Lessons With Laura

You may have notice I've changed the layout of the site. This is to reflect the inherent mood of the month of February.

I hate February. This God-Forsaken month is by far the longest of the 12. Why, you ask? For oh so many reasons.

1. My business comm professor informed me last week that it's pronounced Feb-ROO-ary. Not Feb-you-ary. Seriously? I've been pronouncing it wrong for over 22 years? How does that HAPPEN?


2. It annoys me to no end that February has the audacity to be the only perfectly symmetrical month. All the other months have at least 30 days, but nooooo, February has to be special. Short and sweet. You probably think this post is about you, don't you, February?

But no, that's not enough... Just when you think you have February figured out, it throws you a curve-ball. It's like an indecisive girlfriend.

I mean, seriously. Have you ever thought about leap year? It's one of those things that isn't weird until you really think about it, and then you realize its REALLY damn weird. Like crunchy peanut butter. Or ear wax.


3. I spend the whole month of February waiting for March, the second greatest month of the year (think: March Madness). And it's far enough away from October, the greatest month of year, that the effects of the last October have worn off and there's 8 months until the next one rolls around.


4. Apparently we've been in school long enough by February to have these pesky things called "exams." It's cramping my style. (And by "style" I mean time devoted to Campaigns).


5. How on earth did Groundhog Day end up being a big deal? The person who thought this up HAD to be the same guy that decided to bring a tree inside the house and throw some lights on it. Either that, or I imagine a Holiday Convention that took place, with a bunch of old guys in powdered wigs. They probably got high. I imagine the conversation went like this :
Leader: "February sucks. Why don't we start it off with a stupid Holiday. That should cheer everyone up."
High person with the munchies: "Groundhog."
High person staring out the window: "It's...so...snowy...outside...."


6. Valentine's Day. Everything is pink. Everything is covered with hearts. Everyone is advertising for you to buy pink things that are covered in hearts. You walk into Wal-Mart and your corneas are bombarded by so much pink that you have an instant headache. The whole Valentines industry is enough to make you want to vomit.

I swear, all those pink hearts are going to make me agoraphobic.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure the 'chocolate heart' thing got started so your girlfriend has something to give her single roommate to ease the pain.

We don't call it Single's Awareness Day (SAD) for nothing. No, I don't want to hear what you are planning with your significant other. And if you tell me, I'm going to tell you in graphic detail what I'm planning on doing with MY Valentine's Day. I'm going to watch zombie movies. People are going to get eaten and blood is going to be spewing everywhere.



LOTS AND LOTS OF BLOOD.

And when I'm the only one alive when the zombie apocalypse happens, you'll all know why.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE.

I find it interesting that everything in history- war, religion, science -was all done so that man can answer the one question that's bothered us since the dawn of time.

What's the point?

And in thousands of years of human history, nobody has definitively answered this question.

People who are close to me know this: I hate not having the answer. There's a very real reason that my Droid stays within 2 feet of my person at all times these days, and it has way more to do with Google at my fingertips than it does with my having to be connected to the world at all times.

But maybe the answer is that there is no point; and it struck me the other day that it doesn't really matter. The only thing that we can know for sure, the only thing that we can rely on completely is that right now, at this moment in history... We exist.

And "existing" simultaneously seems like enough, and not a good enough answer. Perhaps its because it takes the pressure off of religion to give us purpose and puts it on ourselves.

And that's what it really boils down to. You have to find and create your own purpose- whatever that may be. And it doesn't matter what it is, as long as you find it fulfilling; as long as you get that giddy high from talking about what you love to do. (For me, this is interactive advertising, renewable energy, politics/policy and horses. All at the same time. I can talk about any of the above for hours at a time.).

And at the end of the day, none of it matters without the people you love.

People do some awful things to each other. Awful, awful things. And often, they aren't on purpose. The ways that we hurt each other out of spite and love and self interest cut to the core.

But then you have people that restore your faith in humanity. The teacher who volunteers to drive your horse to Nashville at the last minute. The Twitter follower from England who remembers that you tweeted about a horse show on Friday and asks about it on Monday morning. The friend that sees right through you when you say "I'm okay" and innately knows to either make you talk about it or let you pretend that it IS okay. The friend that knows you're having a tough week and texts you lyrics to U2 songs every morning just to give you something to brighten your day.

The little things that people do inspire me to be a better person, and a better friend. Thank you all.

Finals are a stressful time for most college students. This is understandable, especially considering how many emails I got this week from my fellow lecture attendees that went something like this:

"Hey guys! I hope studying is going well, because it isn't for me. I can't seem to find any of my notes since the midterm, could some kind soul give me theirs? I promise to return the favor!"

Seriously chick, you didn't go to lecture. That's cool- but if you feel obligated to spam my inbox with pleas for 25 classes worth of notes, at least give me a decent story to make it worth the 5 seconds I spent deciding not to help you. If I had been writing this email, it would have read something like this:

"Hey guys! I hope you've managed to find a place to park within a mile of the library, and that you're having a fun time studying- I am not having quite so much fun. For one, I got kidnapped by gremlins on the 6th floor last night and they tortured me for 12 hours as repayment for that time I wrote graffiti on the wall of the 2nd stall in that bathroom. As one of the methods of torture, they took my laptop and deleted all of my notes for the whole semester. I would really appreciate it if someone would email me their notes, otherwise the gremlins win! Kthnx!"

Hmmm, maybe next semester I'll do an experiment as to how effective the above email would be for obtaining notes.

Anyway, finals are stressful. I, on the other hand, usually don't find finals week particularly more stressful than any other week, except that it takes an hour to find parking and the library is chalk-full of underclassmen who have clearly never been there before ("Wow- I've never been in the library before!"). The main reason for this is that classes in my major don't typically have finals (reason #83 why my major is better than yours). Nay, we have reports. Lots and lots of reports due every week; and each 10-15 page report is worth about 5% of my grade. (Seriously, advertising is great!). For real, though, it's not that bad. (Actually, the last two weeks of November, it usually IS that bad.)

But this finals week was different, and I think it had something to do with World Civ I. I am not good at history. I have NEVER been good at history. I'm great with numbers and concepts and cause/effect relationships, but not when all three are combined and I have to put them in the correct order with the proper date and am expected to have 900 years of history of 6 different countries memorized. Plus, I am, and always have been, awful at names. This problem is particularly exacerbated when Popes and Rulers have names like Louis and Henry and Charles and Benedict and the difference between the Henry that established a jury system and the Henry that whored around is a II vs VIII and 400 years. This is, of course, assuming that you don't confuse the Henry II that lived in England with the Henry II that lived in France, the same time as Henry VIII, and invented the patent (I remember that trivial detail because I think it's ironic).

Needless to say, it was a very stressful weekend (except the part where Tim Tebow cried), that seems to have taken it's toll on my intellectual prowess- namely, my ability to remember numbers.
Fun fact about LB: I am really good at remembering numbers. My SSN, my MOM'S SSN, my driver's license number, every credit/debit card I've ever had, routing numbers, bank numbers, etc. (I'm also really good at resisting torture, so don't think you're going to get them out of me. Unless you're a gremlin). In fact, my (only) party trick is that I can tell you the number of electoral votes that any state had in 1991. (I can't figure out why this doesn't come up at parties more often).

Which is why I panicked today when I sat down to take my psych final and could not, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, remember my student ID number. It somehow morphed into a combination of my SSN and debit card number. I had to email my prof about it when I got home. It was embarrassing.

Anyway, finals are done, and now that I've finished this post, I've realized that it's completely stupid. Kudos to you if you've reached this point, but I don't blame you if you haven't. If you HAVE read this far, here is your reward: Download the new Train CD.

You can thank me for that advice later.

A dear friend of mine, who has since moved to the faraway magical land of Massachusetts, recently suggested I jump on the bandwagon and start a blog to document my crazy life. And since I have several friends and relatives that ALSO live in faraway lands, though admittedly some are a lot less magical (Tuscaloosa Alabama, I'm talking to you), I figured it might not be a bad idea.

I guess this is the part where I describe myself- though I suppose if you've stumbled across this blog, you probably have at least met me at some point in my life. I guess the following description is for the people that have found this through attempts to stalk either me or one of the people I'm close to (and if that is the case, I don't really blame you. We are pretty awesome people).

I'm Laura. I'm a 21 year old advertising major at the University of Tennessee.
The best part about being 21 is being able to deflect awkward conversation starters when at dinner with new people who are younger than you. It usually goes something like this:
Me: "I'd like a [insert beverage containing copious amounts of tequila here]"
Acquaintance: "You suck"
Me: "How long before you turn 21?"
Voila! Instant conversation starter! (And something to help if it doesn't go well past this point)

The University of Tennessee happened, despite my upbringing to despise the color orange from relatives at Vandy and Bama, because it was the best in-state option that was further from 198 miles from my house (it is actually 199 miles from my house). Advertising is just what I happened to land on after bouncing back and forth from major to major the first 3 semesters of my undergraduate career. It's not that I can't find something that I'm interested in- it's that I'm interested in EVERYTHING. Thus, advertising- I've learned a little about a lot, and a lot about how to find information about a lot, so it works.

I have a dog that might actually be a goat in disguise, as she's recently taken to eating the furniture, and a horse that wants to try out to be the star of the upcoming reality TV series: 'What Crazy Way Can This Horse Injure Himself Next?' I also was voted "most likely to be motivated by threats of beating" by the UT Equestrian Team, and am proudly the UT Horse Judging Team's official "OMG thoroughbreds are so much better than quarter horses!" spokesperson. I think Matchbox 20 was God's gift to, well, me, and I thoroughly despise Pepsi products. Don't laugh, this is a serious hatred that goes way beyond my addiction to Diet Coke.

At this point, I have no idea what I want to do with my life, and am currently a little irked at my high school guidance counselors- who always made it seem like I'd know where I was going at this point in my collegiate career. I really like horses and computers and social media- so maybe I can do something with that.

Anyway, my life is a whirlwind of miniature disasters and minor catastrophes (Yes, I just quoted a KT Tunstall song). Even better, they are all FUNNY. Or maybe I'm just hardwired to make if funny to avoid anxiety. Either way, I think this might be a fun way to document this next year of my life, so hop on board the train (or don't) and join me for the ride!