Stories of Hers

One expected visitor and one unexpected visitor

2011-10-31T16:32:00.000-07:00

One of the top ways not to start a Monday: stepping in dog poo at 7:41 a.m. on the way to work. Luckily, this inauspicious beginning to my week took place the morning after an absolutely awesome weekend with a special visitor: my sister, M.

Who doesn't love visitors? Especially when they are open to sleeping on an air-mattress on the floor of your 300 square foot (being generous here) apartment. We were cozy. We had sister time: laughing, cooking, exploring, eating, dancing. We had an ongoing dialogue with the newly turned-on heater in my apartment, which went something like this:

Heater: Grrrrrrgle hsssssshhhhssss CAAAAAW.

M. (to S., who is in the bathroom): Omg, what is going on in there? That is the longest pee ever. Are you ok?

S. (while opening the bathroom door and stepping out): They turned the heat on in the building. There's a flier from my landlady that says we have to open the valves on the radiator to avoid loud noises.

M.: Open the valves. Ha! (M. laughs and S. joins in. Something about the phrase "open the valves" is undeniably hysterical in that moment.)

Heater: Hssssssssssissssssssssssh grrrrrgle CAW CAW CAAAAAAW.

S. But I don't see any valves to open. I just have this pole in my bathroom that is really hot. (S. touches pole and quickly pulls hand away, as if burned).

M.: We really need to do something about this (M. also touches pole and quickly pulls hand away, as if burned). We are going to get smoked out of this place.

Heater: CAAAAW hssssssshhhhh hisss hisss hisss CAW.

S.: I don't think we can. I don't see a valve! (Both break into laughter and shut door to the bathroom, letting it steam up like a sauna, but at least stifling the noise.)

Balls of Perfection

2011-10-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

"These are like...a miracle of life," my friend sighed while biting into one of the chocolate-peanut butter cake balls L. made me for my birthday. A miracle of life is the closest one can come to describing this dessert. Made of chocolate cake that's been mushed together with peanut butter frosting, rolled into a ball, and then coated in a thick layer of chocolate fudge, these are something holy.

L. went above and beyond by making these gems for my birthday. Not only did she bring them to the bar where we toasted the occasion and conspire with M. to light them with candles for the traditional birthday song, but she hand-delivered the leftovers to my house in a tupperware yesterday. This tupperware now resides in my freezer. I'm thankful that another friend came to my apartment and ate even one cake ball earlier this evening. This means that when the end of the week comes around and the tupperware is empty, I won't have to admit to eating the whole stockpile on my own.

The dessert was the perfect accompaniment to a birthday full of love and happiness. I always say that the best thing about a birthday is that all of the important people in your life call or text or email you or, nowadays, write on your Facebook wall (including my hip grandma!).

I feel thankful for all of my friends and family, the thoughtful cards, the Yogato t-shirt I slept in last night, Pac-man cupcakes, a gift card punctured with Dusty's loving bite marks, and the well wishes.

And if the cake balls are any indication of what's to come for me at 27, then this year's going to be sweet, rich, and close to perfection.

CSA Closure

2011-10-18T09:00:00.000-07:00

This isn't a cooking blog. But that didn't stop me from speckling my posts with CSA-related stories over the last few months on kholrabi, greens, sorrel, and my favorite farmer, Farmer Leigh.

But the farm share season is over now. This is the first Tuesday since June that I haven't gone to pick up a bagful of veggies in the parking lot around the corner.

I turned my last week's bounty into a warming bean and winter squash stew, recipe courtesy of my favorite girl Martha Rose Shulenbaum of the NYT. Now all that's left of my summer's farm share are some tupperwares of frozen pesto in my freezer and a handful of shriveled hot peppers at the bottom of my refridgerator's vegetable crisper that I never used. (My one complaint about the farmshare: too many hot peppers!)

Last week I told Farmer Leigh that I was sad I wouldn't be seeing him on Tuesdays anymore. He didn't seem too put out about the season being over. In typical Farmer Leigh style, he cheerfully said he'd be glad to take a break from us "eaters" for a while and he'd see me next year.

Meanwhile, I'll be schlepping home more produce from the grocery store, all the while anticipating next year's farm share season: 8 months to go.

Inspiring or Insane?

2011-10-17T04:27:00.000-07:00

I read this story three days ago, but I can't stop thinking about it. At first, my reaction was "holy crap, how did this woman maneuver herself for 26 miles with a full-term baby inside her uterus?"

Then, I reread the article and thought: should I be inspired by her strength? I mean, running/walking 26 miles and then delivering a child all in one day is not weak sauce.

Upon reading the article a third time, I decided that nope, I shouldn't be inspired, because this woman clearly has issues--like maybe an exercise disorder--because no one in their right mind would do something that crazy. Also, what kind of doctor gave her the thumbs up for this insanity?

Somewhere in between

2011-10-15T05:44:00.000-07:00

Suburgatory: where SUV's rule the streets, shopping is done in strip malls, and you can't go for a walk without putting on "workout clothes" and sneakers. (It's also the title of a new hit sitcom on abc, which I have yet to watch but am curious about.)

I grew up in the suburbs, and for 18 years, it was all I knew; I was happy as a clam.

This past weekend, I went home to Atlanta (a.k.a. suburbia) for a visit. I reconnected with amazing friends, spent quality time with my loving family, and reconnected with my first car (a 1993 model that still runs like a dream).

Home is constant company. I eat breakfast at the island in our kitchen while my dad sits beside me reading the newspaper and my mom makes coffee. In the evenings, my sisters and I spend hours chatting on the couch, singing along to the guitar, or watching t.v. together. Home is where Dusty, our golden retriever, sleeps on the floor next to my bed at night; his breathing soothing me to sleep.

Home is comfortable. It's easy. There is a rack of linens and towels in the bathroom, already washed and folded, ready for use. The fridge and pantry are stocked with food--no need for me to make a trip to the grocery store. Having been away from home for nearing five years now, I appreciate its comforts and its luxuries.

But being there also makes me appreciate what it means to be off on my own, living in the city of my choosing, where I take care of myself and the world is literally at my fingertips.

In D.C., I step outside my door and walk to a museum, the market, or to a friend's apartment. I hop on a bicycle and ride to work, traveling at a speed that feels like freedom. I observe passers-by from the neighborhood coffee shop, peruse farmer's markets on the weekends, go to festivals and exhibits, commit the bus schedule to memory, and email my landlord when my sink needs unclogging. I work and support myself, I have a family of friends, and I live in an apartment that has my name on the lease.

So where does that leave me? In a suburgatory of my own, I suppose. When I visit my childhood home, the feeling of being pulled in opposite directions is difficult to ignore. On the one hand, I'm happy and grateful to be there, surrounded by the people I love who I rarely get to see. On the other hand, I'm not so fond of being in suburgatory, where everything's a car-ride away, and I come to occupy some nebulous space between adulthood and childhood. In Atlanta, I leave my D.C. identity as a working, self-sufficient adult behind and morph into a daughter, a sister, a house guest, a Riverwood High School alum. I'm a fish out of water. I am a visitor. But at the same time, I am home.

Chillin' Chicken

2011-09-30T11:02:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd ease back into the blogging world with a picture that's worth a thousand words.

If this doesn't scream, "It's Friday, and I'll be chilling out this weekend," then I don't know what does.

TGIF.

Basil: we need to talk

2011-08-13T06:46:00.000-07:00

It's not you, it's me. That's what I told basil the other day when it tempted me for the 10th week in a row with its lustrous green leaves at my CSA pick-up location.

Listen, Basil. We've had a great relationship this summer. I've loved you and cared for you, I've food processed you, chopped, diced, and julienned you. I've included you in soups, sandwiches, salads, pestos, and sauces.

But I'm afraid it's over. I've had enough. I need some variety in my herbs.

Don't cry. I think you're great. I really do. It's just that I think we should see other people. Rosemary comes to mind, and maybe Thyme and Oregano.

I'd like us to always stay friends. Maybe next summer we can try again and see where things go. But, I think it would be best if we don't see each other for a while. Just take a little space. I hope you understand. I'll always think of you fondly.

S.

My mom and I are twins sometimes

2011-08-12T03:53:00.000-07:00

I'm her mini-me. At least that's how I explain our physical resemblance. We both have brown curls, light brown eyes, freckles that dot our arms, legs, and noses, and lanky limbs that extend from slender frames. I'd even go so far as to say I have her ballet-dancer neck. The only real difference in our physical make-up is our height, hence the "mini-me." Mom is 5 foot 10 inches tall, and I'm 5 foot 4 inches short.

The other day she left a singing message on my voicemail. "You're so pretty, you're so smart," she crooned in a sing-songy voice. She finished up with, "and I don't know whyyyyyyy I'm siiiingiiiing this soong. I don't know whyyy."

It was an impressive performance. And it made me laugh so hard I thought my back was going to go into spasm (which isn't such an unlikely occurance nowadays with my bulging disc, but still). Of course I tried to return the favor with a singing message of my own. I don't think mine had quite the same pizazz.

As I've grown up, I've consciously and subconsciously modeled myself after my mom--trying to be more like her in ways beyond hair color and body type. She gives the best advice: "There are some things we can't control," and her momisms are always spot on: "We do the best we can;" "We can't make everybody like us;" ""No one's perfect." Sometimes I hear words come out of my mouth and I realize, that's exactly what my mom would say. Or sometimes I try to channel her, "What advice would mom give me right now?"

Not every girl is so lucky as to have a mother that will call and sing her a song on the phone about how pretty and smart she is, or who takes the time to listen and share the life lessons and wisdom she's collected over the years. I am. Luckily.

Swimming with sharks at sixty-one

2011-08-09T14:01:00.000-07:00

Try saying that five times fast! I'm inspired by 61-year-old Diana Nyad, who attempted to swim the distance between Cuba and Key West, Florida. That's a 103-mile workout.

I barely dragged myself through the pool for a mile last summer (my exercise goal). Nyad swam for 29 hours and 50 miles, through physical pain, mental stress, and an asthma attack. She probably would have made it had it not been for uncontrollable vomiting, which finally caused her to put her dreams to rest, for now.

Mad props to Nyad for trying, but lesson learned: knowing when to stop and listen to our bodies is essential. I think the asthma attack might have gotten me.

Peaches

2011-07-30T04:21:00.000-07:00

Ah’ma Georgia peach. Sort of. My roots are actually Eastern European and then Yankee- New York, Montreal, and eventually Pittsburgh. But I was born and raised in Atlanta, GA ya'll, home of Peachtree Street, the Peachtree Road Race, and the New Year’s Eve Peach Drop.

It’s also the home state of the third—that’s right, third—largest producer of peaches in the country. Finishing behind California and none other than our neighbor, South Carolina.

I’ve always mentioned this bit of surprising trivia when people say, oh you’re from Georgia? That’s the peach state isn’t it? And I respond with, yes, but did you know South Carolina grows more peaches?

The fuzzy skin of a ripe peach holds in the juices of its tender, but not mushy, orange-pink flesh. You know it’s a good one if you bite into it and the juice drips down your chin.

As part of my CSA, Farmer Leigh’s been giving us peaches grown by another local farmer. Six peaches a week! That’s one for almost every day, thank goodness. I’ve eaten them whole like an apple, sliced on toast with cheese, and cut in half and piled high with vanilla frozen yogurt. I want to make a peach crisp, but I am hesitant to sacrifice my fresh bounty for the soupier, baked version. But the oatmeal-sugar crumb topping might make the sacrifice worth it. Maybe this week I’ll go there.

A poem on friendship

2011-07-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

We stand
hand in hand
proud and strong
happy and joyous
feeling the power
of friendship,
reaching a stronger bond.

A poem by Ellie Kimmelman.

My young friend Ellie--budding poet and the coolest 12-year-old I know--shared this poem with me. She wrote it at summer camp and sent it to me in a letter filled with descriptions of her bunk mates and activities punctuated with exclamation marks.

Her poem reminds me that, even when we aren't 12 anymore or at sleepaway camp, us ladies still band together as friends, finding strength and happiness through each other. Much love to all my girls in D.C., Atlanta, Alabama, NYC, Philly, and wherever else you are!

This nice senior citizen I know

2011-07-09T05:55:00.000-07:00

“Did I tell you about the hours I have to do?”

“Hours? What hours?”

“My community service hours. For the judge.”

“What!?” I exclaimed. What do you mean bours for the judge?”

“Oh, I never told you the story? For my speeding ticket,” this nice senior citizen I know said.

This is the same woman who drives a Prius, takes care of her friends when they’re sick, makes the best chicken soup I’ve ever tasted, is famous for her chocolate chip cookies, plays bridge, is always dressed in the latest styles, and carries a hanky.

“Oh my gosh, no, you didn’t tell me!” I said.

“Well.” she said. "I was on my way to the beauty parlor, you know, to get my hair done. And on the way, I have to drive down this steep hill. So I was driving, and all of a sudden I saw a police car. I put my foot on the break to slow down, you know. But he came up behind me with his lights on. I couldn’t imagine what the problem was, but I pulled over and rolled down my window. I asked, “What’s the problem officer?"

“He said he had me clocked going 28 mph in a 15 MPH school zone.”

I had no words. Speeding at 28 MPH, I thought. That’s insane.

“I couldn’t believe it,” this nice senior citizen I know said. (As in, she couldn’t believe that she was going that fast.) ‘I said, “Officer, that’s impossible.” But he wrote me the ticket anyways.’

“Oh no!” I said.

“I know. It was awful,” she said. “And when I got home, I went to pay the ticket right away, before I forgot. I opened it up and looked at it, and I saw it was for $588!”

“No! For going 28 in a 15? That’s crazy!”

“I know,” she said. “There was no way I was paying that ticket.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said.

“I put in a call to Mark and told him that he had to come out of retirement.”

Mark is this nice senior citizen’s “friend,” or companion. He’s also a nice senior citizen. A former lawyer and a kind soul, he buys her orchids for her birthday.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“We went down to the courthouse and everything, you know, to contest the ticket. Mark looked sharp. He really did. He was all prepared to question the cop and to question me, but the judge wouldn’t let him do it. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, and a nice tie, and a crisp white shirt.

“But the judge wouldn’t hear what we had to say. He said that I had two options: pay the ticket or do 30 hours of community service. So I took the service!”

She added, “At the courthouse, you could tell a lot of people there had priors, but I have a clean record.”

All I could think about while hearing this story is that the police and the court system in Pittsburgh, PA must have more worthwhile things to spend their time on than clocking nice senior citizens on their way to the beauty parlor going less than 30 miles per hour.

“Anyways,” this nice senior citizen said, “I’ve got to get these hours in. I only have three weeks left.”

"That's a ridiculous story," I said. "Can I write about it on my blog?"

"Sure," she said. "Just call me this nice senior citizen you know."

Rule-Breaker in Green

2011-07-02T15:29:00.000-07:00

This morning I painted my nails green. Green like the pesto I made this past week with garlic scapes and walnuts and Parmesan cheese, or like the tomatillo salsa I made this morning at 8 a.m. with lime and jalapeno while still in my pajamas (which I later enjoyed with flax seed chips bought at Trader Joe's and toted home in the basket of my DC Capital Bikeshare bike). All in all, it's been a highly eventful day and a wonderful start to the holiday weekend.

Also, I stumbled upon some articles that seek to explain my high-level of interest in adventurous nail polish colors. Maybe I'm the rule-breaker: NYT Wild Nail Polish Article.

Killer Rec from Farmer Leigh

2011-06-23T00:09:00.000-07:00

It's 3 a.m. Since I can't sleep, I thought I'd share something very important with the blog world. It's something I didn't even know about until two days ago and had never personally experienced until last night.

And that something is, sorrel.

A perennial herb, sorrel has a delightful lemon flavor when you take a bite of it raw. But when it's cooked in a simple omelet like Farmer Leigh recommended, all I can say is, "Whoa." It transformed into a citrus-butter, melt in your mouth, green deliciousness. Who knew?

I Fought the Kohlrabi… and I won

2011-06-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

Kohlrabi. The word scared me, but the appearance of the vegetable scared me even more. It had reddish-purple, leafy tentacles attached to a bulbous purple head, reminding me of a giant squid. A member of the cabbage family, Kohlrabi can grow pretty much wherever, according to Wikipedia. I’m not surprised by this- I bet it could take root on Mars it’s so strange looking.

What the hell was I going to do with this thing? It was only week 2 of my CSA, and I really felt strongly that nothing from Farmer Leigh was going to waste. So I stared that Kohlrabi down, determined to make it into something edible but hopefully also delicious.

My plan of attack: first, I called my sister and had her Google instructions on how to cut Kohlrabi and what to do with it (not having internet set up yet at my new apartment yet was a minor obstacle). After my sister read some recipes and basic instructions to me over the phone, my confidence rose. I took hold of my knife and chopped off its tentacles and leaves. Then, less tentatively, I attacked its purple exterior with a peeler.

Ok, this wasn’t so bad. The next step was to grate what was left, a cream-colored bulb, into a shredded heap. I took a bite. Bitter. I texted my friend who was en route to eat this vegetarian feast with me that Kohlrabi might not be my favorite vegetable. But tossing it with some purple cabbage, a shredded apple, and cubed mango transformed the alien vegetable into part of a delicious vinegar-based slaw.

We served the slaw alongside a jicama-corn-avocado salad, pak choi (my second effort, which was far better than my first) with garlic scapes and lots of ginger, a tomato salad with basil from my thriving basil plants, and this really interesting quinoa dish with watermelon and pumpkin seeds. I'm no photographer, but hopefully I've captured what a colorful feast this was!

And so much of it came straight from Farmer Leigh, which made it extra special. But I have to add, as a shout out to my fabulous friends, even better than the food was the company I got to share it with. Xoxo.

Happiness Today Is...

2011-06-11T06:12:00.001-07:00

Getting unstuck. Making a move. Getting my very own studio apartment in my favorite part of town. Having Shaka move my things in less than two hours, putting away clothes in my new closet just so, having my best friend come over and rescue me from the nightmare that is unpacking, winning new neighbors who are already great friends, kicking back with a beer and pizza once I settled in, reveling in the change, letting it all sink in.

Snakebite and Greens

2011-06-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

Farmer Leigh got bit by a copperhead. "My hand swelled up big enough to burst," he announced, still smiling. He might as well have said, "It's free scoop day at Ben & Jerry's!"

It must take something serious to shake Farmer Leigh's good spirits if a poisonous snake bite, overnight hospital stay, and swollen hand can't do it. He held up his left hand, the bitten one, alongside his right. It was double the size and had a purplish tint to it.

Maybe it's that fresh farm air that keeps him so upbeat despite what nature throws his way. "Look, my hand's still full of fluid," he crowed, while passing out my new tote bag with the farm logo on it.

I grimaced, but went down the row of vegetables, collecting the specified amounts and gently resting them in my bag. It was the first week of my CSA's vegetable delivery, and I had eagerly been awaiting my first vegetable pick-up for the past month.

I took two fennel bulbs with long, feathery green stems still attached, a pok choi and some mizuna (never heard of either of these before), some salad mix, mustard greens, garlic scapes, and swiss chard. To top it off, Farmer Leigh had pretty little potted flowers for us to take home. I'm kicking myself because I already forgot the name of the flower. But I do remember his instructions: "Once the top bud dies, cut it off, and three more will grow in its place."

I made a colossal salad with my greens and finely sliced fennel, supplemented with some tomatoes and cabbage I had in my fridge. I tossed it all with a home-made balsamic vinaigrette. I could literally taste the freshness of the veggies, which made the meal that much more delicious.

My plan for the pok choi is to saute it up with the garlic scapes and see what happens. Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to next week's goodies. And I hope--for Farmer Leigh's sake--that when I see him next, his hand will have returned to its normal size.

Green Pinky

2011-06-05T05:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve never been a gardener, but it’s a hobby I’ve always wanted to pick up. I remember as a kid, we planted tomatoes in our backyard and the squirrels ate most of them. That put a damper on our vegetable planting efforts. But lately, I’ve finally developed a green pinky. I’d say calling it a green thumb would be going too far.

I got inspired with a trip to my CSA's farm the other week. Farmer Leigh—an older man of about 50, I’d guess, though I was expecting a petite, middle-aged woman (we’d only corresponded by email and Leigh is one of those unisex names that can easily be confused)—was giving away free herb seedlings, fresh eggs, and tours of the hoop houses. I’d never heard of a hoop house before (it’s a type of greenhouse that farmers often use because it increases growing space and beds of vegetables can be planted directly on the floor), and I’d never eaten an egg plucked straight from the chicken coop. But let me tell you, the hoop house lettuce and the fresh farm eggs were to die for. Honestly. My salad tasted fresher and the omelet I made with those eggs was the most delicious omelet I’ve ever eaten. I once made fun of someone I overheard saying “Now that I’ve eaten farm fresh eggs, I’ll never go back.” Though I fear sounding like an uppity yuppy, after making omelets with my fresh eggs, I now get where that person is coming from. My omelet was even a brighter shade of yellow-orange than omelets made from store-bought eggs. I kid you not.

I also left the farm with three seedlings of Thai basil. Before accepting these gifts from Farmer Leigh, I gave due pause to the fact that I live in an apartment and don’t exactly have much (read: any) space for gardening. But then I figured, why not?

So I schlepped to the hardware store and back, carrying a 5-pound bag of potting soil and three pots home with me. I sat on my apartment’s stoop and planted my cute little Thai basil plants. Once they were potted, I sat them in my bedroom window. I watered them, and I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. These babies are shooting up like weeds! It doesn't hurt that I’ve been pampering my plants with plenty of water and sun. The sunlight in my apartment is brighter than holy hell- bright enough to wake me up at 6 a.m. every morning like a rooster.

While I may be sleep deprived, I take solace in the fact that not only have I not killed my guinea pig plants, but that I'll also be able to make a killer caprese salad.

Meta-email

2011-05-28T05:06:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm writing an email to myself about writing emails to myself. Literally, I'm composing this blog post as a draft in my google mail account.

When something's on my mind, or maybe I have a brilliant idea in the middle of the work day that I can't act on (such as a topic for this blog), I write it to myself in an email. And then I feel like I've sufficiently accomplished something--put thoughts on the page, set myself up to act, purged emotions that would otherwise weigh me down.

I have whittled down the draft emails living in my gmail account to 15 at the moment, but that number has been much higher. I've written unsent emails to ex boyfriends, bosses, and of course, to myself.

I don't start out "Dear Me," or anything. I just start writing. My thoughts, feelings, and ideas spew onto a screen that I know will be viewed by my eyes only. Yet, with the click of a button, I also know that these words could be sent to anyone, anywhere in the world. It's powerful, when writing in a journal, kept in a special box by my bed or under my pillow, is so safe.

This isn't to say that I've never sent a draft email that was originally intended to be for my eyes only. I have. And it wasn't by accident. The outcome of this sent email was incredibly significant. Up until I sent it and received an asinine response from the recipient, I was stuck on a boy who didn't deserve to be stuck on. But still, some days I wish I could take it back. Not that I want to take back the sentiments or the feelings relayed in that draft turned email. I'm glad I finally said what needed saying. But sometimes I wish that I could still click unsend and erase all of the hurt and misunderstanding and disappointment that led me to click the "send button" in the first place.

But that's the thing about email. You only have five seconds (I think) to unsend. And after that, your words are in in the tubes forever. For better or for worse.

I've read and spell-checked this one; it's life as a draft is about to end. I'm sending it now.

Stuck

2011-05-25T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the hiatus, blog world. But, good news: I'm back!

"Where has she been?" You might have wondered. "Why haven't there been any new fabulous stories posted?"

I hope that these questions have not kept you awake at night.

To provide some sort of answer without dwelling in negative thoughts, I'll say this is: I've been literally and figuratively stuck over the past month. And so, not surprisingly, this has rendered me unable to put coherent thoughts together in writing. That is correct. I have not picked up a pencil to write in my journal or opened up my blog account on my fast-expiring macbook since my last post. Scary thought (both that I haven't written in so long and that my laptop is about to die).

After throwing out my back and spending almost two weeks lying on the floor of my apartment, pondering life and having no sense of what's going to happen next with my career or with love and relationships, I finally decided it's time to get unstuck. The first step was to pick myself up off the floor and get a manicure. Second was to back up my computer files. Glad I took care of that.

I know what I want from life and love. I just need to not forget it. So I'll keep writing, exploring, talking, working through all of the stickiness... and see what comes.

Sometimes I belong in the stone-age

2011-04-07T12:56:00.000-07:00

I am writing this blog post right now because I can't watch television. At my own apartment, I don't have a T.V, so not being able to watch isn't that foreign of an idea to me. But my parents' house, where I'm currently visiting, actually has a T.V. (a nice one), and part of the appeal of going home to visit is getting to watch recent versions—not hulu-delayed versions—of trashy television on channels like Bravo and TLC. Real Housewives? Yes. What Not to Wear? Yes. Say Yes to the Dress? Yes please.

But instead of indulging in this drivel that I look forward to every time I come home and kick back on the leather couch in my parents' living room, I am writing this blog post. Because I can't seem to figure out how to turn on the newer, bigger, better television that now adorns the entertainment center in the living room. This new, however many inch blank flat screen with Direct T.V. has taken the place of what used to be a colorful, easy to use set with basic Comcast cable. Not that I’m the biggest fan of Comcast, but at least I knew how to turn it on and off. And since I can't work the Direct T.V, I’m staring at a black screen instead of one lit up with acrylic nails and tear-faced brides-to-be.

From what I can tell, there are two remotes in play. One is gray and larger. I think it powers on a box that sits to the right of the television. The other remote is black and a bit smaller and makes a blue light glow from the right hand corner of the television screen if you hit one of the four power buttons at the top of it. After you get the blue glow going, if you wait patiently, eventually a channel appears on the screen. This much I learned about ten minutes ago. But once that channel appeared, my brain quickly processed the fact that it didn't like that particular show, and so I made what now seems to be an irreversible mistake: I tried to scroll to a different channel.

But what I actually did was hit a button that means "scramble screen with black and white fuzz and emit a loud white noise noise. Shit. Then I did the next logical thing that any other desiring T.V. -watcher might do. I hit a bunch of buttons on the gray remote and every button on the black remote. Sometimes I hit them together. Nothing happened. No channels came up. Double shit.

Luckily, I managed to power down both the box and the television so that there is no more blue light, fuzz, or noise. But here I sit, writing this post, trying to accept that I'm 26 years old, not 66, and that I cannot for the life of me figure out how to work this piece of equipment while also silently praying that I didn’t do anything permanently damaging to my parents’ new television set.

Have you ever been to Graceland?

2011-03-30T06:59:00.000-07:00

Usually when I fly, I like to read my book and pretend that no one is sitting next to me. As in, I don’t like talking to random strangers on airplanes. I’m never going to see you again, everyone within five-rows can hear what we’re saying, and sometimes, different from the way I meant it here, I just want a little peace.

But 14C, the gentleman in his late 60s/early 70s sitting next to me on Southwest Flight 686 from Tulsa to Memphis, wanted to carry on a conversation, and he wasn’t going to let any amount of reading material in my lap or my overtly distracted gazes out the window stop him.

In the 1 hour and 45 minute flight, I learned that 14C was a Vietnam War vet, father of two and grandfather of two, world-traveler to Portugal, Spain, Greece, Turkey, etc., and a seasoned gambler who’d been to Monte Carlo five times. 14C used to travel so much for work that he racked up 22 free flights on Southwest. He lives in Memphis and knows all of the good spots for classic bar-b-que.

After dishing out all of this information, 14C leaned in a little closer, crossing the armrest barrier between us, and asked, “Have you ever been to Graceland?”

I answered that I hadn’t and looked out the window.

He went on.

“Did you know it’s true that Elvis used to eat fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches?” I pivoted back in his direction and answered that yes, I had heard that before.

Emboldened, 14C went on to tell me that Elvis was a super generous guy. In fact, he said, it’s true that every year, Elvis used to buy ten random people a new Cadillac. 14C told me how the King would go down to the car lot at a time when it was closed, like a Sunday morning, when folks were there just to look at shiny new Cadillacs, not to buy them. Elvis would approach anyone gazing longingly at the new models, and he’d just ask them which one they were gonna get. The folks would respond, “Oh, we’re just lookin. We can’t afford a car like this.”

Lo and behold, 14C said, within a week, Elvis would make sure that brand-spanking-new Cadillac was sitting in whoever he’d talked to’s driveway. “That was just the kind of man Elvis was.”

I smiled politely and nodded.

Meanwhile, we were headed toward the ground, and14C was rattling off the best bar-b-que options in the Memphis airport. I took mental notes, and as soon as I got off that airplane, I took 14C’s story and his advice and bought one of the most delicious bar-b-que sandwiches I’ve ever sunk my teeth into. I licked my fingers and savored each bite while thinking about Elvis and all of those Cadillacs. Was the story really true, or was it just some old Graceland legend?

A Little Peace

2011-03-26T06:42:00.000-07:00

I was lying in bed, a book I’d finished for the second time in two weeks closed on my stomach. I watched it rise and fall with my breathing. I wished the book hadn’t ended. The story swept me away from reality the way books used to do when I was a kid.

The feeling of entering someone else’s world through their words was fading, like it always does. That’s probably what makes reading so addictive- I always want to find that feeling again. I lie relatively still, but the book still risies and falls. I am nestled in my blankets, surrounded by pillows. My mom always says I look like an amoeba the way I burrow into my sheets.

Almost two years ago, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Philadelphia. I was alone, yet I had men in my life that made grand gestures: two dozen red roses hidden behind my car, surprise visits from Boston for my birthday. I was easily swept away by their affections. I didn’t know that such gestures would or could be fleeting, or that they didn’t indicate a love that was real or lasting.

In Philadelphia, I would wake up on a Saturday or Sunday, eat breakfast, and get dressed. I would leave my apartment for the day to sit in parks on benches surrounded by people, to take long, meandering walks through the neighborhoods, to do my work in coffee shops where the owners recognized me and the other patrons became familiar, so that we were all regulars.

Now I wake up in my apartment in DC, savoring the last few pages of a book I checked out from the library and read twice in two weeks. Lingering. No longer in a rush to get up and go. No longer in a rush to believe something is real that isn’t. No longer in a rush to move forward and find the next best thing.

Like a friend of mine said, “Sometimes I just want a little peace.” This morning, I found a little.

Celebrating the Bride-To-Be

2011-03-06T12:45:00.000-08:00

This weekend I celebrated the engagement and upcoming wedding of one of the most beautiful people I know, inside and out. A dear friend since high school, this is the kind of girl who holds nothing back, saying what’s on her mind, crying tears of joy or tears of sadness, giving unconditionally and sincerely, and bringing out the best in those who are lucky enough to be close to her.

Standing curbside at the Charleston airport, I saw the white SUV roll up. K. hung out of the passenger-side window, yelling my name. I threw my hands in the air and jumped up and down, my black overnight bag swinging on my shoulder. I gave a couple of “woops” to match my friend’s horizontal and enthusiastic welcome.

I jumped into the backseat, and from that moment until my head rested against the airplane window on my way back to reality this morning, I was able to forget about a long and stressful week and enter seamlessly into the world of bachelorette festivities.

Just that first night, K’s “WHO-A’s” while donning ten pounds of lingerie, J.’s failed catch-phrase guesses, and the silliness of newly invented words left my abs sore from laughing so hard. Naturally, the weekend wouldn’t have been complete without the story of when K. knew that her now-fiance was “the one,” but also essential were the fibrous phallic cake baked by K.’s sister (also a licensed nutritionist), ten girls taking over an impressive three-story rental house (that had an elevator), and a night out punctuated by a pink “bachelorette sash” and sparkling tiara.

The bachelorette weekend was a culmination of a lot of things. We gathered in Charleston from Atlanta, DC, and Chicago thanks to the ultimate love story—a pair of high school sweethearts who are ready to tie the knot. But we were also there to honor the bride in all of her fabulousness as well as the importance of girlfriends and the sisterly-bonds that have been woven over the years. The weekend left me feeling lucky to have had such an amazing time, but also grateful to have friends like this in my life. With no inhibitions, they let go and capture the essence of what it means to celebrate it all: friendships, an enduring love, the significance of marriage, and one amazing young woman.

A Month for Us

2011-03-04T09:07:00.000-08:00

I had no idea it was Women's History Month, or that such a thing existed. Thanks Gail Collins, for bringing this all important holiday to my attention. And also, thanks for highlighting some interesting tidbits of information:

Ladies, we've come along way in terms of what career opportunities are available to us. And evidence suggests that we're taking the opportunities seriously, spending more time working on our resumes and marrying later: "Did you know the median marriage age for college-educated women is 30?"
But we've still got a ways to go when it comes to finding equality in the workplace: "Among people who work full time, women make an average 80 cents for every $1 that men take home."

Definitely food for thought. I'm going to chew on this (and raise a glass in honor of Women's History Month) this weekend while I celebrate my dear friend's upcoming wedding with my girls in Charleston!

Making up for lost time

2011-02-19T06:36:00.000-08:00

I saw my baby sister in a whole new light that weekend. Her verve and excitement were contagious. I met her at the airport and we greeted each other with giant hugs. I'm not sure who said what, but there was a lot of "I'm so excited!" I bought a coffee (for me) and hot chocolate (for her), and we hopped in a cab back to my apartment, sufficiently caffeinated and ready to begin our weekend’s adventure.

There was no doubt of our shared DNA. When I introduced her to friends, they exclaimed at our likeness. I watched her get settled in at my apartment, tuck her money into safe places and make sure her belongings were organized. Right in front of me, I saw a person with mannerisms and tendencies that I share. Beyond just the physical likeness, it became clear to me that our personalities brand us as sisters.

We walked arm and arm down Connecticut Avenue, a bounce in our synced steps, singing the latest Bruno Mars and Katie Perry songs.

We savored dinner at a local restaurant, ordering dishes I would have thought were too sophisticated for her palette a year or two ago but that she oohed and ahhed over with me: mushroom polenta ragu, tuscan white bean soup with kale, burrata cheese and olives.

After dinner, she met my latest flame over frozen yogurt. On our way home, after he’d left, her astute observation about him surprised me. “He’s great!” she said. He’s got a lot of personality.”

I smiled. She was right on target. But what amused me more was the undeniable fact that she'd grown up.

When the weekend was over and she left to go home, I felt saddened that I'd missed it. I'd missed her development, the subtle changes one undergoes while transitioning from childhood to adolescence, from adolescence to young adulthood. I was supposed to be there- the big sister who gives advice, teaches you how to shave your legs, gives you a ride to the party you don't want mom and dad to know you're going to, and tells you not to wear that shirt with those pants.

But I'm not there. I'm in DC, an hour and ten minute, $200+ plane ride, or ten hour drive, or 14 hour train ride away. I have to give fashion advice and pry for information on who's asked who to the prom over the phone.

But I have a working plan to bring us into closer proximity: recruit sister to go to college in the DC area. Now that it's posted on my blog, maybe she'll start to seriously consider it. Wink.

On My Way to Somewhere

2011-02-16T17:40:00.000-08:00

Just a few days ago, I was writing about how I’ve changed over the past year. Two conversations sparked this topic:

First, a person who I’ve been getting to know a lot better lately told me that I’m “one tough broad.”

That’s a compliment I wish I could wear on my sleeve.

The second was a conversation that went a little something like this:

“I didn’t recognize you,” he said.

“Oh.” Awkward pause. “Is it the long hair?”

“It’s so straight.”

“I guess,” I said, feeling bored.

“And you have a new earring. Up there.”

“I’ve always had that,” I said, fingering the hoop that sits at the top of my left ear. “I got it when I was 16.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, maybe I just never noticed it before.”

These observations came from someone who should have known me at a deeper level, optimally commenting on something other than my hair style. While it’s true that I look a bit different than I did two years ago, letting my brown curly/wavy/straight hair grow well past my shoulders and sprucing up my wardrobe (hello black leather boots), I’ve been working hardest on asserting who I am as a young woman, a human being, a friend, a sister, a partner, and an employee. I’d rather be “one tough broad” than a girl with straighter hair.

Oddly enough, it’s the person who I’ve nearly just met who captured the essence of who I am and what I’ve been trying to be: no nonsense, more assertive, my authentic self.

I’m reminded of the progress I’ve made in other ways. M tells me how impressed she was when I wouldn’t stand for less than what I knew I wanted and deserved. My sister wrote me an email that she hopes some day she will make it like me- have her own place, a job, a life for herself (and yes, reading it made me cry).

And then I look at where I am in terms of my career, relationships/friendships, general quality of life. None of these areas are perfect. While I might feel stability in one on any given week, it’s just as likely that the balance could shift the next day. What gives me comfort is that I feel more clarity around what I ultimately want out of each (i.e. I’m a “work to live” kind of girl who wants to do something meaningful that makes the world a better place), and that tells me I’ve arrived… somewhere.

Redefining "wuss" based on scientific evidence that women are found to be colder than men

2011-02-06T10:18:00.000-08:00

It’s the dog days of winter, and I’ve just about had it up to my neck in cold temperatures. Ya’ll know that I wasn’t too keen on winter when it first began a few months ago. Three months later, and I’m no happier about 20 degree highs, whipping winds, and frozen precipitation.

But I’m feeling justified in my distaste for this season and below-freezing thermometer-readings based on an article I read in Slate this past week, suggesting that there are scientific reasons why women often feel colder than men. This might explain my battle against cold feet and hands that has plagued me for as long as I can remember.

It was an early spring day in April, I believe, and I was with my Dad and sister on a vacation to the Grand Canyon. It was an extraordinary trip. The size and depth of the canyon were unfathomable, even when you were standing right there staring into it.

But the trip was extraordinary for a 13 year-old girl from Atlanta, Georgia for reasons beyond the Canyon’s general impressiveness. That spring, the South Rim got hit with about half a foot of snow the same day of our arrival. I’d never seen anything like it before. A snowstorm in Atlanta meant a half-inch of the stuff, barely sticking enough to cover the blades of grass in the yard, so that the green peeked out through sporadic splotches of white. Headless snowmen popped up around the neighborhood, despite the clear evidence that there just wasn’t enough snow to complete the structures.

Suffice it to say, I was in wonder of the blanket of snow covering the South Rim in April. And I was freezing. But we couldn’t let a little bit of snow put a damper on our trip. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When at the Grand Canyon, one must go hiking.

After outfitting ourselves against the elements, my dad and sister and I trekked into the canyon that first day. The photographs capture me, layered in clothes to the point of bursting, nose red and sweatshirt hood sticking out from beneath my winter coat to cover my head. I mustered a smile for the camera. I had wanted to take the donkey ride rather than walk, but my sister was terrified of the beasts and refused, so we settled for a hike on foot and geared up to keep as warm as possible.

The wind swirled around us, and as a pre-adolescent of probably 100 pounds at the time, I felt like it could have picked me up off the path and carried me into the depths of the canyon at any moment. When an especially forceful gust blew, I clung to the rocks, which carved out our path downward.

The further down we went, the more miserable I became with cold, and my outer-extremities began to lose feeling. According to the Slate article, it’s not unusual for women to have colder hands and feet than men. And this has always been my problem. Even at the office these days, I might find my fingers white with a lack of circulation, either from over-air conditioning in the summer or not enough heat in the winter.

We continued hiking into the canyon, but eventually I lost feeling in my feet, and I made my discomfort known (though I don’t remember being particularly whiny about it, I’m sure that if you asked my dad, he’d sing a different tune). The result was that my dad had to take off my boots and socks and rub some life back into my nearly frostbitten feet on the side of a cliff of the Grand Canyon. If memory serves me correctly, forceful gusts threatened to knock us both to our deaths during the process (I really don’t think I’m exaggerating the strength of the wind here, but again, my dad might sing a different tune if asked). Dad, being the good sport that he is, massaged my stark white little piggies back to life, and shortly thereafter we were able to trudge back up the trail without me losing any appendages.

My “wussiness” on that trip made for a family story that has been told and retold over the years with laughter. I’m sure the wind has got stronger with each retelling. But again, I would like to use this space to emphasize the fact that there is scientific evidence suggesting that it was only natural for me to suffer from the cold.

Accepting this important scientific evidence has allowed me to find a sense of peace in my struggle with winter, to feel like less of a wuss, and to offer a few life lessons I’ve learned: 1) take precautions and invest in a “sleeping bag” coat- a puffy down jacket that falls almost to the ankle; 2) indulge in warm fleece socks for winter; 3) if you have gas heat and must keep your apartment at 60 degrees or below for fear of exorbitantly high bills, sleeping in a sweatshirt (hood up) with an extra comforter will provide sufficient warmth; and 4) it’s a good idea to be in the company of someone (a dad, a boyfriend, a good friend, or a kind stranger), who will be a good Samaritan and rub the life back into near-frostbitten feet and hands when desperate time call for desperate measures, such as on the side of a canyon in the snow.

My Cup

2011-01-29T06:45:00.000-08:00

"Empty your cup," the yoga instructor said. We were in downward facing dog, preparing to complete a sun salutation. No one was drinking.

What he meant was, try to forget the way you're used to doing things. Start fresh. Try something new. Don't let things happen automatically. Let go of what you once knew and open yourself up to the possibility of a different experience. His words replay in my head.

It's hard to let go and forget. I tried to stop moving without thinking, to listen to the instructor's cues rather than jump from pose to pose. When I looked around, I noticed that other yogis were struggling to interrupt the flow they were used to. In yoga, my body is accustomed to moving effortlessly, following patterns that are familiar. This is an easier way practice, both in yoga and in life.

My life is full of so much good these days. The google calendar on my computer screen is covered in purple, orange, and blue blocks: exercise, work, writing, happy hours, yogiberry parties, dinners out, cooking with M., sisters visiting. The weeks are a jumbled treadmill of events. Sometimes I find myself squeezing in the new episode of Modern Family while I eat a bowl of cereal for dinner because lately my schedule has barely lent itself to sparing the 22 minutes of downtime needed to watch the latest happenings in the lives of Cam, Phil and Gloria. My cup has become so full it's overflowing; its contents are sweet and taste of happinenss.

And yet, there are times when I feel my past infringing on my present, clouding the way I perceive things that are new. I impose old schemas on something that should be given a fresh start. I need to forge a new path. While embracing the fullness of my cup and its sweetness, there are moments when it must also be emptied.

A Visit to the Library

2011-01-23T05:59:00.000-08:00

I felt like I was in heaven, encircled by books glowing warmly in the soft, orange light. The Library of Congress purchased these books in 1815, from Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello collection. Ever since, they’ve been housed in our nation’s capitol, where they have survived fires and wars and tourists for more than two centuries. They looked magical, standing side by side in an almost full circle of shelves, which had an opening at one end through which visitors literally walked into the books themselves.

Mirva, or maybe it was Mona, our tour guide, wove the story of the books, pointing out those that were originals and those that had been replaced following one of the two fires that had destroyed much of the library. She walked us out of the circle, back through the library. We followed her like ducklings; I hung onto her every word (just not her name).

She showed us the reading room. There was a glass-enclosed overlook where you could look down upon the room in all of its splendor. I peered out through the class, craning my neck for a 360 degree view. Tall marble columns, sculptures, painted ceilings. People sitting at the long tables, intently reading, focusing on their work. The scene reminded me of the British Museum’s reading room, but more impressive and more beautiful.

In that moment I wished that I was still a student or a researcher, with my own reader’s card granting me admission to the world below. I wanted to join in, sit down at one of the mahogany desks, work on a thesis or dissertation, article or book- a project that causes as much headache and frustration as fascination and a sense of accomplishment.

In college, I wrote a thesis and did research at the British Library. The act of being a part of the library’s community, knowing the procedure for ordering my books and manuscripts to be delivered to my numbered table, felt special- like I was a part of something great- a historic academic tradition.

I wrote much of that thesis back at my own university’s "Reading Room" in the U.S. because it was such a beautiful space and just sitting at one of the tables beneath the chandeliers made me feel important and brought me focus. Also, the room had one rule and one rule only: silence. If anyone so much as coughed in there, they got a nasty look. Campus security even made their presence known, daring anyone to so much as whisper. Once I dropped my pencil and it clattered to the floor. It was mortifying.

Following my tour of the Library of Congress, I went to my own neighborhood library- less impressive than Congress’s library, the British Library, or my University's library, but a library all the same. Books lined the shelves in a familiar order, and it took me just a few minutes to find what I was looking for.

At my neighborhood library, I wasn’t combing through records from British India or hunting down missionary letters from the 1800s like I was five years ago while researching and writing my thesis. But I was after some enjoyable fiction for a cold winter’s evening, which I would read while curled up in the comfort of my own bed.

Up in the Air

2010-12-28T08:26:00.000-08:00

"We have a gear failure light on" is not what you want to hear your pilot announce over the intercom as he pulls the plane out of its landing pattern and back up into the sky.

"Shit," I thought, along with some other profanities.

The plane shakily nosed back up and away from the lights below. I looked out the window, wishing I was down on the ground, maybe riding shotgun in one of the cars on the highway, which were starting to look more like ants with headlamps than cars with each passing second.

As we circled the DC metro area, it sounded like the plane's belly was rumbling and grumbling. I looked over at the two children seated in my row, and could tell from their faces that their belly's weren't feeling all too happy either. The boy reached for the little white bag that the airlines so thoughtfully tuck into each seat pocket. His sister soon followed.

I turned my head and covered my face with my scarf. "This is not good," I thought.

While the flight attendants scurried around passing out bigger plastic bags to replace the rapidly filling paper ones, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom again. "Well, folks, everything is going to be fine, but I've got a little problem with my steering now. I'm going to radio down to maintenance and see what we can do about fixing that."

Um, did the pilot realize that maintenance was on the ground at the airport, where we were supposed to be, but instead we were thousands of feet above the ground in an airplane? "Shit," I thought again. We continued to circle, and as I looked longingly toward the earth, I started to reflect on my life just a little bit, you know, because it was starting to feel like there was a small chance that I might never see the ground again.

I thought about how I have lived over the past few years- how I've taken advantage of life, friendships, learning experiences and career opportunities- and I realized that I don't have many regrets, but that I have a lot more I want to accomplish and a lot more living to do. Those thoughts sat well with me, considering the circumstances (a whole lot better than my stomach was starting to feel as the fumes from my sick neighboring passengers wafted my way). Morbidly, I also thought about the last conversations I'd had before boarding flight 1204 to DC. I wished I had been a little less grouchy on the phone with my mom.

Then I got a little religious. That's right. I started to pray. Just a couple of prayers that came to me- none of that, "If you'll get me to the ground safely, God, then I'll..." kind of stuff, but some nice short blessings. It felt comforting to focus my mind on doing something, seeing as I didn't have any control over the situation and was completely at the mercy of a failing aircraft and an all-too-human pilot.

Before I got too freaked out or got sick myself, the pilot announced that everything was back to normal. I felt the plane dip toward the ground. Within minutes, the wheels smoothly touched down and we taxied to a stop. I felt relief and called my parents, but as soon as I tried to explain what happened over the past half hour or so, a numbness set in. I realized that I didn't want to talk about it. There was no need to dwell on the "almosts" or the "what ifs." "Everything was just fine," as the pilot said.

Growth on the Page

2010-12-17T19:37:00.000-08:00

I walk into the kitchen that glows in warm golds and browns. The granite counter top sparkles, reflecting light from the fixture above. The refrigerator is stocked full of my favorites: hummus, red grapes, pomegranate juice and sparkling water. We sit around the island, perched on stools, helping my mom prepare dinner. We chop vegetables or fill up water glasses. All the while there’s chatter, “Is this my glass?” “No, that’s mine.” “Oh wait, this one’s mine, that one’s yours.”

After dinner, I go into my childhood bedroom and read through my old journals before I go to sleep- black and red leather-bound pages filled with old memories and past experiences. I read my fears, achievements, worries, and excitement in blue, black, purple, and red ink. Each entry is dated. Some begin with “Dear Diary,” and others just begin, but they all end with a “goodnight” or my name scrawled in cursive.

The worries and fears that were once big enough to fill up these pages seem small and trivial five years later. I'd recorded worries about tests, descriptions of my latest crush and day-by-day travel logs from my time living abroad. I even kept a list of my expenditures during my first few days in London: "Tube fare, 2 pounds; museum ticket, 5 pounds."

Reading back through these pages, I am reminded of how I once viewed the world and made sense of things. There was strength and assertiveness in my words, but I also read naivete and a "sweating of the small stuff."

The next morning in the kitchen, my Dad said to me, “You’re doing really great, Sar. Really great.”He says these words with a smile. He pats me on my back, his way of showing affection. I smile and shyly say, "Thanks." On the inside, I feel proud.

I return to DC and pick up my journal of the moment-a moleskin with a brown cover. It’s my second of the year and already it’s half-way full. I read back across the past few weeks: entries on what I want to accomplish in my life; injustices that I try to make sense of; descriptions of the people who are most important to me and the reasons why I value them; stories about my childhood and my family.

The evidence is all there. In comparing my own writing from the past and present I can see my growth on the page. I take out my pen and begin to write about it.

When school is like a jail

2010-12-15T09:27:00.000-08:00

Students rioted at a New York City high school just a few days ago. The riot occurred after the school's principal revoked the bathroom "privileges" of 2,600 students over the loud speaker following a fight between just two students earlier that day.

This news touched a nerve with me because the school where I once taught, which had earned its place on the country’s “most violent high schools” list, had a series of riots the year before I started working there. The riots' effects were long-lasting. They earned our school a reputation. They defined the school’s culture. They made learning secondary to order and control and instilled a fear that the trashcan fire or fight on the fourth floor could lead to the unraveling of it all.

My school was like a jail. There were metal detectors and rules that said, “No drinks or outside food allowed.” There were policemen and school security officers patrolling the halls and checking students’ backpacks. There were “Code Browns” over the loud-speaker and school lock-downs.

Given my own prior proximity to a school defined by disorder and the fear of disorder, the recent events in NYC made me reflect on what school should and should not be:

A school shouldn't mirror a prison; it should be a place where students explore new ideas, discuss interesting topics and learn.
A school shouldn't breed violence and hatred and chaos; it should be a safe-haven for students no matter where they live or how much money they have or what race they are.
School shouldn't be a constant struggle for power between children and adults, where students aren't allowed to go to the bathroom and have to line up every morning to wait their turn to pass through the metal detector.

December

2010-12-02T18:36:00.000-08:00

Dear Winter:

It all started a couple of weeks ago with daylight savings time. No one likes it when it gets dark at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, you know. Then the trees started losing their leaves. Bold reds and yellows fluttered to the ground, leaving branches naked and exposed. Not too long after, those same leaves turned into heaps of dirty brown, cluttering the sidewalks. You were getting closer.

I felt you breathing down my neck on my way to the metro last week. I buttoned my coat, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

Now you're being just plain aggressive.You interrupted the local news broadcast I was watching while on the stationary bike at the gym with warnings of flurries for the weekend forecast. You've even gone so far as to terrorize me with 20 degree lows.

Well, Winter, I would just like you to know that I'm not impressed. I'll always prefer the warmth and the sunshine, 9 p.m. sunsets and warm sweat beads on my forehead in the middle of July. So bugger off.

Most sincerely,

S.

Taking a Walk

2010-11-28T17:02:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, home for Thanksgiving, I took my family's dog for a walk around the neighborhood where I grew up. This is a walk I've been on countless times. In the first half of my life, I used to take Duchess, our first golden retriever, on the two and a half mile loop. Now I walk down the street with Dusty, our second golden. I use the same brown leather leash, and as we walk, I let memories of childhood and growing up wash over me.

She was 12 years old and in the seventh grade. She walked down the street each morning to wait for the bus that would take her to middle school, carrying a backpack heavy with books. She slung a violin over her shoulder, packed in a bulky rectangular case. She hated carrying it to and from school. She was shy, had a slight overbite before getting braces, and barely spoke to the boy who waited alongside her for the bus- the boy with the curly blonde hair, who she found too cute to talk to.

Dusty and I pass his house- the best-manicured lawn on the street. The blonde-haired boy grew up to be an impressive landscape architect, and his parents’ yard is evidence of his talent.

They were two pre-teens, looking for freedom and something to do in an uneventful suburban neighborhood. After school they hopped on their Schwinns and went exploring, whizzing by each brick ranch-style house and careening down "death curve," their knick-name for the steepest hill in the neighborhood. They made a best friends time capsule and buried it in her back yard. During summers, they hung out at the pool, bringing dollar bills in case the ice cream truck came singing.

Passing her house, I turn left at the top of the hill. Dusty tugs me toward the grass, stopping to sniff something in the bushes. I pull him along.

She used to run down the hill and then up toward the entrance of the subdivision and then trace her steps back again as part of her soccer training. She’d arrive back at her driveway, sweating, red-faced, and out-of-breath, and check her stopwatch to see if her time had improved. Her dad clocked the distance in his car, about a mile each way.

Dusty and I approach the driveway, our walk complete, but the memories continue to ricochet inside my head: capture the flag games played in the front yard, fort-building in the back, games of horse in the driveway, roller-blading in the street, running through the sprinklers on a hot summer day, helping my Dad rake the leaves or plant begonias by the mailbox.

No longer a child who has time to play in the yard, or who even has a yard to play in, I let go of the leash and start to run, cutting across the grass of my parents’ yard while Dusty bounds alongside me.

Staying Present

2010-11-24T16:39:00.000-08:00

Focus on the here and now. Deep breath in. Exhale out. The here and now. The here and now. In and out. I breathe deeply, letting my breath make a rasping noise against the back of my throat as I exhale.

My jawbone slackens. The knots in my neck and shoulders soften. I feel the tension that I’ve been holding for so many days begin to melt away. My mind starts to wander but I pull it back to the here and the now. Not letting myself think about what happened or what could happen or what will happen tomorrow or the next day, I steady my mind’s eye on the present. I breathe.

After yoga class is over, I bend forward deeply, letting my head touch the top of my mat, and I say “shanti” and then “namaste.” I remember the intention for my practice: to focus on the here and the now. I thank myself for staying true to that intention.

My body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time. I roll up my mat, and as I do so, my stomach growls with hunger, something it hasn’t done in days. I leave the studio, lighter in my step, and go to satisfy it.

Bolt Bus Encounter

2010-11-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

For less than twenty bucks you can hop a bus to New York City from D.C. It's enticing. In four hours and fifteen minutes (as advertised), but more often in six hours or more, you can be transported up or down the east coast, with free internet access. The bus is usually filled with young professionals, twenty and thirty-somethings, shuttling back and forth between the two cities while updating their facebook statuses. Some are engaged in what have come to be coined by M. as "Bolt Bus Relationships," travelling to visit a girlfriend or boyfriend in the other city.

I boarded the bus this past weekend to attend a wedding of some special friends in NYC. After the courtesy stop in Delaware, the sniffling woman sitting next to me with a hacking cough turned to me and said, "I'm not sick. Well, I just have a cold. Would you want to switch seats with my husband there across the aisle?"

I couldn't have moved more quickly, grabbing my stuff and taking the window seat on the other side of the bus. I ended up next to a healthy, Finnish traveler who was riding the Bolt to the big apple, the last stop on his U.S. traveling tour.

He had a large backpack stuffed to the gills with whatever he'd been schlepping around for the past month. We got to talking around hour four of the journey- an hour before we were supposed to be there but two hours before we arrived. While stuck in traffic, he told me that he doesn't have a home. He's been travelling since he was 19, making his way through South and Central America- Brazil, Peru, Argentina, Chile, Guatemala, Belize- taking photographs for a newspaper and doing odd jobs. He's been to Japan twice. He built ships in Singapore. I looked down and noticed that the tip of his middle finger was cut off, leaving a nubbed end instead of a neatly rounded nail.

He left his family in northern Finland and has hardly looked back, except for a one year blip when he actually rented his own apartment back in his home country. He said this was the first time he'd had a permanent address, but it didn't take long for him to get antsy, and he hit the road again, whittling down his belongings to fit into two boxes he stored at his parents' home before moving on.

I thought about what it would be like to trade a home base for a life of travel and adventure, or to have so few material possessions weighing me down. I envied his experiences, his freedom, his mobility. But then I remembered what it feels like to be away from home for an extended period of time and to return. I take out my keys, lie in my own bed, rest my head on my pillow, inhale the familiar smell of my apartment, and feel a sense of relief and comfort. As much as I love traveling, I don't think I could surrender the feeling of home.

The bus pulled up near Penn Station. We spilled out onto the sidewalk, and I said goodbye to my seatmate. I doubt our paths will ever cross again, but it was nice to have someone to talk to and pass the time with. He's going from New York back to Singapore, where he hoped to find some interesting work. Maybe ship building again. He loves the water, he said.

Goosebumps

2010-11-08T18:16:00.000-08:00

Adversity. I didn’t know the meaning of the word until I met my students. The hardships and difficulties that many of them overcame just to make it to school each day were more than admirable-they were inspiring. A father in jail for life, a baby on the way, brothers and sisters to take care of, not enough money to buy a clean uniform shirt, the threat of getting jumped on the way to school, being passed along to the 9^th grade without being able to read any better than a third grader, and on and on.

And yet, many of those same students figured out a way to make it through. They did what it took to walk across the stage and proudly claim their high school diplomas. Some were the first in their families to do so. Proud smiles lit up their faces, families whooped and hollered as names of graduates were called. My skin prickles with goosebumps just to remember the scene.

Others didn’t make it. They dropped out, quit before the finish line. Gangs or drugs or jobs sucked them away from high school. Others gave up, too far behind to catch up, not believing they had what it took or that a diploma was worth the struggle.

Tonight I was reminded of those students who fell through the cracks. But I was heartened, because what reminded me of the Tyrones and the Sonias is that there are students out there of all ages, some decades removed from high school, who come to recognize the worth of education and battle to achieve a high school equivalency despite giving up on school years ago.

One such student leaned over a worksheet, subtracting fact families. I didn’t have to help this time. I looked at her work and said, “You got it!”

“Oh yeah, I see now,” she said, starting to smile. I noticed the prickling of my skin and looked down at my arm. Goosebumps.

A Common Language

2010-11-05T05:43:00.000-07:00

“You taught at O!?!” people who know Philly exclaim, their voices filled with disbelief. They look at me and see a little white Jewish girl. They think of O. and see mostly minority students from an impoverished neighborhood where encountering crime, drugs, and gangs is more common than Starbucks in Downtown DC.

Tonight’s reaction was no different when I mentioned my teaching experience to a man who grew up near the school where I taught, who was into all kinds of bad as a kid, but who made it out and is now an entrepreneur, college graduate, and one of the one in a million success stories you always hear about but never meet.

We talked, and I was captivated by his story.

He said that he went into culture shock when he left public school for a prep school on the Main Line, where his classmates took weekend ski trips to Sweden. I said that when I started working in North Philly I had culture shock of my own. I learned knew words like "Joe," "hype," and "drawlin." He said he didn’t interact with white people until his senior year of high school. I said, my students used to talk about white people and then turn to me and say, ‘No offense, Miss.” I always replied, “None taken.”

It felt good to talk about these things, to say words out loud that are so often whispered: “black,” “white,” “rich,” “poor.” We didn’t worry about offending or misunderstanding- we made a connection and discussed the places we both knew. Talking to him reminded me of the connection I have to the neighborhood I drove to every day for two years and to the students I came to care for, despite my difference.

It was time to say goodbye. “If you forget my name,” he said, “Just call me Philly,” and he pointed to his forearm, where the City of Brotherly Love’s skyline was etched.

On being far from family

2010-11-02T17:47:00.000-07:00

“How was your day” phone calls after work to mom, daily g-chat conversations that ebb and flow with my sister, the week’s Torah portion sent to my inbox from dad, video chats with my youngest sister, and I’m connected. Technology makes it possible to know what they’re eating for dinner, but I’m still physically distant. I'm not there to eat mom's new recipe or to see C.'s tennis match. I missed cheering on M. at her first half-marathon.

I spend quality one-on-one time with my mom twice a year, for special mother-daughter weekends. We’re an hour and ten-minute plane-ride apart. We plan a weekend getaway, take a road trip, taste wine, sample new cuisine, talk about our lives, and bicker a little by the end. We shed tears saying goodbye. My tears are a recognition that I’m missing out on time with her, with my family. An acute loneliness settles in; I’m the only daughter who flew far from the nest, and it hits me.

But I wipe the tears away and embrace my independence. I love my city and all it has to offer- young adults on missions to change the world, a politically-charged atmosphere, city blocks made for walking, diversity and culture at every corner. I’m figuring out my future, one day at a time.

I build a support system. I embrace and value my friendships. I feel thankful as I write M’s name on the line for “emergency contact” at the doctor’s office.

We cook together, eat together, share our hopes and fears, wax philosophical about public education in America, discuss our goals, gossip about men, and try to figure it all out. When I'm with these girls, though I’m far from my family, it feels like I’m home.

Flawless Part 2

2010-11-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

Nothing makes a girl feel more like a princess than wearing a fancy dress. Why do girls want to feel like princesses? I don't know. Maybe this stems back to our Disney brain-washing from early childhood. Regardless, I was on a hunt for a dress that made me feel special ever since I tried on "Flawless" a couple of weeks ago. Since that day with Chester, nothing I'd encountered lived up to that one dress's perfection, until...

I went shopping with my mom this past weekend. We perused the racks patiently and entered the dressing room weighed down with options. I wiggled into one dress after the next. They were all beautiful, but there was always a minor issue- too much going on up top, not tight enough here, too loose there. Some were thrown out on account of being too difficult to get on in the first place. If I can't get into it, I can't buy it. That's my shopping motto.

We left the first store empty handed, but we plowed onwards, promising to persevere. At the next store, I was about to go into the dressing room with another load of dresses, when something black beneath the 40% off sign caught my eye.

Was it? Could it be?

I rushed over and started rifling through the rack. Reading the tags, I saw: 8, 8, 10, 12. Damn! My size wasn't there. "Why is the world so cruel!?," I thought.

But the saleslady sidled up next to me and I heard her say, "I can order you one in your size, on sale, if you'd like." Music to my ears.

And so it came to be that I now am the proud owner of the original "Flawless" dress. Moral of this story: When it's meant to be, it's meant to be.

Sucked into Mad Men

2010-10-19T16:50:00.000-07:00

*Spoiler Alert!*
I have held off on blogging about my favorite TV show, Mad Men, but today I just couldn't help myself.

I'm emotionally involved with Mad Men. I watch the show as religiously as a child watches cartoons on Saturday morning. And Don Draper, who I love to hate, is a character that I constantly hope will make better decisions and "do the right thing," but who constantly disappoints me with his reckless, cheating ways.

Evidence: The Season 4 shocker of a finale. Just when I thought Don was falling for Faye Miller, and just when I thought he was about to end up with a girl who's smart, assertive, and successful, he dumped her to propose to his 25 year old secretary, Megan. Actually, he proposed to Megan and dumped Faye afterwards. While Megan seems like a nice girl- and it doesn't hurt that she's absolutely beautiful and has a French accent- Don's proposal caused me to yell at the screen in frustration.

"The engagement with Megan won't last," I thought. "They don't even know each other. Faye actually knew who he was, and he dropped her like it was nothing."

Don's behavior toward women, including what he did to Faye, disgusts me. I wish I could tell him to act with more compassion, to be more sensitive, to care. But I am simply a bystander watching him cause others pain. He turns feelings for women on and off at will, disposes of women and relationships without a hint of remorse, and satisfies his desires at their expense.

I don't know why, but despite Don's indefensible behaviors, I still hold out hope that he will redeem himself, week after week, season after season. Maybe that's what sucks me into Mad Men so intensely: the hope that there will be a happily ever after.

So here's to hoping for a Mad Men happy ending: that maybe Don Draper will stop living a lie, stay faithful to the woman in his life, and become someone we can all trust. (Though such an outcome might not make for as riveting a show.)

Meanwhile, I'll be twiddling my thumbs in anticipation of Season 5.

To my readers who are Mad Men watchers, I would love for you to comment! Were you as shocked as I was by how Season 4 ended? What do you think the writers have in store for us next?

On Going Back

2010-10-16T06:32:00.000-07:00

At the beginning of my first year of teaching, I tried to look important. I wore a suit. I carried a clipboard in one hand and a timer in the other. I tried to do everything the Teach For America way. I didn't know any better. I walked up and down the rows of my classroom- before I thought to put the desks in a semi-circle- and, one day, while mid-way through my rounds, I proceeded to color the front of my white button down shirt with ink pen.

"Gerald," put your knees under your desk and focus on your work," I said. I turned and lowered my clipboard, revealing a blouse covered in black ink scribble. Apparently, I had been carrying around my pen without its cap, ink tip pointing toward my middle.

Gerald was quick to point out my accidental artwork rather than follow my directions. "Miss, you know you colored yourself?!" he said.

Mortified, I thanked god that it was last period. How long had I been walking around like that?

The shirt went in the garbage- no drycleaner could have made it white again- but the memory is still with me, reminding me of my missteps as a new teacher.

Despite that and many other screw ups and troubling memories, sometimes the idea of going back into the classroom crosses my mind (especially after I see a film like Waiting for Superman).

I think: "I could go back, two years older and wiser with my wits about me, and really have an impact." I think of the brighter spots from my time in the classroom: watching Cruz get his diploma and signing his yearbook; Catherine calling me two years later to write her a letter of recommendation for a job; Aaron getting admitted to a college-bound scholarship program, students spending their time play-writing and reading August Wilson; a classroom community that celebrated the end of the AP Exam with music, food and games of charades; Jasmine beaming with her honor roll report card; Alex growing his reading level, and on and on.

But then I think about what I'd be giving up. I'd be trading the freedom of a 9-5 job for Sundays holed up in coffee shops lesson planning. I'd spend late nights begging the copier to make it through my last class set of handouts. My throat would be sore from talking, talking, talking.

Am I willing to make the sacrifices that teaching requires? Sometimes I feel like I could do it, and so I should do it. But I'm still unsure and so I stay where I am, letting the thought occasionally tug naggingly at my heart strings.

Flawless

2010-10-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

"Are you shopping for a particular occasion or event?"

"Well... sort of." I hesitated because a "yes" response to this question often invites unwanted attention from eager-beaver salespersons, especially those who work on commission. Sometimes a girl just wants to browse the racks at her leisure. But before I knew it, I heard: "My name is Chester, and I am going to pull a couple of looks for you, ok?"

"Ok," I said as I was led into the dressing room like a five-year-old who'd lost her way.

The next thing I knew, Chester had me zipped into an 80's inspired strapless cocktail dress and stilted up an extra 6 inches on black stilletto's- the heals sharp enough to stab a vampire through the heart or aerate your lawn. I clutched a silver pocketbook. He steered me in front of the full length dressing room mirrors. My feet were almost perpendicular to the ground, so without his hands on my shoulders I might have toppled over face-first.

We both stared into the glass.

"Flawless," Chester said. This look is flawless. And if you just do your hair like this- do you mind if i touch your hair?- and pull it back from the face. Yes. Flawless. That's it."

I considered the look. Damn. I did look flawless. Before I could utter that I liked it, or, in fact, that I loved it and was already calculating how I could possibly afford to be "flawless," he said, "I've got one more look for you. Hold on."

Next I was squeezed into a skin tight one-sleeved number speckled with flecks of black and grey. Chester steered me once again to the mirrors and snapped a belt around my waist.

"There," he said. "Try it with the black purse this time."

I took a look into the mirror, trying to figure out how that sophisticated and sexy woman in the reflection was also me. I turned to Chester and said, "Wow. You're pretty good at this."

"I'm a personal shopper," he said in explanation.

In the end, I left the shop empty-handed. No commission for Chester, though he did get my name and contact information, you know, just in case a situation were to arise in my daily life as a policy analyst when I should need the services of a personal shopper and a "flawless" outfit. And if I ever did, I'd let Chester pick out a few looks.

Waiting for Superman

2010-10-03T18:15:00.000-07:00

On my first day as a Teach for America teacher at a high school in North Philadelphia, I walked over to the hallway water fountain. My nerves were making my mouth dry. I was about to face 100 new students. I’d spent the summer preparing and the past week making posters and photocopies in preparation for this day. I was now worried my parched throat would make it difficult to deliver the introductory speech I’d practiced the night before in front of my bathroom mirror. I needed a drink (which unfortunately had to be water, as it was only 7:45 am and I was on school property). I bent down to take a sip, but before the liquid stream touched my lips, a veteran teacher called out, “Hey! Don’t drink that!”

I straightened up. “Why not?”

He walked over to me and said, “This school’s 75 years old. Lead pipes. Here- drink this.” He passed me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted.

Whether he was right or wrong, I took this colleague’s words to heart, not touching a drop of water from those fountains for my full two years at the school. Meanwhile, the students drank from the fountains daily because that’s all they had. They weren’t allowed to bring bottles of liquid through the metal detectors in the morning.

I come from three years of teaching experiences, two in a neighborhood public high school and one in a high-performing charter school, all serving high-need, low-income students. Perhaps it’s having this perspective that made me bawl my eyes out while watching the new education documentary, Waiting for Superman, earlier today.

The movie brought back so many feelings I’ve pushed aside since I left the classroom: the frustration of being in an environment that is supposed to help kids but instead is so dysfunctional that it fails most; the challenges of teaching literature to tenth graders who read on a 3^rd grade level; the exhaustion of 12 hour workdays spent grading, lesson-planning, disciplining, and most importantly, teaching; the helplessness when you find out that one of your best students with the most promise is going to become a teenage mom and might not graduate high school, and…the list could go on.

In Waiting for Superman, the emphasis is on the fact that for students and families of poverty, receiving a quality education all boils down to chance. The film follows students and their families who enter into charter school lotteries. The best charter schools in the country are in such high demand that they have to hold lotteries to determine which kids get one of their coveted, limited spots. Some of these schools have one spot for every twenty kids who apply. In the movie and in real life, when students’ names get called, they have the privilege of attending a school that will put them on track to graduate and achieve their dreams, and if their names don’t get called, well, we all know what the odds are there. Watching this process and weighing its implications made my eyes well up until tears streamed down my cheeks.

It’s infuriating that this is the way it is. It’s infuriating that parents who want the best for their children are stuck feeling helpless with no good options. It’s infuriating that there is a moment of recognition for children who are only 8, 9, or 10- the ones who don’t hear their number called at the charter school lottery- that they aren’t going to get the same opportunity as the child in the next seat over who was just a bit luckier on that particular day. It’s infuriating that while some children “win,” others have to lose. It’s infuriating that losing can mean a child never achieving his/her dream to become a nurse, a doctor, or a veterinarian. Charter schools aside, it’s infuriating that the quality of public education a child receives in this country is determined by the zip code that child is born into.

There is so much that is powerfully wrong with all of this and so much more, and it brought me to tears.

Italy Part 2: the food

2010-09-26T09:29:00.000-07:00

I had been waiting to eat authentic Italian food in Italy my whole life. Fresh pasta, ravioli, lasagna, vibrant green pesto, tomatoes, parmesan, creamy buffalo mozzarella and burrata cheese, crusty focaccia, ciabatta rolls, flaky croissants, espresso, cappuccino, and lattes, juicy olives, fresh anchovies, salted anchovies, fried anchovies, balsamic vinegar as thick as honey, olive oil, chocolate gelato, pistachio gelato, stracciatella gelato, mint chip gelato, and pizza, pizza, pizza.

My opportunity had finally arrived. I was in Rome, and my Aunt and I were at a local, neighborhood bakery and restaurant to eat lunch. It clearly wasn’t a spot frequented by tourists. There were no menus, only customers lined up in front of the counter shouting orders in rapid Italian. The women behind the counter filled the orders, making sandwiches and wrapping up squares of pizza, careful not to crack a smile or to assist the hungry and out-of-place American tourists who stared dumbly at the chaos, mouths watering at the food just beyond our reach.

It hadn’t dawned on me until this moment that it might be challenging to eat authentic Italian food when the only word of Italian I felt comfortable using was “grazzi.” “Grazzi” doesn’t get you a square of fresh-baked focaccia smothered in pesto and cheese. “Grazzi” doesn’t even get you so much as a scoop of gelato in a waffle cone.

But I was finally here and it was finally time to sink my teeth into some real Italian pizza. So I tentatively approached the counter. I smiled winningly. The woman behind the counter glared back. I pointed at a piece of pizza. A stream of Italian words spewed from her mouth. I gestured, motioning that I would like this slice. I made eye contact and sent her a telepathic message, “The one with the mushrooms, please.”

She said something else I couldn’t understand. I nodded, as if I knew exactly what she meant. And then, somehow, the slice of mushroom pizza was getting scooped up and wrapped in white paper. She shoved my order across the counter top and turned her attention to the next customer in line.

“Grazzi. Grazzi,” I said.

Italy Part 1: the arrival

2010-09-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

My aunt was waiting for me at Gate F29 with two croissants- one plain butter and the other oozing chocolate. We hugged each other with excitement- we'd both completed the first leg of our journey and managed to find each other in the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Success. She had traveled all night from Cincinnati, and I had flown in from Washington, D.C. I inhaled the chocolate croissant while waiting to board our flight from Paris to Rome, our final destination. Travelling all night makes a girl hungry.

We had booked the tickets months earlier, on our cell phones and the Orbitz website at the same time. We squealed and shrieked when we clicked "pay now." The trip felt so far away then. It felt surreal that we were going.

It felt surreal when we arrived- maybe because I'd slept 3 hours in the past 24, or because we were actually in Italy, a place I'd always dreamed of visiting. I was supposed to go to Italy once, five years ago, when I was studying abroad in London. But a nasty case of the flu forced me to cancel my plans and, ever since, I've looked for an opportunity to return.

At the Rome airport, our driver, who's name I have forgotten in the whirlwind of places we went and sights we saw, met as at the terminal. He held a sign with my aunt's name written on it. He wore a black suit and was ready to drive us to our hotel near the Vatican. I've never before had a driver meet me at the airport, holding up a name card. This was pretty special.

Sinking into the leather seats of the driver's Mercedes, I thought, "So this was what it's like to travel as an adult. No hostels and no trains or buses from the airport to the hotel." I relaxed, thumbed through my guidebook, and took in the scenery as we zipped toward the city's center.

Schmutz, Life, and Acceptance

2010-09-21T12:16:00.000-07:00

It’s been a bit of a whirlwind over the past three weeks, with traveling to Italy, having an amazing time, and then getting back home and readjusting to work and Eastern Standard Time. So while I have many stories and photos to share from my trip (which will get posted- I promise!), this first post upon my return is a more recent reflection, inspired by Yom Kippur, the Jewish holiday of atonement.

“There’s two kinds of schmutz,” the Rabbi said. “Old schmutz and new schmutz. Every year we atone on Yom Kippur to clean off the old schmutz, which is much harder to get off than the new schmutz. It’s like why we wash our cars. We know they’ll get dirty again in a few days, but we clean off the old schmutz anyways.”

I smiled at this reasoning and continued to listen, hanging onto every word. Having grown up in a reformed temple, it was slightly odd to find myself not only at a traditional Kol Nidre Yom Kippur service, with the men separated from the women and mostly Hebrew spoken, but stranger still that I enjoyed it so much. I ended up at this traditional service because all of the other services I wanted to attend were sold out. The Jewish high holidays, including Yom Kippur, are days when so many Jews make an effort to attend services, tickets are often required.

There was one moment in particular during the service when something the Rabbi said struck a chord with me. He asked his audience if we knew what a cardiogram looked like, with its jagged lines zigzagging across the page. We nodded dutifully that yes, we’d seen them (some probably in real life, and others from watching ER or Gray’s Anatomy). He asked us a rhetorical question: "What does it mean when the line straightens out?

He went on to make the cardiogram a metaphor for life, which is full of ups and downs, peaks and valleys. The overall message being: we should appreciate all of what life has to offer- the ups as well as the downs-because to experience those ups and downs means to be alive.

This concept resonated with me, especially this year. Sometimes we (and by "we" I mean "I") spend time focusing on the exciting, happier times and lamenting those moments when things don't go our way or cause us sadness. But to embrace both the good and the bad is to appreciate the here and the now. And of course, I'd rather tumble through life's ups and downs than not have the opportunity to experience those moments at all.

Arrivederci!

2010-09-01T04:01:00.000-07:00

I wanted to say ciao for now to my blog and to my fabulous readers. I'm off for a much needed vacation to... Italy! I'll be back in a couple of weeks with plenty of stories and photos to share.

-S.

Woman's Best Friend

2010-08-31T04:54:00.000-07:00

I am going to take a momentary hiatus from the usual theme of this blog to write about the man in my life. I’ve never felt this way about someone before. He makes me smile, he provides companionship, and after a bad day, there’s no one else I’d rather see.

He has chestnut eyes, soft golden hair, and a powerful athletic build. He takes care of himself, exercising daily. He curls up by my feet just so, and when I go to sleep at night, he respects my need for space and sleeps on the floor next to my bed. When we can, we spend quality time together- taking long walks, chasing squirrels, napping. I talk and he just listens. He really gets me, you know?

Sure he’s not perfect. He has some dental hygiene issues and some mighty bad halitosis. I’ve seen him eat off the floor more than once, and I’d describe his table manners as “unpolished.” Sometimes he sticks his tongue in and out really fast- I think it’s a symptom of an undiagnosed nervous tick. Also, he isn’t gainfully employed. Lord knows what he does lying around the house all day.

But I love him anyways. Sometimes it’s really tough because I don’t get to see him that often. He lives at home with our parents, and we haven’t seen each other in about three months now.

I found myself missing him more than usual while on my solo early morning walk last week. I was heading back toward my apartment when I heard a woman say, “No Lily. No. Wait. Waaaaait. Good girl.”

I heard this before I saw the pair, but as I walked around the corner, they came into view. They were about 20 feet away, but my eyes met Lily’s. I felt my face light up, and she could sense it. She immediately wriggled and wagged her tail with excitement. I approached her as she strained against her leash.

While I gave this rambunctious golden retriever puppy a pat on the head, her owner admonished, “Lilyyyyy. No! Don’t jump. Lilyyyyy,”

Lily’s playfulness didn’t bother me. In fact, that small interaction reminded me of the way my dog, Dusty, is the first to bound out of the house to greet me, jumping and barking with excitement. He senses my presence before I even get out of the car. It's like what Jerry Seinfeld said about the mind of his dog, "Every time you come home, he thinks it's amazing. He can't believe that you've accomplished this again. You walk in the door. The joy of it almost kills him. "[S]he's back again! It's that [girl]! It's that [girl]!"

Homage to Harriet

2010-08-22T05:42:00.000-07:00

I confess. I can’t help it. It’s a personal weakness that I was probably born with.

I reread books.

I’ve read all of the Harry Potter books (1-7) at least twice. And that’s a generous estimate. But my affinity for rereading started long before J.K. Rowling became star. My mom told me that before I could even read, I memorized the words and page turns of the children’s books she read to me over and over again: Eloise at the Plaza, Madeline, and, of course, Where the Wild Things Are, a classic.

But I don’t remember this. My earliest memories of rereading are from the fourth grade. I had two favorite books: Harriet the Spy and My Side of the Mountain. I loved each for different reasons, and kept them on my bedside table in case the mood struck me to reread a favorite passage, chapter, or to do the whole thing from start to finish for a fourth, or maybe a fifth, time.

Harriet the Spy was probably slightly more of a favorite than the other. I loved Harriet. I wanted to be Harriet. You’ll notice that my blog picture is Harriet.

I kept a diary or journal since I could write, but once I read about Harriet, I went so far as to take my journaling to the next level. In an effort to be like her, I’d carry my journal around with me, slyly, jotting down notes on the people I ran into that day. And since I, unlike Harriet, lived in a house in the suburbs rather than in New York City, my interactions were often limited to the people in my home: my family. My lack of variety in human subjects certainly stunted my development as a spy, but I made do with what I had, reporting on the whereabouts and activities of my sister or my mom or my dog Duchess,

As for Harriet, she would walk down city blocks, sit at the counter of a restaurant and order an ice cream float (all on her own). She would sit there slurping away and let the conversations of unfamiliar patrons wash over her. She caught interesting words and phrases and ideas, writing them down in the notebook she always carried.

I think I envied her life in the city- her freedom to walk the streets in search of interesting writing material and to go by herself to buy an ice cream float. She was independent. She was unique. She could go and do without having to wait for her mom to come home and pick her up in the minivan. Harriet took taxis.

Maybe, deep down, it’s thanks to my childhood obsession with Harriett that I am even writing this blog. She really did inspire me to want to write. But she also inspired me to want to be independent, unique, and, when the time calls for it, to take a taxi.

Potpourri

2010-08-13T19:34:00.000-07:00

I read so many stories and news articles this week relevant to my "women in the world" theme that I wanted to write about them all. However, I limited myself to just three for a brief discussion here- a potpourri of sorts- highlighting stories and news that particularly caught my eye and piqued my interest.

1. The creator of the “Cathy” comic is ending the strip after 34 years. "It was just such a privilege to be able to be that voice for women," she said.

I remember my mom reading "Cathy" every morning when I was growing up. I read it too, only because she did. While I think I was too young to get most of the jokes, it certainly spoke to my mom, and to so many other women. "Cathy" will be missed.

2. This week's Modern Love column

in the New York Times struck a chord. This column is by far my favorite part of the newspaper. I look forward to it every Friday, when the week’s column is posted online in the “Fashion and Style” section of the paper. And then I read it, at least twice, savoring each word.

This week’s story was about a wife and husband, both seeking careers in academia. When the wife interviewed for tenure-track professorships, one school contacted her advisor to ask him if her having a husband would “be a problem.” Apparently, her potential employer was concerned that having a husband was a sign of weakness- that, god-forbid, she might suddenly want to start a family and neglect her professorial duties- that maybe she wasn't serious about her career. But, she noted, her husband was never asked: “Is the wife a problem?” Rather, his married status was perceived positively by prospective employers. They interpreted his marriage as indication of his stability, commitment, and seriousness. Ironically, as it works out, it's the wife who “makes it” as a tenured professor, while her husband is denied the holy grail of tenured professorship.

3. On a more somber note: this week I read about the Iranian woman, Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, for the first time, even though her story began four years ago. In 2006, she was given 99 lashes for allegedly engaging in an “illicit” relationship with two men after the death of her husband. Since then, her plight has only worsened. Now accused of adultery and murder, she faces the possibility of “death by stoning.” Iran is reportedly the only country where stoning is still a legal form of punishment. The terrible ordeal that this woman has endured left me outraged. It’s infuriating and almost unbelievable that in this globalized world of ours, a situation like this can even be possible.

Indicators of Adulthood

2010-08-08T17:58:00.001-07:00

The other day someone said to me, “You’re not an adult unless you have a cloth shower curtain and put your bed in the center of your bedroom.”

Mentally I pondered these criteria. I put a check mark next to having my bed in the center of my bedroom. How adult of me, I thought. But then my mind lingered over my plastic shower curtain from Target, white with black circles. It’s held in place by plastic rings. I picked it out because I liked the design, paying no attention to the fact that it’s made out of PEVA, “a polyethylene vinyl acetate that is both a plastic and a vinyl.” Not cloth. Shoot.

But wait- I do lots of adult things. I pay my rent on time each month. I have a job. I host dinner parties. I take clothes to the dry cleaners. But does my lack of fine apartment décor mean that I haven’t yet reached adulthood? What does it mean to be an adult anyway?

Until now, I had never thought of an apartment as an indicator of how adult a person is or isn’t. To me, responsibility and physical appearance were always my key indicators. For instance, if you have kids, you’re automatically in the adult category because that’s a serious responsibility. Also, people who wear suits or generally appear “put together,” are adults in my book (this is all very scientific, of course).

A prime example of the latter: the woman sitting next to me a couple of weeks ago on a 13-row express jet from Washington D.C. to Nantucket, Massachusetts. She was definitely an adult. I sat down in 10D, the aisle seat, looking forward to a long weekend vacation with my family. I stuffed my black tote bag on the floor beneath the seat in front of me, buckled my seatbelt and balanced my purse on my knees. Immediately after I was settled, the passenger with the window seat in my row arrived, so I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up to let her pass.

When I resumed my original position, I watched my seatmate settle in. I noticed her short, sassy haircut. She was blonde, tan, and looked hip in her dark grey skinny jeans with perfectly ripped knees. She sat down and rummaged through her black tote, pulling out magazines: Glamour, InStyle, Yoga. The triangular Prada label on the side of her bag winked at me when the light hit it. She settled in with her magazines and carelessly shoved her Prada under the seat in front of her, next to my “Longchamp.”

While pretending to read my book, I watched her flip through emails on her sleek BlackBerry out of the corner of my eye. I decided she was probably in her late thirties or early forties. The stewardess announced that it was time to turn off our electronic devices. She turned off her BlackBerry. Meanwhile, I powered down my data-packageless phone.

This woman sitting next to me in 10E absolutely radiated “I’ve got my life together.”

“How did she do it?” I thought. Her appearance, accessories, and attitude screamed success, and there I was, still in the midst of figuring it all out, paying rent on a month-to-month lease, completely unsure of where life will take me.

Looking at this woman, who at least seemed to have it together on the outside, made me want to appear like I’ve got it all together too- to accessorize my way into being an adult. Maybe if I can appear to be a grown up, then the actual growing up will follow. I'll find a career path, I'll know where I'll be living five years from now, and I'll feel "put together" on the inside.

On that note, maybe it’s time for me to invest in a cloth shower curtain…

At 15...

2010-07-28T11:21:00.000-07:00

The story below was written by a guest blogger, my sister. Enjoy!

At 15 years old, my everyday uniform consisted of jean overalls, any T-shirt that said “American Eagle,” and Birkenstock sandals. Unfortunately, my driver’s license was evidence of this uniform until last year (seven years later). The metal braces didn’t help the photo either, but at least I remember I had the fashion sense not to wear socks with sandals.

At 15, my curfew on a weekend night was 10:30 p.m., if I was lucky. I relied on my parents for transportation, some days even having to take the bus home from school (totally embarrassing when you are in high school) if nobody could pick me up. I was constantly being shuttled from one after school activity to the next- there was basketball tryouts, club soccer practice, and high school golf- by my nannie (Big A as we kindly nicknamed our 25-year-old babysitter who ran 4-5 miles everyday), or my mom when she wasn’t working late.

The toughest decisions I had to make as a teenager included what I should wear out on a Friday night with my friends, or how many AP classes I should enroll in the following year.

At 15, I was committed to my athletic teams and to my academics. I made sacrifices, missing out on a friend’s party here or a school football game there, to be successful on the basketball court, soccer field, and in the classroom. I focused on the fact that college was in my future; I had more to look forward to than just a mouth without braces.

But when I look at Alexis Thompson, a 15-year-old from South Florida who decided to become a professional golfer last month, the responsibilities I had and the sacrifices I thought I made as an adolescent pail in comparison. Instead of putting on jean overalls (I promise you they used to be in style) and going to school with a knapsack full of homework like I did, Thompson laces up her golf shoes, dons a white polo shirt and matching golf skirt and goes to work on the LPGA tour.

So many people criticized her and asked, “Was she ready to make that decision?”

A professional female golfer at 15, Thompson has already begun a life full of sacrifice, patience, and mental toughness on a level that most of us will never know. Even though her parents have to drive her to work everyday, and even though she lacks a high school education, she has already decided to dedicate herself to a career that will be filled with highs and lows and hopefully some wins amidst many losses.

She joins the ranks of American players Christie Kerr and Paula Creamer, and the 45 South Koreans on tour such as Jiyai Shin and Na Yeon Choi. As more and more South Koreans are turning pro at earlier ages and successfully competing on the LPGA tour, many American fans fear the loss of American dominance on their own professional circuit. Is there a cultural difference in the mentality of achieving success? Are women held to higher standards in countries like South Korea and Sweden, which have given rise to many of the top female LPGA golfers in the world? You can’t help but wonder when you look at the LPGA tour and see that five out of the top ten money leaders for 2010 are from South Korea, the number one money leader is from Japan, one is from Taiwan, one is from Norway, and the other two are from the U.S.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing for American women to make tougher decisions and greater sacrifices at a younger age. We can’t all turn pro at 15, but maybe we can learn something from a teenage girl who is willing to take on an extremely tough career full of emotional roller coasters, patience, and sacrifice in order to succeed and achieve her dreams.

The Sock

2010-07-22T04:49:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I missed out on the enriching, formative adolescent experience. In the scheme of things, I spent very little time disagreeing with my parents, engaging in yelling matches, leaving the house by slamming the door behind me, or vowing that I’d never speak to my mom and dad again. If my memory serves me correctly, these moments were limited to my senior year of high school. As soon as I went off to college, my relationship with my parents matured, and I quickly found an appreciation for my mom’s home cooked meals and my dad’s weekly emails.

After my stunted time as an adolescent, it is with amusement, interest, and perhaps even a hint of jealousy that I have watched my youngest sister enjoy a lengthier, more turbulent adolescence than I did, having gotten a jumpstart on it as a sophomore in high school. I’ve watched her navigate that transitional space between girlhood and womanhood. She might yell and throw a tantrum one day, but she can just as easily act with maturity, compassion, and wisdom that is beyond her 16 years of age the next. When we talk about relationships, jobs, and other life-issues, a lot of the time it feels like I’m getting advice from a friend my age. As is the nature of adolescence, her life is filled with a constant back and forth, a pendulum swinging between childhood and adulthood.

This past spring, I was home for a visit, and my youngest sister was getting ready to go to a tennis match. She’s always a bit scattered when she has to be somewhere at a particular time. She races around getting ready, then runs out of the house, barely balancing her book bag, tennis racquet, water bottle, and snack in her arms. Once she drops her load into the car’s backseat, she yells out, “Hold on Mom!” And she’s back inside the house, hunting for her purse or her cell phone or some other necessary item that was almost forgotten.

On this particular morning, my mom was already in the car. The engine was running. My litttlest sister had a tennis match. True to form, she was behind schedule. Her feet pounded the hardwood floors as she ran from her bedroom into the laundry room, through the kitchen, and then back to her bedroom. She was half dressed, then fully dressed, then packing her snack, and then looking for a pair of socks she had borrowed from a friend that she wanted to return.

My dad and I sat at the kitchen counter. We munched on spoonfuls of cereal, sipped coffee, and read the paper while the Tazmanian Devil, my sister, ran circles around us.

“Where is the other sock that goes with this one?” she screeched as she barreled through the kitchen for the third time, frazzled and red in the face.

Before my dad or I had time to answer, she dropped the sock on the kitchen counter and was off again, presumably to find its mate.

She returned to the kitchen, breathless. Gathering up her gear, she started for the door. Meanwhile, my dad, trying to be helpful, took his nose out of the New York Times and reached for the green piece of fabric lying innocently on the kitchen counter. He said, “Hey, did you want this?”

Halfway out the door, my youngest sister whirled around. “I already told you! She screamed. “Don’t touch that sock!” She slammed the door as the final exclamation point.

My dad turned to me with a quizzical expression on his face, the sock dangling limply from his hand. We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. Then, simultaneously, we burst into hysterical, out of control, belly laughter.

Moments like these remind me that despite our mature conversations and our increasingly adult relationship, my youngest sister is still a teenager, ricocheting between childhood and adulthood. She can scream about a missing sock, but she can also show her maturity by laughing at herself and the situation when my dad and I replay the scene for her a few hours later.

Freestyle

2010-07-17T05:37:00.000-07:00

In one motion, I squat down, bending my knees and lowering my body toward the floor. I graze the edge but I do not stop to sit. I gingerly lead with one foot first, then the other, and then follow with the rest of my body, pushing off the ledge into the water. Its coolness shocks me at first. Goosebumps prickle my skin instantly. My feet find the wall, and I catapult off of its surface, gliding forward as straight as an arrow. My legs begin to flutter up and down, and my arms cut through the water, slicing the surface.

The goosebumps disappear as I continue down to the other end. Once my hand touches the wall, I take a deep breath and turn around to swim back. I repeat this journey back and forth over and over, enjoying the feeling of my body floating through the cool water, taking in air with every fourth stroke. I stop to catch my breath after each lap, and then eagerly continue on, enjoying the freeing feel of buoyancy.

It surprises me that I’m getting in the water at all these days, let alone voluntarily swimming laps. I’m not known in my family for being the first one in the pool. Usually when it is hot enough to make me feel like swimming, I stand at the edge of the pool and ask my younger sister to push me in because otherwise I wouldn’t do it myself. I dread the shock of the cold. Once I’m in I’m ok, so long as the temperature is reasonable, but I need a push almost every time.

Separate from my dislike of cold water, swimming has never been my strong suit. Sure I was a good athlete growing up. I excelled in soccer, was respectable at tennis, golf, and basketball, and could go for runs with friends on the cross-country team without any trouble. But when it came to the pool, I was pathetic.

How pathetic, you might wonder? Lets put it this way: I was a "Green Ribbon" member of the neighborhood swim team growing up, meaning I was queen of the honorable mention. And its not like my competition was all-star caliber.

Unfortunately, I even have proof of my consistently last-place finishes. I saved all of my ribbons from the summers' swim meets. They sit in the closet of my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, and when I look at them I stare into a sea of green peppered with a few golds (fourth place), a couple whites (third place), maybe two reds (second place), and even a lone blue (first place), which I recall winning because I swam a heat of breast stroke against only one other girl.

Embarrassing memories aside, swimming has become my preferred form of exercise this summer. Maybe I enjoy it so much because the way I swim now has absolutely zero resemblance to the swim team meets of summers past. It doesn’t matter what place I come in, who I swim against, which stroke the coach asks me to do- I can go at my own pace, revel in the feeling of the water against my skin, and know that at least I’m fast enough to keep up with some of the “medium” lane swimmers. (I’m proud to say that I surpassed the “slow lane” bunch.)

Of course, there is one additional factor, possibly the most important of all, that encourages me to jump into the water without a push from my sister: the pool is heated.

Small package, big punch

2010-07-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

I was told the other day that I "don't look like a former college athlete." Well, looks can be deceiving. Granted, I don't look all that tough on the outside. I'm 5 foot four inches (on a good day), with skinny limbs, a smiling resting face, and freckles from ear to ear. I look more like a lover than a fighter, a nurturer than a bruiser. But I used to pack a punch on the soccer field in the NCAA.

The soccer field was my second home for 16 years of my life. I loved its fresh-cut grass smell, the feel of the soft earth beneath my cleats, and the freedom I felt from running across the vast expanse of green. Knocking the ball around with my teammates, sweating, heading, sliding, tackling, shooting, and scoring brought me great happiness. My coach used to say that while I faked out opponents, I wore a grin across my face.

Out there on the pitch I played to win. I was aggressive, never afraid to shoulder thrust a girl twice as thick as myself, knocking her off the ball to win a 50-50 battle. One game I gave a girl twice my size a shove so hard (but it was legal, mind you) that she ended up hitting the ground, splat in the middle of a mud pit that filled the field's center circle, fresh from the previous night's rain storm. And though shoving a girl into a pit of mud isn't necessarily something to be proud of, I can't help but remember that moment fondly, because when, outside of the sports arena, is it acceptable for a young woman to show off her strength?

At the gym, I do my reps of upper body strength training with five or seven pound weights next to men lifting at least quadruple that amount. Watching their larger dumbbells in the mirror dwarfing my own makes me feel scrawny and weak, so I remind myself of my glory days on the soccer field, when it wasn't about how much you could lift, but how hard you could play.

With this nostalgia on my mind, it's been refreshing to read stories of literary heroines, my size or smaller, who can kick some serious ass. Though I've only read the first book of the trilogy thus far, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo's Lisbeth Salandar is a character that inspires my inner "tough girl." Her character, interestingly written by a man, uses her mind and body to outwit and outfight evil male villains- misogynistic rapists and killers- despite clocking in at a mere 90 pounds.

Apparently her character is part of a wider trend of literary heroines who would probably shop in the petite section, which intrigues and inspires me. The reason behind increasingly more authors drawing up small lady-characters to fight their penned battles? Unclear. But its meaning is easy to discern: you don't have to look strong to be strong.

I'll take it a step further and say that physical strength is a product of one's mental strength, which I like to think I have a healthy dose of. Soccer was actually a "mind over matter" kind of sport. I always ran farther or faster than I thought I could, digging deeper to run out the final five minutes of a 90 minute game in 100 degree heat, or to pass a challenging fitness test during tryouts to make the team.

My soccer career ended before I was ready. It was the victim of an injury (no more shoulder-charging opponents into mud pits for me). I had to channel my inner Lisbeth Salandar to overcome this blow, redefining my identity. I was no longer "S. the soccer player," but someone new entirely. I was able to bounce back from the pain and the loss to reinvent myself.

Ever since, when I've encountered a difficult situation in life- a conflict at work, heart break, or the need to face a fear, I've looked to my soccer memories, which tell me that being strong is not about how big you are. Rather, strength is about playing hard, never giving up, and believing mentally that you have what it takes to persevere.

A Feminist?

2010-06-23T18:20:00.000-07:00

I'm always a little behind the pop culture wave, so it wasn't until just recently that the world-famous star of pop, Lady Gaga, hit my radar.

I heard a few of her songs, and then I watched one of her rather disturbing music videos (Alejandro). As if that wasn’t enough, I also started seeing her written about in my morning reading material.

After examining Gaga through these different lenses, I admit that I’ve taken an interest in her seemingly feminist message, conveying that women are powerful individuals. However, I find her message muddled in the delivery. Tufts Professor Nancy Baur writes that Gaga’s generally sexy self-presentation is really an effort to “suggest that self objectification is a form of real power.”

But since when does wailing "Oh-oh-oooh-oh-00000h! Caught in a bad romance," suggesting that women want to be passively “caught” in a love web constructed by a man, or doing weird and outlandish things that involve taking off your clothes in public, convey a powerful feminist message?

But maybe I’m missing something entirely. I’d be interested to hear the thoughts of those who are more expert on the subject of Lady Gaga than I. Is she that different from Brittany? Is she more of a Madonna? Or is she something else entirely…?

My Yin and my Yang

2010-06-20T06:36:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I was the “tom boy.” I got picked first for teams on the playground when we divided up to play soccer. I wore umbros and t-shirts until the 6th grade, and sometimes the t-shirts were so long that you could barely catch a glimpse of the shorts underneath. In fact, I was so caught up in my tom boy persona, that when it came time to get my first bra, I made my mom shop for it without me. I didn’t want to admit that I was growing up, and I most certainly didn’t want to become a bra-wearing woman.

It took time, but I eventually came to embrace my femininity. I dropped the umbros for stylish jeans, dresses, and skirts. I started wearing make-up. I accepted the purpose of and the need for bras, and learned to shop for them myself.

Reflecting on my evolution from caterpillar to butterfly reminds me that humans are complex beings, full of contradictions. Take Cat Woman, Wonder Woman, or Xena the Warrior Princess. These female superheroes are strong, evil-fighting machines. Yet they are also curvaceous, beautiful, and distinctly feminine. To me, being a woman is finding a balance between your own contradictions, be it the feminine and the tom boy, the brains and the beauty, or whatever else. In this post, I wanted to share a few of my own contradictions that make me the complete woman that I am:

I think it’s a travesty that feminine can be confused with weak. I am competitive and hate to lose. I am career driven. I stick up for myself. However, I'll admit that sometimes I feel more confident after I've had a good manicure.

When I pack a bag for a vacation, shoes and toiletries occupy half of my luggage space. I'm not above asking a strong man to help me lift said bag into the overhead compartment of the airplane.

I dress to convey a "put together," confident, feminine woman. I paint my toenails Ravishing Red. But sometimes I wish I could be airbrushed to look like the women on the covers of Self Magazine, In Style, or Marie Claire.

When I wear high heels, I do it because I know they make my legs look sexier. I am never as comfortable as I am while lounging in gym shorts and t-shirts.

When I say I’m going to the pool, I mean that I will lie by the side of the pool on a towel, and maybe dip a toe in to test the water temperature, so as not to get my hair wet. I feel on top of the world after I've worked out until I'm soaking with sweat.

Romantic scenes in cheesy movies (You’ve Got Mail) and television shows (The Bachelorette) give me goose bumps. I rarely cry during the sad parts of movies, and I can cheer on a favorite sports team or follow the World Cup with the best of them.

I am sensitive, and I’m not afraid to express my emotions. I can be shy when it comes to confrontations. In times when I might experience hurt and pain, I can still be quick to forgive and forget.

I embrace healthy eating habits, shopping at organic markets and buying locally grown produce. Dark chocolate is my kryptonite.

Without these contradictions and many more, I wouldn't be the woman that I am. They are my yin and my yang. They are "complimentary opposites within a greater whole," without which I would be rendered incomplete.

Taking a Risk, Making a Change

2010-06-12T16:53:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, I crammed my silver 2005 Toyota Corolla with clothes, dishes, cutlery, a yoga mat, two five-pound free weights, pots, pans, pillows, bedding, hangers, a stereo, a printer, books, and pictures until the back seat was piled high and the trunk barely closed. I pulled out of my driveway, leaving behind the comfort of a job, an apartment full of Ikea furniture, and the security of knowing what each day would bring.

My block, the park across the street, and the coffee shop on the corner with the best chai tea I’ve ever tasted disappeared in my rear-view mirror. I didn’t know what I wanted to do or where I wanted to end up, but I did know that I needed a change.

As I drove, I thought about the time I spent teaching in the inner city, which left me drained mentally and physically. I started out teaching in a school with no air conditioning, finding stubborn sweat stains in the armpits of my blouses. These same blouses were also covered in chalk from a chalkboard so dated that a filmy substance covered its surface, making it nearly impossible to write on.

There were days I left school with no voice and a sore throat, the effects of my attempts to be heard. I went to bed by 9 o’clock and woke up before sunrise. I struggled to reach students who had been left behind year after year- high schoolers reading at a fourth grade level, teenage mothers, boys who thought they’d make it playing basketball.

I eventually realized that my life as a teacher was preventing me from living the life I wanted as a twenty-something young woman. I grew tired of being tired. I grew tired of being unhappy. And I grew tired of constantly wanting to be doing something else somewhere else.

So I left. Last summer I turned the wheels of my Corolla southward and began the drive to my parents’ house, where I thought I’d regroup until I found a job and some direction. My dad used to joke, “You can always come home. We’ve got the pull-out couch ready for you in the basement.” As I drove, I wondered if he was prepared for that joke to become a reality.

In the days leading up to my departure I slept restlessly. In my waking hours, I anxiously surfed the internet, addicted to job hunting. At the start of that car ride, my stomach was in knots. I was terrified. It was terrifying to leave behind certainty for the uncertain, to abandon the familiar present for the unknown future. What if it took months to find a job? What if I ran out of money? What if…?

On my way south down I-95, I stopped to meet with some potential employers. Inspired by the words of Cher from Clueless, I donned “my most capable looking outfit” for these meetings: black pencil skirt, button down top, and black patent-leather pumps. With resume in hand, I met with people and networked, but in the back of my mind was my car full of stuff, parked nearby. It sat waiting to take me home to mom and dad’s, where I had the option of sleeping on the sofa bed in the basement.

In a miracle of miracles, I landed a job by the end of my second day of meetings. I was shocked by my good fortune. Instead of going to my parents’ house, I was going to start a new life in a new city. Woohoo! All of a sudden I found myself wondering why I had just abandoned an apartment full of perfectly good Ikea furniture.

But thanks to Craigslist, I found a roommate, an apartment, and re-purchased a bed and dresser. I unpacked and unloaded my things. I started my new job. I reached out to new and old friends. I started establishing my new life.

It still amazes me that it “all” worked out. I had imagined so many worst-case scenarios, like living with my parents indefinitely (no offense mom and dad), that the possibility of a best-case scenario hadn’t crossed my mind. But since starting over, I have found immense happiness in the new career, my apartment, the best roommate a girl could ask for, an amazing network of friends, and the hobbies I have had time to pursue. As cheesy as it may sound, some days I catch myself smiling while walking down the street, glowing while I live out my best-case scenario.

The moral of this story is two-fold. First, don’t be so quick to sell and/or donate your furniture when you move. Store it for a while unless you’re sure you don’t need it. Second, taking a risk to be true to yourself, your hopes, your desires, and your needs is worth it. If you decide to move in a new direction, do it with 100 percent of your being, and though it’s terrifying, trust that things will work out in the end. Somehow, someway, the universe makes sure that they do.

That isn’t to say that since it “all” worked out for me that my future is certain or that my career path is clear. I still wonder: what will be the next step? What does the future hold? How will I find my path? But I’m comfortable putting those questions on hold for now, or at least keeping them on the back burner. Now is the time to enjoy life and be appreciative for the happiness it brings me each day.

A New Kind of Manly

2010-06-11T07:46:00.000-07:00

Highlighted in The New York Times, Sweden's policies for new parents are impressive. By providing 390 days of "parental leave" to new parents, Sweden has redefined what it means to be a working mom or dad. It is not just acceptable, but it has become the norm, for both mothers and fathers to take significant amounts of time off from work for family. To read more about how the system works, check out the New York Times story here.

Summertime

2010-06-01T18:05:00.000-07:00

It’s that dreaded time of year. Flowers have bloomed, spring rains have come and gone, barbeques grill meat to perfection, flower-patterned skirts and dresses fill the sidewalks, flip-flops smack against soles of bare feet, families pile into cars overflowing with beach toys and head to the coast, and drugstores build pyramids of sunscreen in their window displays. It’s terrifying. It’s bathing suit season.

I remember my first bikini: it was purple and covered with black and white swirls of flowers. The top was halter style, and the bottoms were boy shorts, which I thought were flattering at the age of 13. I was one of those kids who preferred one-piece Speedo’s to triangle-top string bikinis for the first 12 years of my life, so baring belly was a big deal for me.

I remember shopping for bikini number one with my mom. When I tried on the first suit, she exclaimed, “Wow! Where did those come from?”

I wore my first two-piece on a family trip to St. Simons, a small island off the coast of Georgia. Sure I felt self-conscious standing on the beach in basically a bra and underwear, but I put those feelings aside in exchange for the opportunity to let the sun’s rays hit my pasty white stomach- hoping, praying, that my fair and freckled skin might tan.

At the age of 13, wearing a bathing suit is scary for different reasons than when you are 23, 33, 43, 53, and so on. At 13, I was apprehensive about flaunting my newfound curves. I was scared of my body’s changes; I didn’t know what to make of them. I was such a tomboy that I saw myself as Roberta from the movie Now and Then, who was so desperate not to become a woman that she taped her boobs, hoping to keep them from growing. I never taped my own boobs, but I was definitely scared of them, of growing up, and of letting others in on the secret that I was no longer a little kid.

Later in life, wearing a bikini or any type of bathing suit is scary for a couple of reasons. First, there’s a lot of maintenance that comes with it: clipping, trimming, plucking, sanding, polishing, buffing, waxing- and no, this is not servicing the car you’re driving to the beach. Bathing suit season calls for more than just an oil change, and these treatments are expensive for the pocketbook and the ego.

For instance, finding yourself on a piece of butcher paper beneath fluorescent lights while the waxer rips and plucks, pointing out more trouble areas, is enough to make anyone feel self-conscious. She asks innocently, “Did you know you have a lot of hair here, on your lower back?” You sigh, surrendering, and tell her to rip it all off.

The other thing that really freaks women out about wearing a bathing suit, probably from adolescence until death, is what kind of shape your body is in. Once women get in bathing suits, unwelcome body parts like nonexistent love handles appear in the reflection, leaving women lamenting a distorted vision of their bodies. Others zero in on thighs, butts, shoulders, armpits, knees, and any other body part that finds itself exposed and therefore under attack after being hidden in peace under lumpy sweaters, cordouroy, and down jackets for the past 6 months of the year.

Bathing suits, made out of lycra, polyester, and nylon, are built to conform to the body, and thus show every feature and every flaw. Some say that the older you get, the more flaws you have. But, I like to think of the body as a reflection of life experiences- the tough choices, chances taken, and feelings of hurt and pain, all of which make us stronger and more complete human beings. That said, I’d prefer flaws to flawless any day.

Does taking this mindset erase the fear of the bathing suit? Certainly not. But summer happens to be my favorite season, and I refuse to feel bashful in my bathing suit while I’m soaking up the rays. It’s that time of year- time to show some skin, flaws and all.

On Being Authentic

2010-05-29T06:19:00.000-07:00

Being your authentic self is walking around your apartment in your underwear. It’s enjoying ice cream right out of the carton and singing in the shower. Sometimes, it’s eating food after it's fallen on the ground (five-second rule!), cleaning earwax out of your ears, or clipping your toenails in the middle of the bathroom floor. Not that being your authentic self has to mean being gross, but lets be honest, all humans are gross sometimes. That’s authentic.

Being your authentic self is a bit like conjuring your inner-toddler. I’m most fascinated with kids between the ages of two and four, an age before the self-awareness starts to kick in. I was at the park the other day watching a toddler twirl in circles and then roll down a grassy hill, just because she felt like it, not caring if anyone else was watching. This is the epitome of authenticity.

At age two, my mom took me to an Italian restaurant. As the story goes, most of my meal, or at least the red parts, ended up on the floor and in my hair. I was far from caring what others thought of me. I just wanted to put the red stuff in my hair, ok? The waiters and waitresses must have frowned in my direction disapprovingly. “Isn’t that good, honey?” my mom probably cooed while I massaged sauce into my temples.

Being your authentic self doesn’t have to mean smearing pasta sauce into your hair or rolling down a grassy knoll like a two-year-old. But, it does mean being true to yourself- doing what you think is right even when those around you aren’t. It’s sticking to your guns. It’s honesty, truthfulness, following your dreams. It’s loving others and letting yourself be loved. It’s not being afraid to speak your mind or to say things like “I don’t know,” or “No, thank you.”

A friend of mine inspired me to think about what it means to be your authentic self this week, and thinking about it makes me want to be it- all the time! It’s not an easy thing to do, especially when it means taking a risk or resisting the urge to follow those around you (swimming against the current so to speak). But, today I pledge to strive toward authenticity in my life- in relationships, career-wise, and with friends and family. It’s time to get real, and in the famous words of Shakespeare, “To thine own self be true.”

Lessons from the Best

2010-05-22T08:59:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Scott was tall, at least to the nine-year old 4 foot something version of myself. Black hair framed her face and her cheeks revealed deep dimples when she smiled. She was a star on the basketball court during recess, sinking bank shots from three-point range. As my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Scott taught me geography and how to turn decimals into fractions. She never yelled, and she rewarded positive behavior with a bottomless supply of jolly ranchers. I was partial to the watermelon flavor.

During her 38-year career as an educator, Mrs. Scott made her students feel valued and special, while teaching them lessons that went beyond the fourth-grade curriculum. In honor of her retirement, I would like to share five important lessons Mrs. Scott taught me. Though I learned these 15 years ago, they continue to stick with me today:

Lesson #1: Use deodorant so you don’t smell
Fourth grade is a time when kids' bodies start to change- voices crack, girls start wearing training bras and, as Mrs. Scott pointed out, using deodorant becomes helpful, if not necessary. Perhaps it was a day when the classroom scent became more than she could bare, but Mrs. Scott garnered our undivided attention to explain that "it might be time to ask your mother or father if they can buy you deodorant. Just two swipes under each armpit every day should do the trick."

Lesson #2: Always look at your teacher's face when she's talking
"This is very important," Mrs. Scott told us, "because it makes your teacher think that you are paying attention." She added, “I’ll let you in on a secret. If you stare over my shoulder, I won't know you aren't looking at my face. So if you get tired of looking at my face, just humor me, and look over my shoulder." This was excellent advice, and I carry it with me today. Sometimes you get tired of staring at your professor, or the speaker at a conference, or whoever is in the front of the room. But if you follow Mrs. Scott's advice, you can fake them out and appear to be paying attention. Genius.

Lesson #3: How to balance a checkbook
As a former teacher myself, I continue to marvel at Mrs. Scott's positive incentive system. She ordered dummy checkbooks for her entire class, and assigned dollar amounts to our assignments. A completed homework assignment was maybe worth $25, while an A on a test was $100. Sometimes you could pick up "cash" for helping a classmate or participating in the lesson.

My classmates and I became obsessed with totaling our earnings, saving up for the end of the month's class store, where we could buy candy bars, games, etc. The biggest prize of all, costing $1,000, was “teacher for a day.” Whoever bought this prize would actually get to use the teacher's guides to the textbooks and deliver the lessons in front of the class. I coveted this prize so much that I saved and saved, working my hardest to cash in the maximum amounts for my assignments. I wanted to be teacher for a day so bad I could taste it. In the end, my dedication paid off, and I was the first student to save up enough money to buy teacher for a day. This was, without a doubt, the highlight of my fourth grade year. And I learned how to balance a checkbook in the process.

Lesson #4: Have a sense of humor

Mrs. Scott had a poster on the ceiling that said: "Why are you looking up here? Get back to work!"

Lesson #5: I am wonderful

My memories of exactly how it happened have faded and grown fuzzy over the years, but my memory of the nickname Mrs. Scott gave me is crystal clear. I believe we were playing some kind of review game based loosely on Wheel of Fortune- maybe for a geography test, maybe for math class. Our host, one of my classmates, was calling out the questions. I was assisting him by keeping score and regulating the game. Mrs. Scott was participating in the audience. For some reason, during the course of the game, Mrs. Scott called out to me, addressing me as "Miss Wonderful." As the shy fourth grader that I was, I turned beet red, wishing to disappear. But the rest of the class thought it was hilarious, and the nickname stuck. I became Miss Wonderful, and though maybe I didn't believe that I was wonderful at the time, Mrs. Scott planted the seed that allowed me to see myself as a wonderful young woman, ready to take on the world as the next Vanna White, or whatever I decide to be.

Thank you Mrs. Scott, for being an inspiration, a role model, and the best fourth grade teacher a girl could have. Congratulations on 38 amazing years in education. Your dedication to your students, your smile, and your warm heart will be missed.

Sisterly Love

2010-05-15T12:37:00.000-07:00

Charles Shulz, creator of the Peanuts, once said: “Big sisters are the crabgrass in the lawn of life.” He must have had this thought in mind when he created Lucy's character, who in the above image is giving her younger brother, Linus, a forceful wack.

I’ll admit it: as the big sister to two younger sisters in my family, I was crabgrass sometimes. Once, at the age of four or five, I bit myself and showed the wound to my parents. The bite marks were fresh, and it was starting to bruise purple. I pretended my little sister did it just to get her in trouble, and it worked. That was a dirty trick.

Another time, I threw gum in my little sister’s hair. As soon as the wad of Bazooka left my hand and landed on her head, I realized that this was a very, very bad idea. But before I could undo my stupidity, her hand found the gum, squashing it firmly into the top of her head. It took our mother a combination of motor oil, peanut butter, scissors, and multiple phone calls to the hairdresser before her head was gum-free. That trick was even dirtier.

But around the time that I started high school, I began to take my role as the big sister more seriously. When I turned 16 and got my driver’s license, I drove my little sister to school and my littlest sister to soccer practice (partly because my mom made me but also partly because I wanted to). When I was in college, I proofread their papers and helped them with homework. I always give them advice when they ask for it and sometimes when they don’t. We’ve became close, sharing secrets and stories. I never threw gum in either sister’s hair again.

It became apparent to me about a week ago that even though I’m still the big sister, my little sister is growing up. I flew home to attend her college graduation. As the band belted out Pomp and Circumstance, which played for a good 30 minutes, while student after student paraded into the school’s football stadium, I sat in the stands sandwiched between my parents, watching.

Some graduates marched in line, filing neatly into rows of white folding chairs. Others ran shoeless across the football field, the grass between their toes, before taking their seats. Some did a dance at the 30 yard line, and others sported sparkling graduation caps with messages like “I love you mom” written on top in glitter.

The stadium wasn’t even half full, but considering it had a capacity to seat 90,000, it didn’t look empty either. Thousands of families and friends filled the bleachers, craning their necks to spot their loved ones.

"There she is!"
"Where? I don't see her!"
"Right there! Look!"

My eyes strained to follow the direction of my mom's finger, but all I could see were hundreds of girls with brown straight hair, heads covered with black tasseled caps.

“Everyone looks like her,” I said.

I turned my attention to the program because when I attend a graduation or ceremony I like to know what’s next at all times. I use the program to track progress toward the conclusion, closing remarks, recessional, or whatever means “the end.”

I read through the program while the last few students filed in. I was actually looking forward to the speaker, who happened to be one of my favorite celebrity chefs from the Food Network. The graduation ceremony started with the President of the University’s “opening remarks.” It moved on to another song from the band and a prayer from the chaplain. Then to the keynote speaker, and back to the President, who was finally ready to confer the degrees. After two hours of waiting, the school of ecology was announced.

“That’s her, that’s her!” my mom shouted.
“Where!?”
“Right there!”

At that moment, I saw my little sister standing up in the middle of the field. Her smile flashed across the 30-foot screen at the end of the stadium. Her black robe rippled in the evening breeze. She adjusted the tassel on her cap, which had swung in front of her face, pushing it off to the side.

“I see her, I see her!”

I felt so proud of her in that moment—proud to watch her achieve this milestone in her life and proud to be her big sister. And although I was crabgrass in my younger years, I’d like to think that I grew up to be a better big sister- that maybe I redeemed myself for at least some of the not so nice things I said and did when we were little.

When the ceremony ended, we walked as a family back to our car to say goodbyes. My sister still had to pack up her belongings and move out of her college house. She’d join my parents and youngest sister in our hometown in a few days, at which time I’d already be a plane ride away. We hugged and I felt sad for moment, but I knew we’d talk the next day, like we always do.

It’s wasn’t easy growing up as the oldest, and I certainly made mistakes in my role. I spent too much time quibbling about who got to sit in the front seat or who had to clear the table. I can’t take those moments back, but I can take solace in a quote by author Amy Li, who said, “Having a sister is like having a best friend you can't get rid of. You know whatever you do, they'll still be there.”

We've come a long way...

2010-05-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Gail Collins, op-ed columnist for the New York Times, for her insightful column on the 50th anniversary of the birth control pill.

She reminds us that society and medicine have come a long way in making contraception safe and available for women. We've moved far beyond the idea that swallowing bees will prevent pregnancy. Phew. I can't imagine the stingers would go down easily.

However, she also notes that we still have a ways to go before government, educators and policy-makers treat access to birth control not just as a legal right, but as something that is socially acceptable. It's time to not only pop the pill if you so choose, but to talk about it in our nation's political arena and learn about it in our nation's schools.

And maybe once we start talking, researchers will have moved forward on the invention of the long-awaited "male pill."

On Happily Ever After

2010-05-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

The Disney Store was my childhood heaven. Whenever my Mom took me to the mall, the special mall with the Disney Store, I begged to go inside. This didn't happen all that often, as shopping was not her (or my) favorite activity. But when we did have a need for back to school clothes or a new pair of keds, a trip to the Disney Store was an opportune bribe for my cooperation and good behavior. The shelves piled high with stuffed animals, sparkling costumes, animated characters lighting up televisions, soundtrack music swelling to fill any empty airspace, and the bins brimming with toys mesmerized me. It was overload of the senses.

I wasted no time on the rare occasion that we stopped in to the Disney Store and would beeline to the display of porcelain figurines. The shiny ceramic figures were molded to resemble almost every Disney character in existence, and they sucked my five-year-old self in like a kid in a candy shop. Their splendor was hypnotic. I collected them, and was always looking for a new addition to my hoard.

I had Lady from Lady and the Tramp, Snow White, a dwarf, the Fairy Godmother from Cinderella, Cinderella, Tinkerbell, Alice, Beauty, an extra large Mickey Mouse, and Mary Poppins. These were my toys of choice, which I preferred to Barbies, Cabbage Patch Dolls, Gi Joe, Legos, American Girl Dolls, and Care Bears. I spent hours playing pretend with them.

I was certainly not unique in my obsession with Disney. I'm sure millions of other children throughout the U.S. shared my infatuation, otherwise Disney wouldn't be considered "the largest media and entertainment conglomerate in the world." It's been an institution in American society since its founding in 1923, though its stories go back much further in history.

For instance, Cinderella has origins that might stretch back as far as the 17th century. Some say that the version of Cinderella we've all come to know and love stems from a story written in 1697. However, others consider it to be rooted in a tale from the Brothers Grimm. In the 1697 version, Cinderella wore fur boots, not glass ones. In the Grimms' story, a wishing tree replaced our dear fairy godmother of today.

Wherever it came from, the story of Cinderella, and other Disney tales like it, are known by almost every little girl under the age of five. A five year old can tell you how Cinderella met Prince charming without pause, just like she rattles off her age, her bedtime, and how many desserts she gets to have after dinner. Maybe she read Cinderella once, twice, or 47 times before bed. Or, maybe she's watched the movie version so many times that the tracking broke. Yes- the tracking can break on the now outdated made-for-VCRs video tapes. I would know. When I was a kid I broke the tracking on my copy of the Wizard of Oz from watching it over and over and over again. I loved the ruby slippers.

In case you lived under a rock or need a refresher, Cinderella traces a familiar rags to riches tale in which our protagonist, Cinderella, yearns to escape a miserable existence living with her evil step-mother and step-sisters. She acquires blissful happiness with her Prince Charming, all thanks to Fairy Godmother's sophisticated sense of style, without which the trend-setting glass slippers might not have been conjured out of thin air for Cinderella to wear to the ball, lose, and eventually be reunited with again, all as a plot device for her to meet her prince and fall in love.

Most Disney stories are variations on this theme. The beautiful damsel ends up with a handsome prince, who marries her and offers her a life of privilege. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, and The Little Mermaid come to mind.

As much as I loved these "happily ever after" stories, I cannot ignore the fact that they can actually distort young girls' ideas of relationships and gender roles. According to a study conducted by a friend of mine for her master's thesis, titled "Happily Ever After: A Study of Disney Images of Romance and Relationships," the more Disney movies a woman has seen, the greater her desire for a certain type of romantic relationship. Type of relationship read: man with perfectly shaven face, bulging biceps, and adept equestrian skills sweeps girl off her feet and carries her away on horseback. No need for her to consider career options or whether she's ready to settle down. The couple arrives at their new home, or castle, where she gets to wear a princess dress. Snow White said it herself: "Some day my prince will come, some day we'll meet again, and away to his castle we'll go, to be happy forever I know."

It concerns me that from such a young age, girls get the message that relationships look like Disney fairy tales, when in fact, life couldn't be more different in its reality. Does this mean we should shield young girls from Snow White and Cinderella? I doubt I would have surrendered my childhood collection of figurines if at age five my Mom had explained that a minor Disney obsession could skew my perceptions of relationships and gender roles later on. But would I have considered trading Sleeping Beauty for "Career Barbie?" Maybe.

You are Your Uterus?

2010-05-02T05:40:00.001-07:00

“I want to have a baby,” a friend of mine said. I almost choked on my wine. Though we are in our mid-twenties and fertile, and it’s not that outlandish of a thing to say, baby making isn’t something I usually consider over happy hour specials.

“Not right now,” she clarified, “but someday soon. And I’d like to know that I’m moving closer to that goal, you know, before it’s too late.”

Those last four words hung in the air, like some sort of bomb that could detonate any second. Before it’s too late. Biologically speaking, yes, though it differs for every woman, there is an actual late. But the before it’s too late line feels like a doomsday deadline exists, that if unmet, means it’s too late for you. And when it becomes too late, it’s not like you were running behind schedule and missed the opening credits to the movie. Before it’s too late means you’ve missed the movie altogether, and you’ll never get the chance to see it again. You might as well hang up your boots, so to speak, forgo the Oscars for evermore, and go live in a hole somewhere.

The saying before it’s too late also suggests that it is something that can pass you by, like the bus careening down the street right past your stop, ignoring you standing there. It whizzed right on by- woops- you missed it! Sorry, now it’s late. Too late. You lose. You should have flagged it down, jumped out in the middle of the road if you had to. Waiting for the next bus isn’t even an option, because it’s too late.

And though biology imposes the deadline, society, and some women themselves, make the deadline something to be feared. This idea of missing an invisible, unknown date to beat the biological clock and have children inspired me to punch a couple of terms into google search: “fertility,” “ovaries,” and “biological clock.” Some interesting images appeared on my screen (why does a woman’s reproductive system look like an evil alien head, or as my roommate thinks, a parking meter?).

One link that popped up was a 60 minutes report from about 7 years ago: “Women who want it all may find out it’s too late for children.” Perfect. The title captured the exact feeling of dread that I wanted to explore.

Economist Sylvia Hewlett is quoted as describing the “huge problem” of childless women. She says about women who don’t have kids by 40: “They're at the end of the road, as it were. And if you look at corporate America, 42 percent of these women don't have kids.” At the end of the road, she says, like they might as well stand there to get run over rather than continue on to live a child-less existence of darkness and despair.

She goes on to suggest that the idea of women “having it all,” meaning the career and the kids, ends up just backfiring in many of their faces.

“I think the most surprising result of these surveys I did is that young women are actually facing a worse situation,” says Hewlett. At age 35, even fewer of [professional women] have both a child and a career. Fifty-five percent of those 35-year-olds are childless.”

On the whole, this story, and others like it, ”Learning to be Left on the Shelf” seem to exist to scare women into reproducing before it's too late, maybe before they’re even ready, or before they’re even sure they want to. Because, these article seem to say, having kids while you can saves you from being cursedly childless later on.

Although I have no personal experiences to this end, I can imagine that being childless when a person doesn’t want to be is extremely painful and difficult. But what I have a problem with here is the notion that being childless is equivalent to losing out on having it all. Why does “all” have to include children, and why do women like Sylvia Hewlett consider life with no children as a failure?

Maybe in ten years I’ll be singing a different tune, as my own late starts to creep up on me. But for now, I’m not racing against any biological clock.

My friend, the one who wants to have kids some day soon, will make an amazing mother. But maybe, as women, we can let go of the before it's too late mentality, because living life in a rush to beat a deadline is no way to live.

Just Dance

2010-04-27T18:42:00.000-07:00

The ad sucked me in. It described Zumba as “ a program that fuses hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy-to-follow moves to create a one-of-a-kind fitness program that will blow you away." I was ready to be blown away, sort of.

I was really ready to be blown out of a down and out mood I’d been experiencing all week. Life is filled with highs and lows, peaks and valleys, and I was caught in a deep dark hole. I needed to pull myself out of it, and what better way to do it than set to Latin music?

Walking into the class, I saw a melting pot of women- different shapes, ages, and ethnicities. I glanced around, sizing them up, wondering if they’d leave me in the dancing dust, and hoping I’d be able to keep up with the class regulars who were twice my age.

The instructor flipped on the stereo. A rhythmic beat began to pulse, and we started to shake it. And javascript:void(0)I do mean shake it. Hips, butts, shoulders, and heads shook side to side and shoulders shimmied to the music. The instructor shouted out “5, 6, 7, 8.”

I tried to keep up with the counts, step with the right foot first and then the left, and make sure my arms were in the right place all at once. My mind wandered, spiraling back into my dancing past while my present self tried to keep up.

I peaked on the dance floor during my career as a ballerina, from ages four to ten. I relished wriggling into my black leotard, pink tights, and obviously, my pink tutu just as much as the next little girl. But, the best part of ballet lessons was getting to go to the deli next door afterwards and picking out a Dr. Brown’s soda.

In middle school, which is awkward enough without adding a DJ and music to the hormone mix, school dances were a recipe for disaster for shy girls like me. I’d hover around the edge of the dance floor, hoping that maybe some one would ask me to slow dance, and wish that I had the moves of the girls out there in the middle of the dance floor.

A very dear and patient friend of mine took pity on me by the time we arrived in high school, and tried to teach me her trademark dance move. It was called “the roll.” Somehow my body was supposed to move one body part after the next—shoulders, chest, stomach, and hips—in a fluid, wave-like motion to create a “rolling” effect. This move was meant to be sexy. Despite my friend’s expert instruction and admirable patience, my body did not want to “roll.” I looked spastic, not sexy. It was a lost cause.

But back to the present. Today I was in Zumba class trying to put my dancing failures behind me and snap out of a funk. “5, 6, 7, 8, turn!”

Whether it was the sweat, or the counting, or the shimmying, after a few songs, I was no longer one step behind everyone else, and I wasn’t thinking about my blues. I went from feeling gloomy and shy to feeling the beat of the Cumbia- moving my hips from side to side.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and a smile spread across my face. Feeling exhilarated from the music and the movements, I looked around the room and noticed that all of the women, including myself, were glowing, and not just from perspiration. Dancing lifts the spirit, warms the soul, and makes the heart smile, no matter how young, old, fit, uncoordinated, or moody you are.

It was during the last song-after 55 minutes of Zumba-that I really let loose. My brain stopped thinking about which foot went where, and my body took over. I just danced and let the music guide me. The instructor looked at me, flashed me a smile, and said, “Yeah, you got it girl.”

Journey to Writing

2010-04-24T06:46:00.001-07:00

The title of the first story I ever wrote was “Mrs. Hodgepodge.” Well, I didn’t exactly write it. I couldn’t write yet, so I dictated it to my mom. I was four years old. I don’t remember what that story was about, but I do remember what grew out of its creation: a life long quest to be a writer.

When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I didn’t say “An astronaut! or “ “A veterinarian!” I always responded that I wanted to be an author. I have not written a book yet. Instead, I’m writing this blog, but hey, everyone has to start somewhere.

Throughout my life, people have encouraged me to write. Mrs. Butler, my second grade teacher, who acquired the unfortunate nickname of Mrs. Buttface, always wrote “Excellent” in the margins of my writing assignments. In fifth grade, Mrs. Kirk read a story I wrote aloud to the class as an example of outstanding creative writing. I was shocked and embarrassed at the time, but thrilled with the praise. At the end of eight grade, Mrs. Thweat recommended me for honors English in high school, and so I continued to see writing as my strongpoint. I would be a writer one day, I thought.

Until I met Coach B. This man was a no-nonsense, eccentric English teacher who no longer coached baseball, but retained his title. On the first day of class he recited Wordsworth’s “Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey” from memory while swinging a baseball bat in one hand and yo-yoing with the other. He terrified me.

My first essay for his class received more red marks than I’d ever seen before. He passed me my essay, and to my horror I saw a big fat F next to a 50% at the top of the page. Being the perfectionist, conscientious child that I was, tears sprang to my eyes. I fought them back. How uncool it would have been to cry in tenth grade honor’s literature. This was the first time the idea crossed my mind that maybe I wasn’t going to be a writer after all. Maybe I wasn’t good enough.

I’m happy to report that my first failure turned into one of my greatest achievements in the first 15 years of my life. After a year of being whipped into writing shape by Coach B., I had the A’s to prove that I could write. And the dream lived on.

Though I grew to be a strong academic writer, I must admit that my attempts at cultivating my creative talents were feeble at best. I started to get serious about a career in writing around age 10. So of course I made Harriet the Spy my role model. I’d read Harriet the Spy at least five times. I stalked around my house, spying on my “unsuspecting” family members, recording their every movement in my secret notebook.

June 2, 1995, 8:13 pm, Living Room: Dad sits in armchair reading. Picks left nostril. Shifts in chair and flips on ESPN. Boring. 8:15 pm, Kitchen: Mom is packing my lunch for tomorrow. Tuna again! I hate when everyone else can smell my lunch. And I hate how it makes the bread soggy. Yuck.

As I grew up, I continued to keep a journal, mostly about stuff that is only relevant in the mind of an adolescent. August 22, 1997: Dear Journal, I shaved my legs today for the first time. They feel so smooth. I was too embarrassed to ask mom so I had to borrow a razor from Ariel down the street. Tomorrow is the first day of seventh grade. I’m so nervous! I haven’t picked out what I’m going to wear yet. I wonder if John will be in any of my classes. He’s soooooooooooo cute. I love his beautiful brown hair. Maybe he will like me back this year and we can go out. Fingers crossed!

I continued to journal year after year, from middle school through college, graduate school, and my entrance into the work force. But it was never more than a hobby, or a means for easing from the stress of the day into a more restful sleep.

I tried to get more serious with writing by joining the school newspaper and taking an internship at a local paper. I worked for John Thornton, a man who clearly came from a well-to-do, old southern money kind of family. It was unclear as to why he edited a third-rate neighborhood news publication with three staff writers, one photographer, and a measly high school intern.

My job was to sort the mail, update the contacts lists, and type up the briefs for the week. Briefs were small blurbs about events in the community, the arts, school happenings, and such. I think I got to write a real article or two, but the topics elude me. Suffice it to say, this internship didn’t do much to propel me toward writing stardom.

In college, I worked briefly on the school paper, but resigned in an act of protest when my editor insisted upon printing the “n-word” in a story I’d written about an anthropology professor who had used the word at a college conference. I fought for the word to be taken out and substituted with the more acceptable “n-word”, lost the battle, resigned from the paper, and had my name removed from the by-line.

This is where my writing took a hiatus, aside from some journaling here and there. After college graduation, I started teaching. There were barely enough hours in the day to sleep and eat, let alone craft sentences and tell stories with my pen. It was a dark time.

Three years went by, and I dropped teaching to work in policy and become a typical Washingtonian (read: 20 something, working for nonprofit, scraping rent together every month and wearer of smart trip card/work id around neck).

Being a typical Washingtonian has its perks, and for me the number one perk is free time. Working 9 to 5 on weekdays opens up evenings and weekends for hobbies, social events, and extracurricular activities. Being the go-getter that I am, and feeling guilt-ridden about not having moved anywhere close to becoming “what I want to be when I grow up,” I decided to fill up some of this luxurious time with a purposeful endeavor. So I signed up for a writing class.

The act of signing up was part New Year’s Resolution and part bringing the dream back to life. I couldn’t be happier that I did it. The class inspired me, held me accountable, and plopped me in the midst of a community of aspiring writers like myself.

About three weeks into the course I decided that I would start a blog. A blog felt like the natural next step in my writing career. It’s accessible for budding writers - no agent or interested publisher required. I couldn’t have dreamed “blogger” up when I was five or six or seven, because blogs only existed about twenty years into the future. In fact, the internet was barely on the public’s radar when I was ten, and the word “internet” was only commonplace by the time I turned twelve. If someone asked me what I want to be when I grow up today, I would probably still say, “I want to be an author.” But I would have to add that in the meantime, my dream is to be a blogger. And that is why I am here.

Welcome to my blog. In this space I will write about female experiences (both mine and others’) as sisters, daughters, mothers, grandmothers, friends, lovers, wives, girlfriends, bosses, employees, politicians, teachers, students, athletes, coaches, media moguls, entertainers, and heroines through stories that are true. The names of the characters are the only fiction that will appear in these posts. I welcome your comments, thoughts, and ideas. Please share them with me as I share my own on “Stories of Hers.”