I can’t spell!!!

I’m sure that this statement comes as no shock to you, my dear readers. Even with the help of this lovely thing called Spell-Check, I’m sure that I still end up with numerous spelling errors. I am blissfully unaware of any, however, because unless a word has a squiggly red line under it, I assume I’ve spelt the correct word the proper way.

As soon as I learned the alphabet, I became obsessed with playing the spelling game, much to the exasperation of my folks. The game went something like this: “what does r-q-u-t-k-a-i-e-r-h-j-l-k spell?” Most the time they would simply say “It doesn’t spell anything” but sometime, if they were in the right mood, they’d sound out the letters I’d strung together, which I thought was hysterically funny. Imagine a big, strong, grown man saying riqutierhajelk. Embarrassingly, the only word I ever spelt playing this game started with a p and is a common term for the male reproductive organ. My dad thought the story was very funny and told it to everyone he saw for about a month. I think it was to get me back for laughing at the funny sounds he made while sounding out my “words.”

Another spelling mishap took place when I worked in the Ave Admissions Office. I had to send numerous emails to staff and faculty, alerting them when a prospective student would be visiting. One particular email I sent to a very uptight teacher at the very beginning of his very first semester to let him know that a student changed his plans and would not be able to attend his class. I apologized profusely for the “impotence” (darn auto correct!). Don’t ask me how I managed that one. I never took a class from this particular professor, and I was always wondered why he made no effort to meet me. Guess I'll never know...

My most recent embarrassing error was in a paper I wrote recently for a Diocesan Scripture class. In grand, stately language, understandable to us intellectuals, I described how a sin may appear small and insignificant, but if one persists in corruption, the lifestyle of vice will become a huge, festering organism that seems to have a life of its own and actually controls the sinner’s life, depriving them of their freedom. Except that, instead of organism, I accidentally used a very different word, complete with a very different meaning (sometimes this word is refered to the Big O). Thankfully my teacher is a woman, and her only comment on this particular error was a big circle around the word, with a line drawn through it, the line effectively distinguishing it from the other spelling errors.

After reading this, I’m sure that you’ve come to one of two conclusions: a). Freud IS right, after all, or b). God is trying to keep Cola humble (please note that careless on my part is not an option, as I spell worse and less careless than most people I know).

Ey hoppe u half a goot dey!

Irony

Some people come back from vacation with a tattoo…I came back from the Caribbean with a scar.

Yes, that’s right. A scar. You may want to know how exactly I procured said scar, and where it’s located, and what it looks like. Nothing would please me more than describe, in exquisite detail, the who, what, where, when and why of this bodily alteration, which I will undertake in a paragraph or two. But before I undertake this colossal but pleasurable task, I would like to put aside these interesting particulars, and take the time to stress the irony of the entire fiasco.

Irony may or may not be the word you would chose to illustrate this situation. I understand completely if are of the type who thinks that scars are a remnants of a dangerous/ stupid/ embarrassing/ excruciatingly painful event (hopefully not all of these adjectives would be used to describe the same scar). That means you are a normal person, with normal scars, unless you have no scars, which would make you extremely cautious, extraordinarily healthy, just plain ol’ gosh-darn lucky (and abnormal). Chances are, you have scars, and that those scars and the experiences involved with obtaining them would not be described as Ironic.

One of Webster’s definitions of irony is the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning. So when I claim my scar is ironic, am I saying that it is an atypical scar obtained in an atypical way? Not exactly. Am I claiming that my scar has made my skin more healthy and radiant, instead of deforming it, as implied by the meaning of the word scar? Not particularly. All I’m saying is that my reaction to the scar does not cause the emotional response implied by the idea of obtaining a scar.

I feel that this particular blemish is ironic because if I wanted a permanent reminder of my Caribbean vacation, I would have gotten a tattoo. I like tattoos. I’ve wanted one for awhile now. I think they are pretty darn sweet if you’ve got one you like in a non-conspicuous pace. But my friends, being Godly women, flipped out on me. They went on and on about theology, and tried to convince me that it was not pleasing to God disfigure your body in that way and blah blah blah. (The reason I treat their opinion lightly is that I don’t believe one little tattoo tastefully placed is a disfigurement, but an ornament, like pierced ears. So when they toss theology into the mix, I feel that they are trying to make a little, harmless tattoo a moral evil, which I don’t quite agree with). (Please note that, regardless of how I babble on about the subject, I do see their point, and I’m not convinced I’d ever get a tattoo, even if all circumstances were favorable. But, for sake of this blog, let’s just pretend that I didn’t just say that). To sum everything up: I wouldn’t have/ couldn’t have/ didn’t get a tattoo because my friends are good friends and wouldn’t want me to do something I’d regret later (or that would keep me out of heaven, which I dare say I would regret latter).

The other ironic thing about this scar is that the friend who protested the most about the tattoo was the friend who caused me to scar in the first place. She chased me down in the ocean, and then forcefully shoved my head underwater and held me down for an uncomfortable amount of time, while sea water rushed up my nose. I, of course, trying to save my life, put up a valiant but ultimately ineffective struggle. The result of this tiff was painful; somehow my dear friend managed to gouge the top of my foot, by using a bodily part or a nearby rock, and cause a copious amount of bleeding and pain (because of all the salt in the ocean’s water). Now, I have an everlasting deformity on my foot, and not a cool tattoo, which I would have placed in a more discreet area.

To tie up this longwinded post: instead of a tattoo as a memento, I get a scar, nature’s permanent souvenir. Ironic.

Reminiscing

I went to the Ave Reunion!!!

I can’t believe that it worked out for me to go! It should not surprise me, however, for my entire time at AMC was full of surprises, starting from the very beginning. The first time I heard of Ave was in August, and classes were starting in three weeks. I was surprised that the whole process from applying to being accepted with a nice scholarship took only a week. (I should have known something was not quite right). When I arrived, I was surprised that the Academic Building was in shambles. An absolute disaster area. There was sheetrock everywhere. Wires were hanging in random places from the ceiling. People were running around aimlessly. I think I stood in shock for eons, staring openmouthed at this war zone where my new school was supposed to be.

I was stunned when I showed up just days later for orientation. Miraculously, the building had transformed. It was now possible to imagine sitting in a classroom without fearing the ceiling would cave in. I’m sure the rest of my class was not so impressed, but they weren’t privileged with seeing the state of affairs just two days prior. There were still men walking around on stilts, and people were caring boxes here and there and everywhere, but it at least looked like the inside of a building.

My next shock was in my first Latin class with Dr. Wright. She had frizzy hair covered by a funky hat, low top, short skirt, and FISHNET stockings! Not to mention the stilettos that she tottered around on and which threatened to snap her toothpick ankle any moment if she slipped. I distinctly remember thinking how utterly ridiculous it was that I was taking Latin from this funny lady who looked like a mad scientist (I soon learned that under her exocentric exterior was a sweet, sensitive and brilliant Linguist- another surprise).

I was surprised when I moved into my dorm about a month after classes began (I was off-campus living with family friends). Our phones didn’t work!!!! That’s right, folks, OUR PHONES DIDN’T WORK!!!!!!!! We had to call home from the front desk of the Academic Building, and there was always a line, which meant not only did you feel like you had to rush through your conversation, but everyone was listening. Our heat didn’t work, either. (Most of the winter was spent huddled under blankets). To top everything off, the only computers on campus were the ones in the Library. And when they finally put machines in the computer lab, it closed when the common room did! None of this was what I signed up for.

However, we struggled through that year, studding, working, laughing, eating our “home-style meals” in Holy Trinity’s basement, bonding and getting to know one another. Living together in the same building really brought our class together. We’d have brunch in someone’s room on Sunday morning after Mass, and linger on, trying to pretend we didn’t have a paper to write. I don’t remember a single day during that year where I could honestly claim to be all caught up on my papers! Quiet hours were strictly enforced, but we managed to get around that… Oh, yeah! Movies in the laundry room, conversations in the hallway as far away from the Haley’s apartment as possible, all night study sessions in the stairwell, and the list goes on…

We had a grand time, that freshman year. I’m not sure if any of us realized how much fun we were having, fun that will never be duplicated. The rest of my time at Ave was exciting, and the surprises never stopped coming, but after our first year, we wouldn’t have known how to deal with life if it were uneventful! Despite the unexpected twists and turns that made up my Ave experience, there was a peace inside of me that told me this was where I needed to be.

I think that this inner peace (along with a ton of other emotions, don’t get me wrong!) was the string that tied one day to the next, one semester to another, from the first year to the last, at least for me. I always knew that God had a special plan for my dear Ave, and for me as well.

Even now, when my dear school has closed down, I still feel an inner peace, and I know that whatever happens, my beloved Ave is in God’s hands. And wouldn’t it be a grand surprise if she didn’t stay closed?

Peace and surprises… that’s what I’ll remember when I think back on Ave.