Wednesday, December 31, 2003
The University of Waterloo is located on University Avenue in Waterloo City.
You know that's funny.
You know that's funny.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
I decided today, after finishing another book, to look at the packages I received from the universities. They were sent to me more than a month ago, and since then, I've opened them, took out the "Thank you Jenny, for applying to..." letters, put them back again without reading them, and took them out again two weeks ago and read through the whole thing. They do not make for very exciting reading. Much similar to math textbooks.
Though Waterloo's package is the most simple and organized, it is also the most demanding. In order to be considered, I must print and fill out an Admission Information Form, which is more like Tell Us All Your Nerdy Traits In Ten Pages. I can't believe they're making me print.
I have to answer questions about my summer activities, reading interests, goals, hobbies, et cetera, so that they - The University of Waterloo - can know about my "achievements and interests in all areas in school and in the community." They then said "We read every AIF", which I found very threatening. I don't know what to think of when I hear the word 'we'. Should I picture the buildings and lecture halls? The grass and basketball nets?
The questions are not difficult, and I can probably answer them with relative ease had a friend asked me. But to type the answers and mail them to Waterloo for inspection? That's like answering to a friend's mother. Except instead of being rejected, I would get something like "Sorry Jenny, from what I can tell through your little write-up, you're not fit to hang out with my son/daughter/chihuahua. Try again next year?"
When I'm asked about my hobbies in such a formal setting, I feel pressured to list the acceptable ones, such as reading, piano playing, coin collecting, and basket-weaving. Not that I do all of the things of course, just that if I had to list some acceptable hobbies, I'd put those down. But I also want to put down my actual hobbies, which are teeth brushing, blending (with a blender, not into surroundings), farming, and cook-book reading. What would Waterloo think of those? Would they embrace me into their arms and crown me with a W? Would they, upon seeing my incredible hobby list, automatically hand me my degree? Would my dashing potential seep through my list of spare time activities? Why am I being forced to list my hobbies?
Though Waterloo's package is the most simple and organized, it is also the most demanding. In order to be considered, I must print and fill out an Admission Information Form, which is more like Tell Us All Your Nerdy Traits In Ten Pages. I can't believe they're making me print.
I have to answer questions about my summer activities, reading interests, goals, hobbies, et cetera, so that they - The University of Waterloo - can know about my "achievements and interests in all areas in school and in the community." They then said "We read every AIF", which I found very threatening. I don't know what to think of when I hear the word 'we'. Should I picture the buildings and lecture halls? The grass and basketball nets?
The questions are not difficult, and I can probably answer them with relative ease had a friend asked me. But to type the answers and mail them to Waterloo for inspection? That's like answering to a friend's mother. Except instead of being rejected, I would get something like "Sorry Jenny, from what I can tell through your little write-up, you're not fit to hang out with my son/daughter/chihuahua. Try again next year?"
When I'm asked about my hobbies in such a formal setting, I feel pressured to list the acceptable ones, such as reading, piano playing, coin collecting, and basket-weaving. Not that I do all of the things of course, just that if I had to list some acceptable hobbies, I'd put those down. But I also want to put down my actual hobbies, which are teeth brushing, blending (with a blender, not into surroundings), farming, and cook-book reading. What would Waterloo think of those? Would they embrace me into their arms and crown me with a W? Would they, upon seeing my incredible hobby list, automatically hand me my degree? Would my dashing potential seep through my list of spare time activities? Why am I being forced to list my hobbies?
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Since it has been what people call 'Christmas time' - made all too obvious by catchy and ubiquitous tunes, obese men in red suits screaming such obscenities as 'HO HO HO', commercialized items representing this particular 'holiday', and enough blinking lights and bright wrapping paper to blind the average eye - I have decided to write a little about the festivities that occur around this time and what they all mean to me. That was one extremely long sentence.
My first topic of discussion is wrapping paper. Until recently, I never questioned the purpose behind it. It looks nice, it makes your gifts look nice, and it makes it look like you put effort into a particular gift, even if you put no thought to it whatsoever and merely grabbed something off a Body Shop shelf. And paid for it of course. (I'll talk about the Body Shop another time). But ever since I've realized how time consuming it is to wrap gifts, and how sad I get when people tear apart my wrapping with fervor and too much enthusiasm, I have decided to stop wrapping gifts. It's not that I'm bad at wrapping. I'm actually quite good, given an hour or so per gift. So if your gift comes in a plastic bag, it's probably from me.
But if you really like wrapping paper, I guess I can buy you a roll of it instead of trying to find a suitable gift. Much more convenient if you ask me. I can just go to the dollar store.
I had a second topic of discussion. It was about ostentatious decorations and frazzled women in high heels carrying shopping bags. But I don't feel like going into that anymore.
Anyway, I better go find some plastic bags for my Christmas presents.
My first topic of discussion is wrapping paper. Until recently, I never questioned the purpose behind it. It looks nice, it makes your gifts look nice, and it makes it look like you put effort into a particular gift, even if you put no thought to it whatsoever and merely grabbed something off a Body Shop shelf. And paid for it of course. (I'll talk about the Body Shop another time). But ever since I've realized how time consuming it is to wrap gifts, and how sad I get when people tear apart my wrapping with fervor and too much enthusiasm, I have decided to stop wrapping gifts. It's not that I'm bad at wrapping. I'm actually quite good, given an hour or so per gift. So if your gift comes in a plastic bag, it's probably from me.
But if you really like wrapping paper, I guess I can buy you a roll of it instead of trying to find a suitable gift. Much more convenient if you ask me. I can just go to the dollar store.
I had a second topic of discussion. It was about ostentatious decorations and frazzled women in high heels carrying shopping bags. But I don't feel like going into that anymore.
Anyway, I better go find some plastic bags for my Christmas presents.
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Valuables
When asked to put things down as a desposit, most people will put down their car keys, credit cards, cell phones, or children. Me, I put down my bus pass. Why? BECAUSE MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.
Somebody buy me a car. Please.
When asked to put things down as a desposit, most people will put down their car keys, credit cards, cell phones, or children. Me, I put down my bus pass. Why? BECAUSE MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.
Somebody buy me a car. Please.
Monday, December 15, 2003
One can never underestimate the ability of a simple sign or advertisement to make you chuckle for hours, or to drive you completely mad. I saw one of those today and I'm not sure which one of the effects it is having on me. Maybe both. The following poster was seen in a spa window:
Christmas Spa package! The perfect gift for a friend or for yourself!
$45 One Pedicure!
One Manicure!
One Radiance Facial!
The abundance of exclamation marks was enough to exhaust the little voice in my head (and make me a little nervous). What exactly is a Radiance! facial? How does it differ from a regular facial? So for $45, I get the complete 20 nails makeover plus a facial with extra radiance. Say I wanted the Radiance Facial! without the Radiance!, how much do I get taken off the price? This reminds me a little of fast food menus, where you can supersize your meal for 89 cents or make your fries wedge fries for 49 cents. Maybe they should have put that at the bottom of the poster: For a Radiance Facial with EXTRA! Radiance!, add [amount]
Wouldn't it be fun to go for a facial and emerge with bright! radiant! looking! complexion!?
Can I get a Radiance Pedicure! instead?
Christmas Spa package! The perfect gift for a friend or for yourself!
$45 One Pedicure!
One Manicure!
One Radiance Facial!
The abundance of exclamation marks was enough to exhaust the little voice in my head (and make me a little nervous). What exactly is a Radiance! facial? How does it differ from a regular facial? So for $45, I get the complete 20 nails makeover plus a facial with extra radiance. Say I wanted the Radiance Facial! without the Radiance!, how much do I get taken off the price? This reminds me a little of fast food menus, where you can supersize your meal for 89 cents or make your fries wedge fries for 49 cents. Maybe they should have put that at the bottom of the poster: For a Radiance Facial with EXTRA! Radiance!, add [amount]
Wouldn't it be fun to go for a facial and emerge with bright! radiant! looking! complexion!?
Can I get a Radiance Pedicure! instead?
Saturday, December 06, 2003
I am sure everybody was waiting for this:
Part two
The night of the previous entry, I performed for the first time on the cello. Although my orchestra made several grievous and quite noticable mistakes, I had a great time and found it to be an incredible experience. I love the cello. Performing is always nerve-wracking, especially if one performes for the first time on a new instrument. I was afraid of many things, and even had a disturbing dream several nights prior to the concert. In that dream, I walked on the stage in my socks, and strangely, the stage was dark. I was excited to be performing, and was a bit flushed from the exhilaration. Suddenly, I realized I wasn't wearing shoes, so I rushed off to the back of the stage. After quickly putting on my shoes, I returned back to the stage only to find that they played the numbers without me. Heartbroken, I woke up.
The dream didn't bother me much, since I have enough sense to remember to wear shoes (I hope). However, I was afraid of the following things:
1) Dropping my bow. I realize how absurd this may sound to experienced cellists, as a piano player afraid of falling off the piano bench might sound to me. However, you must realize that having only played since September, the lack of formal instruction - though I did have the priviledge of receiving several tips from an experienced cello friend of mine - and mere inexperience could manifest to such a fear. I was terribly afraid of dropping my bow in the middle of playing. Hey, drummers can drop their sticks.
2) Having my cello slide out beneath me. Sliding was a big problem. I went out of my way to ensure that my endpin does not slide by first asking a friend to purchase an endpin stopper. It turned out to be not only pathetically expensive because he purchased it at Tom Lee, but also useless against my school's auditorium floor. My teacher suggested that I bring a wet paper towel to clean the floor before I play, so the ground will be free of dust and thus have enough friction. I'm sure all cello masters bring a wet paper towel to a performance and get down on their knees to scrub the floor before they perform. Finally, after many weak pleadings, I received a carpet.
The biggest fear of all, of course, was playing the wrong notes, having a horrible sound, horrible bowing, and intonation. I never had to worry about intonation with piano, but with the cello, I worry until my hair fall out. Experienced cellists don't know how difficult it is to bow and how hard it is to place your fingers correctly to produce the right tone. But I digress.
With great thanks to God, I did not drop my bow and my cello did not slide. The concert was fun, and I received many pleasant comments. I look forward to new pieces and more performances.
Part two
The night of the previous entry, I performed for the first time on the cello. Although my orchestra made several grievous and quite noticable mistakes, I had a great time and found it to be an incredible experience. I love the cello. Performing is always nerve-wracking, especially if one performes for the first time on a new instrument. I was afraid of many things, and even had a disturbing dream several nights prior to the concert. In that dream, I walked on the stage in my socks, and strangely, the stage was dark. I was excited to be performing, and was a bit flushed from the exhilaration. Suddenly, I realized I wasn't wearing shoes, so I rushed off to the back of the stage. After quickly putting on my shoes, I returned back to the stage only to find that they played the numbers without me. Heartbroken, I woke up.
The dream didn't bother me much, since I have enough sense to remember to wear shoes (I hope). However, I was afraid of the following things:
1) Dropping my bow. I realize how absurd this may sound to experienced cellists, as a piano player afraid of falling off the piano bench might sound to me. However, you must realize that having only played since September, the lack of formal instruction - though I did have the priviledge of receiving several tips from an experienced cello friend of mine - and mere inexperience could manifest to such a fear. I was terribly afraid of dropping my bow in the middle of playing. Hey, drummers can drop their sticks.
2) Having my cello slide out beneath me. Sliding was a big problem. I went out of my way to ensure that my endpin does not slide by first asking a friend to purchase an endpin stopper. It turned out to be not only pathetically expensive because he purchased it at Tom Lee, but also useless against my school's auditorium floor. My teacher suggested that I bring a wet paper towel to clean the floor before I play, so the ground will be free of dust and thus have enough friction. I'm sure all cello masters bring a wet paper towel to a performance and get down on their knees to scrub the floor before they perform. Finally, after many weak pleadings, I received a carpet.
The biggest fear of all, of course, was playing the wrong notes, having a horrible sound, horrible bowing, and intonation. I never had to worry about intonation with piano, but with the cello, I worry until my hair fall out. Experienced cellists don't know how difficult it is to bow and how hard it is to place your fingers correctly to produce the right tone. But I digress.
With great thanks to God, I did not drop my bow and my cello did not slide. The concert was fun, and I received many pleasant comments. I look forward to new pieces and more performances.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
This entry will take place in two parts
Part one:
Today was so interesting it's worth writing about, though not necessarily worth reading about. It started with, surprise, the alarm clock, followed by an exuberant me jumping off the bed in anticipation of the new day. Just kidding. I did the usual, ate breakfast, put my cello into the trunk, and got dropped off at school by my dad. CBC played a lovely recording of a piano prelude and I left the car with the music still ringing peacefully through my head. I almost reached the door of my school when something hit me: I forgot my cello in the trunk.
The ending of this part is rather sad. I thought about writing everything down, but that's a bit strenuous, and I'm lazy, so I'm going to make a long story short. What happened was, my dad brought my cello to school at around 10 am, but I didn't get it until after my rehearsal, because I called my mom and thought she was going to bring it and meet me somewhere. I went to the office numerous times asking if my mother had come, which she never did, without mentioning a cello. I didn't think it was necessary to mention the cello, because if my mom had come, she would have brought it with her, and since the teachers know me very well, they would have known it was my dad that dropped off the cello.
But praise the Lord, nothing happened to my mother and my brother like I'd feared, I was reunited with my cello in the end, and my dad was not angry for making the extra trip.
Stay tuned for part two of this incredible series.
Part one:
Today was so interesting it's worth writing about, though not necessarily worth reading about. It started with, surprise, the alarm clock, followed by an exuberant me jumping off the bed in anticipation of the new day. Just kidding. I did the usual, ate breakfast, put my cello into the trunk, and got dropped off at school by my dad. CBC played a lovely recording of a piano prelude and I left the car with the music still ringing peacefully through my head. I almost reached the door of my school when something hit me: I forgot my cello in the trunk.
The ending of this part is rather sad. I thought about writing everything down, but that's a bit strenuous, and I'm lazy, so I'm going to make a long story short. What happened was, my dad brought my cello to school at around 10 am, but I didn't get it until after my rehearsal, because I called my mom and thought she was going to bring it and meet me somewhere. I went to the office numerous times asking if my mother had come, which she never did, without mentioning a cello. I didn't think it was necessary to mention the cello, because if my mom had come, she would have brought it with her, and since the teachers know me very well, they would have known it was my dad that dropped off the cello.
But praise the Lord, nothing happened to my mother and my brother like I'd feared, I was reunited with my cello in the end, and my dad was not angry for making the extra trip.
Stay tuned for part two of this incredible series.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
As strange as this may sound, I enjoy going to the orthodontist. I've never dreaded going before, but I have recently discovered how much - for lack of a better word - fun I have when I'm there. My orthodontist is a great woman, and all her assistants have an awesome sense of humor. I love talking to them, though I usually do that with my mouth wide open and with metal objects inside.
I'm always amazed at how experienced Dr. Ortho is. She could be telling me of her trip to the Chang Jiang River in China, jotting down notes on her pad, swiftly bending wires, and giving directions to her assistants at the same time. Whenever she tells me these hilarious stories, several of her staff who walked by to ask her a quick question stay and listen to her stories, so it's almost like having a big audience for my fabulous and facinating teeth.
Luckily this time, not only did I not get fang-like elastics, I wasn't required to wear them at all.
I'm always amazed at how experienced Dr. Ortho is. She could be telling me of her trip to the Chang Jiang River in China, jotting down notes on her pad, swiftly bending wires, and giving directions to her assistants at the same time. Whenever she tells me these hilarious stories, several of her staff who walked by to ask her a quick question stay and listen to her stories, so it's almost like having a big audience for my fabulous and facinating teeth.
Luckily this time, not only did I not get fang-like elastics, I wasn't required to wear them at all.
