Taking the Easy Way Out

Maybe I didn't get into Princeton. Or Harvard. Or Brown...Dartmouth...Amherst....

Whatever. I DID get into Washington University in St. Louis, which was ranked #9 in the country the year I started by people who (theoretically) knew what they were talking about.

Incidentally, we were rated #2 for food quality.

As a top 10 American university, WashU wanted me to complete a well rounded and diverse set of courses before giving me the beautiful diploma I now have...somewhere. Hopefully in the house. I couldn't just take English lit and foreign language classes, which is what I would have done had I been left to my own devices. I was required to take math and science and history and learn quantitative Analysis skills, and Cultural Diversity skills, and Social Diversity skills, and lots of other skills, many of which involved diversity. This meant that I took two women's studies courses against my will (one of which was responsible for the second nervous breakdown of my life wherein after studying for 92 hours memorizing 115 articles, verbatim, along with their authors and dates of publication, I met my parents at the airport for my very first break, tore 115 notecards out of my coat pockets and flung them in the faces of my extremely surprised family and sobbed as I was dragged out to the car mumbling and gesturing incoherently). It also meant that I took two astronomy classes taught by a wonderful German professor with a sense of humor and a love of handing out A+s for what seemed to me like very little work. He must have been doing something right though. I may have done very little work, but that man made ME understand many Scientific Concepts. Someone should probably give him a medal.

Sadly though, I needed three science classes to complete my liberal arts education, and this is how I made a Poor Decision.

First semester freshman year a class called Dinosaurs was offered. The class was only taught once every 3-4 years by a visiting paleontologist and had the reputation of being the easiest possible way to fulfill a science credit. "You watch The Land Before Time! And there are no tests! And then you get an A!" This was how the class was described to me. I imagine there may have been slightly more to it. But not much, from what my friend who did take the class that year has told me. She strongly recommended it.

The class my first freshman semester filled up before I could even register. Despite the fact that I could have finished my science requirements any time over the next six semesters, I did not. I waited until the very final semester of my college experience to see if that Dinosaur class would be offered again.

It was. Final semester, final year, I was scrambling to finish my major and distribution requirements. I was taking 2 upper level English literature classes and 2 upper level writing intensive courses and...Dinosaurs. I knew the paper writing and story writing and reading was going to be time consuming and exhausting. In the final two weeks of that semester alone I turned in over 90 printed pages of various facts and fictions. Thank goodness I would have at least one nice and easy class!

The professor had been described to me as youngish and energetic, so when an older, sedate man nearing his 70s with glasses and a soft voice stood up in front of the lecture hall and told us he was our professor, I already knew that things had gone horribly wrong.

"Professor------ has been...called away...suddenly. Yes. So he will not be here. At all. He has...gone. I will be teaching! I understand that Professor---------- had...certain methods for teaching this course. He and I have very different approaches, I think."

I knew then for sure, in that moment, that all was lost.

It was the semester of nightmare. I had to READ about creatures with long names. I had to...TAKE NOTES. Notes! I am an A student, always have been, capable of speaking 3 languages and writing lucid and engaging papers on a variety of subjects (mainly literature), got through calculus in high school and several AP science classes. But if you look at the large majority of my college notebooks you will find mostly drawings of fairy princesses, descriptions of the scarf the girl in the corner is wearing, lines from poems and stories that came from completely different classes, and a lot of little hearts. My Dinosaur notebooks, however, are filled with all kinds of words and ideas that I did not understand, do not understand, and undoubtedly will never understand.

I got a D on one of those tests. A D. I do not get Ds. I got a D. Will I be over it in ten years?

No.

I was up late nights studying. There a few times I had to turn down going for ice cream in order to study. The situation was out of control. I spent hours doing readings and homework and going over notes trying to make sense of them.

As it turned out, the fun, easygoing professor was "called away suddenly" because it came out that he had either sexually assaulted or sexually harassed some of his female students on some field study trip somewhere. Which is why our poor new professor was so awkward about explaining himself to us.

It was the hardest class I took in my four years of college. Or, at least, it was the one that I most begrudged the effort. Worst decision I made at WashU, trying to take the easy way out. Of course, the whole thing could have been avoided if Professor Whatsisface had just kept his hands to himself and his pants on.

The State of Pennsylvania Makes My Poor Decisions For Me

As a disclaimer to all of our legions of dedicated readers, this entry is not going to be about a poor decision of either Danielle's or mine.

This is not to say that this entry will not deal with a poor decision, it will, but the fault here really is not either of ours. The fault in this particular instance lies on the head of the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles, a subsidiary of the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen (lady? gentleman? anyone?) I simply cannot accept the blame for having received my driver's license, as it is really not my fault. PennDOT should simply have taken one look at me, a fresh-faced seventeen year old, striding pridefully into the DMV to take my learner's permit test, and shown me the proverbial door.

Alas, for hedges, turkeys, and gearboxes everywhere, PennDOT allowed two thoroughly unqualified persons to lay their hands on those unholy little plastic cards.

Between the two of us, we have been driving for a combined eight years. I've had my license for almost a year (June 4th, soon to be designated Dead Car Day, a national holiday) and Danielle's been driving on her own for seven.

Now, while Danielle has never had an accident per say, I would consider her the more... lethal driver. While she didn't actually kill that turkey she hit, she probably shortened its life considerably. The poor thing must have developed turkey PTSD, and spent a week or more huddled in it's little turkey home, shuddering and losing feathers by the pillowfull, gobbling to itself in horror. Also I've never run a red light. Danielle has run two. Two. In one night. What a rebel.

I myself have a near-perfect driving record. Since getting behind the wheel of a car, as a learner's permit wielding seventeen year old (I was a late bloomer, sue me) I have only come close to killing a bush, not an animate creature, and have only had two little accidents. And only one of them was as a licensed driver! I feel strongly that my permit-holding record should really be expunged and never mentioned again. And that second accident really wasn't that big a deal. I mean, it only cost $5,000 to repair the car, nothing, really.

As to our general record as drives, I feel that Danielle has made by far worse attempts at parking than I have. In fact, seven times out of ten, I simply refuse to park whatever it is I'm driving and make my passenger do it for me. Which inherently makes me a more successful parker than Danielle. And I consider my ineptitude at going forward when on hills, a mark of creative gear shifting, an art form really. I am choosing to engage in an act of surrealist driving, in selecting what would be called by the unwashed masses the “wrong” gear. No, dear friends, my gear choices are a mark of my belonging to the true avant garde. The forward thinkers, if not the forward drivers.

In short, I refuse to take any blame at any time for any accidents or mishaps or adventures or flagrant if unintentional law breaking perpetrated by either of the authors of this blog.

It's clearly PennDOT's fault.

You bought what?

A few weeks ago, Rachael and I went into Victoria's Secret so that she could make a return. It was supposed to be a simple in, out, go find ice cream procedure. But while Rachael was making her way to the cash register, a salesgirl approached me.

"Hello! Today we're having a special event! With each purchase of $10 or more, we are offering FREE gift certificates which could have up to $500 on them! You are guaranteed at least $10! Guaranteed! It's a great deal, because-"

"Let me stop you right there," I said. She stopped. "I was sold more or less as soon as you walked up to me, and I'd hate to have you waste any more of your time. I'm going to go spend money now."

She laughed a bit, and walked away, happy with her skills as a salesperson and probably amused at how stupid I am.

Of course, my idea was to buy something for the minimum of $10, but of course Victoria's Secret doesn't sell anything for $10, so I spent a ridiculous sum of money on bits of strings that are hardly effective at anything. But was I angry? Upset? Annoyed? No! I was quite pleased with myself, because I was going to win $500! Because the nice lady told me so!

The deal was you could not reveal how much was on the card until April, so I got to carry around that cardboard representation of potential and hope in my wallet for a month before discovering that like millions of women across America I was stuck with a card worth $10 in a store that doesn't sell very many things for under $18.

Did I learn my lesson? Hopefully...but probably not. Let's be honest. This is not the first time I have done something similar. Or the second. Or the third. Or the fourth...

We can go back nine years to a day Rachael and I were at the mall (has anyone else noticed Rachael as a common denominator?) and we wandered into a candle shop which has since gone out of business so don't bother trying to find it.

Somehow, I found these neat candles shaped like blocks that glittered and proclaimed that as they burned, they melted away into the shape of a medieval castle. Inside the castle was a TREASURE CHEST filled with up to $50!

The saleswoman saw me looking at it and told me how cool it looked, and that the odds of my finding $50 were actually quite high! Plus, sparkly!

SPARKLY.

Oh yes, I bought the sparkly castle candle for a truly obscene amount of money. Actually, I'm not even going to tell you how much. That's how ashamed I still am. Though Rachael will tell you quite gleefully if you ask her. Rachael's note: I'm saving that particular detail for future blackmail.

I took the candle home, burned it in front of an audience (audience=9 year old sister) on the kitchen table, pried the little plastic chest out of a messy wax blob that looked nothing like a castle (unless that castle had been beset by a tornado, a hurricane, four dragons, and nuclear war in quick succession) and discovered (of course) a single silver dollar.

Despite the fact that I spent a truly ridiculous sum on money on a chunk of sparkly wax and underwear I could probably make myself by tying bits of string together, these are relatively minor things.

Things aren't always so minor.

When I was 16, I had to activate my credit card (yes, I had a credit card, yes, I paid my bills myself. I had a job. So there.). I hated calling people (this was during my period of allergy to human interaction) and begged my father to do it for me. He insisted that I needed to learn independence and phone calling skills and other skills.

I called, and for whatever reason, got a real live human being. I have never spoken to a real person since, not even when I've really wanted to. You always get those damned machines. In any case, he went through the normal activation steps and then said, "Would you like to purchase life insurance?"

Occasionally I display short bursts of intelligence, so I said, "No. Thank you."

But he was a salesperson, and probably being recorded, so he said, "It's a great idea, and for very little a month!"

I said, "Uuuuhhh..." and that was the beginning of the end.

"This way you protect your loved ones for being stuck with your credit card debt should anything happen to you. You wouldn't want your family to be saddled with your debt at a time when they're grieving."

I am a kind-hearted individual, and I agreed that it would indeed be cruel of me to leave my parents with the burden, especially after losing me.

"They pay nothing, it all just goes away. And the cost to you is minimal!"

I was a young, perfectly healthy teenager whose credit card bills were averaging $20 a month. But we all know how this ends. I bought the life insurance policy and was proud of myself until I hung up the phone and broke the salesman's spell.

"Shit," I said.

I went down the stairs to find my father, who said, "See? Not so bad, was it?"

"Uuuhhh..."

After I explained incoherently, and then again slightly more coherently, and then again coherently enough for a human being to understand, my father called up Capital One and yelled at them for harassing a sensitive (stupid) teenage girl until they canceled my new policy. After my father yelled at me for being stupid (sensitive), he reassured me that in the event of my untimely demise he would not feel unduly burdened by my $15 to $30 debt.

I am older now, and less likely to purchase life insurance. Unless the salesperson is really good. Or moderately good. Or talks to me.

Blogs

Rachael did in fact write a post for her day, Friday, but never posted it.
Which, given her subject, is ironic.

Dear Rachael,
This is your brainchild. Get your ass in gear. Stop moping.


Rachael's post:

All Americans are brought up with delusions, given to us by our parents, our teachers, and certainly the media. I am no exception to this rule. To this day I believe that if I went in to politics, I would be a success, and would inevitably be swept quickly upwards to the presidency, on a platform of common sense, environmentalism, and educational and family law-related reform. Doubtlessly I would start small, working my way up from the PTA to the school board, to a sweeping and near unanimous vote for mayor of whatever city I have chosen to make my home. After one stellar term in office, I will become governor, and breeze my way as some sort of absurd middle-aged prodigy into the White House, where I will be beloved by all, no matter their political persuasion.

Either that, or my very first screenplay will win a Golden Globe, and an Oscar. Or two.

I harbor these delusions in a truly American fashion. My upbringing has drilled into me the idea that success is inevitable, unavoidable, and intended for me in specific. I am a precious snowflake, different from every other snowflake, and destined to become the crowning snowflake on the misshapen snowman that is American history. With such lofty ideals as these, it is no wonder that I am repeatedly deluded into thinking that I am interesting enough to self-publish.

I read somewhere that Facebook is the ultimate form of propaganda. On Facebook, we put the things that make us the most attractive, and leave out the crap we're ashamed of. For instance, in my “favorite books” section, I have “Underworld,” by Don DeLilo, an impressive tome several thousand pages thick which makes me look much smarter than I really am. I have neglected to include some of the books that really defined my world view when I was a kid, the books that I truly obsessed over, namely the “Redwall” series, and these books about this girl who becomes a knight in some cracked out fantasy land by Tamara Pierce. (Danielle's Note: OH MY GOD THE LIONESS SERIES I LOVE THOSE BOOKS I OWN THEM ALL. Ahem. Carry on.) I fucking loved those books, let me tell you, but there are no fantasy novels on my Facebook page. Except “Harry Potter.” That shit rules.

My Facebook page is similarly devoid of any reference to the myriad blogs I've attempted to maintain over the course of my life. Pages full of teen angst, near illiterate observations on the world, and ludicrous photo montages found around the internet. If one were to read the first lines of the vast majority of my blog posts, one would assume (rightly so) that one were reading the musings of a near-bipolar self-absorbed idiot whose moods fluctuate like the movement of the earth's crust. Every mood of mine is documented in a manner commensurate with the gravity, permanence, and significance of said mood. A chipmunk running into my on-campus apartment? HAPPYHAPPYHAPPY. A tick on my leg? OHMYGODYOUGUYSTHISISTHEWORSTDAYOFMYLIFE. Only occasionally do I have anything at all of interest to say, the rest of the time is very American self-delusion that the minutiae of my life is interesting at all.

Another facet of my previous blogs is their eventual petering out. My most recent blog, rachaelgoingmormon.blogspot.com was abandoned mere months after I began it, with the best of intentions, and even the most direction. And I still crashed and burned.

All this begs the question: why on God's green earth would I assume that anything I have to say this time is of interest, or will be anything other than semi-literary near masturbation?

This is a bad idea isn't it....

When Danielle Met Rachael

I went through an Awkward Phase between the ages of 7 and 10. Then I went through a Particularly Awkward Phase between the ages of 11 and 17. By 18 I managed a Slightly Less Awkward Phase and around 22 I gradually settled into where I am now, which is the As Good As It's Likely To Get Phase.
During my Particularly Awkward Phase, I had this problem with people.
The problem was this: people terrified me.
All people. Teachers, students, salespeople, waiters, my friends' parents, occasionally on particularly bad days my friends themselves. Talking to people, or having them talk to me, or having them look at me, or acknowledge in any way my presence, was enough to make me cry. Although at least not usually in front of them. I would have trouble breathing, my heat rate would increase to a hazardous rate, and my throat would close up as though I were having an allergic reaction to conversation.
This made it difficult for me to do normal things growing up, like go to parties, get a date to the prom, or go outside. The entire goal of my life (besides getting into Princeton) was to be as completely unnoticed as possible.
I was succeeding quite admirably at this (I'll bet 50% of my high school class wouldn't recognize my name or face) when one day, in the fall of 2001, I began to fail.
I was a percussionist in the the Three Rivers Young Peoples Orchestra (all part of the master plan of getting into Princeton). It was my third year, it was break time, and I was reading a book in my seat between the xylophone and the timpani while everyone else went outside to chat with their friends. Despite it being my third year, I had no friends to chat with because the idea of chatting with any of the others long enough to make friends was enough to make me reach under my seat for a paper bag.
So I was used to be alone during breaks, reading increasingly trashy fantasy novels, and the very last thing in the world I expected from life was for a girl with fly-away blonde hair and large glasses and brightly colored clothes to plant her feet in front of my chair, thrust out a hand, and loudly declare, "Hello, my name is Rachael. Welcome to my presence."
I did not put down the book to shake her hand, but I did look up and stare back at her. She was smiling in a friendly way, but the only thing that kept me from bursting into terrified tears was pure shock.
I must have said hi, though I don't remember it, and instead of going away so I could cry, Rachael sat down and began talking, and I nodded, and we continued this way until break was over.

I hoped she'd never do it again.
She did.
Over and over and over again. And I couldn't make her go away.

So I decided to be her friend, and spent much of the rest of high school hiding behind clothes racks and in bathrooms and yelling "Rachael! SSSHHH!" a lot and occasionally crying.
Now though, here in my As Good As It Is Likely to Get Phase, I sing inappropriate pop songs with Rachael in the streets, encourage her to say ludicrous things to strangers, and frequently make her do the chicken dance with me in populated areas.
However, I still will not go back to the Gap with her. There are limits.
Since this blog is dedicated to poor decision making, you may be under the impression that I consider deciding to be friends with Rachael a bad decision.
No, but the bad decision lies within the story of our meeting.
Rachael has always known exactly why I became friends with her. Because she made me.
But for the longest time I had no idea why she had picked me to welcome into her presence.
"You were the only other girl there with bangs," she told me a few years ago.
I had forgotten about my straight across bangs that frizzed everywhere and showcased the large cowlick on my left side.
They were a TERRIBLE DECISION that I persisted with for many TERRIBLE YEARS.

But I suppose it provides us all with a lovely, neat, obnoxiously sweet little moral, that good things can come from particularly bad decisions.

Also, I didn't get into Princeton. But that wasn't Rachael's fault.

Poor Decisions 101

We here at Poor Decisions with Danielle and Rachael make poor decisions.

Most of the time.

What we buy, how we eat, which living organisms to park our cars on, whether or not those shoes really do work with those jeans, these poor decisions are our bread and butter. Occasionally, however, we make monumentally poor decisions, like, say, buying life insurance at age 16, or buying a pet mouse in middle school, or moving to France.

One way or another, our poor decisions have shaped and...enriched... our lives, sometimes giving us brief glimpses of the afterlife. Usually when merging. Danielle's Note: when RACHAEL is merging.

We're going to be updating this thing on a regular basis, at least twice a week. Look for Danielle on Wednesdays, and Rachael should be sending you something to brighten your Fridays, although given her track record, we're not holding our breath.

We hope you enjoy reading our posts. Actually, if you work for any major television producing studio (NBC, CBS, Lifetime, whatever) we really, really, really hope you enjoy them. We're both drastically underemployed and criminally underpaid, given what astoundingly talented writers we are. We'd love to sell out for you!

Especially if you give us ponies.

-Rachael and Danielle