Hi, you shouldn’t be a Professor

It’s been nearly a month since I finished my first full year back at school, and I’m still irked to the core about one of my professors.  Part of me wants to forget about him and move on, and the other wants to write incessant letters and e-mails to the Dean of Students until he is released from his duties as Professor.

This class was an intro class for document design and was based heavily (and I mean every single thing we did) on Adobe InDesign.  If you don’t know anything or much about this program, it would likely be similar to sitting in a space ship and trying to figure out how to fly it.  Or reading Harry Potter in Italian.  It’s complicated and complex for beginners.  I would say it’s about twice as complicated and complex for Writing Majors who have NO interest or minute understanding of computers or technology.  Ahem, 98% of my class.

There were a few Advertising and PR kids who were already well versed with this program, and they quickly adopted the status of teachers pet.  Then there were the rest of us who simply tried to keep our grades above failing.

His version of “teaching” us this program was to give us YouTube videos to watch.  I basically stared cross-eyed at the screen for each of those videos and when the time came to apply it to our projects, they didn’t match up.

Ah, the projects.  Yes, three projects, all jam packed into the last few weeks of the semester, and these were the only grades that mattered.  So if you had no idea what you’re doing with the first project, or if he didn’t think your design was good enough – TOO BAD.  His feedback was anything but helpful and when one student asked for further advice he would say things like, “Maybe you should review the assignment sheet.” She e-mailed our class in desperation for advice, clearly, she had read the assignment sheets over and over. Don’t even bother asking questions in class, because that response will be defensive and mocking, making you feel like an idiot for even asking.

I’m livid because I see what I pay him per class, and any lack of success should reflect poorly on him as well.  I passed the class, but I feel like I could have learned far more had he known how to teach the subject matter.  The problem is that it’s not his first job.  Teaching college students is extra cash for him, and it’s clear we are not his priority.  I know my other classmates were frustrated as well (or those of us who had no prior training with InDesign).  We all felt loss and timid to ask questions.

I don’t like seeing our careless professors get away with it.  College is insanely expensive, but how are we supposed to reach graduation if we don’t have professors who want to see us succeed?   That’s fine for them to expect a lot from us, that I understand, but if they can’t back it up with being able to explain and teach without simply sending us to YouTube, I’m over you, and I’ll take that couple grand back also.

Any of you college kids feel my pain?

Angry about this, but secretly super happy with life,

Cheers!

 

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I’m not a Hipster.

For a good portion of my adult life I’ve thought I was a hippie/hipster.

hip·pie

[hip-ee] 

noun

a person, especially of the late 1960s, who rejected establishedinstitutions and values and sought spontaneity, direct personalrelations expressing loveand expanded consciousness, often expressed externally in the wearing of casual, folksy clothing and ofbeads, headbands, used garments, etc.

 

 

hip·ster

 [hip-ster] 

noun Slang.

1.

a person who is hip.
2.
a person, especially during the 1950s, characterized by aparticularly strong sense of alienation from most established social activities and relationships.

 

It was about the time when my high school sweetheart and I broke up and I realized I had no idea who Hannah was without him.  I wanted to be different from the Abercrombie-clad girl that I was at that time, so naturally, I decided that I was a hippie.  In reality I was simply a funny poser, since I had no idea what this entailed or what it meant, but in my mind I was a hippie.  I began to smoke a tobacco pipe.  I went 4 solid months without ever wearing shoes. (Um, not even in bars.  I know.)  I wore long skirts and knitted caps in the middle of summer that I called “floppy knittas” and drank only sophisticated drinks like boxed wine.  I got big chunky glasses and began painting (horribly).  I got my nose pierced and wore a giant hoop in it.  I got a tattoo and looked into dreadlocks for my hair…because that’s what hippies do.

Some of you know this is true of me.  Some of you think I’m joking.

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feet. bare. tattoo. anklet. Soooooooo artsy. (Side note: those jeans are from Express…true poser)

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long skirt, floppy knitta.

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The nose ring.  You guys, I KNOW.

Surprisingly, it took a good 4 years or so to realize that I am not, in fact, a hippie/hipster.

Last night I fully accepted this reality.  I went to a bar to listen to a few bands at Pyramid Scheme in Grand Rapids.  It’s grungy and eclectic and has numerous arcade games.  It is a hipster bar, and if you are not of this mold, you stand out.  I once had my friend meet me there and she showed up in a neon pink t-shirt which only enhanced her bright blonde hair.  I was so embarrassed.  And now, months after the incident and knowing full well the atmosphere of this venue, I decided to wear a black peplum top with skinny jeans and cute sandals and a chunky gold necklace.  It wasn’t neon pink, but I did not fit in at the metal/rock/mosh-pit themed concert.

I did stand out, but that was okay with me.  I sipped my gin and tonic and swayed with the beat (okay totally off beat because I’m that white) and sincerely enjoyed each of the bands.  Side note: Mosh pits are a major white people thing.  We had to have invented it because anyone who can actually dance would have to prefer that over shoving each other around in a manic state.

Anyway.  Everyone was really into the first band, which happened to include one of Ryan’s friends as the drummer.  The lead singer was addressing the audience and thanking them when he announced, “This will be our last song for you tonight.”

I was expecting an uproar of encouragement for them to keep going.  Instead it was dead silent aside from me screaming at the top of my lungs, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

If I didn’t stand out before, I surely stood out then, as every eye turned to stare at the peplum-donning girl with fresh blonde highlights freaking out.  (maybe not every eye, but Ryan says a good 70 people were laughing at me…I wouldn’t know because I was covering my eyes in embarrassment, though I heard the laughs.)

I’m okay with not being part of this crowd.  They’re stylish and sexy and always know the name of bands no one else has heard of.  They can pull off nose rings and tattoos and dread locks.  They’re freaking cool, man.

But I’m okay with just being me.  As I’ve transitioned out of my desire to be part of any particular societal brand, (whether that be hippie, professional, glamorous, etc.) I’ve also taken on a saying that one of my dear friends from Wyoming always said, “If people don’t like what they see, then they can look away.”

It’s true.  We don’t need to dress or act or be a certain way.  If you think I dress like a weirdo, guess what? I completely don’t care!  And if you think I act like a weirdo?  Well, you’d be totally right.  I’m entirely out of my mind.

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I hope you’re okay with not fitting any certain mold, because you’re totally perfect as you.

Here’s to you, but also to me (don’t want to be picking favorites!)

Cheers 🙂

 Dresscapade

This weekend we are celebrating four of my coworkers who are getting married. The theme: ugly dress competition. (Four weddings and a funeral)

Hannah's Thirties

Image Per your (maybe not YOU specifically) request, here are some pictures of the dresscapade I went on.  However, to fully capture its epic-ness, I had to schedule a reshoot this morning after I rolled out of bed.  Thankfully, my sweet sister and my dear nephew had spent the night and were more than obligated, I mean willing, to help.  The above and below dress belonged to Rachel, the picture  includes really rad dance moves and a super old family photo poking through in the background.  Her first comment when I walked out was “Oh my gosh, isn’t mine the prettiest?” and followed by a more nostalgic, “Aww, I want to have my wedding day again.” Image   This is Bekah’s. And no, I couldn’t get it zipped.  She is the size of my left ankle.  I remember before her wedding she would have a cup of chili during the day so she…

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