Ode to a Bunny

In all honesty, there was always something slightly more magical about the Easter Bunny than Santa Claus. I'll admit that the idea of a rabbit going door-to-door giving out gift baskets seemed even more outrageous than a fat man squeezing down a chimney. A thick cloud of mystery surrounded E.B. even more than S.C.:

1) How big was the bunny-- pet-sized or human-sized?
2) Did the Easter Bunny speak, or simply make cute rabbit noises?
3) Girl or boy bunny? The option was open.
4) Could E.B. disappear into thin air? (and subsequently reappear)
5) Why did my cousins always get video games in their Easter baskets?

Snug as a bug in a rug. Err, bun in an egg.

These questions had no definite answers, but it didn't really matter. I envisioned the Easter Bunny as a 4-foot-tall, gender-ambiguous talking rabbit that could appear at will and had an infinite supply of chocolate items hidden under its ears (when you don't have a sleigh with reindeer, what else can you do?) who lived in a giant egg (far superior to Old Mother Hubbard, who lived in a shoe). That's my Easter Bunny, who exists deep in the back of my childhood memory pile, and I still enjoy the colorful quirkiness and total absurdity of it all.

Hoppy Easter, peeps.

Greetings from a Last Minute Holiday Shopper

When I was a kid, the road to Christmas was long and winding. Weeks of buildup and anticipation felt more like years. All that waiting and waiting and waiting for the grand day of new games, toys and stuffed creatures. (Enter 90's classics such as Doodle Bear, Mr. Bucket, and Fetch Armstrong.)

Nowadays, December goes by in the blink of an eye. All of sudden it's almost Christmas Eve and I'm only just getting around to that shopping list. It's not even a long list, either. Just ask all three of its members.

Come to think of it, I will never be one of those people who gets their shopping done weeks or months in advance. On November 1st, I'm still carving pumpkins and drinking apple cider, thank you very much. Christmas shopping is for Christmas Eve Eve. And if that moniker sounds a bit excessive-- hey, isn't that what Christmas is all about? (I've eaten an excessive number of two-bite cupcakes at the office all month long.)

As for writing one of those long, uber-introspective nostalgic holiday entries-- meh. Did that last year.

What I'm most excited about this year is spending Christmas Eve with my significant other. After three years of dating and three Christmases apart, it's our first one together and it's all I really need. Forget about the iPad and yes, even the pony.

(OK, maybe I still want the pony.)

But seriously, what the hell happened in 2010? This Christmas snuck up on me. I ain't ready. Anyone else feel the same?

Oh well, there's no looking back now. On with decking the halls, jingling bells and rockin' around the tree.

All I want for Christmas is...

...You. Just kidding! A MacBook.

 

Eh, a bit pricey.

Something more realistic? A Kindle.

Or maybe I'll go with the Nook. Or a Kobo. Gah. Who can decide?

OK, I can settle for the Parks & Recreation Season 2 DVD.

Actually, I may or may not have already bought that as an early Christmas gift to myself.

I guess I'll stick with a good old fashioned pony.

Works for me.

22 on 22

Tomorrow, April 23rd, is my 23rd birthday. Which means that today, April 22nd, is my last day being 22. (Such perfect number synchronization!)

The past twelve months of my life have whizzed by. True, some days at the office moved more slowly than the last bits of maple syrup dripping down the sides of the Aunt Jemima container. But for the most part, I can hardly believe it's nearly been a full year since I blew out the candle on a complimentary pastry at Fellini's with a dozen of my college friends in Ardmore, PA.

As I approach 23, I'm wishing for a year that's happy, healthy, and gives me a bit more life direction than 22 did. Also, it'd be nice to prove Blink-182 wrong ("Nobody likes you when you're 23" - What's My Age Again?). I actually like the sound of 23 more than 22, if that makes any sense. Then again, I'm probably biased.

Drawing inspiration from a post in list form that my other half wrote for New Year's Eve (check her out at http://lunatic-lover-poet.blogspot.com/), I compiled 22 significant things I've done since my 22nd birthday. While I'm not exactly a career woman rolling in the dough just yet, this blogger has gotten through a decent Year One in the real world and come out still standing, and that's good enough for me. Here we go.

1) I finished my thesis on language
2) I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time
3) I graduated college with 2 degrees
4) I started a blog
5) I went to VT, AC and DC
6) I received a student leadership award
7) I applied to jobs
8) I learned to cook more than just macaroni & cheese
9) I read 10 books for leisure
10) I got hired
11) I survived 32 days without seeing my girlfriend
12) I ate a meal in pitch-black darkness
13) I took a private writing class
14) I saw 3 Broadway shows and 2 concerts
15) I hosted a party
16) I started paying off my loans ($49,000 to go...)
17) I danced in the snow in a bikini
18) I filed a tax return
19) I traveled between NY and Philly more times than I can count
20) I made friends with co-workers
21) I joined a book club
22) I celebrated 2, then 2 1/2 years with the one I love

Quelle année. Here's to what's to come.

A Happy Birthday, to Two of the Best

On this day, March 25, my father and grandmother share a birthday. Dad is 53; Grandma is 91.

(I can't allow the above sentence stand alone without adding that not only is Grandma 91-- she lives and functions totally on her own, as she has been for the past 25 years. Her secret? I'm convinced it has something to do with daily crossword puzzles and Smart Balance cheese slices, and can only hope that I'll be blessed with a life that's just as long and healthy.)

As a child, I just couldn't fathom the concept of having to share a birthday with a parent or sibling. To my understanding, a birthday was essentially a free pass for all eyes to be on you and you alone-- a day that should be milked for all its worth in terms of presents, toys, sweets, hugs, kisses, etc. In comparison to such an intensely special All-About-Me Day, who could ever settle for All-About-Us?

Of course, I didn't quite take hold of the fact that my father had no say in the matter regarding what day he should be born on. For him, sharing his birthday with my grandmother was simply the way things were, a day that wasn't any less special. And for her, of course, my father was the ultimate birthday gift. I, for one, cannot imagine the physical act of giving birth on one's birthday, but not everyone can exchange candles and cake for a hospital room like my grandmother did.

It's hard to articulate in words what two of the most important people in my life mean to me without getting too sappy. My thoughts almost instantly turn to childhood. You can tell a grandmother loves you when she's willing to knit clothes for your stuffed animals, including a full winter outfit for Hoppy the rabbit: sweater, hat, scarf, and legwarmers (only the scarf remains). And somehow, my father made group trips to the library with my brothers just as fun as getting a push from him on the tire swing at Neck Road Park. Who knows where this blogger would be if that love of literature hadn't been cultivated so early with Spot the Dog books?

It's impossible to tell, but one thing's for sure: without them, there'd be no me.

Happy birthday, Dad & Grandma.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

La fella what? The tongue twister of a title above is actually Irish for "Saint Patrick's Day." I won't even attempt to pronounce it; the little bit of Gaelic I picked up on in Dr. Murphy's Irish Lit class at Villanova seemed to have gone out the window. Sorry, Murph.

The last time I formally wrote about St. Paddy's was two years ago for The Villanovan (accessible at http://www.villanovan.com/2.7324/black-an-official-day-to-be-irish-1.1021001), when I was just a month away from turning 21. By that point in the year a substantial portion of my fellow juniors had already experienced that sacred rite of passage. While they giddily ran off to the Main Line bars, I had to contain my festivities to West Campus-- which turned out to be a blast anyway, thanks to a last-minute karaoke party in my apartment. But, oh, how frustrating it was to be a college student so close to the promised land of legality, yet so far.

And so, last year, at the ripe age of 21-almost-22, I finally spent St. Patrick's Day at a bar. Or rather, several bars. That long Tuesday night began at Brownies, an Ardmore establishment usually frequented by the Villanova crowd on Wendesday and Friday nights-- which explains why my friends and I turned out to be the only college students who showed up. The look of horror on our faces upon entercountering cougars in too-tight jeans and beer-bellied men wearing shirts that read "Kiss Me" was too much to handle. We concluded that Brownies' marketing strategy for their St. Paddy's party had been a total failure to the college crowd (but a whopping success to anyone over 40), leaving after a mere hour. On the flip side, we walked out with free mugs and Jack Daniels hats, and free stuff, no matter how kitschy it may be, always makes everything better.

We ended up back at our usual evening hangout, Erin Pub. It was wildly, almost unbelievably crowded, so packed that you had to wriggle like an earthworm through the hordes of bodies to get within visual distance of the bartenders-- but the euphoric atmosphere completely made up for it. Dropkick Murphys music blared on the speakers; friends posed for photo opps; glasses were clinked left and right. The mood was so festive that it was as if the entire senior class (or at least its most fun/interesting members) had just experienced a Friday, snow day, and Christmas all at once. St. Paddy's exemplified just what Erin's was: good people, good prices, good nights.

Part of what I'll miss about Villanova is how enjoyable St. Patrick's Day was each and every year I was there. Granted, it was all about copious alcohol consumption, but I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be right now as I sit at my cubicle typing this. Throughout my years in the NYC public school system, us Irish kids were few and far between, more commonly found attending Catholic schools (my middle and high schools were both primarily populated with Asian and Jewish students). While I ultimately embraced my minority status as something special, it was refreshing to spend my college years at a place where St. Paddy's was celebrated to the fullest.

Tonight in New York City (can't complain that I happen to live in one of the nation's most historically Irish hubs), I'll be raising my glass to those Main Line shenanigans of the past. And hopefully, maybe a trip to the Emerald Isle in the not-too-distant future.

Pre-Christmas Reflections

Is it really almost Christmas already? I think I say that every year. Honestly though, the past few weeks have whizzed right by. And I'm also at the point where I can say that the past few years seem to have whizzed right by, too. Just in case you haven't picked up on it yet in any of these posts, I am one of the most secretly sentimental 22-year-olds I know. Fittingly so, I find it nearly impossible not to be in a near-constant reminiscing state of mind-- especially on Christmas. (I wonder whether my tendency to over-analyze and over-sentimentalize everything in painstaking detail is the the mark of a writer's mind, or insanity. Or both.)

I remember my childhood Chrismases pretty fondly like anybody would. They had all the right elements: presents under the tree, seeing [almost] all of my cousins, endless amounts of chocolate, etc. Indeed, Christmas is experienced in its purest form when we're children, when it consists only of toys, food, and fun. There's no stress or drama yet; that privilege is reserved for the adults (unless you're like Charlie Brown: wise beyond your years).

But of course, when the obligations and conflicts that the holidays create start piling up, the pure joy gets slowly filtered out. That's what happened as I got older-- much of the magic started to disappear. Like any child on the verge of adolescence, I lost my faith in Santa Claus, realizing that Christmas presents were not mysterious gifts from the North Pole, but the direct result of my parents' hard work and everyday sacrifices.

Coupled with that was my falling away from the Church. It became harder to sing songs like "O Holy Night" at Mass when I couldn't appreciate them on a deeper religious level like I was supposed to. I wish I was more of a believer, not because I'm "supposed to" (thank goodness my family doesn't force religion upon any of us), but because I'd probably get more out of Christmas. (I'm not a full-out atheist, but I'm doubtful that God exists, if that makes any sense.)

But hey now, don't get any ideas-- I promise I'm no Scrooge. If anything, all of us are surrounded by Scrooges these days, what with the neverending talk of the recession and uncertain times. Life isn't easy, but I'm just grateful that my family and friends are alive and okay. We have a roof over our heads. My parents still have their jobs. I have a job. Life is tough, but at least we have life. That might seem like a 52-year-old's way of looking at the world rather than a 22-year-old, but I guess I'm an old fogey.

Most importantly, I don't need dozens of glittery, sparkly presents to enjoy myself, or else I'd be buying into the whole holiday sham. I see through the facade of our gift-obsessed culture and I refuse to get lost in it. I do like getting gifts-- who doesn't?-- but I don't need a gift to verify Christmas (and I'd much rather give them). That might sound hopelessly cliche, but a lot of people still don't get that.

Recent years have also brightened my holiday season like never before, ever since being lucky enough to share it with someone special in my life. Some of my favorite memories of our relationship are from Christmas activities and events that we experienced together: making gingerbread houses in the Italian Kitchen at Villanova, visiting the Rockefeller tree, attending and hosting holiday theme parties. "Merry Christmas Darling" by the Carpenters sums up my feelings pretty accurately at the moment:

I've just one wish
On this Christmas Eve
I wish I were with you
I wish I were with you.

I never thought twice about all those melancholy Christmas songs until I was in love, of course. And yet the hurt of missing a significant other is also something to be grateful about-- I'd rather have her to miss than no one at all. But for now, I'll have to be content with listening to the Chipmunks' "Christmas Don't Be Late," making a vanilla pudding pie, and putting up a few last decorations with my mother. Merry Christmas, readers.

Christmas Songs: The Kookier, The Better

It's the holiday season, and you know what that means. Chesnuts roasting on an open fire? Herald angels singing? Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men?

I wish. The holidays are perhaps best defined by the well-known fact that Christmas tunes are played out to no end on the radio for a period ranging anywhere from 4-6 weeks. New York City's own 106.7 Lite FM "got an early jump this year" (they proudly said it themselves) by beginning the musical showcase just a few days before Thanksgiving. Not surprisingly, at this point I've nearly memorized Lite FM's entire Christmas playlist, since the radio remains my faithful companion throughout the workweek.

Thus, being an amateur expert of holiday music (translation: having been exposed to the same songs over and over again in an endless, sugary loop), I've come to notice an interesting pattern: Christmas songs are weird. On the surface level, the predictability and innocence of our favorite holiday hits is comfortably mundane. However, a closer listen to the lyrics reveals some serious "WTF?" moments. Let me care to elaborate.

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," Andy Williams

Mr. Williams' version of this song is, in this blogger's opinion, the #1 most overplayed Christmas song of all time. The third stanza is composed as follows:

There'll be parties for hosting / Marshmallows for toasting / And caroling out in the snow / There'll be scary ghost stories / And tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago

Ghost stories? I'm sorry, what? I don't know about you, but if I had tried scaring my younger siblings and cousins with spooky tales of the macabre before sitting down to dinner, then I would've received an ass-whooping. Let's save the ghost stories for Halloween, people. (Except A Christmas Carol. Dickens, you're excused... this time.)

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town"

Typical happy, jolly holiday fare, right? Wrong. Who can forget this iconic line:

He sees you when you're sleeping / He knows when you're awake / He knows if you've been bad or good / So be good for goodness sake!

With these words, Santa Claus is officially outed as the world's most talented stalker. Furthermore, one couldn't possibly be good for goodness's sake while knowing that Santa remains ever-vigilant. Good luck falling asleep tonight, kids.

"Christmas Tree," Lady Gaga
Okay, maybe this one isn't a classic (yet). But there's just too much pleasure in listening to Gaga make no effort to be discreet in her innuendo-filled Christmas number (and too much pleasure in me getting to write about it).

Light me up put me on top, let's falalalalalalalala

Unless the star or angel atop the tree is actually talking to us, I believe something highly sexual is going on here, and it doesn't involve caroling.

Ho ho ho, under the mistletoe / Yes, everybody knows / We will take off our clothes / Yes, if you want us to we will

Like I always said, nudity and Christmas go together like peanut butter and sushi.

You, oh, oh, a Christmas / My Christmas tree is delicious / Oh, oh, a Christmas / My Christmas tree is delicious

Personally, I've never tasted a Christmas tree before, nor do I know anyone who has (unless we are referring to my grandmother's delicious tree-shaped sugar cookies). Therefore, I can only conclude that it is a metaphor for the female ge-- oh, you know.


These are some of the wackier moments in holiday song history, and they're just a few of many. Now if you'll excuse me, the responsibilities of adulthood and Gloria Estefan's spicy rendition of "Let it Snow" on Lite FM await me.

(Feel free to add your own kooky holiday lyrics in the Comments section.)

Missing the Rush

It's hard to believe that an entire semester at my alma mater has come and gone without me being there to experience it. My girlfriend, also a recent graduate, likens the beginnings of post-grad living to an ongoing summer vacation, minus the blisfully warm weather of course.

According to many frantic Facebook and Twitter updates from my undergrad friends, today is Reading Day at Villanova. Reading Day is the sacred, lone free day in between the last day of classes and the first day of final exam week that students are given to use or abuse at their own will.

While I've always considered myself a pretty serious student, I can confess without shame that I was never really the type to utilize Reading Day to its full potential. Rather than waking up at 7 AM and squeezing my brain dry all day long in front of my laptop, I instead chose to treat Reading Day like any college Sunday: sleep late. Eat an intensely satisfying breakfast at noon. Think about the workload that lies ahead for a few hours before finally hauling it over to the library. Chat with fellow library prisoners. Buy a snack. Sit down and get to work. By the time all of that is said and done, it's already 10:00 PM. Crap. Perhaps this wasn't the smartest or most responsible way to go, but it's how I worked.

Who knew that it'd all be over one day? Of course I knew, but it just seemed so far off in the distance back when I was gulping down cans of Redbull while cramming mozzarella sticks down my throat in an effort to produce a history paper as a solitary, sleep-deprived sophomore. My study habits vastly improved during junior & senior year when I finally realized that working in one's dorm room or apartment is not conducive to productivity in the slightest. Thus, the library became my place of both solace and socialization, and perhaps that's why I miss it so much.

Yes, I said it. And I know what you may be thinking: What kind of weirdo would honestly miss the sterility of fluorescent lights, the graffiti etched into the wood of decades-old cubicles, and the feeling of being doomed to a finals week-related death? Well, I definitely don't miss those things. And I cerainly don't lament the loss of agonizing over each and every word of whatever essay or article I'm in the midst of composing, because, well, I still do that. Oops.

What I find myself strangely feeling a fondness for is the all-out "rush" of the end of a semester. Sure, bitching and moaning about your workload sucks, but it's lot more bearable when you can do it as a collective unit. The shared sleeplessness and suffering caused by a 10-page English paper also brought about feelings of comraderie amongst classmates. We were all such different students and individuals, but for at least a few days (or weeks) we all stood on common ground. Working on an assignment took on a kind of epic meaning, with everyone up against "The Man" that was Academia. Some of my best work was churned out during the last days of a semester, and some of the best discussions I ever had at school took place then too: in the 24-hour library lounge at 5 AM, just when the birds began to chirp, and when consciousness became increasingly ambiguous.

And how sweet it felt to be finished with it all! Clicking the print button, stapling a paper together, and bolting with it flapping in my hands against the wind to a class halfway across campus about to begin in thirty seconds is something I'll never have back again. Knowing that I would soon be traveling back home to New York to a decorated apartment and a family eager to see me was a comforting thought-turned-soon-to-be-reality as well. In short, surviving the rush made Christmas and winter break all the merrier.

Is it true that we always want what we don't have? I don't want to believe that. But as grateful as I am to have a decent job, loving family, and a strong relationship, I can't help feeling at this time of the year that I'm missing out on something back at school... even if it is those blinding library lights.

Thoughts on a Thanksgiving Eve

Weird. For the first time in four years, I wasn't on a Bolt Bus or Amtrak train from Villanova headed back to New York for Thanksgiving.

Instead, I was already here. For the past six months, I've been sweating it out and scraping by in the real world since that pesky little thing called graduation. (Wait, has it really been six months? Shit.)

Having graduated, something's definitely missing this year. The annual journey home for the holiday had a certain warmth to it, and I'm not talking about the grossly overheated Amtrak cars. Eager dreams of food, family and time off from class while in transit have become a ritual-turned-memory left over from the magic of college. (Insert a lengthy, collective sigh from the Class of 2009 here.)

Then again, this first ever post-grad Thanksgiving is like a return to normalcy more than anything-- it isn't too different from most other Turkey Days in my life. Aside from those four golden years on the Main Line, PA, I never had to do much traveling to get to the feast. Thanksgiving was always a Brooklyn thing-- not a huge change from our daily Brooklyn life.

Thus, college Thanksgivings were special, such that they turned my idea of home into a sought-after place of relaxation and comfort. Whereas these days, being at home is constant and familiar. I'm not saying that the holiday fuzziness has totally evaporated (obviously I love my family very much). Rather, it's just assumed a different form. Or I'm just getting older.

Given the situation, I told myself I would make an effort to try something different this year to spice things up a bit. After much thought, the best I came up with was to contribute to the Thanksgiving meal itself. My decision: bake a cheesecake.

Actually, there was no baking involved whatsoever. Thanks to the wonders of pre-constructed crust, Cool Whip, cream cheese, sugar, lemon juice and a refrigerator, I was able to concoct a delicious and oven-less dish. The recipe was no stranger to me, having recently cooked up (but not literally!) the no-bake dessert with my other half just a few weeks ago. But who knew that the process would be slightly more difficult the second time around? Thanks to my top-notch lack of coordination, some sugar cascaded in a snowy-white avalanche onto the table, and later the entire Cool Whip/cream cheese mixture almost flew out of the bowl, narrowly missing the floor. And so I learned the hard way that the duo is a powerful tool in the kitchen, and should be utilized whenever possible.

Nevertheless, my hungry relatives will be blown away by the taste and sass of my sugary-sweet creation. Who needs to know that I stole the recipe from a Weight Watchers-ish web site? A BB original it shall be. And besides, I deviated from the original by adding a secret ingredient: mini chocolate chips (gasp!). And alright, maybe that's not so secret, but they're pretty well-immersed within the gooey cheesy center if I do say so myself.

Tomorrow's agenda is not unlike that of previous Thanksgiving mornings in my house, and you know what? That's totally fine, and I didn't need a cheesecake to tell me that (although it sure doesn't hurt). The plan falls along these lines: wake up. Watch the Macy's parade. Watch the National Dog Show. Realize that it's 2 PM and I'm still in my pajamas and "dinner" is in an hour. Throw on some clothes, head over on the bus to whichever family is hosting dinner. Eat. Pass out. Get up, eat some more. Repeat as much as needed. Perfection.

Happy Thanksgiving, residents of the blogosphere.