CatieOsborn.Com

So, as most of you have figured (or been waiting to read about), I’m starting college next week. Which is a strange and unusual thing that they do not warn you about in high school. Sure, they beat your head in with the importance of writing skills and algebraic equations, but nowhere in that four year  time span do they EVER tell you about what happens when you get ready to go to college. Because the whole world goes crazy, and I for one was not ready for that. j

Now, first off, going to college means that you have to pay for stuff. With your own money. Which sucks. Really bad. But, in all fairness, my mom did teach me how to find a bargain well. Maybe too well. The six dollar vending machine that I purchased from Goodwill (yes it works, yes it’s a real vending machine and yes it’s full size) was a real surprise to my mom and dad. So were the three dollar snow board, the four dollar George Foreman, the 2 dollar wedding gown and the 27 pairs of shoes. Maybe I didn’t actually NEED any of this stuff, but hey–it was only like 5 bucks, right?

Then there’s the shop for dorm room portion of the summer, where suddenly every night for a week you find yourself running around town trying to find the best deals on tiny fridges, microwaves, lamps and rugs. Actually, pretty much anything tiny you’ll want to pick up right away. Oh. And a bottle or two of Fabreeze. Let me tell you about dorm rooms: I have smelled the future and it is ripe with possibility. Trust me. It’s quite interesting actually. Just touring the dorms leads one into a rousing game of “Guess the Stank”.

And there there’s your parents. Because they are going to try and play it really cool. Sure, you’re moving away. But it’s fine. Really! You’re going to come back and visit all the time, right? And we’re going to meet for coffee and hang out and talk about college, right? And you’re going to make sure and tell them if you’re having any trouble, right? Right??

See, going off to college creates this sort of crazy need for affirmation in your parents. Because they know that you know that they know that they are going to miss you like crazy, especially for those first few weeks. But it’s cool, because you know that they know that you know that you’re going to miss them like crazy too. But both parties play it all cool because once it’s out, there’s going to have to be some sort of crazy hug fest and that’s always awkward. And there might be a trip down memory lane involving embarrassing  childhood videos, and none of us want that, do we?

But as far as I can tell, I’ve lucked out. My roommate doesn’t worship satan (but listens to rap music which is pretty close, but I’m sure an earphone truce will soon be created), and my parents are still at that “pretend it’s only for a few weeks” phase. But I know that pretty soon that’s going out the window, along with having someone do my laundry for me, having someone there to yell at me to clean my room, and someone reminding me that I need to save my money instead of spending it on stupid crap.

But it’s okay because I’m only like 20 minutes away, right? So I’ll be able to come home whenever I want, right?

Right?

Hi. My name’s Catie and I’m 18. That still has a weird ring to it…I’m just not used to the fact that I’m now legally an adult. I turned 18 on January 9th, which means I’ve been a ‘grown up’ for about 26 days.  So far, being an adult sucks.

Let’s see…what great change overtook me at the stroke of midnight? Did my brain suddenly understand all the problems of the world? Did the magical Birthday Fairy suddenly descend and offer me the keys to my own apartment and a road map to help me find my way in life?

Nope. I got nothin’. I woke up with the same bushy hair, in the same bed in the same messy room, the same jobless theatre nerd I was when I laid down the night before.
It’s funny. Every time I have a birthday, I wake up feeling exactly the same as…only suddenly, I’m a year closer to dying. (There’s a cheery thought to go with your morning coffee.)

Alright, maybe it isn’t as bad as I make it out to be. After all, I’ve been informed by various friends that I can now check out movies at Hy-Vee with my own card! I can even get a tattoo! I told my mom that. She…um…didn’t seem too excited by the idea. I ran before I could catch her exact thoughts on the topic. Several other friends suggested we ring in my 18th by going to a charming dance club named after one of the Dukes of Hazard….I passed.

The big thing many adults keep stressing is that now I can vote. It seems weird to me that last year the government told me that I wasn’t ready to vote, but now they tell me I’m ready to possibly determine who the leader of the free world will be! Personally, I think I’d be pretty good at it, but then my friends remind me that a nation-wide ban on rap music might not go over too well with some of my potential voters.

I didn’t think adult-hood was going to close in on me so fast…suddenly I’ve been clobbered over the head with the responsible stick, forced to talk seriously to people about what I want to be when I “grow up”.

Then I start thinking-am I already “grown up?”  How old is a “grown up”, anyway? Should I know what I want to do by now? What if I never figure it out? What if I’m the only person left in my class who isn’t certain about their future? (About at this point, I just go and rock slowly back and forth in a corner and mutter to myself.)

If you’re reading this early on Saturday morning, chances are I’m still asleep. I’ll be in bed for awhile yet, but eventually my mom will yell for me to get up and I’ll head out to violin lessons. After that, I’ll probable pretend like I’m cleaning my room for a few hours (while secretly reading Thursday Next again for the millionth time) and then I’ll head out to choir.

But if it’s early on Saturday morning, we’re both lucky. Neither of us –reader or writer- know what this particular Saturday morning will bring. And that’s what’s cool about life. I may be 18 now…but just like when I was 17, or when I was 16…or 5, or 3, or 11…I don’t know what’s going to happen to me today, or tomorrow…or next month.. I only know that on this Saturday morning-and the next Saturday morning after that, and the one after that, I’ll get up, smile at the fact that my room is still messy and my hair still looks ridiculous, and walk out into an unpredictable world full of unpredictable things, glad that I’ve been granted another year to learn, to grow and to discover what the world has in store for me.

So the Olympics are over, and once again we’ve triumphed in many different sports. And therein lies my favorite part of the Olympics: how that “we” is stuck in there. There’s no “we” in the Olympics. Sure, we flip on the TV or even buy a plane ticket, but last time I checked, we Americans do nothing but watch others succeed. And that’s the problem with the Olympics. In fact, it’s lead to a condition I like to call “spectatoritis”
We’ve all had it—it’s that wave of crushing mediocrity you feel when you see someone do a perfect tripe-axel or fly 50 feet on skis.
It’s what you feel while you sit and watch some 17 year old prodigy get a perfect score and win the gold, and the only thing you have to best it with is “I got a B on my English test yesterday”. It’s slightly disappointing, to say the least. But spectatoritis doesn’t stop there…it gets even more dangerous.
Spectatoritis is what makes you try and do what you see on TV, and as we all know, it’s always disastrous…you make up some explanation of how the towel rack fell mysteriously off the wall, but you know it’s because you were trying to touch your foot to your head in a moment of figure-skating induced delusion.
Or you go even further: you head out to Snowstar and try to do some sweet tricks on your freshly rented snowboard…and wake up with a concussion three days later.
And do you ever think about the athletes outside the Olympics…because apparently they divide their time between working at Home Depot and training in slow motion while sappy music plays in the background…or at least that’s what they show on TV.
I know it sounds like I’m down on the Olympics…I’m really not. In fact, to show solidarity with the winning team USA athletes, I’ve started wearing CDs around my neck to show my support.
And I like watching the Olympics… the commercials entertain me. I didn’t know it was possible to compare a shoe or a weatherman with an Olympic athlete, but around this time of year, throw in a slow-motion speed skater with an American flag, and you’ve got yourself a commercial!
I should tell you I’ve devised a plan to get to the Olympics. I’m going to get really good at curling….cuz no one really understands curling. (And by “understands” I mean “cares”) And I like sweeping things. So a sport in which you run around with little brooms and try and make big rocks go really fast seems like a good choice for me
But, in all seriousness, I’ve really got to hand my respect the people that go out for the Olympics…especially the ones who go knowing they have no shot at winning. To me, that’s the real spirit of the Olympics…doing your best no matter the outcome, and representing yourself to the world with determination, poise and pride in your country.
Now to get one of those speed skating unitards………….

I’ve realized something since I’ve started writing this column: there has been a little bit of unfairness here in the pages of the Dispatch/Argus…no, not editorial unfairness or media bias (thanks Mr. Adams), but unfairness from me. I’ve spent months talking about my crazy-cleaning obsessed mom and all her weird little habits, but when I was going through my columns the other day, I realized something: I’ve completely neglected my father as a source for amusement.
Now, my dad is generally a pretty cool guy. But therein lies the problem: he doesn’t understand girl habits and girl behaviors. For instance, when a girl comes home from a long day of work (and by work I mean shopping), she may be so inclined to take off her high heels and leave them somewhere for just a brief moment, in order to rest her poor, delicate feet.
My father, however, has something I like to call “space orientation disorder”. No matter where I happen to leave my shoes-on a chair, under the table, or even by the door—my dad’s disorder kicks in and they are “in the middle of the floor, young lady, so come and pick them up RIGHT NOW, or you’re going to be in BIG trouble!”.
Now, I actually washed the kitchen floor the other day, and I stopped and figured out the middle of the kitchen. It is located somewhere over by the stove, but my shoes seem to mysteriously float over to that exact spot whenever I leave…why else would my dad be so upset?
And that “right now!” part of the order? Most people who live with teenagers realize that “right now” is a very relative term…not my dad. I could be in the middle of open-heart surgery, and I would have to staunch the bleeding and put away those shoes that very instant or I would big in BIG trouble, young lady!
My dad and I have come to a very nice arrangement regarding room cleaning—see, my mom still thinks that I should keep it clean and organized or something crazy like that, but my dad knows better—he understands that my room will look awful the day after I clean it, so we’ve reached a compromise. He just doesn’t look in there anymore, which works out very nicely for me most days. But when the mess becomes so great that it spills out into the hallway, then he might mention that I need to clean my room (or I’m in big trouble, young lady)
My dad also operates on “man time”. This means that he will sit in his chair, riveted to the television screen, and will not move, until the final down is reached, final batter is struck out, or the little clicker on the screen reaches zero. The house could be burn down around us, but if the Cubs are in the lead, my dad will not move until the commercial (and even then it’s probably to only get another “lucky snack” from the kitchen).
Another interesting side note is my dad’s fashion style. At work, he dresses pretty well, but when he comes home, he dresses in what I like to call “sweatpant chic”. Imagine, if you will, a 6’5” man dressed in sweatpants and a nice button down shirt (tucked in all the way). I firmly believe that my dad would wear this style anywhere he went if he could get away with it.
Aside from his lousy fashion sense and his undying love for the Chicago Cubs, (who shall be vanquished, mark my words…go Cardinals), my dad is pretty awesome…. But I’m going to have to run this by him before this goes to press: I might be in big trouble, young lady.

Last Friday was apparently the “last straw”. According to my mother, no longer will she yell and flip the lights on and off. Nope. There will be no more cover-pulling or piano-pounding. Nevermore. From now on, I wake up on my own.
And on time. Now, you have to understand—I am a teenager. And as far as I know, it is completely unnatural to ask a teenager to wake up at the crack of dawn and then be expected to take a chemistry test.
I also should tell you that I have the uncanny ability to sleep through my alarm. Every morning. But it’s not my fault-I was just born this way, that’s all. But try explaining what it’s like to be a ‘super-sleeper’ like myself to my mother. She just doesn’t understand. It’s tough, being different. But I get through it.
I thought, for research purposes, I might outline a typical morning at my house, so you can understand how oppressed and misunderstood I am.
6:45. The alarm goes off. I pound the top of it in the hopes of breaking it, and fall back asleep.
7:03. Mom yells. I assure her I’m wide awake and continue sleeping.
7:05. Mom yells again, this time with the threat that next time won’t be as nice. I wake up and tell her so. Then I go back to sleep.
7:08. Mom rips the covers from my bed, offering me a choice: I can wake up or freeze to death. I choose death.
7:10. Mom really means it this time. I explain to her I’m just getting dressed really quietly. I go back to sleep.
7:12. I really do get up. I get dressed and go eat.
7:16. I explain to my mother that teddy grahams really are a part of a balanced breakfast, then ask her to pass the Cheese Whiz.
7:20. I tell my brother to stop playing Halo 2.
7:25. My brother explains that “dude—I only have this one more level to pass and it’s totally sweet because, like, the one guy just died so I have his sword and….”
7:28. I wander outside to chisel the three inches of frost from my windshield.
7:30. I tell my brother he needs to stop playing Halo 2, but “seriously, like, just let me get to a checkpoint, dude”.
7:33. I found I’ve lost my car keys.
7:35. I find them, on the hook in the kitchen. (Since I left them under the coffee table, I’m not sure why they were where they’re supposed to be.)
7:36. We leave for school.
So as you can see, my mom is completely unreasonable.
Okay, maybe not.
But I’m just not a morning person. I hate waking up early. I enjoy sleeping in late. And waking up at 10:30 or 11:00 is NOT sleeping in. I’m talking 1:00 or 2:00 here, folks. PM. That’s how late I sleep.
I’ve never seen a complete Macy’s Parade. (In fact, I can’t remember the last time I actually saw one.) I’ve never seen the Today Show or been up to watch cartoon reruns while I eat my cereal. I’ve seen two sunrises in 17 years, and the only time I hear the birds start to chirp is when I forget to close my windows the night before.
Does this mean I’m missing out? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m considering a lucrative career in mattress testing or pajama modeling.
*Cough. Quad City Music Guild presents “A Christmas Carol” December 2nd, 3rd, and 4th. Call 762-6610 for tickets. Cough.*
So, until the time when I can get up whenever I want, I guess I’ll have to resign myself to getting up early.
But not without a fight.