How To Live Well On Nothing A Year

In Which "Success" Is A Four-Letter Word

2009-06-11T10:32:00.005-04:00

If "schadenfreude" is the word for the wonderful happy feeling you get when something bad happens to someone else, what is the term for when someone else's happiness makes you feel like shit?

I was on the second leg of my two-bus commute to work yesterday afternoon, reading a magazine, when I noticed the article I was perusing was written by someone with whom I had graduated from college. We had been somewhat-friends when we were freshmen, until this person did something which I had considered tantamount to a betrayal of my trust. Ever since, though I was always cordial in their presence, I never again entertained any sort of fondness for them. Fast forward five years: we are a year out of college, I am on my way to my part-time job, and what do I see but a definite indication of this person's success?

My initial reaction, of course was, "Fuck. We're one year out of college, and this person is writing for a nationally-acclaimed and highly respected magazine, while I'm nowhere closer to even having an idea of what I want to do with my life." That feeling, I can tell you, is a day-ruiner. But I knew it was my primitive brain talking (my primitive brain is prone to swearing) and soon my intellectual brain kicked in: how, it rationalized, can I even compare my own success with this person's, when our goals are so drastically different? I may not be entirely sure what, exactly, my life goal is, but journalism it is not. I ruled that one out a long time ago. The comparison, therefore, is illogical.

As the day went on, I was eventually able to kick that initial feeling of crappiness and align myself with my intellectual brain's argument. But the truth is that success is so much easier to measure in other people than in oneself. Others may sweat and toil to achieve their goals, but if they do, their peers rarely see it. It is assumed that success is merely handed to them, while we ourselves, like so many Sisyphuses, continue to struggle with no end in sight. In a way, my primitive brain, in its crazy outburst of emotion, made some kind of sense.

I'd like to say that I've learned my lesson and I will never compare myself to other people again and I will live happily ever after, the end. But that's not true. Even when (and if) I do reach my goal - whatever that goal may be - I'll probably still compare my success to others', because that's part of the human condition, the pain of progress. So the grass will continue to be greener in someone else's yard. What I can hope for, though, is that I'll be able to see that mine is plenty green enough.

In Which The Past Is Revisited

2009-06-07T12:02:00.005-04:00

What grief it is to love some people like your own
blood, and then to see them simply disappear;
to feel time bearing us away
one boxcar at a time.

-Tony Hoagland, "Two Trains"

I was awakened one morning last week by a phone call from a number I didn't know. It had a Cleveland area code, and when I answered it, it turned out to be a friend from high school, with whom I haven't spoken - or even heard of (she's not on Facebook) - in about five years. She told me she'd gotten my phone number from a mutual friend, and we spent a few minutes (she was on her way to work) catching up.

It was good to hear from her. We were very good friends "back in the day," as it were, who had fallen out of touch almost by necessity: she is a year younger than me, and when I went off to college, she was a senior in high school. I had often thought and wondered what had become of her, but because the concerns of the present almost inevitably carry more weight than those of the past, I never, whilst ensconced in my day-to-day life, found opportunity to contact her.

It would have been impossible to inform her about all the goings on of the last five years in the small amount of time we had to talk, so I didn't even try, and kept my answers to her questions general. Before we hung up she asked if I live anywhere near Corning, New York, because she will be there next weekend for a glass-blowing convention. I've never even heard of Corning, New York, and told her I would look it up. Though I guess the ball is in my court now, I haven't called her back yet.

Here's the thing: I have come to accept, for better or worse, that one of the inevitable truths of life is that we fall out of touch with people - even people we love, people we don't necessarily want to lose. I do not say that this is right, or that I am happy with it, only that, for me at least - and many other people, I think - it's the way it is. I believe that there are different friends and acquaintances for different seasons of our lives, and for someone like me, who grew up in one place but currently resides in another - one that is much farther away - this is especially true. I did not want these people to leave my life: it just happened.

When I think about why this happens, I think about the world as it is today: ironically, though more options for getting in touch with someone are available now than at any other point in human history, for some reason, we don't really take proper advantage of them. Think about it: this week you'll write "happy birthday" on half a dozen Facebook walls, but will you really be saying anything? Furthermore, whose walls will they be - those of your true friends, the people who know your secrets and your history and your hopes, or those of someone you knew in high school, with whom you have never had a direct, face-to-face conversation?

People in bygone eras, of course, didn't have this problem. If you lived in the same village all your life, you never had to say goodbye to anyone. Losing touch, therefore, is part of the price we pay for progress: the more advanced, the more "civilized" we get, the more we retreat into (as Auden would put it) "the cell of [ourselves]."

Well. I did not mean for this to be so sad. Then again, as everyone knows, not everything in life is happiness. I have not yet decided if I will call my friend back - or even look up the location of Corning, New York. Someday, maybe, I will find the time and energy to contact all those people who, though they mean so much to me, I have not properly kept in touch with. But for now, like Tony Hoagland's train, my life keeps rolling on.

In Which Happiness Is A Warm Apartment

2009-05-25T20:23:00.003-04:00

When I looked at my phone last Wednesday night, I saw that I had a voice mail, which was preceded by a text message. The missed call was from my father; I first checked the text message, which was from my sister, and which said only, "Have you talked to Dad?" That was all I needed to know exactly what the voice mail was about.

After nearly 13 years of being unmarried, my father proposed to his girlfriend of 5 1/2 years. Coincidentally, he did it a few days before they were scheduled to fly out and visit me in Boston, so I was able to - quite genuinely - give them my congratulations when they arrived at Logan on Friday morning. I am happy for them; though in an ideal world, my father would still be married to my mother, I can say with certainty (especially after this weekend) that my dad and his fiancee are not only suited to each other, but truly in love. Logistically, marriage makes sense; they are both selling their houses to buy one together (a process which started about a year and a half ago) so they might as well be married while living together as not. And since I live in Boston and they live in Cleveland, the arrangement has no real bearing on my life anyway.

In any case, we were able to spend a very fine celebratory long weekend together. After arriving they got to see my apartment for the first time, and my father declared it to be just like my sister's. Having never seen my sister's apartment, I decided to take this as a good thing. That night we went to dinner at Legal Sea Food with my mother's sister and her family. After dinner we (just the three of us) stopped at the Sunset for a drink, where my dad and his fiancee thoroughly enjoyed both the beer and the spinach dip.

On Saturday we had lunch at the Paris Creperie in Coolidge Corner, then drove to Harvard Square, where we experienced a small parking catastrophe: while perusing the streets for a parking space, we saw a garage; the gate was open so we drove in, then, seeing the rates, decided to try elsewhere, but when we tried to leave, the attendant wouldn't let us out without paying $28, the fee for a lost ticket. She didn't believe that the gate had been open, and thought we were trying to get out for free. After much deliberation, we decided to park there, since we would have to pay almost 30 bucks anyway. And that's why you don't drive in Harvard Square.

On Saturday night my dad and his fiancee came to The Comedy Studio for what was a truly spectacular show, possibly made all the more awesome because I got to run the booth. After the show I introduced them to Rick Jenkins, the owner.

"She's great," he said to my father of me, "she basically runs the show!" [Note: not true].

"Well then maybe you should think about paying her," my dad said, in a tone which I recognized as joking, but knew could sound quite serious to those who don't know him. I was mortified; luckily, Rick didn't mention anything later.

On Sunday we had breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts, because I thought it would be blasphemy to visit Boston without eating at one. Then we took the T to Government Center and walked around the North End, where my dad took a lot of pictures and generally looked as much like a tourist as possible. We got lunch at Quincy Market, which was, of course, packed beyond occupancy with people, then walked through Downtown Crossing to Boston Common. After taking a post-thunderstorm stroll through the Common we were all tired, and went home to rest before having dinner with my roommate's parents that evening. This morning (Monday) we went to Target, after which they left for the airport.

"You seem really happy," my dad said as he hugged me goodbye in my third-floor apartment, the standing fan in the corner a flimsy attempt to combat the late-May heat. "I think this is the happiest I've seen you in a long time."

I think he's right. It's been a year since I've graduated from college (!), and I think life is going pretty well, all things considered. Sure, I don't have everything I want, and this isn't really where I envisioned myself when I thought of the future a few years ago. But to invoke the words of a dozen Hallmark cards, "happiness is a journey, not a destination." Why shouldn't I enjoy this pit stop?

Obama is cool, but my dad posing with this life-sized cut out of him
at Newbury Comics is even cooler!

In Which Facebook Acts As The Messenger Of Hymen

2009-05-03T10:09:00.003-04:00

[Hymen: in ancient Greek mythology, Hymen (or Hymenaeus) was the god of marriage.]

Last night I logged on to Facebook, as I (regrettably) do more than once in a twenty-four hour period. As do many people, I have a very love-hate relationship with every twentysomething's favorite social networking site: it allows me to keep up with the lives of people I might otherwise have lost touch with. On the other hand, it allows me to keep up with the lives of people I might otherwise have lost touch with. It's a double-edged sword.

In any case, as I began to scour my News Feed for tidbits of information I desperately needed/didn't need at all, I came upon a thumbnail of a picture of a friend from high school and her boyfriend. My friend and I were fairly close in our high school days, but as is wont to happen, drifted apart after we went to college, and (as is also wont to happen) have maintained what is left of our friendship by sporadically contacting one another through - wait for it - Facebook. Now, this picture wouldn't have caught my fancy had it not been for the fact that my friend, with her boyfriend's arm around her, had her left hand laid across his chest. I recognized it immediately as prime bling-displaying position.

I clicked the thumbnail and, sure enough, there were three things staring back at me: a young man, a young woman, and a nice-sized rock on the young woman's ring finger. Now, my friend and her boyfriend have been together since we were all juniors in high school. Even then they were a sickeningly perfect couple, but so obviously meant for each other that it was impossible to begrudge them their happiness. They went to the same college and remained together throughout, so it's really been more a question of "when" than "if" regarding their marriage plans. Needless to say I am very happy for them; anyone who knows them has probably known for some time that this was going to happen. But as I looked at that picture I felt an entirely selfish, if unwanted, emotion: self-pity.

Now, for purposes of clarification, I should mention that I am in no way ready, nor do I now desire, to get married. I feel too young, and that there is still so much I want to do before doing that, and besides, the thought of living with someone every day for the rest of my life is currently unfathomable. It probably also has to do with the fact that I am not right now in love with another person. Just to get the record straight, however, I'm not looking to receive a ring anytime soon. But this is not the first Facebook engagement or marriage I have witnessed. In fact, this one comes closely on the heels of the marriage of my high school crush - the BIG high school crush, the one all my other crushes, had they known or cared, would have bowed down before. And, quite frankly, I'm getting tired of it.

I know I'm only 23, and that is very young. But (although exceptions must be allowed for the change of times) the thought has crossed my mind more than once that my mother, when she married my father, was 23. And now, it seems like all these people I know who are 22, 23, 24, are taking that step as well. I think what bothers me the most - and I shall try to make this succinct, as I think whining about one's love life is just about the most trite (and annoying) thing possible - is that for as long (and longer) as my friend and her now-fiance have been together, I have been single. The logical answer to this way of thinking is that in consideration of circumstances, it is ridiculous to compare onself to other people. But to that I say this: if I didn't compare myself to others, what kind of human would I be? Answer: none at all.

So to all the couples I know who have or are going to announce their nuptials on Facebook: accept my sincerest congratulations and wishes for happiness, but don't expect much sympathy from me beyond those initial wishes. Maybe, just maybe, you'll someday be able to ogle over my wedding photos electronically as I have done yours. Then again, I'm just not sure if a Facebook wedding is for me.

In Which The Dog I Left Behind Me Is Lamented

2009-04-20T21:53:00.006-04:00

When a child leaves the "paternal nest," as it were, to strike out on their own (whether for college or whatever), the expectation is that there will be some amount of homesickness, and to a greater or lesser extent, that's usually the case. When I first arrived at college (what seems, by this point, a lifetime ago), I spent the time between unpacking my belongings and rushing off to orientation activities (yes, I went to them) missing my family, my friends from home, and the way of life I had hitherto lived. Luckily, I learned to enjoy college so thoroughly that this initial homesickness didn't last very long.

Over time, as I have gotten older and grown into my less family-centric life, I have come to miss them less and less; I can talk to them whenever I want through the multifarious communication technologies available to us (which, with my siblings, more often than not means text messaging). Even the desire to go home, to the house and city in which I grew up, has grown weaker over the years, especially since my father's preparation and subsequent (ongoing) execution of selling our house. But there is one separation that has never gotten less difficult for me, and one that I think we seldom regard as legitimate: that between me and my dog.

We got Bagel, our Boston terrier, in August of 1999, when I was 13 years old. I remember driving out to Kent (Ohio), to the breeders', to pick him up. He was five months old and weighed a whopping 12 pounds. He has been a focal point of my life ever since; anyone who has known me during any point in the last 10 years also knows about Bagel.

Bagel is, to put it lightly, an unusual dog. He doesn't bark. He can - we've heard it - he just chooses not to. He's probably the laziest creature I've ever seen; while most dogs run to greet their masters when they hear the door open, Bagel barely opens an eyelid from his perch on one of the pillows on the couch, which are now permanently indented from years of his napping on them. He sleeps 20 hours a day, and at night, sleeps in someone's bed with them. He also insists not only on sleeping under the covers, but cuddled up next to the person he's sleeping with, which can make for a rather cramped night in a twin bed. (My dad, in his infinite wisdom, says this need for closeness is Bagel's pack-animal instinct manifesting itself.) Due to his pushed-in nose, Bagel is also a chronic snorer. He loves tennis balls, but not playing with them: he likes to suck on them; like a baby with a pacifier he holds them in his mouth, leaving a large drool spot on whatever surface is beneath him (usually the couch). We don't give him tennis balls often.

For these reasons and a million others, the intensity with which I miss Bagel has never lessened since the day I left him for college. For propriety's sake I like to think that the reason I miss my dog more than my relatives is because I can't talk to him on the phone. But in my heart I know it's more complicated than that: as any pet (especially dog) owner can attest, the affection that exists between a human and their animal is unique. It is unconditional. It is irreplaceable.

Since going away to college, I have only seen Bagel two or three times a year. Since he just celebrated his 10th birthday in March (or, rather, my father and I realized the day after his 10th birthday that we had missed it), it is even more troubling to me that I so seldom see him. Luckily, for an old dog, he is in perfect health - his eyesight excepted. A year or two ago, we began to notice a cataract forming in his right eye. Then one started up in his left eye, and they have grown progressively worse ever since. Today I talked to my father, who told me he thinks Bagel has officially gone blind - but informed me, upon my inquiry, that he still exhibits the same "vigor" for life that he always has. I think the loss of Bagel's eyesight is harder on me than it is on him - a fact for which, assuming it is true, I am grateful.

I don't know when I'll next see my dog. If my work schedule allows it, I may be able to spend a few days in Cleveland at the end of the summer, which will be the first time I see him since December. My dad, in a not unusual moment of wry humor, assured me he (Bagel) would know me by sense of smell.

How handsome!
(Note cataract in right eye)

In Which A Light Is Put Out

2009-03-08T22:03:00.008-04:00

"For indeed I myself have seen, with my own eyes, the Sibyl hanging in a bottle at Cumae, and when those boys would say to her: 'Sibyl, what do you want?' she replied, 'I want to die.'"

-Petronius, Satyricon

The Sibyl at Cumae was loved by the god Apollo, and he told her he would grant her a wish in exchange for her virginity. She lifted up a handful of sand and asked to live as many years as there were grains. When she later refused his advances, Apollo still granted her wish for near-eternal life, but without eternal youth, for which she had not asked. She lived so long that she was eventually no more than a piece of shrivelled flesh in a bottle, left to hang in the Cumaean caves.

The last time I saw my great grandmother was in November. She was hunched over, her lower lip hanging loosely from her face, her unseeing eyes hidden behind a pair of oversized glasses. Before we had even sat down she offered us an array of cookies and chocolates and would not rest until we had each partaken of them. Despite the change in her physical appearance - compared to now, she had been lively and spry the last time I had seen her, at her one hundredth birthday party two years before - her personality was unchanged, and I was relieved to see that.

"How does it feel to be one hundred and two?" my sister asked her when we had finished our cookies. She was quiet for a moment; at first I thought she had not heard the question, but unlike her eyesight, which had failed, her hearing was still sharp. "It is enough," she said after a minute, and the words were heartbreaking. She was ready to die. When we left that day, I knew I would not see her again.

Last Wednesday, my great grandmother (called "Oma," the German word for "grandma," by her great grandchildren), died the way she wanted to; peacefully in her sleep. By the time of her death she had been witness to over a century of both global and personal history. In 1936, with her husband incarcerated in a Nazi prison, she left Germany with two children under the age of 5 and no knowledge of the English language to seek asylum in New York (my great grandfather, and most of her immediate family, were luckily later able to join her there). She saw the births of two daughters, five grandchildren, and ten great grandchildren and the deaths of her parents, husband (whom she outlived by forty years), siblings, and a grandchild (whom she outlived by almost thirteen). She lived through two world wars, the Holocaust, the Korean, Vietnam, and both Iraq wars, 9/11 and the election of the first black president.

Her funeral, an affair as simple and unpretentious as the life she lived (she had planned all the details and paid all the expenses years beforehand), was today, and I do not think I have yet begun to miss her as I will in the years to come. She has been a fixture in my life for the entirety of it and the matriarch of our family for even longer. She embodied selflessness, living her life for her family. Oma always knew the whereabouts and accomplishments of her grandchildren and great grandchildren, and took no small pleasure in telling her friends about them. It was her capacity for love, true and unconditional love, that distinguished her from so many other people in this world.

I do not know what happens after death. I suspect it might be nothing, and am okay with that. Whatever it is, I know that Oma, long-loving and ever-uncomplaining, is at peace.

In Which Fortune Favors The Bold

2009-02-21T15:44:00.003-05:00

For my birthday last month my roommates, Rachel and Kenny, took me to The Comedy Studio in Cambridge. Hidden on the third floor of a Chinese restaurant, The Comedy Studio doesn't do any traditional advertising, preferring the word-of-mouth method; hence, I had never heard of it. I enjoyed the show and the experience so thoroughly that I actually caught myself thinking, during it, that I had to somehow be a part of it.

My first foray into the Boston comedy scene was less than successful, involving more plumbing and heavy lifting than actually comedy, but I was so inspired by the show at The Comedy Studio that I wanted to give it another try. I decided right then and there to go up to the owner afterwards and ask for a job. When I told Kenny my plan, he suggested I come back on a Wednesday, the night when they audition new talent (and when the audiences are naturally more sparse than the bustling Saturday-night crowd) and try my luck then.

Every Wednesday for about a month, I found an excuse not to go: I was too tired from work, it would take too long to get there, etc. Finally, a week and a half ago, I bit the bullet and decided if I didn't do it that Wednesday, I wouldn't do it at all. Fueling me was the fact that I had nothing to lose. So, armed with a resume and a peanut butter sandwich to eat on the train between work and Cambridge, I set out.

The show itself was alright. Some of the comedians were better than others. The audience, unfortunately, was terrible. I really felt for the performers. With the post-show music still blaring and audience members hanging around finishing their drinks, I realized I would have to wait until everyone cleared out till I could speak with the owner, and that's when I almost chickened out. But I knew I would regret not waiting.

When everyone had finally left and the music was turned off, I went up to the owner. After what I determined to be an appropriate amount of small talk regarding how the show had gone that evening, I went for it.

"I like this place," I told the owner. "This is my second time here, and I like the way you do things." I was quick to add, "And I'm not just saying that to flatter you; I don't think you need the flattery."

"Of course," he agreed.

"And I want to work for you," I blurted out. There was a beat, and I couldn't tell from his expression what he was thinking.

"In what capacity?" he asked slowly. "Do you do stand-up?"

"No," I quickly assured him. "I think when I grow up [Note: I actually said "when I grow up"] I want to be a producer, and I want to somehow work in comedy. I think I want to do what you do."

He looked at me. "Well," he said, "we can start you off working the door, then we can see where things go from there. When can you start?"

On the T ride to Cambridge, I had anticipated every possible scenario, worked out how I would cope with any sort of rejection he could possibly give me. But it hadn't crossed my mind that he would actually give me a job on the spot, and when it happened, it seemed too easy. When I got home and told Kenny, he suggested that maybe I had made an impression on the owner by putting myself out there, which seems likely. But still too easy. I had risked all (or nothing, depending on how you look at it) - and actually won.

In Which I Learn To Stop Worrying And Love The Gene

2009-02-08T19:46:00.007-05:00

Last Friday I paid a long-awaited visit to Dana-Farber to consult with them about genetic testing. My aunt, who six or seven years ago tested positive for the genetic mutation associated with breast cancer, has been encouraging me to get the test done for a few years now. So, though I am ashamed to say it, I made the appointment less out of my own desire to find out whether I have this mutation and more to make her drop the subject.

I have never wanted to get this testing done. My aunt first brought it up in 2004 when I was 18 - a ridiculously young age to do such a test - and I sort of resented her doing so. I was just about to begin college and the last thing I wanted to worry about was whether my body was a ticking time bomb. Now that I'm 23 I still don't want the testing done, but I figured there's no harm in arming oneself with a little knowledge, so I took the day off work on Friday and got on a bus for Dana-Farber.

I arrived late because it seems to be a rule with the MBTA that if you need to be somewhere at a specific time, they need to be at least 10 minutes behind schedule. The first thing they did (after I filled out the requisite paperwork) was slap a hospital bracelet on me, explaining that while in the hospital, all patients had to wear bracelets. In addition to my name and date of birth, I noticed that the bracelet had a barcode on it. I wondered whether, if they didn't want to talk to me or take the time to read the bracelet, they would just scan the barcode and get the information that way. They didn't.

I was scheduled to meet with two people that day; a genetic counselor and a doctor. First was the genetic counselor, and when she appeared in the waiting room to get me, I thought she must have been there simply to transfer me to someone else because she seemed unreasonably young for someone in this line of work. She couldn't have been more than five or six years older than me but she was, indeed, the genetic counselor. The first thing she did was make a family tree. She asked me about every member of my family on both sides, about their ages and whether they had ever been sick. Then, in simplified but not condescending terms, she explained the situation to me. She said that two genes discovered in the 1990s, called BRCA1 and BRCA2, are responsible for preventing breast cells from becoming cancerous. If one (or both) of those genes are mutated, the risk of developing breast cancer goes up. Because of my family's history of breast cancer, there's a 50% chance that I inherited the mutation of one of these genes.

She also explained what such a diagnosis would mean. Having the mutation doesn't mean you'll get cancer, only that they'll have to monitor you more closely for it. So once every six months or a year you have to get a mammogram and MRI to rule out the existence of a tumor. If you're tested for the mutation and don't have it, you don't have to go through the screening. But if you're at high risk (like me) and choose not to find out whether you have the mutation, you have to have the screening done anyway for the sake of caution. So the question, for me, was whether I wanted to know for sure if I have the mutation or not. When I was finished talking to her, I was confident that I wasn't ready to know, and she told me that was OK. I could have the screenings done and if down the road I decided I wanted to be tested, I could.

I felt pretty good after talking with the genetic counselor. I had felt a little abnormal for not wanting to get it over with and find out whether I carry the mutation, but she assured me that there was nothing wrong with that. It was reassuring that she seemed to understand and support the decision I was making. So I went on to the meeting with the doctor feeling pretty positive about things. The doctor was a Jewish woman in her late forties or early fifties and she entered the room followed by a medical student with acne and a bored look on his face. I was not thrilled about having him there, but I had just signed the form giving my consent for his presence, so I didn't want to throw him out just yet.

Things started off well. She asked me where I had gone to school, what I majored in. What I'm doing right now, my future career goals. The usual. But apparently Doctor and Genetic Counselor don't talk to each other much, because as soon as she was finished with the pleasantries, Doctor dove right into the same information I had just been given by Genetic Counselor - only she gave it to me like I was eight years old.

"Did you take biology in college?" she asked.

"No. You'll have to start from the beginning with me," I joked. She didn't laugh.

"Basically, you can think of genes as a book of instructions. They tell our bodies what color our hair and eyes should be, how tall we'll be, things like that. Each gene is like a page in the book, but if one page is ragged and torn, that's what we call a mutation."

OK, I thought, I may not have taken college-level biology, but I did somehow make it through high school, so you don't have to talk to me like I'm a child. I was beginning not to like Doctor, and I didn't really fancy sitting through the whole "this is what genes are" spiel dumbed down with the book metaphor (because I was an English major, and saying genes are like books makes them into something familiar!)

When she was finished explaining genes, Doctor then basically told me that I would be a fool not to get the testing done and find out, once-and-for-all, whether one of the pages in my instruction book was all torn up. As calmly as I could, I told her that I understood the ramifications of not having the test done, but that I had firmly decided that at this point in my life, I had decided to do just that. She told me I could always change my mind when I got tired of going through the screening every six months.

Doctor did somewhat redeem herself, though. During the physical examination (before which I had given Disgruntled Medical Student his dismissal), she engaged me in conversation about the closing of the Rose Art Museum. Afterwards, whilst encouraging me to take part in a study, she called me Miss A---, and being the lover of things 19th-century-related that I am, I was tickled by her use of the honorific. I wasn't thoroughly pleased with her, but if I were to give her a grade, it would be a B- or a B. So she passed.

While there is a 50% chance that I carry the genetic mutation that has caused so much carnage in my family, for now I am at peace with those odds, not-so-great as they are. It's really very simple: I either have the mutation or I don't, and if I do have it, I've had it since birth. There is nothing that could have been done to prevent it, if indeed it exists. Someday I may want to find out for sure. But not right now.

In Which Our Days Are Numbered

2008-11-17T19:50:00.004-05:00

I recently found this t-shirt design, which immediately caught my fancy:

I would have worn it proudly circa 2006. However, since I am no longer a college student, and can thus no longer really be "defined" by my course of study, the point would be moot.

I have always had a poor relationship with numbers. Though I was a good student in general, I could never bring myself to pay attention during math lessons in elementary school. I paid dearly for it in middle and high school, when my lack of simple mathematical knowledge really hurt me. I always had the suspicion that despite what my teachers said, I wouldn't really have to use the math they taught me in day-to-day life. And I was right. Even so, numbers are still there. I got to thinking about the numbers in my life, and this is what I came up with.*

6 The number of Dunkin' Donuts I pass on my way to work. One of the first things I noticed when I came to Boston for college was that people here love Dunkin' Donuts. No, love isn't the right word. They worship Dunkin' Donuts. They kneel at its alters, which are, luckily, conveniently located mere blocks away from one another. There is literally nowhere you can go here without running into those familiar pink and orange stripes. Not that I'm complaining; their vanilla chai lattes are pretty good (I don't drink coffee). But where I grew up, I knew of only one Dunkin' Donuts. Yet somehow, we were able to manage. And vote Democrat in the recent presidential election. Maybe you heard about it.

9 The (approximate) number of scheduled hours of TV I watch per week. I've mentioned before that I watch a lot of TV. And 9 is just the number of scheduled hours I watch: I have shows I watch every night of the week except Friday and Saturday. I didn't plan it; it just worked out that way.

2 The number of dates I've been on in the past 6 months. Both nice guys; neither worked out. I'm over it.

2 The number of free drinks I've gotten in the past 6 months (see above).

4 The number of days I've spent at home (i.e., Cleveland) in the past 6 months. In some ways that's not enough, in others it is. Of course I enjoy visiting with my father and my dog (the only ones who live there now, as my siblings are both in college). But my dad is in the process of selling our house, an action which is somewhat painful to me, it being the only house my family has ever lived in. When my parents bought it in the mid '80s, it was carpeted in this admittedly hideous brown shag carpeting, which remained there until a few months ago (it wasn't really a selling point). When I visited in July, some very nice looking wood floors (which had been under the carpet the whole time!) greeted me. And while I have nothing against wood floors, it just wasn't the same. Hence my aversion. Like so many important things in my life that have been taken away from me or left me, it is easier to pretend it never existed than to face the pain of its loss.

3 The number of times I have read my favorite novel (Vanity Fair). I mention it because I am about a third of the way through reading number 4 right now. Some people are spoken to by music, or art, or politics, or any number of things that can capture the human imagination. This book is what speaks to me. If I could make a living of trying to understand it, I would. I could talk about it endlessly if I could find someone who would listen. Every time I read it, the story, the characters, the moral are the same as the time before. And yet it never tires me, and there is always something more to learn from it or about it. If only more things in life were like that.

*That was a long and overly-elaborate segue into what I really wanted to write about. I hope you enjoyed it.

In Which Hope Springs Eternal

2008-11-04T23:20:00.005-05:00

There is nothing else to say.

In Which Money Is The Root Of All Evil

2008-10-30T20:37:00.004-04:00

As if on cue, my father had a new question for me when I spoke to him a few days ago:

"How's your job search coming?"

I should explain that I get along really well with my father, and that I value and respect his opinion. But he apparently has this notion that now that I am "bringing in some money," I should be looking for a full-time job, the goal of which I assume would be to bring in more money. And the matter-of-fact way in which he posed the question, as if to get a job so I could be working while looking for a better job should have been part of my plan from the beginning, quite frankly annoyed me.

There was a commercial on a while back (I can't remember what for) which said something to the effect of "We know you don't just work for money." It showed pictures of kids running into their father's arms and other hokey visuals to explain why people go to work each day. At the time, I thought it made no sense. Of course people work for money. Money is why people work. But the more time I spend at my job (I've been there about a month and a half now) the more I am beginning to understand the meaning of the commercial better: while I do work for money, I wouldn't do just anything to get it. If I sat in an office eight hours a day staring at a computer screen, I might make more money. But I would absolutely hate going to work every morning. If you're lucky, you go to work because you enjoy what you do, not just to fill in the time between bill payments.

Right now I am enjoying what I'm doing. My current job is not part of my career goal (which veers, in fact, in a totally different direction from where I am now), but I like it for what it is and I'm happy there. And if I can spend some time there while planning for my next move - the one into an actual career - why shouldn't I? While it grieves me to be at odds with my father, it would grieve me even more to be at odds with myself.

In Which Things Happen

2008-10-24T22:22:00.007-04:00

I was on the phone with my dad the other day. I haven't seen him for awhile, not since I went home in July for a weekend visit. I'm used to going months at a time without seeing him (or anyone in my immediate family, for that matter) because of the distance. He's never been to my apartment. He hasn't seen where I work. In short, he doesn't really know much at all about this new post-college life I'm starting to make for myself. Which is I guess what prompted the question he asked me:

"What do you do?"

I was a little taken aback, and I didn't know quite how to answer. I think what he meant was what do I do in my free time, but it got me to thinking: without classes, homework and extracurriculars - the essentials of my life for 17 years - with what activities do I fill my days?

The answer:

I wake up. I take a shower. I check my e-mail, Facebook and MSNBC.com. I eat brunch. I commute an hour to work. [Side note: I find it funny that I live in the city and work in the suburbs. For some reason that amuses me.] I work a job I like (thankfully) with people I like (also thankfully). I take the bus and T home. I make and eat dinner. I divide the rest of the night between putzing around on the computer and watching TV. (A lot of TV - probably more than any human being should ever be exposed to. In fact, I'm convinced that my roommate and I are the ones keeping the producers of those awful VH1 reality shows in a job. Whatever we can do to help the economy).

On Saturdays I grocery shop and on Sundays I do laundry or return library books, whichever needs doing. I spend weekend nights with friends or family, or sometimes just at home.

And that's it. It's a repetitive lifestyle, and much more quiet than what I am accustomed to, especially after the past four years, when there were weeks at a time where I would barely have a moment to breathe. Despite the monotony, though, I find that I like it. I thrive on a schedule, and if doing the same things at the same times day after day isn't the definition of a schedule, I don't know what is. For now, it suits me. And besides, who would want a life where checking ICanHasCheezburger.com wasn't part of the daily routine? Not I.

I look at this every day.

In Which I Voted Today!

2008-10-15T21:22:00.007-04:00

Having lived in Massachusetts now for four years and three national elections, I think I can say with some confidence that the only time I can tell someone I'm from Ohio and not get a look of either pity or scorn (or a mixture of both) is during an election cycle. People haven't been as excited to find out I vote in Ohio this time around (perhaps because most of my acquaintances already know that about me), but in 2004, whenever someone found out I was voting absentee, I and my birthplace immediately became that much more interesting. While in normal times, Ohio is a state that seems to be universally looked down upon (and not always rightly, mind you), in an election year, an Ohioan has something special which for many a year past - and probably many a year to come - no person from Massachusetts has laid claim to: a vote that counts.

This morning I opened my mailbox to find that it was time for me to cast that vote. I was excited, not by the thrill of voting, but by the fact that the ballot had actually reached me at all. In 2004, it almost didn't. Turns out even Cleveland, one of Ohio's centers of art, culture, and intellectualism (if such a place can be said to exist), has its share of simple-minded Ohioans (read: idiots). It was the semester before I started college, and I was living in the Jamaica Plain area of Boston with my aunt and uncle. After arranging for my absentee ballot to be send there, I eagerly awaited its arrival, only to be disappointed week after week. A call to the Cuyahoga County Board of Elections revealed that the ballot was on its way. Another week passed with no ballot, and I requested that another be sent, which, according to the B of E, was done. Still no ballot. Finally, my father went in person to the Board of Elections to see what the problem was. Turns out the ballots were sent not to Jamiaca Plain in Boston, MA, but to Jamaica. The country. See the maps below if you need help visualizing this.

But I guess all's well that ends well: my father straightened things out and a new ballot arrived to the correct location just in time for me to vote. Plus, somewhere in the island nation of Jamaica, a couple ballots with my name on them might still be floating around. Everyone's a winner.*

Happy voting.

*John Kerry excluded.

In Which Imitation Is The Highest Form Of Flattery

2008-10-11T15:46:00.003-04:00

As evidenced by the fact that I haven't written anything in a few weeks, there is really nothing new and exciting going on. Perhaps, though, the fact that there is no news is news itself: faced with the lack of anything better to write about, I've decided to play the critic and give my two cents on a TV ad. Now, this is obviously not a new concept. Scores of bloggers write about advertisements, probably because they are so ubiquitous. And today I'm going to be one of them. Besides, anyone who watches as much TV as I do (and hopefully there are but a few) is bound to see some ads that just beg to be analyzed.

Mucinex's Mucus Family Reunion

Reader, meet Mr. Mucus.
Spokesblob for the expectorant Mucinex, Mr. Mucus and his mucus-y friends and family have been trying to hole up in the lungs of print and television advertisement actors for many a year now. Unfortunately for them, Mucinex has always been there to kick them out. Curses; foiled again. Anyway, most people's complaints about Mr. Mucus revolve around him being disgusting, which, as a giant glob of bronchial mucus, he is. I've never been too bothered by his inherent grossness; hey, if Mucinex wants to take the gross-out angle to sell their product, who am I to say they shouldn't? It was only when I saw their most recent TV ad that I became as sincerely disturbed with the campaign as most people have been from the beginning.

Now, this ad is so new that I've only seen it once, and, scour the internet though I did (and believe me, I did), I could not find a clip of it anywhere. So I will have to use the power of words to describe it here (a real-world application for my B.A. in English!):

We begin in the lungs of the unfortunate host. Mr. and Mrs. Mucus are inviting their mucus-blob relatives into their new home. "Aunt Harriet! Uncle Dick!" Mr. Mucus gushes, "It's a mucus family reunion!" Fine. The woman obviously has some sort of infection, and she's literally coughing up a lung trying to get rid of the mucus infestation. Then she takes Mucinex, at which point Mr. Mucus and his entire family are "evicted."

This is where it starts to get weird. After she's disease free, we see Ms. Previously-Infected-Commercial-Lady open the door to her own house. "Aunt Harriet! Uncle Dick!" she exclaims, as she ushers in some relatives of the human variety.

Here's the problem: The respective relatives of Mr. Mucus and his human hostess have the same names! What in the world is going on here? Are the mucuses anthropomorphisms of the humans? Deep down, are we all just really giant blobs of mucus? Or is there a parallel universe in which everything and everyone exists just as it does here, only instead of humans, they're mucus?

That should give you a little something to think about.

In Which You Can Go Home Again

2008-09-27T15:30:00.005-04:00

I would like to begin by saying that I hope this will be the last of the quasi-emo posts for awhile. That said, this is a blog in which one of the main intentions is to chronicle my immediate after-college life, so whether I like it or not, some of the posts are going to have that nostalgic, almost pathetic, "where-is-my-life-going?" quality. I guess it comes with the territory.

Now that that's out of the way: yesterday I made my first "real" visit to school as an alum to see the Old Shit Show (and attend the subsequent cast party). My father would probably call this visit a "Triumphant Return," and I am glad to say that I think in this case he would be correct in doing so. I admit that I was very nervous about it beforehand. I didn't know how I was going to feel, for instance, seeing the troupe I had been in (and for one year led) perform without me, about being an outsider looking in. Luckily, I didn't feel that way. The show was wonderful, and it was great to see some new talent on stage. They even did one of the sketches I wrote, which gave me the extra thrill of hearing people laugh at it all over again. Furthermore, I was received really well by the troupe - who are my friends, after all. It was an honor and a comfort to know that I have been missed.

Being on the actual campus itself, it was like I had never left. One of my greatest fears, in the weeks immediately preceding graduation, was that as soon as I graduated, the physical campus would no longer "belong" to me and I would never feel the same way again about being on it. But I guess that, inasmuch as the campus "belongs" to anyone who attends the school in the first place, it can never really not belong to them. Although both I and it will change, it will (hopefully) in some ways always be familiar to me.

I had a really great time. Perhaps a little too great of a time, as in addition to the memories and whatnot that I brought home this morning, I also brought a bit of a hangover. But what surprised (and perhaps pleased) me the most about the entire experience was that as I got off the T this morning and started the walk to my apartment, passing by the now-familiar shops and restaurants on the way, I thought to myself, "Oh. I'm home." I haven't yet lived here for a month, and already it has become what I wasn't sure I would be able to so easily find after leaving college: a home. I think most of the reason I can visit school without having too many of the "why-don't-I-still-go-here?" feelings is that at the end of the day, I have a place to return to. And while perhaps "you can't go home again," if you're lucky, home becomes wherever you are, and you never really have to leave.

In Which Metaphor Is Used As A Rhetorical Device

2008-09-23T20:59:00.003-04:00

In the last post I mentioned my uneasiness with the transition between college and not-college. It's an uneasiness that began as far back as this time last year and has increased exponentially until now. Even at this point, when I've started working and pretty much completely removed myself from college life, there are some days when I wake up and can't believe it's over. There's a big part of me - the rational, thinking part - that knows I wouldn't even enjoy being there if I still had the opportunity; I started being bored with classes early during my final semester, so I can only imagine that my tolerance for them now would be nil. But there's another part of me - the emotional part - that longs for the order, the stability, the familiarity of being a college student. I have to remind myself, sometimes, of how scared I was when I first started college; how, for those first few weeks at least, (that first semester, even) I was grasping for something that would keep me grounded. And though I have to believe that what I'm going through now is a lot like that, I can't yet escape the feeling that this, what's happening now, is a whole new world - and not in a Disney kind of way.

There's a poem I love that I think really captures the essence of what I am feeling, maybe more than I can verbalize myself. It's by a poet named Tony Hoagland; for those who are maybe averse to poetry for the reason that it is difficult to understand, I would strongly recommend him. His poetry, while easily understandable, is also so poignant, so true. Anyway, here it is.

Two Trains

by Tony Hoagland

Then there was that song called "Two Trains Running,"
a Mississippi blues they play on late-night radio,
that program after midnight called FM in the AM,
--well, I always thought it was about trains.

Then somebody told me it was about what a man and woman do
under the covers of their bed, moving back and forth
like slow pistons in a shiny black locomotive,
the rods and valves trying to stay coordinated

long enough that they will "get to the station"
at the same time. And one of the trains
goes out of sight into the mountain tunnel,
but when they break back into the light

the other train has somehow pulled ahead,
the two trains running like that, side by side,
first one and then the other, with the fierce white
bursts of smoke puffing from their stacks,
into a sky so sharp and blue you want to die.

So then for a long time I thought the song was about sex.

But then Mack told me that all train songs
are really about Jesus, about how the second train
is shadowing the first, so He walks in your footsteps
and He watches you from behind, He is running with you,

He is your brakeman and your engineer,
your coolant and your coal,
and He will catch you when you fall,
and when you stall He will push you through
the darkest mountain valley, up the steepest hill,

and the rough chuff chuff of His fingers on the washboard
and the harmonica woo woo is the long soul cry by which He
pulls you through the bloody tunnel of the world.
So then I thought the two trains song was a gospel song.

Then I quit my job in Santa Fe and Sharon drove
her spike heel through my heart
and I got twelve years older and Dean moved away,
and now I think the song might be about good-byes--

because we are not even in the same time zone,
or moving at the same speed, or perhaps even
headed towards the same destination--
forgodsakes, we are not even trains!

What grief it is to love some people like your own
blood, and then to see them simply disappear;
to feel time bearing us away
one boxcar at a time.

And sometimes, sitting in my chair
I can feel the absence stretching out in all directions--
like the deaf, defoliated silence
just after a train has thundered past the platform,

just before the mindless birds begin to chirp again
--and the wildflowers that grown beside the tracks
wobble wildly on their little stems,
then gradually grow stil land stand

motherless and vertical in the middle of everything.

In Which There Is Hope In The Face Of Change

2008-09-18T20:59:00.007-04:00

There has been a lot of talk about change recently.

Unless you've been living under a rock (or over the age of 30), you are no doubt aware that Facebook has changed its format. And from all the status updates I've been reading, this is a BIG deal. Apparently, people really, really don't like these changes. I guess I can understand why: if there is anything that binds us together as a generation, it is Facebook. But please: before we all resort to the ultimate act of Facebook civil disobedience and join the "1 million members against the New Facebook" Facebook group, maybe we should look at a few of the reasons why we should just move on with our lives.

Now, I should probably preface by saying that in general, I don't like change (see: leaving college, starting real life). I prefer things to be familiar. But if I'm given enough time to get used to the idea of an impending change before it happens, I can usually pull through alright (see: leaving college, starting real life). The point I'm trying to make in relation to Facebook is this: unless you haven't left the safety of that rock (or were born before 1978), you knew this change was coming. For at least a month now (maybe two, or longer?) Facebook has been advertising at the top of the page that it was going to make the switch. They even afforded us the opportunity to try it out. So even though everything is new and scary, we knew it was going to be that way. Let's chalk that up as a positive.

Also, this isn't the first time Facebook has changed. The way Facebook has been up until now is different from the way it was when it first started in 2004, and together we've made it through even the most drastic of changes, such as the addition of the News Feed in 2006. I know we can get through it this time around. And while I'm can't say I'm totally into the new format, I can say this: when my number finally came up a few days ago and I logged on to a whole new Facebook world, I felt at peace with the change. Yes, I'll have to re-learn how to navigate the site to find exactly what I'm looking for, and I'm not really looking forward to that at all. I chose to look on the bright side, though: maybe now that everything's changed and I don't know where things are, I won't spend as much time keeping track of the lives of people I haven't spoken to since high school.

But I wouldn't count on it.

In Which The Narrator Elaborates on Her Intent

2008-09-15T18:10:00.003-04:00

"There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know until he takes up a pen to write."
-William Makepeace Thackeray, The History of Henry Esmond

For a long time I was vehemently opposed to the idea of personal blogging. The rise in popularity of such websites as Xanga and LiveJournal when I was in high school, with the angsty, teenage, I-hate-my-life kind of writing they sported, led me to believe that journaling should stay in actual journals, where it belonged, away from public eyes. I remained with the attitude that diary entries belonged in diaries, not on the internet. As an avid diarist myself (I began when I was 12 years old and continued regularly through high school, and less regularly through college) I couldn't imagine the things I wrote in those journals being broadcast on the World Wide Web. And that's the way it was.

It was only very recently that my views about personal narrative and the internet changed. It becomes more and more apparent to me that in today's world almost everything revolves around the internet (I realize I might be a little late to this party, but at least I've arrived). Additionally, I am finally beginning to see myself as someone who has something to say - not just to a piece of lined paper, but to whomever wishes to read it. And while I'm not exactly sure what that "something" is, I plan on finding out here.

And that, in short, is the premise for beginning this blog.

P.S. A word about the title of this blog and my reasons for it: The title comes from my favorite book, Vanity Fair, by my (subsequently) favorite author, William Makepeace Thackeray. (If you were paying attention, the quote at the beginning of this post also comes from a W.M.T. novel). The novel's heroine, Becky Sharp (that's her at the top of the page), is a social climber who through her wit, charm, and (above all) intelligence is able to rise from humble beginnings to enjoy an opulent lifestyle without actually paying any money to maintain it. Here's what all this has to do with me: as a recent college graduate just beginning the rest of my life, I see myself as, metaphorically, starting with nothing. My challenge is to take that "nothing," learn from it, and, by consequence, live well.