Saturday, June 30, 2012

We, oui

My best friend Maria and I decided not to room together in college so that we could branch out and meet new people. We made a pact not to judge each other's Catholic or yoga crazed friends, and to make our own connections. I'll let you know how that goes after I get back from dinner and watching Alex Day videos with Maria. I've written more from her dorm than my own, and people know who we're talking about when we refer to ourselves simply as "we." It's like we've merged into an amoeba, although one section is more serene than its sparkly half. It's beyond comforting to have a close friend at Penn State with me, but I'm already seeing our distinctions that could loosen up the "we" a bit. I can guarantee we'll always be friends, because you just can't tear apart a friendship that's seen awkward middle school dances, and that whole period where she wanted to hit me over the head with a frying pan when my only topic of conversation was boys, boys, boys. I think I may have listened to too much Lady Gaga. At our high school we joined the same clubs, befriended the same people who enjoyed building renaissance forts on a free weekend, and shared gossip and stories. And by gossip, I mean each of our big events consisted of new episodes of True Blood, and which cookie recipe we should try next.
A few of our club choices and friends may intersect in college, but somehow we're less intentional about uniting every other second. I'm not entirely sure what God would think about joining a Catholic club just to stay attached to a friend. Maria will gladly watch me make a fool of myself while I dance around a stage and throw in some downward facing dogs, but to the yoga/dance world of Penn State, she's just not that into you. I don't want to make you gag by that whole "going our separate ways" bit, so I'll go with we're voyaging our opposite distances. Still not good? Hey, a girl can't please everyone. We're not going to be attached at the hip, how about that? Or spine. Or any body part.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

The State College-ite's dilemma

There's a common misconception that State College natives have the inside scoop about Penn State. I caught on pretty quickly that East Halls were the crappy freshmen hideouts, and that a view of the volleyball/baseball courts can keep a girl from doing her homework for hours, but I came into this university just as clueless about shortcuts, meal points, and sex-crazed boys skulking through the dorm halls at 1:30 in the morning. You know, the usual.

I may know the town, and a large portion of my paychecks somehow escaped to the many restaurants surrounding campus, but the college lifestyle is just as unfamiliar to me as the rest of the freshmen. Yes, I have friends who also went from State High to Penn State. But branching out isn't something I think is just for    those out of their comfort zone. Imagine if I had gone to Colorado, and all the yogis were all, "eh, we live here. We all know each other. We're good. She can go her own way." First off, I would wonder why they were listening to so much Fleetwood Mac. And second, it's not like there's a limit for friends; it's the same in college. A little conversation can go a long way, especially when you're huffing across campus for your freakishly early English class. Alright, full disclosure: the "freakishly early" class is at 9:30. But still. It's more fun to dramatize the long haul across campus with a fellow freshman.

I went to a yoga class downtown today, and much of the advice I gain from the teacher I solely translate to physical nature. But my teacher's words to "go to the edge," and to "let yourself absorb your surroundings," really struck what was happening every minute, not just the ninety minutes that I was sweating on a yoga mat.    It's particularly helpful to go back to this advice while I'm reading Socrates rant about caves and fires and whatnot. Ah college, where first day homework is more than getting your parents to scribble their signatures on a bajillion forms. As for the advice to go to your edge, I've accomplished that by not running away in horror when there was a word I didn't understand, or no one to go to lunch with. We're not going to know everything, or everyone. There will always be someone who looks more comfortable, more friendly, and able to pull off black eyeliner without looking like a raccoon tried to attack their face. It happens. As a State College-ite, I'm still happy to go out of my comfort zone and reach out to other people; I'll just throw in a few regular yoga trips with my high school friends. And hey, the familiar can be oddly unfamiliar when you're in a new living situation. How very Socratic, no?














A new yogic outlook, and my philosophy homework. Two birds, one stone. <3

Namaste.         

Monday, June 25, 2012

Unstuck

So I've been a Penn State student for twenty four hours, and I haven't fallen flat on my face yet. I have, however, fell on my side numerous times from tripping over the pillow pet that takes over half my freaking bed. But in terms of this whole being an adult deal, I haven't flipped out at the sight of a map that I may have to navigate, nor have I gone all wild-child in the dining halls. Perhaps the freshman 15 will be avoidable after all. And what could be excess calories is now stair-walking energy, seeing as I'm on the third floor and the elevator thinks it's from the 1950's. I'm going to have fantastic legs by the end of the summer at this rate. Day one in my dorm, and the stairwell and I are already like best buds.
At this point, I'm feeling like not only have I willingly volunteered for my own madness, but I've shelled out a few thousand bucks for it too. Well, okay, my parents have shelled out a few thousand for me to have a mini panic attack every two seconds, but let's not get into particulars now, shall we? We're all acting like high school was prison, and now that we're free, we can run around like pandas on crack. Why pandas, I don't know. They're just cool. We still have our mother ducklings (pandas and ducks...what the hell went on in this family??) who walk us to our classes, hand out glow sticks because, hullo, who doesn't want a glow stick in their college experience, and tell us yet again to have fun, but y'know, you're gonna get freaking caught if you're a drunken idiot.
I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions, have my own voice, vote for president...but I still have to be walked to class. Huh. Maybe they're afraid we're all going to realize we don't know which way's up, and decide to walk home. Have fun, New Jersey-ites. I almost envy their homesickness in some sick, twisted way, like I want to feel stuck in a heat box with concrete walls. I could easily hop the cata bus back home, rant for a moment or two about how I feel like I'm still secretly twelve years old, and then come back to campus to learn to be a better-informed citizen and how to party. I am unstuck from this "you better make friends, or you will live a lonely old life with fake teeth and a broom to chase kids off your yard," feeling; everywhere I look, there's another kid from State High. We may not have talked at all in high school, but in the vast sea of us dough-eyed freshmen, we've turned into State College magnets.
Not to say I'm not trying to make friends. But the first day of meeting people is often like speed dating, minus trying to sleep with everything that moves. We've all turned into nervousness detectors, and our one binding commonality is, "oh, you're just as scared shitless as I am? Perfect, let's be best friends!" Status-making is still in the words, although it's not as prominent as in high school. There are still the beautiful people with their salads and pin-straight hair (damn them). There are the quiet nerds who are going to make an outgoing change once and for all! I'm sure you can guess which category I fall into, oh reader of blog. I'll let you know how this outgoing stuff works after I finish reading twelve books and stop cowering under my comforter.

Namaste.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

College and things

Today's the day I start off at college, and what's weird is I have to keep reminding myself this is actually happening. I've been ticking off the days until I move in, but it's been kind of like a count down to the premiere of Dr. Horrible's new Sing Along Blog--it's important, it will make you laugh, cry, and want to buy a freeze ray, but it doesn't consume your entire brain. This coming from the girl who would start planning her excitement for her birthday and Christmas six months in advance, and I have to remind myself periodically that "oh, by the way, you're a college student." Crap.
Much of these next few days will be getting to know our "home away from home," but I plan on putting a personal spin on campus/downtown tours. I might not know the history of each building, but I can tell my fellow freshmen that this spot is where my friend Megan and I posed as living statues, and here's where I mistakenly cheered on a group of frat boys who were yelling "tits out for the boys!" Don't ask how you mistakenly cheer someone on. It happens.
I'll also be scoping out places to do yoga. I may just have to stand on my head on old main lawn. Out of towners will see this curly haired, bandana clad yoga enthusiast, and think they have traveled too far West. But I'm getting desperate to find space, just physical space, where there aren't grunting buckets of testosterone around me, and, oh yeah, where I don't have to shell out a hundred bucks. That's always a plus.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Come to the dark side, we have cookies there

Let's face it, nerds have a bad rep. We've been called socially awkward, too book-ish, and sporting what can best be described as Hermione Granger haircuts. But let me interrupt my readings of my English 15 textbook to tell you why becoming a nerd is not nearly as horrendous as it was a generation or two ago. People may be put off by our confusion of real life with D & D characters, or our bursting out into song in hopes of turning every day activities into one giant musical, but we're not crazy. Honestly. Okay, we're a little crazy, but not in the way a creepy uncle or, y'know our former leader of this country would be.We're eccentric, yes, but only in ways that are both awesome, and where we won't black out halfway through the night. It's a win-win situation.
There are countless moments when the nerd clot (our official title, as any sophisticated group may posses) act highly intoxicated, and will do things just as silly and ridiculous as a drunk person. But we are not drunk; we are, in fact, trunk--drunk off of tiredness. Through a trunk state, Britney Spears songs have been sung downtown. Cabbage Patching has been involved. Maria got a pet snail in this state. Great things happen in "trunkeness," and we will actually remember them for years to come.

*INSERT CLEVER AND WELL THOUGHT OUT TRANSITION HERE. OR, JUST GO GRAB A SNACK. COULD YOU MAKE ME SOME COFFEE WHILE YOU'RE AT IT?*

I wasn't yelling at you, I promise. But everything looks more epic and well-intentioned in all-caps, don't you think? Now that you're with me, and bringing a cappuccino I so politely requested, let's move on. I think everybody has a secret desire to run around a giant soccer field with a sword and a silly accent. In high school, shit happens where you just want to forget who you are and what you've done, but not in an amnesiac way. More like an alter ego way. You could join the drama club, but that would require memorizing a slew of lines and getting past the serious actorrrrrrs (insert British accent here) who have been quoting Shakespeare since they were in the womb. No, Hipsters have got that covered, thank you very much. We have a Renaissance Faire, where women can be wenches and men can be sexist pigs. You know what, this is starting to sound like regular high school. Let me try again. You can learn new skills such as sewing, improvisation acting, and giant pickle eating. That wasn't a euphemism. You really can accomplish great pickle eating in RenFaire. And c'mon, where else is it socially acceptable to call someone "a bloody-toed newt" and throw giant wooden sticks at them? Prison, maybe. But that's just absurd to have to kill someone or steal some Snicker's bars just to get your aggression out. The nerd clot has found the way, and with epic costumes and cookies, too. So come join us. And remember, nerds will rule the world someday.
...SO BEWARE.


   












We may not look intimidating with the whole not being able to breathe deal, but a girl can throw some punches in such a dress. Or, swords rather.

Friday, June 22, 2012

The day before the day before

The day before the day before a big event is always the worst. There's nothing to anticipate except the excitement. There are only so many times you can re-pack your bags. The problem with waiting periods is it gives you the freedom to conjure up the worst possible situations. When I returned home from Shoshoni, I was ready and excited to start classes, make new friends, and live an anxiety free life once and for all! Two months later, and I've convinced myself I'll get horribly lost, forget the fact that I've walked past these buildings a million and one times. My brain has created every circumstance in which I'll be "that person"--the one who wears the wrong clothes, eats the wrong food, and has her dorm building collapse over her head. Hey, anything can happen.
Perhaps I should use this free time to reminisce--I could remember all those good times in high school when I got physically fit from running away from volleyballs and angry team members. Or when I didn't fit in on dance team because I was in the Renaissance Faire club and vice versa. The world was our oyster in high school, as long as we didn't mix nerdy clubs with ones in which perfect abs and hot pink nail polish were the main topics of conversation. There's always the memories of when I must have wandered into the children's section of Kohl's, purchased a shirt that basically screamed "notice me, damnit!", and started loudly speaking in French, all for a boy I was trying to impress--while he was obnoxiously flirting with the entire dance team I'd just quit. Timing is a bitch.
So maybe reminiscing wasn't a fantastic idea. I'm more of a fan of that whole memory blocking thing. The best four years of our lives? Yeah, maybe for the lucky few who enjoy dalliances with public humiliation and hormones that order us girls to have a thing for every douchebag imaginable.
I guess for now I'll just have to stare at the truckload of paper weights and other knick-knacks I suddenly can't live without. I'd do that whole family bonding thing, but then I'd have to feign innocence to the comments about the whipped cream mysteriously disappearing from our fridge. And I just don't have that kind of energy.

Namaste.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

What reality TV has taught me

Lately, entertainment has turned into one giant competition for the best bitch-fest, ever since MTV has stopped playing music. Laziness has turned humans onto cat fights, outrageous hair-do's and people who "aren't here to make friends." Reality television has taught me some important things in life, such as how to be America's next top fake, and other every day necessities:

1) If you don't talk in a city girl "new yoakaw" accent, you just aren't tough.
2) The only way to make up is to make out.
3) Every time Tyra Banks comes into a room, you have to scream like you've just won the lottery.
4) Somewhere, somehow, there is an eyeliner that doesn't smudge through the day's emotional turmoil.
5) Best friends are like purses. They change every season.
6) Cry when that girl you weren't even here to make friends with, says she doesn't like you.
7) Have serious talks in a hot tub. It makes you seem more sophisticated, and the bubbles will muffle the words you can't pronounce.
8) All the world's a stage on which people should rate, comment and like. After all, we're all objects anyway.
9) Go out to pretend to eat with the underdog. That way, people will see that you have an emotionally sensitive side and vote for you as most selfless and most deserving for those million dollars that you will so generously spend on a pool and personal trainer.
10) The argument that you had a horrible childhood wins every time.

And if that doesn't work, just flash 'em. That way people will see you have a risk-taking side that loves to have fun. Just kidding, this country just wants to see another pair of boobs. God bless America.

Namaste.

Walking on Sunshine

For the sake of all the chihuahuas and others drivers in State College, I walk to many of my destinations. It gives me time to think, to ponder, and to work off that bar of chocolate that mysteriously left the depths of your fridge. While I've gotten some snide comments on Atherton street, and some strange looks from all those Mercedes owners, I wouldn't trade my walks for anything, not even my super sexy car, Alphonso. Throughout these journeys to work, to Target (where my paycheck proceeds to get mindlessly spent), and back home again, I have gathered my knowledge of music, my reflections on relationships, and the same epiphanies I've had for the umpteenth time. I may looks ridiculous walking with a huge grin when I think about inside jokes with friends, or when I'm storming the sidewalk with a furrowed brow, but my walks are my safe haven, much like a room that miraculously doesn't have to be vacuumed and whose coffee stains are much more rare. 

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Life in a suitcase

It's difficult to pack away your entire life in one suitcase. Okay, so I might be packing six weeks worth of life into three suitcases, but still, there's some picking and choosing going on. For instance, I could only put one Johnny Depp poster into my bag that could hold Texas, rather than my usual six million. Since I'm packing the day State College thought it was Death Valley, I'm inclined to throw all my shorts in with the two tons of textbooks, but our weather is so bipolar these days, I could wake up thinking it's going to snow, and realize all my comfy sweaters were left at home. Oh good lord, I'm going to have to start checking the weather each morning. I've officially turned into my parents.
I've unearthed a lot of memories through these packing endeavors--earrings I've collected, books I've read, and SAT practice tests that really helped with my thick hair situation (see, there's optimism in everything). As I'm scrounging under my bed for wall-worthy photos, I can giggle every time I pass my lobster slippers, which have been titled "the libster sloppers," ever since my stepmom misspoke when she referenced them. Damn, I wish it would hurry up and get cold again so I can show off those things. With my leopard and lobsters, I'll be the sexiest kid in Pollock halls. And since there's enough room for a week's reading material in those rooms, I've spent the past morning flipping through my yearbook so many times, I've managed to 1) celebrate the end of us high schoolers' awkward stage (finally! Remember when we thought it would never end?), and 2) cry over and memorize my friends' messages. It is possible to not be cheesy in a yearbook, if you are the sneakiest sentimentals in our nerd clot.
I'm only taking a quarter of my room with me, but it already looks so empty, I'm acting like I'm planning to move to China for four years, rather than downtown for a little over a month. It's funny which of our possessions can have no meaning to us until we're about to leave them. This paper weight I got in New Mexico that has been collecting dust on my desk (not once did it serve its purpose of weighting paper), is suddenly the epitome of my Santa Fe travels, which, in turn, is a momento of Harry Potter, seeing as my fellow Daniel Radcliffe fangirl lives in Santa Fe. Which then leads said paper weight to Twilight memories, because with my Harry Potter soulmate, we invented a (water) drinking game. Suddenly I can't live without this paper weight, or I will turn into a blank, memory-less blob.
My gosh. It's just a ball of glass. Get over yourself. 
Then there's the DVDs. You know your life is sad when you have a nice chunk of memories through Gilmore Girls DVDs, but quite a few mother/daughter bonding moments happened right with Rory and Lorelai. It enticed us to treck up to Starbucks, pollute our systems with caffeine, and on the walk back down, act surprised by my traditional rage of "WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU BE MORE LIKE LORELAI GILMORE??"
Good memories, that will always be cherished.
It's bittersweet to say goodbye to a room that has always been there for me, but unless it becomes home of this elipitcal machine I've heard tell of, I know it will always be here for me to visit, whenever I rage the house for some nice free chocolate and coffee   family bonding.









Johnny Depp will just have to live with my stuffed tiger for a while.







The paper weight of which we speak of. Plus a hippie lamp and a bunch of nerdy books you'll pretend not to see. 











Namaste. 

The importance of having Ernest

As a graduation/"going away" present (I prefer to think of it as "heading out for a bit"), my stepmother got me a pillow pet. I could have asked for textbook money, or socks, or some practical adult -like thing that important college people bring to their dorms, but instead, I asked for this:
I may not be able to study rhetorical analysis from Ernest the pillow pet, but I'm going to be the comfiest freshman alive. I might just have room for some of my body on the bed too. It was always a given that I would bring a stuffed animal to launch my adulthood, but my stuffed tiger Snow Paws is currently being used to cover a horrid stain on my carpet, as good stuffed animals do.And so begins the journey with the multifaceted leopard. He makes a pretty comfortable pillow, as long as you don't mind having your face smothered in the night and dust particles that dance around your nose. I'm personally a fan of sneezing so dramatically at 1:00 in the morning my brothers must think I've contracted the plague. Do people with the plague sneeze more than usual? Hmm, I'll have to get back to you on that one. I'm just trying to make it dramatic here, people.
So my fellow Penn-Staters, if you see some chick on move in day lugging a stuffed pink leopard around campus, stop by and say hey. I'm not nearly as crazy as I look, but only on Sundays.

Namaste. 






Tuesday, June 19, 2012

And this is how the cookies get burned

My friend Maria and I were making cookies this evening, which is okay, because we sweated in the sponge of humidity through park walks, in which we made up broke college student versions to "Call me Maybe." As we were baking the cookies, the three million screens, text messages and tweets that this generation juggles (oh the struggles!), sent us into a twister of distraction, and soon we found our hard work to taste like hot lava rocks. Obviously, famous youtuber Alex Day's ponderings about if he had Chlamydia or not took precedence at the time, but having molten chocolate chips took us on a downward spiral for the rest of the night. There is nothing worse than molten chocolate chips, especially when they are surrounded by cardboard tasting dough.
There is, however, nothing better than having a friend to distract you enough to forget about the cookies. We may have been forgetful about baking times, but we were also able to forget worries about finding our classes, acing our classes, finding frat parties, and finding out what a frat party really entails. Our journeys onto farmville are perhaps juvenile, and about as meaningful as second grade homework, but everybody needs that escape of being random, being unproductive, and just plain...silly. There's always tomorrow to make cookies.
I love all my close friends, but after baking, ranting, and internet-voyaging with Maria, I often feel like I've spent the day with a sister. She's seen my horribly awkward middle school days in which every item of clothing I owned had to have numerous hot pink sparkles and cheetah print on it. She's witnessed the lunch periods where I thought it would be super cool and drastic to call our "frenemy" a bitch (the horrors!). And she's stuck with me the whole way through. As we're still friends now, she must be either crazy or have the tolerance of Mother Theresa. Or Mother Theresa was crazy. But I digress. I've known Maria since 6th grade, and like any friendship where glasses, braces, and totally new bodies are involved, we've had our struggles, but now we can go to each other's houses, get into two hour long discussions about writing, and still consider the other person cool. It's a good system. Our tangents may result in burnt cookies, and a severe dent in the chocolate chip bag, but our friendship can never be burned to a crisp.

As a side note, the cookies turned out pretty decently in the end, and no baking material were harmed in the making of this blog.

Namaste.   

Seriously adorable

As a fan of all things glitter, bursting into song in public, and just general crazy random happenstances, I've had to tiptoe the fine line between being considered fun and light hearted, and not being taken seriously. I take pride in my hair color, and have even thrown in a few dumb blond jokes, but the claws come out when someone makes the comparison to me. Unfortunately, the "claws" are slightly less intimidating when the stubby nails I do have are coated with hot pink nail polish. Perhaps that takes away from the point I'm trying to make.
Being the comic relief has its advantages--I love to make my friends smile, but oftentimes I do so by walking into a wall, or turning an insecurity about not being as productive as them into a joke about staring at walls (I must have a thing for walls). My friend Megan, who hates having change thrown at her-- such as friends with new boyfriends-- giggled at my comment that I wouldn't surprise her with the news that I'm secretly a three legged creature, but I said this through the feeling that my life was so linear, that I would probably be some fantastical creature before getting a new boyfriend.
Some people are good at being serious. They can say something with so much conviction, that one would believe their claim that the moon was made out of caviar. You would forget to ask how fish could possibly survive long enough on the moon to lay their eggs. Whenever there's a piece of information I'm not sure about, my voice raises about twelve octaves, and I sound like I'm a ten year old talking about quantum physics. This sounds impressive, but since I know nothing about quantum physics, the conversation goes something like "well, I don't know. I skipped genius pills at breakfast in high school. Who wants coffee, it makes you live longer." The last bit is to add in the impression that I'm actually smart, but I end up sending signals that I'm a pompous twat. The British kind, not the American. Why would I sound like a vagina? I should really stop spurting out random trivia. One time a friend told me he liked my shirt, and I said I was going for a film noir look. Really, I just thought it looked cute and it was on sale at Kohl's. A film noir shirt? What, had I just jumped out of the '60's?  
I'm all for having fun and acting goofy, but not at the expense of respect. I'm not about to start wearing all black and talking in thesaurus speak, but up until this point, I've only found a pause button on the spastic remote, rather than an off button. I could try to be impressive by going on a movie date and telling him it was an "educational experience in the inner workings of a strip club" (true fact), or I could just sit back and react the way my first instincts tell me to. Or, as any sane person would do, I could just run the hell out of a movie theater that's showing a film about strip clubs in the first place.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Thoughts from the ramen noodle factory

So I'm not actually in a ramen noddle factory, but what better way to introduce my thoughts about college than to throw a staple "broke college student" food in your face? Or I just made you hungry. In which case, I'm terribly sorry, and please come over to my dorm for a nice dinner of pop tarts and pretzels to make up for it. I would be delighted.
This time next week I will be saying goodbye to sleep, leisure reading time, and random dance parties in my room. You know, all the important stuff. I've been dreaming about this day since I was a kid. All my fights with my mother ended with me storming up to my room, muttering, "I cannot wait until I leave for college." And then I signed up to go leave for college, and I can't wait until the day I return. Fate has a really screwed up sense of humor sometimes. I'll be a twenty minute bus ride away (I'd say a ten minute drive away, but I think all of state college will cringe if they hear that I'm driving), but I still feel twenty times shakier than when I was leaving for Colorado for a month. I'm just going to have to sip on my third cup of coffee and contemplate why this is. Maybe it's the finality of the situation. A month of living in a dorm is vacation. Two months is a growing experience. A semester is when you realize you can't be that person who lives in your parents' basement, and you will eventually have to pay the bills, vacuum the rug, and shell out that half a million dollars for your 2.3 kids' and golden retriever's life.
It's strange to get into the collegiate attitude, when for so many of us, it's like going into the 13th grade. Quite a few of my dear friends will be by my side, which keeps my "forever alone" freak outs to a minimum of twice a day, rather than five times. But it's also an obstacle to know a large number of people who will be attending Penn State with me. It's a safety net I can be comforted by knowing is there, but can't fall into. The advice to incoming freshman is to "treat your college town as your hometown," but I have to flip the situation and see State College in a whole new light. My hometown is now my college town.

Friendships sail

I enjoy drama. I thrive off of it. It makes life interesting.
...When it's on TV. In real life, however, it's like my body can't handle the stress and feels like it's hungover. Except, seeing that I've never been hungover before, I'll relate it to having one too many cups of coffee. Long story short, I get a massive headache when cat fights aren't interrupted by commercial breaks from Australian geckos. It's sadder when said fights are about a boy. A boy! My current tensions with my friends are so cliche, we might as well have our own special on Jersey Shore. Except with less fake tanner. It's the classic story of girl meets boy, girl dates boy, other girl thinks boy is giant douchebag, girl says she's facebook engaged to boy in order to prove her point. You know, every '90's kid's dilemma. Thank you, Mark Zuckerburg--you've added two more dimensions to revenge. Well done.
When there's conflict amongst friends, my brain goes into a tornado of wondering what went wrong, what I said, and how I could say it differently. Ah, the joys of being an opinionated person who doesn't want to be blamed, or start a fight. It makes me look like a little something like this: 













Imagine wearing this expression in the middle of Starbucks while your friends argue about settling; while they debate weather an eighteen year old should settle for a guy, I'm wondering if I can possibly settle into my feet. It's either the venti iced coffee that I send into my bloodstream every four hours, or the nerves from the argument that make my legs feel like they're trying to turn me into a runner. Hah! That's a concept legs, that my brain will never agree with.
Having extra large helpings of tension seems like a sad way to end things before heading off to college. Maybe we need super sized fights in order to replace those super sized Rita's outings that makes our wallets very skinny but our hips not so much. I pictured every second as teary-eyed confessions of how much we love each other and will miss each other. Then I remembered that I should stop watching so many goshdarn soap operas because my life does not get interrupted by Tide commercials. This may be the closest the three of us get, but just because we're distancing ourselves geographically doesn't mean this is the end. I can't imagine just letting connections die with the people who are so fabulous, random, and will do crazy things with me without giving me the stink eye. Arguments are bound to happen with people who spend so much time together, but this isn't the last thing I'm going to remember about my friends. We will still have plenty of time to run around downtown singing, "go insane, go insane, throw some glitter, make it rain!" Because I plan on going insane and throwing some glitter with these girls until the day I die.

Namaste.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Family tides

Every family probably claims itself to be a rocky one. We're not all a bunch of screaming lunatics who steal sisters' clothes and punch brothers' faces like reality TV suggests (although I did bite my brother once), but bonding moments are often interrupted at the daughter leaving almost empty juice containers in the fridge and opening a new one. Okay, that might be me. Let's find another example. Families find tension when they realize someone ate all the chocolate chips and there's nothing to bake cookies with. Guilty again. You know what? I don't like these examples. You get the general idea.
My childhood was pretty blissed out, what with drawing on the basement floor with pastels and swinging indoors. But with the lucky pre-teen years came the harsh reality that even though my mother was my best friend, she would eventually make me do the dishes, and I, horrified at this absolute injustice, would call her a bitch for it. We had a deal though, that three strikes, and I was out of the living room and in my bedroom. Ten strikes, and I was out of my brother's list of sane and acceptable people. Twenty bajillion strikes, and I was out of the house, treckking up the hills of my neighborhood to go live with my father (he lives about a fifteen minute walk away, but it sounds more dramatic to treck up hills). My mom is a saintly patient person, and even after the roughest of fights, she will cheerfully sing made up words to popular tunes. And she is still my best friend. But get us in a house together for more than two nights, and we will create our own World War III. About the dishes. It happens.
While both my parents' houses are academic in the sense that bookshelves are displayed in several corners of the living room, and I can't talk to my parents at the end of December or May, my father's house has an academic air. I wouldn't go so far as to say we're pompous, but it's not uncommon to quote Henry David Thoreau at dinner, or to wake up at 7:00A.M. and plan what time you brush your teeth. Spontaneity is observed, sometimes questioned, but never practiced. We are all very cordial to one another, like we're at a never ending dinner party. But since I moved in with my step-family when I was fourteen, it took me a while to remember I was living with the people my dad would take me to see a couple times a month. I could stop freaking out about the sounds emanating from the den, they were just my stepbrother beating up zombies on his xbox. No big deal. I love this family, but sometimes it feels like a love I would have towards a friend. Like, I'm at dinner, making pleasant conversation about Charlie's freshman year of high school, and then after putting up a front, I go, "phew. Now I can go home and bask in all my weird habits." Then I start singing "Sexy and I know it," in the shower, realize I am home, and that all my stepbrother's friends have the privilege of hearing an 18 year old make a fool of herself off key.
I've always had the choice to live in a house where my mom treated my friends like daughters, laughed and gossiped with me, yet got in screaming matches every time we got too close. Or I could have opted to live in a pleasant household, where to-do lists got crossed off, but where we went our separate ways and where intimacy felt forced. Staying in my room for most of the day is worth the avoidance of fights and tense moments, but no matter how nice it is to be next to my Johnny Depp posters for hours, it can still get lonely.
Since I'll be living on my own soon, I've learned to appreciate both kinds of families--the close but angry kind, and the cordial but surface kind. Both of my parents are extremely generous with the amount of time and energy they put into the happiness of their kids. Yet I'm constantly faced with "what-if"s; I'm still finding out which living situation is right for me. But what I know for sure is that my family has different kind of oddities, but my love for them is the same.

Namaste. 

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The aura of single-ness

After our yoga adventures, Keri and I discussed how someone can portray being single and interested through a simple look, or air. It's true that you don't need to know someone's life story (nor must you stalk their facebook page) to see that walk, that look that says "hey, I'm single. I'm open. I won't murder you with an axe during the night." It's like we walk around with radars that detect attachment to past relationships, or fear of commitment. Even total strangers, they know. They can tell. Clearly my walking around downtown in sweatpants and my phone plastered to my hand, just waiting for that glorious "hey" (what a magical and well thought out text!), was not code for, "I am your answer to a wonderful Friday night." Not even close. Even post breakup hair doesn't make you feel sexy. It just makes you wonder why you shelled out eighty bucks to look like a skunk. So that was a thing that happened.
I must have missed the day we learned flirting in school, because every time I attempt being cute and fun, I end up looking like I've eaten special brownies. And I'm not talking about my mother's recipe. Either that, or I'm lecturing some bewildered guy about how men are sexist pigs, and I should just be the crazy cat lady forever, and I'm pretty sure this is the tactic that will make me most likely to watch re-runs of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. in my basement when I'm fifty years old. Ross and Rachel's "break" will taunt me, because they found and lost and found again the one. I have a multitude of stories of "one of the others," but the normal guys tend to get scared away when there's that chick who starts squeaking like a mouse and cabbage patching in the middle of downtown State College. I'll have to scratch this method off of flirting tactics as well. Process of elimination. That's how I'll learn.
Sometimes it's as simple as putting your hair down and wearing a hem that thinks it's a skirt. But I've found that those girls have an aura of desperation, not preparation. The true "single and ready" (I will not make you have to read "and mingle" again, but wait I just did) feel comes from confidence. I learned this from a self help book I read after getting stood up from a date. I'm just kidding. There was no date on which I got stood up.
Hey Hey, It's Keri. My take on this is mainly you should be like a cat. The less you show interest, the more they like you. Actually that's only in specific situations, like when you legitly don't like them and they are all in like with you :/. Anyway the key really is confidence, even just mildly fake confidence works. (Though I'm not 100% sure bout that either b/c well...I'm not completely experienced with guy catching), but theoretically a person is deemed more attractive when they have an aura of confidence, which could equal the aura of single-ness.
It's Kira again. And if that doesn't work, just wear too much eye makeup and post pictures on facebook of yourself doing the duck face. If pursed lips and black smudges on your face aren't sexy, then I don't know what is.

Imaginary ideals

When you're a writer, it's essential to have an active imagination. Sometimes I hear this referred to as "crazy," "sleep deprived," or even schizo. Which is not even funny because I am not schizophrenic and neither am I. You can write what you know and create ten million books about how you were this close to getting with that person you like, who ends up being a complete ass (check), or you can create worlds, adventures--I could say the sky's the limit, but that's an issue because 1) I'd end up sounding just like my high school guidance counselor, and 2) that dragon you created just flew past the sky, now didn't he?
There's something that's looked down if you keep imagining scenarios by the time you think skinny jeans are cool. What's absurd is that flesh eating zombies and ligers (oh my!) are absolutely ridiculous, but it's socially acceptable to make up on facebook that you've been having a grand old time with your friends every single night. Or at least this is what I tell myself when I'm watching America's Next Top Model Friday night marathons with a pint of ice cream. "Oh, you have the most amazing boyfriend in the world?" I ask the chipper blond on my news feed, "well I have a pet dragon named Alphonso. He has hot pink scales. Beat that."
If having a key imagination is childish, then I should still be offended when people tell me I look like I'm sixteen, but for different reasons. "Please," I'll retaliate, "I'm actually not a day over ten." Ah, to be ten years old and throwing stuffed cats over tree forts again. That is a memory every person should have the privilege of looking back at. It sounds barbaric and the neighbors probably questioned our sanity several times, but the cat game I shared with my brother was actually quite complex. We had a language and political parties. We had a payment system in which the cats got one billion dollars per day. See? At such a young age, I was already becoming acquainted with political manipulation and the American Dream where everyone is filthy stinking rich.

Monday, June 11, 2012

The Butterfinger butterfly

My friend Keri and I were walking downtown yesterday, and seeing as the humidity decided to swallow us whole, we felt like, as Keri coined it, "anti-camels." I had forgotten to bring my sufficient dork-dom of a water bottle with me, and if I don't chug water every two seconds, my tongue feels like a cactus. I'm a fan of desert plants, just not in my mouth. That's where cake would be more pleasant.
We ended up stopping at Mclannahan's for some Smart Water (as opposed to stupid water?), and Butterfinger bars. The calories don't count if you mooch from your friend's candy bar. Shh, it's a secret. After downing 36 ounces of water, I looked at the bottle and wished the store would give refills. Keri gave me an odd look, and said, "you mean like water fountains?"
Oh right. Those. Maybe the intelligence chemicals in Smart Water hadn't gone to my brain cells yet. Or I just enjoy spending two pointless dollars for something that could be free. That is entirely possible. I could just weed through the maze of bubble gum kids like to stick under water fountains, and I'd have my prized refill. Keri, on the other hand, saw her diminishing chocolate bar, and bemoaned her lack of refill options. I suggested the idea of chocolate bar fountains, which, through completely normal and sane logic, turned into our creation of the Butterfinger butterfly.
"How else would there be so many Butterfinger bars?" I asked, "surely not forced child labor in China."
"Of course not."
"That would be absurd."
"Way crazier than a winged creature handing chocolate to everyone," Keri agreed. This is the nice thing about having friends who are just as crazy as me. They can believe my rants about candy-giving butterflies are both sober and impressive.
We walked around Tudek Park a few hours later, and naturally, we wondered what would happen if marijuana grew in the park without anyone noticing. There was something horribly wrong with our line of thought--clearly, in a college town, it would not go undiscovered. But just as we passed "Butterfly Bob's" butterfly garden, it dawned on us that of course our two pondering were connected! This was why people acted so strange. The Butterfinger butterfly lived in this super secret section of the park, and all his Butterfingers were weed laced. It was the perfect explanation for everyone's oddities! Almost as good as blaming everything on insecurity and saying "I had a terrible childhood." But Keri and I came to the sad conclusion that Butterfly Bob captured the Butterfinger butterfly, and that is why Butterfinger bars are so hard to find. You know that moment when you sit down, look at something differently, and go, "well that explains everything!" Yeah, that didn't happen. But we did spend our evening creating a delightful children's book about this Butterfinger butterfly, as sophisticated teenagers tend to do. Don't be surprised if this creation graces that shelves of kindergarten classrooms. Of course I'm kidding. This is more first grade material.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

My parents were right, and other common knowledge it took 18 years to realize

When I was twelve years old, I was convinced that at birth I'd been taken away from my true family, and that at eighteen years old I'd be swooped up by the aliens of planet fashionista, and we'd have a grand family reunion, complete with hot pink, sparkles, and Raven Symone soundtracks. My dad tried to make me feel better by singing "girl power," but that just doesn't have the same ring to it when it's 1) sung by someone who's channeling Bob Dylan, and 2) by someone who's embarrassing when they so much as breathe.
Unfortunately, the fashionista aliens never got the memo, although my 18th birthday still contained numerous sparkles. I never got the letter from Hogwarts either. The world is full of disappointments when aliens and owls don't invade your home. I did however, just get a pair of hiking boots for an upcoming backpacking trip, and I've spent the past month writing stories for fun. Not only have I turned into my parents, but more horrifically, I've realized they were right all along. My mother telling me I was a writer wasn't an evil plan to get me to the dark side of English majors. My dad's insistence that I would one day enjoy hiking, and that it's only a mosquito-ridden hell if you go to Assateague Island at the end of May--it turned out not to be background noise whenever my radio stopped working. That one took a bit longer to sink in, since I'd been scratching at leftover bites for five years. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. It might have been four and a half years.
In sixth grade, I knew absolutely everything--clearly boys were obnoxious stinkbugs who couldn't possibly like me if they purposely got my name wrong; my mom's promise that they did that because they did like me was just a pity consolation. I knew that leggings would totally make their comeback (hey, I was right--just four years too early), and that the only way to get attention over my older brother was to throw strawberries at the wall, in a fit of rage that they would make me fat. I had it all worked out; those people who told me I'd admit my parents were right obviously didn't have a mother who threw hula hops on the garage roof, or a dad who thought Zaidico Mac was a suitable name for his daughter.
After unleashing my closet nerd, I'm astounded by how much cooler my parents are, and how they know shit I wouldn't even think to ask. Hula hoop throwing is now positively badass, and if my dorm had a slanted roof, I'd be that person. College advisers tell us "don't be that guy." They're used to "that guy" being the drinking fool who finds fun in hacking their brains out and not remembering their own name. Although I'm not certain they'd be relieved in finding a new "that person" pounding dorm roofs. I'll just have to stick to borrowing my father's Beatles CDs and blasting them in my room. Epic dance parties will be involved.
I had some real determination that I would go as far from my parents' hopes and dreams--I was my own person, darnit! I would live in a big city, and never see trees again. I would make tons of money as a model, an actress--anything a Marshall or Mckelvey has never done before! Yet here I am, entering the college in which my parents work, as a hiking boot wearing English major. Either they had an insatiably sneaky brainwash plot, or my parents knew a thing or two as I've grown up. I guess those fashionista aliens can stay put for a while, because I'm set with parents who sing embarrassing song lyrics.

Namaste.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

the "can-I-call-you-back" phenomenon

As I've people watched throughout work and walks downtown, I've noticed that quite a few people answer their phone just to say they're busy, and can they call that person in five minutes, because they really can't talk right now. It astounds me that everyone who does this--of all ages, mind you--fails to see the irony of picking up their phone in the first place. Unless a vicious tiger has intruded the other person's house (in which case, I hope someone would drop their grocery shopping, or library going, or caffeine searching to go help this person), surely the call can go to voicemail. I know, how very 'nineties of me to suggest. The last time I listened to an entire voicemail, I'd just finished listening to the Backstreet boys on my walkman. Just kidding, I think it wsa 'N Sync. But even a quick text is sufficient if you're asking your mother to pick up some milk. Answering your phone just to say you can't answer your phone is like greeting the UPS guy with dripping hair and a towel wrapped around you and saying, "I'm sorry, I'm in the shower right now, but if you'll just stand there for five minutes, I'll be ready to take that package." He can either stand there like a doofus for the next five minutes, or he can leave the package by your door. Telling people you're too busy to talk kind of defeats the purpose; you could ignore the social networking beeps and tweets and texts and tumbles for just a second to finish your task. I'm sure your parents will still have time in a few hours to make sure you've paid your bills and eaten your vegetables. Use your "I'm busy" time to inhale some brussel sprouts before your mother calls. Because she knows. She always knows. 

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Yogic workout?

I'm a fan of fitness. I've been raised to enjoy hikes (though lately that hasn't stuck), to take after dinner walks, and to sign up for dance classes. This past weekend I was at a hotel with my family, and I was that person looking for a gym. Being anti-fitness is like being anti-chocolate--never mind the fact that they totally contradict each other. I feel the best after working out--like I can leap off a building or two, and karate chop some wood. I can do neither of these things, but lunges do strange things to my brain. But once the need to exercise trumps the enjoyment of said workout, that's when fitness fanatics get worrisome.
As a student of yoga, I'm constantly feeling the tug of war between mind and body. The ultimate goal of yoga is to merge the two as one state of being, but living in a culture of calculations, once I've done ninety minutes of meditative sweating, I can justify eating that devilish looking cupcake. And just another bite--maybe another half--three cupcakes later, the last thing I have is peace of mind. All I can feel is sore calves and no motivation to do another round of sun salutations.
In the west, yoga has become very much about "no pain, no gain," and "get that hot yoga body in thirty days! Ten days! Ten seconds!" It's become a selling point in gyms--a product, rather than a way of living. Jillian Michaels, workout guru who is known for her hard-ass exercise videos, came out with a yoga DVD. It was the first time I'd heard "cardio" in between postures. By the time I was doing Warrior III to the sound of "who's your daddy?" it felt more like I was stretching to a porno video than a yogic one. The video ended abruptly; there was a rushed cool down and Michaels skipped Savasana--corpse pose--and I rose from my yoga mat feeling like I'd been punished. In Eastern cultures, the asanas (postures)  are just a teeny tiny portion of what makes yoga. Bhakti yoga totally eliminates the poses; it is purely about the worship of a higher being. Ashtanga yoga is physically exhausting, but its eight limbs include breathing, and the enlightened state.
So should yoga take the place of other exercise? Physically, it's enough of a workout to keep me healthy, but if I rely on the asanas for flat abs--or at least the hope of flat abs--I'm back to using yoga for superficial purposes. Already, I can see the shift in what I'm thinking during my yoga practice. During my month at Shoshoni, my mind wrapped around the alignment of my poses, and how to keep my breathing smooth and relaxed. At home, I do upward facing dog while thinking about how many calories I'm burning. 
What's nice about yoga is that it recognizes that we feel different each day. Some mornings I jump out of bed, ready to pull out my yoga mat, but sometimes I just want to curl under my covers and read Tina Fey's memoir for the millionth time. My body can be a lot smarter than my brain sometimes; I just have to listen to it, and accept the fact that I'm not going to feel like sweating seven days a week. Relaxing isn't a sign of weakness, or lack of devotion to a yoga practice. In religions where yoga is practiced (yoga itself is not a religion), you contain Shiva--or the enlightened being. Disrespect to yourself, your body, is disrespect to the world around you. And sometimes I just need that day to watch a string of Friday Night Lights episodes with a bowl of ice cream. My yoga practice is a good workout, but it's not the main point of my hour on the mat. It's about tuning into myself, and being more open to understanding both my strengths and weaknesses.

How do you, dear readers, keep yourselves fit and healthy? How do you balance the physical and mental parts of yoga? Enjoy exercise--but don't punish yourself for lazy days. :)

Namaste.