Bars VS Churches: In the bible belt is there really a difference?

So beside feeling like I’ve mastered the art of time traveling, moving from Los Angeles to the tiny town of Rolla, Missouri was a more of a culture shock than any experience abroad. And my passport doesn’t have a page without at least one stamp in it.

Now I’m a bartender at a sports bar. Well technically, Bruno’s is a British Pub. Maybe because two of the owners are British, but the scottish eggs are off the menu now. Missourians are more into deep fried pickles.

So far in this experience I’ve thought a lot about how when we used to move around when I was younger, my parents always sought out a church as a way to help settle in. In Oklahoma we only had three options since Catholics were a rare species. All my Baptist and whatever other variations of Christianity there were in those parts, were always trying to get me saved anyway, so my idea of religion just faded away like all of their family bibles they asked me to pray on and feel the love of Christ.

Now though, I think I reverted back to what my parents taught me. Maybe the community part is what they were seeking. And that is exactly what I’ve done, except it just so happens in my new community I pour pints and mix drinks. I also sit there and listen to the bar flies grumble about their terrible day at work or how this wife is cheating or that husband is off with another woman. Now that’s just like a confession, isn’t it? Except I don’t make anyone recite any Hail Mary’s. Usually a shot can cure anything.

Then there are those few people that you wished you saw a little bit less of. There was one guy who shared all the stories of his DUI and DWI records, after I poured him a pitcher of beer, of course. A woman gets real friendly with all the men only to call her husband to come pick her up, but I’m glad she doesn’t ever try to drive home. Another guy who drinks his lunch every day. I get so excited when he only orders sprite.

Now, too much of church can do the same thing to people. Those religions that boycotted Harry Potter. The people making enlarged posters of fetus outside abortion clinics. Families telling their own gay child that he’ll go to hell. It all seems to stem from fear, and doing something out of love seems so much more “Godly”. So with that in mind, just like drinking, all things in moderation, even Church.

I actually love this job. I’ve made friends. I get paid more than I would have for sitting on the couch reading books all day–but if there is ever a job like that, PLEASE INFORM ME! I am getting paid to talk with people. My favorite pastime.

With every conversation, I tell myself, “In this moment, my only job is to listen to every word.”

History

University of Ifer relocated to Missouri.  Now specializing in History with Big Doug, a World War II veteran, full of stories from back when cars were new and water was collected from the spring and kept in barrels on the front porch.  Another class, sociology of a small town bar.

Special lectures on:
- abnormal psychology or the ugly side of addiction in the family
-communications in the south or Tomek records an album in Nashville
- small town college heros
- going to concerts alone in Kansas City

The Trouble with Normal

“The impoverished vocabulary of straight culture tells us that people should be either husbands or wives or (nonsexual) friends.”

Michael Warner’s The Trouble with Normal has opened my mind up to all the different ways we’ve been conditioned to judge ourselves!

From “Brightness Falls”

“I’m not ignorant enough to start from scratch.  When you’re twenty you don’t know how hard it is to be a poet or whatever, and if you can fool yourself long enough and work hard enough you may have a shot at becoming what you were pretending to be.  It’s not just a question of time and money.  It’s a question of being able to fool yourself.”

Russell Calloway

F+ in Foreign Relations

I guess I sort of knew I wasn’t going to stay in Ireland forever. Now it’s easy for me to say, but I think at the time I was okay with moving there for him, after all what else was I going to do? When we started out I wouldn’t even let him call me his girlfriend until the night before my parents flew to Ireland and wanted to meet him. He’d convinced me that my parents and his parents would ask and it’d just be easier. Suddenly I went from having an exciting fling to some serious stuff. His parents loved me and my parents loved him, but that was great for awhile, until I didn’t want it anymore. At least we got a good two years in before that happened. The long distance part only worked because I wasn’t the jealous type and he couldn’t be too concerned since my college was close to an all girls school, even though I’m sure he still felt threatened. I think originally I wanted it to end when I first left, but I wasn’t ready too when it came time to say good-bye. I joked with him, “If you had a boring name, like Tom it would have never worked out.” I kind of liked telling people I met an Alistair abroad.

He was into making the big bucks, and I think I liked that about him in the beginning, I actually loved his determination and hopeful attitude. I think back then it was just what I needed: to turn off The Smiths and start enjoying myself. But once we were both at that part where school was over, me with a bachelor’s in Liberal Arts, him with a couple post grad degrees in marketing, I started to notice just how different we really were. I moved over and instantly hated the place he chose for us to live. Then he hated the job I chose for myself, even though I was very impressed with my ability to land a job my first day of trying. Vienna Shoes. The manager drove me crazy, which in turn drove him crazy, but it was all under the table money and it supported my shopping habit and I made rent when he couldn’t anymore. The main problem was that he wanted me to have a career so that I could stay. To him if I tried hard to get a job we would never have to be apart again, to me I wasn’t going to settle in some career, I still had a lot of living to do. I was not ready to be my parents. He was.

He had this friend, we’ll call him Clive. Now, I would be delighted to have a night out with Clive, but then he annoyed me to the point where I gave up and decided it gave me someone else to blame for my unhappiness. I missed that You, Me and Dupree movie, but I think I lived it while living in Blackrock. Clive and Alistair became fast friends during college in Dublin, while I was still in New York. And the times when I visited he was very fun to hang out with, but then when I arrived everything was thrown off. Three’s still a crowd.

Clive and Alistair had semi-planned a road trip with a couple of Alistair’s friends from Cork. I think he thought since I loved traveling, I’d enjoy going with the four of them. It was quite the adventure. We rented a car and camped our way through France and Spain and I think if I had gone with my friends I would have had a better time, or maybe if just the guys went, they would have all had a great time. We listened to a lot of MGMT and TuPac. Clive was a terrible driver. Alistair felt he had to keep all of us happy, me especially since things were already getting to the point of hopeless. I did enjoy seeing so much, and have every intention of returning to have just a little more time in Biarritz and San Sebastion and Valencia and Barcelona. Every time Alistair drank too much, or maybe he just acted drunk since I was most likely wasted off the wine and sangria, he proposed to me. It was something I had gotten used to, there was never a ring so I didn’t think I had anything to worry about, but I guess like he always would say, “What goes in sober, comes out drunk.”

After our little holiday we moved to his parents farm. It was in a really tiny town that had two churches, three bars, and one gas station with a little bit of a grocery store. The farm was about a mile off the main road. I’ve still tried to find it with google earth with no luck. We lived in the Bungalow with a family friend and his brother and his brother’s girlfriend. I slowly started to feel sorry for myself in the worst way. He would wake early to milk the cows and I would sleep. Then he was come wake me for lunch and I’d still want to lie in bed. I stopped shaving my legs, stopped wearing make up, and at the point when I stopped showering every day I decided I needed to get a job. I was ready to take anything. When I took a job selling make up business to business, Alistair was furious. All I could do was laugh. It was a hilarious job and I could see where it was humiliating, but after all I didn’t know anyone here so what did I care. I ended up being good at it, so I earned some quick cash and continued fighting with him about what was going to happen when my visa ended the next month. The job meant I had to wake up at 6 to catch the bus, then wait for Alistair’s rugby training to end at 7 to get a lift home with him. Alistair saw it as less time I was spending with him when we only had one precious month left together.

After I earned enough money to buy this coat that I really wanted, I quit. It was a great coat. I still love it. I needed excuses to get out of the farm since I wasn’t working, so I started going into Cork when Alistair had rugby training. I told him I was going to the college to use the computers to write for the website that I sort of worked for, but really I’d write everything really quickly and then rush over to Preachers, a pub that played great music and had a Wii. The bartender would give me free drinks if I could beat him in bowling, which usually didn’t happen, but either way when Alistair picked me up I smelled like Jameson. We tended to fight less on those nights so I don’t think he minded too much.

I dreaded my time at the farm, not because of anything in particular, but I just knew I was happier when I wasn’t there.  I started taking trips back to Dublin and drinking with the friends I had made up there. I would spent my weekends dancing to the Ting Ting’s “Shut up and Let me go” while Alistair played rugby and milked cows, our paths were definitely dividing.

When I left, I really did intend to return. He doesn’t believe that now, but I swear, if I didn’t think I was coming back, I really wouldn’t have left so much of my crap there! Especially these really adorable wellies, they were easy to slip on rain boots, white with red and yellow characters that looked like something straight out of Japan, but I think the company that made them was actually British. They were my I-really-need-something-to-get-me-excited-about-this-miserable-weather-rain boots. And they really did the trick. Unfortunately, in the break up those got thrown out and I’m still morning their loss and hoping someone will sell me a size 4 on eBay.

Trying to read Henry Miller

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”

I think he might be have been one of the most notable alumns of University of Ifer. I know his books are harder for the minds of today to comprehend, but since it’s all homework, I’m pulling out my highlighters and trying to get down and dirty with this poetic prose.

I have a big stack of summer reading. More to come…

Cultural Immersion: Road trip through France and Spain with the lads

Surprisingly this adventure was not my idea.  I was dragged along by my Irish boyfriend, who might have felt guilty about going on a trip without me or something.  Here’s a Victor Ward Summary:

Flew into Nantes.  Rented a silver Mercedes SUV.  Sat in the middle of the back seat because I was of course the smallest compared to my four Irish companions, all male, one my boyfriend who actually thought this would be the best vacation of our lives.  Drove south.  Got lost. Clive was the only insured driver and he made all of us fear for our lives.  He was used to driving on the left and of course in France they drive on the right.  At one point he pulled a Nicole Richie and headed the wrong way on the highway.  Luckily no one was around.  Listened to a lot of Sting and the soundtrack to Cruel Intentions.  We made it to La Rochelle and couldn’t find a place to sleep.  Campsites were closed and hotels were expensive.  The city looked ritzy and beautiful.  I kept calling it New Rochelle.  We parked it and slept.  My boyfriend, the tall rugby player he was, thought it would be more comfortable in “the boot” and sprawled out on top of all our duffle bags.  My head was a little too close to his farmer friend, Phil’s, rump, but we managed to sleep a couple hours. As soon as the sun rose, Clive continued on south.  Exhausted by the time we reached Bordeaux. Tried to rent just one room, got caught sneaking five into a three person room, had to pay for two rooms.  Rented it for just half a day, slept, showered and then roamed.  There were lots of kids in the streets and dirty dogs and empty coffee cups sprinkled with copper coins. We went to lunch.  Phil and I agreed the next part of the journey would be better if the two of us split a bottle of wine.  Drunk from wine, I slept in the car.  Camped at a small surfer town outside of Biarritz. Walked to a pizza place and bought bottles of fizzy wine for seven euros and then headed into Biarritz.  It was beautiful.  I ran straight out to the sand.  There were drumming circles with kids who were smoking hash and wearing Jimi Hendrix tee shirts.  The guys headed to the bars.  My boyfriend and I managed to slip off for a second and walk along the part of the boardwalk that connects to a huge rock by a bridge that screams chick flick movie moment.  It was lit up and couples came from every direction holding hands and talking in French.  Something happened with Clive, then there were some fights and drama ensued and we all came back to out tents and slept it off. Beached it in the morning.  Stayed till afternoon.  Their Irish skin couldn’t handle more than a couple hours of sun. Someone else drove to San Sebastion.  We found Igueldo Camping and stayed there.  They charged us extra since we had three tents.  They sold bottles of wine and sangria for two euro each, so we got a head start while the sun was still up.  I saw bags Cheetos and since that was my boyfriends favorite thing about the states I bought him a couple bags, but he said that they weren’t the same sort of cheesy.  The campsite was on a cliff and a taxi picked us up and the view of the ocean was like nothing I’d ever seen, but once we got downtown it was dirty again and the beach was out of sight completely.  There were too many Tapas Bars.  Each delicacy had a toothpick that you grabbed it from, and at the end they charge for each toothpick left on your plate.  I threw most of mine in the cracks of the benches. There were bite size cheese dishes or seafood quiches or different concoctions that tasted wonderful and left you wondering what exactly that might have been made from. The guys found the one English pub and we made a night of it.  Played our drinking game, 21 because it was the only game we knew that didn’t need cards.  Got hungry again and had gelato from a Boba yogurt shop where the menu was in Spanish and Chinese.  We just pointed to what we wanted.  Found a cathedral that had a crowd even at midnight.  The pictures came out fuzzy with orbs around the crucifix.  In the morning Phil offered to drive. We made it across Spain in just a day.  Lunched in Zaragoza, Clive ordered something that translated to meat from the head and once I told him what cabeza really meant he didn’t want to eat it anymore and threw a little fit, but we all agreed that it tasted alright and was just a little extra tender.  Phil made us listen to all his Tu Pac cds.  They all pronounced it Two Pack. Made it to Valencia before sundown.  The campsite was gravel and uncomfortable.  We went to an internet cafe in town and google mapped the next couple days of our journey.  The search nearby feature was very very helpful.  In the morning we headed to La Tomatina.  We met a group of Brits who dressed in matching fake tuxedos.  A German guy and his Mexican girlfriend directed us all.  The German guy liked jokes: What do you call a person who speaks one Language?  Bi-lingual.  And what do you call a person who speaks three languages?- Tri -lingual.  And someone who speaks just one?  AMERICAN!.  Bus to train to Buñol and we were late to the huge tomato throwing festival.  Cormac, the smartest of boyfriend’s friends stayed behind as we ventured into the crowd.  I lost my boyfriend and was smashed up next to Clive who never let go of my hand.  Huge trucks of tomatoes and people drove through the tiny alleyways that were already crammed with thousands of messy people.  Tomato sludge was up to my knees and it never seemed to end.  I ditched my chuck taylors and found two flip flops that were sort of my size that were thrown in a pile after the city cleaning crew cleaned up the sludge.  In just one hour it was like brand new and all the crazies were drinking beer and sangria in the town square.  It was so hot that the tomato smell seemed to marinate on our skin and mixed with the sweat of everyone else it made me want to vomit.  We went back to our campsite and jumped in the pool.  It was the best dip ever. Before leaving Valencia we parked near the neatest Architectural area, the City of Arts and Sciences.  Museum, Aquarium, Botanical Garden,  Opera House that outshines Sydney and a planetarium that is shaped like an eyeball sticking out of a huge reflection pool.  It was so hot, we cooled down by sticking our feet in the pool.  Everything was so bright with its white tiles, sunglasses were necessary.  Took a bunch of quick pics but Clive was hungover and cranky so we left before I was ready.  I would have spent at least two days just wandering, but it was hot after all so I didn’t resent him too much for making us get on our way.  Listened to some playlists with The Ting Tings and thought it was hilarious listening to four irish guys sing along to “Shut up and let me Go”.  Finally had outplayed the MGMT cd, so we hid it from Clive.  Barcelona hostel for that night.  Got food poisoning from Paella on Las Ramblas.  At a Dunkin Donuts a girl’s purse got stolen and the guy behind the counter made the man return it but by that time her camera and wallet were already in his possession.  She sat at that table and her friends comforted her while she cried.  We walked around and I puked a lot. Couldn’t make it through Gaudi’s cathedral.  Told myself I would just have to come back and not have shellfish paella next time.  From the outside the cathedral gothic church was still amazing.  My boyfriend stayed behind with me and I slept on a bench with my head resting on him while the rest went on.  Headed back into France, a place called Collioure, because they knew a guy who’s girlfriend’s parents had a summer place there.  It was a nice to see new fresh faces.  Played drinking games with them til six in the morning.  Shared a room with Phil and heard him rapping in his sleep.  Asked him to shut up and he said “Sorry, that’s just a little Two Pack for you,” and didn’t remember that the next day. Their friend’s girlfriend’s friend woke me up early to go to the beach. The water was freezing but the sun felt so nice.  We layed out with our iPods for about five hours before everyone joined us and it might have been my favorite part of the entire adventure.  Found another campsite in Montpellier, this one was on a fake beach.  The sand was almost as nice as sleeping in the beds at the apartment the night before.  Hearing the gentle waves and the seagulls in the morning was better.  On our way out of the city we got lost and found a small vineyard.  We met Boudoire.  He didn’t have a shirt and his rounded belly was pink from the sun.  He put on a shirt but left it unbuttoned.  He had white chest hair.  I didn’t know french but the rest of them talked.  I liked the rose wine so we bought of bottle of it for five euro.  The label said Pelican.  There wasn’t much detail beside that.  He let us wander and look at the grapes.  Phil wandered into where he was working and he let us all try the grape juice, the stuff before it becomes wine.  It was sweet and thick, like nothing from the juice boxes of my childhood.  Found a cheap hotel in Toulouse, this time we got two rooms from the start.  Had dinner at an Indian Restaurant.  Everything tasted wonderful.  No desire to drink made it a short night out.  Found a pub that was owned by some famous Irish Rugby player in Toulouse.  We met him and took pictures and drank some pints.  Drove to Bordeaux.  Found another cheap hotel outside of town.  Clive made it clear that camping was no longer an option.  The town was having some sort of festival that no one understood.  Kids were drinking wine in the streets and bands were playing and candles were lit and there were sparklers in some hands and it all went on in front of a gorgeous cathedral.  We went to a bar and played 21, Clive was still bad at even though we’d been playing it the entire trip. We slept and then headed back to La Rochelle.  It was prettier in the daytime, but pricier than we expected.  At a cafe, my stomach was queasy again after ordering brown  soup that tasted like they walked out to the water and scooped up some fishy water and served it to me. We spent the night back in Nantes. The hotel was so cheap the bathrooms were down the hall.  Everyone was cranky.  I slept and packed up all my clothes.  Returned the car.  Boarded the plane.  Landed back in Dublin.  Suddenly I understood why I didn’t have that giddy feeling that I feel when landing in LAX: I was still abroad.

Environmental Studies: The forest as a time machine.

Humboldt county.  May 2009.

Because we didn’t know what we were doing, we stopped at an information place on the side of the highway.  The forest ranger on duty was a young man who reminded me of what my dad would have possibly been like if he hadn’t joined that big aerospace company 25 years ago.  Lima was his name.  Lima smiled and handed us a map.  His forest ranger uniform was made out of the same fabric a police officer’s is made of but since it has patches with trees it looks more like a boy scout’s uniform.  

We looked at the map in silence for a minute until Lima asked if we needed help.  He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and clicked it with his thumb.  He kept he back straight as he leaned over the counter and highlighted the trails.  

This loop is in the heart of the redwoods, but this other one follows the creek.  Sometimes the creek is nice because you can feel so small, almost claustrophobic among those giants.  But next to the creek, it gets a little close to the roads, so sometimes the noise from outside gets in.  It isn’t so busy today, but I know I don’t like to hear cars on when I’m hiking. 

We chose the Redwoods.  Might as well.  Lima gave us detailed instructions.  James Irving Trail to Clintonia to Miner’s Ridge, which would bring us back to James Irving.  A six mile loop.  Thanks Lima.  

You betcha. 

It was right off the 101 and then off of scenic parkway that had an elk preserve on the left.  We drove passed the parking spaces and the start of the trail, but it was a nice place to be lost.  After finding a place on the parkway to turn around, we said by the Franklin, our little gray Yaris, grabbed our sunglasses,  placed our water bottles, two apples and the map in a little red backpack.  I brought along my 35mm camera too because Big Foot might not show up with digital technology.

Suddenly we were right there.  Right in the middle of it.  There was a creek, so that meant there were a few bridges.  Wooden and sturdy.  Much more real than the ones at the log rides of every local amusement park.  The trails were beaten paths, but kept groomed by the State Park.  

It was the trees though, the trees in such massive amounts, just everywhere you look.  Old. Tall. Some slim, one so slim that we watched one it swaying with the breeze.  It sounded like it could fall at any second.  Creaking and tilting so lightly that it could just been our eyes playing tricks.  The trail started low and etched it’s way up and up  so we could see more trees, but now we could look down on them and up to them.  We were surrounded by them.  All that I could think was how there would be so many more of them if we didn’t have as many roads and gas stations and schools and shopping malls and airports and hotels and offices and golf courses and restaurants and hospitals and homes.

When we came to a sign finally for the loops, both signs had Clintonia, so we chose the one that had Miner’s Ridge underneath Clintonia.  The other one said Fern Canyon and Lima didn’t mention any ferns, so we went left at that fork. 

We passed a huge hollow and broken tree.  Since Big Foot might be living there or it might have been a gateway to another dimension we took a break, focused the camera for a few pics and sipped some of our water.  

The trail started to decline again.  Stepping downhill seemed harder for the muscles in my legs, whatever muscles those are.  My focus changed from looking up and down at trees to the lush ferns that carpet the ground.  Everywhere and anywhere that the sun sneaks down to there are ferns.  Some are small, others are like grandmothers reaching through smothering smaller ones that smother even the smallest ones. 

Our trail forked again.  We looked at the map, we looked at the signs.  Had we already been on the Miner’s Ridge?  Were there two Clintonia’s?  We picked Miner’s Ridge because it said it led to a campsite and there were campsite signs where we parked Franklin.  I’ll cry if I have to walk all the way back.

We talked about books, lifetime movies, gay rights, coachella, people from Oklahoma, our family.  We climbed over trees in our path that looked like something out of Donkey Kong.  There was one huge tree that had toppled over and neatly sawed so it made a wall lining the trail.  It didn’t fall over recently because it was already fully covered with the brightest green moss and had tiny purple flowers growing out of the sides like unwanted weeds.

It was a huge circle around a giant ridge that gave a beautiful view of a forrest down below that looked very untouched.  An hour later and we should have known because the path changed.  It was muddier in places.  It was overgrown with plants that weren’t ferns, just green leaves that wiped the following hiker if she followed too closely.  Then there was a cabin and finally we saw an end in sight but it wasn’t familiar.  There was a road, and a car parked, but not the parking lot where we left Franklin. There were guys, so we asked where we were.  They said at the campground, follow the road.  So we did.  Then we saw it.  It was the ocean.  Shit. 

Let’s run. 

I thought she was crazy.  My legs could barely walk, let along run.  We contemplated waiting for a car on that road to pass so we could ask for a ride.  The sign said headquarters 6.7 miles.  That was where we parked Franklin.  It was already 3:00.  We would not be back in time for the wine tasting at 5:00.  We would be too tired to make it to Pint night.  Why didn’t Lima warn us about ending up at the beach? We were starving, but still had our two apples at least.  We decided to save them, who knew how long it’d take us to get all the way back. 

We walked a little faster, passed the guys who gave us directions earlier, passed that cabin, and just when we reached the fallen tree covered in moss it happened.  I saw the tree tilting in a way that it was about to slide further into the dirt, it was sinking like Atreyu’s horse in the NeverEnding Story, but then it would stand up straight again.  I didn’t want to walk past it, so I waited the way one waits to sync with lawn sprinklers to avoid getting drenched by the spray.  I waited for it to stand straight up then darted across.  Then I looked back and it had stopped moving.  It was definitely time for those apples. 

We made it past the tree that blocks the trail and around another bend there was a bench.  We sat and we demolished the apples so that our fingers could barely hold the cores.  I had never eaten that much of an apple again.  I realized how wasteful I’d always been. 

After our apples, we picked up the pace again, but still the sign seemed far away.  Even when we reached it, it informed us that we still had 3 miles to go. We passed Big Foot’s home and the tree that we could hear swaying and then we saw the bridge and finally the parking lot and Franklin.  We had been in there with the trees and the ferns for five hours and weren’t sure where it all went, but now we were out.  Back to the car, the parkway, the 101, the gas station, the university, the town, and home.

Open Enrollment

Although I didn’t fully understand the concept of University of Ifer until months later, I had actually enrolled while still at Sarah Lawrence College.  While my peers struggled to write the best personal statement and get recommendations for graduate school applications or polished up their resumes and cover letters, I walked over to the grocery store and got a money order, filled out a simple visa application.  Bravo. I would move to Ireland.  Visa applications are much easier than studying for the GRE and much cheaper than trying to convert my entire  closet into office attire.  

This is a collection of a new level education.  The University of Ifer is for anyone who rejects the norms for this rite of passage.  It’s also to reassure those who don’t already understand that, “Of course, you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, because that’s what you’re doing!” 

If you are interested, please subscribe or enroll!  University of Ifer accepts everyone.  You create your own application, your personal statement is more of a personal agreement to continue your own path and there is definitely no application fees.  Tuition is on a sliding scale, based on the adventures that you seek out.  Find your own professors, it’s easier than you think.  The career office available online at craigslist.org and since it’s nationwide, just go ahead and find your city on the home page.  Most importantly, look to those around you, your friends and family are already your mentors.  Include them in your journey. They will help shape your curriculum. 

 Anytime you need some sort of inspiration:  Come back here. 

Please enjoy.

University of Ifer

This started as a joke.  I was mocking myself for not figuring out some sort of plan to tell people when they asked me what I was doing now that I’d graduated from college.  Some of my friends were beginning their careers, others stressed with grad school applications, and most were unhappily trying to figure out how to pay rent while shuffling papers and climbing some sort of business ladder but getting trampled on by tie-wearing men and heel-stomping women.

Instead of playing some chutes and ladders with the over-caffeinated population, I chose to play the actual board game with a pair of 5 year old twins daily, while occasionally changing their baby brother’s diapers.  Yes, I became a nanny.  All those years of babysitting and those child development classes paid off.

University of Ifer requires you to work while studying, in order to maintain balance and not starve.  So along with the nanny gig, I recovered my library card and continued to teach myself.