Chillin at the Super Market

Disclaimer: this is my first attempt at mobile blogging so please forgive grammatical/spelling lapses until I get the hang of this (ok, ok, I'm lazy and reviewing text on my phone makes my eyes hurt. Obviously I know how to use my phone)

Today I blog from the kosher aisle at the local mega shoprite (a chain that is probably the love child of Tesco and Smart and Final...but really the love child of that child with A&P). Why, you may ever so rightfully ask, would I take the tome to pause here to reflect on my emotional state of affairs? Aren't there more peaceful, leas chilly places conducive to introspection?

Well, dear friends, the obvious answer is yes. And the reason I am not blogging from my backyard or Tahiti or the roof of a hut in Vietnam is that my state is holding steady at just above mediocre and that my new employer is only paying 8.75 an hour AND that my mom sent me here on a near impossible mission to acquire chicken for our Friday night dinner for Rosh Hashanah.

It has conceptually hit me how strange it is that this year, different from all other years, is not being punctuated and metered by marking periods, semesters, and national holidays (plus a week at Christmas and Easter). Now instead my life will be measured by semi-legit events and accomplishments. Being able to finish my statement of purpose, for example. Joining an adult kickball league. I suppose these aren't particularly less meaningful than an administrator's ability to read a calendar, but they leave a little something to be desired.

Which brings us to Rosh Hashanah. You may be questioning how this relentlessly mobile date in September claims with any legitimacy to be the new year. I suppose the fact that it coincides roughly with the new school year has something to do with the fact that our school year is based on the agrarian life style, and this new year marks that moment right before the rush of harvest. The more tr hnocal answer has to do with the insanity that is the 5k year old Hebrew calendar, which is based pb the moon, not the Sun, and adds extra months at odd intervals in some effort of compensation and cooperation. It's really quite strange. Like unbelievably so. Except that. People have been following it for over 5 millennia, so really who are we to point fingers.

Every year of my life some unpredictable day in the pre-autumnal weeks has demanded a life stoppage. I'll admit that my mom's demands seemed to shift. No light switches. No tv. No tv once we sit down to dinner. No work never seemed to make the list, probably because she invited as many as 30 people to sit around a giant table with our family and share on the celebration.

And completely dissimilar to the secular New year, an event so overwhelmed with glitter, champagne, substandard musical performances, and attempts at weight loss that it's meaning has either been covered in morning-after vomit or lost altogether, Rosh Hashanah offers a niche group an incredible moment of reflection and promises another 12 month's, whenever they begin or end, loaded with savory food, passive aggressive family, and wonderful friends.

So, despite my on again/ off again relationship with the big guy upstairs, I feel compelled to mention that the cultural aspects of this religion never leave me feeling anything but like I'm a member of a community, like I'm among friends, like I'm at home. So in whatever way works for you, as the seasons change and we grow older, I encourage you to kick back with some apples and honey, do what you live with whom you love, and than whatever you do or don't believe in for the ability to be together, once again, toasting to what I hope will be another incredible year.

Goodbyes are a Terrible Thing to be Good At

Today, my baby sister (an exceedingly true but all-too-disarming title for me to use to her face or to anyone who has met her) is fleeing the country. If you had handed me this scenario a decade ago I would have supposed that she had somehow been led down a path of stalking Hilary Duff via the Lizzie McGuire fan club or that she had somehow become a fence for coolectibles of  outdated teen dramas on network television. But, alas, she is leaving by choice. Today she embarks on a four month adventure, two weeks shy of her 20th birthday, to live in Prague and hop around Eastern Europe by plane, train, and (I can only assume) Pterodactyl. Bon Voyage.

At no point over the past 5 months (roughly the amount of time I've known she was going) was I ever looking forward to her departure. Y'know, every once in a while as she suffocated me with a hug or mumbled incoherently and demanded sound advice I thought to myself, "gee, being an only child won;t be that bad." But that's not exactly the same. And judging by the fleeting thoughts it should be fairly obvious that I was also not dreading the event. No skull and crossbones appeared on the Sept. 1 block of my calendar. I have not brewed any potions to induce a four month slumber without her. And yet, as I hugged her and implored her to make good choices (a delightful human being but her senses of humor and style always seem to trump that often more useful common sense) I felt the familiar compression of breath in my chest, the flaring of my nostrils, the burning behind my eyes and the tendency to smile away the betrayal that my hormones are about to enact. And as I stand there, barefoot in the garage, waving like an idiot, the only thing I can think to myself is "god I'm TERRIBLE at this"...and I thought I was getting good.

I have, until this late stage of development, led a life riddled with goodbyes. Every summer at sleep away camp, teen travel trips, going to school 3,000 miles from home, even studying abroad were all abvious opportunities for growth and personal development, but they all just as obviously necessitated a farewell at the end of term. And you'd think that after so many of them you'd get exhausted. You'd get more selective about the people you let in, or develop shallower relationships so it's easier to end them, but social behavior isn't quite that easy to engineer, and more often than not you end up trying to kick yourself in the teeth for bringing on this forthcoming wash of misery.

Well, boo-frickin-who. Every time I approach one of these major life changes of my own I think, "Yea, I've totally got it this time. Not goodbye. See you later. It's great. No worries. etc. etc." Fast forward 24 hours and I'm in the fetal position at an airport trying to stop crying long enough to figure out which one my gate is. It's unavoidable. I'm terrible at goodbyes. And while the list of things I'm terrible at is expansive (finding lost objects, carrying on conversations with people I don't like, crosswords) I feel like there are much worse things that could be on  that list than goodbyes. Maybe being bad at goodbyes just means I'm sappy and emotional. (not new news). And maybe being bad at goodbyes means I'm at least moderately in touch with my emotions.

And what would it mean to be good at goodbyes? That I didn't care what happened to you? That I wasn't going to miss you in the inevitable periods of absence? That I could go back to being the person I was before I met you? Before you made me a better version of myself?

So I'm OK with it. I'd rather be bad at goodbyes than bad at opening wine bottles. Because let's be honest, that's what I need now.

Be safe little one! Have incredible adventures that even you don't understand in full.
xoxo gossip squirrel

Sorry I'm Not Sorry

Oh hey there.

I I were to put a number on my blogging average it would probably be "sucks" but with my defensiveness kicking in I feel compelled to remind you that I began this blog as a personal outlet and while I sure am sorry if my hiatus has caused you any inconvenience or existential longing, the reality is that I don't actually care.

For the better part o the last month I've been failing to work up the courage to post a diatribe on deities that I composed on my recent stay in hell (otherwise known as keeping the company of 39 teens in Israel for 3 weeks). It was irreverent and eloquent but also incredibly personal and while I imagine that I like all you anonymous numbers who accumulate into pageviews, it's actually the people I know that scare me more. So, I'm not offering my thoughts on the powers-that-be just yet, but I am offering thoughts.

Specifically, my thoughts on being 22. Taylor Swift has all but incorporated her thoughts on this subject into the national anthem, so I though it only appropriate that one of us mere mortals shout back. "Happy, free, confused, and lonely" at the same time isn't a bad start. Kudos, Taylor. But I feel like there are some nuances that a pop ditty can't necessarily accommodate. Confused? maybe. But questioning the validity of my self doubt would probably be more accurate. Lonely? not so much. I certainly have my moments, but of all the sensations that hit me like sponges in the face at a cruel carnival game, I would prioritize boredom and an unidentifiable longing high above loneliness. Happy? Every once in a while. But comparing to a college-happy, the 22-post-grad happy feels an awful lot like acceptably sociable. And I feel like free is probably just a lot more relevant to those who have achieved financial independence.

So...I am feeling 22. But I'm also feeling a little tired and a little lost and a little always in need of a glass of red wine.

So t.swift, Imma let you finish, so please do me a favor and fill in the blanks. Because I just can't figure out which of your four categories I should slot "losing interest in previously entertaining activities."

I'm BA-ack...

At long last the moment has arrived.

My three week hiatus with 39 16 year olds (by the way, my new least favorite age - all the sass with none of the redemption) was a convenient way to deflect people during the graduation inquisition, but that mistake has come and gone and now I'm really just applying to grad programs (a terrifying mountain of to-do lists) and seeking reasonable underemployment to finance travel in the Spring.

And so the Quarter Life Crisis begins. Until this point my anxieties have really just revolved around the onset of the QLC. Now it's really here. And while my pockets are full of a fresh 1K from 3 weeks in a dessert like hell, my pockets are also full of excuses.

I told myself (in a fit of delusion and defiance) that I couldn't look for a job because I was working this 3 week job in the summer I couldn't find a real job, and so I took this terrible position at a terrible camp to fill in the gaps. The cycle of frustration and misery is self imposed and self perpetuating, which is a fine classification but does nothing to explain why I insist on doing it to myself. Why should I preclude myself from gainful employment? Why should I set up a life that is underwhelming and unfulfilling? In short, why am I being my own worst enemy?

And then I remember that in a year where I actually want to be is a top Postcolonial PhD program, and I realize that these things are fairly irrelevant, but why should I let a single year of my life be irrelevant? Why can't it all be incredible and life changing? And that, I guess, comes back to me too.

Which brings me to a new appendage to my QLC definition: a self induced cycle of doubt and self-hate resulting in nothing positive but successfully impairing any sense of fulfillment or achievement.

Welcome to Euphoria. Your call is very important to us. Your call will be answered by a representative in approximately eight years.
In the mean time, dial Hell and I'll answer.

Wasn't Meant to Be

On a rainy day in May of 2010, I achieved a goal that had been on my radar for the majority of my childhood.  I graduated from college in one of the coolest and most unique cities in America.  During my time there, I witnessed a resurrection of a city that was brought to its knees and despite all evidence leading one to conclude otherwise, I can report that today, in July of 2013, it is back and better than ever.  This place and its people had every opportunity to close up shop and say, “Wasn’t meant to be”, but they didn’t.  When I left in 2010, I feared it would be permanent.  I would be leaving behind all the memories that I had created and I had no idea what to do next.  It was a crippling feeling.  I did not have a job and felt as if everything was falling apart.  It took six months, but I ended up getting a job, back in that wonderful city and a really cool one at that.  I was given the chance to make new memories in the same old place.  It was not until my last day of this wonderful opportunity that I realized why none of the other jobs I had applied for worked out.  This one was meant to be. 

Fast forward 2 ½ years and here we are.  That fantastic job was temporary and has just come to an end.  I have been looking for a job since April 2012 in the wide world of sports and have had no success.  Could it be worse?  Most definitely.  I am blessed to have the greatest “sponsors” in the world who have made my search for happiness possible.  Is this how I ever imagined my life at 25? Most definitely not.  I’m single and unemployed.  Although I love being 25, it’s just not what I had in mind.  I thought my life would be a little bit more together at this point.  The thing that is hardest to swallow is how little things have changed since the crippling month of May 2010.  I made progress, but find myself back in an all too familiar place.   I’m on my knees, looking for a sign with no idea what to do next.  I will most likely be leaving that city down South I love so much, but where I go next is the real unknown.  I have applied for more jobs than I would like to admit and have been told far too many times, “Wasn’t meant to be.”  The question I have is, what IS meant to be?  When will THAT one appear?  As I struggle to keep my sanity, I don’t have to look far for an inspiring example and another popular phrase, “It will all work out.”  22 year-old me was worrying about the same things, paralyzed by the fear that it would just never work out.  I’ve never been so happy to be so wrong.  I learned the meaning of, “Wasn’t meant to be,” as I found the exact opposite.  Like the city I love, I feel I have no choice, but to keep on fighting until I find the WAS meant to be I’ve been looking for. 

“Everything will be alright in the end.  If it is not alright, it is not yet the end.”              

Passing the Torch (temporarily)

Hey hey party people!

I apologize for being the world's worst blogger, but if it's any consolation I'm also the world's worst daughter, friend, and student as I flounder around this post grad realm. (It's very dark. I keep bumping into things.)

But actually I've been working at a day camp and seeing a ton of people and now I'm running away to lead an international travel trip with 40 11th graders.

In the interim I am having my resident expert on the QLC (aka mi hermana) drop some knowledge bombs. Enjoy the break from radio silence.

See you in 3 weeks!

xoxo gossip squirrel

Thank God For Memory Loss

On the eve of what is likely to be my last round in the ring with institution of American Summer Camp I feel...nothing. Except anxiety over my inability to fall asleep because my body refuses to believe that it has left California.

I have none of the pangs of nervousness that preceded the bus ride up to my sleep away camp every June. None of the suffocating realizations before the kids arrived when it was clear that I was responsible for human lives. I feel none of the social apprehension about making friends, making a good impression, or making sure everyone knows I take myself seriously. And at this moment of levity I a recurring thought resurfaces: How great is it that we forget things?

With the slightest prodding, riptides of prepubescent awkwardness and the cyclical feeling of inferiority that accompanies any age that ends in "teen" baptize me with shame anew. I remember times I laughed cruelly, and made people feel bad, and made embarrassing mistakes, and wore clothes inside out. I remember feeling frozen with fear that I would spend the rest of my life alone, unworthy of attention or social contact.

Wasn't high school terrible? Wasn't middle school worse?

And yet, for 23.75 hours a day I am completely free of these recollections of my mediocrity. I can live in the now and aspire to things despite my moronic inner voice reminding me of  my own mistakes. It feel fabulous to live in the now and make decisions based on the recent past. To be free on the constraints of my own expectations is as liberating as skinny sky diving.

And to not just be free of my own behavior, the way I treated my sisters (pulling their hair and punching them in the face) and the way I treated everyone else (like they were wrong and I was right), but to free for even brief pockets of time of the I understood the world, allows me refreshing clarity.

It's upsetting and disorienting and challenging to forget. Being so close, nothing seems sadder than forgetting the minutiae of my sophomore apartment or my on campus job or the organization I loathed to be a part of. But in reality, they'll soon slip from the foreground, and I will be left with rosy memories, the highlight real, and will be spared the embarrassment of my wrongdoings.

I know that if I had Alzheimers I would wish for it all back: the good, the bad, and the ugly. But as I attempt to trudge through this time around, I can't help but imagine how much more burdensome life would be if we had to carry everything around with us. Packing is not a skill reserved for travel. And how wonderful that we get to choose what we carry around with us. Not mosquito nets or sun hats, but rather the parts of ourselves, our compassion or our wit or our resolve, that we want to inform the future versions. The versions that will eventually and hopefully become the past we can be proud of.

I'm struggling with the past-present-future pull because being back in my old house, in my old town, with my tragically overbearing and dismissive parents (an impressive combination if I do say so myself) I am so readily reminded of all the parts of myself that I hate and what I could so easily become. So how do I let go of that while holding on to the more recent past which seems so at odds with every feature of this snow globe to which I've returned? I changed, but how do I avert regression? How do I forget the reminders without forgetting the convictions which I now know to be true?

A challenge for certain, but perhaps one that I need to face to earn the life I want. Or perhaps this is the bullshit I am obligated to feed myself in order to survive the next twelve months.

Warning: My next post might be about apartment hunting

Don't be Such a Bitch

My topic today is inspired by a friend who has recently found herself on the front lines of the war for human decency, and I"m referring specifically to the battle for some sex etiquette in our 20s. A friend of this glorious gal slept with her ex-boyfriend whom she had only met because my friend was helping her ex find some friends in his new city, and this is after my friend explicitly asked both of them to cool it on the touchy-feely-flirtation situation. I can't imagine it was easy to acquiesce while he was inside her. Just a hunch.

Now I know Gretchen Weiners would be outraged. And I know that everyone informed of this tragically non a-typical scenario is equally disgusted by the ex and the ex-friend. Except that it's not equal. Except that by some sort of deranged instinct we claw at the girl's face and throat, rip out her beating heart by running through the abomination-bitch-cunts of vicious rhetoric designed to make her seem less than us and subsequently make our friend feel better.

Why?

Seriously, when did we learn to do that? I mean it's easy for me to imagine a cavewoman knocking over a neighboring woman's pile of pelts upon learning that her husband hadn't been coming straight home after hunting. And I know that the salons of Europe in the 19th century must have been chock full of judgmental sideways glances at the women who wore necklines that showed off the girls. And I KNOW that in any high school lunch room in the country there as many conversations about ho bag, slut faced, skanky, boyfriend stealing peers as there are tables. But the idea that this is some sort of natural evolution from the more passive (or passive-aggressive in the case of the cavewoman) demonstrations of feminine strength is bullshit.

Ms. Norbury said that calling each other sluts and whores just makes it OK for guys to call us sluts and whores, which is true, but is not the whole story by a long shot. Not only do these instinct demean women but they demean us. There's a two fold implication when I hear a woman call another woman any of the aforementioned slurs:
1. I lack the proper education or  depth of vocabulary to be more eloquent, descriptive, or intelligent
2. I am defined by the way men see me relative to other women

Hell to the NO.

Over the course of history we have given pardons to SO many men who have slept their way through life in favor of remembering how they helped, changed, or impacted the world. Who cares how many women JFK slept with, his wife was still epicly fabulous and he inspired and challenged a generation of Americans to dream bigger and follow suit with their actions. But we continue to define women by their numbers: by the number of people they've slept with, the number of times they've been married, their height, shoe size, hip-waist-bust measurements. Because apparently, despite believing that our sisters and daughters and mothers and friends are destined for greatness despite of their monthly periods, we are not actually convinced that in the general sense women are capable of much of anything besides stealing a man.

And there are exceptions, but so often to admit greatness we must deny femininity, as if the two are mutually exclusive, despite the rainbow of masculinity that manifests in great men the world wide.

What I'm saying is what we've known: that women define themselves by men and destory themselves and each other with the slightest provocation. And I don't have the slightest idea how to fix that. Because honestly, it doesn't really seem to be getting better over time. As we get older, as generations cycle, nothing stops women from being vindictive and cruel.

As a lover of well crafted language there are few things I love more than a good put down. Whether it's on TV or in a book or a movie or some witty retort in a column my heart races and my lips curl at the encounter with a person intelligent enough to find the weak spot and plunge the sword into the evil enemy's hide. It's the same instinct that popularized Pamplona's bulls and the Coliseum's gladiators. But I worry. Because in these scenarios, women against women, women against men, there doesn't seem to be a clear enemy. The enemy is only the weakest link, the easiest kill. And the only effect that pattern seems to have is to make us feel terrible once we realized we've killed someone in our uniform. So maybe in the battle of the sexes, which at present seems to be a battle within the sexes more and more, we need to take our outstretched bitch slap, extend a hand, and pull someone up to the high ground.

We're clearly not all on the same side in the fight for a nicer world, but I say let's take it one battle at a time. And I think that not performing intimate acts at the disrequest of friends with people who are deeply emotionally linked to them for the pleasure of inducing pain is as good a place to start as any.

More Pleasant Musings Soon

The process of writing is a process of discovery.

And for the past 5ish months this blog has been a locus a discovery, a space in which I can uncover and encounter the recesses of my consciousness in an effort to sort through my own feelings before I'm forced to acknowledge them in the real world.

And then I graduated college. And then I moved home.

And suddenly the composite hour I spent on the phone with my parents every week has been blown out of proportion, and the sanity provided by meals and work and general time spent with friends has been shrunk to some infintissimal percentage of its original. I feel my mind shrinking and growing lazy. I feel my social skills losing their finesse. And I feel all the self doubt and sense of not belonging (the kind I associate with adolescence, not with the growth and exploration of the college years) returning in tidal wave force.

So it's not that I haven't been thinking about what these changes mean, what ripples out from these pivot points in life, but rather that i've only been thinking about them, and haven't been sure how to put words on this new brand of loneliness I'm experiencing. I'm afraid that when I sit down to write I'll discover that reading a book a week, learning to knit, and studying for the GRE aren't actually doing anything to stave off impending misery. I've been more comfortable not knowing one way or the other.

I'm hoping that as I return to the writing table my own thoughts will become more cogent and that I'll regain some semblance of control over my own experience, but I ask that you understand that if I fail to post it really isn't you, it's me.

Things My Dad Says

In lieu of Friday's entry I bring you a special Fathers' Day bulletin?

To celebrate this day of dads I have decide to share a few kernels of his wisdom. Let me start by saying that everyone loves my dad. The same reasons that my mom yells at him, essentially for still behaving like a child, are the same things that attract people to his warmth, humor, and genuine happiness. I kind of love him. He's taught me a bunch. So now I present to you selected bits of wisdom from my favorite man in the world:

You Can Drive Your Car with Your Feet, But that Don't Make it a Good Idea (actually Chris Rock)

Just because you can do it doesn't mean you should. Nuff said.

Don't Order a Hamburger in a Chinese Restaurant

A narrow metaphor but universally useful piece of advice. You'll have the best experience if you make the most of where you are when you're there and with whoever you're with. Adjust your expectations appropriately. Adjust your behavior appropriately. Make the most of the moment.

Nothing good ever happens after 2 am

I will respectfully disagree with dear papa on this one (maybe if we adjust from old people time we're actually talking like 5 am?) In that case I would remind you that the more alcohol and the less sleep your system is coping with, the less intelligent your decision making will be. This will almost always be a huge mistake. But sometimes a huge mistake (is that what the kids are calling it these days?) is exactly what you need.

In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king

He seriously says this ALL the time. Two part take-away: 1. you should pay attention to people who know more than you. Because they know more than you. 2. Just because someone knows more than you doesn't mean they know everything. Watch out.

Be Quick. Don't Hurry. (this is actually John Wooden)

Safety in numbers! (those numbers specifically being the numbers on the clock indicating time) Be efficient. Don't be reckless. This mantra is as useful when applied to your work ethic as it is when applied to travel.

Don't stuff 10 lb of flour into a 5 lb sack

Thanks Dad! These are the delicately phrased words my father barked at me through childhood warning me to not look like a slut, more specifically a fat one.

Nobody's looking at you

Moving on to adolescence (the full picture of my self-confidence is coming in to focus, I'm sure) this is what my dad kindly reminded me every time I expressed the slightest discontent at my outfit for a bat-mitzvah, Sweet 16, or wedding. Retrospectively, it was a humbling reminder for an active member of the ME generation, but still, the delivery could have been workshopped a bit more. The most useful component of this failure to realize that sometimes I did want people to be looking at me was that it wasn't about me, and it's an important part of life to recognize who it is about and be supportive of them. (Though I maintain that doesn't mean I have to look like shit)

So in closing, thanks for all the advice dad. I hope that the next 22 years loosen some lips and I can find out just how you acquired all your worldly wisdom.
xo your loving daughter

Dear Adults...shut the fuck up

1. For all intensive purposes it's still Wednesday. Don't Shoot.

2. The two pronged reason that a reminder didn't grace your inbox upon waking this morning (still not getting those? Just drop your e-mail in the "I'm Kind of a Can't Miss" box to the right) is that I started studying for the GREs last night and then proceeded to have what I can only assume was a casual panic attack about the impending mediocrity of my life.

3. The fact that I felt as if I was swimming in Jello comprised of my failures and wasted potential is of little to no consequence to y'all, and by y'all I mean the full time employed.

I'm taking the liberty to offer this rant to the gods of employment and misery (who I assume are at least twins if not the same person) on behalf of all those out there who are looking for a job, working at a dead end job, unhappy with the direction of their professional life or who are cleverly staving off these inevitable options by continuing their education. If you don't agree, I don't really care, and here's a secret for you: those gods don't really exist...


Dear Advice Offering, Know it Alls of the realm of full time employment,

Shut the fuck up. I know with certainty that your life is not perfect. That you have not figured it all out. That with the slightest examination you could honestly say you have no regrets or doubts about the way your life has unfolded. If you say I'm wrong I say take a lie detector test and talk to me then.

And I know that pretending like you have all the answers to the defenseless hoards of recent grads is comforting and reassuring to you, but it's also rude. And pretentious. And often hurtful. Please, point to the moment when you figured your whole life out and got all the answers straight?
What's that?
You're still not at that point?
Then as good as your intentions are do me a favor and share your benevolent wisdom with a sea tortoise because I really don't want to waste any more of my precious time listening to all the things I'm doing wrong and have done wrong and should do differently.

I cite my older and wiser sister's insight to point out that when your fellow adults fall on times of unemployment you avoid that topic like the plague. And it's not because your wisdom is any less useful to the previously gainfully employed, it's because it's rude. So why, seriously, someone explain to me, why it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to Salem-Witch-Trial the class of 2013 (and 2012 and 2011 and 2014) on all their admittedly uninformed thoughts and plans and aspirations? Who decided that was OK?

I concede that these unintentionally malicious figures may have something valuable to offer, some shred of experience or wisdom that while it may not offer employment may at least offer comfort in whatever stage you are at now. But I cannot pretend that this possibility is worth being accused by friends and strangers alike as lazy or unintelligent or unskilled or whatever their diagnosis of my unemployment is.

Let's put it this way: your advice hasn't gotten me hired yet, and unless you're the real Salem witch I don't see that changing. And I'm not even looking for a career path job! And yet your narrow minded inability to listen to or value anything that comes out of my mouth stops you from understanding my plan and permits you to correct it. That's so funny, I don't remember handing you a red pen.

So save the criticism for someone who's listening. I'm off seeking advice from people whom I actually respect. Like my friends Mr. Merlot and Ms. Malbec.

With Thoughts of Avoxes Dancing Through My Head,
The Modernist

On The Run

So remember that time I ran away from my life and went on vacation to Hawaii and drove across the country to relocate to my childhood home slash state and completely neglected my e-mail, facebook, and blog? No? Well maybe you didn't realize that's what's been happening for the past 3 weeks,but hazzah! Mystery solved.

Now that my life is an open and aimless book (quite officially) I am lending it some structure. I'll go over this laundry list at some point in the future, but the relevant notification for y'all is that I will be delivering my post pubescent musings and angst thrice weekly: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Watch Out! There's a low flying plane! Just kidding. I meant to watch out for my blog posts.

Some things to look forward to...Why do people (ie adults) think they have it all figured out to the point where they can offer endless advice on life? Let me return the favor... QLC: old name for a new problem... And introducing some hard hitting journalism:Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego? (Because seriously, why haven't we figured it out? Get it together.)

So, for those of you who haven't checked your calendars, you can begin the 48 hour countdown to my return to the blogosphere. Get pumped. ( you don't have to, it was just a suggestion...)

Alumni Status

So I drafted this particular post on the plane en route to Hawaii where I'm vacationing with my familia for the week. I don't know when I'll next have internet access, but I'll do my best to keep you posted on how my emotional state declines over the next few weeks. Bring on the real quarter life crisis.

Yesterday I graduated from college. And while I'm usually a bottomless well of words and epithets, this particular pivot has somehow left me at a complete loss for comprehension. I'm genuinely not sure whether it's denial or whether I'm just unable to process all the implications of this paradigm shift, but either way the nausea and dizziness that I have come to associate with acceptance and reality come in brief  and potent spurts.

And with this state of affairs and the cycles my thoughts run in, I'm convinced that the challenge is not in the changing, but in the leaving. Months of conditioning can easily prepare a grad for the dismal job market or the feelings of uncertainty that accompany the black hole that its my life. I have lists of remedies for the post-collegiate apocalypse, ways to keep my mind sharp; ways to encounter new ideas; ways to maintain a social life in the sticks. But the the thoughts that send me spiraling and the fears I can't quiet have nothing to do with college as a period or as an institution, and even less to do with having to wrap up my time there. They have to do with the people who have become my allies, my enemies, friends, and spirit guides. How do you navigate that change? The unpredictable future of path crossing? How do you answer the most painful question "When will we see each other again?" without breaking down in a family restaurant.

Maybe you can't. Maybe that's how we know people and groups have come to mean something, have come to signify something intrinsic to your existance. Leaving college really is OK. I'm at peace with the four years of fast food, bureaucratic bullshit, and sub-par students. But then again, maybe the real reason I'm ok with that idea and not with the idea of leaving my firends is that I know my University will be here in 1, 17, 43 years. It's not going anywhere. It's not moving. And it would take a skilled and dedicated team of arsonists to burn it to the ground. And the seven grenerations of Trojans that I've had the pleasure of sharing campus with suggest some continuity to the skill and passion of the student body. If there's any shift it's definitely in an upward direction. School is stable, unchanging, (save my departure) and is definitely constant in a way that goes against post grad anxiety of whirlwind change.

My social life can't boast the same continuity. I leave and the infant's nightmare becomes my reality: not seeing it means it has all disappeared. Our separartion is not temporary or imagined but permanent and unavoidable. I close my eyes and its all gone. NOone to grab lunch with or run into at coffee bean or share a glass of wine with at midnight or share war stories of crazy professors with. The opportunities fade immediately and it's not just the rest of the world that sinks but me along with it.

I know the next 12 months, no matter what they bring, will change my social behavior, my sleeping patterns, my standards of acceptability...so perhaps it's unfair to accept anything different from my firends. But that won't stop me from lamenting our communal change, perhaps the only thing we share in our respecive states of isolation.

This mental meandering is really just a long way of saying "damn, it's so fucking hard to say goodbye to the people imbedded in our lives," but maybe that beats the alternative. Then again, says the all-consuming soreness in my heart, maybe it doesn't.

Useless Skills

We learn lots of useful things in college: reading, writing, rithmatic, etc. But survival is also dependent on a set of skills than I suspect, in 48 hours, will become completely irrelevant to my life. Here are a few chart toppers.

1. Deciphering Professors' handwriting
How would we know how we did without these code-breaking status experiences?

2. Knowing what to drink to cure your next day hangover
This will henceforth be referred to as alcoholism

3. How to determine if an outfit of dirty clothing is wearable.
In the real world people may or may not actually wash (and iron!) their clothes

4. How to pack your entire life into a 4x5 storage unit
It's harder than it sounds, and maybe now I'll only be moving at the end of every other year instead of every single May

5. How to pay for a big group meal when no one wants to pay for anything more than what they ate and everyone put in 53 cents for tip and didn't add tax and a person is in the bathroom and another person left early and only left a bus token and the waiter says if you take any longer he's just going to put you to work as a dishwasher for the rest of the month
Split. The Fucking. Check.
Right down the middle.

6. Deciding where to go on a Tuesday night
hahaha, you have work tomorrow!

7. Climbing over people in a lecture hall when you have to go the bathroom or you've finished an exam early
These skills may be transferable to first class airplanes but I really can't think of another space that has that awkwardly sized leg room situation where it's just enough that the person doesn't have to stand but definitely not enough that you can get out comfortably

8. Staying up and mentally alert past 3 am
I'm confidant that I will have little use for this ability and that the lack of practice will have me turning in by ten on the reg

9. Skimming reading for the point
No time limit. You can actually enjoy and CHOOSE the books and articles you're reading

10. Bitching
Sassy complaining is an art form, but doing it when things are actually bad (unemployment, isolation, death, etc) as opposed to fake bad (they gave me a regular instead of a skinny latte, I only got the third highest grade, I had to walk 5 feet because of my parking spot) is in bad taste. The days of bitching are behind you, young graduate.

What Does 2013 Even Mean...

So I've been experiencing a series of frustrations this week. I'll begin by warning you all that this post may be alienating or upsetting or even offensive, but if nothing else it's from the heart. This is how my super liberal self feels.

I attend an elite private university in California. I am about to graduate from the least prestigious of its academic programs, the college of arts and humanities. Which really has nothing to do with what I'm about to talk about. I could have posted about this last Monday, but I think it's literally taken me all week to process what happened and how I felt about it, and it hasn't even directly impacted me. On Saturday night a group of students hosted a house party several blocks north of campus in a perfectly respectable and safe neighborhood in our city. These students happened to be Black. A noise complaint was called in to LAPD (instead of campus police) and two officers came to break up the party. They ushered students out of the house and as the crowd began to surround them in their stream of compliance it appears that theses officers of the law felt unsafe and called for back up.

And back up came.

Back up came in the form of over 70 police officers in riot gear. Back up came in 6 student arrests. Back up came in pepper spray, hate speech, and one of the clearest cases of racial profiling I've lived through. (The white party across the street barely received a second glance). By the end of the night, black was not just something these students happened to be. It was a costly and uncompromising barrier between these students and the undergraduate experience allowed to so many of their classmates.

The shameful component of all of this is how the administration responded. In that they didn't. They didn't support their students, defend their students, or listen to their students. They didn't host an open forum until several days after the incident, and to call the event an open forum is severely misleading. I suppose the business model of this university leaves me disappointed but not necessarily surprised by this lack of response.

Students rallied around the events, pivoting the trauma into an impetus for change. Well...probably about 1500 students did that. This university has 16,000 undergrads.

I think the part of all of this that broke my heart, that challenged my faith in humanity, is how many students remained distant, silent, or disinterested. I have yet to meet a person who is for resegregation or who proudly espouses White superiority (probably because of the uber liberal circles I run in), but it is disappointing to me that 1600 of our generation's alleged brightest minds can't see how racial profiling and unchallenged police brutality are simply the next phase in socially justified segregation. When steryotypes become actions they quickly become habits and policies. So why, in the two thousand and thirteenth year of our lord are we still letting a single aspect of appearance determine so much of our world.

And why aren't people saying anything? Great, African Americans and Latinos stood up for themselves. But where the fuck were the white people? Where the fuck were they? Just because something isn't directly about you doesn't mean it doesn't affect you. Just because you're not the target doesn't mean you don't get schrapnel. And when we refuse to acknowledge what is right, and when we refuse to stand up for it, that's when we abandon democracy and liberalism.

So my call to action is to stand up for you believe in. Whether that's the ability to wear white after labor day or the need for change in the way we conceptualize race lines in this country, figure it out and make your voice heard. Maybe if we act quickly we can be remembered as a generation that gave more than two shits about anything besides apple.

The Gap Year

Not a huge fan of that concept. It's only a gap year to you. Because you don't think that what I do this year matters. Because you think that I'm just waiting for the next thing to happen.

But to me this year is everything. It's the way to determine if all the ways I've improved myself will stick. If I'm done growing. If I'm any closer to being a real person, to being an adult. And just because I haven't shrowded this experiment in the cloak of a fellowship doesn't mean that it means anything less to me. It just means something less to you.

I have lots of plans. Things I couldn't do over the past four years or the past 22 years, some of which I  don't know if I'll ever be able to do again. So allow me to enjoy this moment, this year. It's not a gap or a gutter or time off, it's my life. Let me live it.

What the Fuck Do I Want

This question has been plaguing me for the better part of 96 hours, since a meeting with a professor sent me spiraling into self doubt and uncertainty about my future. A fringe benefit of paralyzing terror regarding the future is some brief clarity regarding what you do want, and hopefully you can turn these things into some sort of cogent answer to the black hole ahead.

1. I want to-do lists to become check lists full of red xs and tally marks. I want to see places and do things that make other people jealous

2. I want to live in other cities and become citizens of other countries and finally belong nowhere at all because my heart is in too many places

3. I want to be a citizen of the world. If ever I meet a person who is bi-lingual I always want to know one of their languages. I don't want to be told what people are saying in films by condescending sub titles, I want to translate for myself. I want to know words in other languages that lack translations and use them to perfectly describe my thrilling life

4. I don't want to lose people. This one is doomed for failure in the same way that we are all inevitably ambling towards headstones but it doesn't make it any less true for me. I don't want to lose friends to petty fights or inconvenience. I want to be the friend that keeps in touch, even across the globe.

5. I want to fall in love. And even if it doesn't work out I want to know that I was capable of loving someone and that he was capable of loving me

6. I want to work with people and listen to their wrong opinions and the poetry of their right answers and clever solutions

7. I want to question myself and challenge myself and improve myself

8. I want two homes. I want an urban oasis with large windows and minimalism and chrome and hard wood where we can only store 4 roles of toilet paper at a time. I want a country escape where I can be reminded of the world before humans got smart and greedy and  built glimmering idols, 97 stories tall, to prove their prowess and competency.

9. I want ice cream. I'd love a better body, and I continue to work for it, but I hope to never be so diet-crazed or food conscious or so ill that I can not enjoy some ice cream.

10. I want no regrets. Whatever choices or mistakes I make, whatever crimes I commit, whatever recognition I receive or whatever trade-offs I make, I want them to be in honest enough pursuits that I can look back and smile, not wince, on my formative years.

and a bonus...

11. I want to be young forever. I don't mean that I want my boobs to stay perky or that I want to be able to do tequila shots without a hangover. I just mean that I hope I am able to continue looking forward, at all that has yet to happen and at all the possibilities in each new stage of my life. And I hope I stay resistant to the idea of stages, and feel free to draw in the lines myself.

The Cinderella Fallacy

From among the battery of lies that Disney brainwashed us with in our youth, this is one of the most frustrating. The commitment to happy endings in that animation studio was upsettingly Utopian and these days the simple elegance of the animation and the sweet songs are only just enough to prevent the stories from ringing completely hollow. But despite their irrelevance to reality, the anti-feminist whims of Disney are part of our cultural catalouges and we must, therefore, confront them.

But it is not Cinderella's inability to complete simple tasks without the assistance of rodents, magic, or men that gets my goat. It is the fairytale's governing principal that when the clock strikes twelve, everything will disappear. That in twelve swings of a pendulum everything we have that brings us joy will taken without cause but with great consequence.

I suppose she didn't work for her gown or glass slippers, but Allah knows she deserved them. And Allah knows she enjoyed them, in the most pure and innocent of ways. So, dear fairy godmother, why taunt her with happiness?  You could have just as easily treated her to a tacky dress from the sales rack at macy's and some worn pumps from the Goodwill. But instead you treat her to the lap of luxury, a jarring experience to be sure, just to rip it away. Rude.

I resent the implication that happiness, that relief from the unpleasantries in our lives, is temporary. Who says? Disney? Well he also wanted a housing development with only Aryans so let's take the guy's advice with a grain of salt. Maybe if we pull a Cindy and wait to be saved that's true. But if we work hard and long and hey, I'm not averse to a dash of good luck, then why shouldn't we be able to shake off the step mothers and step sisters and evil cats in our lives?

Part of Cinderella's cautionary tale is that we should work for it; that gifts can be taken as easily as given. But at this volta in my life the more powerful message is that Disney sucks, and fairytales are bullshit, and if I want it to my happiness can last until 12:15, or 3:15 (I know dad, nothing good ever happens after 1 am). It's really not up to an unwelcome elderly woman or a concerningly mysterious prince (seriously, what's his name?) to determine when my fun is over.

And furthermore, a ripped dress, a little pumpkin mush, and and a lost shoe is not a compelling set of reasons to head home. Lock it up Cindy. Rule #76 - No Excuses. Play Like a Champion.

The Diary Complex

When I hear the word "diary" my mind immediately jumps to the episode of Full House where Stephanie steals DJ's glossy pink, gold plastic locked book of secrets. Diaries are cheesiness to the max, the girliest of all girly pre-pubescent ventures. But I'm concerned that we're letting the outdated nomenclature of such a timeless hobby stop us from pursuing the documentary art of personal note keeping as old as writing itself.

The practice has gone through several make overs. We call it letter writing. We call it journaling. We call it writing. We call it blogging. But by any other name, the captains' logs of our lives remind us of the things we've done, the people we've seen, and how we've felt. One of my favorite Joan Didion quotes, I think it's from Slouching Towards Bethlehem, is this:

“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends.” 

And it's true. If we don't know who we are right now, how will we ever be able to look back with confidence from whence we've come.

My ode to the self narrative is obviously personal. The process of keeping this blog is, I'm pretty certain, the only thing between me and a cliff off the PCH. So whether you share it with the entire world or with a friend in a letter or with the most important person in your little universe (you), do it! Because what greater adventure is there than the journey of finding yourself?

Buenos Suerte Conquistadores

The Uncompromisingly Irreplaceable

Every year on her birthday my mom closes her eyes and wishes for the exact same thing: complete health for my family, my friends, and me. It's really a great wish. The most essential. The least superfluous. I can't quite say that if you have your health you have everything, but if you don't have your health you really have nothing.

Well, yesterday I was similarly reminded of an irreplaceable source of happiness. Friends. Not people or acquaintances or frenemies but honest to god friends. People who are interested in your well being and invested in your happiness and looking out for you when you don't even realize it. There are a million ways to notice a good friend, to realize that they're there for you, but what I've found to be the most effective is to go out and spend a night with perfectly nice, well-intentioned people and discover the absence of any comfort, humor, or conversational spark.

It's really wonderful how easy and effortless your friendships seem afterwards. How easy it is to convey a thought with an eye roll, or know someone well enough to know what they need before they do, or to have someone know what you need and to help you figure it out. And also there's just the comfort of conversation. What better way to spend an evening then nestled in a couch with a glass of wine learning about someone else and learning about yourself. And usually the more people the better, but there is something really lovely about the type of relationship where you can sustain a 4 hour conversation with one person. And there's something even more wonderful about those friendships where silence is truly, genuinely comfortable.

I've been the agnostic equivalent of blessed with the people I have in my life. Both of my parents are only children, so I don't have any aunts, uncles, or cousins, but they valued their friends as their family. It was one of the most important lessons that they didn't consciously teach me: If you love someone, hold on. And I have. I'm still very close with friends from childhood, adolescence, and the teenage years. And that's definitely one of the reasons that I want to spend the next year at home. It's hard being away from them.

Maybe that's part of my discontent with yesterday evening. I don't have a ton of friends from college that I'm dying to hold on to, but I have a small, strong group. And I don't have a blue print for that. I'm afraid that by choosing NY i'll lose everything LA. The friends, the diversity, the food, the person I've become. How do I prevent that? And how do I prevent the worst case scenario, which is Friday nights spent with meaningless relationships for the rest of my life.

I suspect that it's a set of fears that I just have to live irrelevant, prove that it will work and I can have everything I want. Because really, why can't I have everything I want? I have my health. Check. I have friends. Check. Now I just just have to trust the system.

Deep Breath. It's all going to be OK.

The Hardest Thing (and I'm not talking about what she said)

Do you want to know the hardest thing about being a young twenty-something on the epic verge of graduation? When other people are happy.

Seriously, we're all doing fine, commiserating with each other over failures and disappointments and the unlikelihood of our financial independence in the coming calendar year, and then all of a sudden someone gets a job or a fellowship or an apartment or the smallest and least promising of leads and we're de-railed. Snap. Just like that, we're goners.

Because really, how do you expect me to be happy for the competition? Even when they're not my competition, isn't it our duty as the downtrodden of the economy to root for the underdog? To root for the "us," not the "them"? And despite wanting to be happy for friends and acquaintances who are stumbling on success (dare I lend their accomplishments the agency of hard work and achievement) all I can do is add those efforts to my list of failures. No amount of will, passion, or ice cream can sway my emotions toward their favor.

And I don't think I want them to be unhappy. It's not really a "misery loves company" scenario. And I also don't think that getting a job offer or a trust fund would relieve my animosity. So what would? Now that you mention it...nothing. One of the many burdens of the quarter life crisis, I suppose. The perpetual, rippling self doubt associated with any glimmer of success and the insatiable taste for accomplishment seem to be the ying and the yang of my mental state. What a terrible ying and yang.

So what's the solution? How do we make ourselves happy for the people we despise? Fake it till you make it is the obvious solution, and the one I typically adhere to. But I think my new favorite is asking questions that poke holes in the longevity of their success. Like, "What are you doing after your 1 year highly competitive fellowship?" The illusion of interest blended with the satisfaction of masked fury. I think that's as close to a win-win as we get in these situations.

Life Philosophy

I've decide to let you all in on a little secret. Much to the detriment of my blog I've been in a delightful mood for the past several days, which translates to few angsty musings for blog fodder. My apologies. So I thought I'd share my life philosophy. One of the many people who shared their thoughts on my blog with me after my last facebook share was my Pseudo-Aunt (I don't have any real aunts, but I'm pretty content just having her and a few others). And she actually shared something that I whole-heartedly agree with, which is that happiness is a choice. Happiness is totally a choice. And in response to the million counter examples that your brain just automatically racked up, I say calm down. Wait to hear what I have to say. What I mean by "happiness is a choice" is that the world is a mess and we have no control over 99.9983674%  of what happens. Add that will be true whether we choose happiness or not. The roughly .1127436% of the world that we have control over is the way we respond to it. And in that way, happiness is not just a choice. It's the only choice that we have. The choice that affects all other experiences. So choose happiness. Because really, why wouldn't you?

OK, so that's only a part of my life philosophy. More just something that I wholeheartedly believe. Here's my life philosophy. It's an idea that it took me thousands of days, hundreds of failures, and a bit of gut instinct to discover, but now it's a phrase and concept I return to regularly:

be at one with the chaos of the universe

It is a challenge, for sure. But if you can manage it you'll be astounded at how much better your life becomes. At how much easier things seem and how much more elegantly simple or beautifully complex everything begins to appear. Be at one with the chaos of the universe. Accept your lack of control. Roll with the punches. Best laid plans etc. etc. And once you align yourself with the pure chaos that has ushered in the world as we know it you will find that big changes seem smaller and everything seems a little less do or die. So give yourself a break. Embrace the beauty of unpredictability  Choose happiness. Choose chaos. Choose excitement and adventure. Be at one with the chaos of the universe.

Because really, it's never that big of a deal.

The Circle Game

Over the past few weeks I've had several conversations with different people about the idea of graduating college and ending up exactly where we started.

I just want to say that that cycle of thinking is not only destructive but flat out wrong. Really? Even if you had lived in a cardboard box, shut off from the rest of the world, you would still emerge paler and more socially awkward. People change in 4 years. That is the nature of time and air pollution. So consequently, even if we're in the same relative position that we were in 4 years ago (the bottom) it's impossible for us to be in the actual same position. We know more, about ourselves and about the world. We have access to opportunities that we couldn't have dreamed of four years ago. We understand the world differently.

And even if we return to the same geography that we grew up in, It doesn't mean that we suddenly and immediately regress. On some fronts, sure. But you would switch opinions on some things if you went anywhere. The necessity of a winter coat, the appropriateness of taco meat on your pizza, EDM, for just a few examples. We change our minds, and it's ok if we change them back on some of the small things. But I maintain, moving back home does not mean that you become your 18 year old self. Because seriously, if the 18 year old version of yourself is better than your current version in any way besides maybe being more hopeful then my recommendation to you is not to go home but to spend a year in the Australian outback reevaluating how you make life choices. Seriously, just go now. Because moving home is only going to work if you feel comfortable with the person you've become. And you feel comfortable seeking out new opportunities and outlets in your original neck of the woods.

But something that's extremely important to remember is that you do have to change. The next 4 years of your life are not any more static than the last. New experiences and opportunities are going to throw us, and to try to hang on to the exact version of yourself that existed the moment you accept your degree is a dangerous but effective way to prevent yourself from experiencing anything or growing at all. Be open to the newness of the next stage, especially in places we've been before.

The Age Calculator

A dear and brilliant friend of mine turns 22 today. In a rare lull in our conversation yesterday I asked her, awkwardly and out of obligation, how it felt to be 22? Her response was, as always, wise and true.

Like me, and I assume many of you, she stated that she had never really gotten birthdays because they didn't make her feel any different. What? Now I'm 22? great. It's still only been 1 day since yesterday and nothing besides a bar tender's relative perception of my age according to my ID seems to be different. All the big things have stayed the same. So we began talking about all of the things that do contribute to your age, since numbers are so vividly useless. Things like the number of car crashes you've been in, how many times you've lost your job, how often you've moved, how many funerals you've attended, on and on. I realize now that these are mostly negative things. But it got me thinking...how do I measure how old I feel? How should we measure that? So here are some of my thoughts, and I'd love to hear yours! Please comment with any additions, logical or illogical, strange and/or beautiful. I'd love to hear.

Measure: Car Altercations
My Count: 7
Explanation: Tickets. Accidents. Fender Benders. They cost you money and they ruin your day. This is probably the greatest cause of concrete stress in my life. I'm not even that bad of a driver. I follow the laws of the road. I don't speed too badly. I maintain reasonable distances between vehicles and I obey all posted signs. And yet, some combination of my compromised vision and undiagnosed attention disorder have left me with an impossible high count of 7. I think the stress of these moments alone would put them as the most ageing moments of my life, but then there's residual anxiety too! I really just don't love driving. And that's where we're at.

Measure: Stressful Seemingly Life Altering Decisions
My Count: 3
Explanation: I think this is probably the most obvious thing on the list. But whenever you're asking the question "How will this affect the person I want to become?" you know it's a trying decision process. It ages you, but when you make the right choice it also holds the potential to keep you young. So good luck with those.


Measure: Cavities
My Count: I've lost count. 6 maybe?
Explanation: This is not a reflection of bad oral hygiene. I'm a mouth breather, particularly at night. There's only so much I can do. More than any other reason, cavities are on the list because they make me feel dumb. Like, really? You couldn't even brush your teeth well? And because they make me feel immature, not young, just immature. Which is really just the worst combination.


Measure: Times out of the country
My Count: 6?
Explanation: I didn't say countries visited or new cities seen because I wanted to address the emotional and physical preparation of packing your bags, getting on a plane, and flinging yourself warp speed into the unknown. I'm whole heartedly invested in the benefits of travel, for the psyche and the soul, so while this type of travel does the power to age and de-age, I think it actually has the most positive effect. You feel younger at heart but you get more mature. Travel. Just do it.


Measure: Graduations Attended
My Count: 7

Explanation: This is not just about how many time you've graduated, but about how many times those closest to you have given you the opportunity to endure hours of pomp and circumstance. Not only do you lose life matter by making it through these endless ceremonies and their accompanying events, but graduations are a convenient reminder that as we move forward and accomplish more we up the anty. When we have more there's more to lose, more to live up to. #pressure #dontevenworryaboutit #stressisageing

Measure: Cups of Coffee
My Count: 7,302,418 (estimate)

Explanation: For me a cup of coffee is part of a daily routine but it's also a social centerpiece. Let's go grab coffee anyone? This age marker is an indicator of how much time has passed, just because I'm always drinking coffee, and it suggests how many times I've shared a beautiful conversation, or gone adventuring to find some drip in a foreign country, or cuddled up against a window and been equally stimulated by the words on the pages in front of me as the newly ingested caffeine coursing through my veins. Coffee is my drug, social lubricant, energizer of choice.

Measure: Road Trips
My Count: 5

Explanation: I think road trips make us older and younger all at once. They remind us of the excitement of adventure, the joy of the unknown, and they also provide ample time to get lost inside ourselves and grow and move forward more maturely, older and wiser. I've done a few short trips with my mom when I was visiting colleges and a few family vacations on the eastern sea board, but the bigest and best has yet to come. After graduation I'm driving from Los Angeles to New York with mi hermana. @ weeks. A ton of states. Lots of danger-opportunities. Ageing will abound. But if we have to get older, isn't it nice to do it with someone?

Measure: Funerals Attended
My Count: 2

Explanation: Funerals are a big deal. They're upsetting and unsettling and from my perspective the worst part is that it's impossible to offer any comfort to those who have just experienced the greatest loss. I think funerals remind us that we're moving up the list, and we have to make the most of everything while we're still on this side of the grass. Whatever their effect on you, they're still affecting.

Measure: Weddings Attended
My Count: 4

Explanation: Most of those that I'm listing were before I was 7. This one is actually a shout out to one of my favorite people, who is sharing her vows at the end of the summer. I'm SO excited for her wedding. To share in this exciting moment for her, to spend time with friends, to eat, drink, and be merry, all sounds incredible. And while I suspect that 7 weddings from now my emotions may turn bitter, I maintain that I think weddings are going to populate the next decade of my life and are going to present frequent and easy ways to gauge where I'm at in life. Introspection, in my opinion, has a tendency to slide you towards the old end of the age spectrum.

Measure: Glasses of Wine
My Count: Infinite

Explanation: This is my favorite way to measure my age. Glasses of wine are similar to cups of coffee in that I've had them everywhere, with everyone, and in every emotional state possible. No drink has punctuated the ups and downs of my life so aptly. And with this one I'm really not sure if it makes me feel older or younger, but either way it makes me feel happier, more content, and regardless of how I measure my age, I can't really see that being a bad thing.

You are Exactly Where You are Supposed to Be

Warning: Melancholy ahead

You are Exactly Where You are Supposed to Be

There is a moment when this turn of phrase transforms from affirmation to accusation. I discovered it in a state of contentedness. I was at one with the freedom that my future offered. I was pleased with my steadfastness in refusing the conformities of contemporary culture that my peers had so easily fallen prey to.
And then, this evening, when in a fit of self doubt and frustration I came upon it again, it read like a punishment.
No longer did I feel that I was OK in my state of flux. No longer was my plan of aimless wandering acceptable. No longer was I qualified or pleasant or helpful or sane. All at once I understood that my uniquely temporary misery was acute and, worst of all, self inflicted.

The terrible moment when you realize it's all your fault.

It's a double edged samurai sword. I'm critical and hyper aware, which makes me a great problem solver and potentially a valuable detective. But it also tunes me in to emotions, thoughts, and experiences which I don't need to know. And when I do know them I get weighed down with the judgement and criticism. And then I become judgemental and critical. And then I just hate myself more.

I'm not sure what I want to share here. I suppose that this is me admitting that I don't have much of anything figured out. And while it's great to share my life affirming moments with this increasingly diversifying readership, I think it would be a disservice to you and to me if I didn't share the depths of my doubt as well.

Some days I just don't know what I'm doing at all. And I don't know why I'm so unhappy or miserable or unbearable. I don't know how to be happy. And I guess I'm just crossing my fingers and wishing on stars and rubbing rabbits' feet that that's ok. Because I have to admit, I really do want to be happy. Even though I don't seem to be very good at it.

I'm looking for answers, so if anyone has figured it our feel free to share. Compensation available.

Bitch, Please

Over Spring Break I went home and spent the week seeing friends and lounging around my house writing my thesis. There was also a fair amount of Dunkin Donuts Coffee. (literally, my biggest problem with Los Angeles). On Friday night I accompanied my dad to temple as he had his mother's first yahrtzeit (which my computer just tried to correct to "yahtzee," what, is google a secret front for a 1950s country club?). Our Rabbi, who I don't care for in the least, I find him devoid of inspiration, intelligence, and social skills, insisted on a traveler's prayer which dear old dad sold me down the river for. Really, how far is 3K miles? It's a plane. Not the Oregon Trail. Soon after we released from the chamber of rambling a new addition to our synagogue approached me demanding that I clarify where I was going that I had required a blessing, and I replied, begrudgingly, that I was returning for my last semester at USC.
Let me clarify, my begrudgement was not a reflection of dissapointment in it being the end of college. That's an idea that I've pretty much come around to. I was not thrilled with the prospect of the conversation that would inevitably occur between me and this poorly dressed stranger. And despite my greatest efforts at California charm the exchange ended with me saying "And for the year I hope to get a job in writing" to which she, full of the confidence and poise that accompanies a dress sewn in a country that no  longer exists in the eyes of the U.S. government with an even more dated haircut, responded "Well. Good luck with that."

I cock my head. Squint my eyes. And walk away. Who does she think she is? Excuse me, I've never met you. It's clear why you're speaking to me and not someone who could recognize you from past social trauma. Lock it up. You wouldn't say that to someone you knew, so why would you let it stand as a first impression?
I was genuinely taken aback. And it could've been my pre-temple blood orange cosmo (#delicious), but it also could have been the fact that I had become unaccustomed to people being so frankly rude. I took a few things away from the encounter:

1. Never be like that woman
2. ...no, i guess that was it

If you don't get what I'm doing, that's fine. But let me be. It's not your place to offer judgement on my life, just like it's not my place to offer judgement on yours. If you're not on my team, you're not welcome in the stadium. This is practice. Let me figure my shit out before you start offering unsolicited advice. Because just like you're much more than the answer to one deceptively ambiguous question (When was the last time you went shopping?), so am I.

Good Day. I said Good Day!

Sleepaway

Today I'm missing Camp, as I often do when I'm overwhelmed. So, to tide you over until my next real post, here is a speech I delivered at one of the final camp gatherings of the summer (and of my time there, 8 years as a camper and 5 years as staff). Whether or not you had the pleasure of going to camp, I hope you find something familiar in this ode that helps explain your relationship to the people and places that have helped you grow up and become all the things that you like about yourself. I introduced it as a love letter, and read verbatim from there:

Dear Camp,

Let’s start at the end.

As a Golan camper I felt the end of camper days drawing oppressively near. It was in the dining hall on the last day of camp. I was wearing my “I heart brussel sprouts” t-shirt and standing between Paige and Blaire and across from Shauna and our whole bunk was standing between the salad bar and our table singing at the top of our lungs. This was before ‘home away from home’ and our dining hall revelry usually consisted of build me up buttercup, wonderwall, and the circle game, so I can only assume that’s what we were singing. But I remember it perfectly otherwise. I remember that I stood there grinning ear to ear, overwhelmed by the magic of camp spirit and friendship and by the idea that if someone had offered postponing the rest of my life indefinitely to live in that single moment forever I would have done it in a heart beat. And I remember crying, tears streaming as I sang, because I knew that as much as I wished it so, that moment, like my summer, and like camp, would have to come to an end.

It wouldn’t be fair to say that every valuable experience I’ve had has been at camp. I skipped TAC 2 to spend 5 weeks working on an archeological dig in Israel. I carved out the middle three weeks of TAC 1 to volunteer for the National Parks of the Galapagos Islands. I decided to go to school 3,000 miles from home in Los Angeles and then decided to go even further, to an iconicly tumultuous European country to study abroad for a semester. All of these adventures helped me discover parts of myself that I never would have know if I hadn’t leapt off the edge of my comfort zone. But what I can say with absolute steadfast certainty is that it was my time with you, camp, that prepared me for each of these experiences.

Camp, you are the place that taught me how to be a good friend, how to be a good listener. You taught me to be adventurous, open, understanding, and accepting of difference. You affirmed and encouraged my independence while I built lifelong friendships with the girls around me. You taught me skills ranging from box stitch to shot put and taught that it was ok to try and fail as long as you sincerely tried. You taught me what it felt like to love and to be loved and be appreciated and be valued. You taught me the meaning of community. You taught me that home isn’t your return address it’s wherever there’s somewhere waiting for you to return. You taught me that if you love yourself everything else will fall into place. And that if you have the courage to try that the support will always follow. You taught me the moving power of friendship. Camp friendship is not just about having someone to laugh with or having someone to call, it’s about the unique experience of feeling truly connected to the world. Camp is the place you can never be alone. And for better or worse that means that camp is the one place and one experience where I have felt the most connected, the most comfortable, and the most loved.

I can’t say with certainty that I’ll never feel this way at any other point in time or with any other group of people, but I can say that what was once 10 for 2 (waiting ten months for 2 at camp) has evolved into 2 for 10 (spending 2 months at camp to give me the confidence, support, and energy I need to go out and live my life).

One day very soon this is going to evolve into a 13 for life situation. And by that I mean that one day soon I’m going to have to say goodbye, and the lessons I’ve learned over the 24 months I’ve been here are going to have to be enough. Camp, you have prepared me to succeed in every realm of life. You’ve taught me how to work hard, how to make the best of any situation, how to make new friends, keep old ones, and treat people well. You’ve taught me how to push myself and trust myself. And the time is fast approaching that I’ll have to put that preparation to good use.

I agree with the words of my camp bible, “Sleepaway”: Camp is more than a place, it’s a feeling. But in the same way that I don’t only feel loved on Valentine’s day or only feel full on Thanksgiving, I don’t only feel camp when I’m at camp. Whenever I feel myself getting closer to a new friend or taking a risk or challenging myself or saying the camp hamotzi at Friday night dinner with my family or singing along to wonderwall on the radio I feel you camp. I get goose bumps and I smile and my eyes burn and my stomach turns and my chest tightens because while everything reminds me of this summer splendor, nothing ever quite compares. You are always with me, but there is a constant nagging pain that I can’t always be with you.

I’m writing you this letter to thank you more than anything else. You have given me everything. I am certain of so few things in this world. I am certain that beauty can be found anywhere. I am certain that the universe is unpredictably chaotic. And I am certain that meaning in life comes from the people we share it with. I thank you and I love you for bringing meaning to my life. You won’t always be with me, but my camp friends will, and I know that whenever we’re together and we talk about our lives we will always return to the days we spent together here, under your canopy of trees, with your lake breeze, and we’ll smile and sigh at the magic that brought us together and made us into the women we will become. And for that magic, a million thank yous will never suffice.

Love, forever and always

Mixed Tape - Installment Uno

I'm not sure which mix nomenclature is appropriately outdated, but I settled on mix tape because it is from just before my adolescence. Today, I wanted to share with you the first group of 20 songs that capture the essence of what my life feels like right now. Future lists may include 20 emotional songs to wallow with, 20 songs to drive with, but these are the songs that, when I feel overwhelmed by life, make me feel like it could all be OK. Here are the first 5. Now go dance. (not to these, they're all pretty slow, but to something else).

Fun - Some Nights Intro

#anthem

Frank Turner - Four Simple Words

Enjoy the moment with this punk-folk-rock ditty

Adele (and Glee) - Rumor Has It and SOmeone Like You

This mash-up is fabulous. It's bold and fierce and I love it. Y'know what? Shit happens. Don't cry. Do something kick-ass.

Mumford and Sons - Lover of the Light

I just love mumf and I especially love this song. Enjoy the here and the now. Look forward with positivity. And how elegantly simple: I'll be yours if you'll be mine. Maybe it's that easy.

Sara Bareilles - Once Upon Another Time

Classic S.B. This is an easy pick me up that reminds me it's not all over.

Caveat: Never have I ever pretended to be some sort of music guru. I know very little. I can express even less. This is just what makes me happy. I hope it makes you happy too.

The Apartment Period

Here's a puzzle for you:

What do Carrie Bradshaw, Hannah Horvath, and Jane NoLastName from 27 dresses have in common? (Besides, of course, their varying degrees of despairing singularity, their gender, and, incidentally, their geographic location...)

That's right! They all have absurdly fabulous apartments.

As if by magic they have all managed adorable little dwellings in the urban jungle which provide spacious stomping grounds for them to explore their independence, sexuality, and wardrobe. Beyond the utter irrationality of them affording these apartments with their slave labor professions there is an important message about the American (20-something) dream.

Once upon a time it was the expectation that you did or didn't go to school and then you used that time to court a future spouse, nail em down, marry em, and go on living happily ever after (or until divorce was popularized as an alternative to prolonged misery). But now...the 20-something dream has evolved. The vision of perfection includes me-time, self exploration, orienting oneself towards a career, building relationships outside of your future marriage, and what does a young 20 something need to realize these exploratory,experimental dreams? A fabulous apartment of course.

An apartment is no longer a stepping stone to a house in the burbs or a decadent status symbol for the highly cultured elite; it is a cupboard-under-the-stairs sized backdrop to a  period in a young chica's life (or chico's, I suppose, but  then my mind just wants to call it a bachelor pad) when all that matters is finding yourself. But, to be honest, my inner feminist conscious is a little concerned that these intensely valuable exercises in self development are a moderately well veiled attempt to figure our own shit out before moving into the big, final, will-be-the-real-thing relationships. We're trying to make ourselves less of a mess (a challenge that I suspect will be a huge part of my life, for the rest of my life) to make ourselves more desirable.

And I have two huge issues with that:

1. Do it for yourself! The "self" in self improvement isn't just referring to the person doing the work, it's referring to the person reaping the benefits. Improve yourself so that you can do more, be more, feel more. And part of that is opening yourself up to the world and the people in it, but part of that is also opening up new parts of yourself.

2. I want to spend my life with someone who can help me wade through my shit. How will I know if they're up to the task if they don't help me? In the least manipulative way possible, it's the ultimate test.

The apartment era of your life is about finding yourself on your own, but if you're completely on your own it will be pointless. I know for me the hardest form of courage is social courage, or being willing to open myself up and let other in, to trust, to receive, but you have to be learning that for yourself, not for someone else, or you'll risk it meaning nothing at all.

So let's enjoy the apartment period. Especially if it comes after having moved home. Amirite?

Goodnight, Room

In a series of incredible decisions, I elected to let my parents repaint my childhood bedroom during my last semester of college. I'll share some details to give you a better concept of the gravity of this decision.

First, I take full responsibility. I did it to avoid the emotional trauma of taking down 13 years worth of inspirational Keds ads, class pictures, ticket stubs, and other such paraphernalia of a Manhattan-adjacent adolescence.

And yet, shocker, it turns out that is still quite emotional.

Back to those enlightening details I promised you...I am a loner by nature. I'm actually very social by nature, but that sociability is dependent on a set period of me-time within given time frames. Week. Day. What have you. But in my suburban paradise that place was my room. I loved my room. I spent a shit ton of time there. I read books in bed and did projects on my floor and in the winter I would read books for school next to my space heater and nod off as a combined result of exhaustion and fumes from the aforementioned space heater.

It used to be a heinous pink, because when we moved into the house either my mother or I was operating under the assumption that I was a girl and would therefore love pink. I have disdained pink ever since. But after several years of pleading, when I finally wet away to camp for the summer, I returned to a room that was befittingly wild. A royal blue carpet let loose six different wall shades which were capped with a cerulean ceiling. Lime Green. Sunshine Yellow. Salmon. Deep blue. Aqua. Rose. But the colors became irrelevant as my mind moved at break neck speeds over the next few years to cover my walls with collages, playbills, bands, posters, projects, and pictures from every trip and experience I had. Handmade cups and game boards became homes for pens and my grandmother's old jewelry. I acquired books and t-shirts and hand bags and books and by the time I graduated high school my room was a perfect candidate for that MTV game show. It captured perfectly who I was.

I actually haven't spent more than 4 consecutive weeks at home since graduating high school, and I haven't spent a summer there since before 11th grade. So as I prepare to relocate back to the east coast in my post-graduation spiral, I am made especially nostalgic by the idea of being back in my own room. And I am irrationally undone at the thought of it no longer being mine. I know we all have to grow up and parents move out of houses, and we donate clothes and books and bras...but what I haven't shared (at least not explicitly) is that at the forefront of my irrationality is my sentimentality. I've gotten better at ending things and leaving things, but sometimes a wrench gets thrown in, and the change makes you as miserable as ever.

I suppose it's possible and you're probably insistent that my nostalgia for my multi-colored tornado of a collage that I call my bedroom is merely a metaphor for the waves of change my life has already begun to undergo. But this time, I think it might actually just be my room. Not "just," I mean it's solely about my room. It's about the person I was allowed to be there, the person it set me up to become, and all the less desirable versions of myself that died between phone conversations and replays of Rent and journal pages and America's Next Top Model marathons. It's about having the choice, and looking back and feeling you've made some right ones.

And no place, whether it remains the same color or not, will ever witness such evolution in my life.
So let us bow our heads for a moment in memory of what was, and raise a glass to what might be.

Let me tell you, this time around, there will be coasters for wine glasses.

I am...SO sorry

This is my grand romantic gesture: I apologize for my absences, I regret having led one or more of my beautiful audience to believe that I had died in some tragic margarita mystery accident, and I vow to make it up to you with lots of opinions that you may or may not like on this funny thing called life. Prepare Yourself... here it comes

It's Vegas, Betches!!!

So this weekend I went to Vegas. I go to school in Los Angeles and since I'm graduating in a matter of months (weeks sounds too intense here) I thought it was high time that I see what all the hype was about. My experience was unique because it was for a friend's birthday and her dad got us two suites at the Cosmopolitan, so I was definitely a little spoiled. But here's the good, the bad, and the ugly:

The Good:
Damn. There be some good food. It's expensive and disorientingly large in quantity, but hands down, the best part of my weekend (besides indulgent day drinking) was the food. I had some of the best chicken pot pie that I've ever had the pleasure of consuming, accompanied by a Mambo Italiano, which is a delightfully spiced Bloody Mary. Boom. I had $5 Margs on national margarita day. I indulged in the $50 buffet (line jump and bottomless mimosas included) which gave me a southern comfort course, a breakfast plate, an asian italian fusion (or so I have dubbed the combined plating of garlic bread and cucumber-avacado sushi rolls), and desert tasting. Juicy Fried Chicken. Creamy Mashed Potatoes. Perfectly Flavored Green Beans. Succulent Stuffed french toast. Fresh fruit. Rich Gelatto. Mini pockets of perfect Tiramisu. Mini Pecan Pies. Later on we got street tacos and finished the weekend with some delectable sandwiches. Leave it at this: Gluttony is my favorite of all the sins of sin city.
I should also give a shout out to dancing. Which was incredibly fun, especially at Surrender.

The Bad:
The best advice I could give you about going to Vegas is keeping the group small. I think, depending on your level of closeness, 3 or 4 is perfect. You'll all fit in one room. You can easily break into pairs. You can be really honest about what you want, do that thing, and easily stay in communication with all members of your party. I was there with 8, which is approximately double my recommendation. Keep it small. Keep it easy. Keep it fun. I whole heartedly believe in the "go big or go home" philosophy, but not when it comes to Vegas group size. May you avoid the anger, frustration, and passive aggression that plagued my Vegas adventures.

The Ugly:
People are SOOO mean. I think that everyone has spent a lot of money. To get there. To stay there. To gamble there. To drink there. To eat there. And because humans are apparently incapable of understanding what other people experience, particularly when they're shwasted on 64 oz of margaritas, they act obscenely towards others. I got cut off, pushed, spilled on, yelled at, and called out in just one night more than I have in the rest of my life combined. And it didn't end when I left! There was a white lexus SUV full of girls coming from Vegas (complete with "Party On Board" stickers. vomit.) who were literally ALL texting at a red light. When they looked up to notice that I had started to pull into their lane the driver honked, pursed her lips, and shook her head at me like I was an infant trying to lick a live outlet. Fuck You. Another girl, at the casino, trying to pull her friend away from my friend, shouted, "Come on! Leave the fucking grenades, let's go!" (for those of you who are as unfamiliar with MTV's television stylings as I am, a "grenade is a terrible term pulled from the set of Jersey Shore which means a girl who you would hook up with only to wake up sober and realize that she's hideous and a terrible human being). Great. Really killing it Vegas.

The whole experience raised one of the not-at-all-timeless conundrums of the twenty something's life style: At what expense am I forcing myself to be young, wild, and free? Because really, at the end of the day, wouldn't I have been happier hitting up an awesome club in LA (a probable small downgrade from Surrender and Marquee) and spending a night watching Arrested Development with my friends? I return to a valuable mantra: You do YOU. Don't try to be someone else. Don't go on trips or do things just because you're supposed to. Because guess what. The worst way to waste your twenties is by being miserable, waiting to do do things you want to do, or waiting for something better to come along. Get the giant margarita, but only if it's what you want. Do things on your terms. Try new things, because there's usually an implicit level of fun in the novelty, but don't force yourself to repeat frustrating things just because there supposed to be fun. If Vegas exists to teach us a lesson it is not a warning against over indulgence, it's a warning against indulging in what we're supposed to want. You do you. The rest will follow.

Peace Out Betches (More posts in the coming days, I promise.)