Last week in an upper lever English course I fell victim to a decision making tactic most commonly employed by elementary schoolers. The gambit I am speaking of is Nose Goes.

Nose Goes is utilized for the purpose singling out a one member of a group to carry out an act that the group as a whole has deemed undesirable.The rules of Nose Goes are simple. Someone in the group will place their index finger on their nose, and the rest of the group will follow suit. The last person the place their finger on their nose must carry out the bothersome task.

At some point during my group’s discussion of satire in Jon Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera, a question about the text was raised. One of my fellow group members suggested that we ask our professor. I was surprised when one of the girls in my group placed her finger in her nose.  I was shocked as another girl in the group also placed her finger on her nose. Completely dismayed as one of the boys placed his finger on his nose, I began to question my group.

Only myself, and one other man-I can call him a man because he did not participate in the Nose Goes-in the group did not get caught up in this juvenile act. The task at hand seemed easy enough to resolve; all one of us had to do was raise our hand or simply stand up and approach the professor with our question. Yet over half of our group found it necessary to use this adolescent strategy to resolve a seemingly non-existent problem.

While I am a fan of games that are often played by school-aged children, I feel that my actions are justifiable. Outdoor games keep you active while improving agility, athletic prowess, and team building skills.

Placing your finger on your nose because you are unable to communicate your wants and needs to a greater group, however, is unjustifiable.

Me: If you like a boy should you tell him?

Kayleigh*: Yes, because he might be your prince.

*Kayleigh is four.

My GPS is trying to kill me.

Most days this constitutes my Garmin taking me the least direct rout to my destination resulting in dozens of unnecessary stop lights and speed limits not exceeding twenty-five. The toll it takes is not actually on my life so much as my sanity. The other day, however, I’m positive my GPS set out to quell my existence.

Several nights ago I was returning to school from my cousin Melissa’s house. Melissa lives near the Wisconsin boarder, about an hour and fifteen minutes from my school. I had never driven from Melissa’s straight to NIU so I decided to utilize my trusty, or as time would tell my not so dependable, GPS.

The trip started off smoothly enough. I was first taken on a local highway, which moved quickly considering I was one of the only cars on the road. It was after about twenty miles that I began to grow nervous. I was instructed to “turn left” onto an ill-lit side road that, from what I could infer, had been abandoned seventy years ago. The cold British woman who lives in my GPS could have just as easily commanded me to “turn left onto the road where no one can hear you scream”. After several winding back roads, with no signs of life, I was finally placed back onto another local highway. I was relieved to be on a commonly used road, but the comfort soon faded as I reached a “construction ahead” sign. I was then informed by a flashing yellow LED sign that the road was “closed in the next 500ft”. I consulted my GPS hoping I would be redirected but as I whizzed past several more “road closed” signs my Nuvi stayed its ground. I drove until I could not go any further hoping that by some miracle the blockade would magically disappear and the aforementioned British woman would blithely remark, “just kidding!” and I would be on my way. This was not the case.

Not only was I not redirect by my GPS; there was no detour for me to follow. After allowing myself to panic for thirty seconds, I took a side road until my GPS was able to acquire its satellites and find the next best route. Apparently the next best thing to a closed highway is an ominous, infrequently-used-looking road that winds through, what else, a forest that looks like it belongs in a movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel.

Eventually I was able to find my way back to a road that actually had street lights, but that doesn’t mean I had forgotten what my GPS had done to me. I have a feeling I will soon become a strong advocate of Google Maps.

In order to receive an application for teacher certification at Northern Illinois University, you must first be tested for Tuberculosis. This is fine by me; we don’t want anyone infecting the children. However, I was not okay with the mental capacity of the nurse performing the test.

A conversation between a DeKalb County Health Services nurse, and myself.

Nurse: Have a seat [points towards the only chair in the room].

Myself: I was wondering if you would be able to administer the test in this [holds out left arm] arm. I had blood drawn just yesterday, and this [holds out right arm] arm is still sore.

Nurse: Well, we normally like to give the test in the left arm.

Myself: Oh, well that works out perfectly then.

Nurse: I thought you didn’t want the shot in your left arm.

Myself: No, I didn’t want it in this [again holding up right arm] arm.

Nurse: Exactly, your left arm.

Losing faith in humanity tally: II

Tally I can be viewed here.

I am a magnet for overly eccentric, socially inept men. This never ceases to shock me seeing as I am an extremely sound individual. I do not dress, behave, or carry myself in any way that would suggest I am of equal lunacy as the men that approach me. Anyone who has followed this blog for some time will remember Patrick. Bless my unknowing heart, for at the time, I had no idea that Patrick was only the first in a long line of crazy.

Last year a graduate student from one of my English courses approached me, asking for my number. He was not the type of man I would normally be attracted to, but I have a rule to always go on at least one date if asked. I would never want to sell myself short simply because I wouldn’t have gone after the person myself. I also believe it to be the polite thing to do. Ryan would be my exception to this rule.

After exchanging phone numbers, I walked out of class and headed back to my building. Once I was in my room I went on the Internet to check my Facebook. I had a friend request from Ryan. How he accomplished this so quickly is beyond me. I accepted. Curious, I tabbed to his Info section to read about his preferences in music, television, books etc. I began to realize that our fist date would quite possibly be our last, as we had very few interests in common. Little did I know that his poor taste in movies would be the least of my worries.

I went back to his homepage where I clicked on his pictures. Ryan, whose name I have changed, had ninety-five pictures. As the pictures began to load, I began to regret ever employing the rule of always going on a “no thank you” date. Every last picture that Ryan was tagged in, either by friends or himself, were all photos of him reenacting war.

Ninety-five pictures of him reenacting war.

NINETY-FIVE.

The settings varied. Some were pictures of battle while others were more costume oriented. Even still, all of them were of Ryan pretending to fight a war. One, I might add, that ended for the United States over sixty years ago. As I continued to look through the photos I came upon several pictures of Ryan with women dressed up as World War II nurses, attending some sort of banquet or conference specifically for war reenactors.

Yes, it is a horrible thing to judge, and it is usually an activity I stay far away from, but there was no way I could date a man who spent all of his free time playing war, like a five year old. I would have understood if he had a few pictures here and there of him and his father keeping an old family tradition alive, but this was his life. No pictures of him at a bonfire with friends, no photos from visiting siblings, or recent vacations. There was nothing else. Nothing but ninety-five pictures of him reenacting war.

Needless to say I would not be the .45 ACP pistol cartridge to his Colt M1917 Revolver.