An open letter to companies worldwide
Dear Intern Coordinator,
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Dear Intern Coordinator,
Until I came to college, there were two main reasons I never really understood the fuss behind Thanksgiving. First of all, the traditional Thanksgiving feast doesn't consist of my favorite foods. If I had it my way, the crown jewel of the traditional Thanksgiving meal would be Chicken Parmesan, and the sides would consist of bread and Caesar salad. But I suppose that, even though it's not Italian, pumpkin pie could remain as the staple dessert. Secondly, I always used to view Thanksgiving as a holiday I had to go through to get to the Christmas season. Technically, this is still a true statement, but considering I downloaded and have since been obsessively listening to Justin Bieber's "Under the Mistletoe" album the day after Halloween, it's fair to say I no longer view Thanksgiving as a road block to the Christmas season.
I hate to admit this in such a public forum, but usually in my "American Society and Popular Culture" class, the only time I take really good notes is when my professor references the show "Friends" to highlight his point. I mean, who doesn't love how "The One with the Apothecary Table" highlights how we live in a culture where nothing is original anymore, as exemplified through Ross, Rachel and eventually Phoebe's love of Pottery Barn? But this past week, my professor caught my attention when he began discussing nostalgia and how its meaning has changed throughout time. It used to refer explicitly to homesickness, he explained, but now it refers to a "timesickness" which is inherently distorted as we look back to a simpler time. I tuned in to this particular part of his lecture because I've been interested in the feeling of nostalgia ever since I read a poem about it in my seventh grade English class. Even though my professor quickly changed subjects in his lecture, I have been thinking about nostalgia ever since.
On Saturday, Aug. 27, Hurricane Irene was planking the Eastern Seaboard and I was cuddled up in my bed, procrastinating the copious amount of reading I acquired during the first week of school. As I was about to return to Marshall McLuhan, my Gmail notifier turned red to alert me of a new message. I opened my inbox immediately and saw it was from Henry Urban - my grandpa, known to his 21 grandchildren as PopPop. I didn't think too much of it, because on an average day I got at least two chain emails from him. Usually his emails were about the airplanes he flew during his 31-year career in the Navy as an aviator or nostalgic pictures of a bygone era when the "Greatest Generation" was in its heyday - aka, before every college student owned a laptop and a smart phone. This email was different. It was a link to an article about honor in the military that referenced the University's honor code. It also included a note which said, "For the majority of my life I've had to deal with issues of character and especially honor, the following is an excellent read and thought it might be a good topic for one of your Cavalier Daily columns." I immediately knew I wanted to work honor into a column somehow, I just didn't know how to approach the topic in a unique way. So I put the idea in the back of my head and kept on writing.
When I was in elementary school, most of what I knew about teenage life came from watching television. Since I'm the oldest child in my family and I was one of the oldest kids in my neighborhood, the teenagers I looked up to weren't right down the hall or even right next door; they were on TV. I imagined what my teenage life would be like by watching people like Zack Morris of "Saved by the Bell," Clarissa of "Clarissa Explains It All," and D.J. Tanner of "Full House." One thing all these characters had in common - apart from representing the finest of 90s fashions, which is now available at a Goodwill near you - was that their telephones were an important part of their lives. While Zack opted for the jumbo sized quintessential early 90s cell phone, Clarissa made her calls from a clear phone. An entire episode's plotline centered around D.J.'s campaign for her own phone line, and by the end of it, Danny Tanner gets one installed for her. Needless to say, 90s sitcoms convinced me as a young child that having a phone was a teenage right of passage.
Jerry had Dorothy at hello; St. Petersburg, Florida had me at the airport. Although "my" airport, Dulles, is home to the only Chipotle in the country which serves breakfast, St. Petersburg's has palm trees inside the airport. And even better, in early August it had Jen, one of my best friends, waiting for me at baggage claim.
Two years ago if you would have run into me eating dinner at Runk or reading after class in Clark Hall and you asked me how I liked college so far, I would have gushed about how much I love it and how it was so much better than high school. Now that I really understand what it means to love college, I have a confession to make: I didn't love college at first. Even though I was ready to move on from high school, in the weeks before I left for Charlottesville, I was really dreading it. Once I arrived, I was more homesick than I'd ever been, but I felt like admitting I was homesick was admitting defeat, so I updated my Facebook status with overly excited raves about my new life and marched on.
How early is too early? I was overanalyzing and my hands began to shake when I pulled into the parking lot on the first day of my marketing internship. Five minutes early almost seemed too late, but 10 minutes early could get awkward. So at 8:53 a.m. - a nice compromise
My third year started out with a bang ... literally.
If Lorleai Gilmore went to the University, she would not be reading this column. She simply would say "Oy with the poodles already!" - a phrase she coined which can be used to shut up a person who is talking nonstop about a certain topic - and keep flipping the pages until she found the comics page. Although I try to use this phrase as often as I can, simply because it is fun to say, I am about to disappoint the Lorelai Gilmores of the world by spending the next 750 words talking about one topic - the life lessons "Gilmore Girls" has taught me.
Hi, my name is @k_urbs and I admit, I am a tweetaholic.
Before you read this column, there are two things you should know about me. First, when it comes to most sports, I am not very knowledgeable. Everything I know about football, I learned from Friday Night Lights. The one time I went to a Capitals hockey game, I left after 10 minutes. I've made about three appearances at baseball games in my life, but really two since the time I went to the Durham Bulls game I was 5 and more concerned about staying cool inside the gift shop than watching the game. These are just some of the reasons why a career as a sports columnist never will pan out for me.
"Dad, did you get the PowerPoint I e-mailed you?" Yes, my sister Jennifer made my dad a PowerPoint, and yes, it contained the sound of a car engine roaring.
My love affair with Panera started in high school. One of my good friends had an overprotective mother, so to hang out, we had to do so right after school. She would tell her mother she was staying after school for an extracurricular reason, but in reality we were booking it from the parking lot at 2:05 p.m. and heading for the sandwich and salad (not to mention pastry, bagel and smoothie) promised land: Panera.
It's always a little hard for me to come back to Charlottesville after a long break at home where I have my laundry done more often than every two weeks, the comfort of my own room and more than two feet of counter space. Usually I can muster up some enthusiasm as I drive down Route 29 because I know my roommates will be at my apartment ready to reunite and regale me with stories from their break. But coming back from this break was different - I was going to be the only one in my apartment for 48 hours.
The undergraduate experience at the University goes beyond what students learn inside lecture halls and classrooms. Many students wish to find opportunities for independent research - valuable in the eyes of employers and graduate school boards
Ah, Sunday - the day most of my roommates and I have standing dates with homework and migrate to Clemons Library or Lambeth Commons by noon. But every two weeks, Sunday becomes not only a work day but also the day in which we clean our apartment.
Did you ever want to be a life-saving firefighter growing up? A skirt-swirling ballerina? An adventurous treasure hunter? For students in the Virginia Archaeology Society, the last dream may actually become a career one day.
It was Saturday morning, and I was trying to make a game plan for the day so I would actually be productive instead of lounging around watching CMT's top 20 music video countdown and complaining with my roommates, yet again, about how they should have hired a cuter guy as Taylor Swift's love interest. So naturally, instead of looking at syllabi to plan what reading I needed to do, I checked my e-mail praying for a distraction. And there it was: a reminder about my sorority's 1990s-themed date function. Saved by the listserv!
"It's Friday! It's Friday!" My roommates and I cheer as the clock hand turns from 11:59 p.m. Thursday to midnight Friday. For us, Friday indicates more than the fact that the weekend is imminent. It means that our weekly holiday, Fat Friday, is in full swing.