Last night, as I unpacked my things and set them on shelves and in drawers in the guest bedroom (once my bedroom) in my mom's house, I inexplicably thought of one of the last nights I'd spent there. It was the end of May. I'd just graduated, moved out of my apartment downtown, and was spending a single night at the house before moving to Wyoming the following day. My rat, Cassie, and I were sitting on the bed, late that night, wondering what life would bring.
Cassie wasn't doing well. She'd go through periods where she'd breathe heavily, seem disoriented, uncomfortable. That night she was having one of her worst episodes yet, and as she lay in my lap panting, I pleaded with her, begged her to hang on for just four or five more years, so that I wouldn't have to face Wyoming alone. She did her best, stuck around for four more days, but I still ended up in Wyoming by myself.
The fact that I recalled that particular moment in time last night, and in such vivid detail, was unsettling. It highlighted the fact that even though I'm no longer facing the dilemma of an unfamiliar place, my future is just as uncertain now as it was then.
Debbie asked me to move out. I'd been in their house for nearly two months. The request came suddenly, early one morning in the form of a brief but all-too-clear email. Later, she would explain that, although I was a great house-guest and took on more than my fair share of chores, she felt the arrangement was too "nebulous" and that the boundaries between paid work and work in exchange for rent were becoming unclear.
I also imagine that Trina had a lot to do with the change. Trina controls her entire universe (and everyone in it) by what she tells her mom she wants. If I look at Trina the wrong way she runs to her mom, and Debbie wants it changed, immediately. Marlene and I talked this past week about the ways in which I've been "interfering" with Trina's world-- telling her to put her phone away and stop sending text messages while riding or while I'm tutoring, asking her to watch her language, or alerting Debbie when Trina is lying to her or doing something dangerous. I imagine that Trina had, in response, been telling her mom that she didn't like me living there, which was part of the impetus for the change.
So yesterday, for the 13th time in fewer than five years, I moved.
In exchange for my leaving, however, Debbie offered to continue to employ me, five days a week, in the barn and tutoring. Though the commute will approach 40 minutes one-way, I think that the arrangement will work more smoothly. I'll be farther removed from Trina's manipulative moods and temper tantrums, Debbie's instant-action personality, and the chaos generated by the two of them living in the same place. In addition, I'll have more of a "real" job, with semi-consistent hours, decent pay, and more job security than is typically found in today's job market.
In the interim, I'll continue to anticipate response from graduate schools. Having finished all my applications several weeks ago (yay!) I've now reached the "wait" part of the hurry-up-and-wait game. So, for now, I'll go to work five days a week, ride, tutor, work with the dogs, and return home in the evenings. I'll get two days off a week, and make enough money to (hopefully) cover my expenses and fund my 14th move... to grad school.
I hope.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Cowgirl Down
Work with any kind of animal for any period of time and you're more than likely to meet up with adversity. Animals, after all, are animals. They have mood swings much like humans. But many, lacking the ability to communicate vocally with humans, give clues too subtle to alert their handlers/owners that it's not a good time to mess about. And even the smallest of misread signals, coupled with a temperamental, impatient animal, can have unfortunate results. Animals kick, scratch, bite, trample, gore, and maul (sorry mom... sic vita est). And did I mention buck?
There's a saying among horseback riders that goes "the hardest part about riding is the ground." The owner of this ranch, along with the horse trainer, have made a concerted effort over the years to cull their stock such that all of their horses are "safe." When the odd horse has come round that has had issues too serious to fix or too unpredictable to prevent, they've sold it right away. Save Halle.
Over the past four or five weeks Halle has become my project, my pet, my friend, and my all-around favorite mount. A gorgeous, 6-year-old chestnut mare, she could be described as broke, but green. Having only been ridden now for two years, Halle still has a lot to learn. But where she lacks the experience and even temperament of an older horse, she makes up for it with her sweet nature and loads of potential. Halle was acquired on trade. Shawnee, a big "starter" barrel horse that Trina (the main benefactor of the ranch) had outgrown, was sold to another family in exchange for thousands of dollars-- and Halle.
At first, Halle was fine. She worked well with Trina, and Marlene (the horse trainer) could see she oozed untapped promise. Then, just over a year ago, Halle cut herself badly while turned out to pasture. The injury took months to heal... months where Halle was unable to work. When she was finally sound enough to ride again, everything had changed. Where once there was a happy, energetic young horse working well under command, there now was a stubborn, pig-headed mare who'd buck, rear, and crow hop when asked to do something she didn't feel like doing.
Marlene rode with her for weeks, getting her to the point where, although she occasionally complained about doing her work, she'd no longer pitch a fit. They chose not to keep her, deciding that the older, more stable horses were better for Trina. She was listed for sale and exercised less frequently, with a once- or twice-weekly tune-up from Marlene. And then I came along.
I needed a horse to work with, to really teach and learn from. I wasn't challenged by their older horses, and I'm not quite good enough to work their hot-to-trot high-performance horses. I'm more than capable of exercising their high-performance horses, but can't work on patterns, such as barrels or poles. So Marlene suggested I start working with Halle. Halle needed the attention, and I needed a more challenging horse. It was a perfect match.
We bonded quickly once I began riding her every day. She'd come when I called, nuzzle my back as I picked her hooves clean, and wait patiently in the arena for me while I worked other horses. When her turn came she was responsive to my cues, and we started working barrels and poles and doing sprints along the fence line. She'd bend to my legs, turn with the slightest pull of the rein, trot or canter off at the exact speed I'd specify. In short, she was a dream. Marlene, Debbie (the ranch owner), Trina, Max (the ranch hand), and Britt (who boards her horse at the ranch) all noticed how great Halle and I were getting along, said she'd been making huge improvements since I'd started riding her, that we were looking great. There were talks of my taking her to barrel races on Tuesday evenings, of keeping her around for a while longer to see if she'd continue to progress.
One afternoon, Halle and I began loping barrel patterns, and her turns were looking good. Another day, we loped two flawless pole patterns back-to-back, and I was on cloud nine. She was really shaping up. I felt great riding her. We just seemed to fit one another.
But then, there were little things that troubled me on occasion. She'd spook sometimes at silly things: the pig, the silhouette of a car through the trees, the goats butting heads... an inexcusable behavior for having been constantly exposed to each of these things for over a year. There were other things, too... She'd pull her turns wide when cantering around the arena, flick her tail when I asked her to lope off, pin her ears and duck her head when riding alongside another horse. I did my best to correct each of these things, and took to wearing spurs and carrying a short crop on her bad days.
Then came the cold snap. Two weeks ago, Nearby Town experienced some of the most brutally cold weather in years. Temperatures were consistently below zero, with wind chills dipping to twenty-five below or more. Coupled with a few days of continuous, light snow, the weather made riding of any kind impossible for around six days. It wasn't until the sun showed face and the arena could be properly cleared of ice that we could get out again.
When I started back on Halle she seemed fine-- at first. She wasn't nearly as responsive as she had been the previous week, and the little, pig-headed behaviors started showing themselves more frequently. The crop and spurs found a permanent place in my arsenal. And for a few days, she was fine. She'd work for me much as she had before, if not instantaneously then very quickly following some gentle encouragement from my spurred heels.
Three days ago, Halle spooked badly in the arena, attributed to long shadows, wind, and Bob (Marlene's husband) roping calves close behind us. I rested easily on her, let her get her head back together, then trotted her out for around twenty minutes, and she was fine. Marlene was pleased. It seemed that Halle was finally past that troublesome stage from a year before.
Two days ago, I got on Halle just as I had for weeks. I'd already worked Cash and Target; Marlene, Romeo and Cryssie. Marlene mounted Peach and I hopped on Halle, and we each went through our separate patterns. Halle responded well. She pushed away from my leg, turned the corners appropriately, and did some excellent pole patterns with me. She wasn't spooky, as she'd been the day before. Marlene and I stopped and chatted, and then I decided that I would do just one more barrel pattern and one more pole pattern before calling it an afternoon and going up to the barn to feed.
Halle hadn't been worked hard. I hadn't pushed her, she wasn't tired or sore or sweating heavily or out of breath. We made a great turn around the first barrel and I pushed her on to the second. She lagged slightly, and I gave her a little kick to give her some extra speed. She crow-hopped slightly, but Marlene and I both assumed she was energetic and excited. We turned the second barrel nicely, and the third. But as Halle came round the final barrel she slowed again. I pushed forward in the saddle and gave her another kick to urge her on. I wasn't asking for rocket speed. I just wanted her to lope.
And evidently, that was all it took to piss Halle off. Instead of stretching out and giving some extra push to the finish line, Halle ducked her head low and threw her back feet up. Once, twice, three times. I thought I had her beat. Marlene thought I had her beat. She hesitated, just a microsecond, then gave another buck-- with a twist. I lost my stirrups. I had one hand firmly gripped around the pommel of the saddle, the other grasping frantically for the reins. In the end, it was the reins that did me in. I'd given Halle some rein when I'd asked her to speed up, and as a result I didn't have near enough to pull her head up and direct her back feet down.
Without control of Halle's head there was nothing to stop the little twist in that final buck from unseating me entirely, and the ground and I met up, if not unexpectedly, then much more quickly than I would have liked. The impact of every ounce of my body weight plus gravity was absorbed by an area of my pelvis roughly the diameter of an orange. I can honestly say I don't think I've ever experienced something quite as painful. Although I wanted nothing more than to lay on the dirt and moan, I stood up as quickly as I could, simply because I had to relieve the pressure off of my pelvis.
Halle had taken off, and Marlene had taken off after her. The best course of action in these situations is to get right back on the horse, to teach them that bucking someone off doesn't accomplish anything, but I couldn't have if I'd tried. Instead, Marlene did. She busted Halle's chops, literally, then nearly ran her into the ground on a short rein and with her considerably sharper spurs. Halle was the last to be unsaddled that night. She went without gain, and didn't get turned out to pasture the day after. The following day, she was the first to be saddled and the last to be un-saddled. Marlene put her though her paces, and then I did, too.
I'm not one to psych myself out about things. I wasn't nervous getting back on Halle. I didn't expect her to buck again. I gave her every opportunity to be the sweet, responsive mare she'd been before. And she was. She was fine. We did some pole patterns, loped around the arena, and I felt just as good on her as I always did, always do.
That's not to say, of course, that the whole incident occurred without repercussions. I will say that Halle remains my favorite horse here. Given a choice of horses to ride, I'd still pick Halle every time. But, at least for now, and maybe forever, I no longer trust her like I did. I can no longer ride her "casually." Every time I get on I'll have to be focused on every thing she does. And for the next few weeks, Marlene will either have to start her before I ride or tune her up several times a week. Halle will have to be ridden with a tight bit, short reins, and a tie-down. And regardless of how much I like her, I can have no mercy when it comes to her slip-ups. So I've lost something there.
Then there's the physical side to being bucked off a horse. The orange-sized area that took the impact of the fall was on my iliac crest along the sacroiliac joint. Although not directly weight-bearing, the area has become increasingly more uncomfortable over the past 48 hours. It doesn't affect my hip, nor does it rub in the saddle, but putting any pressure on the area or working any of the muscles connected to that part of my pelvis is far from pleasurable. I wouldn't be surprised if something in there had a hairline fracture or, if nothing else, a decent bruise.
And of course, there are psychological effects. The biggest damage done was to my confidence and sense of self-worth. I keep thinking there might have been something I could have done differently, either to have prevented the situation entirely or to have stopped Halle from bucking before I lost my seat. I wonder what Marlene thought of the whole situation, and I worry that maybe I'm just not good enough to realize when Halle is doing something wrong, or that maybe Marlene is starting to regret letting me work with Halle at all. Being in pain is no fun, either, and although I'd much prefer the respect of the barn crew to their pity, it seems more or less like nothing ever happened. Even Bob, one of the most sensitive guys I've ever met, said only, "I heard you joined the lawn-dart club."
So tonight, alone in the house, second-guessing myself, feeling bad about no one feeling bad for me, bemoaning my situation, and finding it nearly impossible to relax or take the pressure off my right side, I threw myself a pity party and then decided to update the blog. It's been a while. I'd been starting to worry that my life isn't nearly "wild" enough to merit the title. But I guess getting bucked off a horse counts for something, eh?
There's a saying among horseback riders that goes "the hardest part about riding is the ground." The owner of this ranch, along with the horse trainer, have made a concerted effort over the years to cull their stock such that all of their horses are "safe." When the odd horse has come round that has had issues too serious to fix or too unpredictable to prevent, they've sold it right away. Save Halle.
Over the past four or five weeks Halle has become my project, my pet, my friend, and my all-around favorite mount. A gorgeous, 6-year-old chestnut mare, she could be described as broke, but green. Having only been ridden now for two years, Halle still has a lot to learn. But where she lacks the experience and even temperament of an older horse, she makes up for it with her sweet nature and loads of potential. Halle was acquired on trade. Shawnee, a big "starter" barrel horse that Trina (the main benefactor of the ranch) had outgrown, was sold to another family in exchange for thousands of dollars-- and Halle.
At first, Halle was fine. She worked well with Trina, and Marlene (the horse trainer) could see she oozed untapped promise. Then, just over a year ago, Halle cut herself badly while turned out to pasture. The injury took months to heal... months where Halle was unable to work. When she was finally sound enough to ride again, everything had changed. Where once there was a happy, energetic young horse working well under command, there now was a stubborn, pig-headed mare who'd buck, rear, and crow hop when asked to do something she didn't feel like doing.
Marlene rode with her for weeks, getting her to the point where, although she occasionally complained about doing her work, she'd no longer pitch a fit. They chose not to keep her, deciding that the older, more stable horses were better for Trina. She was listed for sale and exercised less frequently, with a once- or twice-weekly tune-up from Marlene. And then I came along.
I needed a horse to work with, to really teach and learn from. I wasn't challenged by their older horses, and I'm not quite good enough to work their hot-to-trot high-performance horses. I'm more than capable of exercising their high-performance horses, but can't work on patterns, such as barrels or poles. So Marlene suggested I start working with Halle. Halle needed the attention, and I needed a more challenging horse. It was a perfect match.
We bonded quickly once I began riding her every day. She'd come when I called, nuzzle my back as I picked her hooves clean, and wait patiently in the arena for me while I worked other horses. When her turn came she was responsive to my cues, and we started working barrels and poles and doing sprints along the fence line. She'd bend to my legs, turn with the slightest pull of the rein, trot or canter off at the exact speed I'd specify. In short, she was a dream. Marlene, Debbie (the ranch owner), Trina, Max (the ranch hand), and Britt (who boards her horse at the ranch) all noticed how great Halle and I were getting along, said she'd been making huge improvements since I'd started riding her, that we were looking great. There were talks of my taking her to barrel races on Tuesday evenings, of keeping her around for a while longer to see if she'd continue to progress.
One afternoon, Halle and I began loping barrel patterns, and her turns were looking good. Another day, we loped two flawless pole patterns back-to-back, and I was on cloud nine. She was really shaping up. I felt great riding her. We just seemed to fit one another.
But then, there were little things that troubled me on occasion. She'd spook sometimes at silly things: the pig, the silhouette of a car through the trees, the goats butting heads... an inexcusable behavior for having been constantly exposed to each of these things for over a year. There were other things, too... She'd pull her turns wide when cantering around the arena, flick her tail when I asked her to lope off, pin her ears and duck her head when riding alongside another horse. I did my best to correct each of these things, and took to wearing spurs and carrying a short crop on her bad days.
Then came the cold snap. Two weeks ago, Nearby Town experienced some of the most brutally cold weather in years. Temperatures were consistently below zero, with wind chills dipping to twenty-five below or more. Coupled with a few days of continuous, light snow, the weather made riding of any kind impossible for around six days. It wasn't until the sun showed face and the arena could be properly cleared of ice that we could get out again.
When I started back on Halle she seemed fine-- at first. She wasn't nearly as responsive as she had been the previous week, and the little, pig-headed behaviors started showing themselves more frequently. The crop and spurs found a permanent place in my arsenal. And for a few days, she was fine. She'd work for me much as she had before, if not instantaneously then very quickly following some gentle encouragement from my spurred heels.
Three days ago, Halle spooked badly in the arena, attributed to long shadows, wind, and Bob (Marlene's husband) roping calves close behind us. I rested easily on her, let her get her head back together, then trotted her out for around twenty minutes, and she was fine. Marlene was pleased. It seemed that Halle was finally past that troublesome stage from a year before.
Two days ago, I got on Halle just as I had for weeks. I'd already worked Cash and Target; Marlene, Romeo and Cryssie. Marlene mounted Peach and I hopped on Halle, and we each went through our separate patterns. Halle responded well. She pushed away from my leg, turned the corners appropriately, and did some excellent pole patterns with me. She wasn't spooky, as she'd been the day before. Marlene and I stopped and chatted, and then I decided that I would do just one more barrel pattern and one more pole pattern before calling it an afternoon and going up to the barn to feed.
Halle hadn't been worked hard. I hadn't pushed her, she wasn't tired or sore or sweating heavily or out of breath. We made a great turn around the first barrel and I pushed her on to the second. She lagged slightly, and I gave her a little kick to give her some extra speed. She crow-hopped slightly, but Marlene and I both assumed she was energetic and excited. We turned the second barrel nicely, and the third. But as Halle came round the final barrel she slowed again. I pushed forward in the saddle and gave her another kick to urge her on. I wasn't asking for rocket speed. I just wanted her to lope.
And evidently, that was all it took to piss Halle off. Instead of stretching out and giving some extra push to the finish line, Halle ducked her head low and threw her back feet up. Once, twice, three times. I thought I had her beat. Marlene thought I had her beat. She hesitated, just a microsecond, then gave another buck-- with a twist. I lost my stirrups. I had one hand firmly gripped around the pommel of the saddle, the other grasping frantically for the reins. In the end, it was the reins that did me in. I'd given Halle some rein when I'd asked her to speed up, and as a result I didn't have near enough to pull her head up and direct her back feet down.
Without control of Halle's head there was nothing to stop the little twist in that final buck from unseating me entirely, and the ground and I met up, if not unexpectedly, then much more quickly than I would have liked. The impact of every ounce of my body weight plus gravity was absorbed by an area of my pelvis roughly the diameter of an orange. I can honestly say I don't think I've ever experienced something quite as painful. Although I wanted nothing more than to lay on the dirt and moan, I stood up as quickly as I could, simply because I had to relieve the pressure off of my pelvis.
Halle had taken off, and Marlene had taken off after her. The best course of action in these situations is to get right back on the horse, to teach them that bucking someone off doesn't accomplish anything, but I couldn't have if I'd tried. Instead, Marlene did. She busted Halle's chops, literally, then nearly ran her into the ground on a short rein and with her considerably sharper spurs. Halle was the last to be unsaddled that night. She went without gain, and didn't get turned out to pasture the day after. The following day, she was the first to be saddled and the last to be un-saddled. Marlene put her though her paces, and then I did, too.
I'm not one to psych myself out about things. I wasn't nervous getting back on Halle. I didn't expect her to buck again. I gave her every opportunity to be the sweet, responsive mare she'd been before. And she was. She was fine. We did some pole patterns, loped around the arena, and I felt just as good on her as I always did, always do.
That's not to say, of course, that the whole incident occurred without repercussions. I will say that Halle remains my favorite horse here. Given a choice of horses to ride, I'd still pick Halle every time. But, at least for now, and maybe forever, I no longer trust her like I did. I can no longer ride her "casually." Every time I get on I'll have to be focused on every thing she does. And for the next few weeks, Marlene will either have to start her before I ride or tune her up several times a week. Halle will have to be ridden with a tight bit, short reins, and a tie-down. And regardless of how much I like her, I can have no mercy when it comes to her slip-ups. So I've lost something there.
Then there's the physical side to being bucked off a horse. The orange-sized area that took the impact of the fall was on my iliac crest along the sacroiliac joint. Although not directly weight-bearing, the area has become increasingly more uncomfortable over the past 48 hours. It doesn't affect my hip, nor does it rub in the saddle, but putting any pressure on the area or working any of the muscles connected to that part of my pelvis is far from pleasurable. I wouldn't be surprised if something in there had a hairline fracture or, if nothing else, a decent bruise.
And of course, there are psychological effects. The biggest damage done was to my confidence and sense of self-worth. I keep thinking there might have been something I could have done differently, either to have prevented the situation entirely or to have stopped Halle from bucking before I lost my seat. I wonder what Marlene thought of the whole situation, and I worry that maybe I'm just not good enough to realize when Halle is doing something wrong, or that maybe Marlene is starting to regret letting me work with Halle at all. Being in pain is no fun, either, and although I'd much prefer the respect of the barn crew to their pity, it seems more or less like nothing ever happened. Even Bob, one of the most sensitive guys I've ever met, said only, "I heard you joined the lawn-dart club."
So tonight, alone in the house, second-guessing myself, feeling bad about no one feeling bad for me, bemoaning my situation, and finding it nearly impossible to relax or take the pressure off my right side, I threw myself a pity party and then decided to update the blog. It's been a while. I'd been starting to worry that my life isn't nearly "wild" enough to merit the title. But I guess getting bucked off a horse counts for something, eh?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
I'm a Mac
I know, I know... It's been weeks since my last post. I will concede that I am less inclined to do weekly blog postings now that I'm no longer working regularly in the field. My "interesting" experiences are fewer and farther between, and I get just as tired writing about grad school applications as I'm sure you all get reading about them. But I have more excuses this time round, and it all starts with a virus.
A couple weeks ago I was surfing the internet looking for replacement wheels for a dishwasher rack (don't ask) when my trusty, five-year-old Dell laptop sunk into protected mode and sent up notification of a viral infection, a dastardly rogue anti-spyware program that took control of my internet explorer, prevented access to task manager and my registry editor, and made a host of pop-up adds explode on screen. I went through the basics of removal, but to no avail. Not even my previously undefeated Symantec antivirus software could catch the culprit.
I spent three solid days doing everything I could think of to remove the malicious software, finally succeeding in regaining control of my internet and registry editor, so that I could at least use it to submit applications. But all the while the processing speed became slower, to the point where even opening up MS Word was taking nearly half an hour. That's when I saw the advertisement for Apple's Black Friday sale online.
I'd been planning on buying a new laptop before graduate school, sometime in the late spring or early summer, if I were to get accepted someplace. I knew I'd need a faster computer with a larger hard drive to handle the punishment of five or more years-worth of intense studying, report-writing, fact-checking, and online journal-researching. My long-in-the-tooth Dell may be able to keep up for a while, but the threat of it giving out at an inopportune moment and having to rush to try and save things/get a new computer set up all while keeping up with my studies was not a scenario I ever wanted to face. So a new laptop pre-grad school was already in the plan.
Of course, as is typical of my brain, I started thinking... If I was planning on getting a new one anyway, and there is a sale on Macs on Black Friday, and my Dell is struggling just to start, and I still haven't been able to get rid of the nasty virus, then why not now?
Well, the obvious answers to those questions would be a.) because you don't have a job and because it's almost Christmas and because it would be a huge expense, and b.) why wait? Of course, I chose answer b. The Dell had been good to me, but I wanted something with faster processing, better graphics, a larger hard drive, and better customer support. I didn't want to have to deal with antivirus software and system checks and, heaven forbid, another rogue anti-spyware program. Plus, Macs are sooooooooo cool! So I bought one.
So much for upgrading my DSLR. :(
And that, more than anything, is the biggest reason I haven't posted an entry here in several weeks. My Dell crashed and was more or less unusable, then I had to wait for my new Mac to be delivered, and then I had to port everything over and get accustomed to using it.
By the way, the Mac is awesome. I've been running it on battery power for the last three hours, listening to music, watching videos online, and writing up documents, and the gauge says there's still five hours left on the charge. It's fast, it's sleek, it's shiny, and it's incredibly intuitive. The controls take a while to get used to... some of the quick keys are different than on a PC, and the command button is used as opposed to the control button to do things like cut, copy, paste, etc. So it's taken me a few days to find the appropriate keys. But the touch pad is awesome. It recognizes how many fingers you're using and thus allows you to scroll, go back and forth between pages, rotate pictures, and open applications instantly. Very cool. And I've found Firefox to be head and shoulders above internet explorer.
So if you're thinking about getting a new computer, I highly recommend you go for a Mac.
Anyway.... It's been snowing here for the past few days. Not heavily, but enough to make the streets slick. It's been cold, too... down below zero at night with terrible wind chills. It's very pretty down here when it snows, and it's fun to watch the horses run and roll and play and become dusted with coats of white. Not much riding happens with the weather like this, but it's good to have a few days inside.
Watch-- now it will be 60 degrees and sunny on Christmas.
I've completed five of my six (planned) applications, the last of which, for U of New England Place, isn't due until January, although I'll likely try and finish it next week if I can. I'm so sick of applications I could vomit. I found Ivy League School's 1000-word limit challenging, but it was nothing compared to UC Somewhere Else's "4000 characters (including spaces)" restriction. How on earth am I supposed to tell UC Somewhere Else anything in 4000 characters (including spaces)?
Now comes the waiting game. I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best. Most schools make admissions decisions between February and March, although in some cases it may be as late as mid-April. If I'm a particularly good candidate I should hear sooner rather than later... Schools will often admit their first picks early (late January or early February), then wait until March before sending out the second batch of admissions letters to the rest.
If I'm really lucky, I might even get invited to go a visit a school sometime in January, almost a sure sign that the school is planning on admitting an applicant. If not, I may be on the ropes until April. Occasionally, schools with admit one group of students, wait until they find out how many students are planning on attending, then, at the last minute, admit a "reserve" group of students to fill any empty spots. This happened to my best friend last year, who applied to seven schools' mathematics programs. She was accepted to one school in early March, but didn't receive admissions decisions from several other schools until April, only a few days before the acceptance deadline (April 15th). This left little time for her to decide on a school, and more or less made it impossible for her to visit schools before choosing. No fun at all.
For most of the programs to which I've applied, the acceptance rate is on the order of 10% or less. So please, if you're up for it, think good thoughts about me getting into grad school. I'd really, really like to take my pick of places. Ivy League School, U Big City, UC Somewhere, UC Somewhere Else, U of New England Place, Yet Another UC... they'd all be good. Especially Ivy League School. Or U Big City. Or UC Somewhere. Yeah... one of those. C'mon grad schools! Accept me! Plus, think about how fun it would be for you to read an entry here about me getting accepted to School of My Choice! I would probably even add graphics and lots of these: !!!!!!! and these: :).
A couple weeks ago I was surfing the internet looking for replacement wheels for a dishwasher rack (don't ask) when my trusty, five-year-old Dell laptop sunk into protected mode and sent up notification of a viral infection, a dastardly rogue anti-spyware program that took control of my internet explorer, prevented access to task manager and my registry editor, and made a host of pop-up adds explode on screen. I went through the basics of removal, but to no avail. Not even my previously undefeated Symantec antivirus software could catch the culprit.
I spent three solid days doing everything I could think of to remove the malicious software, finally succeeding in regaining control of my internet and registry editor, so that I could at least use it to submit applications. But all the while the processing speed became slower, to the point where even opening up MS Word was taking nearly half an hour. That's when I saw the advertisement for Apple's Black Friday sale online.
I'd been planning on buying a new laptop before graduate school, sometime in the late spring or early summer, if I were to get accepted someplace. I knew I'd need a faster computer with a larger hard drive to handle the punishment of five or more years-worth of intense studying, report-writing, fact-checking, and online journal-researching. My long-in-the-tooth Dell may be able to keep up for a while, but the threat of it giving out at an inopportune moment and having to rush to try and save things/get a new computer set up all while keeping up with my studies was not a scenario I ever wanted to face. So a new laptop pre-grad school was already in the plan.
Of course, as is typical of my brain, I started thinking... If I was planning on getting a new one anyway, and there is a sale on Macs on Black Friday, and my Dell is struggling just to start, and I still haven't been able to get rid of the nasty virus, then why not now?
Well, the obvious answers to those questions would be a.) because you don't have a job and because it's almost Christmas and because it would be a huge expense, and b.) why wait? Of course, I chose answer b. The Dell had been good to me, but I wanted something with faster processing, better graphics, a larger hard drive, and better customer support. I didn't want to have to deal with antivirus software and system checks and, heaven forbid, another rogue anti-spyware program. Plus, Macs are sooooooooo cool! So I bought one.
So much for upgrading my DSLR. :(
And that, more than anything, is the biggest reason I haven't posted an entry here in several weeks. My Dell crashed and was more or less unusable, then I had to wait for my new Mac to be delivered, and then I had to port everything over and get accustomed to using it.
By the way, the Mac is awesome. I've been running it on battery power for the last three hours, listening to music, watching videos online, and writing up documents, and the gauge says there's still five hours left on the charge. It's fast, it's sleek, it's shiny, and it's incredibly intuitive. The controls take a while to get used to... some of the quick keys are different than on a PC, and the command button is used as opposed to the control button to do things like cut, copy, paste, etc. So it's taken me a few days to find the appropriate keys. But the touch pad is awesome. It recognizes how many fingers you're using and thus allows you to scroll, go back and forth between pages, rotate pictures, and open applications instantly. Very cool. And I've found Firefox to be head and shoulders above internet explorer.
So if you're thinking about getting a new computer, I highly recommend you go for a Mac.
Anyway.... It's been snowing here for the past few days. Not heavily, but enough to make the streets slick. It's been cold, too... down below zero at night with terrible wind chills. It's very pretty down here when it snows, and it's fun to watch the horses run and roll and play and become dusted with coats of white. Not much riding happens with the weather like this, but it's good to have a few days inside.
Watch-- now it will be 60 degrees and sunny on Christmas.
I've completed five of my six (planned) applications, the last of which, for U of New England Place, isn't due until January, although I'll likely try and finish it next week if I can. I'm so sick of applications I could vomit. I found Ivy League School's 1000-word limit challenging, but it was nothing compared to UC Somewhere Else's "4000 characters (including spaces)" restriction. How on earth am I supposed to tell UC Somewhere Else anything in 4000 characters (including spaces)?
Now comes the waiting game. I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best. Most schools make admissions decisions between February and March, although in some cases it may be as late as mid-April. If I'm a particularly good candidate I should hear sooner rather than later... Schools will often admit their first picks early (late January or early February), then wait until March before sending out the second batch of admissions letters to the rest.
If I'm really lucky, I might even get invited to go a visit a school sometime in January, almost a sure sign that the school is planning on admitting an applicant. If not, I may be on the ropes until April. Occasionally, schools with admit one group of students, wait until they find out how many students are planning on attending, then, at the last minute, admit a "reserve" group of students to fill any empty spots. This happened to my best friend last year, who applied to seven schools' mathematics programs. She was accepted to one school in early March, but didn't receive admissions decisions from several other schools until April, only a few days before the acceptance deadline (April 15th). This left little time for her to decide on a school, and more or less made it impossible for her to visit schools before choosing. No fun at all.
For most of the programs to which I've applied, the acceptance rate is on the order of 10% or less. So please, if you're up for it, think good thoughts about me getting into grad school. I'd really, really like to take my pick of places. Ivy League School, U Big City, UC Somewhere, UC Somewhere Else, U of New England Place, Yet Another UC... they'd all be good. Especially Ivy League School. Or U Big City. Or UC Somewhere. Yeah... one of those. C'mon grad schools! Accept me! Plus, think about how fun it would be for you to read an entry here about me getting accepted to School of My Choice! I would probably even add graphics and lots of these: !!!!!!! and these: :).
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Cowgirl Up
The past two weeks things here have taken a slight turn. After slogging through a couple weeks as roommate to a woman with a warped sense of reality, I moved... again. Yeah. I'd really like to be finished moving for a while. The move was a short one, just across the street, and I'm now living in the basement of my tutor-ee's house.
My junior year in college I got an offer to do an hour's-worth of tutoring in basic chemistry over a break from classes. I decided it couldn't hurt to earn a few extra bucks, never realizing how awesome the arrangement would become. After helping out with chemistry I offered my services up for any other subject- the sciences, math, some English, etc. As a result, I received consistent work once or twice a week for the remainder of my college career. And I became pretty good friends with the family, a single mom and her 16 year-old daughter.
I kept in touch with them this summer while in Wyoming, and they were the ones to suggest the arrangement with the crazy woman across the street when I returned home. They felt bad that things hadn't worked out as planned with the house, so they offered me a way out and invited me to move in with them. After a strange series of unpleasant events across the street, I decided my living situation couldn't get any worse than it was and made the move. Long story.
So now I'm comfortably arranged in the basement with the mom and her daughter. And five dogs. And four cats. And a llama. And four goats. And two pigs. And six calves. And two miniature ponies. And two normal-sized ponies. And a fish. And my three rats.
Oh, and did I mention the 13 horses? As in the 13 performance horses used on a regular basis for competition in rodeos? Those horses?
Yeah. Much nicer over here on the other side of the street.
I've been busier this past week than I was the entire time I was in Wyoming. On top of grad school applications (which I'll hopefully, someday, be finished with), I've been walking dogs, pitching hay, mucking stalls, feeding horses, and riding. And riding, and riding, and riding. Thirteen horses and two ponies take a lot of work, and to keep them in good condition they need a lot of exercise.
Which is where my newest brand of pseudo-employment comes in. Yes, I continue to tutor, to run errands and do odd-jobs, and to walk dogs to cover my room, board, and incidental expenditures. But on top of that I've been requisitioned to help work the horses, at least two every day, to keep them in good shape and prevent them from picking up bad habits. During week one, my butt had never been so sore. During week two, I fell back into my groove, dug up a recollection of a proper seat from deep in my muscle memory, and starting building back muscles that I haven't felt in years.
This weekend, to benefit some of the lesser-used steeds, our group (the girl and her mom, myself, and the horse trainer) took three horses to a gymkhana (a casual rodeo, more or less translated into "games on horseback") to compete. I rode Cash, an antsy quarter horse cross who needs work staying calm at the starting gate. Having never before been in a rodeo, I got a five-day crash course in the events, then entered in the senior's (14+) novice class. We competed in four events: barrels, pole bending, flags, and a "mystery event" that turned out to be "turn and burn."
Most people are at least somewhat familiar with cloverleaf barrels. Pole bending consists of weaving in and out amongst a series of six poles. In both events, knocking over a barrel or a pole will result in a time penalty. Flags is a straightforward course where the rider races in an oval pattern around the arena, first planting a flag in a bucket of sand and then picking another flag out of a bucket before returning to the gate. Turn and burn is a long stretch followed by a complete circle around a barrel before the return (the worst event, since most horses are trained to go only a half-circle around a barrel, not a complete turn). All the events are done at speed and are timed.
Cash and I placed fourth in barrels and second in flags, out of 10 and 15 riders, respectively, in the novice class. In turn and burn Cash got confused about making a full circle around the barrel and pulled wide, and in poles he spooked coming around the first end pole, which a). cost time for me to reset him and b). threw his stride off, which resulted in a downed pole and a time penalty. Ah well...Can't place in everything in your first rodeo after only five days of practice, right?
So I guess thus far, I've been doing pretty well for myself without a job. I'm loving being back home with my family and friends, and I'm living well as a "ranch hand" on a horse ranch. Funny that I spent nearly half a year in the "Cowboy State," and it's only after I leave that I get to cowgirl up.
My junior year in college I got an offer to do an hour's-worth of tutoring in basic chemistry over a break from classes. I decided it couldn't hurt to earn a few extra bucks, never realizing how awesome the arrangement would become. After helping out with chemistry I offered my services up for any other subject- the sciences, math, some English, etc. As a result, I received consistent work once or twice a week for the remainder of my college career. And I became pretty good friends with the family, a single mom and her 16 year-old daughter.
I kept in touch with them this summer while in Wyoming, and they were the ones to suggest the arrangement with the crazy woman across the street when I returned home. They felt bad that things hadn't worked out as planned with the house, so they offered me a way out and invited me to move in with them. After a strange series of unpleasant events across the street, I decided my living situation couldn't get any worse than it was and made the move. Long story.
So now I'm comfortably arranged in the basement with the mom and her daughter. And five dogs. And four cats. And a llama. And four goats. And two pigs. And six calves. And two miniature ponies. And two normal-sized ponies. And a fish. And my three rats.
Oh, and did I mention the 13 horses? As in the 13 performance horses used on a regular basis for competition in rodeos? Those horses?
Yeah. Much nicer over here on the other side of the street.
I've been busier this past week than I was the entire time I was in Wyoming. On top of grad school applications (which I'll hopefully, someday, be finished with), I've been walking dogs, pitching hay, mucking stalls, feeding horses, and riding. And riding, and riding, and riding. Thirteen horses and two ponies take a lot of work, and to keep them in good condition they need a lot of exercise.
Which is where my newest brand of pseudo-employment comes in. Yes, I continue to tutor, to run errands and do odd-jobs, and to walk dogs to cover my room, board, and incidental expenditures. But on top of that I've been requisitioned to help work the horses, at least two every day, to keep them in good shape and prevent them from picking up bad habits. During week one, my butt had never been so sore. During week two, I fell back into my groove, dug up a recollection of a proper seat from deep in my muscle memory, and starting building back muscles that I haven't felt in years.
This weekend, to benefit some of the lesser-used steeds, our group (the girl and her mom, myself, and the horse trainer) took three horses to a gymkhana (a casual rodeo, more or less translated into "games on horseback") to compete. I rode Cash, an antsy quarter horse cross who needs work staying calm at the starting gate. Having never before been in a rodeo, I got a five-day crash course in the events, then entered in the senior's (14+) novice class. We competed in four events: barrels, pole bending, flags, and a "mystery event" that turned out to be "turn and burn."
Most people are at least somewhat familiar with cloverleaf barrels. Pole bending consists of weaving in and out amongst a series of six poles. In both events, knocking over a barrel or a pole will result in a time penalty. Flags is a straightforward course where the rider races in an oval pattern around the arena, first planting a flag in a bucket of sand and then picking another flag out of a bucket before returning to the gate. Turn and burn is a long stretch followed by a complete circle around a barrel before the return (the worst event, since most horses are trained to go only a half-circle around a barrel, not a complete turn). All the events are done at speed and are timed.
Cash and I placed fourth in barrels and second in flags, out of 10 and 15 riders, respectively, in the novice class. In turn and burn Cash got confused about making a full circle around the barrel and pulled wide, and in poles he spooked coming around the first end pole, which a). cost time for me to reset him and b). threw his stride off, which resulted in a downed pole and a time penalty. Ah well...Can't place in everything in your first rodeo after only five days of practice, right?
So I guess thus far, I've been doing pretty well for myself without a job. I'm loving being back home with my family and friends, and I'm living well as a "ranch hand" on a horse ranch. Funny that I spent nearly half a year in the "Cowboy State," and it's only after I leave that I get to cowgirl up.
Friday, November 13, 2009
17 Days
The world is a very strange place. Just a few weeks ago I spent most days alone, hiking through sagebrush or winding between dense stands of ponderosa pine. I would wake early, work, return home in late afternoon, and spend the remainder of the day leisurely, searching for schools, writing emails, reading... Yet somehow, even though I was working overtime and fit the other bits and pieces in elsewhere, I never felt as if I had all that much going on.
Since I've moved to Nearby Town, though, it's as if there aren't enough hours in the day. I get up only moderately later every morning. Most days I go immediately to feed the horses, then the dogs, then the cats. Afterwards there are hosts of other things that need to be taken care of. My "roommate" will have some question about the complexities of technology (Why can't I take pictures anymore with my camera? Because your SD card is full.), my across-the-street neighbors (my pseudo-employers) will ask for the completion of some task, an errand to run or a horse to exercise or an animal to feed or a subject to tutor. And then, after all the stuff that happens at the whims of others is completed (an absolute necessity in order to keep myself afloat without a job), I have my own bits to take care of.
Grad school applications.
I know, it must be getting old for you all to read every week now for months. Grad school applications, grad school applications, grad school applications. Perhaps you didn't realize just how involved and extensive the application process can be. I took the GREs in April, started researching schools in June, contacting prospective advisers in July and early August. I maintained contact with promising leads throughout September, worked on finding fellowships through the end of October, and I've just now started working on the actual applications. Which just happen to be due starting the 1st of December. Which is only 17 days from now.
The applications themselves, of course, are no joke. Each school wants answers to its own questions, essays formatted to its own specifications. 1-3 pp., 2500 words or less, 4000 characters including spaces. Each school wants copies of GRE scores, transcripts, recommendation letters, all at different times and in different numbers and sent to different places. Keeping it all straight is enough of a mess. The hardest part? Trying to make myself stand out.
I'm not great at selling myself, at identifying characteristics that might make an admissions panel take a second look. Many of the students applying likely have similarly strong academic backgrounds and research experiences. Many students will likely have more research experience, perhaps some have already been published. What do I tell the admissions committee there? I'm working on it, okay? And some schools leave no room for explanations.
Ivy League School, for example, which has been my school of choice since I began the whole process, is cutthroat. With ILS, there is only one essay. 1000 words to explain why I want to go to ILS, who I want to work with, what I'd like to work on, and how my academic background and research experiences make me a suitable candidate for admission.
Schools like ILS, Yet Another UC, U Big City (all schools to which I'm applying) accept, on average, only 5 to 7 students a year to their ecology programs.
Yeah.
I'm screwed.
Dear Ivy League School,
I'm so adjective, I verb nouns.
Sincerely,
Jax
Since I've moved to Nearby Town, though, it's as if there aren't enough hours in the day. I get up only moderately later every morning. Most days I go immediately to feed the horses, then the dogs, then the cats. Afterwards there are hosts of other things that need to be taken care of. My "roommate" will have some question about the complexities of technology (Why can't I take pictures anymore with my camera? Because your SD card is full.), my across-the-street neighbors (my pseudo-employers) will ask for the completion of some task, an errand to run or a horse to exercise or an animal to feed or a subject to tutor. And then, after all the stuff that happens at the whims of others is completed (an absolute necessity in order to keep myself afloat without a job), I have my own bits to take care of.
Grad school applications.
I know, it must be getting old for you all to read every week now for months. Grad school applications, grad school applications, grad school applications. Perhaps you didn't realize just how involved and extensive the application process can be. I took the GREs in April, started researching schools in June, contacting prospective advisers in July and early August. I maintained contact with promising leads throughout September, worked on finding fellowships through the end of October, and I've just now started working on the actual applications. Which just happen to be due starting the 1st of December. Which is only 17 days from now.
The applications themselves, of course, are no joke. Each school wants answers to its own questions, essays formatted to its own specifications. 1-3 pp., 2500 words or less, 4000 characters including spaces. Each school wants copies of GRE scores, transcripts, recommendation letters, all at different times and in different numbers and sent to different places. Keeping it all straight is enough of a mess. The hardest part? Trying to make myself stand out.
I'm not great at selling myself, at identifying characteristics that might make an admissions panel take a second look. Many of the students applying likely have similarly strong academic backgrounds and research experiences. Many students will likely have more research experience, perhaps some have already been published. What do I tell the admissions committee there? I'm working on it, okay? And some schools leave no room for explanations.
Ivy League School, for example, which has been my school of choice since I began the whole process, is cutthroat. With ILS, there is only one essay. 1000 words to explain why I want to go to ILS, who I want to work with, what I'd like to work on, and how my academic background and research experiences make me a suitable candidate for admission.
Schools like ILS, Yet Another UC, U Big City (all schools to which I'm applying) accept, on average, only 5 to 7 students a year to their ecology programs.
Yeah.
I'm screwed.
Dear Ivy League School,
I'm so adjective, I verb nouns.
Sincerely,
Jax
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Another Week, Another Move
Nearly another week has passed since my return home, and my time in Wyoming seems very far away. Every once in a while I'll see some sagebrush, or hear the far-off echo of a distant train, but otherwise little reminds me of my former life. I have occasionally thought of Capone, and of the dogs at the Weston County Humane Society. Otherwise, the entire experience seems to be quickly fading.
I miss living alone.
Last year, my senior year of college, my best friend and I rented an apartment a few blocks east of campus. It was an old, run-down place with plenty of cracks and creaks and came complete with a treacherous staircase. It had its charms, though, and we both liked living there. I certainly didn't mind living with my best friend, either. There were times I greatly enjoyed the company. Especially when she made cookies.
But there's something about living on my own, alone, that I really appreciate. It's a type of independence and solitude that's hard to otherwise gain. Hiking by oneself is extremely short-term, camping by oneself is somewhat dangerous. But an apartment with a good deadbolt in a decent part of town is worth its weight in gold. Feeling sociable? Invite someone over, meet a friend for lunch or a movie, visit the parents, hit the town. Want to stay in for the night? No problem. Just lock the door, pull the shades, and the world is yours and yours alone.
I wish I could do that now.
Just a week after my return home, I moved a second, albeit less complete, time. After transporting the great majority of my belongings to and then from Newcastle, I packed up my bedroom furniture and my more often-used clothes and transported them all to Nearby Town, a small town on the fringes of My Home Town (MHT). I was offered a "deal" of sorts by a friend of a friend. A woman looking to move to several hours away needed a house sitter to watch her horses, dogs, and cats while she stayed up north in a search for an appropriate place to live.
Initially, this sounded like a good idea to me. I've been house sitting since I was 11, and I thought that having my furniture along seemed like a bonus. The original plan was this: I would live in the house for a month while the woman stayed up north, possibly returning to Nearby Town one day a week. Good deal, right? A whole month of house sitting, with only a few awkward days co-inhabiting with someone I don't know.
And what ended up happening? Well, the woman left on Monday, and came back yesterday. With all her stuff. To stay. Here.
What?
After only three days she'd placed an offer on a house, and returned to Nearby Town. She told me all about the place, showed me pictures and then proceeded to tell me the two possible outcomes: One, her offer is accepted and she is allowed to move in December 1st, leaving about three weeks of awkwardly uncomfortable co-living time (I would continue to house sit until her house in Nearby Town is sold, to keep it in "show order"), or two, she is outbid (by one of the two other offers on the place) and will then wait until the spring to look again for another home to buy up north.
Meaning....? If the offer isn't accepted, where does that leave me? There is absolutely no reason for me to stick around here if she's planning on calling off the search until spring. When I agreed to all this, I thought that I'd be here by myself the great majority of the time, with her only stopping by occasionally.
I am so sick of moving I could vomit. I find it hard to believe that she wont get outbid on the house up north, and I'm certainly not planning on staying here if she's going to be around.
Things are no better on the job-front. Every single one of the 18 biology-related jobs for which I've applied have turned up negative. I don't even know where to go from here.
I miss being in school, where crap like this never happened. It's why I'm trying so hard to make my graduate school applications shine. I'm feeling a great deal of pressure to make them as appealing as possible. They're all more or less due on December 1st, and I can't imagine how badly it would suck if I didn't get in. It's hard enough to have to wait until March to find out, one way or the other. I'm already tired of not being in school, and I really don't want to have to face another year of stuff like this.
I miss living alone.
Last year, my senior year of college, my best friend and I rented an apartment a few blocks east of campus. It was an old, run-down place with plenty of cracks and creaks and came complete with a treacherous staircase. It had its charms, though, and we both liked living there. I certainly didn't mind living with my best friend, either. There were times I greatly enjoyed the company. Especially when she made cookies.
But there's something about living on my own, alone, that I really appreciate. It's a type of independence and solitude that's hard to otherwise gain. Hiking by oneself is extremely short-term, camping by oneself is somewhat dangerous. But an apartment with a good deadbolt in a decent part of town is worth its weight in gold. Feeling sociable? Invite someone over, meet a friend for lunch or a movie, visit the parents, hit the town. Want to stay in for the night? No problem. Just lock the door, pull the shades, and the world is yours and yours alone.
I wish I could do that now.
Just a week after my return home, I moved a second, albeit less complete, time. After transporting the great majority of my belongings to and then from Newcastle, I packed up my bedroom furniture and my more often-used clothes and transported them all to Nearby Town, a small town on the fringes of My Home Town (MHT). I was offered a "deal" of sorts by a friend of a friend. A woman looking to move to several hours away needed a house sitter to watch her horses, dogs, and cats while she stayed up north in a search for an appropriate place to live.
Initially, this sounded like a good idea to me. I've been house sitting since I was 11, and I thought that having my furniture along seemed like a bonus. The original plan was this: I would live in the house for a month while the woman stayed up north, possibly returning to Nearby Town one day a week. Good deal, right? A whole month of house sitting, with only a few awkward days co-inhabiting with someone I don't know.
And what ended up happening? Well, the woman left on Monday, and came back yesterday. With all her stuff. To stay. Here.
What?
After only three days she'd placed an offer on a house, and returned to Nearby Town. She told me all about the place, showed me pictures and then proceeded to tell me the two possible outcomes: One, her offer is accepted and she is allowed to move in December 1st, leaving about three weeks of awkwardly uncomfortable co-living time (I would continue to house sit until her house in Nearby Town is sold, to keep it in "show order"), or two, she is outbid (by one of the two other offers on the place) and will then wait until the spring to look again for another home to buy up north.
Meaning....? If the offer isn't accepted, where does that leave me? There is absolutely no reason for me to stick around here if she's planning on calling off the search until spring. When I agreed to all this, I thought that I'd be here by myself the great majority of the time, with her only stopping by occasionally.
I am so sick of moving I could vomit. I find it hard to believe that she wont get outbid on the house up north, and I'm certainly not planning on staying here if she's going to be around.
Things are no better on the job-front. Every single one of the 18 biology-related jobs for which I've applied have turned up negative. I don't even know where to go from here.
I miss being in school, where crap like this never happened. It's why I'm trying so hard to make my graduate school applications shine. I'm feeling a great deal of pressure to make them as appealing as possible. They're all more or less due on December 1st, and I can't imagine how badly it would suck if I didn't get in. It's hard enough to have to wait until March to find out, one way or the other. I'm already tired of not being in school, and I really don't want to have to face another year of stuff like this.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
What Kind of Day Has It Been
I had good intentions to update this post this weekend, after I first returned home. I assumed that Saturday, after all my things had been unloaded and stored, that I would spend the evening leisurely contemplating the events of the past five months, and that Sunday morning I would be ready to write it all down. But Saturday evening I was more concerned with making a visit to Chipotle, and Sunday I couldn't quite convince myself to write anything. Also, I had to make another visit to Chipotle.
Despite the fact that my life has suddenly become much less interesting, my brain is saying it's Thursday and it's time to finish this post.
Last Friday I said goodbye to the BLM. You may remember my very first post here, in which I mentioned that on the first day of my internship, my boss was not at work. How ironic, then, or perhaps just fitting, that he should also be absent on the last day of my internship. Dwayne left on Thursday afternoon, after he'd been assured that I'd turned in all my equipment and finished the reports for which he'd asked. He and I never really "clicked," but we did get along well enough, so we amicably went our separate ways. And, in a gesture I've interpreted as a parting gift, Dwayne let me write and send official government correspondence, complete with letterhead, signatures, and pre-paid postage. Cool.
Friday morning our office was nearly empty. I had little to do, since I'd returned nearly everything to Dwayne and had already completed all my work. I whittled away the morning breaking the government rules about internet use in the office, reading and sending personal emails, running pointless Google searches, and looking for job openings. I emptied my desk, returned various borrowed items, took down my posters, and picked out my three favorite deer and pronghorn sheds to bring home. R brought in a chocolate cake (mmm... chocolate cake) and M took me out to lunch (mmm... lunch).
And that was that, really. I had a brief meeting with the field manager, Tulip; an attempt at a proper evaluation. Nonetheless, I was given the opportunity to voice my concerns, and the two of us had a good conversation about the benefits and drawbacks of the program, and all the things the internship could stand to improve. I turned in my keys, bade everyone well, and left.
The next morning, I loaded all my things, vacuumed out the apartment, and made the long drive home.
Several people have asked me what it's like to finally be back, how I felt to be leaving Wyoming. I was obviously enthusiastic about returning home, leaving the tiny, dirty town of Newcastle far behind. My mom asked me recently if my time in Wyoming now seemed a bad dream. So it might surprise everyone, much as it did me, to find that leaving Wyoming and my job with the BLM wasn't quite as easy as I'd imagined.
Don't get me wrong... For the most part, I couldn't stand the BLM's multiple-use land management policies, the bureaucracy, the ridiculous, languid pace at which tasks are completed. Nor could I stand the town in which I was living, the incessant, unrelenting noise from the trains wearing down my last nerve, the ever-present sour smell from the oil refinery, the brooding, suspicious people, the endless stream of hunters.
There were times when I was terribly lonely, when I wanted nothing more than a companion with which to go hiking or camping or visit nearby tourist attractions. I butted heads with landowners, bit my tongue in the office, forced myself to appear neutral in the face of competing interests. There were countless times in the field when I wasn't sure where I was going, when I got lost or turned around. There were times I'd drive into places not knowing whether I'd be able to get out.
I drove on washed out roads and into narrow, steep canyons. I climbed up and down canyon walls and the nearly vertical edges of crumbling drainages. I fought with broken posts and rusty barbed wire. I trespassed far more times than I would have liked. I slipped across hills, slid into ravines, jumped across creeks, and received more than a few cuts and bruises from meeting up unexpectedly with stumps, rocks, and yes, even the ground.
So... why do I feel like I've lost something?
Perhaps because, in the end, the internship represented a lot more than the sum of its negative parts.
Wyoming is gorgeous. Take away the fencing, the train tracks, the highways, get rid of the cattle, the hunters, the far-right-wing, anti-environment, hostile landowners, the oil and gas rigs, the weathered, beaten-down farmhouses... and what's left is incredible. Stunning. Endless stretches of fragrant sage... hundreds of species of flowers, each week a new one blossoming... towering, ancient cottonwoods. Groves of spruce and ponderosa pine...tracts of quaking aspen.... miles of canyon bottoms laced with grasses and gentle rays of sunshine. Every time I hiked off somewhere and dropped out of sight of the man-made world, I felt completely at ease, almost deliriously happy.
There were good people, too. Ally, who willingly works for the BLM full-time. Neela, who runs the Weston County Humane Society. Amanda, who came to walk the dogs there nearly every single day. Steve and Bob Carter, whom I visited with several times. David, who doesn't own a phone but was more than happy to show me around his property when it came time for me to trespass there. The Mills, who unlocked gates for me more than once. Paul, who was always grateful when I gave him a courtesy call. Ed , an absentee landowner who called me once from Iowa to warn me of a particularly temperamental bull on his property. Perino, Christensen, Simmons, and Popham, graciously giving their permission for me to traipse out on their land every week to look for grouse. Oil Roustabout Guy, who I often ran into and chatted with on Fridays when driving out to find 45. And of course, Russell Davis, who very nearly restored my faith in humanity.
And, aside from the people I met and the nuances of my job is this: my five months in Wyoming provided me a great deal more responsibility, flexibility, independence, and freedom than I've ever had. I spent nearly half a year entirely on my own. I saw things that most people will likely never see, drove on roads most people will never drive, traveled to areas few people have ever traveled.
As I made the drive back home, rain lashing down on my windshield, I surprised myself by thinking wistfully of the places I'd visited over the course of the summer... roads I'd taken, creeks I'd crossed, hills I'd summited, drainages I'd followed... places where the radio signal for NPR was good... places where the radio signal for NPR was bad...places I'd found my grouse... places I'd stopped just to be... places where I wondered "WTF am I doing out here?"... places where I'd never felt better. And as I thought back over everything I'd done and everything I'd seen and everything I'd felt and every place I'd been, I found myself wondering, just what kind of day has it been?
Despite the fact that my life has suddenly become much less interesting, my brain is saying it's Thursday and it's time to finish this post.
Last Friday I said goodbye to the BLM. You may remember my very first post here, in which I mentioned that on the first day of my internship, my boss was not at work. How ironic, then, or perhaps just fitting, that he should also be absent on the last day of my internship. Dwayne left on Thursday afternoon, after he'd been assured that I'd turned in all my equipment and finished the reports for which he'd asked. He and I never really "clicked," but we did get along well enough, so we amicably went our separate ways. And, in a gesture I've interpreted as a parting gift, Dwayne let me write and send official government correspondence, complete with letterhead, signatures, and pre-paid postage. Cool.
Friday morning our office was nearly empty. I had little to do, since I'd returned nearly everything to Dwayne and had already completed all my work. I whittled away the morning breaking the government rules about internet use in the office, reading and sending personal emails, running pointless Google searches, and looking for job openings. I emptied my desk, returned various borrowed items, took down my posters, and picked out my three favorite deer and pronghorn sheds to bring home. R brought in a chocolate cake (mmm... chocolate cake) and M took me out to lunch (mmm... lunch).
And that was that, really. I had a brief meeting with the field manager, Tulip; an attempt at a proper evaluation. Nonetheless, I was given the opportunity to voice my concerns, and the two of us had a good conversation about the benefits and drawbacks of the program, and all the things the internship could stand to improve. I turned in my keys, bade everyone well, and left.
The next morning, I loaded all my things, vacuumed out the apartment, and made the long drive home.
Several people have asked me what it's like to finally be back, how I felt to be leaving Wyoming. I was obviously enthusiastic about returning home, leaving the tiny, dirty town of Newcastle far behind. My mom asked me recently if my time in Wyoming now seemed a bad dream. So it might surprise everyone, much as it did me, to find that leaving Wyoming and my job with the BLM wasn't quite as easy as I'd imagined.
Don't get me wrong... For the most part, I couldn't stand the BLM's multiple-use land management policies, the bureaucracy, the ridiculous, languid pace at which tasks are completed. Nor could I stand the town in which I was living, the incessant, unrelenting noise from the trains wearing down my last nerve, the ever-present sour smell from the oil refinery, the brooding, suspicious people, the endless stream of hunters.
There were times when I was terribly lonely, when I wanted nothing more than a companion with which to go hiking or camping or visit nearby tourist attractions. I butted heads with landowners, bit my tongue in the office, forced myself to appear neutral in the face of competing interests. There were countless times in the field when I wasn't sure where I was going, when I got lost or turned around. There were times I'd drive into places not knowing whether I'd be able to get out.
I drove on washed out roads and into narrow, steep canyons. I climbed up and down canyon walls and the nearly vertical edges of crumbling drainages. I fought with broken posts and rusty barbed wire. I trespassed far more times than I would have liked. I slipped across hills, slid into ravines, jumped across creeks, and received more than a few cuts and bruises from meeting up unexpectedly with stumps, rocks, and yes, even the ground.
So... why do I feel like I've lost something?
Perhaps because, in the end, the internship represented a lot more than the sum of its negative parts.
Wyoming is gorgeous. Take away the fencing, the train tracks, the highways, get rid of the cattle, the hunters, the far-right-wing, anti-environment, hostile landowners, the oil and gas rigs, the weathered, beaten-down farmhouses... and what's left is incredible. Stunning. Endless stretches of fragrant sage... hundreds of species of flowers, each week a new one blossoming... towering, ancient cottonwoods. Groves of spruce and ponderosa pine...tracts of quaking aspen.... miles of canyon bottoms laced with grasses and gentle rays of sunshine. Every time I hiked off somewhere and dropped out of sight of the man-made world, I felt completely at ease, almost deliriously happy.
There were good people, too. Ally, who willingly works for the BLM full-time. Neela, who runs the Weston County Humane Society. Amanda, who came to walk the dogs there nearly every single day. Steve and Bob Carter, whom I visited with several times. David, who doesn't own a phone but was more than happy to show me around his property when it came time for me to trespass there. The Mills, who unlocked gates for me more than once. Paul, who was always grateful when I gave him a courtesy call. Ed , an absentee landowner who called me once from Iowa to warn me of a particularly temperamental bull on his property. Perino, Christensen, Simmons, and Popham, graciously giving their permission for me to traipse out on their land every week to look for grouse. Oil Roustabout Guy, who I often ran into and chatted with on Fridays when driving out to find 45. And of course, Russell Davis, who very nearly restored my faith in humanity.
And, aside from the people I met and the nuances of my job is this: my five months in Wyoming provided me a great deal more responsibility, flexibility, independence, and freedom than I've ever had. I spent nearly half a year entirely on my own. I saw things that most people will likely never see, drove on roads most people will never drive, traveled to areas few people have ever traveled.
As I made the drive back home, rain lashing down on my windshield, I surprised myself by thinking wistfully of the places I'd visited over the course of the summer... roads I'd taken, creeks I'd crossed, hills I'd summited, drainages I'd followed... places where the radio signal for NPR was good... places where the radio signal for NPR was bad...places I'd found my grouse... places I'd stopped just to be... places where I wondered "WTF am I doing out here?"... places where I'd never felt better. And as I thought back over everything I'd done and everything I'd seen and everything I'd felt and every place I'd been, I found myself wondering, just what kind of day has it been?
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