Suzi Foltz: What I did on my summer vacation
One person doesn’t take up much space. A person on vacation takes up a bit more space; you have to factor in all of their clothing, toiletries, in some situations bedding, snacks, and any extra things they need. Now picture a teenager on vacation…or even, god forbid, a teenage girl on vacation.
The scenario I was thrown in at the beginning of summer was even worse than that. It was six teenagers, two male, 4 female, all in one room, with only one bathroom.
Months ago, when the trip was in the planning stages, the group size had been 8 people and we had looked into getting a house rather than just a room. This setup would still have had just one bathroom, but it would have given us a kitchen and multiple bedrooms. However, due to people dropping out of the trip and last minute housing transfers we ended up in our little home away from home; the King’s Crown room at the Ocean Surf Club in North Myrtle.
King’s Crown is a bit of overstatement. The room had 4 beds; two doubles that the girls took and a bunk bed for the guys (yes bunk beds. Just like summer camp). Our room was also equipped with a partial kitchen; a mini fridge and a microwave that we took full advantage of with our many packages ramen noodles, easy mac, and my own personal addition, instant coffee.
Other amenities of the King’s Crown included a set of beach chairs that could be taken out of the room for use either on the balcony or beach. We however did neither due to a large questionable stain on one of the chairs that became known as the birthing chair or the labor chair.
Lucky us though, we did have a television with a DVD player! Unfortunately the DVD player didn’t work; a discovery that I didn’t make until after redboxing a movie. The TV itself did work and I will shamefully admit that I probably watched more MTV in that one week than I have in my entire life.
Another interesting side note is the amazing 24 hour beer pong champions that we got to call our neighbors. Whether it was 4 p.m., 2 a.m., or 9 a.m., you could always hear the little pattering of a ping pong ball through the not so thick walls of the Ocean Surf Club. This noise occasionally had added to it yelled curse words, laughter, cheers, an intermittent female voice, and the song stylings of Lil Wayne.
Despite all of the little fall backs, we were in all honesty quite content. I can’t speak for all of the others, but this was the first time I had ever purchased a room on my own. Don’t get me wrong, I had stayed away from home without my parents, but it’s always been with their aide. This tacky little room with a dusting of sand and a dripping noise that came from the air vent at night was all ours.
That week we became our own little unit/clan/family thing. I knew exactly who would take the longest in the shower. Who was most likely to wake up first. Who was mostly likely to wake others up by jumping on top of them and yelling insults at them. Who got cranky when they didn’t have food. Who all actually brushed their teeth at night (this statement doesn’t really need a “who all” since it was just one other person and myself). Who would borrow my hair dryer or my cocoa butter body lotion. Who would have to try on at least 3 outfits before choosing one for the club. And who would be willing to walk on the beach with me, even at 3:30 in the morning.
The week was one I’ll always remember and probably compare other future beach trips to. The group will be parting ways to further their education and to figure out their lives not only in different parts of Virginia, but in different parts of the country. However, we will always have the sketchy, noisy, sandy, overcrowded, and wonderful King’s Crown Room.
Suzi Foltz is a rising freshman at George Mason University.
Suzi Foltz: I must have a friendly face
Okay, so you’re driving in your car by yourself. It’s been a long day. A song you like has just come on the radio and there are no other cars around. What are you going to do? You’re going to blast the volume up about ten notches and sing along. At least that’s what you do if you’re a teenager, but I assume it works for all age categories.
Needless to say, yesterday when I was driving to pick up a friend and I heard a song that I was rather fond of; I turned my volume from a rather quiet 15 to about 30. I was stopped at a red light on Tinkling Springs Road, alongside Eaver’s Tire in Fishersville.
At this point there was some definite head shaking going on and knowing my stupidity, there was probably some hand motions as well. During the course of my routine I happened to look over and see and older man in a pickup truck in the lane next to me staring right at me.
More than this, he had his window down and could probably hear my music; though I doubt he’d recognize the song. It took me several seconds to realize that he was actually talking to me. I turned down my music to silence, rolled down my window, and asked him to repeat himself.
He asked if the road we were on would get him to the interstate. Yes, it would. He looked at me another second; probably debating my intelligence and elaborated his question saying Interstate 64, the one that would take him over the mountain. Yes, it still would. My intelligence probably should have been debated though; I hand been seat-dancing just seconds before.
Encounters like this don’t happen to me very often. Most people these days have GPS’s or don’t trust random people enough to ask for directions at a stoplight, especially teenage girl drivers (we have a bad reputation). However, this same situation was repeated again today.
On my way to the office, I was blasting my radio to shake off any remaining sleepiness. Different genre, different song, same scenario. I was stopped at the red light by El Puerto when I happen to notice another older man sitting in the car next to me staring at me. Already anticipating what would happen I turned down my music and began to roll down my window.
The man asked me how to get to Hardee’s. Although, he had a smooth drawn out southern accent that made it sound more like Haaaardee’s. I told him to stay on 250 a bit longer; it was coming up on the right and then drove on when my light changed.
I don’t get asked for directions that often. People know I’m not good at giving them. I have lived in the area for most of my life, about 16 years of my almost 18 years, but my instructions are sometimes messy. Most people like hearing street names rather than that road with the big tree on the corner, or that road by the restaurant that was an Italian restaurant and then wasn’t. Or they want an exact exit number, rather than “well, I think it’s 94. There’s a Home Depot…”
I reckon I just have a friendly face that looks like it knows where it’s going.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Oh, Bloody High School
“Can you tell me your full name and your birthdate?”
“Name; Suzanne Patterson Foltz. Birthday; June 4, 1999…oh my god, no. Not ’99, ’93. I was born June 4, 1993. Sorry.”
“Okay…”
Why would I say ’99? That would make me only eleven years old. Eleven year olds can’t donate blood. I hope I don’t look eleven. They probably just assume I’m nervous. Hell, I am nervous. Shouldn’t be nervous. I’m sure thousands of people do this everyday. A few dozen from my school have already done it today and nothing bad happened to them. Although I’m a mentorship student so I haven’t really been here all day… For all I know they could have pulled in a couple ambulances and had the entire floor bleached washed from all the blood spilled… God, I’ve been watching too much Snapped.
I donated blood last year though, so I shouldn’t be worried. Granted, it didn’t go so well last year. I wasn’t able to fill a bag. Apparently I have great platelets. Uhm, thank you? This caused me to clot too quickly and not have a steady outward flow of blood to the bag. Or maybe they just didn’t hit the vein right and didn’t want to admit it. Don’t know how they’d do that though; I’m incredibly pale and have rather prominent veins, a trait inherited from my mother’s side. Hey mom!
“Come on over here to this little booth and Mike will help you out.”
“Hi Mike.” Insert crazy laugh here (I don’t know why).
Mike was nice. He explained everything that he was doing; checking my vitals and whatnot. Rather calming.
“Alright, now I’m gonna prick ya.”
Okay, not so calming. But I knew it was coming. Distract yourself Suzi. Make conversation.
“So…you make anyone cry today?”
Well dang, that was an awful thing to ask.
“No, not yet. But I have in the past. Blood drive at Bridgewater. The entire football team wanted to donate and this one big guy burst into tears. Big sissy. Rest of them made fun of him all day.”
I found this oddly calming.
The pricky-thing was set up and he asked for my hand. I did a crazy sort of jazz hand motion as I tried to decide which hand to use and settled on the left. Then I looked around for something to focus on rather than my finger. Uhm…athletic trophies, table of snacks, free t-shirts, fountain outside the window…wait, we have a fountain?
“We have a fountain?”
I don’t know why I asked Mike. I was the student here. I came into this building everyday. Gosh, I’m oblivious.
“Oh, yeah you do. They installed it this morning when we were setting up.”
Yay! I’m not completely dumb. And the finger pricking was over. Not bad at all.
The next step was a series of questions I had to answer on a little tablet screen. Have I had malaria? No. Have I lived in the U.K. for a time that equaled up to five years? No. Have I served in the military? No. Have I had sex in exchange for drugs, money, or other payment? No. Have I had sex with a man who has had sex with a man? No. Have you taken an aspirin in the past 72 hours? Oh my gosh, yes. Beside the question they had a little picture of a bottle of Bayer. I had in fact, taken a Bayer. The tablet screen knew… I shamefully clicked the yes button with the stylus.
The questions continued on for quite a bit and I stood up when I was finished and was redirected to my next helper, Bill. He clicked through the system and then paused and looked up at me.
“You took an aspirin?”
“Yes… Before work. On Saturday. Just two. I had a headache.”
He smiled and continued clicking, then told me to go sit in one of the donor chairs.
The chairs were like stretchers and could be propped up at different angles. I sat in it awkwardly. Not sure of what to do with my feet. I kept crossing them and uncrossing them. Why did I wear white to a blood drive? Seemed like an odd color choice at this point. Bill came back and cinched my arm to get the veins to stick out more. Then the nervousness came back again.
I wonder how big the needle is. I can’t remember from last year. If I can’t remember it must not have been that big. Either that or it was so big that I am suppressing that terrible memory. I’ve never had a problem with flu shot needles or IVs when I’ve needed them. Deep breaths. Drugees do it all the time. Why would I think that? Why am I thinking so fast?
I was handed a rubber stress ball-like object and told to squeeze three times and hold the squeeze on the fourth count. Bill would count with me. One…two…three…four and hold.
The needle was in. I won’t lie, it hurt a bit going in, but not enough for me to get as worked up as I had. I was fine. I kept rolling the little stress-relief object as instructed and kept taking deep breaths. At one point my finger hit something. I looked over to see what it was. My fingers had been brushing against my little tube. The little tube was red. Well not red, but it was filled with red liquid; my blood. My blood was coming out of me from that point in my arm…
“I’m feeling a little lightheaded.”
“Yeah, I thought you were looking kind of pale.”
I’m always pale, how can people tell? My seat was adjusted, I was told to cough “like I meant it”, an ice pack was placed on my neck, and I was offered orange juice. Mmm orange juice. I was feeling much better, just couldn’t look directly at it or think about it too much. People are always saying find your happy place, maybe that works. I let my mind wander. Hmm maybe hiking? Somewhere in the mountains. With a lake. No, a creek. And lots of rocks to jump to and from across the creek. Sunny day in…August? Picnic lunch with a PB&J. My “happy place” face must not be that pleasant, because a nurse came up and asked if I was alright. I was.
The rest of my donation went fine. I just sat there. The removal of the needle didn’t feel that unusual; happened really quickly. I selected blue as my bandage color, which Bill wrapped and added a pink bow (made of the bandage material) to. After a few minutes I got up to leave, stopping at the table to grab my free t-shirt.
My vision began to get a bit cloudy like it does sometimes when you stand up too quickly. It’d go away in a second. I wanted a medium sized shirt. I grabbed for the second pile and looked at the tag. My vision was worse and I could barely make out the M on the tag. I turned slowly and headed back to my chair. I reached my hand out to find it.
“I think I need another minute of sitting.”
“I think we need another orange juice.”
Yes…
After about a minute I was fine again, but Bill told me not to move yet. I instead watched all the other donors; I could handle this. One guy was having the needle placed him. One girl was sitting drinking juice too. Apple. People were waiting in the booths answering their questions. All of a sudden I noticed that one girl was passing out. A nurse noticed the same minute I did. Three of them rushed over to her and immediately took out her needle and placed her bag to the side. Her chair was adjusted, ice packs were brought, and they began asking her is she could hear them and if things were getting clear. I had remained oddly calm during all of this, just observing. Either I was completely drained from my own donation or I was self-centered and only cared if it was happening to me. I decided it was the first as my mouth searched around for my bendy straw.
All in all, I’d say it was a good experience. Despite all of the moments I was nervous or freaked myself out, it truly is for a great cause. My own curiosity lead me to the Virginia Blood Services website where I learned that if only one more percent of all Americans would give blood, blood shortages would disappear for the foreseeable future. There are four main red blood cell types: A, B, AB and O. Each can be positive or negative for the Rh factor. AB is the universal recipient; O negative is the universal donor of red blood cells. (My own blood type is O negative). In Virginia healthy adults who are at least 16 and weigh at least 110 pounds may donate about a pint of blood – the most common form of donation – every 56 days, or every two months. Sixteen year old donors must have written parental consent to donate. One pint of blood can save up to three lives. About 1 in 7 people entering a hospital need blood. Only 38 percent of the U.S. population is eligible to donate blood – less than 10 percent do annually. Someone needs blood every two seconds. Females receive 53 percent of blood transfusions; males receive 47 percent.
Blood donation is a safe procedure using single use sterile supplies. It is normally a pleasant experience, and drinking plenty of fluids and eating well prior to donation can reduce donor reactions. The donation process may occasionally cause nausea, vomiting, dizziness, fainting, tenderness, bruising, bleeding, nerve damage, or even infection at the site.
It’s been one day since my donation and so far there have been no problems. I had to take a nap yesterday, but that’s really not that unusual. My arm has a little dot where the needle was but that can be fun to show off.
If you have any questions regarding your or your child’s decision, call Virginia Blood Services Customer Service Advocate at 1.800.989.2201 or the Donor Advocate at 1.800.989.3666. To learn more or find a donation site, visit www.vablood.org.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Congratulations Class of 2011…Maybe
I never really thought that planning a graduation would be all that difficult.
Yes, it is a big deal for all the students and all the parents, grandparents, and lifelong friends who attend, but the actual planning and scheduling of it shouldn’t be that hard, right? It’s an event that every single high school has had to plan every single year of their existence, so there are plenty of guidelines in place. However, my school, Wilson Memorial High School, keeps having bouts of confusion and mishaps.
At the beginning of the year it was just assumed that my class would graduate at the JMU Convocation Center like the last couple of classes from our school had done. I went there for both my older sister and one of my brothers. It’s a nice building that seats 7,612, and it fit all of our school’s needs fine. We were then informed that the center would be having renovations done and that we would need to look for another venue.
At this point it was thought that we would just hold the graduation at the high school. (Insert disappointed sigh here). In theory this isn’t a bad idea. It’s where you met some of the people you’ll be sitting with. It’s where you tripped in the hallways and found out “that she said that he said that they were…etc”. It’s where you earned the diploma that you will be parading up to get. But it is not exactly pleasant.
The ceremony is supposed to take place on the football field. It would probably have enough room for everyone to be present; it’s what Waynesboro and some other schools do. It’s the plan B to this outside setting that is dreadful.
Plan B (to occur in event of inclement weather): The ceremony takes place in the gym. Each student is limited to 2 guests. All overflow guests will sit in the auditorium and watch their loved one/family obligation graduate on a screen.
This was the setup when my oldest brother graduated. My parents went to the gym and I went to the auditorium. Both rooms were full, hot, and miserable. I did not want this for my own graduation. If there were a way to guarantee that it would be on the field, I’d go along with it. But our school tends to be unlucky with stuff like that so…
This semester we we’re told that it had been decided our ceremony would be held at Eastern Mennonite University, June 4 at 10 a.m. I do not know much about their facility, but it’s got to be better than the divide and suffer method. So I and the rest of my class (at the ones that will be able to graduate) were placated. It was smooth sailing for a bit after that; everyone ordered caps and gowns and were able to at least tell their parents where they would be.
Last week, Jostens, the company that we do all of our school memorabilia ordering from (class rings, yearbooks, graduation, etc.), brought in our orders. Try on your cap, try on your gown, hand everything else over to Mama.
However, another mistake had occurred. The graduation announcements had a misprint in the address of EMU. Apparently I will be graduating in Harrisburg rather than Harrisonburg. Road trip to Pennsylvania anyone? Jostens’s apologized and scheduled a reprint for all of the orders.
The reprints were delivered and all was well again. I do wonder how much this cost the company though. Also, not many people who receive a graduation announcement actually attend the ceremony because they live out of town or don’t actually know the child that well. Technically I could send out both sets. That way, twice as many people know and have the opportunity to be generous…
Maybe not. Oh well, as long as I graduate, I’m not too perturbed by the bumps along the way.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: More is less, less is more
“Suzi? Are you feeling okay?”
“Uh…yeah?”
“You aren’t feeling sick or something?”
“No, I’m alright.”
“Oh. Did you oversleep? Just got out of bed?”
“No? I woke up around 8.”
“You just look…well, different.”
“Uh…I’m not wearing eye makeup.”
“Oh…sorry.”
Apparently me without at least some amount of eyeliner or mascara looks sickly. So much for guys who prefer the natural look…take that Seventeen, Cosmo, and People!
I’ve never been one to spend excessive amounts of time on my appearance. Yes, I bathe and I do own a curling iron that I pull out every now and then, but I’ve never been the type of person to wake up at 5:30 to be ready by 8:00. I have dyed my hair twice (not excessive), had one spray tan in my entire life (within the realm of sanity and before prom so I didn’t look whiter than my white dress), and I do wear makeup (all purchased from Wal-Mart or CVS because I’m not hardcore and I’m kind of cheap). I’m not a pumpkin colored teen whose hair smells like an old toaster oven and face looks as if Picasso has been given free range over it.
With this being said, I didn’t think it would be too noticeable if I skipped a day or two here and there, but people notice. The magazine articles I referred to before say that most people would rather see the “natural look”, I’m arguing that maybe they would rather see what they think is the natural look. This in actuality is at least some amount of foundation, shimmer, or mascara. Enough to cover up flaws but not be noticeable; subtlety. At least that’s how it seems to work for me.
Or maybe it just depends on how often that person sees me. For instance, if they only see me one a week they might not have a set image of my face in their head, at least not every precise detail. If it is someone I see everyday, or at least several days a week, then they have an expectation of what my face will look like. Think about the people in your lives; the ones that pick up when something’s different. The people who ask if you’ve gotten a haircut even if you’ve only had a short trim. The people who ask if it’s a new shirt, or a new way of parting your hair. These people you tend to be closer to as well, so they’d be more likely to flat out say if you look “…well different”.
I do admire a girl who can pull off the more daring makeup looks. The people who have winged eyeliner, mix eyeshadow, or wear lipstick in a way that doesn’t make them look like a clown/hooker (Note: do not do all of these at once). But I also admire a girl who can pull off the absolutely no makeup look.
To each their own. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and whatnot.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Bathroom etiquette
Everyone does it, not many sit around talking about. Even I, who rambles on about everything, find bathroom discussions weird. I won’t disgust anyone talking about the process, but I would like to say that there should be some rules followed when using a public bathroom or one that is not your own. Maybe I’m just obsessive over little things (some of my friends find my little complaints amusing), but this is my weekly rant that I would like to share with you.
1. A bathroom is a bathroom, not a hangout. Do not go in there to stand; it’s weird. There are plenty better smelling places to talk to friend. I understand that sometimes its nice to leave class or your desk for a mini break, but don’t do it to just stand in a bathroom. Especially don’t give people “the glare” if they walk in. They aren’t interrupting you; they have just as much right to be in there as you. If you’re waiting on someone, there is some leeway, but don’t be there for an extended time.
2. Do not cozy up to an occupied stall. If I am in an empty bathroom with 8 stalls and I choose stall number 8, do not come in and choose stall number 7. If the bathroom is crowded it’s understandable, but if we are in an isolated room with only a 1 inch metal wall separating you from doing your business and me from doing mine, it’s weird. I don’t care if it’s your favorite stall or if you half way through a sharpie marker mural on the back of that stall’s door, just let me have my space. I’m not a guy and have never had to experience it, but I’ve heard the same rule should be applied to urinals.
3. Do not create “the awkward silence”. You probably know what I’m talking about. You have to go, you get in, and suddenly it’s quite…too quite. You know there’s another person is in the bathroom but they have made absolutely no noise. They are either a.) hanging out in the bathroom and not actually needing to use it (See #1), b.) having the same issue you are, or c.) are a ninja. You don’t really want the only noise to be the noise you make; it’s just strange and feels like they’re listening. The other person texting is not better. I’ve run into that before. It’s even weirder because then you know that they are present, are just hanging out, and are touching a phone whilst in the loo (highly unsanitary). Silence except for the rapid click, click, click. On the off chance they are having the same issue are you, maybe try to make some noise. Eww…not like that. And don’t bang on the walls like a lunatic. Go for something more subtle. Turn on the faucet, flush the toilet, rustle around some toilet paper. DO NOT HUM. Again, just weird.
4. Do not be a bathroom eater. This is one that you think would be kind of obvious because of the gross factor. The transfer of certain…substances…onto what you’re eating is just nasty. However, I have found this is not as clear of a rule as I thought. At work, when I’m assigned to clean bathrooms, I’ve noticed an abundance of food on the floor. Some people argue that they are just holding it because they had nowhere to put it. Lies… Have a friend hold it. No friends? Just leave the food where you were (this might not be applicable every place, but at a movie theater, which is where I work, it is). Paranoid someone will steal your precious food? Have an employee watch it at the counter. I’ve done that plenty of times for people and I respect them more for it.
5. Do not be astonished when a bathroom smells gross. It’s a bathroom, what did you expect. Yeah, as a teenage girl I understand sometimes complaining just comes naturally (See entire article), but don’t be amazed or act like it’s out of the ordinary. Especially don’t do this if you are just hanging out in there (See #1), because then you have to undergo this intense process call “Just leave the f***ing bathroom”.
6. If you make a mess or if something goes wrong, try to fix it. Yes, it is the employee’s job, and they will do it, but it’s nice to not have to mop up urine splatters or bathroom-eater’s spills (See #4). If your stall was out of toilet paper or if there is a clog, let a staff member know. If you’re at someone’s house this would be embarrassing, especially if you’re not to the “hey man, I clogged your toilet” level, but try to solve the problem as best you can.
These are all of the rules that I had presently on my mind, but there are probably many more out there. Please follow them or encourage others to do so. If you have one of your own, feel free to add it.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: ‘Look, No Hands!’ vs. Death Grip
Up until last year, I had always been rather hesitant about amusement park rides. Things that threw your body into unnatural positions or had you upside down for any period of time were on my list of things to avoid. I didn’t hate roller coasters, I would just stick to the ones that were more old-fashioned; traditional. Come to think of it, these ones tend to be pretty old and wood and probably the less safe ones, but at the time in made sense in my mind. Last year however, a few of my friends decided to break me of this fear and said I had to ride at least one.
It had been a really hot day last April when I had gone to Kings Dominion with two friends and my sister. After the first few hours of wandering around and going on Suzi-proof rides, they decided they wanted to ride the Volcano. The volcano: a roller coaster involving fire, shooting out of a volcano, and being upside down at several points. Uhm…no.
I offered to sit out and just watch, but they were persistent, using supporting points like I was practically an adult and could handle it, they’d have an odd number without me and someone would have to ride alone, the rides are tested all of the time, people don’t die on roller coasters…often…
After a while I decided I had to do it. To fight my reasoning and fears for once. I was sixteen years old, I was supposed to love doing stupid things, and at that time, this was a stupid thing to me.
We got in line and waited for about an hour before we actually got to the ride. By then I had waited so long that I absolutely could not back out; you don’t pay money to go to an amusement park and stand around.
To be honest, I can’t remember much of the ride. I didn’t pass out or anything, it all just happened so fast. I remember starting out slow of the loading area and then all of a sudden we shot off; much faster than I had expected. When we shot out of the volcano I could feel my body jerking against the over the shoulder restraint lock; suspended in the area for brief seconds every now and then. Flash! There was the parking lot. Flash! There was some tree! Flash! That was the ground…above me. Flash! We were done.
I absolutely loved it.
I felt a huge sense of accomplishment as the attendant unlocked my seat and signaled for us to exit the loading area. I walked off astounded but then realized I was walking alone. I turned around to see the rest of my group staring at me skeptically.
“So…did you like it?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Well good…because that was like one of the worst upside down rides in the park and now all the others will be no problem!”
I hated them. I loved them. I hit them. I was laughing.
I went on two more roller coasters involving upside-down-ness that day: the Dominator and The Flight of Fear. Both of them were amazing to me and I finally understood why people would wait in lines for so long to ride them.
At this year’s Staunton Spring Carnival I even went on some questionable rides. In a way I feel these are worse than amusement park rides because at parks, even though the rides are bigger, they are stationary and regularly maitenanced. With carnival rides, the machines are moved around every week. What if one bolt wasn’t retightened quite enough? Or what if a piece wasn’t locked in properly during the move?
One ride was a room that spun so fast that the force would push you against a wall, and eventually lift you off the floor: Fun.
However, it didn’t have anything strapping you to the wall and the panels move purely by centrifugal force: Questionable.
We also rode a Ferris wheel sort of ride: Fun.
However, the carts could spin upside down and would leave you facing straight up or straight down for extend periods while people were loading and unloading: Questionable.
I fought through the sketchy aspects and ended up having a great time. I’d even recommend those rides…for anyone who is not easily nauseated.
I am not some sort of adrenaline junkie now, but I do plan to expand my acceptable rides list. I’m scheduled to go on another trip to Kings Dominion this week with some of the same people and this time I intend to do no waiting (except for maybe the Berserker, but you never know…).
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Saying yes to the dress?
“Why, hello! Welcome to (insert overly priced formal wear store name here). What are we looking for today?”
Okay, that was a simple enough one, “Well, a prom dress.”
“Do you have any certain styles in mind?”
“Not really. I haven’t narrowed it down and I’m kind of looking around at everything.”
“Alright then! Let me know if you do need anything!”
Yes! They’re going to leave me alone to myself to complain about how bad I look in orange and they won’t suggest animal prints encrusted with pounds of sequins.
“Do you know if you want long or short!?”
Damn, how did she get to the other side of the store so quick? And why didn’t I see her move?
“Probably long. Seems more prom traditional to me,” I said appeasing the attendant at least a little bit with instruction.
She gave quick nod and disappeared. I turned back to the rack I was flipping through, amazed by how many colors could be forced together on the same dress.
“Are ya looking for a solid? Or are ya more of a print gal!?”
This time she was smiling from the other end of the aisle.
Was I a “print gal”? Not typically, but that didn’t necessarily mean I wanted to rule out every print in the building. It wasn’t fair to the good prints of the world.
“Not sure. Just kind of looking at everything.”
Quick enthusiastic nod #2 and gone. I resumed my perusing. Too bright, this would look better on my sister, way too much cut out of this, could I fit through the door, who wears sleeves on a prom dress?
“Are ya wanting ball gown, mermaid styled, cutouts!? Got any plan in mind?”
Geez woman, I am just browsing! This time she had managed to get right behind with an armful of dresses that she hoped to have me try on as if I was her Barbie. She needed to wear a bell like a cat so I could hear her coming. Honestly, how could she move so silently? Do dressing attendants have special training for that? I didn’t want to be rude, but I wanted to get out of there.
There’s a fine line between what can be seen as assisting or pestering. Yes, its nice to have someone there; help with zippers, let you know the prices or sizes, fetch things for you if you do have a plan in mind, but some of the fancier stores make me uncomfortable. Maybe these stores sell on commission and need you to get a dress for their sake, but it has always turned me off of a store. In my years of shopping, I’ve found that the stores I’m more comfortable are the smaller ones. These ones also happen to be less expensive. Sometimes this is because they might have older styles or a less fancy or lesser known line, but there are still some incredible dresses.
Two stores that I especially like are Augusta Cleaners in Waynesboro and the Fashion Gallery in Verona. Both of these locations have plenty of dresses available for less than $300 and keep a record of what school’s the sell to so that the purchaser is less likely to run into someone with the same dress at their prom. I was not instructed to promote these stores, but with all of the help they have given me in the past four years, I owe it to them.
Alice Barret at the Augusta Cleaners had helped my sister through all of her Homecomings, formals, and proms, and has extended this kindness to me. She is honest and will actually tell me if she thinks something looks bad. Whenever I have been stuck between multiple dresses in the past she has gotten a vote along with my mother, sister, and best friend. Also, the Cleaners provide alterations and cleaning for the formal wear, even if you didn’t purchase it there; definitely beneficial.
At the Fashion Gallery, I have always had an older woman, Jean, serve as my shopping specialist. She was there when I bought last year’s prom dress (only $120) and she was there when I bought this year’s dress (only $230). She always seems to have an actual invested interest in what I’ll be wearing, without badgering me, which I always appreciate. She has even asked me to bring a picture back of me and my date so she can see how we end up looking.
A prom is not a wedding. The day is not about you, it’s about your class. There are quite a few more color options. You may have more than one prom (I know it is possible to have more than one wedding, but the traditionalist part of my brain reminds me that there’s supposed to be just one). But it is important to a teenage girl (quite a few teenage boys too). That’s what I have been to four different dress shops, some multiple times, in the past two months. And I’m one of the more conservative female shoppers. Imagine how the hardcore dedicated shoppers are; everyone knows one and I’m sure someone just popped into your mind.
This past weekend my problems were solved. (Attention: if you’re male you might just want to skip over this paragraph.) I found a dress. Not too flash, not too plain, not too short, a smidge too long but alterations are only $30. It has a large floral pattern at the bottom and around the bodice (guess I was a bit of a “print gal”). The colors are majority white, with red and black; good colors for matching my date. While in the store, four other shoppers complimented it; always a good sign.
So there we are. Nothing more to worry about. Just the hair, makeup, shoes, dinner, pictures, what to do before and after, time constraints …
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Endless Nuggets?
I have always been a fan of eating. It’s necessary, nourishing, enjoyable, and a social experience. Not to mention, I’m quite good at it. So naturally, I get excited when free food is mentioned. This is exactly what happened the other day when my teacher mentioned that it was All You Can Eat Nugget Night at Chick-fil-A.
For anyone who does not understand what this date entails, it means that you can go to the Chick-fil-A of Waynesboro, make one small purchase of an 8-count nugget, and eat until you explode. Like a buffet of strictly chicken. (One of the many promotions that Chick-fil-A holds to gain family friendly attention; find more at cfarestaurant.com/waynesboro/events#.)
Now the idea of eating that much alone sounds kind of pathetic, so I mentioned it to my best friend, who to my relief was just as excited as I was. We texted around and found another brave soul willing to clog his arteries with us, and we headed out.
When we arrived, the main lot was pretty full; people parking up in the park-and-ride and along the curb. Luckily, someone had just left and we filled an opening close enough to the building that we didn’t have to actually put in physical effort. I placed my order: a single 8-count nugget and a cup of water. The cost of this was $2.79, $3.07 with tax. $3.07 to fill my stomach? Not bad, not bad at all. The cashier handed me my order, an extra plate, and a Lowe’s paint stirring stick to hold up whenever I needed a refill.
We had trouble finding a seat at first; the room full of greasy fingered people holding up their sticks as if they were at an auction. Once we had a place I sat staring at my plate wondering how much I could eat. Usually I get the 8-count and that is enough to fill me. Often, it is too much and I sit there with an extra one or two in front of me, causing me to poke my friend repeatedly until he agrees to finish them for me. Today was different, though. The words “All You Can Eat” does that to a person…
I slowed down around my 13th nugget. I was full. But endless nuggets… The event we were fairly certain was dine in only, but I felt compelled to sneak at least a few in my bag to take home to my family (see, good intentions).
“What are they gonna do? Repossess your chicken, Suzi? They can’t do that.”
“Yeah, they wouldn’t be able to reuse that chicken for anyone else so that’d be a waste. And it’s not like they can search your bag or anything.”
My friends are so supportive.
We casually continued to hold up our stick, and I casually continued to slip them into a container in my bag. At one point, one of the many servers asked me how many refills I had had.
“Uhm…3?”
“Aww hun, don’t be embarrassed! There’s a man over there that I just gave a 12-count refill to. He’s had near 48!”
If one man can suck down 48 nuggets I could smuggle a few with me home.
Soon after, we decided we could not consume more and that we had to get going. That was the point that my friends realized they couldn’t carry their own out. One because he was a guy and a box wouldn’t fit in his pocket and he didn’t want the chicken just freely in there. The other because her purse was open at the top and they could topple out. Knowing our coordination, this was likely. So I offered to carry theirs for them. We then exited; my bag brimming with chicken.
I handed theirs back once at the car and we soon parted ways.
Once home I counted out my 18 smuggled nuggets.
Suzi Foltz is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: At least now I know what the registration looks like
“Can I see your license and registration?”
Words that no one likes to hear. Words that I hadn’t had to hear with consequences to myself until Wednesday morning. Yes, I’ve heard it in movies and TV shows and when once my dad was pulled over and I happened to be in the car. I’ve even been pulled over twice myself before, but only due to a broken taillight that the officers wanted to inform me of. But never had I received my own personal yellow piece of paper summoning me to court.
It all started that morning before I came into the Augusta Free Press office. I was doing my usual morning activities; raiding the fridge for something to call breakfast, attempting to find matching socks, Facebook creeping, and drinking my daily glass of Sunny D (yes, I realize it’s not real orange juice…). Somewhere during this lovely routine I lost track of time and then noticed I had only 8 minutes before I had to be behind my desk where I’m writing this story now. I then grabbed all of the things I would need at school and the office, shoved them into my blue ’98 Volkswagen Bug, and took off.
I was driving down Old White Bridge Road, a rural road that is 55 mph with lower markings for specified curves. This is a road that I have driven down at least twice a day, every day since I’ve had my license; whether it’s for school, mentorship, work, or just to be able to see something that is not a cow field. So needless to say, it’s a road that I feel pretty comfortable on. I know the rough spots, I know how fast I can take the turns in my car, and I know all the little roads where a car could turn onto Old White Bridge. With all of this said, I was probably going a little too fast…
Towards the end of the road, you are entering the “city” of Waynesboro, and the road becomes residential and therefore is marked as 35 mph. At this point, I was honestly slowing down from whatever speed I had been going, but I suppose I did not do this in time, because the flashing blue lights appeared in my mirror.
The police car was all black, one of those undercover cop cars, the kind that frustrate drivers even more because they’re thinking they’re getting away with whatever they’re doing and then bam…pulled over.
I slowed my car to a stop as far over as I could, which wasn’t very far, because there is not much of a shoulder on this part of the road. My stopping point happened to also be right in front of the house of a friend of mine. I was silently thanking the fact that she was in school, and therefore not home to see this occurrence and text everyone in her phone about it, when the officer got out of his car.
Flashbacks of my sophomore year in Driver’s Ed class popped into my head. I could picture Coach Grove in his slow, slurred, southern accent saying alright, “if’n you’re gonna get pulled over you wanna be your politest. Make sure you have your winder down and your radio is cut off. Don’t be fiddlin’ with stuff. Ladies, don’t try to, ahem, promote yourselfs, cuz this’ll jist make it worse. Look em in the eye and say ‘yes, sir’.”
Despite the many differences of opinion I had with Coach Grove, I followed all the advice he had given me. I even quickly tried to get rid of my gum by sticking it to a piece of paper shoved in between my seats (a fun tidbit that I forgot about until later that afternoon). When the expected ‘license and registration’ came I pulled out my license and opened my glove box to find my registration.
“Uhm…sir, to be honest, I don’t exactly know what the registration looks like. I’ve never had to do this before,” I tried to explain as I pulled out air-fresheners, artificial flowers, and a page of stickers.
For a second he just looked at me; a look that I bet a lot of clueless teenage girls get from him. I pulled blindly at a paper and held it out to him.
“Is this it?”
“No.”
“Oh…how about this?”
-Blind grab take 2-
“No.”
“Well, what exactly do they look like? This?”
“I think it’d be in that envelope there.”
“Oh okay, thank you, Sir.”
Why the hell was I thanking him? He was giving me a ticket. I was late for work. I’d have to pay a fine. Possibly attend driving school. Tell my parents about this fun little encounter. And here I was saying “thank you” in what I can only describe as my speaking-to-an-authority-default-cheerleader voice.
The officer informed me that I had been going 51 in a 35, did I realize that? Well, no. He took the items with him to his car with him and told me to “sit tight” for a minute. I did. For a moment during this I actually felt kind of proud of myself. I’d imagined my first police pull-over before, and I thought I’d freak out more. I’d heard of a lot of girls who had burst into tears upon receiving the first ticket. I’ve never been much of public crier, so I was not totally shocked when this didn’t occur, but I thought I’d be shaky, or maybe I’d even throw up. But none of this occurred; instead I sat staring straight ahead thinking (insert first curse word that pops in your mind here).
The thing you get a lot when you own a Bug is weird looks. The thing you get when pulled over by a cop is sympathetic looks. The thing you get when pulled over in a Bug by a cop is comical expressions. Laughs, full on head turning, steering wheel slapping; yes, thank you residents of Waynesboro for that.
The officer came back and handed me a summons, killing the little bit of hope I had that he’d take pity on me. He then told me to be carefully as I pulled off.
I drove on to the office, and decided that before I went in I should probably call my mom.
“Hello? Suzi?”
“HI MOM! How’s your morning?”
“Well, it’s alright. Is something wrong?”
“I sort of just got my first speeding ticket… I know it was bad, and you’re always telling me to be more carefully and to watch my speed, and everything, and I know that I have to pay the fine, and that I have a job, so that I’ll be paying it for myself, and that I might have to go to driving school, and I didn’t even know what the registration was and mom…?”
She was laughing on the other end.
Column by Suzi Foltz. Suzi is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Unfit for fitness?
“So, you wanna hear something funny?”
“Sure Suzi, why not.”
“I’m going to a gym tonight…”
This little exchange with a friend of mine in class pretty much sums up my attempts at fitness. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not morbidly obese or incapable of movement; I’m just…well, not very coordinated.
I’ve attended pretty much every sporting event our school has to offer; football, basketball, soccer, volleyball, baseball, softball. I’ve even been to some of the lesser attended sports like cross country, indoor track, and wrestling (I have yet to attend a tennis match, but the year is not over and it will probably happen), so I can say that to an extent I understand sports. I understand the competitiveness, the camaraderie, the attempts at bettering yourself, and possibly working to achieve the upgrade to college level sports.
With all this said, I have never played a high school sport, been on a team, or possessed a gym membership. I have however, endangered others with my attempts in gym class, damaged gym equipment because of misuse, and been told that I look stupid when I run… If you’re picturing a teenage girl with arms flailing and heavy breathing, then you’re close.
People have told me that you do not necessarily have to be an athlete to exercise, and with this statement I agree. I do enjoy hiking, skiing, swimming, walking my dog, and other outdoor activities. I feel like I’m safer as long as there isn’t a specific guideline for what you have to do and preferably if not many other people are around. I was quite content with my solo attempts at fitness, until the invasion of the Powerhouse Gym employees.
I know that last statement sounds like low budget indie film, but it’s actually what happened while I was at working my regular shift at Zeus Digital Theaters. I had been taking tickets when a group of young women in workout clothes came in.
“Hi! We’re from Powerhouse!”
“Oh…that’s great…?”
“We’re here to set up for the exercise demonstration.”
“Ohhhh, ok. I hadn’t heard of this, let me get my manager…”
-Enter Sheldon, my manager-
“Hello, what can I help you with?”
“Hi! We’re from Powerhouse!”
“Uhm…ok? What can I do for you?”
“We talked to Brett about doing a demonstration in the lobby to promote our fitness classes?”
And thus my day changed from watching the customers at the counter and listening to movie soundtrack music play through the speakers, to watching overly energetic girls dance around the lobby to what my guess was a mix of African tribal chants, Bollywood music, and Rhianna.
At one point, they offered for the employees to join in. I instantly refused, knowing my lack of coordination would probably disrupt the furniture or a small movie-goer. My coworkers were a little more tempted to join, but even they refused because we were on the clock.
After a couple hours the people from “Powerhouse!” packed up to leave and handed out passes for three free days at the gym for all of the Zeus employees. Somehow, in the week that followed my friend and coworker, Megan, convinced me to try a Zumba class with her.
Visualize a gym, any gym. I’ve had this habit in the past of always picturing super buff people lifting weights that I can only move with my car, or people who can run distances that again, I could only accomplish in my car. It’s a strange mindset to have, but in my head it’s like you have to be physically fit to a certain degree to be accepted at a fitness center, which kind of defeats the purpose of a gym…
I will, however, fight through this and use my three-day pass. I will do whatever Mrs. “Hi I’m from Powerhouse!” tells me to do. I will ignore Mr. I-Can-Lift-Refrigerators and Miss I-Ran-Here-From-Tennessee. And I will attempt to enjoy fitness.
Column by Suzi Foltz. Suzi is an AugustaFreePress.com intern and a senior at Wilson Memorial High School.
Suzi Foltz: Higher education and interesting situations-Laundry Day
Posted by afp on August 31, 2011 · Leave a Comment
Hmm…I hadn’t noticed anything. That might not be good, the smell could be me.
“I hadn’t noticed anything yet. We can Frebreeze the crap out of the room?”
“No, I think it’s just all the laundry that’s built up.”
And thus, Tuesday became laundry day.
I’ve never been scared of laundry. I’d done quite a few of my own loads back home in fact so I wasn’t nervous as I headed to the laundry room. I had with me my laundry basket full of cute first week of college outfits, Gain Apple Mango Tango, and matching dryer sheets.
As I walked I attempted to balance everything all on one hip so I’d have a free hand to pull out my ID card to get into the laundry; not the easiest task. I was still scrambling with this issue as I came to the door, where to my relief, someone held the door open for me.
Once in I looked around for a machine not in use…not many available. I suppose a lot of freshmen were starting to develop a smell.
“Ah crap.”
I looked over to see where this mumbled comment had come from. A tall dark-haired guy was sitting there scanning the machines with a perplexed look on his face.
“This your first time?” I offered with what I hope was an understanding tone.
“Yeah, well no, but I’ve only done like 3 loads of laundry in my entire life.”
We then exchanged names and I offered to help him out if I could.
This is a common example of many of the conversations I’ve had this first week at Mason. All of the freshmen seem to have the anyone-can-be-your-friend mentality; which is nice, especially if you don’t have many friends up here.
I tried shoving all of my clothes into the one machine, hoping that nothing fell on the ground. Mission failed. And of course with my luck it would be a bra. Oh well, it’s a college guy, he’s seen bras before.
I tried narrating everything I did so he could follow one step behind. Load clothes, pour detergent in here (this one took us both a second because the machine requested a certain slot in the machine), close the door, select the type of load. He insisted that his mother had told him to use cold water, so we figured out how to do that for Mr. Laundry-Room. After that final discovery we were done loading our first load of laundry on campus.
“I’m sure your mother would be proud.”
“Thanks. See you in 35 minutes for drying.”
Hmm laundry day might not be so bad.
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