Turning my humble Cincinnati condo into UD’s campus

Still feeling homesick for campus? We are too. Check out these certified Fightin' Blue Hen tips and tricks for creating your very own campus atmosphere.

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Courtesy of Creative Commons/THE REVIEW
Turn your boring, old personal space into the Delaware campus of your dreams.

Senior Reporter

My deposit to UD was something of an academic blind date: I made a commitment without ever having visited campus.

In June, I finally made the long, arduous, nine-hour quest from my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio, to Newark, Delaware, where I was able to bask in the majesty of my future home. I felt like a 6-year-old in Disneyworld and probably behaved like one too.

Funnily enough, while I was there, I got an email saying we’d be on campus for the fall semester.

Sadly enough, one month later, I got a Twitter notification saying that we wouldn’t.

Now, to my knowledge, the only thing that Newark, Delaware, has in common with Cincinnati, Ohio, is a humidity so thick that if you’re thirsty, wave an empty bottle through the air, and it’ll eventually fill with water.

But just because I am a nine-hour drive from campus does not mean that I shouldn’t have some sort of campus experience from the safety of my home. I recently channeled that same Fightin’ Blue Hen spirit I felt as I frolicked through the Green for the very first time as I undertook the laborious task of transforming my humble condo into a microcosm of UD’s campus.

And I must say, I am killing it.

For starters, I only wear clothes that are blue or gold. No exceptions.

I am trying to subject my “roommate” (i.e. my mother) to the same standard, but she is having difficulty complying. The other day, I snuck behind her and tried to pull a UD sweatshirt over her head. After realizing that she in fact wasn’t the victim of a home invasion, she angrily pushed me away and said she needed to leave home for a while.

She still hasn’t come back.

Every morning, I wake up almost late to class. Fortunately, there is never a line to the bathroom, but the trip to class is not as easy. Grabbing my backpack filled with every textbook and notebook I own, I sprint a full loop around my block, coffee cup in tow. The people I happen to pass give me a socially-distanced stare, but in the rush I pay no attention.

One of these days, I bet they’ll start cheering me on.

Each time I enter the kitchen, I am sure to hand my mother my “ONECard” (in this case, my expired Claire’s Earring Club card). Every day, my mother informs me of the menu options, which are always “eat the food I’ve made or don’t.”

For the sake of authenticity, I used a butter knife to saw my full-sized mattress in half to create a twin-sized bed (my mother, for whatever reason, didn’t trust me with the chainsaw). I likewise took the liberty of repainting my room that signature residence hall-beige, and hung 30 packs of tea lights on my walls.

My living room has become Trabant University Center. I stapled about 150 glow sticks to my ceiling, because I could not figure out how to rewire my home to allow for the around-the-clock sustaining of neon lights (and because, for whatever reason, my mother didn’t trust me with a nail gun). My local dollar store is facing a glow stick shortage, but the effect is nonetheless breathtaking, although it is frustrating that I must replace them every 24 hours.

Every week I host my very own Perkins Live. Sometimes I’ll watch a movie (and by movie, I mean the local news), but more often I will perform an original, 5-hour comedy routine in front of my mother and every stuffed animal I own.

The plush toys always get a kick out of it. My mother always threatens to kick me out.

My basement has become Morris Library. Since I couldn’t find a bronze bust of Hugh M. Morris on Amazon, I’ve resorted to booping my mother on the nose whenever I leave. She swears she’ll disown me every time, but I shush her, reminding her that there’s no yelling in the library!

When I thought we were still going to be on campus, I bought a hammock because I really, really wanted to be one of those students, and because I enjoy cocooning myself from reality. Since there are few trees in my area, I have resorted to hanging it in my stairwell. It has unfortunately ripped multiple holes in my walls that will undoubtedly depreciate the value of my home.

I could not obtain a zoning permit to build a bell tower, so I nailed a speaker to my roof that plays the fight song on the top of each hour. My neighborhood is petitioning to have it removed. I find their lack of school spirit disappointing, especially since I risked severe injury in climbing my roof free solo and used my knock-off Birkenstocks to drive the nails in (my mother didn’t trust me with a hammer, either).

I have been permanently banned from multiple retailers due to my insistence that I not be charged a sales tax on the necessities I buy. Since I am “living” in Delaware, I do not see why I need to pay extra for my special edition DVD box sets and Squishmallows.

My open garage has become the Kissing Arches. I spend my nights standing in my open garage, waiting.

No ever one comes. And I don’t think it’s because of social distancing.


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