that's life.

i've had a lot of different experiences playing the game of life, but none quite like last night.

when i was little, back when we had a gigantic gateway desktop (it was the bomb) my brother and i had the computer game of life. i was always the brown haired lady with the pink shirt and i always married the brown hair blue-eyed guy. we would always end up, completely randomly, getting twins. i'd do my best to be a teacher because i've always wanted to be a teacher (except when i wanted to be a firefighter) and i'd always try to get a victorian house.

i have a thing for victorian houses.

i have played the actual board game of life. i did this two years ago with my oldest cousin, who is currently twenty-seven (or eight?) and a graduate of law school. we played with my brother. in the board game, you can choose a same-sex marriage and nobody will think twice. all i had to do was pluck a little pink girl out of the box and stick her in the passenger seat of my car.

when i played that day, i did not land on a square that said "have a baby!" i'm not sure how i feel about this piece of fate.

last night i played the game of life at RA training in a completely and utterly different manner. nobody quite knew how to play, only the facilitators, and they sat behind desks that were labeled with EMPLOYMENT, CAR DEALERSHIP, BANK, MARRIAGE, AND UNIVERSITY. we were each given a name tag with a code on it, and only the facilitators knew the code. when they read our name tags with the code, they were expected to treat us based on the code.

the object: go to each station and do the best you could.

as i found at the end, this is what my code signified.

Q- i was white.
7- i was extremely rich.
()- i was physically able.
#- i was a man.
$- i was heterosexual.
-- - i was literate.

so basically i had the best name tag in the entire game.

when i stood in line to get my degree, i had no idea what any of these symbols signified. i didn't want to push my luck, so i handed jenny my sheet and said, "i think i'll try for a bachelor's degree." she then smiled very widely and said, "oh i think you can get a professional degree, something above a PhD."

i wasn't going to say no to that.

and so it went. at every single station i did not have a single problem. the police, who patrolled around as we dealt with life, left me alone. i walked up and got a mercedes luxury car, no loan. i became a lawyer with a 200,000 salary no questions asked. i bought an expensive victorian house, no mortgage. my marriage was approved instantly. (as a heterosexual, i had a homosexual marriage because i always do that during the game of life, but nobody knew about it but me. my nametag had me as heterosexual, i just didn't know about it. i just wrote sarah's name on the marriage license. it turns out sarah was almost as high up as me but was homosexual and therefore denied a marriage in actuality.)

i got through the game in about ten minutes. i had everything filled out and i didn't know what to do. and then i started to understand exactly what was happening around me.

my boyfriend was trying to get employed and rai, who was behind the desk and manning it, was speaking to him extremely slowly and loudly. she kept saying, "how long have you been in the country? i'm not sure if i can get you a job because you pray five times a day. how do you feel about 9/11?"

my roommate mariah kept getting a form with gibberish on it everywhere she went. she came up to me and said, "i think i'm illiterate."

bobby was jailed permanently because he was disabled, asian, and possibly a terrorist.

the entire time this was happening, nobody knew why. we didn't know what our symbols meant. we were trying to figure out why we were being treated the way we were being treated, and it eventually began to fall into place when james informed me that he was a homosexual muslim woman. i learned that my boyfriend was a transgender muslim man, and the marriage licenser, bob, had told him that he needed a loan for surgery before he could get married, what did he possibly think about 9/11, and did anybody in his family own a gas station? anybody with a P (denoting being african american) was either ignored or asked about gang activity and theft.

and so it went on. i walked around and everywhere i went people were being asked the most ridiculous stereotypical questions and every single person who was illiterate was given a form of gibberish and sent away.

so i became what i was; a powerful rich white man with a law degree.

at first i stood around the jail and tried to bail people out. nate was nice in letting me bail people out, but he was very particular. i had to make sure that james had no terrorist affiliations, and when i threatened to get the DA involved, he let me release him. bobby was a lost cause. i think nate might've put him on death row. when i tried to barter rob out of jail with justin as the police, however, he threatened to throw me in jail for disturbing the peace. i went elsewhere to help people.

i latched onto mariah, who was illiterate. i told her that i would represent her to get a house and to get married. we were turned down by the real estate agent, who asked me if my house was everything that i dreamed it would be. she then handed mariah a gibberish sheet and sent us away. we then went to marriage and i crossed out the gibberish and wrote plain english. i told bob, the marriage licenser, that i had filled out of her paperwork as a literate lawyer, and bob then told me that i had filled it out incorrectly and threatened to throw us in jail.

then i met maggie at the height of my frustration.

nate came up to me and said, "i need someone to represent maggie here. the marriage licenser is accusing her of stealing a car and therefore will not let her get married." well i couldn't have this. maggie wanted to get married, damn it.

so i took maggie to car dealer, explained that i was a lawyer, and asked her to review her car licensing signature. she resigned it rather reluctantly and we went to bob, my new best friend and marriage licenser.

bob became aggressive the instant he saw me, claiming that whenever i showed up to defend people, the police were never around to arrest me. i then clearly spelled out that the car dealer had checked her signature, it had been resigned, and that maggie had not stolen the car. bob then proclaimed loudly that he did not think i was an actual lawyer, even though i showed him my credentials. i told maggie to wait and i hunted down nate.

nate, as a police officer, kindly explained to bob that he had asked me to represent maggie as a lawyer and that everything i stated was true, including my credentials. bob reluctantly let maggie get married.

at this point the game ended, and i was still angry. i had glided through life without any effort whatsoever, and i felt like i had not helped enough people. i could've grabbed somebody else to help with mariah's paperwork. i could've tried harder to bail bobby out of jail. i could've helped my wife get married by demanding a civil union. but i didn't.

so i had to sit down with my incredible salary, house, car, and lawyer status and participate in group discussion.

we learned what the numbers and symbols stood for and how the faciliators knew them. they had codes and cues to say unimaginable stereotypesthings to fit stereotypes to us. we talked about our setbacks and how we felt about our stereotypes. we talked about our frustrations. the biggest point that came up was this: who makes the society rules and stereotypes?

we do.

we let these things happen. we think these things. we sometimes speak these things. what happened to diversity? why do you have to be a rich, white, heterosexual male to get everything you want in life?

sarah, my wife, was a rich, white, homosexual female. she got everything she wanted in life except a degree (the college was religiously affiliated and would not accept homosexuality) and a marriage. annette was a rich, white, heterosexual woman. she got everything she wanted in terms of a degree and a marriage, but she was not allowed to buy a house or get a car without her husband present. whenever she said that her husband wasn't with her, she was denied and sent away for being a woman.

this stuff happens. we let it.

i honestly feel like i learned more out of this activity by being privileged than by being disabled, illiterate, and foreign. it opened my eyes to how easily everything fell into my lap and how everything else is a constant, constant struggle. the game of life was suddenly life altering.

i hope to get everything i want out of life. and i hope to help others get everything they want out of life as well.


post script: the best part of the game was when morgan came up to me and said, "i'm a teacher and i drive a ford." i told her, "that is my exact life plan in real life." because it is.


today is the day.

today was one of those days where i woke up in a panic.

there are a few reasons for this.

1. it was eleven thirty. i value my sleep.

2. i couldn't remember the name of the second track on the album "torches" by foster the people.

3. my mother had promised to bake me a cake for my 'going away pizza dinner' and she had baked no such cake. she was also working all day today, and tonight is my 'going away pizza dinner'.

4. i had five hours to bake that cake, do all my laundry, and pack everything i owned for college.

i currently have a little less than two hours in that five hour clock and i'm honestly feeling rather good.

i think i look like a watermelon. i am wearing green shorts and a pink tank top. my hair is sweaty. i'm out of breath. but there is finally room on my chair for me to sit on it and room on my desk for me to put my laptop back in its usual happy position on the keyboard pullout tray (from back when i had a desktop, remember desktops?).

i got up in a super rush. i showered super fast. i smeared toothpaste on my nose to try out a new trend. it hasn't worked so far, and i can still smell mint on my face. i ate a cheese bagel like lightning. i gobbled down an entire pint of blueberries. i have a blueberry addiction and i am terrified of getting cancer. it's rather genetic in my family.

i baked that funfetti cake like it was nobody's business while simultaneously washing my comforter. this is a big deal, because my washer is one of the scariests things in my house (and there are some scary things in the serial killer room in our basement). so many knobs and buttons and multicolored facets! but i was able to wash my comforter without my father. he does the laundry and the dishes.

my mother mows the lawn.

my mother, queen of all things baking, had told me a super secret on how to make cakes moist like wedding cakes, and she had told me that she was going to share this super secret with me while we baked the funfetti cake. there was one problem with this: she was at school until four, it was twelve thirty, and i had to leave to go drastically chop off my hair at four.

i am still debating this whole drastic chop off my hair bit. i have another three hours (approximately) to decide.

so i baked my cake alone while listening to torches, because that is all i have been listening to for the past week. there is another problem with this: it's such a good album and so dancey that i find myself dancing alone in my room and not doing what i'm supposed to do.

last year i left a week later than this to start my freshman year of college. i had a bunch of stuff. i had spent all my target gift card graduation money. i had cool stuff. i spent an entire week packing it into a tremendous pile. i felt prepared. everything was perfect.

this year is very different from last year. i go to school in michigan. i live in indiana. this automatically makes me eligible for free underground storange under my dorm (and a thousand dollar scholarship), so the day before i moved back home in april, my brother, my boyfriend and i moved a bunch of my stuff to that free underground storage. my brother has my fridge in his room at the frat house. i have a decent amount of stuff currently hiding in a lightless room. tomorrow when i unpack, i will be wary of spiders.

thus i thought that i didn't have that much stuff. no sir, it would mostly be clothes, and how long would that take to pack? just shove them in a bunch of trashbags and my suitcase. make sure i have all my textbooks. remember to pack my DVD player and my rug. don't forget the ipod and the ihome, pack the laptop up when you finally sign out of facebook, tumblr, and twitter for the evening. roll up your comforter. this should not take long.

today is the day i realized how much CLOTHING i own. and this is after i gave two trash bags to goodwill earlier this week.

i have a full suitcase and five trashbags full of clothes. i am still missing an entire dresser drawer. my dresser,which matches my old bed, is from the 1800's (we're so hardcore) and one of the knobs broke off of the bottom drawer. so my all of my competitive swimming gear and my shorts and pajama bottoms are currently stuck until my father can work his magic. there in lies another trashbag full of stuff.

i have at least fifty pairs of shoes in a gigantic box (and more in a bag). i have a HUGE box of books (harry potter is heavy, my friends), a schoolbag full of textbooks, a canvas bag full of my complete seasons of chuck, two seasons of criminal minds, and all of my disney movies. i have a box with my trashcan, DVD player, rug, my piggy bank full of laundry quarters, my swim team picture collage, my framed pictures, my electronic cords, my little desk knickknacks, and my infinite boxes of stride gum. i have another comforter because i have an extra bed to make. i have sheets and towels and toiletry items.  i have a gigantic floor lamp equipped with energy friendly lightbulbs because my dorm is the new green dorm. i have a new pod chair because the one i'm sitting on is well... old. and tan. and gross. and ripping.

there's more. i have a bass guitar. and a cello.

i really don't have time to be blogging about all the things i have to pack. i really don't. but i am exhausted, sweaty, and feel the need to alert you about how i am crunched for time packing things.

after i chop off my hair and eat pizza, we will load the crimson avenger, that beautiful fourteen year old minivan, with all of my stuff. i will then drop by to say goodbye to my grandparents and my cousin/sister (our mothers are sisters. we just wish we were too). i will try to remember my cell phone.

halfway to alma i will forget something and have to buy it at walmart.

i have been waiting for tomorrow for a long, long time. since i got back to indiana, really. my heart belongs at my college and there it will remain until i graduate and move on into the real world.

but i'm sure as hell going to put more in storage next year. or not buy as much crap that i think i need because i'm an RA. i don't have time to keep writing this blog. i have trashbags to move downstairs and hair to think about.

to cut or not to cut?

it's the small things.

jonathan morley wants me to blog more often.

so here i am, sitting in my chair drinking a gatorade, listening to mumford & sons, and wearing a high lighter yellow shirt that denotes that i enjoyed my AP chemistry class in high school.

i got home today after a three day weekend of being in michigan with my boyfriend. we went to lake michigan. we watched lord of the rings and quoted it like nerds. we made pasta. we climbed a driftwood tree.

we spent six hours making door decs.

this six hours of sitting at his dining room table, holding a pair of scissors and cursing the thickness of construction paper, inevitably marks a new and adult phase of my life.

i know how weird that sounds.

i should first address the issue of you possibly not knowing what a door dec is before i get too ahead of myself trying to be a blogger. you know those fun, cute, construction paper things stuck on your dorm door with your name on it in puffy paint?

that's a door dec.

so, making door decs (with or without my boyfriend) is a gigantic life transition into the adult world.

i am a resident assistant. RA. the cool person who makes neat hall programs. the bitch down the hall who wrote you up for drinking. the person you go to when you're homesick. that person who's excited about EVERY STINKING PROGRAM the college ever puts on. (we genuinely are.)

that's me.

i have not become an RA yet, technically. i was hired in april. i have my own room. i move in on saturday. from there i go through training.

i am unbelievably excited.

being an RA, well, it's the most responsible job on campus. i spent two months applying. i filled out an application. i made a resume. i went through a mock interview. i went through five hours of group processing with a hundred other hopefuls (all of whom i loved and i wish they all could have been hired too). i then had an actual interview with all five hall directors. then i waited for a month in agony before they emailed me to tell me congratulations.

i knew that i wanted to be an RA as soon as i figured out what an RA actually was. so maybe... tenth grade. i wanted to be the person who kept the hall safe, who had the extra key for when you locked yourself out of room when you showered (and then you stood there in your hallway in a towel cursing), who kept up the bulletin board, who planned hall events. i knew that this was what i wanted to do.

it wasn't the pay. it wasn't the having the room to myself. but those are big perks, believe me.

(this sounds incredibly like my summer job. you know, the fun responsible job that you love enough to do for free, but you really enjoy being paid.)

so. my first step of being a real RA, before going through a week of training next week, is to make door decs. this was an insurmountable task, my boyfriend and i thought. (what do ya know, he's an RA too.)

i have twenty-four residents, if my calculations are correct. i am also responsible for making a door dec for each of my RA team members, the other RAs on my part of campus and in my building. this is thirty door decs. thirty.

this doesn't sound too bad, except i am not artistic. i suppose i am, because i play six instruments and write novels, but when it comes to drawing and being creative on paper, my stick figures have genetic mutations.

so i decided to make a nice tree. you know, the kind with the big trunk that swoops up and the leaves are just a big bubble that looks like a cloud.

i did that. i drew it. i cut it out. and then i traced it. thirty times. then i cut out every single tree with my boyfriend's awkward almost but not quite left handed scissors at his dining room table while it stormed on saturday. my thumb and my forefinger are not happy with me. they won't be happy for me with a long time.

i had a list of my RA teammates, so i commenced to puffy paint their names onto my multicolored first grade trees. and i remembered about five of my residents who had told me excited in april that they were in my hall. i do not have a list of my residents yet. so i could only puffy paint fifteen of my first grade trees. the other half is waiting. my mother's puffy paint is cowering in the sewing room downstairs. it should tremble. when i get that list of residents, i will become a puffy paint master.

(this is not likely. i still have puffy paint on my wrists from saturday.)

so being a creative little kid for six hours (this is how long it took) is a new transition. the entire time i was cutting out these trees and puffy painting, i was becoming increasingly excited for training. this is a real job. a responsible job. a fun job. an adult job.

i. am. so. terrifically. excited.

i am also terrifically excited in the fact that something so incredible, like making door decs, indicates a significant life transition for me.

but honestly, i believe that the biggest life transitions for us as human beings are not the big things, but the small things.