Paula Abdul while getting a smoothie in LA, where of course spontaneous tryouts for American Idol occur, but it seems fine. I leave the room feeling on the one hand disappointed about being waitlisted, but on the other hand, confident I sang as well as I could and that I can’t help but stick out a little bit. Plus, there were thirty-six people trying out for three spots.
The word waitlisted inspires anxiety that could only be related to college. TCP (the college process) at Hadley starts in infancy basically, and I am semi on my own here in terms of setting a summer tour of my reaches, safeties, et al. Back in my former life, I’d be visiting Mrs. Dandy-Patinko every other day, obsessing about the details of extracurricular activities and teacher recommendations, but in London I am blissfully unaware of the constant pressure for Ivy.
I wait for a red bus to take me all the way across town, back to the dump I call my dorm. When it arrives, I show my frequent traveler card and sit down, ignoring my propensity for motion sickness in favor of finding out what other news Chris has to share.
You don’t need me to tell you that addressing the situation with Lindsay Parrish is something that has to be dealt with pronto. Just convince you dear dad to kick her out. Maybe she can stay at the Ritz and hire a driver — no, that wouldn’t work — she’d need supervision — ohhh, they could give her one of those ankle things that monitor her every move and jolt her if she strays too far. But Prada doesn’t make those ankle cuffs, so she probably wouldn’t agree to wear it. Oh, well.
In other less shitty news…Mr. Chaucer agreed to write my college rec. letter. I’m thinking of applying early decision to Stanford but kind of worried that I might regret it. Dandy-Patinko says she thinks I’ll get in and that it’d be the right place for me, but I also get the feeling she’s basing this on TGF (the gay factor) on the west coast.
What else. Snow, blah, blah, blah. I want a boyfriend. Hooked up with a hottie in Chicago over break — don’t know why I’m just telling you now — it still feels weird to talk about it, I guess. I’ll avoid the nitty-gritty but tell you I wouldn’t mind another trip to the windy city. Road trip this summer??
I look up from the letter to make sure I’m not missing my stop. As soon as I get back to the phones at campus I need to call home and talk to my dad. Mentally going back five hours, I figure he’d be in the middle of his day, probably talking trash with the other faculty members at their Thursday morning meeting, so I’ll have to wait anyway. Passengers get on the bus and the driver lurches the vehicle forward. I have no idea where we are, only that we’re around halfway to school. My bus and Tube route knowledge is limited; when I stray from my usual places, I get lost and it takes forever to backtrack to familiar territory.
As I’m thinking this, I suddenly think that maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m too comfortable doing my little exchange student thing and treating this like a Hadley Hall in London experience rather than a totally separate, fun, potentially wild or eye-opening deal. Right then, I pull the overhead wire that alerts the driver to stop at the next place and I get off the bus still clutching my letter.
Feeling proud that I’ve stopped following the path of normalcy and banality, I wander around for a minute, dodging traffic and weaving among the throngs of people. Down a u-shaped lane, I look in the shop windows, check out the menu at a cool looking bistro, and pause by an art gallery. It’s small, tucked back into the side of a mews house. Mews houses used to be old stables back when horse and carriages were the norm, and they are my favorite kind of houses here — even more than a place like Bracker’s. The ones on this street are painted all different colors, and the effect — especially at this time of day — is amazing. I feel transported. My
The word waitlisted inspires anxiety that could only be related to college. TCP (the college process) at Hadley starts in infancy basically, and I am semi on my own here in terms of setting a summer tour of my reaches, safeties, et al. Back in my former life, I’d be visiting Mrs. Dandy-Patinko every other day, obsessing about the details of extracurricular activities and teacher recommendations, but in London I am blissfully unaware of the constant pressure for Ivy.
I wait for a red bus to take me all the way across town, back to the dump I call my dorm. When it arrives, I show my frequent traveler card and sit down, ignoring my propensity for motion sickness in favor of finding out what other news Chris has to share.
You don’t need me to tell you that addressing the situation with Lindsay Parrish is something that has to be dealt with pronto. Just convince you dear dad to kick her out. Maybe she can stay at the Ritz and hire a driver — no, that wouldn’t work — she’d need supervision — ohhh, they could give her one of those ankle things that monitor her every move and jolt her if she strays too far. But Prada doesn’t make those ankle cuffs, so she probably wouldn’t agree to wear it. Oh, well.
In other less shitty news…Mr. Chaucer agreed to write my college rec. letter. I’m thinking of applying early decision to Stanford but kind of worried that I might regret it. Dandy-Patinko says she thinks I’ll get in and that it’d be the right place for me, but I also get the feeling she’s basing this on TGF (the gay factor) on the west coast.
What else. Snow, blah, blah, blah. I want a boyfriend. Hooked up with a hottie in Chicago over break — don’t know why I’m just telling you now — it still feels weird to talk about it, I guess. I’ll avoid the nitty-gritty but tell you I wouldn’t mind another trip to the windy city. Road trip this summer??
I look up from the letter to make sure I’m not missing my stop. As soon as I get back to the phones at campus I need to call home and talk to my dad. Mentally going back five hours, I figure he’d be in the middle of his day, probably talking trash with the other faculty members at their Thursday morning meeting, so I’ll have to wait anyway. Passengers get on the bus and the driver lurches the vehicle forward. I have no idea where we are, only that we’re around halfway to school. My bus and Tube route knowledge is limited; when I stray from my usual places, I get lost and it takes forever to backtrack to familiar territory.
As I’m thinking this, I suddenly think that maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m too comfortable doing my little exchange student thing and treating this like a Hadley Hall in London experience rather than a totally separate, fun, potentially wild or eye-opening deal. Right then, I pull the overhead wire that alerts the driver to stop at the next place and I get off the bus still clutching my letter.
Feeling proud that I’ve stopped following the path of normalcy and banality, I wander around for a minute, dodging traffic and weaving among the throngs of people. Down a u-shaped lane, I look in the shop windows, check out the menu at a cool looking bistro, and pause by an art gallery. It’s small, tucked back into the side of a mews house. Mews houses used to be old stables back when horse and carriages were the norm, and they are my favorite kind of houses here — even more than a place like Bracker’s. The ones on this street are painted all different colors, and the effect — especially at this time of day — is amazing. I feel transported. My
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