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So apparently I'm completely inept with certain aspects of Blogger.

Scroll down and you'll find my "Kooky Christmas" post that I just published today, underneath the "Missing the Rush" post from last week (they're marked under the same date). I began the Christmas entry as a draft last Thursday, so it retained the Thursday December 10 timestamp and I can't seem to get rid of it. After numerous tries, I have concluded that the date cannot be changed to the actual date of publication, i.e. today.

If anyone knows how to fix this, or wants to reassure me that I'm not going totally insane, please provide enlightenment-- and a kitten-- if possible.

Is it me, or was Xanga way easier than this?



EDIT 12/22/09: Problem has been fixed thanks to my brainy other half. And this kitten:
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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.

That's What Friends Are For?

About two weeks ago I had to make a quick trip to the pharmacy just a few blocks away from where I work. Feeling a cold coming on, my objective was to purchase a box of tissues, Zicam Vitamin C drops, and copious amounts of Tylenol. As I gazed at the tissue box mountain in the corner of the store carefully contemplating which brand to choose, a little old lady approached me.

If this sounds liked an all-too-cliche expression to utilize for my description-- well, it really isn't. The woman before me barely reached the five foot tall mark (five feet short?). She stood hunched over with a cane in her left hand and a shopping basket in her right. Pointing her cane at a row of sky-blue colored boxes, she looked at me and said in a raspy Brooklyn accent, "The Puffs are on sale, ya know."

Although I consider myself a fairly streetwise New Yorker-- I've mastered a "subway scowl" that successfully creates a facade of toughness, if not the illusion that I'm sufferring from lockjaw-- there is always the occasional internal freakout session that occurs when a stranger starts talking me up. But this little old lady seemed harmless enough. "Oh, really?" I replied.

"Yeah, ya gotta pick up one of these circulars at the front to get the good stuff," she said, holding up her basket, the bottom of which was lined with multiple sheets of coupons.

I grabbed a box of Puffs. "Thanks," I told her.

"They're 99 cents!" she said.

"Wow," I replied, immediately feeling a bit silly after the utterance left my mouth. But I looked back at the pile and noticed that the other brands were $2 and $3 apiece. Any embarrassment instantly evaporated. "Thank you," I told the old woman.

"No problem. Have a good one," she said, turning around. But before she headed back up the aisle, she added "Have a good blow!"

Now, I rarely laugh out loud in public when I'm unaccompanied by a friend or family member, but this case was an exception. Regardless of whether or not the woman knew what she said had sounded like to the outside observer, I cracked up while walking to the cashier, and was still forcing back a smirk during my wait in line. As I was about to pay, the little old lady brushed by me again on her way out the door. "Take care," she said, but not without adding "The Puffs are 99 cents, right?" to the cashier. Any good bargain-hunter has to be sure of herself.

The cashier, a gothy-looking woman only visible from the waist up behind the counter, responded "Actually, they're 88 cents today."

A twentysomething hipster with a fauxhawk and thick-rimmed glasses emerged from behind me (this is Williamsburg, don't forget). "Wait," he said, in a slow, deep bass voice. "Puffs are only 88 cents?" Before anyone could answer, he was bolting to the back of the store to scale the tissue box mountain.

I laughed out loud for a second time. "Told ya so, gotta ask about these things!" the little old lady said. I told her thanks again as Goth Woman rang up my purchases. Halfway out the door, she looked back and said "Sure. What're friends for?"

The ten minutes or so that this older woman and I were in contact with one another was certainly not enough time to create a lifelong, life-altering friendship. But it's funny how a single act of concern about something as trivial of tissues stuck with me (as well as the inherent comedic nature of the situation). I don't know if I'll ever see her again, but I do know I'll be retelling this story again. You know what they say about laughter being the best medicine? Here's my spin on that classic maxim: an anecdote is the best antidote.

And now, I end this entry with a bundle of kooky kat quadruplets. Enjoy.

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.