Here’s looking at you, NOLA

“Dreams do come true in New Orleans…”

Ah, NOLA. Blues, Bourbon Street, and Beignets. What was I doing there?

Some of the other newspaper editors and I attended the Associated Collegiate Press College Media Convention. We took full advantage of the conference- InDesign tips, management tactics, staff training and networking. You’d better believe it was a newstastic experience.

You’d also better believe that exploring that crazy city was pretty freaking cool. We did it all- ate fried alligator and gumbo, checked out the market in the French Quarter, saw the Mississippi River, and drank the famed Bourbon Street ‘hurricanes.’ (I don’t know what was in them- don’t ask).

NOLA adventures

Another highlight of the trip? The girls and I decided to have our Tarot cards read. When in Rome, right?? I always take these kinds of things with a grain of salt, but the reading was actually pretty cool.

Plus, it inspired the following poem. Here’s to the unexplained, mysterious side of NOLA:

 

Tarot Tales

in the back room of a voodoo shop
he stared at her across the top
of the deck of tattered cards-

he flipped them one by one,
laying her soul, undone
on the faded tabletop-

her moon rose high, the tarot said
and soon her heart was read
far too easily-

that man with a wicked deck
understood this fragile wreck
more than anyone she’s known.

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Happy Homecoming

Haven’t posted in a while, but there’s a reason for that- Homecoming weekend.

Oh, Homecoming. Students neglect all their obligations for about 48 hours, becoming much more reckless as alumni swarm the campus to reminisce about the days when they did the same. The school is decked out in maroon and gold, lax pinnies with “SENIORS” stamped across the front abound, and whispers of which off-campus houses will be throwing parties tear through the school like wildfire.

This year’s festivities featured some key moments- I wiped the tears off the face of my too-drunk friend at the bar, cheered with my roommates at the pep rally, spent all of Saturday sporting more school spirit gear than I do all year, and allowed my alumni friends to buy me a drink or two “because I’m employed now, thank you.”

Maybe it’s the rosy lenses of nostalgia creeping in a little early, but senior year homecoming finally felt right. I was reunited with some of my best friends, and I imagined what life will be like next year when I experience homecoming as a student-no-longer. As much as I complain about my work for class, I know that the scary and very real “real world” is the ever-approaching next step, and that weekends like this will soon become a thing of the past.

All the school spirit might be getting to me, but I am determined to make every moment left as a college student count. This weekend, as I sat at the local bar that will serve as the backdrop for many of my college-year memories with the friend two years my senior who had brought me there for the first time, I thought about how much had changed- and how much I felt at home.

Life’s going to get crazy soon- so I’m going to take as many hilarious candid shots with my roommates as I can, say “yes” to the opportunities that come my way, and make sure I don’t take these next few months for granted.

Sleep is for the weak. Besides, my bed will still be there when I’m an unemployed post-grad.

Happy Homecoming.

Some of the greatest ladies I know.

Homecoming brings out the dysfunction in all of us.

#overheardinmyhouse

Going home for the weekend is always an interesting experience. Everyone thinks their own family is a little crazy, and I’m no exception. To illustrate, here are a few things that were said in my house this weekend.

 

“On a scale of one to America, how free are you this weekend?”

“I’ve told you like 4 times to put your picture of the archbishop away.”

“I’m sort of obsessed with Alaskan real estate.” (we live in Connecticut)

“Should we invite Doug to Doug’s birthday dinner?”

“Do you have baby chicken disease?”

“That star is dead and so are your dreams.”

 

…Welcome to the family. 

I would write.

Sometimes I write poetry…

I would write.

I would write of you, truly
if I had the skill
of confining such a thrill
to paper. 
I’d write of love, truly
if I thought there was a
string of letters
for the strength of 
my emotion.
I’d write of life, truly
if I knew its meaning-
knew by what grand
chance or happenstance,
by what plan
of god or man
I came to be.
I would write for you, truly
if I could write at all.

Life in progress

I was asked (read: forced) to make this blog for a class last year, at which time you would have stumbled here to find a few posts that seemed very professional. Maybe now I’ll give this whole blogging thing a try my way.

Today began what I can only think of as a quarter-life crisis.

Last year, I watched my senior college friends freak out about the future from the relative safety of junior year.

I told them not to worry. “It’ll be fine- you’re smart, you work hard. You’ll get a job.” I believed it when I said it, and for the most part, I was right. I know some pretty cool kids who are already doing pretty amazing things.

But today, Iona College notified us that it will soon be time to register for Spring 2014 classes. Classes for the last semester of my college career.

Commence extreme panic.

Which classes do I take? Is my resume good enough? Should I apply for an internship? Will I be able to meet my course requirements, run the college newspaper, write my senior Honors thesis, do an internship AND maintain my sanity? Prognosis: unlikely.

I know many of my professors use the scare tactic to get kids to work hard. That’s never really been my scene- I just work hard because I believe that if you’re going to bother doing something at all, you might as well do it right. I know there are a lot of things I can do right; the trick is to getting other people to believe that I can do them too.

You can listen to everyone else when it comes to your future, but you’ll rarely get a straight answer. Do the internship, don’t do the internship. Indent that line on your resume. Spellcheck your cover letter. Send the employer a chocolate-covered edible arrangement. Spritz the envelope with fairy dust and sunshine.

In the end, I know I have to hack it out on my own. Life’s a guessing game and I’m not even going to pretend I have the answers. Hopefully my advisor will be able to shed some kind of light on my current life crisis situation.

I suppose I can take my dad’s advice. Today’s text message to him read: “I’m stressed out about my future and don’t sleep anymore. Is this adulthood? Yay.” His response: “Chill.”

Father knows best, right?