Saucy

this is what happens when you search "sauce" on pinterest

There’s an expression in Polish that my mother likes to use when describing feeling out of sorts: “nie w sosie.” Translated literally, this means “not in the sauce.”

Guys. I am not in the sauce.

All of January has been this way. Gray, and cold, and bland. Sauce-less. This week has been particularly bad, and today, after wasting countless hours on Pinterest trying to find quotes emo enough to tweet, and on Spotify wishing that some lyricist would provide me with insight into my own ravaged soul, I finally decided: enough is enough.

So I laced up my boots and I went for a walk. And I decided to walk until I felt okay again.

This is the story of what happened on that walk.

Or rather, it is the story of what happened in my head on that walk.

There were two quotes running through my head as my boots pounded the pavement: one from The Perks of Being a Wallflower (“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be”), and the other from Garden State (“That's life. If nothing else, It's life. It's real, and sometimes it fuckin' hurts, but it's sort of all we have”). First of all, yes, I do in fact realize that those are both indie/hipster favorites and maybe that makes me a little bit overly Brooklyn. Second of all, how those writers were able to harness the insecurities, emotions and that terrible uncertainty that constitute being young and to word everything so concisely and perfectly is beyond me.

Clearly, being concise is not one of my strong suits.

Being young, being a twenty-something, learning how to figure things out...it’s hard. It’s really fucking hard. I don’t want to whine and complain because a) that will make me more of an annoyingly privileged hipster than you already think I am, and b) what’s the point?

Ah, but I think that last part is the whole problem, to begin with.

What’s the point of applying for other jobs, if I already have one? What’s the point of getting another job just to see if that will be more fulfilling and make me happier, if there’s no guarantee? What’s the point of going to grad school, if I’m not even entirely sure that it would be to study what I’m actually interested in? What’s the point of spending time to figure out what it is I’m interested in enough to study it, since it will probably change again in six months?  What’s the point of doing anything, really, since everything is probably going to change again in six months?

What’s the point of opening up to someone and hoping that he likes you back enough to keep being with you despite his own questions, when chances are you’ll just get really confused and more than a little bit sad? What’s the point of hoping and imagining and expecting when really nothing ever happens the way you want it to happen in your head? What’s the point of liking someone so much that it makes you question all of the other choices you’re making, when those choices are already so convoluted in the first place because YOU’RE TWENTY FUCKING THREE YEARS OLD AND NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK HE’S DOING?!!?!

Et cetera. As you can probably tell, this was a pretty long walk.

Apparently, getting our hopes up is one of the bravest things we can do. Apparently, the “point” of all of this--and by this, I mean life--is just that: figuring it out. Life means figuring things out. Some people are just a little more sure of themselves than others, but in the end, we’re all on the road. Moving towards an unknown and unpredictable future. I’m going to continue to be terribly unoriginal and throw another quote at you guys, this one from Finding Nemo (that hipster classic): “Just keep swimming.”

But as I neared home, two hours into my search for clarity, something happened that, if I were a woman who believes in signs from the Universe, would have been Very Significant. A dog without a leash ran up next to me, then slowed and matched my pace. We locked eyes, and a deep understanding passed between us as we kept moving. From behind, his owner called, “Joe! Stay.” And the dog stayed.

I think I need someone to tell me to stay. Or maybe I just need to tell myself. FAUSTYNA. STAY. Stay here, slow down, be in the present. Stop worrying, enjoy where you are, enjoy the moment.

Everything is going to be fine.

reflections and resolutions

pinned from Pink It via Pinterest

I feel as though I should be doing some sort of writing warm-ups right now, in preparation for my first blog post since February of last year. Cranial calisthenics? Brain ballet?

All of this alliteration is already making my head hurt.

A few weeks ago, at dinner with a friend, we got on the subject of what it means to be an adult. Thanks to those two--okay, four--glasses of wine, things got pretty philosophical pretty quickly. Is "adulthood" a level that is achieved (as if this is a game!) when financial independence is won? Is it a state of mind that you never need to adopt, if you don't want to? Is it simply becoming less naive about the ways the world works? Shouldering more responsibilities and being held accountable for your actions and emotions?

Whatever it means, the path to adulthood is one that is full of ups and downs. Full of thoughts and realizations. Lots of questions, very few answers. Turns out everyone is kind of flying by the seat of his or her pants.

In 2012, I definitely flew by the seat of my pants. It was a year full of ups and downs, of thoughts and realizations, of questions and not so many answers.

2012 started in Amsterdam, surrounded by fireworks and revelers. January and February were gray, and snowy, but filled with long hours at cafes with friends and lots of naps on my little sofa bed in middle-of-nowhere France. In March, I started making plans for my post-France career. Grad school? Jobs? All options were on the table. I thought I had figured out what I wanted to do with my life.

Perhaps I still am incredibly naive. To have things figured out at 23? Unheard of.

Anyway. April and May were full of travels--to Rome, to the Amalfi Coast, to Reims, to Paris. And back home again, just in time for a childhood friend's wedding. Friends got engaged, married, got pregnant and had babies. Friends also passed away--2012 saw four people who had incredibly positive impacts on my life go. It's not going to be the same without them.

The summer was spent in Ohio, dreaming up big ideas and never really following through on any of them. I cooked a lot, read a bit, and rediscovered my love for Akron in the summertime. In August, I moved back to New York. All of those carefully laid plans, created back in March, were shelved. Those carefully laid plans, that I was so sure of, suddenly became uncertain. Instead of making waves in the entertainment and marketing industries (more on those "failures" some other time), I was put in charge of coordinating special events and spearheading publicity for one of NYC's most highly anticipated restaurants.

The last few months of 2012 were perhaps the most emotionally tumultuous. Fears and insecurities about love and friendships and jobs were almost constant. Back in high school, I used to think that fears and insecurities would just magically disappear the day I turned 20. Early twenties meant confidence and assuredness.

I was wrong.

Early twenties mean having almost no idea what I'm currently doing, what I will be doing (or with whom!), and somehow having the strength to get out of bed every morning and face the uncertainties anyway. Like I said, flying by the seat of my pants. Somehow, things are still working out. Life has a funny way of doing that, I guess.

So, life in 2013...what will that be like?

I like to think that I do have at least a little bit of control over my life and what happens, so, without further ado, some resolutions, if you will.

I resolve to:
do more of what makes me happy
stick up for myself
take care of myself
be a better friend
become an expert on something
have more late night conversations with inspiring people
travel somewhere, anywhere

I resolve to chill the fuck out.
It's all happening, and it's all going to be fine.

Happy New Year, everyone.

unlocked

There is something about this time of year that inspires nostalgia. It's February: it's cloudy more often than not, so a lot of time is spent indoors, reading or clicking through old photos on Facebook. February means Valentine's Day. It's the time that people (soon to be college grads, for example, or, well, people like me) start looking for the Next Big Opportunity. This, in turn, inspires a lot of personal reflection. How did I get here? What made me the way I am? etc.

I promise this isn't going to be your typical emo/existential blogpost. Despite the two glasses of wine that I have already downed. And despite the Fleet Foxes genius mix and tea lights that are currently happening chez moi. No. This is not Xanga.

So. I've been doing a lot of reminiscing lately. A lot of reminiscing, and a lot of reflecting. A lot of daydreaming. Working in schools with hundreds of hormonal, overemotional teenagers isn't helping. In my attempt to understand what sorts of things they would like to learn about, what sorts of activities they would find fun, if anything, I've had to put myself in their shoes.

That being said, there are a lot of directions in which I could now take this post, but what I really want to talk about are lockers. Yes. You read that correctly. Lockers.

The French don't have lockers. Perhaps this is meant to reduce the type of kissing that the French are so well known for from going down. (If that was the goal, I can tell you it has failed spectacularly. Those kids have no qualms about shoving their tongues down each other's throats and will do it anywhere and everywhere. Pretty sure they get more action in one five-minute break between classes than I have in the past three years. Combined.) Perhaps the no-locker phenomenon was also to prevent vandalism and graffiti. (This has also failed. You'd think by now someone would have figured out that "fuck" is not spelled "fuk," but I guess that's not what the English language assistant is there for, right?)

By now you're probably thinking, what's she on about? What the fuk is so special about lockers? They're kind of ugly. Nerds get shoved in them. It's a pain learning (and remembering) a new combination every year. They can get really messy, and often really smelly. They can cause traffic jams. And how often did you walk down the halls of your high school and have a locker door fly open into your face?

But remember how exciting it was to have birthdays in middle and high school, because you knew that your best friends would, every year, without fail, decorate your locker? Remember how, before a big game, athletes would have their lockers inundated with good luck wishes and green and gold streamers? Remember decorating your locker with photos of friends, posters of Orlando Bloom, and those silly magnetic dry-erase boards? Remember how people would slip notes on lined 5-star paper into your locker, probably folded up like little triangles? Remember how, when you had a crush on someone, you would plan out your route to class and make a detour just to pass by his locker, on the off-chance that he'd be there and you two could exchange a shy smile? Remember how he'd come to your locker after school and try to lean casually while talking to you, but fail miserably because, well, it's entirely impossible to act casual when your entire being is focused on making this other person like you back?

Remember?

I think the French are missing out. There's something to be said for the anticipation, drama, and excitement--the butterflies--of lockers and everything that happens near them. Lockers are, I think, one of those strange identity-forming social rituals/experiences. Strange, yes, but also beautiful.

Remember?

woah dream big

During my freshman year of high school, now nearly eight years ago (!!!), my good friend Epiphany and I began writing in our so-called Notebooks (creative, I know), which, by the end of our high school career, numbered well over twenty. Those Notebooks were, come to think of it, basically our lifeline throughout those typically tumultuous high school years. Instead of releasing our teenage angst in more physical or visible ways, we turned to our pen and paper. The pages of those Notebooks are filled with scribbles and doodles and long, long letters. They are some of the most hilarious and also heartbreaking pieces of writing you'll ever see.

The last time I was home, in late September, I drove out to see Epiphany. When I got to her new place, I saw that she had lugged out the storage box in which she'd kept all of our Notebooks. For a few minutes, we were silent, just reading over what we had written and reminiscing. Then we began reading aloud certain passages to each other, and pretty soon we couldn't stop laughing.

I was struck by a few things. We wrote about the same things over and over (and over). From year to year, the themes of our Notebooks stayed the same: boys we loved (and who, most often, did not return our ardor), girls we didn't like, and how much we hated our *insert body part here*. It's so funny to read things like this, now, after having seen a bit more of the world that's out there, and to realize how narrow the mindset of a high-schooler really is.

Yet I was also struck by the prevailing sense of optimism and positivity that runs through those Notebooks. Sure, we despaired over the size of our kneecaps and agonized for weeks about who would ask us to Homecoming. But because we were sharing our writings--our thoughts, our fears--with each other, we were able to support each other. Each complaint from one side was swiftly negated by the other: "SHUT UP you're beautiful and you KNOW IT," etc, etc.

We shared our thoughts and our fears, yes, and we also shared our dreams. We dreamed of bigger and better things, the two of us. At one point, we were going to be successful violinists-turned-magazine editors-turned-superstars, taking New York (and, by proxy, the rest of the world) by storm. Okay, so maybe things haven't turned out quite like we'd dreamed. But that doesn't mean that we have to give up on those castles in the sky, right? We just have to adjust them a little bit to match the reality at hand, right?

A lot of people say they do their best thinking in the shower. I do my most random thinking in the shower. Today, I was thinking about what my answers will be when journalists from Vanity Fair come to administer the Proust Questionnaire. In case you live under a rock, VF's PQ subjects are, essentially, living legends. In the back of my mind, an annoying little voice was whispering, "Faustyna. Get outta here. You're not going to make it big! It's too late...especially since you're still so lost." Well, you know what, Annoying Little Voice? I don't think it's ever too late to dream big. Maybe that's naive...maybe so. But I'd rather hold on to some fragment of a dream than resign myself to a static, complacent lifestyle.

Call me crazy, but I still have a dream.

cinema, solo

d4nceinthedark.tumblr.com via weheartit

I've said it before: sometimes, I like being alone. More so than most people, I think. When I lived in New York City, I was known to take myself out to dinner at least once a week. Just me, a glass of wine, and that week's issue of The New Yorker. When you're constantly surrounded by people, often not by choice, it's really nice to just be with yourself. And who said that you have to do that in the privacy of your own home? Why not show people that you like yourself enough to hang out with yourself in public? Easier said than done, of course, but it can really be one of life's little pleasures.

Going to the movies solo was the next hurdle for me to get over. The trick, I've found, is to go during the off-times; that is, the times when not that many people are going to the theater. Sure, you're going to feel awkward being alone at the Friday night showing of the latest romantic comedy. Chances are you'd be the only one not participating in the classic dinner-and-a-movie combo with your Crush of the Week. So instead, why not go see it on Saturday at 2PM? Problem solved!

That's just what I did this past weekend, and it turns out the Saturday 2PM rom-com is the Single Girls' Showing. It was me and four other middle-aged women--all of us solo, all of us ready to learn "l'Art d'Aimer." It was nice. Sure, I didn't have anyone to exchange horrified looks with at some of the trailers for upcoming movies, but I didn't have to make unimportant small talk with anyone while waiting for the movie to start, either.

And, of course, once the movie starts, everyone, ideally, is alone. That's what I like about going to the movies. In the dark, once the story envelops its listeners, everyone enters into his or her own subjective little world. Everyone gets something different out of every single movie. The movie experience is shaped by your own personal worldview. It's often quite nice, after a movie, to discuss what you thought with others. But often, putting what you felt into words is nearly impossible. And most of the time, no one is going to feel exactly the same way you felt. Perhaps going to the movies is supposed to be enjoyed solo...?

Unfortunately, holding hands with myself is not quite as fun.

gratitude

heartbeatyoo on tumblr via weheartit

This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for.....

• my mama and my papa
• my beautiful friends
• Skype
• Spotify
• good music in general
• good wine
• ...and my ability to finish an entire bottle by myself
• smart, intelligent conversation
• inspiring people who believe in something & stand up for a cause
• funny people (and a sense of humor in general)
  
• the postal service
• yoga podcasts on iTunes
• all of these experiences in France

namely, meeting people from all over the world; being able to share my language and culture with some of the best kids ever; learning about the French language and culture from a really unique standpoint; eating some of the best food I've had in my life; learning about myself and my strengths and limitations;

...I could go on.

• travel discounts for people under 25
• travelling all over this beautiful world
• and the opportunity to take time to figure things out
• good books and good writers
• cute boys. and flirting.
  
• cassoulet and tartelettes au citron
• the fact that so many people I know are doing great things
• et cetera
  

I'm pretty damn lucky.

quelle heure est-il?

thelifeisforthosewhodream.tumblr.com

The concept, the idea of time is one that has been written about many, many times. It's been mulled over by poets such as T.S. Eliot in his wonderful Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...

It has been immortalized in songs, such as Fly Like An Eagle, by Steve Miller Band:

Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'
Into the future...

I guess that since time is quite an abstract concept, it would make sense that each country and each culture has a different idea of what it means. Perhaps the biggest adjustment to life in France so far has been getting used to its definition.

In some cases, I completely and wholeheartedly support how the French think of time as a precious and personal commodity. For example: school holidays, taking two hours for lunch, etc. Just the other day, some fellow professors of mine were speaking very passionately and rapidly in the staff room. When I asked someone to slow it down for me (ha!) and explain, it turns out that they were absolutely flabbergasted that the students would no longer be able to have their usual twenty minute recess between classes in the afternoon. Normally, the French middle school schedule includes two brief recesses (one in the morning, one in the afternoon), and a longer lunch. Due to an overcrowded cafeteria, lunchtime will now be extended for half an hour...but in doing so, the afternoon recess disappears. I mentioned that in the States, students in middle school typically get a little less than an hour's break in the middle of the day, and that's it. I can't even begin to tell you the looks of horror that I got. "But how do you learn, how do you concentrate?" A very valid point, my friends.

So yes, perhaps the French are on to something good with their concept of time. Perhaps. Because as much as I appreciate luxuriously long lunches, I do not appreciate waiting three weeks for a debit card. Nor do I appreciate the amount of time and paperwork it takes to become a legitimate citizen and worker in this country. Efficient, the system is not. If you want something important to be done, be prepared to wait a while. It's difficult to adjust to, especially coming from New York City, where everyone is always speeding through things and getting everything accomplished quickly. In New York, everyone is always goingoingoing.

I just finished reading Peter Mayle's A Year In Provence, and he, too, experienced the difficulty of dealing with the French and their fluid notion of time. For him, it was a source of frustration that his villa in Provence was in a constant state of disrepair, thanks to the various upgrades that had to be done. "Soon, soon" the workers all promised, but no one would give him specific dates. Mayle decided to distract himself with the warm sun, with good food, and with fabulous wine...

On that note, I'm off to Bordeaux.

a few thoughts on loneliness

just some storys on weheartit

For the most part, I like being alone. I know that sounds weird, but I do. And I like being alone more than most people do. It probably has something to do with the fact that I am an only child. I’m used to being by myself, with only my thoughts and imagination. I like the company I keep. As those alcohol advertisements ask, yes, I would have a drink with me.

I don’t, however, like being lonely. There is a difference.

Being alone means being comfortable with being by oneself. Being alone is generally a choice. I chose to go to the café by myself to have a coffee, I chose to go on a walk by myself to clear my head, I chose to spend the evening at home with my tea lights and Netflix and glass of wine. Sometimes being alone is also very, very necessary, especially after a long day at work. Being lonely…well, I guess you could say being lonely is a choice as well. I can choose to put myself out there and make friends, or not. I can control things like that. But sometimes—I can’t help it—it feels like I can’t control those things. Sometimes the fine line between being alone and being lonely gets blurred. All of a sudden, after a wonderful afternoon spent in the company of me, myself and I, it becomes nighttime. And nighttime is typically the loneliest of times.

As Matt & Kim sing, “In the daylight, anywhere feels like home.” Days, especially beautiful sunny days, are easy. There are plenty of things to do, plenty of places to go; days are full of distractions. Then cafés start shutting down, the sun begins to set. Everyone goes home, to their families, to their lovers and friends. I go home to an empty room and hang out with my good friend iTunes. Sometimes I lay in bed for hours, tossing and turning because all I wanted was to share a story or two with somebody, and maybe (just maybe!) get a smile and a hug.

As much as I like hanging out with myself, I think it’s time to see other people. I’m not breaking up with you; I just think we need to take a break. It’s not you, it’s me.

…What?

bibliophilia

from weheartit.com

I've always been an avid reader and writer. Even when time doesn't permit the freedom to actually engage in those pursuits on a regular, meaningful level, I still keep up with my daily New York Times browsings and weekly New Yorker enlightenings. So yes, even though I am part of a generation for which the appreciation of the written word is dying, I continue to be drawn to reading. So much so, in fact, that I get overwhelmed sometimes.

Why overwhelmed? I am currently reading (or attempting to read, rather) David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. All 1,000 pages of it. I had heard from various people that every single sentence of Wallace's is constructed with such care that it literally changes your world view, with every punctuation mark, every syntax choice. A bold statement, my friends, so I decided to check it out for myself.

What I'm finding out, as I read sentences two or three times in order to be sure I have the gist of it, is that literature is art. Honestly. Not that I didn't realize that before, to an extent, but this book is different. As my friends had said, Wallace plays with and manipulates the English language so skillfully, in ways that I have not read or seen before. He uses sentence structures that are beyond my comprehension. I am reading with a pencil in my hand, underlining phrases I like (as I often do), but also circling the words whose meaning escapes me.

That, I think, is the most overwhelming part: the fact that there are so many words in this language that I will never know--and I thought my vocabulary was pretty good! (I like how I chose to use the word "good" there; I'm sure I could have come up with a more advanced synonym...right?) And yet, despite the vast number of words in the English language (over 200,000 entries in the OED, with more being added year after year as terms such as "unfriend" enter the popular lexicon) there are phenomena for which our language lacks a precise word.

Such as (thanks, StumbleUpon):

• l'esprit d'escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated, it means "the spirit of the staircase."
• waldeinsamkeit: (German) The feeling of being alone in the woods.
• meraki: (Greek) Doing something with soul, creativity, or love.
• forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.
• gheegle: (Filipino) The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute.
• pochemuchka: (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions.
• pena ajena: (Mexican Spanish) The embarrassment you feel watching someone else's humiliation.
• cualacino: (Italian) The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

And yet, somehow, we get by. Somehow we can still communicate and understand each other, even though our language--and other languages--are imprecise. Imprecise yet indispensable. Where did all these words come from?

At the risk of becoming a pochemuchka, I will stop here--only to experience l'esprit d'escalier a bit later, I'm sure. Ah well. At least I meraki-d.

lucky duck

The other night at dinner, my dad told me about a professional poker player named Johnny Chan. Now, I'm not into poker (I'm sure I could be if I could wrap my head around what was going on) but what intrigued me about this guy is the fact that he won the World Series of Poker two years in a row (1987 and 1988), which is pretty impressive. Strategy, or luck? Chan is known for keeping a "lucky" orange with him at the poker table. Before every play, he'll dig into the rind with his fingernails and sniff the citrusy scent. It's apparently to clear his head, but now that smoking at the poker table is no longer allowed, it's become sort of moot. Still, it's his trademark. It's habit.

So that got me thinking about luck, and the superstitions we associate with it. There's hundreds of them, I'm pretty sure. Four leaf clovers, rabbit feet, fingers crossed, et cetera. Ladybugs and butterflies landing on you is considered good luck. Rainbows are lucky. I've even been told that being pooped on (by a bird..) is excellent luck. Granted, that might have just been because I was pretty upset about that incident. I think that, for a lot of people, religion can also be considered a special sort of good luck charm.

It goes the other way, too. Breaking a mirror is seven years of bad luck. The number thirteen is unlucky in all of its permutations. If you happen to spill salt, make sure to throw some over your shoulder. Never open umbrellas indoors or walk underneath ladders. Black cat crossed your path lately? Might want to spit three times if it has.

Why do most superstitions revolve around the idea of luckiness? Why do many of us believe in good luck charms? Is it a bit of a placebo effect-- in that we believe they may work, but really it's our hard work and preparation and maybe a bit of coincidence that makes things work out the way they do? But then, isn't coincidence sort of like luck? If it's the good kind, anyway..

As Calvin (of Calvin & Hobbes fame) once said, "Some days, even my lucky rocketship underpants won't help." Those lucky charms (no, not the cereal..) don't do anything. It's all up to us. Why don't we believe that we can do it all ourselves, and instead search fruitlessly for a four leaf clover? How come we need an object, a symbol, a ritual, to give us that extra courage?

You can do it! Just do it.
With the help of some Nikes, of course.

2010: the year in review

Trying to remember what experiences filled a year, all 365 days of it, is nearly impossible. I can barely remember what I did last week, let alone twelve months ago. But I guess that’s why we have journals, and planners (and, more likely, blogs and Twitters and Facebook statuses) –what we write down, we can later look back and reminisce upon. What we write down is most likely the most important stuff anyway. The problem with my blog is that I tend to write all sorts of artsy fartsy things instead of what is actually happening in my life, but despite that I have combed my various outlets of expression and have pieced together my 2010.

In January, I moved into my cozy little East Village apartment. I remember being absolutely terrified, my first night there. I was alone, on a sagging air mattress, with only the bare necessities, hearing the ominous nighttime sounds of an ancient walkup for the first time. But I made it through the night, and I have made that apartment my home. January was the month that saw the earthquake in Haiti, the death of JD Salinger, and the announcement of the iPad (insert tampon joke here). It is also the month in which, according to my Twitter, I “had a dream where I wrote out the Boom Boom Pow lyrics in magnetic poetry and danced in a safari.”

February was dreary, I’m assuming, because I can’t remember much. The Winter Olympics happened, I know, as did the Tiger Woods scandal. As for my personal life, the only thing I could glean from my digital doings was extreme excitement about snow days. In fact, I apparently wore my pajamas inside out on more than one occasion. March, like February, is blurry. Those wintry months are never all that special, to me. Perhaps I should become a bear and start hibernating through this season. Or a fish.

April was unseasonably warm, if you remember. On April 7^th, in fact, I tweeted “80 degreeeeeeees yowza.” (I have a way with words, I know). I remember forsaking my homework and instead sitting on rooftops with pretty friends, watching the city ebb and flow beneath us. April was also when I got to see Florence + The Machine in concert, one of the best live performances I’ve ever seen.

May 12, 2010: Faustyna turns twenty-one. I rang in my birthday with a small group of friends at the W Hotel in Times Square, sipping a Manhattan, of course (a not-so-tasty drink, as I learned, but being completely and utterly cliché was fun). In May, I finally (belatedly) got around to realizing that the oil spill in the Gulf was not your run-of-the-mill oil spill and voiced my outrage by boycotting BP. But then I realized that my brief protest was really quite pointless, as I only drive when I’m in Ohio. Speaking of Ohio, late May saw my arrival upon the campus of THE Ohio State University, where I was surrounded by inordinate amounts of straight men and I didn’t know how to handle it.

Summer. Ahh, summer. In June, I started my career as the marketing intern at BBC America and subsequently began to think and dream in a British accent. I spent a lot of time at the Bowery, working for and accommodating the needs of New York’s high rollers. Also obnoxious tourists. June was also the beginning of Governor’s Island Boot Camp. Every Friday morning (well, almost) found me, and a very good friend of mine, in line for the ferry that would take us to Governor’s Island, a funny yet idyllic little place five minutes from the tip of Manhattan. Free bike Fridays, oh how I miss thee! June was also the beginning of the World Cup and the reaffirmation of New York’s love affair with day drinking.

July was hot. Hot hot hot. An old childhood friend of mine was my roommate for the month, and together we’d sit in my unairconditioned apartment and do a little creative journaling. Watercolors and magazine cutouts and colored pencils. I remember restaurant week with two new and incredible friends of mine, and dreaming up screenplay ideas with them over gourmet homemade pizza. I remember discovering the greatness that is Santa Cruz Strawberry Lemonade (it was on sale at Whole Foods literally all of July). And, finally, the song that best sums up the month: “¡Yo soy español español español!”

August was also hot, but my cheap and frugal side (it exists! I swear!) refused to buy an air conditioner. I began to really enjoy going to work simply because it was cool. Er, refreshingly cold. August was the month of concerts in Central Park, and ritzy dates at hotel bars with older men. It was also the month of my retreat to the cool waters of Lake Placid. What a trip! The Adirondacks might just be my happy place.

September saw the beginning of my senior year of college. That’s really all I have to say about September, although major worldwide events such as the withdrawal of the last combat unit in Iraq and the death of the Segway owner (by riding his Segway off a cliff…) also transpired. October was more exciting, at least from what my Twitter tells me. I got to attend the centerpiece film of the New York Film Festival, which was Julie Taymor’s adaptation of The Tempest, starring, among others, Helen Mirren and Russell Brand, with whom I shmoozed on the top of the Empire Hotel after the screening. October was also the month in which I sold my soul to the CrackBerry. The month wrapped up with a road trip to our nation’s capital, where I restored sanity.

November: midterm elections. I was not a happy camper. Among my tweets of displeasure, this disturbing fact: “Meg Whitman’s personal spending on her campaign: $163 mil. Natl Endowment for the Arts 2010 budget: $161.4 mil.” I really don’t know what else happened in November, with the exception of the release of the first installment of the last Harry Potter movie—which was incredible, but made me feel really old.

December. Here we are (phew). WikiLeaks! Cleftos road trip! (I haven’t devoted any words to the Cleftos here yet…but those girls are an incredible part of my life and we have so much fun together. Hell, I got to beatbox a marriage proposal. Tell me that’s not fun.) Repeal of DADT! And Christmas. God I love Christmas.

In retrospect, 2010 was a really really (really) great year. For me, anyway. (I hope it was good for you too!) To ensure 2011 is just as good, a sampling of my New Year’s resolutions and goals:

• Graduate!
• Find a job…eek.
• No but seriously. A REAL JOB. Like a real person.
• In a less serious vein, use only reusable shopping bags.
• This is pretty important, but workout 3-4 times per week.
• Be proactive in my classes/in networking situations.
• Cook more!
• I’m going out on a limb here, but… fall in love? Granted, it doesn’t have to be with a person, I can just find a new passion or something…But ho-lee-crap do I want it to be with a person.
• Stop slouching (this one’s for you, mom).
• Pay off loans (!)
• Write more. Read more. Smile more.

Happy New Year, everyone.

all i want for christmas

Home for the holidays means entire days spent in fleece zip-ups and pants. It means sleeping til noon, eating the best food on the planet, and snuggling with pets (and parents). It also means reminiscing about holidays past.
My mom asked us about our most memorable Christmas Eves and Christmases at the dinner table. It was nice listening to my parents' stories about their lives before I came along. A lot of Christmases blur together, simply because the traditions we follow render each one the same. But there are some years that I can remember vividly.What I can't remember, however, is when I stopped believing in Santa Claus. It seems that I was around 9 or 10 when I started writing letters addressed as follows: Dear 1/2 Santa, 1/2 parents. What prompted my doubt, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps the realization that a red-suited, gray-bearded, present-bearing magic old man didn't exist was so traumatic that I have blocked it out of my memory.Regardless, my parents continued to insist that "if you don't believe, you won't receive." And thus, I continued to write my Christmas wishes to "Santa," even through middle and maybe even high school. Seriously. Even now, I still put out milk and cookies (although now it's morphed into soy milk and vegan gingerbread). Why? I'm not really sure. I think I just love the magic of Christmas.

the gemma show

Whenever I am set to work the brunch shift at the restaurant, I concentrate all my efforts, the night before, on making it rain. While I feel sorry for all of the delivery people who bring food to New Yorkers who refuse to leave their apartments, as a hostess, rainy days make my life a lot easier. Last night's rain dance... well, let's just say I'm going to have to try those moves again.

Today, from about 10:15 to 10:58, the restaurant was completely, utterly empty. Since I work at a hotel restaurant that never closes, a window of time that large--on a Sunday during peak breakfast time--in which no customers come in is unheard of. Absolutely unheard of. So what did we, the staff, do?

Why, cat-walked around the entire restaurant, of course. Oh, and did yoga in between tables. Some jumping and dancing may have been involved as well. Perhaps a push-up contest transpired. It was absolutely fantastic.

In my producing class this week, we pitched ideas for films and TV shows to each other. One group had the idea of an HBO show that takes place at a fictional New York hotel called the Soho Majestic. Brilliant. An absolutely brilliant idea. I think that the staff at the Bowery Hotel should be a model for a TV show, if we are not worthy enough of a reality show ourselves. Posh hotels are always a good subject for a TV dramedy (though I hate that word). Just this week, a swimsuit designer was mysteriously murdered and found in the bathtub of her suite at a swanky hotel in the meatpacking district. Turned out her scorned lover did it. (When is that not the case?)

But seriously. How great would that show be? Follow the lives of Massimo, the at-first abrasive and OCD maître-d' with a fiery attitude who turns out to be a big old opera-loving, bad-joke-telling softie at heart. There's Noah, the tall and lanky male model wannabe who works room service and makes a little extra money selling special brownies to the guys in the kitchen, but is quite possibly one of the friendliest people in the whole hotel. Don't forget Angelina, a beautiful hostess with a behind out to there and an attitude to match--you don't want to cross her, but if you're on her good side you're golden. Names have been changed to protect identities, and some exaggerations have been made. But still. Don't you want to know more? Don't you want to watch these people as they interact with celebrities, socialites, tourists, and the homeless people that sometimes wander in to use the bathroom?

Yes. That does indeed happen.

Season Premiere Fall 2011.

lost boys (and girls)

(from weheartit.com)

Coming home from college for Thanksgiving break is always a weird experience. It's such a short reprieve from the ins and outs of quotidian life, but sometimes a very necessary one nevertheless. Freshman year, it was incredibly exciting to fly home and compare stories with high school friends. Sophomore year, I stayed in New York and went a little stir-crazy. Junior year, it was an incredible relief to get away from the oppressive concrete and loneliness of the streets. It had been a rough semester, and going home for a little well-deserved hibernation was exactly what I needed.

It's senior year, now: the last Thanksgiving break of my college career. It's been a crazy semester-- crazy, but happy. Still, the thought of going home for these few bleak November days was the light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as I stepped off of the train and into the car that would take me westward, I breathed a sigh of relief. I could relax. I was going home.

Home! What a magical place. Flannel sheets to sleep on, a fat cat to snuggle with, incredible food to eat, wonderful people to talk to. It is so nice to be able to come back to a place from which I've been absent for six months and to still be completely myself, completely comfortable. It is also nice to be able to catch up with friends that I haven't really talked to for that long, either. Those are the best kinds of friendships, I think. Each person is so driven, doing his or her own thing, and when we do get together it's a genuine interest in what goes on in the others' minds. That constant contact is not a necessary thing, because we are secure enough to realize that these people always have our back, regardless. It's beautiful.

Last night I met with two of these inspiring, beautiful people. We sat around my kitchen island, drinking Little Penguin and snacking on pumpkin bread. We just talked, and talked and talked, for nearly four hours. I remember, when I was little, looking at the adults around me and thinking to myself, "Man. They talk so much! How boring. When I'm grown up I'm still going to play with my stuffed animals and be imaginative and fun."

Jokes on me. I can't even remember the names of my stuffed animals. At my old house, my bed was cut into the wall; it was a nest in which I surrounded myself with a community of animals. And that's really what they (we?) were-- every night, I would tell them all about my day, about my hopes and dreams. They were all arranged in a specific order, and I went down the line and slept with a different animal each night. There was a bear named Mayor, his wife Nicola. A blue monkey named Swinger, who was married to a dolphin, whose name I cannot remember. I cannot remember the other animals. These animals used to be such a part of my daily life, and now I have forgotten almost everything.

"Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting," writes J.M Barrie in Peter Pan. Also known as the boy who refused to grow up. Going away means forgetting. Growing up means going away, and thus, forgetting. It's scary.

Talking with these two was reassuring, though, and inspiring. One of them has already made the transition from college life to, well, "real" life. She's moved away (far away!) from home. She has a job, working 50+ hours a week. She is living in a real house, with real people, dating real men, doing real things. By "real," I mean there is no protection, no shield to hide behind. College is definitely a sort of shield: Oh it's okay, I don't have to be responsible yet, I'm in college. Et cetera. You know how it goes. But she did it. She did it; it was hard, but she's surviving. The other one is graduating in just a few short weeks. Full of anxiety, but also full of determination to make something of herself. It was so interesting to listen to them talk about their decision-making processes and the thoughts going through their head, the emotions they experienced (or are experiencing) during the closing of another chapter. It made me feel more mentally prepared for my own chapter closing coming up in a few short months.

Growing up is funny. Life is funny.
And I am ready to turn the page.

(Sorry that was hopelessly cliché. I'm a bit rusty.)

pillow talk

from aishagabriela.tumblr.com via weheartit

I had a strange experience in bed the other day.

Please, keep reading, it's not inappropriate in the slightest.

I was lying in bed, awake at 2 AM, a victim of too much caffeine (brunch does have a negative side, it turns out). Earlier that evening, it had stormed: thunder and raindrops had been the soundtrack to my studying. As I tossed and turned, I realized the world outside was eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the bed in my East Village, New York City apartment felt like it could have been anywhere.

I closed my eyes and began composing a little poem in my head about the phenomenon that is middle-of-the-night silence (on a par with empty Sunday morning streets) but then...almost as if on cue...a car alarm went off.

I giggled to myself, and then: a thought.

Was that God?

I've never been particularly religious (and only somewhat spiritual), so this thought was very strange to me. The idea that someone or something out there had heard my thoughts and played a little joke was rather disconcerting, actually. I comforted myself with the idea that there was no way, if God were real, that He would be listening to my thoughts. Surely there were one million--even one billion!--other people whose thoughts were more important than mine at that moment and needed God's attention.

Unless He needed a break from all that work.
A laugh...

But it was probably just a coincidence anyway.

shake your bon bon

from weheartit.com

Once upon a time--third through seventh grades, to be exact--I was in love with a swivel-hipped singer named Ricky Martin. Remember him? I wanted to be the one making him take his clothes off and go dancing in the rain. Figuratively speaking, of course; I was only nine years old. Who do you think I am?

I had a poster of him in my bedroom, and, if my memory serves me well, I'm fairly certain that I practiced kissing on it. Typical. His face was just so tan and...well, symmetrical. Of course, I moved on to other, slightly more real crushes, and that poster is probably crumpled up somewhere in one of the many memory boxes I have in the storage closet. Also, it turns out Ricky Martin is quite gay. Story of my life, really, but it just allowed me to move on faster since I knew that now there really was no chance we'd ever be together.

Fast forward ten years or so. One sunny September Saturday, I walk into work and who is seated at a table by the window but Señor Ricky Martin himself. A little scruffy, with mirrored aviators on, but still, unmistakably, that tan, symmetrical face. One of my childhood idols, in the flesh, mere inches away. Sitting, unaware of the flood of emotions coursing through my body. Nostalgia. Breathless anticipation. An uncontrollable urge to laugh, both at myself and at how utterly ridiculous life is sometimes.

As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said:

"Life is infinitely stranger
than anything the mind could invent."

i bet you think this song is about you

from weheartit.com

I hate to say it, but it's true. I care about what I look like. I've always cared. I've always been the one comparing myself to others to make sure I'm cool enough, stylish enough, etc. I mean, we all do that, to an extent (at least, I hope so!). We need to make sure we look appropriate for the situation, the milieu, in which we find ourselves.

But lately I have found that I am succumbing to the pressures of New York City even more, in that I literally cannot leave the house without makeup on, or in the twenty minutes I spend in front of my closet every morning trying to decide what to wear. I have become even more obsessed with my image. And you know what isn't helping? Working at the restaurant.

I work at a pretty hip place. It's a hotel restaurant. I seat people who give hundred-dollar-handshakes, and celebrities. I need to look good so I get some tips. I need to look good, because otherwise, I will be looked down upon. Everyone's always telling me I do look good, and, sadly, these compliments have become what I strive for every night. If I don't get complimented, I'm doing something wrong.

The other day we got a new hostess. Tall, lanky, a beautiful doll. I felt like a child next to her. I found myself fishing for compliments from the staff to boost my temporarily deflated ego. I literally heard myself saying those words and wanted to slap myself.

Why does what you look like have to be such an important part of social life, especially here in New York City? It's funny (not in a haha-funny way, more of an interesting/ironic funny sort of thing) how far being good-looking can get you. Tall, attractive men get promoted more often, or so studies have shown. The pretty girls are the ones that get in to exclusive bars and clubs (not that that's what I aspire to, but still). It's all about image here, and I'm really starting to resent it. I want to rise above it. All I want to do is go camping in the Adirondacks for two weeks: no makeup, lake baths, no mirrors. And I don't want to be judged.

It's strange, really. All of the staff at the restaurant tell me they like me because I'm not all about image--there's more to me than just my face. And yet I find myself becoming more and more shallow day by day, spending less time beautifying my mind and more time learning how to apply my eyeliner just-so.

I think I need a swift kick in the rear.

objects in mirror are better than they appear(ed)

(fotolog on weheartit)

I was in the Strand recently, browsing through the maze of bookshelves and relishing the smell of books old and new. I stumbled upon the poetry section, and, always wanting to be more interested in poetry than I have been in the past, I decided to take a closer look and picked up a collection of T.S. Eliot poems.

I studied Eliot in high school, closely, even; we had to be familiar with some of his work and to be able to differentiate his words and structures from his contemporaries'. I flipped through the pages and found 'The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." The only thing I remembered about this poem was simply how much I had hated the fact that I had to read and analyze it.

I leaned against a pillar (fearing the bookshelves would fall like dominoes) and read the poem. "Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky." I loved it. And I got to thinking...

It's funny how we often dislike (or even hate!) something we are forced to do, but then, upon re-discovering the same thing on our own, we change our mind. Like me and poetry, for example. Or me and art museums. Me and practicing piano. Or me and arugula. I could go on.

I wonder why that is, why things that seemed so horrible while they were occurring end up being some of life's little pleasures. I think it has a lot to do with independence and choice. Choosing to read a poem, or eat a pine nut, is a lot different than being forced to do so with no other reasonable explanation other than "Because I said so."

Choices...

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
T.S. Eliot

caffeine & introspection

from weheartit.com

Over dinner the other night, some friends and I were discussing our personalities, and the vibes we give off to outsiders. It's an interesting thing to think about. How do others perceive you? We all like to think we send certain signals, but are they read in the way we want them to be? People dress a certain way to be considered just-so, or affect certain mannerisms to appear more flirty, businesslike, what-have-you.

Anyway, Stephen came up with a metaphor to illustrate our personalities for us. The three of us are in a café in Paris. Nneka is the one surrounded by fifteen French people, despite having come alone. She is the loud, gregarious one. Everyone wants to be around her. Her laugh is infectious, her personality draws you in. Stephen is the one surrounded by fifteen friends. The Frenchies are eavesdropping on the conversation, chipping in here and there, but from afar, and for not very long. Stephen keeps his posse close, and is comfortable in any place because of the security provided by his relationships. People sense that, and don't necessarily want to intrude.

I am the one sitting alone, with a coffee, a book, and a cigarette (because this is Paris, after all, or so Stephen's metaphor goes). Apparently this is not a bad thing. Apparently everyone in the café is staring at me, wanting to talk to me, but because I look so content to be by myself, they are intimidated by my quiet but powerful aura.

I thought this was interesting. It's true that I often like being alone, even in public spaces. (And here I must mention this beautiful poem/video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7X7sZzSXYs) But sometimes being alone does make me feel insecure, which in turn makes me even more quiet. Silence is mysterious and alluring, yes, but my silence also seems to make me unapproachable. If I cannot be approached, I cannot meet all sorts of interesting people. I will not be able to share stories with you about certain experiences because I just don't have them. Because I am, too often, alone.

Sorry so personal.
Next time my post will be more interesting, I promise!

insouciance

New York City sucks the life out of you. It's a place teeming with millions of interesting and driven people, but it is also, often, a lonely and heartless place. Everyone's in it for himself. As much as I love New York, as much as it might be impossible for me to live elsewhere for a long time and be completely happy, I still believe it is important to escape the constant movement that is the city. It's important to get away for a while, reconnect with the world and with yourself, and re-appreciate the chaos of the city upon return.

Enter Lake Placid: an ideal location for such an escape. A couple of weeks ago, I packed my weekender bag with flannel shirts and bathing suits and took the train upstate. I was to be spending the weekend with my friend Caroline, who had neglected to inform me that her home was actually on an island in the middle of the lake. You can imagine my confusion when we pulled up to the marina instead of up a driveway.

That first night was beautiful; one of the clearest I've ever seen. My trip happened to coincide with the yearly Perseid's meteor shower...so you can imagine the crick in my neck the next morning from my inability to look away from the Milky Way and the hundreds of stars falling and shooting across the sky. As Van Gogh famously said, "I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of stars makes me dream."

The trip was a complete success, judged by the fact that I literally could not stop smiling the entire time I was there. I climbed a 4,000 foot mountain. I jumped into the lake. I relaxed in the front of a boat with ruddy-cheeked, preppy college boys. I road-tripped to Vermont, singing really bad songs at the top of my lungs, my hair being whipped violently by the cool breeze. I saw Grace Potter & The Nocturnals in concert, and got a bar of chocolate autographed by Grace the following morning, following a breakfast of blueberry pancakes with authentic Vermont maple syrup. I soaked up more than my fair share of beautiful views. I took a lot of photographs. I slept well. I laughed a lot.

I would love to spend two or three weeks there every summer.