50yearoldfreshman's Blog

Dorm Fridge

50yearoldfreshman — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 15:19:46 +0000

A few months ago, I expressed surprise about how ferociously cold these little units can get. Last night, I discovered their true utility. Space. I am convinced that with a little rearranging–take out a couple shelves, slide over the mustard, move the last remaining can of Heinek..I mean, Coke Zero…that I could fit a 20-pound Butterball turkey in there. Okay, maybe that is stretching it. I did fit a Pizza Hut medium-sized box in there and was able to close the door. Life is good.

And, we’re back!

50yearoldfreshman — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 15:16:52 +0000

Over the past month, I’ve made two trips home. The first was a flight out of Charlottesville, VA to Manchester, NH by way of New York’s LaGuardia. All in all, a pleasant trip.

The second was a reluctant homage to a time-honored tradition: getting home for Thanksgiving break. Fact: point A to point B is 14 hours in a car. Fact: when you’re 20, naive, resilient, and have not a care in the world, the trek is known as a road trip. You may do it solo, or you may do it with a carful of riders who are paying you in gas, beef jerky, or two liter bottles of Mountain Dew. There are loud stories and louder tunes. When stuck in traffic, you hold up wacky hand-written signs that say things like, “I have to pee,” (actually seen on I-81 in Harrisburg, PA) or “Let me out of here, I am being kidnapped!” Hilarity ensues.

Move that hour hand forward three decades, and the entire tone of the trip changes. It is long, laborious, mind-numbing drudgery. The bright spots are when carloads of the above mentioned sprats sail by, music so loud you can hear it over the road noise. I smile and think, “Yeah, I’ll be home soon–and if I can stop for another shake, it won’t be so bad.”

Traditions.

50yearoldfreshman — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:52:26 +0000

Last week, at about 1 a.m., I heard what sounded like a large crowd of people off in the distance, whooping and hollering and having a good time.

I can always turn to my staff for insight and answers.

Me: “The other night, I heard what sounded like a large crowd of people off in the distance, whooping and hollering and having a good time.”

My staff: “Oh, that was probably a naked run. They do those here.”

Me: Oh, no wond…hey, back up the truck, Lenny, WHAT?!

My staff:

The Internet.

50yearoldfreshman — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:48:13 +0000

When I was in college the first time, the Internet hadn’t been invented. Computers with the computing power of an iPod filled giant, air-conditioned rooms and were attended to by guys in Coke-bottle glasses and white coats. Social networking was filling an envelope with shaving cream, placing it near the bottom of someone’s dorm room door, and stomping it. Ok, I’ll stop before I start sounding like Yakov Smirnoff doing the lunch show in Branson, Mo.

Anyway, my older daughter and son think it’s funny when I tell them that we scratched in the dirt with sticks to do math. The little guys are too young to appreciate my carefully-honed comedic talent. The three-year-old, Everett, always has a little sparkle in his eye. You know he’s thinking, “I could run right through that wall. I totally could run through that wall. If I mark where the studs are, and turn sideways a little, I can run through that wall. Oh yeah, that’s right.”

Weird Old Guy on the Porch.

50yearoldfreshman — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:38:17 +0000

Two members of my staff, both lovely people, get great delight from imagining me on the front porch of the building during a fire alarm. These wits imagine a first-year glancing over and thinking “Whoa. Who’s dad is staying over?” or “Whoa. He’s kinda old to be hanging around here.” –or texting “omg eew grndpa. c u l8tr, 431 me”

It’s not like I am standing out there in a short-sleeve dress shirt, Sansabelt bermuda shorts, calf-high black dress socks, wingtips, and a fedora, trying to clear my sinuses loudly.

My college badge, and the branded college lanyard, hang around my neck in full view. Can’t be too careful!

Pop the Drop.

50yearoldfreshman — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 01:44:06 +0000

I shop at Kroger, a venerable Southern supermarket chain on par with Food Lion and Piggly Wiggly.

Kroger has some interesting features. For example, there are ready-made entrees and salads for carry-out. That, in itself, isn’t that special. However, every package sports a small gold sticker with the message, “Prepared Especially for You by the Kroger Chef. Now I’m imagining a guy in a toque racing between Kroger locations, preparing a Greek pasta salad just for me. Impressive.

Kroger has a line of products named Value. The products are even less expensive than the Kroger store brand, and it appears most often on things that one wouldn’t associate with good health. For example, a package of Value bologna that is about eight inches high will set you back .89. That’s value.

The highlight for me is a soda product named Big K! Citrus Drop. They sell the stuff on an end display–it is $1.39 for a 12-pack of cans. It’s a Mountain Dew knock-off–but instead of Doing the Dew, you Pop the Drop. Genius. It’s pretty tasty, too.

Road Trip.

50yearoldfreshman — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 15:31:45 +0000

I’m heading up to northern VA to see my uncle and aunt. Three-and-one-half hours, no visits planned to see “Otis! My man!” or anything like that. I might stop at a roadside barbeque joint on the way home tomorrow.

The Plan: Fire Alarm Turnout Gear.

50yearoldfreshman — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 15:24:41 +0000

I now go to bed fully clothed. My teeth are brushed, my hair neatly combed, my BlackBerry–fully charged–in a holster on my belt. I’ve already dialed all but one digit of my media relations manager so I just have to press “9″ and the green button. I lie on my back at a position equidistant from both sides of the bed so that I can awaken, sit up, and launch myself to vertical in one smooth move. My fleece is hanging on the closet door, my running shoes are pointed at the hallway, laces untied, and spread open so that there is no impediment to getting them on, tied, and ready to rock.

The alarm didn’t go off last night, or the night before, but the next time the f&*# does, I’ll be ready.

Noise. Loud. Run.

50yearoldfreshman — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 15:19:16 +0000

One night not long ago, a loud noise woke me out of a dead sleep–a steady tone. In my stupor, I started whacking at my BlackBerry (a two-generations old model that I absolutely hate) thinking that some meeting reminder was going off. The noise didn’t stop.

So I’m thrashing around in the semi-darkness, with this ear-splitting noise searing my brain, and I think, “You know, it’s a good thing that I heeded Amy’s advice and wore jammies to bed. Otherwise, I could die of smoke inhalation searching for a suitably fashionable shirt (I picked a college t-shirt–always de rigeur campus wear and a reassuring sign that the wild-eyed 0ld guy isn’t some weirdo who wandered onto campus because he didn’t take his meds).

Did I mention it was 4:27 a.m?

It wasn’t until I was out in the hall that I got the FULL treatment: the loud, steady tone in the room was replaced by an absolutely consciousness-jarring buzzer. You know how you can feel the bones inside your head and neck vibrating when a dentist is going to town with a drill with a burred tip? That’s what it was like–AND the addition of ADA-compliant, retina-searing strobe lights. If Satan had a dance club, this is what it would be like.

So, I follow the approved evacuation procedure (from the decal above the DVD drop box on the stall wall in the palatial bathroom), arrive in the downstairs lobby and…there’s nobody there. Apparently, fire alarms don’t really concern REAL college students. I am standing there in my t-shirt and branded lanyard with my access card and dorm room key attached wondering why the hell I got up?

Eventually, a security guard wandered into view (they’re great here and all have a good sense of humor) and said, “Betcha didn’t see that coming, didja?”

The next night, the alarm went off at 8:20 p.m. It was time for a plan.

My Bathroom.

50yearoldfreshman — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 15:05:35 +0000

Six sinks, 20 wall-mounted cubbies for toiletries and cosmetics, a long mirror, four toilets, three shower stalls and a bathtub/shower combination. Ohhh yeah. There is a large sticker on the wall of each stall titled, “SAFETY INSTRUCTIONS.” The first item:

“Do not smoke in bed. Mattress fires are hazardous.”

The best-practices safety guidelines go on to inform the reader that “open flames are allowed in two circumstances: lighting a match to light a cigarette, or lighting candles for religious reasons in the chapel (with permission of the Chaplain).”

There’s also this large silver thing mounted near the bottom of the stall wall, with a handle on it. Must be a DVD drop box or something.