Harlanguage

Forgotten Language

2010-11-18T00:54:00.002-05:00

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,

Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,

Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,

And shared a conversation with the housefly

in my bed.

Once I heard and answered all the questions

of the crickets,

And joined the crying of each falling dying

flake of snow,

Once I spoke the language of the flowers . . . .

How did it go?

-Shel Silverstein

To the beat of my own drummer

2010-07-31T02:57:00.010-04:00

According to my sister, this is how I dance:

Can't say I disagree with her.

THE STEPS

graciously provided for anyone up to the challenge

(of looking challenged)

Goodbye, old friend.

2010-07-17T12:47:00.010-04:00

My dad took these pictures yesterday after he sold our 12 year-old mini-van. It kind of feels like we just sent a cranky, half-there uncle to a home with no visiting hours.

If sentiment weren't a factor, we wouldn't miss the old guy. Though its exterior survived relatively unscratched, the van's age was obvious to anyone lucky enough to be a passenger. By year six, among its numerous charms, the van boasted a broken radio and a ride so turbulent that we kids nick-named it "Rickety."

More recently, however, my dad—out of some unexplained sense of solidarity—has insisted on calling him "Ricky."

Despite our many disputes regarding the correct nomenclature, one designation we could all agree on was that the van was undeniably "the Bailey car."

Goodbye, Rickety.

...or as my dad put it,

Life in a Mouth

2010-07-06T16:53:00.020-04:00

I have this memory from when I was three or four: I'm painting a picture of a dreidel (we'll get into my WASP rebellion another time) at an art table with my two best friends, Mariah Pepper and Elizabeth Baker-Jennings, whose sing-songy names I point to as evidence that life will never seem as perfect as it did in preschool. Conversation is at a lull, so I share with them a desire that I've been harboring for what feels like decades (given my age at the time, this probably translates to about one and a half weeks).

"I wish I could live in my mouth"

Elizabeth agrees, she too wants to live in her mouth--or did she mean my mouth? Either way, I brush off her attempt at support. She doesn't get it, I think to myself. She can't envision the dream like I do.

Clearly, I had yet to learn about some important life topics, such as: flossing, laziness, cause and effect, how my laziness causes poor flossing habits, real estate, the importance of location, odor, etc.

Thanks to the wisdom I've acquired, I've since abandoned the dream. However, I'm much slower to let go of the memory. It's not that I think it makes me special. I know this anecdote is just one of many products available from the "kids have the darnest thoughts" brand line.

But this one is my creation, and mine alone. No one else can envision that nightmarish dream quite like I did (that past tense almost make me sad), so--with the help of photoshop--I'm going to pin it down here, in case it escapes from my memory when I start my descent into life's second type of age-induced dementia.

So why did I write this? What's the lesson in all of it? Ehhhhh. Let's see what I can pull out of my...mouth.

Okay, here:

Even though I've stopped believin', I've got other reasons to keep on brushing.

Eh? Ughh.

Update: I remember what got me started on this! I was looking through some photos I took last summer, and when I stumbled across this one I thought to myself, "gee, I wish I could take a nap there."

Hurts so well

2010-06-24T13:42:00.003-04:00

Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Another music video, and an old one at that.

I'm lazy. This is beautiful. Dogs bark.

Fly bird fly

2010-06-08T11:49:00.012-04:00

This is what I want to be when I grow up

...and by "grow up" I mean, "die and become reincarnated as someone with mammoth musical talent, or at least a basic sense of rhythm."

(eh, details.)

I have to say, even my beloved Bert (aka Dick Van Dyke's character in Mary Poppins) has nothing on this one-woman band.

One friendly joint

2010-06-04T13:26:00.008-04:00

From now on, whenever my parents ask me something to the extent of, "well, do you have even a plan?" or my teacher assigns a paper that I just don't feel like writing, I'll say, "Why, of course. I'll email that to you right away."

And then I'll send them this link.

ALSO: Happy one year anniversary, blog! Stay... aimless?

Video for No One

2010-05-29T14:31:00.009-04:00

I'm trying to do all my procrastinatory activities before my summer classes start up, pretending I can "get them out of my system" and hit the ground diligent. Make-believe is fun.

Clips from the past two years of my iMovie life, set to "Song for No One" by Miike Snow.
(Yeah, I'm sooo trindie.)

For my fellow "deeks" (dumb geeks): This was made on iMovie'09 using clips from my flip video and built-in laptop camera.

Everybody plays the fool; only some have fun with the role

2010-05-11T00:26:00.055-04:00

About a month ago, I exchanged messages with a friend who recently went through a very difficult break-up and as a result was trying to "keep a low facebook profile." (Yes, I envied the wordplay.)

Ah, facebook. You are my b-tch lover. I feel like one look at my profile reads like a telegram describing play-by-play my lack of a real life:

M wrote on Herbert's wall. Herbert wrote back two hours later. M responded within a minute. Herbert never responded. M photoshopped herself into a picture from a social event she did not attend. M quoted Arrested Development in her status again...how original. M is lonely; she posts a picture of her best friend. Someone likes the picture M just posted of her dog. (I could go on, but self-deprecation quickly transitions from "mildly humorous" to "overwhelmingly depressing.")

I don't take myself seriously on facebook. My name is altered, my profile picture often involves tasteless photoshopping, and I refuse to be in a legitimate facebook relationship. There are a couple of contributing factors for this last detail, but one sure component comes with a story. If you're not in the mood for yet another trip down memory lane, I guess this is goodbye. If you're sticking around, pull up a chair.

Back when I was a freshman in college, I made my high school boyfriend break up with me on Christmas Eve. Odd phrasing? Let me break it down in an annoyingly colloquial fashion:

(cue Wayne's World time-travel music and finger motions)

I called up the soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend and was all,
"Why are you being such a b-tch?"

and he was all,
"I don't think we should have this conversation tonight. Merry Christmas, we'll talk later."

To which I said,
"F that, b-tch! We're having this conversation riiiight NOW."

And then he was like,
"[more refusing to my prodding]...I want to break up,"

prompting my,
"I can't believe you're breaking up with me on Christmas eve--of all nights!--What kind of b-tch would do such a thing?!?"

and then I imagine he rolled his eyes and I whimpered into the phone
"I'm cancelling our relationship on facebook."

...And as I clicked "cancel" and hung up the phone, I remember thinking to myself, well, that was probably one of the lamest things I could've said to end the conversation.
But so it went, bygones, etc.

The next day I posted a picture of a nun-like latin teacher from my high school as my facebook photo and the rest, as they say, is history (well, unless you empty your cache.)

The thing is, I don't think my spiral into unbridled goofdom is confined to facebook. And that gives me mixed feelings.

On the one hand, I feel like I should be growing up and becoming more serious and professional (can you tell I had a reunion this past weekend?)

On the other hand, I don't want to fight the goof. It's who I am.

And you know what? Goofy makes me happy. It makes me laugh, as do farts, put-on nasal voices (an Angela specialty), and this memory I have from Raleigh's 13th birthday party at six flags:

While waiting for my friends to return from their roller coaster ride (whimp, I know) I noticed that I'd been hearing this repetitive thumping noise for the past couple of minutes. I located the source of the noise as soon as I turned around and faced the house of mirrors.

Thump...thump...thump.

I stood mesmerized as kid after kid ran towards (and then into) what they thought was the maze's end, but was actually just a well-cleaned window. (My apologies for that awkward sentence. I'm too lazy to clean it up.)(Yes, Dad. Like my room.) Bottom line: kids kept running into the wall because they thought it was the exit.

Oh it was magical...but mean of me.

...BUT you should've seen them charge! They thought they had it dooown...and then they went dooown. In my defense, it's not like I could've warned them; they wouldn't have been able to hear me (also, it's hard to gesture when you're buckled over and hardly breathing).

But no, not nice. Bad me. My faux-ly grown-up self acknowledges that. Shame on me for laughing.

Sorry to all those children for cackling at them as they stumbled back into the maze, their foreheads and egos both freshly bruised.

Sorry I'm laughing as I type this.

But here's the thing:

Despite their bruises, I rest on the fact that those kids probably bounced back, found their way out, and--after a little time had passed--embraced the memory and could laugh about it.

Lames and Gains

2010-05-06T16:35:00.006-04:00

Is it obvious I'm avoiding my term projects?

Did I mention this is the ~~fifth~~ sixth version I've made?

I've spared you the Snoop Dogg, Chubby Checker, Smashmouth, Rooney, and "Good time to bowl on" (oh, the worplay) editions. I'm merciful. You're welcome.

Wish me an attention span!

Pleasure and Guilt, Food and Poop, and (as always) Television

2010-04-14T14:47:00.014-04:00

[witty intro]

...Hello. I’m here today to crankily type about a little something known as “guilty pleasures.” For the record, I do not have any issues with the term itself. (The same cannot be said for terms like “make love,” “man-whore”— oh, the sexism— and “irregardless.”)

In fact, I love the idea of guilty pleasures. I’m even mother to quite a few. I think they’re a great way to get to know someone, because true-to-the-definition guilty pleasures are very similar to secrets. But so many (dare I say, majority?) of the guilty pleasures I hear of today are NOT true to the definition, and this is where the problem starts.

When magazines ask celebrities about guilty pleasures, or someone announces one in a public “place” (i.e. a locale in the real world or a status update online) I’ve learned to hold my breath and anticipate either a back-door brag or just a pleasure.

Sure, the pleasure might be a little nerdy, but if I had a nickel for every pair of Buddy Holly glasses I’ve watched ironically shuffle by me over the past year, I would spend the lump sum on a billboard reading,

“I get it: Cool = 'I’m nerdier/less-mainstream than you.' ”

Odd how no one ever seems to mistakenly label pleasure-less “guilts” as “guilty pleasures.” Maybe the conversion from adjective to noun tips them off that they’re missing something?

But enough ranting (at least in paragraph form). It's time to take this issue to the graphs. Let's start off with a celebrity example.

"My best guilty pleasure is watching old sitcoms and eating grilled cheese and tomato soup in bed."-Padma Lakshmi

Padma, I think you're great. Love your show, yadda yadda yadda, but that's not a guilty pleasure. That's a Wednesday night.

You see, it's like this:

Need another comparison?

Let me break it down using one of my favorite topics, television:

dig?

...And yeah, that's pretty much all I've got right now. I might be back.

Wow, today is not my day for segues.

Bye?

"kan ye" blame me?

2010-04-12T15:23:00.021-04:00

Sometimes I fear that this blog will…become yet another item on my list of abandoned half-assed projects left to rest in pieces? Is that what you were thinking I was going to type? Yeah, well, you AND the¼ finished “make your own daffy duck rug” that sits in a closet/basement somewhere in this house. Haha, just kidding. We threw out that box of yarn aaaages ago. Also, fun fact: rugs—even unfinished ones—can’t have thoughts or opinions. (Can they?)

But, no, that’s not what I fear. That’s what I expect. (see March 2010, posts zero-zero) In fact, the thought of that not happening is shocking. Let’s stop thinking about it. Visualizing prolonged productivity wears this lady out.

What I do fear is that this blog will eventually become a collection of artifacts marking my lack of a social life and slightly-more-than-habitual crankiness. Not to mention my comma insecurities and unbridled love of stringing words together with hyphens. (Ah, vices. Cigarettes just seemed a little too cliché and a lot too risky for my asthmatic self. So naturally, I took the next best thing, punctuation marks.)

But back to the crankiness. On harlanguage (and please get ready for an overstretched “Yanawamsayin? No?” analogy) I feel like I’m Kanye West during the Katrina telethon except there’s no camera cut away and so Mike Myers just has to stand there looking constipated until I decide to stop talking.

Well, that's the case as far as my point of view goes. I realize most people just navigate to other pages like facebook, or that asian porn website that’s all the rage in my comments section. Seriously, check it out. (That's a link to the comments, not the website. Oh, and to the commenter, while your website isn’t really my bag, I appreciate the warm wishes—thank you, online translator—and reciprocate the sentiment. Thanks for being my most supportive follower!)

But here, I can be like, “George Bush doesn’t care about black people…and heeerrree’s whhhyyy…” and then I pull out a scroll and start talking about the super dome and end two days later with some tangent about golf.

...Yanawamsayin? No?

Well, that’s okay. The important thing is I feel like I’ve atoned (by merely acknowledging my flaws and making no promises to change).

So on that note, I’ma let this finish and start on my next post.

The writing is on the wall (and the author used a red pen)

2010-04-12T14:06:00.008-04:00

I just spent a lovely weekend in Syracuse celebrating the union of Mo and Tyson in holy matrimony. Holy smokes, did we have fun! You might even say we painted the town red. However, while we're on the topic of paint shades, I must admit that the festivities were tainted by a heated (yes, as in flames) debate. Oh, politics. The red-hot issue has yet to be resolved so I've decided to take it to the masses (ha! "masses") and ask for your opinion.

Please be honest, and even-more-please, don't be stupid. The truth is out there, and it is obvious.

Online Surveys & Market Research

Hey Paolo!

2010-02-11T11:45:00.017-05:00

(And yes, the title is a play on Paula Abdul's failarious reality show "Hey Paula!")

The first time I heard Paolo Nutini, I was driving home on a sweaty evening in the summer of 2007. When his song "Last Request" came through my speakers, I had to turn the AC up to full blast. Lost in his raspy croon, I thought to myself, "Woo-whee. Now that sounds like a NYOILF*."

*NYOILF = A ninety year-old I'd like to...friend on facebook.
(Hi, Mom.)

Imagine my surprise when I found out the lad is only half a year older than I am.

While Paolo's faster, upbeat tunes are fun ("Pencil Full of Lead" has a Louis Prima vibe that gets me all nostalgic) I'm partial to the songs of his that heed the instructional opening lyrics that originally got me hooked on the soulful scot.

Slow Down,

Lie Down,
Remember it's just you and me

Yes, Yes, Yes, sir.

This song, "No Other Way," from his most recent album, Sunny Side Up, is a new favorite of mine.

That young old sound just gets me swaying.

(Some swooning might also occur.)

What I do know

2010-02-07T11:28:00.003-05:00

This song could kill me.
But really. I figuratively die. Figuratively.

On Angela: It started out Crumby and then turned to mush

2010-02-05T15:37:00.046-05:00

So that last post touched on some of my feeeeelings about my peers, as it’s a topic that’s been on my mind lately. I’m almost a year out of college, no longer surrounded by hundreds of people my own age. (Dad, you’re still the coolest, of course.) This shift in company makes me think about the people I miss, and then (for the sake of acting eighty) I begin to reminisce, which reminds me just why I miss them so much.

One of my little goals for this (and maybe next) month is to write about people who are close/important to me. Since I’ve already written about my dog, my sister, and my dad, it’s time for me to do a little branching out.

I’ve been thinking about my friend Angela a lot this week. I started to call her on the afternoon of my stomach-bug incident because I knew that hearing her voice while I waited at the bus-stop would give me something to laugh about as I trundled off to my first class. Unfortunately, mid-dial I saw my phone’s battery flashing a suicide warning and I had to forgo my pre-school (ha?) pick-me-up.

But in case anyone is reading this (ha? Hi, Grover) and doesn’t know Angela, I’ll try my best to describe her.

How do I go about this? I guess I’ll aim for chronologically.

Because she was a grade behind me, our friendship in high school was somewhat distanced. We were in some of the same classes and I’d hang out with her before play/track practice, but we each had our own group of friends from our respective grades.

However, one thing I’ve always been able to appreciate about Angie is her uncanny ability to escort me from crying to laughing, no matter what the situation.

When my dog died sophomore year of high school, unlike the back pats and sympathetic hugs my other friends gave me, Angela’s condolences (and I use that term loosely) took the form of disbelief:

“No it did not. You don’t even have a dog. You’re such a liar.”

…before transitioning to full-on mockery:

“Woof…Woof!” (Yes. She barked at me.)

…after which point I got in trouble for “distracting Angela during class.” (To be fair, I don’t think she believed me when we started the conversation, and it was the first time I had laughed all day.)

Although we rarely talked on the phone during high school, whenever I felt homesick or sad during my freshman year of college I found myself calling Angie.

Everything Angela sees and every person she knows becomes fifty times funnier when she tells you about it/him/her. I really don’t know how she does it, and her humor is impossible to replicate exactly. It’s not a matter of embellishment or mockery. She just has this knack of picking out random quirks that everyone half-notices and finding the words/facial expression/voice to make them all the more hilarious. It’s like she’s full of inside jokes that anyone can join in on.
(Wow. I ended that sentence with not one, but TWO prepositions. Squirm, nerds, squirm.)

But Angela, as passionate and diligent as she is funny, is yet another friend of mine headed off in the direction of medical school.Unfortunately, following her there is not an option.

If nothing else, taking Chemistry 101 my freshman year of college meant that my fingers, soiled with wiped-away tears and "stress crumbs," pounded out weekly “YOU STILL HAVE TO LOVE ME IF WHEN I FAIL” emails to my parents. So I don't think those same hands really belong in an operating room.

I guess my plea to Angela is not “take me with you” so much as it is “don’t go.” I’m selfish. Don’t feign surprise. I’ve told my friend, the Social Hermit, countless times that I am so jealous he got to spend three of his four years at college with Angela. But I had--what, seven?--years with her before that. I’m greedy. (Again, no fake gasps are in order.)

I know if Angela were in these grad school classes with me, she’d bring out sides of my classmates I would have never known to appreciate otherwise.

“This is why it’s funny."
"This is why it’s fun."
"This is why he’s a good person.”

She notices and enhances the positive without being cheesy or preachy. Something I feel like I’m failing to do right now.

I guess I’m just trying to “Angelyze” (oh hey, you like my new word?) Angela. With Angie there will always be more to say, in more ways than one: more humor for her to illuminate, and more things to say about her. But for now, this is the best I can do.

Angie, this is why you’re funny.
This is why I call you.
This is why you’re so adored.

(Yes, I shamelessly photoshopped myself into this picture.)

Eggzamining: Thoughts from the Nest

2010-02-04T18:20:00.026-05:00

(Cheesy title, I know. Please don't PUNch me.)

I recently started graduate school towards getting a degree in early childhood education. Out of all my "when I grow up" aspirations and interests, this stands out as the one with the most concrete career path (at least as far as the near-future is concerned.)

Like many other members of my age bracket, this (laughable degree of) commitment has created some inner anxiety and doubt for me.

Am I signing my life away? Sure, it's only four classes now, but that will spiral into a degree, which will spiral into a job, which could spiral into a life of wondering "what-if?"

To sum up that last sentence, I am already pessimistically viewing fortunes (that I have yet to earn) as misfortunes.

Degree, job, lifetime: One, two, three.

I'm counting (on shaking, nail-bitten fingers) three chicks that have years--some, even decades--to hatch.

Why am I worried? Well, specific to the egg-hatching-chick metaphor, it might have to do with the fact that the only experience I've had with hatching eggs is a gruesome and morbid one.

Our second grade class had an egg-shaped incubator (unlike the normal, rectangular incubators of other classrooms) and as a result, only one of our ten eggs hatched, and the winged creature that cracked its beak through the lone shell of hope emerged with its intestines on the outside of its body.

After hobbling around a sawdust-lined cardboard box for a couple of days, "Pinky" (no, we didn't really name it that -- we were too horrified/young for dark humor) died as peacefully as a chick of its circumstance could die.

But enough about chicks. Well, except for this one. (Yeah, I called myself a chick. A little confidence never hurt anyone.)

In terms of my metaphor-free fears, I guess I'm just worried that I'll settle into a less-than-perfect fit. This is the part when my mom chimes in with something like don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good (a motto that I've abused for most of my life) or you won't know until you try, or something else that I'm not wise enough to predict. And imaginary mom is right. (UPDATE: My dad felt left out of this part. So to satisfy him, I think his words of wisdom would probably be something along the lines of well, you've got to do something--and loitering on facebook doesn't count. )

I guess some of my anxiety comes from the fact that I don't know how much I have in common with my peers right now. Kids, I can totally relate to. They're messy, they've yet to understand certain social conventions, and they half-wish they could still wear diapers. Hello, peers.

However, a fair portion of future early childhood teachers, I believe, are of a gentler breed than my own. This is not an insult, just an observation. All of my of my classmates are women, about 30% of whom wear pink or matching patterns and love cats. Again, no problem with that, just pointing out some similarities and differences (female-ness and cat-personhood, respectively.) Note to cat lovers: I'm not a hater, I just wheeze a lot. (Seriously allergic.)

However, this Tuesday in the middle of my last class I -- the self-declared Toughy McTougherson of the room -- found myself doubled-over with stomach pain as I listened to my teacher talk about the importance of morning meetings. By the time she brought out the "touch and feel" box, I was in my full "bend and weep" position.

By the grace of craft projects, teacher lady announced we'd have a brief break so that she could hand out teddy bear cut-outs for us to decorate. During this time everyone at my table asked me in some way or another whether I was going to pass out. I got a lot of you look really pale and one is it a blood sugar problem?

A woman from another table actually came over to tell me that I did not look good and I should go home. I've had vaintasies of an opposite encounter involving a modeling agent, but that dream died by puberty anyway, so I wasn't discouraged and took what she gave me as enough reason to bolt. And bolt I did, my every footstep echoing "whimp, whimp, whimp" as I shuffled out of the classroom.

The stomach pains and whimpering lasted all night, although the former was more continuous than the latter. From time to time I'd stop my crying, embarrassed by the sound of my own self-pity, and imagine the multitudes of people in far worse pain than myself.

I thought about the people Hayley sees on a day-to-day basis in Malawi, and my embarrassment turned to shame. But then another wave of nausea crashed, and I justified my tears. As the undulating pain began to soften again, I went back to reminding myself of my comparatively cushy situation.

I thought of how much more painful it would be to give birth than to face my situation. My stomach bug was nothing compared to appendicitis, or dysentery, or something really awful, like living with my intestines on the outside of my body. This last thought, of course, invited back the nausea, and so I stopped guilt-tripping myself because the ride was making me woozy.

Once more I was plaguing myself with "what if?" and, yet again, it wasn't helping anyone. So I abandoned my negative thoughts and drifted off into a light sleep.

Safe and warm under my parents' roof, I dreamt of a day when I have the strength to break the eggshell above my head, count the chicks that I've made for myself, and feel genuinely proud of them, external intestines and all.

In the evening, when the day is through

2010-01-24T13:40:00.048-05:00

Some of my favorite songs are the ones that make me feel simultaneously happy and sad. Something about the contrast between the two emotions makes me appreciate the muddled happiness of bittersweetness more than that of pure contentment, because I'm reminded that happiness is an unstable luxury, something to be savored.

Chet Baker's performance of Time After Time,
an ode of grateful devotion set to a melancholy tune, captures this sort of perfect imperfection.

It's beautifully tarnished, like a tooth missing from a handsome face,
or a virtuoso hampered by life-long addiction.

Photochop

2010-01-22T14:12:00.041-05:00

January has been bad in terms of my posts. Ah knoooow, y'all. Special apologies to Hayley in Malawi, whose blog updates have brought me many smiles and laughs: I am sorry I have not been adequately contributing new lame thoughts for you to read.

So, many many months ago, I created a Christmas list. On this list sat one sole item, bolded, italicized, underlined, hyperlinked to itself -- you name it: Adobe Photoshop.

My parents, being the kind and generous people that they are, granted my Christmas wish, and I am forever grateful. My creepations have increased infinifold in their realism and number. (Full disclosure: it's Photoshop Elements. I'm not complaining--beggars and choosers, as they say--just informing.)

I've gone from crass creations:

To masterful compositions:

But the thing about Photoshop, this gift that keeps on giving, is that it makes me realize just how greatly and convincingly photos are altered when they are airbrushed. Now, I know this is not a novel thought, but playing around with the liquidation filter, especially when I use pictures of myself, stirs up a lot of mixed emotions. Maybe emotions is too strong a word. Feelings. (Now I want to sing that Sesame Street song. No, staying focused.)

On the one hand, it's great for those photos that you would've loved if only your hair weren't in your face/you didn't have that pimple/you had remembered to suck in your stomach. With Photoshop, click-click, you love the photo. But part of me has to wonder whether it's the photo that I love, or just the click-clicked me. With enough money and low self esteem, who's to say I wouldn't try to snip-snip or tuck-tuck my way to click-click? (Enough sounds-sounds? Got it.)

Also, what does this say about the integrity of photographic evidence? I've seen many a troll commenting on sites like FMyLife.com with the line "pics or it didn't happen." Well, dear troll, you give me an afternoon with my laptop and I'll show you pics, though it never happened.

This is not to imply that FML is comparable to a court of law. I'm still pretty new to Photoshop, but what if someone enhances the pictured damages done to their car/body after they've been repaired/healed? Is there a way to prove that the pixels have been rearranged? I don't know, maybe there is. Just wondering.

But, going back to the standard-of-beauty issue that airbrushing presents, clearly it is not always obvious to the average consumer just how many (and to what extent) images have been digitally retouched. It is for this reason that Valérie Boyer wants all advertisement photos that are digitally altered to be published with a label indicating that they have been retouched.

I don't feel too strongly one way or the other on requiring a label, because I already assume that most advertisements are airbrushed. What I would really like to see is just less (or less extreme) airbrushing. It's no coincidence that airbrushing and plastic surgery are both much more common practices than they used to be.

Blasphemy: In a matter of minutes, I've "touched-up" the untouchable.

For me, many of those flawless magazine pictures look more like illustrations than they do photos. It's as though the models are characters from a pixar movie: they're nice to look at, and they definitely resemble humans, but they wouldn't translate naturally to real life.

After all, when a standard of beauty is something that a computer has created, meeting that standard is something only a surgeon can produce.

In this case, some ideals are better left on paper.

Harlanguazon.com says,
If you liked this post, you might also enjoy:
http://www.Photoshopdisasters.blogspot.com
http://www.dearphotoshopgirl.blogspot.com

This Is Just To Say

2010-01-10T11:47:00.003-05:00

I am eating

your chips

that were in

the green bag

and which

you bought probably

to eat

after school

Forgive me

though not hungover

I need

some good grease

Sorry, Caroline.

And now a message that came to me via telegram...

2009-12-28T18:29:00.007-05:00

Boy or girl, I don't care, I'm naming my first born

"Patsy Cline."

...methinks the second born shall be called "Carol Channing."

I've found my calling...it paged me on my beeper.

2009-12-28T17:14:00.001-05:00

Dear World,

I've just discovered that my destiny dream job is writing captions for the dating reality show "Blind Date." Please send any show connections/networking opportunities/time portals to the 1990s my way.

Love,
Me

My Mother, the Buzz Kill

2009-12-20T09:07:00.015-05:00

(starring a young Katherine Heigl)

Sometimes when I find something funny or I'm very happy about something (read: there's a big smile on my face) and I tell it to my mom, she interrupts me mid-topic-sentence and says, "wear your retainers!" and shakes her finger at me. She really does shake her finger; I'm not making that part up.

Suddenly, I'm not so tickled to tell my story anymore.

BEFORE

AFTER

The biggest downer is that I know she's right. Those retainers kill me.

So, what have we learned from this?

Mother knows best.

It takes pains to be comely.

Two clichés in one post. And they say I'm not productive.

Golden Memories and Platinum Prophecies

2009-12-18T14:48:00.017-05:00

As a member of the lower school community service club, I spent my Friday lunch periods in seventh and eighth grade socializing with the residents of Mount Pleasant, a nursing home located five minutes from my school.

Despite the frequency of my visits, breaking the ice was always nerve-racking for me. Conversation was a gamble. I never knew whether the people at my table would even want to talk, and during conversations I feared I’d stumble into an awkward or painful subject.

During one memorable visit, I greeted the woman to my left by asking her whether she was enjoying the nice spring weather we'd been having.

Without lifting her eyes from the untouched fish in front of her, she sighed and said,

“I’m just waiting for the day they tell me I can leave this place.”

Still optimistic, I tried to rebound by asking her what her favorite season was.

This question prompted the woman to look up from her plate and stare at me, perhaps to verify that she was not speaking to a four-year-old. The look she gave me indicated that now she was waiting for someone to tell her that at least I would leave soon.

Slightly discouraged, I turned to the man on my right and asked him whether he was enjoying his lunch. The topic seemed safe enough, considering he was licking some stray breadcrumbs stuck to the back of his fork.

“I remember you,” he said with a smile.

“You’re Jewish. We talked a couple of weeks ago.”

This was the first time someone at Mount Pleasant remembered me, or at least thought they did, and I didn't want to contradict him.

After all, I was an eighth grader whose social life was experienced vicariously through the characters of TGIF sitcoms. The idea of getting to be someone else, even if only through the eyes of a bald octogenarian, had its appeal. So I murmured an "uh huh," and made sure that my gold cross necklace was tucked underneath my shirt.

When asked, I told him honestly that no, I had not had my bat mitzvah yet. I felt guilty that he was making such an effort to remember things about the girl he thought I was, so I shifted the focus of the conversation onto him.

Soon, he was telling me about how different life was when he was growing up. Some of his friends had faced a lot of discrimination.

"One man was a Jew, such as yourself.”

He leaned in as he said this and gestured toward me with his open palm.

"Yes, jewish..." I dopily replied, bobbing my head.

However, he went on to tell me, his true passion was dancing. Deep wrinkles formed in his cheeks as he asked me whether I knew who Ann Miller was. Not wanting to disappoint him, I told him that her name sounded familiar.

“I danced with her,” he told me proudly.

Once I had learned a little more about Ann Miller, I was able to appreciate the significance of that man's treasured memory.
Dancing was what he loved most, and he was able to do it with one of the best dancers of his time.

My own life isn't devoid of celebrity encounters: I've shaken hands with Jimmy Carter. My friend's aunt was a bond girl. Heck, once I hung out with two kids from ZOOM.

I've flaunted all of these encounters before, but I aspire to have my own "Ann Miller" experience, something I'll still be bragging about sixty years from now.

I can picture myself as an eighty-two year-old somewhere like "Space Mount Pleasant," talking to a nice catholic boy who visits me weekly. I'll admire his yamaka as I ask him if he's ever heard of William Hung. He'll lie and tell me that he thinks the name rings a bell, and I'll boast that we once sang a karaoke duet together.

Then, drifting away from reality, I'll smugly reflect on my proudest memories. Lost in my thoughts, I'll lift my glass of prune juice and say with sincerest gratitude,

"L'Chaim."

The Tracks of My Years

2009-12-12T16:00:00.021-05:00

One of my family's favorite home videos is of me when I was about three years old. The video starts out just like many others with my father, the interviewer, asking me what I had done that day. I wobble in front of the camera, scratching the underside of my chin with the back of my hand as I contemplate his question.

"Iiiyuhh…"

I look up to the ceiling, find my answer, and gaze back into the camera.

"…peed in my underpants."

My blank stare tells him I'm ready for the next question. My father delves deeper into the topic, posing his second question, and I nail the answer: peeing in my underpants was "a bad thing."

I then open up about the rest of my day, revealing that subsequent events included wanting to play "Candy Land," playing ball, napping, "having another accident," and finally participating in the interview at hand.

In case you missed it, I'll recap: by three o'clock in the afternoon, I had already peed in my pants twice.

To me it had been just another day in my (supposedly) potty-trained life. To my parents, however, it was cause for concern, or at least further investigation.

First we went to the pediatrician, whose only suggestion that I can remember was that I try going to the bathroom backwards. This helped start a day-long trend among my fellow preschoolers who, thanks to our door-less bathrooms, were inspired by my backwards squat and decided to adopt my experimental peeing pose.

Although I may have gained cool points for my bathroom creativity, I gained nothing in terms of bladder control, and the next step was to have my kidneys tested.

The kidney scan was my first hospital experience since birth. I lay down while a machine with a ninja turtle sticker on it moved above my body, and then I peed when instructed to do so. Afterwards, I got pizza. The result of the scan showed that nothing was wrong with my kidneys, I just didn't like using the bathroom.

What finally got me off accidents and onto the toilet was the looming threat that if I didn’t improve, I’d have to wear diapers.

My parents had told me about these "cool underpants" I could wear while I slept so that I wouldn’t make a mess if I accidentally wet the bed. Excited, I had imagined an undergarment made out of bathing-cap material. Instead, I woke up and found that I was wearing a pair of Huggies “Pull-Ups” training pants. Talk about a horrifying wake-up call.

I’m still just as candid today about my past of peeing in my pants as I was in that home video. My friends tell me that I should consider being less open about that part of my childhood, but I don't see their reasoning.

“What?” I say, “It’s not like I had to wear diapers.”

Fun with Family: A Touchy Topic

2009-12-12T13:45:00.010-05:00

Happy December, Blog!

Oh gosh. I feel like I have some ‘splaining to do because I’ve been away for a bit of a while. But, as someone once said, “excuses are like [mom won't let me type this part]: everyone’s got one and they all stink.”

So ta-dah. No excuses here. I lazy. I so lazy, verbs not typed. (“typed” is a passive past participle. Did I have to specify that I meant action verbs? Damn you, grammar nerdzis….)

So, let’s catch-up. A lot has happened since last post. Several days, one holiday (two if you count Eid), and at least two family gatherings. Most notably, I’ve become a game inventor.

The idea came to me on Thanksgiving day, post meal. My family and I were all crowded into our family room, which was awkward, because normal post-feast protocol is that the grown-ups (my parents, my great uncle and his girlfriend, my dad’s cousin and his wife) go into the living room and do whatever it is middle aged people do (drink? sleep? break dance?) and we kids (my three siblings and three second-cousins) hang out in the family room, where we watch silly television and laugh at how Caroline and Brian fall asleep after two minutes. (Whew, run-on sentence. How do you like me now, nerds?)

Back to this year. Something in my dad’s brain must have short-circuited because he led the adults into the family room to (literally) rub elbows with we childrenfolk. Both my brother and I subtly and politely tried to alert him of his faux pas, Excuse me, old man, are you lost? but he brushed off our hints, mumbling something about letting old people lie.

Regardless of their additional company, Caroline and Brian quickly fell into their ritual stupors. With football as the only source of TV “entertainment,” I soon shifted my focus from the television to the most interesting spectacle in the room: my sleeping sister. What a monumental shift that turned out to be. One glance at Caroline, and I found myself eyes-to-nostrils with an opportunity to unleash my creative genius.

I’m no artist. I want to show you what I saw, but my passion and desire to share my gift with the world are the only things (note lack of artistic training) that guided my hand as I attempted to recreate the blank canvas that lay before me.

Don't be scared. It's just a drawing.

I called my vision "CGGenga" (pronounced C-G-Jenga) as an homage to both my subject and the classic family game "Jenga."

My siblings and I started the first round, taking turns touching Caroline's nostril. If someone woke her up, all players would exclaim "Jenga!" and the offending toucher would be declared the loser of that round.

After the popularity of the preliminary rounds, cousins Olivia and Matt soon joined in on the fun, and my Great Uncle's 80-something-year-old girlfriend, Elaine, thought the game was a laugh riot. (Ah, Elaine. I knew I liked her.)

Unfortunately, Caroline didn't "get" the brilliance we had created, and deemed the game "disrespectful." Because of her pivotal role in the game, her disapproval has put any future rounds on hold. I've offered her a 20% cut of the profits, but she remains obstinate.

I'll get her one day, though.

Right now she is a sturdy tower, but I have the patience and strategy to win her over. I am Joshua, and she is my Jericho. Brick by brick, I shall work on her resistance, dreaming of the day when her walls shall come tumbling down, and my army and I shall exclaim triumphantly, "Jenga!"

It's the Most Wonderful Time for Some Tears

2009-11-20T13:38:00.004-05:00

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?

2009-11-19T23:04:00.006-05:00

"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

2009-11-17T17:14:00.014-05:00

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

2009-11-17T15:32:00.004-05:00

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

High School TicTactics

2009-11-17T09:33:00.013-05:00

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

2009-11-13T08:49:00.012-05:00

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.

2009-11-12T14:54:00.041-05:00

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.

Do you go to the cat scratch club?

2009-10-28T16:05:00.005-04:00

I had to share this.

Oh, [I'm a] Dream Maker, You...

2009-10-27T21:57:00.001-04:00

...Heartbreakers of my childhood got me thinking.

Maybe I can use my love of shoddily editing myself into photos (a love that I've actually kept hidden from this blog until now) to make some of my older sister's childhood dream (boats) come true. Yes. How productively unproductive.

You're welcome, Caroline.

Also, I had to fulfill one of my own dreams too.

Because Sex doesn't sell, Embarrassing does.

2009-10-27T21:43:00.017-04:00

For many years now, I have classified certain instances as "butt clench moments" regardless of whether or not my partner(s) in conversation are familiar with my coined classification. Right now, I'm feeling considerate (or is that listlessness? eh.) so I'll be more thoughtful than usual and take the time to clarify.

butt clench moment, n. /bʌt klɛntʃ ˈmoʊmənt/
1. Occurrence when a person is embarrassed, either vicariously and/or personally, to the extent that he or she cringes so much that his or her butt clenches. (Toes might also curl, but not a requirement.)
Etymology: 2000, MHG coined the term to describe the way she felt when the boy cast as Joseph in that year's Christmas pageant started crying on stage after a failed attempt to warble his solo.

Now that we're all the wiser, I'd like to share the source of some of my personal BCMs.
A list of my celebrity crushes throughout the years after the jump.

Age 3-4: Rolfe from The Sound of Music. (I had yet to understand the whole he-becomes-a-Nazi thing.)

Age 4-5: Michael from Barney & Friends. I love you, you love me. Let's make a happy family.

Age 4-5: The tin man. If he only had a heart.

Age 5: Pizza delivery guy from Home Alone. I kid you not.

Age 6-22: Zack Morris. He sent my heartbeat to the Max.

Age 7-9: Clark Kent/Superman. I think this is when I left my blond stage.

Age 9-11: Theo Huxtable. Theodorable.

Age 12-14: Pacey Witter. I try to comment, you know, maybe a play on the word "creek"... but then I just start drooling.

Age 15-22: Matt Damon. Hot Dayum...on.

Age 15-18: Chris O'Donnell. O'DoMe.

Age 15-16: Hayden Christensen in the second half of Life As a House.

Age 16-18: Clark Kent/Superman. He looks like an ugly swanling in this photo but I had to use it for the sake of parallelism.

Age 17-19: Ryan Gosling...and okay, I'm ashamed to admit it...Noah Calhoun. ("It wasn't over. It still isn't over.")

Age 18-22: James Franco. I would totally pick Harry over Spiderman (evil dad and all.)

Age 21-22: Caleb Followill. Lead me to the true love way.

Age 22: Jason Bateman. Oh, I'll bite.

Autumn in New [England] (Brief Followup)

2009-10-27T00:58:00.003-04:00

Mistakes were made.

There was a spill.

The candle threw up.

poor thing.

Autumn in New [England]

2009-10-26T22:27:00.021-04:00

Yesterday and today I took afternoon walks ("constitutionals," as the old folks say these days) on the minuteman bike path that reopened my eyes to the beauty that is fall in New England. This isn't to say that I'm just one wood cabin away from writing Walden: The Sequel. Not at all. I still love you, television. But really, Autumn. It's never been my favorite season for reasons I can't justify. Something about this time of year has always put me in a funk. My dad says it might have something to do with a discordance between the lunar and solar calendars. Any explanation past that is over my head. (Actually, that explanation is already over my head.)

Funkiness aside, the beauty of the season is undeniable. Even the name, Autumn. It's like butterscotch. And I love how the stress shifts from the first syllable to the second when the noun becomes an adjective. Autumn to autumnal. Although, I feel like Will Ferrel in his "loovvaaas" character would say, "autumn" to refer to the season.

In case you are not familiar:

Here sit the lovvaas in the hottub

Something about the imminent cold and blusteries outside seems to awaken my inner warm and fuzzies. I want to spend a day in Concord or go reaal crazy and hike out to Salem for a scare or kiss Plymouth Rock (oh, wait. I was thinking of the Blarney Stone. Common Mistake.) Maybe I'll even take a weekend trip to Sturbridge Village. Okay, no I probably won't. But maybe I'll talk about it as a possibility if someone asks me what my weekend plans are.

The advent of Halloween makes me want to go somewhere where I can pretend that the times we're living in aren't nuclear or digital, they're colonial. (So types the girl on her laptop as she microwaves a bag of popcorn.)

Unfortunately, I think this sudden seasonal enthusiasm and desire for simpler times seeped into my baking this evening. I lit a "pumpkin spice" candle and decided I was going to make pumpkin sugar cookies from scratch. "I'll just eye it, like I did in highschool," I said foolishly.

Whoever said that baking is a science might be right. Whoever said that eggs are a necessary ingredient in cookies is definitely correct. Whoops. The cookies were on minute 4 of 15 when I had my epiphany. I was about to warn my sister about eating the raw left over dough because of the salmonella and then I realized, warning not necessary. Whoops. The result was like a crunchy, sugary, butter. (If you must know, I ate three.)

Like a rock.

Happy autumny'all. I don't care if that doesn't work.
(I'm too busy still trying to make "fetch" happen.)

It's Trippy (Memory Lane)

2009-10-24T02:52:00.086-04:00

Oh. Muh. Gaaah.
I can't describe how amazing I feel when I look at this picture.
It's like...sparkle meth.

This sensation isn't just visual. I take just one cuh-suh-ree glance and my mouth fills with the hint of a cherry-flavored plastic, like I'm trying once again to eat Caroline's Cherry Merry Muffin doll, or sucking on a "Nurse Barbie" prop lozenge. My olfactory memory whiffs back to birthday celebrations of yore, to those party supply stores and goody bags that smelled like smarties candy and conical cardboard hats.

WIZARD.

When I was a wee lass of four years, my two best friends (Mariah and Elizabeth) and I were obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. It was cooler than milk-water. We each had our own pair(s) of Ruby Red Slippers,* and discussed at length--well, as lengthily as our cavemannish vocabularies would allow--the perfect way to coiffe Dorothy pigtails. The verdict? Begin two side french braid pigtails, ending each right as you tuck under the ear lobe, then curl the free flowing 'tails into spirals. (You're welcome, lazy 'trix or tease'ers. Oh, and respect Dot, won't you please? Put a shirt underneath that gingham apron-dress-hybrid.)

*I know the original shoes were silver, but I think your average four-year-old girl would take Judy Garland's fashion advice over Frank Baum's. Ignore the fact that they're both dead, please.

During my very first sleepover, held chez Elizabeth, she and I decided to watch the Wizard of Oz. Well, I don't know if "decided" is the right word. It was more of a ritualistic act, a shared practice of a beloved and never-questioned Saturday night custom.

"Blessed be thou, O Wizard of Oz,

who gives us the yellow brick road."

...you know, that sort of thing.

As the movie started, we began to bicker about who got to wear her Dorthy shoes. Hellooo, I was the guest. (And, yeah, I had left mine at home--I know: iiiiiiiiidiot.) When our fighting took a turn for the nasty Elizabeth's mother had to intervene, and eventually we came to the agreement that we two gollum-itas would take turns wearing the preciouses.

Me or Elizabeth. (Okay, probably just me.)

So throughout the screening Elizabeth's mother would set the kitchen timer for 15 minute increments and we'd watch the movie, pausing every so often to pass the sweaty little slippers off to the other person. The arrangement seemed perfectly level-headed to me at the time, but I understand now why Elizabeth's mother looked like she was hiding a smirk.

LET ME TAKE YOU
DOWN

I think that part of the reason people enjoy drugs (specifically everyone's favorite leafy gateway) is because drugs make you stupider--stupider, like when you were young. When I was little and my brain was still developing, I would get lost in anything that sparkled or contained a wide array of colors. (Hence my smeaghoulish lust for ruby slippers.)

For example: I hated going to the dentist (I was such a unique little girl) but every year the dentist's office would send us this reminder postcard that had seven toothbrushes fanned out against a black background. Each toothbrush was a different color of the rainbow, and each toothbrush head had a perfect 'S' of toothpaste squirted on it whose shade matched the color of the given toothbrush exactly.
You follow? I'll try to illustrate.

+
SSSSSSS
Bah. This hardly compares to the original.

Oh my heavens, it was amazing. My parents would see me studying the postcard and say something to the extent of,

"Aha, Marg. Hyuk hyuk, You know what this means..."

Then they'd look down at me and promptly try to shake me out of my trance. Heck, they probably could have spanked my bare baby bottom and I wouldn't have noticed, provided they didn't break my gaze in the process.

When I finally did connect the dots between 'pretty postcard' and 'drill-in-mouth-is-gagging-me time,' I'd whimper and steep in my self-pity until the hypnotic missive worked its magic once more and soothed me back into a pseudo-psychedelic stupor.

...aand that's how kids got high off household objects
when I was growing up.

What Ever Happened?

2009-10-16T11:30:00.094-04:00

Maybe I'm just clinging to the past, but things seemed simpler then.

Stories didn't need sensationalism to be great.

Whose culture is this and does anybody know?

That's an ending that I can't write, 'cause I've got you to let me down.

Do you hear what I hear?

2009-10-09T15:06:00.055-04:00

said the shepherd Boy to the mighty King

'Teen buzz,' aka 'the mosquito ringtone,' is a high-pitched sound effect that teenagers can use on their cell phones to alert them of incoming calls and texts. Young ears are able to detect the ringtone while the high-frequency noise usually goes unnoticed by their adult teachers and parents. However, this is not the alarm's only purpose. In fact, it was originally used by a store in Britain to ward off teenage loiterers.

Over breakfast the other day, my father and I reminisced about a family dinner a couple years ago during which he had told us about the invention and played a clip (similar to the one above) that featured the sound. All the kids heard it right away. My mother, who is already hard of hearing, shook her head unsurprised: she heard nothing. My dad squinted his eyes and tried to tune in, to no avail.

The mosquito ringtone seems to me like a high-tech version of the bell from The Polar Express. As we shift from adolescence to adulthood, the peal weakens with each additional year, until one day we don't hear it at all.

Soon we are middle-aged and resentful of teenagers, who linger around like they have nothing better to do with their young healthy legs.

"Not on our watch," we spitefully say,
and turn up the volume, repelling the pubescent pests with a silent roar.

Then we watch the youths scatter away, pesky little reminders of our past-selves and the vitality that time continues to suck from our bodies.

Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?

2009-10-08T21:27:00.100-04:00

As this past summer wound down, my younger sister Lydia and I did some unwinding of our own. It was ugly. Our daily routines paralleled those of the housewives featured on Intervention. (Well, ours excluded the substance abuse, but only if you rule out Pirate’s Booty and television as abusable substances.)

I don’t know exactly what made my father snap. Maybe our body odor gave him headaches. Maybe he was offended by our brazen renunciation of his Tele-ban practices. Maybe old man was just jealous that we’d been spending most our time living in a languor paradise. He never even thanked us for the many gifts we left for him around the house (including but not limited to: sneakers, DVD cases, and string cheese wrappers).

Bottom line, he snapped. Unfortunately so did his logic. I guess we drove him to an unreasonable state of mind, because his chosen method for curtailing our free-spirited ways was to hold the car keys hostage.

I've often wondered how he arrived at this decision. Perhaps the thought came to him when he was holed-up in his sanctuary, a square home office approximately the size of two tollbooths. Comfortably surrounded by his political biographies and jazz records, he’d rub his hands together and imagine the fruits of his genius.

“They won’t be able to leave! Bwah! Those lazy daughters of Susan have probably forgotten how to walk! And then they’ll have to be productive, or else they’ll never earn their freedom!!!”

...then he would maniacally laugh. (That, or just go back to programming software.)

The next afternoon when Lydia and I came downstairs for breakfast, Dad watched with smug anticipation as we padded around the kitchen, his two little trolls scavenging for grub.

After a couple minutes, he realized he couldn't wait for us to notice the empty key rack on our own because, knowing us, that could’ve meant days, or whenever we ran out of cereal.

Just as Lydia and I began to settle into our regular couch positions, Dad cleared his throat to make an announcement. He started his speech, using pauses rather than volume for dramatic effect.

“Ugh. Get on with it, Lord Jim…”

“Tell me about it, sister. Booo.”

Lydia and I were using our secret eye-rolling code language to communicate with each other.

Soon, a familiar bark interrupted our exchange.

“Hey! Did you girls hear what I said?”

We looked up and he repeated himself.

"I've taken away the car keys."

* * *

Mere days before this lecture, I had seen the movie 500 Days of Summer. In one of the scenes, the ideal and the real unfold simultaneously on a split-screen. On the left half of the screen we see how the protagonist had imagined a party was going to go, and cringe as it increasingly veers from the night’s actual course of events on the right.

I believe my father had a similar experience when he delivered that lecture. To illustrate:

However, [500 Days of Summer split screen + my dad's backfired plan] does not merit the conclusion that all planning or optimism leads to inevitable disappointment. In fact, I know I could greatly benefit by having more of both in my daily life.

Sometimes I let plans scare me because I think that I'm committing to an exit-less path, but that's not true. I can always turn back. I can't necessarily make a perfect U-turn, but I can always choose a new route.

Equally true is the fact that some paths will end before I want them to.
Part of growing up is getting dumped, graduated, fired. They're all moments in life when someone tells me that I have to move on before I feel ready or want to do so.

When these moments come around I don't exactly freeze so much as I move at an immeasurably slow pace. In the face of uncertainty I don't know what to do, so I do very little at all. I say I'm in shock; anyone else would say I'm a mess.

However, I have confidence in my baby steps during this unfamiliar stage of my life thanks to support from familiar people. I rely on my siblings to make me laugh and tell me that I'll figure stuff out. My mom, the CEO of our family, helps me determine what I need to do next and makes sure that I follow through with it. And then of course there's Dad, the molder of my (sometimes too) wacky sense of humor and keeper of our house.

Given that we're both currently "working" from home, we spend a lot of the day together. This intense proximity has strengthened both my love of and impatience for his idiosyncrasies. I have a knack for bringing the 'dis-' to his 'order,' and we both have a range of roles that we play whenever that cacophonous union occurs.

He's the man who makes sure to smile as he critiques my dishwasher-loading technique, and I'm the girl laughing his seriousness. He's the man who gets mad at me when I "forget" to pick up the dog's poop before the lawn is mown, and I'm the girl lying to his face, promising him that next time I'll remember.

He's the man who, in the midst of my summer of sloth, impounds my getaway ride and holds me hostage in a house that I already know basement-to-attic, on the same old road where I've lived for my entire life.

And to this man, a man who finds me irksome yet keeps me close, who ties me down when I am barely moving, I should not be the girl who rolls her eyes.

To this man, I should be the girl who smiles genuinely and tells him, "Thank you. I enjoy your company as well."

Airing out freshman memories before they go stale: Part 2

2009-10-01T21:59:00.069-04:00

Of the ten people that did make 34^th street’s cut, one who was particularly relevant to my own Pennesis is the character that Street aptly dubbed The Awkward Sophomore.

(No awkward sophomore pictured, just two awkward freshmen.)

Oh dear Graham Trewgarl*, my very own awkward sophomore, a poem for you:

Graham Trewgarl, Graham Trewgarl

How does your awkwardness grow?

With goodbye notes

Full of priceless quotes

You tape to our doors when you go.

Sorry, I'm back. I promise I was not typing in tongues; I just jumped the poetry gun (which is no doubt a weapon made of wildflowers, English Breakfast tea, and latent sexual angst.)

A little backstory: As I said, Graham Trewgarl was our hall's very own awkward sophomore. He had a pretty big room across from Mo's and kept to himself most of the semester, entertaining the occasional guest who would stop by to play video games and talk in muffled tones (or so I gathered from my post out in the hallway.)

However, as first semester began to wind down, Mo coaxed Graham Trewgarl out of his lair (ironic considering traditional hibernators' seasonal patterns.)

I discovered their budding friendship one afternoon when I came to wake Mo up from her daily nap with the serene sound of my eating her goldfish (a beloved daily ritual for both of us, I'm sure) and found, much to my surprise, Mo already awake and chatting with Graham Trewgarl! It was awkward and somewhat unnerving. I probably lost at least 7 ounces during that period.

The friendship ~~got a bit weirder~~ remained the same when Graham confessed to Mo that he had slightly more-than-friendsy feelings for her. Although Mo didn't reciprocate his feelings, they continued to hang out, and we all got to know Graham Trewgarl a bit better.

However, sometime around winter break Graham Trewgarl announced that he was taking a semester off to work on various movie sets and would not be rejoining our hall second semester. We each said our awkward 'oh no's, and I'd like to think they were all heartfelt. Sure, he would avoid us sometimes, and yeah, he wasn't a champion chatter, but he was still a part of our breakfast-club-on-ritalin-and-sports-scholarships hall. We all thought we were sad to see him go...until we got the goodbye notes.

Typed onto strips of paper that he taped to each of our doorknobs, Graham Trew's goodbye notes were kind of like a white man's fortune cookie. Except, instead of a fortune, these texts were either insults, compliments, insults veiled as compliments, stamps of approval, or messages to the extent of "Everyone else got a note, don't worry about it. Bye." And unlike a cookie, they almost always (see exception "Julie" below) left a bitter taste in their recipients' mouths.

The highlights that stand out in my mind are:
(keep in mind these quotes are from memory)

Mo’s:
"So I told you I liked you. Way to avoid me for the rest of the semester."

Elise’s:
"You are so loud. Loud in the bathroom. Loud in the hall. Loud with your voice. Damn, girl. Why you so loud?"

Mine:
"You’re nice—almost too nice."

Tiffany's (my asian roommate):
"We both know there are too many white people on this hall."

(blogger's note: Dear Graham, You are white. You're white! Is that the real reason you're leaving? To reduce the number of white people on our hall? Because, um, you're white, Graham Cracka. It’s like those girls who say they “don’t like girls.” All those assumptions you make about/use against other people could just as easily be thrown back at you. Finally, and more to the point, you’re white.)

Julie’s:
"Wow, I really wish I could’ve spent more time getting into a deep conversation with you. You seem like a great person and I’d really like to make out with you once you and your long-distance boyfriend have broken up."

(okay, so maybe part of this quote is "subtext," but anybody at a 5th grade reading level could see what was written between those lines.)

Now, I realize that said notes were written almost four years ago, and Graham’s opinions may have changed considerably since then, but that does not make them any less hih-lar-iii-oooous. Especially given that said letters were distributed en masse and left like valentines (minus candy--boo) and call Elise "loud" and Julie "perfect" and me "too nice" with italics, which is a font detail that takes extra time, kind of like the extra time he's probably spent thinking about how he's going to knock Elise or me out because we're just a little too conscious for his liking.

But it's cool because, as I mentioned in the previous post, earlier that semester (by the grace of Jordan's still-in-high-school girlfreak--I mean, girlfriend) my trusty little cell phone and I had already weathered brain assessments (a little too tumor-free), face makeover plans (a little too not-on-fire), and speculation about the size of my vagina (a little too not-little.) No comment on the validity of these claims. Especially the last one. Eyes up here.

So it's cool. Our bridge is not burned so long as my facefire doesn't set it off and that's highly unlikely because I've placed the bridge across my giant vagina so that people don't fall in when they visit the area ("The Grammill Canyon," I think is what the locals call it) and even if our bridge does burn, the brain tumor is likely to wipe out any memory of why I might not want to be friends with him, so I think worst case scenario is that we, Mr.Trewgarl and I, have ourselves a fresh start.

Nice. Almost too nice.

*Name has been changed...ish

Airing out freshman memories before they go stale: Part 1

2009-10-01T19:31:00.041-04:00

Penn’s weekly humor magazine, 34^th Street, recently published an article documenting the ten people you meet freshman year and, oh boy, did it bring back the mems. (What’s that? “mems” isn’t working? Oh, okay.) However, one character from my freshman year experience that did not make the list but definitely made my own "top 5 most emotional moments of freshman year" list (spoiler: the evoked emotion = fear) is a not-so-lady-like lady I'd like to classify as The Jealous High School Girlfriend.

Jordan was a freshman football player in two of my first semester classes whom, I'll admit, I didn't find terribly hard to look at. However, I had my own long-distance thing going on--just your typical highschool relationship: expired by Thanksgiving, thrown out by Christmas--and I had already made the decision to save any infidelity for my 50s, when I'll go all Mrs. Robinson on some Benjamin Braddock of the future.

Jordan had his own long distance noise, a fact I learned when I suggested that we "study for the test together" and he responded with, "I have a girlfriend." His response struck me as a bit of a non-sequitur. (Let me clarify, I suggested this with my books held nerd-style against my chest, my finger no where near my mouth, and both eyes fully open--not even a squint going, let alone a wink.)

At first I worried that eight years of all-girls school had impaired my proficiency in late-adolescent innuendos. But then I realized, nope. By saying, "I have a girlfriend," Jordan meant, "I have a batsh*t crazy girlfriend who probably verbally abuses me."

(Actual crazy not pictured)

Lesson learned...a little too late.

One friday evening I texted Jordan about the homework for that weekend, and he texted back with a response and then some small talk. He suggested we go out to ice cream sometime (bogus for many reasons, one of which being the dearth of ice cream places on campus...unless he meant soft serve in the dining hall, which is tacky at first glance, but appeals to my frugal side.)

Naturally, I asked him how he was okay with his proposed rendezvous, and yet my suggestion that we study together made him sweat. The next text he sent was something to the extent of "well, you've already turned me down for lunch twice, (sidenote: apparently saying goodbye after someone announces they're going to get lunch = rejected invitation) so I thought you might be more open to going out for ice cream."

I wasn't exactly sure how to reply, so I sat on my thoughts and tried to shrink them down into 160 characters or less. However, before I could respond, I noticed that he was calling me. "That's funny," I thought. "Why would he be calling when we seem to have this texting thing down pat?"

Turns out, he rang with somewhat urgent news. Evidently, he had accidentally sent that last message to his girlfriend, whose name also started with M (still, didn't he have a 'reply' option?) and so he was just "warning" me and was "sorry" if I "get some weird phone calls tomorrow," but not to worry because it was "just my girlfriend." Huh.

Also, this means that when crazyGirlfriend called up Jordan, instead of being like, "woah crazy girl, calm down, it was just a friend...a guy friend...using my phone...to text another guy" Jordan was like, "oh, hey baby. Yeah, about that, here's her name and phone number. Okayloveyoubyyyye!!"

The first call came around four o'clock the next day (I guess that's the time when all the High School bars open) and the calls continued to come all through the night (like a Boyz II Men ballad, only terrifying.) Jordan's girlfriend and her band of cronies filled my voice mailbox with menacing messages that, if nothing else, deserve to be lauded for their creativity.

A bouquet of some of my favorites, if you will:

Set my face on fire, brain tumor, big vagina. That's a big pill to swallow, even on a Saturday.

Ah, young love. So passionate.

Although I tried, I couldn't save those messages. My friends and I talked about how hilaaarious they were, but listening to them still made me want to enter the witness protection program. Although those girls really could've used a thesaurus, I've got to hand it to them, their arguments were still persuasive enough to convince me to avoid Jordan for the rest of the year.

I hardly ever saw Jordan after freshman year. However, at graduation this past spring, I spotted him posing for a picture with his (I assume not crazy) Penn girlfriend. She looked friendly and warm as she smiled for the camera. I watched them, my mind blasting back to 3 years earlier, and marveled at how happy the two young adults seemed.

As the picture-taking continued, Jordan moved his face closer to hers, which was tanned but free of burn wounds. Her mortarboard rested on her blonde head, which showed no signs of tumors or recent surgery, and her gown was average size, no longer or wider than those of her normal-vagina-sized peers. "Good for them," I thought, snapping back to the present.

And if those two "f*cking get married someday," I can honestly say, good for them.

Why you think we need Amazing Grace just to tell it like it is?

2009-09-23T18:52:00.011-04:00

A little early evening Dr. Dog:

This video, this song, this band, they all just make me so happy.

In the Ladies' Room

2009-09-04T23:37:00.002-04:00

I spy a broken promise.

Lapping up the last days of Summer

2009-09-03T20:33:00.008-04:00

Bailey on the Minute Man bike path in Lexington.

MORE PHOTOS AFTER THE JUMP

Fuzzy yellow buttons.

Easter pastels in September.

Shades of what's to come.

What's in a name? A 1980s Tom Hanks movie, perhaps?

2009-08-30T13:51:00.019-04:00

There are certain movie trailers that make me wonder, "how did that happen?" The one I choose to single out this week is Post-Grad.

For starters, the premise looks a lot like my current life situation.

I am (fingers crossed) a post-graduate of a four year college.

I am (fingers covered in cheese powder) unemployed.

I am (fingers as guilt and age-inappropriately angst-ridden as every other inch of my body) living at home with my parents.

Does this make me want to see the movie? Haiiilll no. My life is boring, and kind of depressing. Additionally, Alexis Bledel is a lot cuter than I am (this is not meant to elicit "shaddup u r a hottE" comments, I'm just telling it like it is.) If I convince myself that she and I are one and the same, I'll leave the theater with the mistaken impression that I can just pursue an acting/modeling gig to solve my workless woes.

Also, I have to pick on the name Ryden Malby. "Malby," as you'll see in the diagram below, is less common than "Malchiodi" as well as (although it's not displayed below) the surname "Gaa."

"Ryden" is not even listed in the top 1,000 census baby names for any year, let alone 1987.

Fine. She's a uniquely named girl. I guess I'm just being cranky. The name just strikes me as a little too perfectly quirky, and too modern for a character my age.

Maybe I'm just jealous because my Google-images collage of the most famous Margarets that I could find looks something like this:

(Top Left: Margaret Atwood, Bottom Right: Margaret Thatcher, Background: Margaret Mitchell's Grave)

This talk of names brings me to a little digression I'd like to call
"The Madison Rant."

(Before I start, I would like to clarify that I think Madison is a great name, and it fits my pretty, funny, and intelligent younger cousin beautifully.)

Having said that, I now draw your attention to the 1984 movie Splash. When Daryl Hannah, the Mermagonist, names herself "Madison" after the famous New York Avenue, Tom Hanks's first reply is that "Madison" is not a real name.

Perhaps dear Tom was being a bit rash, but my point is that in order for that dialogue to work, "Madison" could not have been a popular girl's name.

Nowadaisies, "Madison" has climbed to #4 most popular girl baby name.

Now, I know Tom Hanks is persuasive, but was Splash really capable of making such waves in American nomenclature?

Meaningful Equations

2009-08-22T11:50:00.003-04:00

Agree or disagree?

Saturday, a Day for Favorite Things: Part II

2009-08-15T13:58:00.040-04:00

"Silver White Winters"

Liz: Being with Dennis is easy. If you give into it, you just start to feel kind of numb, and warm, and then you just get sleepy. It's not that bad.

Jenna: That's exactly what they say it's like when you freeze to death.

I know I watch an unhealthy amount of 30 Rock.

I know: I watch an unhealthy amount of 30 rock.

But instead of focusing on the negative, i.e. my "friends" are mere television characters, I'm choosing to bring positivity to non-fictional people--dare I say, friends? (someday? You can comment later)--i.e. anyone who happens to stumble across this blog.

Saturday, a Day for Favorite Things: Part I

2009-08-15T12:45:00.030-04:00

"Whiskers on kittens"

Was it the cat's meow, or his pajamas?

Either way, both expressions are near death (or archaism)

and I am curious as to why.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

For fun I've taken on the task of transcribing an episode of one of my favorite shows, Mad Men. This task, which is both a pleasure and a pain, serves several purposes:

-Gives me something "to do" while still watching TV

-Is practice with screenplay formatting

-Helps to tide me over while I await the season 3 premiere (tomorrowow!)

-Illuminates character elements/dialogue details that I missed before

I've chosen S02E02, "Flight 1," and I'm only 15 pages in. (The first 7 minutes took me an hour. I say this is parenthesis because I feel like that should be a "guilty" confession. Going out of parenthesis...now.)

One thing that I love about Mad Men is its natural dialogue and the way the show's writers seamlessly work early-1960s jargon into the script.

"WHEN THE BEES STING"

For example, in the opening party scene in "Flight 1," Paul Kinsey argues on behalf of his New Jersey digs, telling his work buddies that "Montclair is the knees."

The bee's knees.

If that expression were a snack, it'd be ritz crackers and chocolate milk. Almost too hokey, but not quite.

There's something about 1950s/60s slang that I find so attractive. Maybe it's that so many expressions seem fundamentally euphemistic; each individual word in a given idiom is squeaky clean, even if the cumulative connotation isn't.

Then vs. Now..ish

Dreamboat vs. Hunk/Hottie

Beach Blanket Bingo vs. Sex on the beach

Birds and the Bees vs. Sex Ed & Family Planning

Square (var.: L7) vs. Loser

Of course I'm exaggerating. I can't speak from experience; all I have to back up my flimsy claims is my affinity for Beach Boys songs and a handful of movie/TV-derived stereotypes. I do realize that these expressions were not integral parts of the average 1950s/60s teenager's daily lexicon.

I'm sure come mid-1960s, most people's views of these idiomatic expressions were probably pretty similar to my current opinion regarding slanguage like "the/da Bomb," "Phat," and a bunch of those hand signs from Clueless. (To be fair, I tend to shun anything that draws attention to my hammerhead thumbs.)

But what can I say? Regardless of its authenticity, that past parlance still tickles me pink.

Any expressions you wish were more popular/hadn't died out?

Rainy Thursday

2009-08-13T15:17:00.004-04:00

My Father, The Weirdo

2009-08-10T19:55:00.003-04:00

This is how I found him, a couple minutes after he finished his bowl (see item on head) of chips.

Apples and trees...

Laundromat Politics

2009-08-10T18:38:00.002-04:00

I'll Be Smelling You

2009-08-08T17:10:00.029-04:00

The following is a piece I wrote for a creative non-fiction class I took this past spring. The assignment for that week was to write a humorous piece about food. I wasn't feeling very humorous because my grandmother had just passed away, but the writing process was surprisingly easy, and I ended up pretty fond my final product.

Earlier this week, one of my roommates disposed of some expired tuna, or at least that’s what I deduced it was, based on the smell it left behind. The aroma lingered in our kitchen for at least two days. During that time I compulsively checked our trash bags and ran the garbage disposal in an attempt to locate the source of the odor, to no avail. Even though the rotten tuna smell plagued me during time that it thrived in my kitchen, thinking about it now reminds me of beloved afternoon adventure from my childhood.

When I was in fourth grade, I spent half of my week long spring vacation with my grandmother in her home in Darien, Connecticut. The apex of my stay was a day trip to New York City, where we walked through Central Park and visited the Museum Of Modern Art.

My memories of the art in the MoMa are somewhat hazy, but I do recall a creepy exhibit featuring sculptures made of wire and severed doll parts. After passing a bouquet of bald baby-doll heads, Granny suggested with a signature Texan “oh dear” that we fast-forward through the rest of the exhibit and get lunch in the museum restaurant.

In the contemporary white dining room, I ordered the angel-hair pasta. Before that afternoon, I had never heard of the term for that specific type of spaghetti. Its whimsical name enchanted me, but also brought to mind the shorn wooden scalps I had seen mere minutes earlier.

My grandmother ordered a soup and salad combination, as well as a tuna fish sandwich for us to split. However, we were both too full to enjoy the sandwich, so we had it wrapped up and took it with us on the train ride back to Connecticut. Sadly, the tuna could not endure the trek. As the train passed a cluster of police horses, the woman seated next to my grandmother remarked,

"Phew. I can smell those horses from here."

Granny later confessed with a guilty giggle that she thought the offending odor had emanated from her white paper bag.

As this past week began to wind down, the smell gradually dissipated. Two days after the seemingly source-less stench first came into my life, Granny left it, dying peacefully in her sleep. Was this whiff of a memory her way of saying goodbye?

It was definitely an unconventional farewell, but perhaps that's the way it was meant to be.

For, like an odor looming somewhere between the smell of a once-good tuna sandwich and that of horse manure, messages from passed love ones are often mysterious and unforgettable.

Two is my favorite number

2009-07-25T20:34:00.006-04:00

So it's a day late, but warm birthday wishes are in order for the twins (especially because half of the wishes are traveling transAtlantic.) Three pictures of my favorite two.

Little Darling, Big Sister

2009-07-23T23:36:00.023-04:00

Happy Birthday, Caroline.

Splendor in the Past

2009-07-22T11:50:00.024-04:00

I saw this nest of raindrops in the grass and wondered what the chaos would look like from below.

Reminds me of playing parachute in preschool.

We'd lift the multicolored tarp over our heads then sit underneath, tucking its edges under our chubby legs and marveling at the rainbow-colored cocoon we had created.

But our toddler-sized bottoms couldn't keep the air in, and our evanescent little world would inevitably deflate.

So we'd scamper out from under the sagging fabric, throw up our arms, and start the process all over again.

Teach your children well

2009-07-19T22:43:00.003-04:00

I saw this and had to photograph it. It's a reminder to respect my elders.

Father Canine, tell me, where have you been?

2009-07-19T15:46:00.011-04:00

It's amazing how a few backyard snapshots can reveal a blatant truth I've been ignoring for years. But, as the saying goes, it's better I discover these truths late than discover them too early. That is the saying, right?

Getting back to the recently discovered issue at hand, I think my dog has Daddy Issues. All the classic signs have been there, I just haven't added them up till now.

Sign #1. Unhealthy addiction to affection.

Bailey is constantly seeking someone to pet his head or rub his belly, regardless of where he is or whether his target can spare a hand. His tactics can be dangerous and sometimes indicative of early abusive behavior. He has been known to throw his nose under humans' hands while they are being used to drive, write, urinate, ladle hot soup, etc. He also has tried on many occasions to use his mouth to force a person's hand onto a desired petting location. Sadism is a possible motivator for this (see sign #5.)

Sign #2. Anorexia.

Bailey frequently skips meals. At first we assumed that he was just picky, but after upgrading his dog food to steak and cheeseburger flavor, his continued random fasts indicate that the problem is about more than just food. (My father might argue that his refusal of dog food is related to my giving him human food, but he does not understand my therapeutic strategies.)

Sign #3. Crying jags.

The simplest things set Bailey off. All it takes is wanting to go outside, or having to go to the bathroom, or wishing someone else would share their food with him, and he's a mess. This childlike inability to articulate his needs and feelings indicates that his original family discouraged expressing one's point of view and emotions.

Sign #4. Egotism.

Bailey is what we in the biz call an "Alpha Male." He tries to dominate other companions, and is obsessed with his own appearance to the extent that his favorite stuffed animal, 'Hailey,' is a mere cloth replica of himself.

Sign #5. Confused Sexual Identity.

This is marked by his paradoxical denial of/obsession with his genitals. When he was young, he had an operation in which he essentially castrated himself. However, he continues to display his netherlands to anyone who rubs his belly; he licks himself several times a week, and frequently exposes himself in public, going so far as using his own urine to mark his territory.

It is my belief that all these issues stem from one skeleton Bailey keeps hanging in his crate: He never knew his father. Adding to Bailey's confusion is the atypical power balance between his parents, as his mother was a successful and diligent Labrador Retriever while his father was a beautiful Poodle with a golden coat and legs for dog days.

I'm just glad I've located all the pieces of his puzzle. Now I've just got to figure out how to piece together the whole package. There's a children's book hidden somewhere in his story, I just know it.

These Foolish Things (Remind Me of Lou)

2009-07-12T15:07:00.032-04:00

A few months before she left for college, Lydia (aka "LouLa," "Lou," and "the twin with girl parts") decided to downsize and move from "the wing" into Caroline's room. (sidenote: I love calling Lydia's former area "the wing" because it makes her sound like a freak child we keep locked up and never acknowledge, when in reality that's only occasionally the case.) Soon Caroline will come back home to go to law school, but where will she stay?

Flash forward to this weekend. Mom has taken on the task of cleaning out the part of the house formerly known as "Lydia's Wing" in the advent of Caroline's return to Boston after two years in New Orleans. I've decided to use this blog as an opportunity to document some of the items Lydia had been keeping in her quasi-museum.

Item #1 : A bevy of disposable cameras. I'm scared to get them developed. (By scared, of course, I mean too lazy.)

Item #2 : Beehive wig. Originally for one of her plays, It has come in handy in my own life more times than I'd like to admit.

Item #3 : A metal detector. Kids all have their phases. I had to have a tamagotchi, Lydia just had to have...a metal detector.

Lydia has always been a chameleon; when she was little she'd switch her outfit at least three times a day. In a way this is still the case. Over the years her look has ranged from preppie to pork-pie hat. These three doodads my mom dug up will always be intrinsic artifacts of her unwavering self of self, testaments that she's still the same vivacious auburn-haired girl, just moving from one costume change to another.

The Sound of Indolence

2009-07-04T15:52:00.034-04:00

I'm getting pretty tired of apathetic singing. I guess it was tolerable at the end of Juno, but my opinion on this changes depending on my mood (sidenote: I was voted my family's moodiest member back in '05.) But now Comcast seems to think that their prime potential subscribers are viewers just a couple of mumbled lyrics away from slipping into an emotional coma. This is evidenced by their recent string of commercials, which bombard my daily pop-culture education sessions (referred to by my laymanandwife parents as "TV watching.")

On the whole, I'm going to say that I don't really like song commercials, simply because they're evil. Forget embedded texts, I think catchy jingles are the ultimate subliminal messages. "1-800-54-Giant" could easily make it onto the radio-hits-of-my-childhood playlist. I consider the "only at mattress Giant, oooh ahhh" songline to be one of my earliest lessons in sexual education.

Perhaps the most evil thing about jingle-based commercials is that I instinctively sing them, both as I watch them and while I go about my life away from the TV. This is embarrassing, because any witness to my commercial crooning--especially when done sing-along style--immediately realizes that I watch an inappropriate amount of television.

It is for this reason that I try to resist my urge to join in when watching TV with my parents. After all, one of my father's favorite self-given nicknames/alter egos is "The Tele-ban," and involves wrapping a throw-blanket around his head as a makeshift turban, holding the remote hostage, and laughing maniacally. It's extremely offensive to me and my TV-loving siblings, and maybe even to other people too?

However, when an irresistible song comes on like FreeCreditReport.com's "well I married my dream girl, I married my dream girl, but she didn't tell me her credit was bad..." I can't always hold back.

As I give into the siren song, I watch my parents' eyes dart from me, to my stained sweatsuit, to the pile of food wrappers next to "my couch," and so I purposely flub a few lyrics in hopes that they won't connect the three ever-expanding blob-like dots and put parental codes on every channel.

"Yes, that'll do the trick,"

I think to myself, and pad off to the kitchen for another pudding cup.

And then I think we all share the same thought. I need to get a job.

Giving in to sisteer pressure

2009-06-28T18:27:00.009-04:00

Caroline, my older sister, sent me a simple one-line email a while back *encouraging* me to update my blog. After reading her message, I promptly opened a new window, checked out the latest in celebrity gossip, and decided what snack I would next make. A week or so later, I am here, heeding her request.

But here's the inevitable conundrum: how does one "update" when there is little to which one has been "up to"? This is not to say the rest of the world has not been turning, and I send my insignificant albeit sincere condolences to the fans and loved ones of Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and Billy Mays.

The biggest change at home has been the departure of Lydianne, my now francaise souer. Triste. Additionally, as you (my one reader, Caroline) might already know, I am supposed to be taking 2 classes this summer at BU in order to receive the ever-elusive college diploma I have dreamed about these past few months. Unfortunately, one of these classes (Acting: Comedy) might be cancelled because its roster currently consists of two students, me and a boy (or so I've assumed) named Youseff. One more student and we're good to go. However, if no one new signs up, the class shall self destruct. I will remain one credit short and still not know anyone named Youseff. I'm trying to find the "comedy" in that scenario. But I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Also, Mo is engaged!!! Crazy, yes? Crazier still is that it is not to me. But yes yes my darling Mo is going to be married and even more importantly, I am going to be a bridesmaid! One of my biggest honors to date, and I can't wait to cry and make an innappropriate toast. Just kidding. Or am I? We'll just have to wait till April to find out. Also, dear sisters, as the first bridesmaid I promise to put my gown in the basement dress-up box when the ceremony is over. I'm a sucker for family traditions.

Finally, as this post is pretty obviously directed to one person, I hope she knows I love her and can't wait to see her next weekend.

...when he's 64 (months)

2009-06-09T17:03:00.012-04:00

This is a video of one of the happiest, most well-tempered babies I have ever forced to play with me. His name is Max and he hails from Australia. He loves tearing pieces of paper, putting things in his mouth, and taking naps at around 2:30 in the afternoon. He is prone to drooling.

He and his family visited our neighborhood for two weeks (during which time my sister, Lydia, babysat him and his two brothers.) Sadly, he has returned to his homeland down under but I have this video to remind me of him.

The music (not added for effect, but rather because he liked to watch the iTunes visualizer) is "Used to Be" by Beach House. Kind of appropriate because who knows how old Max will be next time we see him. (Alas, most likely old enough to say, "please don't hold me, you affection-hungry hag.")

My Guantanamo Bay Playlist

2009-06-04T08:51:00.008-04:00

Apparently, one of the ways that interrogators at Guantanamo Bay "didn't torture"detainees was by blasting (un)popular tunes into their cells.

Ever since I heard about this on the radio (I believe Wait Wait only mentioned Celine Dion,) I wondered what my personal playlist'o'torture would be. I've kept this list tucked in my mind's back pocket for at least two years and I think it's high time I make it more official.

I don't mean to offend those who do like any of these songs. I'm not implying that fans of these songs have poor taste, all I'm saying is that these are songs that, for whatever reason, are capable of driving me crazy.

GitMo Go Crazy:

The First Cut Is The Deepest - Sheryl Crowe

Love Shack - The B-52s

Who Can It Be Now? - Men at Work

Cotton Eye Joe - Rednex

The Hustle - Van McCoy

I'll Be There For You - The Rembrandts

Manic Monday - The Bangles

Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) - Greenday

Our Lips Are Sealed - The Go-Go's (Duff Sisters if you're nasty)

Graduation Song - Vitamin C

My Heart Will Go On - Celine Dion

Lose Yourself - Eminem

Soak Up the Sun - Sheryl Crowe

Big Girls Don't Cry - Fergie

Smokin' In The Boys Room - Brownsville Station

Listen to Your Heart - Cascada

White Houses - Vanessa Carleton

This Kiss - Faith Hill

Rollin' - Limp Bizkit

Tattoo - Jordin Sparks

Things Tainted by TV and Movies

2009-06-04T00:32:00.010-04:00

1. Topiary. Perhaps you've seen a certain commercial for the schick quattro trimstyle bikini "trimmer" specially made for women's netherlands. In this ad, scantily clad women walk by unkempt pieces of topiary and magically the shrubs morph into well-manicured lawn pieces.

I used to associate topiary with Annie James' London home. I refer, of course, to one of the twins from the 1998 version of The Parent Trap starring the once-promising Lindsay Lohan (speaking of things tainted by Hollywood.) But such days of innocence are gone.

Now, shaped shrubberry = pubic art.

(Additionally, Lindsay Lohan = lukewarm mess.)

With some tweaking, this shift could be the title of cheesey porno, say, "From Disney to Vagina." Or perhaps it could have a love letter spin like, "From: Disney. To: Vagina."

This leap from one Lohan-associative topic to another really bushed my puttons. [groan here] Bad pun aside, it weirds me out everytime I see the ad/stare at my roommate's schick quattro trimstyle while I pee in our shared bathroom.

2. Strawberry Milk. When my older sister and I watched the Macaulay Culkin masterpiece, Home Alone, I was scarred by a scene in which one of the robbers, Marv, gets hit on the side of his head with a shovel. In response to the blow, his face turns bright pink as his blood gathers just below his cheeks' rough flesh. Post shovel scene, every time I'd look into my nightly cup of strawberry skim dairy deliciousness, I'd see Marv's face. It took me a week (equivalent to 6 child months) to recuperate and get back on the pink stuff.

3. Good songs. Music is extremely sentimental for both creator and consumer. I often use music as a chronological tool (She's All That came out when I was in 6th grade because I was obsessed with Kiss Me), or to remind me of a certain time (5th grade = Natalie Imbrulia's Torn + ChumbaWumba's Tubthumping + Spice Girls.) However, several songs that were once oh-hot-darn-this-is-my-jarn potentials or held special connotations in my mind have been sold out to commercials, and the most dismally fated finds end up on The Hills soundtrack. Nothing like hearing a once beloved tune used to feign a deeper meaning behind Audrina's lifeless staring at Justin Bobby. (I confess. I watch the Hills.)