Small Town Grudge

How do you tell a sweet old Dominican nun that her nephew is the Antichrist? This is the kid who ridiculed my newly acquired driving skills on an 8-hr trip to Canada, pawed through my backpack, and told my friends I was a loser. He was my little brother's best friend from 5th to 8th grade, but they parted ways in high school at about the same time when a hate club for the highly conservative, bigoted sleazeball began to form. The club still exists as a Facebook group, but its members have dispersed from our small town and have little reason to remain an official operation except as revenge for bitter memories. I, on the other hand, must now face the fact that he lurks in the hallways of my small, small college. When Sister asked if I knew him, I nodded, gritted my teeth, and smiled. Thank God he's not a psychologist or a writer.

You know you’re in West Michigan when…

Celebration on the Grand stayed dry last night, and another year of impressive fireworks exploded over the river on schedule. We camped out on the bridge early and were joined by a mob of college students, bubbly fresh-people on their first downtown outing. I listened to their giddy attempts to impress each other with false confidence, straining to appear interesting. The opposite-sex pairs were especially amusing. One girl talked animatedly to her male neighbor about the fascinating aspects of pyrotechnics, who agreed emphatically with everything she said. Later, she related the pacing of the fireworks display to the elements of a Christian Reformed church service. After a particularly impressive series of fireworks—a Grand Finale-esque moment towards the beginning of the event—she would squeal, “That was the offertory!” or “Ooh, the Special Music!”

I won’t name the college they had plastered on their persons (not only on t-shirts, but also written in their blonde ponytails and hip cross necklaces). If you’re from West Michigan, you can probably guess.

Where's the hermit hut?

The Marywood Health Center isn’t quite my Home Sweet Home, but I have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet setup. These blue-hair nuns have got it pretty good: high ceilings, huge windows, and finger-licking food. There’s even a whirlpool tub next door to my bedroom, which is enormous, by the way. I feel like I’m in a hotel. This isn’t exactly helpful on my journey to asceticism.

Fake Nun Gathers Bad Karma

There's a priest in my bed! Or there will be, for the next 11 days. The Fort is packing up and relocating to accomodate for a 10-priest retreat. I can't say I'm celebrating the move, which is why I'm not sure I could ever be a Real Nun. Or a successful Hindu. I'm stuck in samsara, unable to relinquish my worldly possessions, even if those are only a desk, a closet, a dresser, and a sink--the tiny space I've called mine for a whopping two weeks. How American.

Tempting the Fates

Campus Safety is cracking down on parking. Or buffing up its image, anyway. Maybe all the new signage ("ALL VEHICLES MUST BE REGISTERED"..."THIS LOT REQUIRES A PERMIT"..."FACULTY ONLY") is meant to convince students they're getting their money's worth on parking permits.

Something I don't have.

I park my car at the commuter lot once or twice a week, so getting a permit wouldn't even cost me anything. I'm just lazy. Every week I expect to see a slip of paper fluttering from my windshield. 10 bucks, I think. No biggie.

But today when I saw Officer Tom's bald head and bristling beard barring Wednesday-nighters from the faculty lot, I thought again.

Maybe I should get one of those.

But Where Have All the Fritos Gone?

I don't typically buy food from vending machines. But recently on a rare binge, I fed a dollar into the machine on the newly renovated 2nd floor of AB. I was hungry between a cancelled class and the long stretch before dinner, and cheap gratification caught my eye.

Scanning the rows of Snickers and Kit Kats, something else caught my eye too--a bag of "Better Made" corn chips. A Frito by any other name still has the same greasy crunch, and with only three ingredients (corn, oil, salt), how much could an off-brand screw it up? So I chanced it on the unfamiliar yellow bag.

It turns out "Better Made" is made better in Detroit. From what I gather, the company is a non-conglomerate, and it claims to use Michigan potatoes during the 8 months of the year that they're in season. I wonder if someone made a deliberate choice to stock AQ's snack supply with more friendly food, or if Better Made filled a slot that would have otherwise required an expensive contract or overhead with a Big Brand.

I'll take them over Fritos any day!

Hike Naked, It Adds Color to Your Cheeks

Who says mother-daughter bonding involves shopping sprees or pedicures? My mom and I caught up on a backpacking trip, comparing the capabilities of our Swiss Army knives and reveling in my sweet new stove: The Raptor. Weighing in at a whopping 5 ounces, the stove is smaller than a digital camera and fits in the palm of my hand. Unfold its metal claws and the Raptor is born--simple, sharp, and ready to boil water in 4 minutes flat. $55 at Apex Outdoor Gear, a small independent store on 29th.

We hiked the Manistee River Trail and camped between the river and a creek. The trail was moderately challenging and offered varied terrain and a good view of the river. The only downside was the high river traffic--I respect those who canoe and kayak, but tubers are, indisputably, idiots.

It was good to spend a couple days letting my body breathe, sweat, and shit naturally. Communication was face-to-face and not by phone. Now I'm back to civilization with sore hamstrings and little regret for taking a long hot shower. One foot out and one foot in is fine with me.