It's the Most Wonderful Time for Some Tears

Oh my eggnog, how I love this photo.

I don't know if it's Griffin's look of stupefied shock as I bitterly clutch his hand and give Lydia one heck of a side-eye, or Caroline's perversely pleased expression as she watches her baby sister (seemingly) eat her own hand in horror. I can't pick.

Aahh, (sigh or scream? Your guess is as good as mine.) the holidays.

This reminds me, I hope I don't cry (like I did last year) when we attempt to take the family photo. It really throws off my 'smile for the camera.'

(Can't say my dad's "Margaret, stop looking so dopey" helped much either.)

Mo Mo Mo, How do you like it?

"Fun" Fact: The title of this post is what I wrote on the shirt I designed and wore to Mo's basketball game freshman year, aka the only Penn sporting event I attended during my entire college experience.

        Late Mid-Movember means one thing: it's pluggin' time, y'alls.

Mo, one of my dearest friends and fellow pennguists, has jumped onto the blogwagon. [Insert lame(ish) interjection like 'huzzah!' here]

Her posts will be a delightful combination of her two collegiate concentrations, Linguistics and Anthropology, not to mention her slammin' personality.

mo'phology = mo' fun

So check it/her out if ya' nasty.

The Foot, The Mouth, and The Apex

I have this habit, when my mind revisits past embarrassing moments, to uncontrollably mutter one or two words out loud to myself. Today I stood in the shower, trying to wash away who knows what, when out popped “crazy.” And with that, I was one word closer to becoming all the more so.

I think these involuntary verbal sputters are my mind's makeshift attempt to distance my present self from the unreasonable statements and butt-clench moments of my past. Some part of me figures that if time won’t do the trick fast enough, at least I’ll benefit from being [x] many more words away from a choice sentence’o’shame.

Of course, my logical side says sarcastically. Because talking is clearly the solution for your problem. You should really do more talking. 

Yet my optimistically verbose subconscious—a side of me that would probably describe Tourette’s syndrome as “cathartic”— somehow continues to prevail. At twenty-two years of age I’m rattling off interjections more than ever, as if my new words will one day bury all my regrettable past utterances.

So I let myself sputter, because if a word falls from my mouth but no one else is around to hear it, can it really do any damage?

As for the damage that’s already been done, I've noticed that most of my clench-inducing memories must wax humiliating until they reach an apex. After this apex, which is determined by some incalculable ratio of time elapsed to personal abandon, comes the point at which I can begin to forget the memory, or at least start to laugh.

But for certain memories, the apex feels like it’s located somewhere between Jupiter and Uranus. On rough days, muttering a thousand shower-time ‘crazy’s won’t render even a millimeter of space between me and the memory from which I flee.

In such cases, the best I can do is pretend that I don't mind the big toe that's gently pressing on my gag reflex, and hope that the embarrassments that hold my mind captive (or is it the other way around?) aren’t quite as memorable to any of the other people who witnessed them.

Mirror, Mirror on the screen

I worry I am just one bad face-day away from this moment:

High School TicTactics

When I was a senior in high school, the end of first semester was a time of high anxiety. Early application decisions were rolling in, and people like me ('the deferr-ed') were facing the final exam period of our high school careers that still potentially mattered for college.

I sought fun anywhere I could find it, provided it didn't distract my already attention-challenged mind. My solution? Little pellets of sugar.

Armed with my dad's label maker and bulk packs of tictacs, I made little boxes of "medicine" for each subject I had to study (as well as one for break time, for the sake of using all six flavors.)

I coordinated colors and subjects based on my flavor preferences and studying priority; my weakest subjects were paired with my favorite flavors, and "break" was given my least favorite flavor. However, I will admit that the flavors for U.S. History and Irish Literature weren't exactly in accordance with this system, and based on patriotism more than anything else.

Silly? Sure. Tacky? Maybe so. A waste of time? Possibly.
But for all I can tell, it worked.

Two Cents & Three Words

An assignment from a college writing class: create and define three words. Please feel free (encouraged) to submit any of your own.

Tempmature (tεmp mə tʃər) adj. At the point in one's life where one has completed one's education but has yet to attain or pursue their dream profession, e.g. working for a temp agency.

“Although Ryan’s rented apartment was sparsely decorated and several miles outside of Boston, his ideal location, it didn’t cost much and thus suited his tempmature lifestyle.”

Impalsiveness (ɪmˈ pæl sɪv nεs) n. A rash tendency to cling to one's comrades, often in an intense and possessive manner and regardless of whether one has only known the target friend for a short period of time.

“Two weeks into their friendship, Jennifer impalsively grabbed Linda’s elbow and said with a puppyish half-frown, ‘You’re like, my best friend.’”

Pennsimistic (pεn səˈ mɪs tɪk) adj. A Penn student's view of the collegiate and academic world, marked by a wariness of competition from and inferiority to other Ivy Leaguers. A perspective characterized by a continuous resentment of being "second (or seventh) best."

“Alan didn’t want to get his hopes up about the scholarship. Despite his 4.0 GPA, he remained pennsimistic. He was up against eight other students, half of whom went to Princeton.”

You ain't never caught a rabbit, but you are a friend of mine.

Left: My muse. Right: Claude Monet by John Singer Sargent

Ho ho...my. 'Tis the first post of November. Why? Well, because it's time to put something-- anything--down here, and I'm tired of a cats video being top dog on this site. I hate looking at my archives and seeing months during which I only eked out a measly 3 or 4 entries (yeah, I'm calling you out, June and September.)

So here I type without much of a plan, just a vague two-thirds-hearted desire to write, to verify that my head is full of thoughts instead of gas, to see what my fingers can pull from my messy mind.

I've been wondering lately how many words I say each day, or at least how much less (much less? Does that work?) speaking I do now than I did this time last year. My daytime involves minimal verbal interaction with others, as my sister is at school and my parents are busy working. I'll run errands and attend the occasional yoga class, but even then my talking just covers manners and conversational necessities. You know, "please, thank you, excuse me, debit, it's just a rash, hope you have a good day," the basics.

My most consistent companion is Bailey, hands/paws down. He’s my little shadow, following me wherever I go, always trying to sneak his head underneath my hand.

I’ve never been one for pet (ha!) names, but lately I’ve been calling him “Baby.” It’s hard not to treat Bailey like a person sometimes. He has such a wide range of emotions, spanning from happy, to yearning, to begging, to sleepy. I have moments when I look at him and feel like I’m gazing into a mirror.

I love how, when he gets really excited, his tail wags so hard that his whole body shakes as he walks. Like the one time he crossed the forbidden line between the top of our staircase and the second floor, he was practically shimmying as he moved slowly toward us, so thrilled by the brave new world he had discovered (and from which he was immediately evicted.)

On the way to yoga the other day, I walked by a woman pushing two babies in a stroller. She noticed my yoga mat, and as she passed me I heard her say to her two pint-sized charges,

“Momma doesn’t do yoga, Momma does piiiih-laaah-teees.”

She sounded it out, like “pilates” might just be their first word, lest “antioxidant” or “jojoba” be too complicated. I almost wanted to catch up to her and say,

“Hey, loud lady. We’re not so different, you and I. You talk to these adorable bundles of drool, and I talk to my dog.”

But then I realized that one day her audience will respond with actual words. I, on the other hand, could talk to Bailey till I’m blue--nay, indigo--in the face and the best response I can ever hope for is his inquisitive head-cocked-to-the-side “is that food in your mouth?” look.

So I said nothing and kept walking. Someone else can bridge the gap between the Yogis and Pilatis(?) and until then, gangs will be gangs.

That night my dad and I were chatting while I got ready to go to a friend’s house. As our conversation wrapped up, he glanced at Bailey and asked me,

“What’s that black stuff on his face?”

I looked at the dog and saw nothing, but my father insisted.

“The black stuff! Right there.”

He flailed a hand in the dog’s general direction, then told me to "wash his face," and headed off to take a shower. I dismissed his command as silly old Dad ‘pretending to be crazy' again, chuckled, and started to say goodbye.

"Hold it!”

Dad paused in the doorway and explained (in so many words) that I was the only one in on the ‘crazy’ joke.

“Wash his face, then you can go.”

Slightly puzzled, I walked over to the sink with Bailey in tow. Wash his face. Like a human's?

As I knelt down and began to gently caress Bailey's face with a wet towel, he seemed confused at first, then slid his legs down to lie on the floor.

“Good boy,” I murmured. “Make yourself comfortable, Baby.”

Had I followed by flossing his teeth, he probably would’ve gone along with it.

However, I was sobered mid-stroke when I pictured how we might look to an outsider.

On the hardwood floor of a kitchen, a large blond dog lies in the lap of a twenty-two year-old woman. The two share a moment, the dog closing his eyes as the young woman coos to him, gently wiping away the invisible black marks that sully his face. 

He yawns loudly and she wonders, “did he just say 'Mom'?” He stares back at her then licks her hand, and she knows she must leave right away.