes. Oh, I saw you, even with my eyes closed. I’m slick like that.

And when I finally doze off and begin dreaming of miraculously cancelled midterm exams, term paper extensions, and much-needed holidays, don’t nudge my foot repeatedly until I open my eyes and stare at you. And don’t smile widely at me and explain sweetly, “I just thought that’d be a better idea than poking you until you woke up.”

Because I will narrow my eyes and glare at you as rudely as only I know how, with an utter disregard for your supposed helpfulness.

This is the sort of behavior I don’t take lightly from even my friends. And I don’t even know you. Furthermore, I don’t care if you look affronted and hurt at my plainly obvious lack of gratitude.

I mean, really, what did you expect me to do, thank you?

That’s what you get for waking me up.

Bastid.

what is this dude on? What the heck kind of pr…

Suckool

what is this dude on?

What the heck kind of professor gives his class a handout with the following reading assignment? –

– Skip from the bottom of page 74 to the middle of page 78, from the middle of 89 through the top of 90, and from the bottom of 104 to the middle of 111.

– Page 98, middle: Skip from here to page 103, top.

– Page 84, end of first paragraph: Cross out “…also known…4 and 5…”

– Page 85, Figure 3.5: Cross out two vertical lines above the “O” in the upper left.

– Page 91: third paragraph

– Page 95: first new paragraph

– p.s. Part of the third quote on page 34 is very weird!

Personally, I don’t think this guy even has any real inkling of what constitutes “weird.” (I, on the other hand, as we have all established by now, am a walking example of weirdness. Weirdness exemplified, that’s me.)

Oh, and the abbreviation for this course is PSC 130. It’s been three weeks since the beginning of the quarter, but everytime I look at my schedule, I wonder what I was thinking when I registered for a political science course. Then I go to class and remember that PSC = psychology.

Yes, I am a genius.

I know it.

[Speaking of geniuses, someone should have reminded me that today was Columbus Day – and that Columbus Day is an “observed” holiday. I wasted forty miles worth of gas on pointless errands to and from the bank and post office, which were conveniently closed for the day. Grand. Columbus, Sholumbus. Who cares, anyway?]

at this rate, who needs the gym anyway? For onc…

Suckool

at this rate, who needs the gym anyway?

For once, just once, I’d like to go to the College of Letters & Science office without them sending me all the way across campus to the Division of Biological Sciences instead. They always, always, do this to me. And my legs hurt now, man.

You know what I need? One of those little golf carts. That way, I could just zip across campus and back. It’d look exactly like that mini-cart we saw on one of our halaqa trips. I gotta scan the photo and post it for y’all. It’s hilarious. But, yes, a golf cart would be wonderful. Maybe I’d even get a discount on parking permit rates. And while other students hastily park and lock their bikes and race the rest of the way to class, I’d just zoom right up to the front entrance of my building, park, and lazily wander in. It’d be great, yo.

[Update: The infamous go-cart (or whatever it’s called.) It belonged to a state park ranger. This was even cooler and more hilarious than the sign warning: “Do not climb bridge.” You know you want one, too. You see the cookie tin over on the front seat?]

My new favorite places to study this quarter:

1. School of Medicine library

2. School of Medicine cafe

3. Benches in the University arboretum, behind the School of Law. (And there’s a duck pond there!)

I like to think of it as being productive and actually getting my work done instead of sleeping on the comfy chairs in the main library. My dad, on the other hand, calls it undercover research into my supposedly vested interest in medicine and law. He’s still stuck on this idea of me going into law.

Watching the med students is fun, though. Scrubs look way cool, too. Too bad that’s not nearly enough incentive for me to remain pre-med.

And in other news, I have discovered that there actually is exactly one person in the whole entire world who is quite capable of successfully giving me guilt trips.

Dammit, Somayya.

break? what break? (or maybe it should be called: money? what money?)

Conversations and Encounters, Suckool

Welcome to Fall Quarter 2003. Start preparing yourselves for more ramblings about my seventeen credits course-load (bearable), my paid internship (time-consuming yet exciting), and the fact that I may not be tutoring calculus this quarter as usual (very, very sad, and no, I am not being sarcastic, sheesh). So not only does fall quarter mean getting used to driving long distances all over again (one week in, and I have a back-ache and sense of exhaustion I can’t seem to shake off), putting up with
the annoying valet guys at the university parking garage, evening classes (what was I thinking?) and irregular dinners (surprise, surprise), it also has a lot to do with money. Mon-ayyyy. You know you like money. Just admit it. It’s good for some stuff.

One week into the quarter, and I still have $29.27 in my wallet. Let’s see how long this lasts. Cleaning out my bag today, I found a stash of wrinkled-up receipts. Here’s a run-down on where my money came from and went to, based on last Monday alone:

– Quick cash as a result of selling back two textbooks from summer session: $24 (rip-off!)
– Paycheck I had forgotten about for proctoring almost two months ago: $30
– Bank deposit slip for scholarship (finally, man): $3,000
– Fall ’03 registration fees: $2,594.37 (up by 30%, as of this quarter. Grand.)
– Books for only two of my courses: $207.76 (Five other books still on hold.)
– Slurpee #1 (cherry-flavored): $0.75
– Random school supplies and things: $40.40
– Parking permit for Fall ’03: $121
– Lunch with Friend #1: $5.14 (Oh, and she gave me all her french fries. Such a nice child, masha’Allah. I ate all mine, too, of course.)
– Slurpee #2 (BLUE RASPBERRY!): $1.00
– Two books from the off-campus bookstore’s comparative literature section: $20.31 (No, I am not taking a comp lit course. And, traumatically enough, slurpee #2 melted at this point, because the bookstore had a “No Food or Drink Allowed” policy; therefore, I had to leave my slurpee at the counter, along with my bag. ::shakes fist in annoyance::)
– Dinner with Friend #2: $6.25
– Chocolate ice cream (happy now?): $1.25
– Gas: $28.26

I should just set up a lemonade stand to raise some money. With a big ol’ sign reading, Help a Kid Out, Yo. For Educational Expenditures Only! No one in their right mind can resist kids with lemonade stands. You know it.

The other day I was at a shopping plaza and was waylaid/sidetracked/accosted by a self-proclaimed professional photographer. Ehh, okay, maybe not technically waylaid/sidetracked/accosted, but whatever the term is for people who are trying their utmost to convince you to buy something you really, truly (cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die) have no intention whatsoever of buying.

Somehow, this guy wanders up to me and starts chattering away in such a nonstop fashion that I can barely get a word in edgewise, much less convey my disinterest in whatever he’s selling. Finally, I just give up and resort to smiling politely, shifting my weight from one foot to another, praying my eyes aren’t glazing over with weariness.

He tells me that I’m an attractive young lady and I should have his granddaughter, a professional artist, paint my portrait. She’s sitting right over there, see? come look. See, doesn’t she paint beautifully? And he thinks I should be painted in pastel, because pastel is a softer and more realistic medium, and I really should take advantage of this opportunity and have a portrait painted, because I’m very attractive and twenty years down the line [when I’m ugly, I presume] I’ll look back and wish I had taken advantage of this offer. And, no, he isn’t flattering me, because he’s a professional photographer, remember? and he’s photographed all sorts of pretty girls, so he should know. See, look at this photograph of his granddaughter on her wedding day. Wasn’t she beautiful? He took that photo, and he’s very glad he did so, because she looked so much more beautiful then (even though she’s still attractive, he adds hastily). And, look here, here’s a brochure with price listings, and I should hold on to it and take it home with me, and think it over, and his granddaughter will give me a call, but remember, there’s really no need to think it over too much. I should really get this done today, and here, now he wants to introduce me to his granddaughter the portrait painter, who patiently interrupts her work to smile quickly, confusedly, while he chatters on and asks her whether I’m not an attractive young lady.

And, good lord, she now somehow has my cell phone number, and I don’t even want a pastel portrait in the first place, especially not if it costs $180.

If I had so much money that I could afford to throw it away on pastel portraits, I’d buy myself my very own personal blue raspberry slurpee machine instead. Heck, I’d buy everyone a blue raspberry slurpee machine. You know you want one. Just admit it. And then I’d take over the world and make sure that no one (and I do mean no one) ever enforced those annoying “No Food or Drink Allowed” policies.

And that’s a promise.

Vote for me.

the conversations i have

All-Star Crackstar Squad, Suckool

Somayya and I, wasting our lives away in anthro lab:

Somayya: What’s a lower molar cusp pattern? And a dental arcade?

Me: I have no idea, dude.

Somayya: Didn’t he just go over this in lecture today?

Me: Yeah, but I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe I fell asleep at that part.

Somayya: Great, that helps.

Me: I think the dental arcade has to do with the shape. ::Picks up a fossilized jaw:: See, this is U-shaped. ::Inspects it further:: Wait, is this a V-shape?

Somayya: We’re so lame.

Me: Hmm.

Somayya: Actually, I’m the lamest one.

Me: I agree.

Somayya: You’re less lame than I am, but still lame.

Me: Great, thanks.

Somayya: Okay, so let’s move on to a different lab station. Do you want to go this way or that way?

Me: How ’bout we go this way? ::pointing at the door::

Somayya: Let’s go.

So yeah, we left anthro lab a mere ten minutes after we walked in. We just sauntered right out, looking straight ahead, as nonchalantly as we had entered. And heck, don’t tell me you could have sat there poking at Australopithecus anamensis and Sahelanthropus tchadensis fossils for an hour without getting bored out of your mind. But if you could have, more power to you.

As for Somayya and I, we went and slouched on a comfy sofa, sifted through an endless pile of childhood photos we had forgotten about, and laughed uproariously.

Good times.