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.

The Soundtrack to Your [High School] Life

Remember these relics?

Recently, a feature on NPR Music asked its readers and listeners what albums got them through their teens.

Not surprisingly, the article prompted over 500 reader responses, including albums from the Beatles, Pink Floyd and Simon & Garfunkel. I was itching to weigh in with my own answers, yet I initially found it difficult to come up with specific albums.

Intead, what came to my mind almost immediately were individual songs themselves. Being at the tail end of the "Mix CD Generation" of the early 2000s, my high school friends and I often exchanged CDs at our lockers with one another. We did this on birthdays, holidays, or on random designated days just for kicks. Our mixes were a messy mash-up of different artists, styles and genres. A punk cover of the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way" followed by Jay Z's "99 Problems?" Totally normal. Pretty soon, a majority of my music collection was homemade (not including the Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys albums from my teenybopper youth).

The more diverse our creations turned out, the better. Best of all, mixes made great personal gifts, since each song was hand-chosen by its creator before being ripped to the CD-R. Such was the beginning of the decline of record stores. And as we all bought iPods and began to digitally download music straight to the source, the Mix CD Generation quickly became a thing of the past.

That being said, not all of the albums of my adolescence fell into the mix category. Many of the essential tunes from my teenage years came from the following five albums.

1. Rockin' the Suburbs (Ben Folds) - The first Ben Folds album I ever owned started a near-obsession with this piano god. It's a classic, from the popular "Annie Waits" and "Zak & Sara" to the deliciously alliterative "Losing Lisa" and "Carrying Cathy." These songs were hands down the most played on my iPod, whether I was commuting to high school on the short-lived Q "diamond" express, or trekking home again from a long day, stuck on the slow crawl of the Q local.
2. Heavier Things (John Mayer) - My memories of this album mainly involve summertime train trips out to Long Island and creating a music video in my head to the track entitled "Split Screen Sadness" (don't laugh). It was, predictably enough, envisioned split-screen style, with two almost-lovers travelling in opposite directions on two different trains. Told you not to laugh! I may have a budding career in film & video here.
3. Greatest Hits (The Pretenders) - The only Pretenders song I was familiar with before a friend burned me a copy of this CD was my karaoke favorite "I'll Stand By You." It was then that I embraced the perennial coolness of Chrissie Hynde--a rare female rock band leader of her time-- and 80s music caught me by the throat and never let me go. Call it a guilty pleasure, call me crazy, call me born in the wrong decade, but I just can't resist.
4. Gimme Fiction (Spoon) - It's hard to believe there existed a time when I wasn't listening to Spoon. At first I dismissed them as sleepy and dark, but then I fell in love with by "I Summon You" long before "Scrubs" gave the song mainstream exposure. Gimme Fiction was entrancing, and future albums proved that Spoon is a group that continues to do the impossible: they get better with age.
5. Rent Soundtrack (Original 1996 Cast) - Rent was the first musical that actually resonated with me (sorry, Little Women) and about a million other children of the new millenium. While I didn't see the show until 2005, I'd been singing along to the soundtrack years before that. Looking past those who'd seen the show at least a dozen times and knew every line by heart, Rent was edgy and gripping in its sexual openness, an openness I couldn't yet display for myself.

That's just a snippet of the full soundtrack to my teenage life. What was yours?

It's a Mad, Mad World

Don Draper is starting over.

The pilot episode of AMC's Mad Men put me to sleep. I was puzzled at just how hyped up audiences were over a period drama about advertising. Too slow-moving, I thought. Too dated. Who is this Draper guy and why should I care?

That very question-- "Who is Don Draper?"-- is the show's focal point and a major part of what pulled me into the world of Mad Men. Season 4 premiered earlier this week, and I'm itching to see what's in store for Don and co.

Throughout the past few months, I caught up on Seasons 1-3 thanks to the magic of DVD. By the end of Season 1, my mother, father and I were all pulled in. Mad Men is one of the only shows currently on television that the three of us actually want to sit down and watch together (in addition to Parks and Recreation, Glee and Idol.)

After that pilot episode, I was too quick to write off Mad Men as a mess of smoking, drinking and philandering. But the endless parade of cigarettes, whiskey and women add gritty realism to the artfully crafted storylines and compelling characters. Most notably, the actors portraying the various mad men and women breathe life, depth, and believability into them. The casting is perfect: Jon Hamm's charm and sensitivity help make Don a likeable womanizer. Christina Hendricks as Joan is just as multifaceted: a headstrong office queen bee with a subtle layer of wisdom and warmth. They all feel real, and it's not just the beehive hairdos and steel gray suits that do it. The dialogue shows rather than tells what's going on between these characters exceptionally well (the Mad Men writers particularly excel at conveying the greatest possible meaning using the fewest number of words), and the acting is of the highest caliber.

My father nearly idolizes Don Draper for his talent, cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor and devotion to his children (let's exclude the infidelities and that little habit of operating a motor vehicle after one too many martinis). While my mom and I frequently find ourselves yelling at Don through the TV screen, we don't hate him. Don is no ordindary protagonist, but an anti-hero whose life reflects both the highs and lows of the American Dream. He's made his way up from squalor to wealth and success while coping with the ghosts of an unbelieveably dark past, not limited to: orphanhood, poverty, abuse, wartime, and a near-death experience. That very experience turns out to be Don's most life-changing moment, enabling him to cast his old identity aside for good (or so we think). Viewers see just how much Don Draper is a character he's created for himself, which is why may never get a sufficient answer to the "who" question-- he's writing his own story, making it up along the way.

I didn't think I'd connect to Mr. Draper, and to the show as a whole, as much as I do. My ambitions to earn money, build a career and travel up the social class ladder make up my own version of the American Dream. And advertising, a field I'd never even remotely considered in the past, is now more relevant than ever as a possible career option. Creative writers and thinkers seem destined for copywriting. Is it too much to want to be the next Peggy Olson (Mad Men's sole female copywriter, whose skill is discovered on a whim)? Raw talent goes a long way in the computerless offices of Sterling Cooper, and I'd like to hope it still does in today's techological whirlwind of a landscape.

One of the best quotes of the entire series comes from Episode 13 of Season 1 entitled "The Wheel," in which the team must pitch Kodak's new slide projector model. At the client meeting, Don knocks the pitch out of the park, but must reach deep into the pit of his emotional sufferring in order to do so:

"Nostalgia - it's delicate, but potent. Teddy told me that in Greek, 'nostalgia' literally means 'the pain from an old wound.' It's a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn't a spaceship, it's a time machine. It goes backwards, and forwards... it takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called 'The Wheel,' it's called 'The Carousel.' It lets us travel the way a child travels - around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know are loved."

If that isn't brilliant, I don't know what else is. Here's to a new season of Madison Avenue madness.

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.

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.

Confessions of a Former [Middle School] Actress

My acting resume consists of three major roles.

#1: I played "Mrs. Elephant" in my 4th grade production of the folktale "How the Elephant Got Its Trunk." After the initial disappointment in losing out on the role of "Baby Elephant"-- the title character who spent the entire show sucking her thumb and looking adorable-- playing Mama Pachyderm gave me quite a bit of pride. If my scanner was up and running (and if I had no shame), I'd post up the sole photo that exists of my all-gray ensemble, complete with cardboard cutout elephant ears and a sewn-on tail (compliments of my grandmother).

#2: My next big year came in 6th grade. First, I was a puma in a production about rainforest conservation. No, wait-- it was a musical showcase about rainforest conservation. Yes, each of the three classes in my program had to perform a song-and-dance pertaining to the rainforest, and predictably, everyone had to dress up as a rainforest animal. My class was stuck with a dreary number entitled "Those Were the Days," a song whose lyrics we had to tweak in order to describe the plight of endangered species. (We actually took time out of biology class to do this.) Anyway, my "moment" came in the fourth verse: I had a solo. I also had a tail.

#3: Just a few months later, I played the Greek god Cronus in a skit that parodied Judge Judy (back when courtroom shows were the closest thing we had to reality TV), one of three skits in the gifted program's "Tribute to Ancient Greece" (stifle your laughter; the best part is coming). During the tryout, I was the only one in the class who read the lines with any trace of enthusiasm. That's how 12-year-old me ended up as a man, outfitted with a beard and wig, in a part that required tumbling across the stage, violently throwing up my children, and dying. Like the rainforest musical, we were given time in class to write the script. (What can I say? My teachers were lazy.)

That gender-bending performance was my swan song. How poignant that my acting career ended as a bearded woman in a toga, faking a massive upchuck in the auditorium of I.S. 234. Is there any better way to go out than on the floor-- err, on top?

In the years to come, I went on to more deeply immerse myself in sports : softball, then ultimate frisbee. It was my own time to shine-- to have all eyes on me, if only for a few moments of glory-- that required no memorization of lines or singing abilities (excluding goofy sideline cheers), just pure energy. And I soaked up every minute of attention on the field, which didn't quite make me the most sportsmanlike at times (so I threw the bat once... sue me), but at least I felt good at something that involved an audience of some sort.

Yet while I comfortably absorbed athletic activities, my interest in theater never did go away. I went to all of the student shows in high school and college (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Broadway musical soundtracks were a staple on my iPod, circa 2004 (remember when the screens weren't in color yet?). And most of all, I gravitated towards the theater kids. Sitting front and center, mouthing out the lyrics to songs I only halfway knew, I lived through them. I crushed on them. I wanted to be them. Always wishing, wanting, hoping to latch on to a piece of their aura, to have what they had, admiring and envying them at the same time.

Little did I know that the connection I craved would eventually be fulfilled in college by the thespian I'd become smitten with the most. When we finally acknowledged what we'd both been holding in for too long, it was the ultimate dream come true-- almost impossible to fully comprehend at first, but the most logical feeling in the world, when I thought about it a little harder.

And so, I rightfully earned my place as her number one fan. I went to every show she appeared in at least twice (sometimes three times), got to crash most of the cast parties and formals, and brought flowers on closing nights. It took some getting to, having spent years secretly pining to do these things without ever actually doing them. But it became the happy norm that I'll always associate with the second half of my college years, a norm I wouldn't have traded in for anything.

Even then, though, I can't help but wonder even a little bit how life would have turned out if I hadn't succumbed to stage fright. Perhaps the Me in an alternate universe never quit the church choir in 6th grade, tried out for a one-act play at Stuy, and even joined an acapella group in college. Would I be jealous? Yes, probably a bit. But I would love to meet that girl from the twilight zone and show her that everything turned out alright anyway.

And besides, I'll always have karaoke.

Snow Day 2010

On a typical Wednesday morning at 9:00, I'd already be busily typing away at my desk at work, after my traditionally quick Cheerios breakfast and hour-and-ten-minute commute to Williamsburg.

But today-- after a wonderful ten hours of sleep on a Tuesday night-- I woke up to a world covered in white outside my window. Getting up slowly out of bed, I pulled on a sweatshirt, fried some eggs, and switched on the radio to listen to the forecast.

Here I am: my first snow day at home in NYC since high school, which I'm going to put at six years ago. I don't remember any blizzards hitting us during senior year (2005), I'm sure there was a snow day in January or February of sophomore year (2003), and I think we had one junior year (2004), but I could be wrong. Stuy alums, correct me if I am.

Simply put, snow days were a true rarity growing up in the 90s and early 00s in New York City. If high school was relatively devoid of snow days, then junior high and elementary school saw even less of them. I can remember trudging through a wet wintry mix all bundled up with my younger brothers in tow on our way to P.S. 206, one twin on either side of my dad, their mittens gripping his hands. For NYC public schools to close, we needed a snowstorm of monstrous proportions, and we got just that with the whirlwind "Blizzard of '96" when I was in fourth grade. Other than that, it's hard to recall too many others.

If NYC is the "city that never sleeps," I find that to be especially true when it snows. Even in the worst of weather conditions, our city must remain an insomniac. We can't be crippled or thrown drastically off-track-- see what happened in Washington, DC when the snow hit them this past week for a good example-- because in a city with this many people, we just can't afford to shut down. MTA buses and trains are still up and running, albeit less frequently, at slower speeds, and with crabbier operators. That's a lot better than the disastrous DC Metro situation in which only underground subway lines remained open. If elevated rail lines were to be suspended in New York, millions of commuters couldn't get home to the outer boroughs. As flawed as it can be, the MTA just keeps on chugging, through rain, sleet or snow.

At the same time, I'm sure Manhattan is a slushy, snowy mess at the moment, and I feel bad for anybody who had to made the long trek to the urban jungle this morning. Times like these make me happy to live in Brooklyn, a borough that's a bit less chaotic and a bit more aesthetic. For now, I'm going to enjoy the view from my window while I can (pictured above). In New York, snow is about as ephemeral as beauty gets-- all the more reason for it to be cherished.

So this is the new year...

Welcome to 2010. Fun writing it out, isn't it? And yet I'm sure that come March, I'll still be mistakenly dating every form with "09." Seriously though, it's a huge change. After ten years of the 00s, my hand is automatically programmed to write a "0" after "20" when writing out the date. This will undoubtedly take some serious physical and mental effort, but I think I can do it.

Ah, the end of a decade-- and the beginning of a new one. It's intriguing how we put time into neat little packages: decades, centuries, millenia, etc. The benefit is immense for the purposes of recording and retelling history. Without organization, history is a giant mess of nouns: people, places, and things. Centuries provide order to the chaos of a millenia; decades provide order to the chaos of a century.

For weeks, the much-hyped coming of 2010 produced an endless array of "Top ___ of the Decade" lists pertaining to 00s politics, pop culture and everything in between. In addition, social and cultural commentators have also attempted to give a title to the 00s as a whole, i.e. "The Decade of [fill in the blank]". But such all-encompassing labels can seem a bit lofty and premature-- has enough time passed to gain any real insight? What happened to retrospect? (Then again, VH1 did premiere its "I Love the New Millenium" series back in 2007.) However, the urge to sum up our life experiences and draw some kind of meaning from them is only natural. We're reflective creatures, be it by nature or nuture's doing.

I couldn't help but notice that an an overwhelming amount of these assessments of the 2000s have been extremely negative. Commentators highlight (lowlight?) September 11, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, various natural disasters, and the current economic crisis as key low points. Monikers such as "The Decade of Decadence" have sprouted up. I've even seen one writer label the 2000s as "The Decade Where Nothing Happened" (a gross misnomer; that simply isn't true). But every decade has its fair share of tragedies, so why crucify the "aughts" (that's what we're calling them now, I think) in particular?

Speaking from personal experience, I quite literally lived through one of these disasters when I fled up the West Side Highway for safety on September 11. Yet do I consider this the single most memorable moment of the decade? And on a broader scale, did growing up in the US during the "war on terror" permanently taint my experiences? No, and no. These events are undeniably significant (and awful), but they're not the first things that come to mind when I reflect on the 00s.

For myself and for an entire generation of early twentysomethings, the 2000s are my quintessential coming-of-age decade. The "aughts" are especially fitting of the label, since my high school and college years fit back-to-back into it (2001-2005, 2005-2009). It was near-perfect storybook timing. And generally speaking, it feels good knowing that I've come a long way in the past ten years. 2000 saw me as a skittish adolescent. Exiting 2009, I can proudly say that I'm slightly less skittish. Okay, fine-- a lot less. While I've got a lot of living left to do, the 2000s may turn out to be most critical period of my emotional development and self-discovery. There's an undoubtedly enormous gap between the 12-year-old girl and the 22-year-woman.

Personally, 2009 was perhaps my most bipolar year ever (the year, not me!). Whereas the highs were like a trip up to the clouds and back, the lows were like wounds that couldn't stop bleeding. College graduation was the epitome of bittersweetness: an amazing accomplishment that simultaneously stripped me of the life I'd grown to love, four years in the making. Couple that with the departure of my significant other to the west coast for a possibly indefinite time period, for which I had to force the thought of life without her down my throat (a terrible taste). Luckily, two important things happened: I got a job, and she came back.

Honestly, if I was able to make it through 2009-- the good, the bad, and the ugly-- then I can get through anything. With a strange and unprecedented bravery, I'm ready for new things, as long as I get a grip on those bursts of nostalgia. True, I still miss the pre-grad era, but at this point I've had eight whole months to process post-grad living. The physical calendar change from 2009 to 2010 wills me to go forward in a mentally encouraging way. With '09 gone, there's no turning back now (I meant to post this entry on New Year's Eve, but as usual, the real world got in the way-- as much as I try, it's impossible to be a full-time dodger).

Of course, I still find myself emotionally clinging to the 2000s. How could I not? The past ten years will always be a part of me, but they don't have to weigh me down. Instead, let them be balloons, lighter than air, that I'll hold on tight to. And if the 00s are balloons, let the 10s be the vast, sweeping sky above.

Up up and away.

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.

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.

Aimless Navigation: Wandering a Lost Digital Landscape

AOL Instant Messenger (more commonly and fondly known as AIM) is collecting dust. Since chat functions were built directly into popular sites like Facebook and Google (via Gmail's)-- and also since Twitter took over the world of social media-- AIM is becoming more and more obsolete (and so is AOL). There's no need for an AIM away message on your laptop all day when you can instead simply send out a new tweet, informing your entire fan base (if you're lucky to have one) where you are and what you're doing, if you choose to use Twitter for that purpose.

I remember how magical AIM was back in 1999 when I created my screen name and signed on for the first time. The concept of instant internet communication through IMs, compared to the waiting game of sending and receiving emails, literally blew my 7th-grader mind. Over the years, AIM became far more than a communication tool; it strengthened existing friendships and provided a safer, less awkward way of connecting with my numerous teenage crushes. (Whether or not all that hard work IM-flirting paid off is an entirely different story.) The point is that AIM signified a social revolution for my generation, and its gradual disappearance feels strange and different to me. But the times, they are a-changin'.

Both AIM and Xanga (one of the earlier weblog communities) played a crucial role in my high school social life while growing up in the early 2000s. As an outlet for venting about the woes of adolesence, my Xanga page was both a blessing and a curse. How could someone say so much yet so little at the same time? It's easy when you have an audience of teenagers eager and willing to read and comment, reassuring that all those empty words weren't for nothing.

Actually, the act of posting to my Xanga page as a 17-year-old was not unlike my behavior as a 2-year-old, right after my parents brought my twin brothers home from the hospital: there was a lot of jumping up and down, banging on our cookware with a large rubber spoon, screaming "Look at me! Look at me!" In other words, talking (or shrieking, rather) merely for the sake of being noticed. As high schoolers, our emotionally/sexually frustrated selves sought to be recognized and appreciated just as much as a jealous older sibling. We craved connection without the risk and fear of rejection, and the safety net of the web was there to catch us when we fell.

Let me get one thing straight: I don't regret having a Xanga, because I would have suffocated even more than I already was without one. It's also a hoot laughing at my saptastic, angst-ridden entries (and also embarrasing, but mostly endearing). But while Xanga and AIM did the trick, sometimes I wonder what my high school experience would have been like if sites like Facebook and Twitter had existed. Part of me wonders how easy it would have been to stay in the loop about friends, photos, parties and crushes. Perhaps I wouldn't have felt so isolated from my peers. Maybe I could have found an online community to come out to before the pressure and pain of lingering secrecy did me in.

On the other hand, I probably would've grown up too quickly. There's no doubt that my parents certainly would not have approved of their 14-year-old daughter's membership on one or more social networking sites. I'd probably feel the same too about my own kids-- I already find myself gasping and tsking at profiles of junior high schoolers on Facebook. (A minimum age requirement of 18 would be safest, but it's just too easy for anyone to get around that by lying.)

I'll never know how my life may have turned out if I'd been sucked into the Twitterverse at an early age. Despite being perptetually "in the know," it's quite possible that I wouldn't have felt any less lonely. What happens when you flip through the TV listings on a Sunday afternoon? There are about a thousand channels, yet nothing's really on (until you thankfully come across a rerun of your favorite show). A Facebook friend list isn't too different. Out of 860 faces, I can count the best and truest on one hand.

GWW Assignment #2: Personal Essay

For this assignment, one option is to pick a random object in your house that interests you. The exercise is to flex your writing voice, to feel it out. A second part of the assignment is to add a few interesting facts/ideas to your piece. Do five minutes of research online about something prominent in your essay, and blend the information in. Keep it to around 500 words.

Throughout my life, I've had a special fondness for piggy banks. What can I say? Dropping a coin into the slot on the back of a pudgy farm animal made saving up actually fun. I even enjoyed the story behind the object, which I read about on a box of Cheerios long ago: “pygg" was actually a type of clay used for making household objects such as jars. Thus, when people began storing money in these "pygg jars," the piggy bank prototype was born.

My most current piggy bank resides on a desk in my bedroom. Like a typical specimen of its kind, it’s plump and rosy-cheeked, complete with four legs, two ears, and a curly tail. It isn't pink, but a pure, porcelain white. (You might not realize it at first, but real-life pigs come in all kinds of colors-- brown, black, gray, spotted, speckled, etc.) The nose is small and delicate, and a coy smile can be found just below it. But most notably, the snowy swine is also covered in forest green four-leafed clovers on its face and body.

Yes, this piggy bank is Irish.

If you don't believe me, just pop in a penny and an entire verse of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" squeaks out in a high-pitched whistle. As a child, this provided endless hours of entertainment for me and my brothers (as well as a lot of ear-covering for my parents). This highly musical, pigment-challenged piggy bank sat on my grandmother's nightstand for as long as I can remember her being alive.

When our time spent with her became confined to the paleness and sterility of hospital rooms, the weeks slipped into months. After what we had all been dreading eventually happened, I remember being back in her apartment with my mother. The bedroom looked like it usually did: clothes hanging up, bed made, rosary beads draped around the mirror. The clover-covered piggy bank was still there, resting on her dresser. I didn’t dare put a coin in.

My mom suggested that I keep the pig, but my first thought was how could I? One look at it and I was ripped back to childhood, eating Entenman’s banana crunch cake on Nana's sofa and watching The Lion King on VHS. But I took it anyway, accepting the accompanying tears as well.

Seven years later, the piggy bank sits on my desk, its Irish eyes as wide as ever. When I press my fingers against its smooth, cold surface, a wave of tenderness inundates me— a feeling that’s sometimes sad, sometimes happy. And yet, the smoothness soothes me. The cold brings comfort.

How natural these material possessions seem to us— they become such regular, constant parts of our lives that we often neglect their true significance. If you were to shake my piggy bank, the soft jingling noise would clearly indicate that it isn’t loaded with cash. It is, however, packed to the brim bursting with images and sounds of memories of a past stage of life, and of a life that passed.

I didn’t see it then, but I know now that people need those tangible objects— something to hold on to— because people just don’t last forever.

The Myth and Magic of Summer

I can't help but feel a bit melancholy about today's date. 9/1. September 1. The first day of... fall?

Wait a minute. That's not true. Technically, summer isn't over until September 22-- a full three weeks away from now.

And yet, something about the instantaneous change from August to September puts me in the mindset that it's already fall. Or rather, that fall is on the way, even when it's still a hot and humid 85 degrees outside in New York City. Crazy, right? (Today is an exception. Oddly enough, it was chilly when I left my house for work this morning. Take 85, reverse those digits and that's what the actual air temperature was!)

If there's any scapegoat here, it's got to be that infamous back-to-school Staples commerical. You know, the one they've been playing on TV since 1999 featuring an overexcited dad, his two depressed kids, and the "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" jingle? Retailers are all too eager to mistakenly tell us that autumn is already here, and that we better stock up on school supplies, clothes, bedding-- among other material things-- before it's too late. Thus, it becomes awful hard to savor the last days of the summer season. They slowly slip away.

However, things seem to be different this year, not just for myself, but for my fellow freshly-graduated peers from the Class of 2009. For the first time in about eighteen years, many of us are not returning to school-- "no more pencils, no more books" couldn't be any truer. As long as the warm weather holds up, it'll feel like we're still on summer vacation. Not too shabby.

In all honesty, summer should be far from over, especially given this year's circumstances. For most of the Northeast U.S., June 2009 proved to be a total washout. I can only recall a total of maybe five, six days when the sun decided to make a special guest appearance to the citizens of NYC. It was gloomy, dark, depressing. Let's hope this doesn't become a pattern in the years to come.

Growing up, I tried my best to cherish the summertime as a precious, well-deserved break from the neverending chaos and stresses that the academic world imposes upon its victims-- err, students. Childhood saw many fun days at home during the summer weeks with my siblings and cousins. Field trips to various NYC parks, museums, and the beach can be attributed mostly to my father, who took on the role of stay-at-home dad for several years ("Mr. Mom" he wasn't). As I delved deeper into my teenage years and entered my twenties, summers began to be taken up by job and internship commitments, which formed an awkward taste of adulthood in my mouth. And just two summers ago, I felt myself falling deeper and deeper into something that I thought I always understood, but realized I never truly did until then. Until two very different, yet very similar bodies in orbit aligned perfectly together, bringing sense and purpose to the universe. Yes, love-- I owe that to the summer, too.

While it's strange to not be back at Villanova and already planted at my usual desk in Falvey Library, I do enjoy this new and extended version of summer I'm currently experiencing. True, I have a job, so it isn't exactly a vacation-- a fact I'm constantly aware of as I sit at yet another desk under the glare of flourescent lights. But this September, I'm going to make the most of all that's left of summer. Without papers and exams to worry about, these last few weekends at the shore and in the city, spending time with the girl from two summers past-- for she is still my summer love, past and present-- will certainly taste even sweeter.

Musings and Memories

Was I really driving along the northern coast of France in a petit voiture with my host parents just one year ago today? (Happy Bastille Day, tous le monde.) Hard to believe, but it's true. The six weeks I spent in Rennes and then Paris last summer exist only in my mind and in photographs these days, but it's not hard to relive them. Just yesterday I walked past a sub-par and laughably overpriced crepe stand in the mall at South Street Seaport, wishing that I just a few steps away from an authentic creperie on the cobblestoned streets of Rennes. Perhaps one day I'll make the trip again... just don't know when.

I guess you could say that I did quite a bit of real world dodging more recently. In the past few weeks I've made trips to Los Angeles, Vermont and Atlantic City. I witnessed the color and chaos of a pride parade for the first time. And I've finally been exploring the NYC bar scene, an experience that was long overdue. (All of this bouncing around is probably why I nearly abandoned my newborn of a blog.)

And then the impossible, the unpredictable happened... I got hired. Yes, I have a job, and in this current state of economic insanity, I'm very grateful for it. I'll mostly be operating from behind a desk and computer, but I'm looking at this as an opportunity to learn and grow. We'll see how full-time employment pans out.

I feel like I have more to say, and much more that I owe myself to say, but alas, the working world is taking a toll on my sleeping habits. My goal is to be in bed by 11 PM tonight, so I'm signing off here. My grandma would be proud. Until next time, digital world... whenever I feel that the time is right.