The Packing Battle

My last night home. It should feel surreally special or incredibly sentimental but really, I'm tired, I need to shower, and catch up on bad reality television. Truly, this meaningful evening of finality would not be complete with one essential activity:

A fight with my mother.

Involving a suitcase, peanut butter, and many eye rolls. 

I'm leaving in 18ish hours and naturally, I have yet to complete packing. As a young woman, I have WSA: wardrobe separation anxiety. It's difficult enough to narrow the options down to a 50lb suitcase, shoes included. When you throw in 4 months of necessities and toiletries, forget it. The female mind has been scrutinized for spatial abilities and with this suitcase, I am a shoelace away from giving up.

Every dress, tshirt, and q-tip becomes a battle. A war unto itself that ends in swearwords and apparel hurled at the wall until someone storms out. Only to breathe before we head to the next pile.

And, with my dietary restrictions and Andalusian cuisine of shrimp and ham, my mother needs me to pack some food too. So, amongst the dozens of undies and a pair of loafers and the jeans I will rewear till their death, I've wedged a jar of Skippy creamy peanut butter to ensure that I get some protein.  

I'm only on an intermezzo right now, from shorts heading towards handbags. 

Wish me luck when I face that industrial sized scale tomorrow.  

10 days

A lot can happen in 10 days
1. You can forget what Facebook looks like, and they can change all of their privacy controls to be even more complex and confusing, so the second you log in again, you log out. Ultimately, you can conclude your life (and the world) could be better without all of this techclutter, a conclusion you made long before all 14 year olds had smartphones and buttdialing was not in the dictionary and no one believed in touchscreens.

2. You can re-believe in global warming. An earthquake AND a hurricane, New York. Seriously? If we wanted these things, we'd live in Miami or San Francisco. But no, the heavens spawn us with multiple disaster threats. Really, nothing goes wrong. In fact, you sort of wish you had felt the earthquake to tell a story about it. And you kind of wish Irene was less talk and more action. But, you still have a few good stories, and a renewed commitment to recycling and want to buy a Prius.

3. You can learn something new. Or a lot new. Best thing I learned from a camper: cold showers make you burn calories because your body is actively fighting off hypothermia. Fabulous workout technique.

4. Camp talent shows are generally of limited talent scope. They should just be called entertainment shows. Or lottery shows. Because, when you have 30 acts, you of course do a lottery to decide which acts are in or out. It really is a lottery system. Really. Promise.

5. Even at a peanut-free camp where you can only enjoy a Sunflowerbutter and Jelly sandwich to avoid the mysterious foods served, the canteen has Reeses. Complicated. Consider this next time you throw a birthday party. No peanut butter, no latex, no milk, no sun, no dust, no dirt - kids are allergic to everything these days.

6. A hook up for a 14 year old may just be a kiss on the lips. It could be the first of such kisses. And it only takes a hot sec for you to remember how totally nervous you were at the same place and time for the same deal, no matter how many years ago. The quiver in their voice and the wonder in their eyes is innocent perfection.

7. Parents + teens at camp + social media = dangerzone.  The second kids cry that they are homesick the first night, mom and dad take it out on Twitter. Why? I don't know. The internet is good for a lot, but I'm not sure about it's role in camp conflict resolution.

8. Power outages suck. Until it's so so so dark and you look up and see the most beautiful stars in the whole world, and you're convinced that the cold showers, social media fighting, proteinless food, long services, and crying campers were worth it a thousand and one times.

9. The kind of person who lives near a camp, also known as a townie, will always be a mysterious creature, another breed. The view of the lake is nice, but your beer belly, flabby bicep tattoos, and lip piercing will keep me far, far away from ever leading a rural life. You might escape city pollution but
be prepared to meet some real interesting folk. Or just watch them, and imagine their lives, because you're secretly intimidated or scared by how wildly different their lives are from yours.

10. Camp will always be the happiest place on earth. We should all live at camp and share and be friends. McCarthy, keep me off your list for now, but I'm getting close. Enjoying grilled cheese by a lake with 400 of your closest biddies is always fantastic.

I'll be booked at the end of next August, too... Irene or shine.

Freezetag

Sometimes, posts are better left unposted. My brain is on freeze, my thoughts are mine, and I'm not in a sharing-is-caring mood today. Maybe next week. Tag, you're frozen now too.

Stef on Jazz

I could not have felt more unqualified to listen to jazz last night when I walked down the sweaty steps to the Jazz Standard, an apparently up-and-coming jazz locale on the New York City scene. I wouldn't know. I was like a playboy bunny at a Star Wars convention.

As I declined the barbeque menu and surveyed the low-lighted room for signs as to who the audience was, I couldn't pinpoint it. Sure, there were sweatpantedly disheveled hipsters whose onyx glasses frames were big enough to share. There were a set of conservative-looking twentysomething bros sharing barbeque and matching blue button-downs, escaping their Lilly Pulitzer wives. (Yes, I was quite disappointed to note rings on these blue-blooded fingers).

When five men took the stage for the headlining duo act, I was confused by my inability to count. Guillermo Klein and Aaron Goldberg were supposedly presenting Bienestan, their new album. Since I'm going to Spain soon, this seemed fittingly convenient. I also attended with two friends dreaming of their own semester in Seville, a 'Bienestan' life of it's own. Soon, I'll be blogging all about that from many miles from here. The Jazz show, like all music, how the power to distract and remove me from the exposed piped ceiling and explore beyond. And it was absolutely explorative.

I think of jazz, I think of call-waiting or elevator music. Imagine that, but on drugs. Guillermo Klein may be a musical composition genius but to me, his egg-shaped head bobbed back and forth and his eyes rolled back into his head like he was about to have a seizure or go into anaphylactic shock. Music is his drug, I've decided. The erratic, 'I do what I want" rhythm and method to his jazz showcased how a duo can write for 7 instruments between 5 people who are each allowed solos and also play well all at once.

I think. I'm still really confused because you just can't review the Top 40 beside last nights melee. Next to piano experimental Jazz with classic and typical saxophone or flute muddled by drums played with what looks and sounds like a egg-wash brush, I can't say I have a solid opinion beyond an entry-level curiousity.

Ultimately, I regretted dropping the viola after 5th grade.  People around me were counting out the beats like human metronomes pulsing everywhere. I was unaware there was a metric to the music for most of the show. I was just listening, not analyzing (until now) because I thought you were just supposed to go and listen and enjoy, like a romantic comedy. Apparently, the arts actually get more complex than that.

I was a bit skeptical of "Bienestan," this fictional escape country that Klein created with his partner to keep worldly influences out of their music, but I think they got me to visit their imagination, perhaps only for fleeting seconds between the disconnected keynotes.

Also, CON: Had to make phone calls in the bathroom. Basement clubs are beyond the modern world, like Bienestan is beyond the places we know I guess. Let's just blame the Verizon strikes.

"Everything's Amazing and Nobody's Happy"

Amen.

FWBii

So, I caved and saw Friends with Benefits after so many recommendations from good blog-reading friends who found my previous review to be partly untrue.  I currently think that FWB was funnier than No Strings Attached simply because I don't remember NSA so much.

I think the touching moments that everyone glosses over make the movie more powerful. JT's dad with Alzheimers was a way to bring insight and modern family issues to light. Mila Kunis has mom problems and makes a subtle reference to her Jewishness. Her emotional inner fragility combats and sometimes compromises her incredible professional talent and drive. Turns out I was not making up the Jewishy feeling of this film: http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2011/07/friends_with_benefits_writers.html

There were also a few references to collegey casual sex which I find to be dishearteningly true, but also comical. And I've dwelled a great deal on whether or not the premise can work in writing my former blog.

Still, it's been 24 hours and the main characters' names are slipping my mind (Jamie and Dylan. Just got it.). I did smile for the full 120something minutes, even during the moments where I felt my heart break because it just made sense.

Friends with Benefits is already slipping into my long list of romcoms that I'd happily rewatch because it was light and fun and who doesn't love a flashmob and a Prince Charming happy ending?

Falling

Just a few thoughts on falling. In my usual 'stream of conciousness'-I promise it's going somewhere-ish style.

Clumsy people literally fall all the time. While I've had a couple slips on the Evanston icey sidewalks and I once dramatically fell up the stairs of my freshman dorm (five flights multiple times a day was rough), I am not that kid who walks into parked cars and falls over midconversation.

The mental falling is what I'm more preoccupied with today. Falling into or out of situations, friendships, hobbies, relationships. Or lifestyles.

A great rabbi once told me you don't just fall into things, you build them for yourself. This was in the context of a long discussion on marriage, divorce, interreligious families, and orthodoxy. That's all for another day of study. Or a lifetime of pondering.

Before I leave for Spain, I have a lot of falling to do. Mostly,  falling out of summer slumping around my house with a megavideo addiction and an overall lazy disposition.

If you think about it, a jump is like an emphatic fall. I should probably think of this all as jumps (or great big leaps of faith and confidence and trust and energy and everything in between)

I have to jump into fulltime speaking a language I barely know, taking adventures from dancing poorly in flamenco lessons down the street to finding out if I can walk up Big Ben a country away. And everything in between. Starting with jumping out of jetlag and into the car of a temp family.

One type of falling is key: Falling in love with Spain, but with all of the jumping toward paella and sangria and men with accents, that should just come along.

Beyond the Classroom

After 10 weeks of work that were both long and short, I found myself late to my own goodbye party (typical), wandering the streets of the UWS, and then presenting a carefully-executed oration on little energy, drained from a checklist-perfect summer.

But ultimately, though I knew in my smartest of smarts that my internship was perfect, my heart needed something else.

I went back to camp, watched hundreds of people do silly dances, hung out with my best 13 year old friends, and made beaded projects they will never use. I watched 5 year olds pick grass from a field long barren from stomping excited feet. I saw dozens of hands clamor for pizza bagels. And somewhere between the dirt and three trips to the nurse and spilling beads, I found myself perfected between the cheese and sauce on that Jewish camp bagel.

There is something to be said for professional connections and cubicle experience. What you can't put in to words is what makes the sweat and frizz and an eleven year old splashing you so beyond amazingly useful in life.

This sort of living and learning from unexpected places, drawing a peace of heart after 10 weeks of peace of mind, is exactly what I'm looking forward to.

I'm going to Spain in a couple of weeks. That's why I started blogging, so I'd keep it up there. And after 20 years of academic learning full time, mind-learning (or cramming), I'm looking for the heart-driven learning, or at least a solid balance of the two.

Pour Some Sugar on Me

Clear and total honesty is not the best policy in my opinion. I go to journalism school so they preach 100% transparency and ethics but I like life with a little extra fluff and sparkle.

When someone in a store holds up a hideous sweater and asks me "Would this be good on me?"
Don't count on me to say "No."
I'm far too creative for that. I'll go with, "I'm not sure it's your style." Or "Maybe in another color." Or "It's unique and different."
I also don't want to let you down or make you sad. If I have to let you down, I'd rather do it gently.

A lot of people would rather just take life straight. But I like mixed drinks and advil with the red sugar-coating (not to be combined).

And, there are moments when sugar is not appropriate. Like on the Bachelorette when Ashley rejects Ben's proposal, dumping him in front of the American populus, he asks her not to sugarcoat it, saying "Good things don't end unless they end badly." He was right. So, whether you're rejected for a marriage proposal or for a college application, there is no good calamine lotion to ease the sting.

Still, I think Mary Poppins got it. "Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down."
I'm going to the dentist today though, and he'll probably disagree. Sugar-coating only causes cavaties. Except, I eat a lot of candy and I've never had one, so I'm not totally convinced.

But, I'm a bit torn on this one now that I've thoroughly contemplated it. Still, I do plan to make a career on sugar-coating consumers to hide corporate realities through advertising.

The Hardest Thing that's Easy

For me, writing comes easily. Thinking about topics of limited intellectual scope also comes easily. The two blend seamlessly and voila - you have a blog.

But what's the point of a blog? What's the point of this blog?
For me, I've always said I just want to make people smile. (Now is when you go, "Aww" and smile.)
I also just want to write regularly because I think there's a certain healthfulness in the workout my fingers get on a keyboard. L to A is a long way, but Mavis Beacon taught me well.

In all seriousness, I am struggling with exactly how to be serious and provide more thoughtful commentary on the world around me. Stef on Sex was met with much thrill and joy, but from some of the people closest to me, I got shrugs, eyerolls, and dismissive comments - each one causing my stomach to roll and my throat to tighten. Critiques suck. Especially when you love and respect the critics.

While I'm confident in my ability to write about the silly, imbecile, juvenile, and absurd, I tend to be more humble when it comes to my real academic or intellectual side.

There are experts on the rare hoopoe bird and ancient hieroglyphics in Egypt and the politics of Greece and the anthropology of Madagascar.

I know a whole bunch of useless things. I memorize what my friends tell me about their pets and I remember who starred in my 5th grade play and I can understand telenovelas sometimes. But these are not 'expertise' categories or knowledgeable passions like those that consume the blogosphere, written by trendsetters and commentators.

So, what am I supposed to write about?

I figure, until I really know enough of something else to thoughtfully comment on that, I'm largely content with a confidence that someone several screens away will read this, say "Aww" and smile.

Friday mini-musings

What ever happened to Orlando Bloom?
From hobbits to pirates, he was a true fantasy man of the last decade. Funny since I totally don't like Lord of the Rings but I'm a bigtime Pirates fan. Johnny Depp's character is insanely and unequivocally enigmatic but ultimately, sweet Orlando Bloom triumphs in every tween girl's heart, I think.

Those are not real.

Disclaimer: This post is fully girl-angled after about 3 paragraphs. As many posts here are. See note below if you don't don a brassiere on the daily.

Everywhere I go, I see imitations. I hear imitations. I inhale and exhale imitations.

Imitation crab in sushi. Imitation eyelashes in the MAC store. Imitation bling and handbags on the street corner. Imitation voices on America's Got Talent.* Imitation Facebook pages of famous people. Is this world an imitation of the good life? A constant striving to be the real thing, without actually just being it?

There is some degree of acknowledgement that imitations are not enough. That's why instead of buying knockoffs, people bust up their credit cards with 'the real deal' to look and feel like the million bucks they never had and never will. But, then again this is imitation/imaginary money and it's causing ginormous crises from personal to national levels.

This is not a political blog for social and governmental commentary. I prefer to talk about the bras in Victoria's Secret. You could sleep on them, they're so plushy. Seriously.

And the GIGANTIC model I pass everyday on the way to work, who is definitely not dressed in Western Business Attire, proclaims proudly, in perfectionist cursive, "I love my body."

Do you love your body, or do you love that bra made out of gel, pillows, water, and clouds that makes you look much chestier than you truly are?

No hate on those models. They're gorgeous. We should all strive to be 5'9" +. Kidding. Proudly 5'2.75" here.

But we should all strive to say 'I love my body." But I don't think that means we need to wear tempurpedic bustiers to imitate the odd social fascination with 'bigger is better.'  The love needs to come from within, not with falsies.

Honestly, it'll only be a disappointment when you take off that professionally-designed shirt-stuffer and discover oh wait, those twins were literally fabricated.

The true issue: it should never be a disappointment, but a freedom and a happiness to be clothesless.

I highly suggested a morningly underwear and hairbrush song and dance routine to get you in the "I love my body" mood from the get-go.

And you should not ever ever ever think that "I love my body" is only a slogan for the haunting poster Angels I see on my way to work. You should own that line, too.


For the boys reading this: I'll write a post for you soon. That won't be so Oprah meets Carrie Bradshaw meets Yenta. Promise.

*America has no talent. More on that soon.

What is Love?

I've decided on 3 ways to approach this enormous question.

1. (1) : strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties (2) : attraction based on sexual desire : affection and tenderness felt by lovers (3) : affection based on admiration, benevolence, or common interests

Thanks, Merriam Webster. If anyone can read that and then decide, 'Oh yes, indeed, I am in love," then let me know.

2. What is Love? Baby, don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more. Whoa-whoa-whoa-ooh-ooh.
This "Night at the Roxbury" 90s classic proclaims that love is pain, particularly unrequited love, like most 11 year olds feel for Justin Bieber.

3. The TIME magazine dissection of the question in a scientific manner says, "Love does not register as definitively on [lab] instruments; it leaves a blurred fingerprint that could be mistaken for anything from indigestion to a manic attack." (Read more) Stomach upsets and mental disorders. Delightful, really? And we literally fight to feel this feeling that we then can't fight? Tricky, tricky. That article, intelligent, clarifies little for me.

So, these top 3 answers condense simply to tell us that love is a 3-prong vague definition partied with in Vegas in the 90s and definitely not well-recorded or explained by your eighth grade lab notebook hypothesis and procedure experiments.

Or as contemporary musicomedian Bo Burnham says, "Love is your favorite food for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner." That would be a lot of mac and cheese for me.

Inspirational (fabricated) romance

I'm absolutely a fairytale princess romantic. I want to be swept off my feet and carried through the threshold on my wedding night. I want to kiss at the top of a ferris wheel. I want to cuddle on a hammock by a lake or jump into a waterfall holding hands.

So why, when I see these things on TV, do I get this tension as my teeth move to smile and my gag reflex starts to tighten? I add the bachelorette scenes to my romance bucket list but choke at the thought of life as a continuum of atrocious PDA and heart-to-heart talks with damsel in distress moments. Life has it's adorable moments but aren't most dates hours of just chatting like normal people do? On the Bachelorette, America's watching 10-15 minutes of cute from an 8 hour reel of footage. I wonder what she and her men do for the other 465 minutes of the date, the parts that the producers leave out.

While most of the time in real life is the 465 minutes of normalcy, the 10-15 make things exciting. And when you can differentiate which makes you happier, that's when you're in...

I can't even say the 'L' word. Maybe Ashley Hebert will tonight.