tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16769253754731147572024-03-05T08:02:00.662-08:00Life in PenniesLife in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-89874224495538991392013-04-22T08:58:00.001-07:002013-04-22T08:58:07.120-07:00Thesis Papers I Want to Read, Part 3You Deserve to Read This: The Culture of "Deserving" in America<br />
<br />
You know what always bothers me about contestants on reality shows? How they continually announce that they "deserve" to win because they've worked hard, as though their hard work is some how different and more honorable than their fellow bakers/designers/survivors. This mentality extends to interviews done with family and friends as well, often times focusing on the contestants morality: He deserves to win because he's such a good person. She deserves this because she's got such a big heart.<br />
<br />
How has the media, such as L'Oreal's "You're Worth It" campaign, played into this? Have evolving parenting methods affected our sense of self-worth? And what is the effect of this phenomena on our ability to sympathize with others, especially those who are <i>very</i> "other"?<br />
<br />
Annnnnnnnnd go!Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-77713971323568383312012-08-28T12:17:00.000-07:002012-08-28T12:17:09.639-07:00More thesis papers I want to readGiving Them a Place to Go: <div>
Children, especially teens, are going to gather together and socialize. They always have, they always will. And they're not going to do it at home. We need to give them somewhere to go, or they're going to find their own places...and those are usually not the most ideal ones. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Places like skate parks, events like "Friday Night Live" (a weekly teen get together at a rec center in Texas), a Teen Club at a Beaches resort, or a Ballroom Dancing program in NYC schools offer kids a safe place to socialize, dance, be silly and dramatic...basically to be teenagers. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How do each of these places benefit the areas they exist in, the adults who support them, and the teens who use them? How do curfews and restrictions at usual hang outs like malls hurt them? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Annnnnndddddd....go!</div>
Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-34561895763320142732012-08-17T09:38:00.002-07:002012-08-17T09:38:40.534-07:00For all those in need of topicsThesis papers I'd like to read:<br />
<br />
Fifty Shades of Culture: What the sales of and sex in 50 Shades of Grey says about our culture's approach to sexuality.<br />
<br />
Magically Thin: Actresses on Diets vs Characters Who Eat Normally<br />
Er...this one might need a better title. Basically, when you showcase a female character who has terrible eating habits (fast food, tons of candy, etc) on the show but is played by an incredibly thin actress, the message being sent is this: be thin, but do it magically. <br />
<br />
<br />
I have more of these somewhere...Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-30228057457647372282012-08-09T14:46:00.001-07:002012-08-09T14:46:13.609-07:00SpellcheckWords I cannot spell on the first try, ever, at all, never:<br />
<br />
proportion<br />
elaborate<br />
restaurant<br />
convenience<br />
<br />Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-38115085236352834822012-08-09T08:38:00.000-07:002012-08-09T08:38:00.104-07:00From LHA's Prompt: What do we fear most?<b id="internal-source-marker_0.12812041235156357" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Amazing author and extraordinary speaker <a href="http://madwomanintheforest.com/blog/">Laurie Halse Anderson</a> has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.</span></b><br />
<br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.12812041235156357" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A lot of people have themes that repeat in their dreams and mine is always the inability to see. Whatever strange scenario is being played out as I sleep, there is almost always an issue with my sight: I’m straining to see something in the distance but it’s blurry or I’m trying to focus on one thing and it keeps evading my eyes. It’s both frustrating and frightening in that dream state, but the real scare is when I wake up into my normal world of terrible, awful, no good sight. My biggest fear is getting to a state where my sight can no longer be corrected by contact or glasses. In short, I fear blindness. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some might stop here and ruminate on the beauty of the world and how it would be missed, or reflect on their loved ones faces and how not seeing them again would be a tragedy. Sure, sure, that’s all terrible, but that’s not why I fear what I do. It’s the complete and total loss of independence that terrifies me, the vulnerable position I’d be in that I desperately want to avoid. Without sight we are without our true free will. Were I not able to see, I could not live completely on my own or travel at will or escape other people and have any kind of isolated experience. There is an immediate dependence that comes with the loss of a sense, a knowledge that you are at the mercy of others that just terrifies me. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Women (and maybe men?) have a habit of discussing things they’d like to change about themselves, mostly to do with their physical beauty -- lose some weight, be taller, have nicer hair, etc. And that’s all well and good, but in all honesty I can lose some weight if I tried. I can dye my hair and buy some fancy shampoo. I can put on heels or break out my trusty step stool. The one thing I cannot change, that is not in my power to change, is my eyesight. So my one wish? 20/20 vision. </span></b>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-9030794085820134782012-08-07T08:30:00.000-07:002012-08-08T06:52:13.823-07:00Nostalgia as Condemnation<b id="internal-source-marker_0.4806267146486789" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Amazing author and extraordinary speaker <a href="http://madwomanintheforest.com/blog/">Laurie Halse Anderson</a> has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.</span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b>
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.4806267146486789" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I recently attended a panel discussion on children and technology, and had the unfortunate luck to sit next to an overbearing grandmother who spent most of the talk rocking violently in her seat, bursting with the need to expound on how SHE certainly didn’t grow up with technology, nor did her children, oh no no no, and they all had a perfectly lovely childhood so why do we need to RUIN childhood for children with all this confounded technology? I spent the panel being very angry with her, though I couldn’t quite pin down why. Why did it matter to me what this woman, whose name I didn’t even know, thought and felt about technology? Why did it affect me at all?</span></b><br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.4806267146486789" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This same feeling has plagued me during any conversation where reminiscing turns into condemning the present. I’m not talking about the “Oh, remember how we used to slide down the stairs in a sleeping bag?” or “I loved that one show, Dungeons and Dragons!” conversations, but rather the “Pfft, you’re too young to remember the good old days” and “Man, cartoons today suck! They were way better when I was a kid!” conversations. (FYI: no, they weren’t better. We loved them because we were 5. Watch them now. They’re weird as hell.) </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But why do these conversations make me grumpy? What is it about people talking about the past as a perfect time that drives me crazy and prompts me to defend the present like it’s my homeland or something? This is a question I’ve been grappling with for awhile now, and I think I’ve finally figured it out. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The attitude of Then vs Now is so troubling because it assumes that everyone’s childhood is not only the same, but also wonderfully idyllic. It implies that by not doing it as people did Back Then, that my generation is Doing It All Wrong (tm Chow.com). It assumes that anything that deviates from their version of childhood </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">isn’t valid</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> That anything </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">other</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is also </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">less than</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. And I find that disturbing for many reasons, but mostly because it narrows down what childhood can mean, and what it can encompass. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nostalgia as condemnation does not add to the conversation, and almost immediately negates any valid points the speaker might have. Not all things were better in that rosy past and they certainly weren’t better for everyone. Not all children grew up in a safe upper middle class suburb, and to act as though they did is to dismiss an entire population who might very well have benefited from those reviled changes. As John Green likes to say “The truth resists simplicity.” In fact, I’d argue that a fair amount of people in that past might wish they were living now, happily taking the annoying texting and bad-mannered cell phone use to also get the medical and household advances. <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/hans_rosling_and_the_magic_washing_machine.html">Washing machines</a> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for everyone!</span></b>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-37036780106051682122012-08-06T10:17:00.001-07:002012-08-06T10:40:04.714-07:00Where I Read<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Amazing author and extraordinary speaker <a href="http://madwomanintheforest.com/blog/">Laurie Halse Anderson</a> has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A series of mostly free verse poems about where I read, done for a project at work:</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Most books during childhood:</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Very late at night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Under covers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just one more chapter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hoping I don't get caught.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Wrinkle in Time:</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Old plaid chair<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a corner,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sort of smelly,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But all mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Covered in a blanket, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While my mother vacuums<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Outside my door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Order of the Phoenix:</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reading in a bed-nest<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Surrounded by down on all sides<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With water and chocolate close at hand<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preferably rainy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preferably cold<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preferably mid-morning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Half Blood Prince:</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On a burning summer day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wilting with heat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sneaking Harry Potter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While Dan falls asleep<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Deathly Hallows:</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A bit out loud,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A bit on the subway,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rest in an air-conditioned cocoon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With rainbow cookies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Now:</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read on the subway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait, was that my stop? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-89364966732694166732012-08-03T09:12:00.000-07:002012-08-06T10:14:05.324-07:00Oreo the Cat<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Amazing author and extraordinary speaker <a href="http://madwomanintheforest.com/blog/">Laurie Halse Anderson</a> has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.</i></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b>
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.11153901554644108" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My cat Oreo once licked tears off my face, about 4 years before we had to put her to sleep. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In middle school I had an intense crush on a boy named Sam. He was loud and funny and had a mop of brown hair on his head and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. He was cute in a pretty conventional way, but it was really the confidence and humor that got me. We knew each other casually, had some classes together, and probably had all of 5 conversations throughout 8th grade. But still, when the year ended and he announced he was moving 250 miles away to Houston, I was crushed. Crushed by a crush. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite the fact that we clearly didn’t have a close relationship nor were we destined to be together, I woke up on the first day of summer feeling incredibly melancholy. Oreo, at that time a fully grown cat in full possession of her sight, jumped up on my bed as she did every morning, sniffing around my head. On mornings that I was not awake when she arrived, she saw fit to nip at my forehead, right below my hair line. Not real bites, just tiny alarm clock bites. On this morning, she found me fully awake, laying on my side with my face snuggled into my pillow, crying quietly. While a sad girl might deny her siblings the pleasure of seeing her teary eyes, there is no way to ignore a purring, furry cat sniffing so closely that you can feel her whiskers against your cheek. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sliding my hand along her spine, I told Oreo my tale of woe: a boy I barely knew was moving away, and for some reason that reduced me to weeping. She didn’t judge, just listened and stared into my eyes as though she fully understood my middle school pain. Then she stood up, leaned in, sniffed some more, and whisked her scratchy velcro-y tongue against my face. One, two, three more times, little licks against the apples of my cheeks, which tickled me just enough to break me out of my sadness but not enough to make me fully laugh. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So when, four years later, I held a blind Oreo in my arms wrapped in my baby blanket, and passed her over to a vet for the last time, it’s no surprise that the tears flowed freely, nor did it escape my attention that she could no longer reach in, sniff my face, and lick them away. The realization, of course, only caused more of them to fall. </span></b></div>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-83498125662093573362012-08-02T12:34:00.000-07:002012-08-02T12:34:02.795-07:00WFMAD: Blinded by my desk<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Amazing author and extraordinary speaker <a href="http://madwomanintheforest.com/blog/">Laurie Halse Anderson</a> has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here. </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8918648122344166" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In a world where having a work space near a window is a sought after thing, a status symbol, I find it slightly ironic that I have to keep the blinds closed most of the time to be able to see my computer screen. I was assigned this seat next to the tall windows as a marker of my status in the department (window worthy, but not large cubicle worth or office worthy). Being able to look outside while I am ruminating on a particular problem or theorizing why it is that Elmo needs to find more songs to sing is certainly a nice perk. </span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The downside of working in New York City, however, is that you are often surrounded by buildings made of glass. And if you are lucky enough to be free from glass towers, you are probably surrounded by apartment buildings with a multitude of windows that are just as reflective. Reflecting the sun into those tall, tall windows of which I have the privilege of being near. Reflecting the sun right onto my bright white desk which, while certainly solid, does an amazing job acting as a mirror to direct the sun back into my eyes. And that white desk, while looking clean and sleek when we first arrived in our new offices, but looking much shabbier now that it is covered in coffee rings and streaks of nail polish that has rubbed off my nails as I sort paper, still manages to have enough clean surface to reflect enough sun to effectively blind me. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, after all the pomp and circumstance of achieving this desk position, this window-adjacent work area, this status-symbol-cubicle, I must stand on top of that nice white desk, grip the bottom of the nice white blinds, and pull them down to cover the entirety of those tall, tall windows. There goes the sun, there goes the view, here comes my ability to see my computer. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If this isn’t a first world problem (a NYC-centric problem) then I don’t know what is. </span></b>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-71875818893015263292011-01-26T12:02:00.001-08:002011-01-26T14:02:01.646-08:00Boys x Girls x Punk ShowsI recently read Lauren <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Denitzio's</span> <a href="http://ilivesweat.tumblr.com/post/2929328480/you-know-what-makes-me-feel-unsafe-lauren-denitzio">article</a> about sexism in punk (via a link posted in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Facebook</span>). Lauren is someone I know tangentially, and I've only ever had one or two conversations with her, but I found the article very interesting. She talks frankly about things that make her uncomfortable at shows, and most seem very obvious: rape jokes, questions about whether she is IN the band or WITH the band. One thing she mentioned is something I have been bothered by for years:<br /><span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">So, for those who might not know what I’m talking about: you know what makes me feel unsafe? When you’re the only guy in the pit who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">doesn</span>’t get the message to not fly full force into someone half your size or strength. </span></span><br /><br />I spent years being annoyed and feeling put upon because I had to hang out in the back if I wanted to watch a band unmolested. I felt affronted that I couldn't <span style="font-style: italic;">see</span> my brother or boyfriend perform because getting closer meant getting pushed around. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why should I have to deal with that?</span> I thought. So when I read Lauren's article, I felt myself nodding in agreement...and then I started really thinking about gender, privilege, alienation and entitlement. And I remembered 2 things.<br /><br />The first is Ali Carr's TED talk about how we're <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/ali_carr_chellman_gaming_to_re_engage_boys_in_learning.html">losing boys in the classroom</a>. She doesn't pander to gender stereotypes, but does acknowledge that there is a difference in the way majority of girls learn vs majority of boys. There has been a lot out there lately about "getting" boys, both in educational terms but also in marketing/sales terms. How to get boys to watch certain shows, read certain books, attend certain colleges. As a girl, it's hard not to bristle at all that -- are girls not worth the same effort? But that bristling stops when we talk about education, because Ali Carr is right. Boys deserve education that works <span style="font-style: italic;">with</span> them, not <span style="font-style: italic;">against</span> them. Has focusing on girls in education left boys out of the conversation? What implications does that have?<br /><br />The second thing that came to mind was a show I attended years ago at a random <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">AOH</span> hall in upstate New York. It was swarming with young kids, and I spent most of my time at the adjacent bar, happy to be out of the dancing mess. Wanting to watch a specific band, I slipped into the main hall, staying in the back as always, hoping to avoid the moshing and pushing that passed for dancing to teenage boys. As I stood watching them, though, I stopped feeling so put upon and judgmental and started to think about how amazing it must feel to those kids to be so physically liberated, to dance in a way that was socially acceptable to their peers, to move to a beat without having their sexuality called into question. To be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">un-ironically</span> into dancing.<br /><br />Fifteen-year-old boys are still very much figuring themselves out, pushing at boundaries, and the ability to be emotional and find their place in an environment tailor-made to them (a mosh pit full of noise and sweat and boy-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ness</span>) is nothing to scoff at. I remember thinking, <span style="font-style: italic;">This is why parents should let their sons come to shows...they get to really let go and bond in a way no other situation allows.</span><br /><br />So, then, I come back to Lauren's thoughts on being at a show, and I'm suddenly faced with a question: why does my preference on how I want to watch a band take precedent over someone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">else's</span>? If someone wants to dance, why should they be held back just because I don't want to dance? If a show is made totally comfortable for me, what happens if that alienates someone else, boy or girl? If boys are uncomfortable at a show that caters to girls then is that just a different side of the exact same coin? Is alienating boys a just revenge, or completely missing the point? And if the goal is to make everyone watching a band feel comfortable, what do you do when one group's "comfortable" is another group's "terrible show experience"?<br /><br />I mentioned the word <span style="font-style: italic;">entitlement</span>* up at the top because it's a concept that I find very frustrating and I am convinced is intimately involved in the discord in this country right now. My normal reaction to being near a mosh pit or violent dancing is simply to remove myself from the situation (this is my reaction to pretty much any situation I don't like). I'd rather hang out at the back, but I know not everyone feels that way. Is anyone entitled to a certain experience at a show? And, again, what happens when those "entitlements" are in direct conflict?<br /><br />Who needs a thesis topic? Entitlement and Gender at a Punk Show<br /><br />*In this sense, <span style="font-style: italic;">entitlement</span> refers to <span class="ssens">a belief that one is deserving of certain privilege. I am not programs such as Medicare, where the term carries slightly different connotations.<br /></span>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-29684110426376597572011-01-24T07:48:00.000-08:002011-01-24T07:52:54.642-08:00The Rules of OwnershipSo John Green, a favorite author of mine due to his great writing skills but also his great speaking skills and his great being-someone-you'd-like-to-have-a-beer-with skills, says a lot of really great stuff. One of his strengths as a writer is coming up with wonderfully short sentences that manage to convey infinite amounts of wisdom. Behold:<br /><br />“...being the person who God made you does not and CANNOT separate you from God's love.”<br /><br />See? Brilliant—that’s an entire religion in one sentence.<br /><br />One thing he said in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0pz5g5FP0g&feature=feedu">his video</a> today really struck me, because it’s something that I have felt and I have said in different ways, but not as eloquently and...you know...not in public. About his debut, Printz-winning novel, he said:<br /><br />“The <span style="font-style: italic;">Looking for Alaska</span> that you read is not quite like the <span style="font-style: italic;">Looking for Alaska</span> that anyone else reads.”<br /><br />In essence, the reader makes her own meaning, and, in a way, owns a story. This immediately made me think of a memory from my childhood, one that I feel defines me in a very precise way. The memory is about tornadoes, briefcases, bathrooms, and books. It has multiple endings, as most stories in life do, but the first one, chronologically, is the most applicable here.<br /><br />Tornadoes are a scary reality for anyone living in Nebraska and North Texas. Those residents know the hard-and-fast rule about where to go when those sirens go off: preferably a basement, but at the least an interior room with no windows. In Nebraska, we had a basement full of toys, so when an alarm would sound, we would gather in the room where my most precious possessions (i.e. the Pony Paradise Estate) already lived. In North Texas, however, basements were scarce and the only room in the house that offered protection from a storm was a small bathroom off the kitchen. Two adults and four children could barely fit in it, so the GI Joes and My Little Ponies had to take a backseat. The rule was: each child could choose one thing, and one thing only, to bring into the bathroom.<br /><br />It was during this period of my life that I stumbled on a book in the library called <span style="font-style: italic;">Kristy’s Great Idea</span> by Ann M Martin. I quickly fell, be-speckled-eyes first, in love with the Baby-Sitters Club series. I saved up allowance dollars and bought the books at book fairs, garage sales, and used bookstores. They topped my birthday and Christmas lists for years—especially the Super Specials, which were larger and more expensive. There was a four-foot horizontal shelf in my closet specifically reserved for the series, which quickly filled the space with its pastel rainbow. The collection was my pride and joy. I strutted around my room, secure in the knowledge that I could quickly name off the titles of the first thirty or so books. I kept them neat and dust free, always in order. I adored each one and never leant them to any one.<br /><br />When the sirens sounded, then, there was no doubt in my mind what was coming into that bathroom with me. Luckily, my father had recently traded his old briefcase in for a smaller and sleeker model. The old briefcase, with its tattered leather cover and brass combination locks next to the handle, became mine. In the minute and a half we had to scramble everything together, I could stack 60 books very neatly into that briefcase, snap the locks and haul it across the house. The bulk of the series fit into the main compartment, lined with worn down cream velvet, striped with pen marks. The Super Specials were lined up in the lid where partitions meant for organizing papers and files held them in quite snugly. I would pause for a moment before slamming the lid and admire the covers, the way they lined up in each stack to form a perfect grid of smooth, slick paper.<br /><br />I am sure my mother had actually meant for us to bring one small item in—a picture album, our baby blankets, or perhaps a small toy. I still maintain, as I did then, that the books were all enclosed in a briefcase, which is one item, and therefore was allowed.<br /><br />Looking back, I wondered why it never occurred to me that those books were just about the most replaceable items I owned. If a tornado did in fact rip through our house, tear our roof off, and destroy the contents of my closet, the cost to replace the entire series would be under $400.00. Today this seems like a rather paltry sum—less than the deductible on my renter’s insurance. At ten, however, that was more money that I had ever seen.<br /><br />I don’t think the money was really an issue, though. I doubt it even occurred to me that there was a way to replace the books. In my mind, the books that I owned were the only ones I <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> own. They were <span style="font-style: italic;">mine</span>, no force of nature had any right to take them away from me. I had marked in the margins, dog-eared the pages with my favorite passages, stamped a “This Book Belongs To” note in the inside cover of every single one. By being in my possession, they had become part of me, each book was not only the means by which I experienced the story, but part of the story itself. The way I read the story was imprinted on them—a little bit of me being left on every book I read. A newer, cleaner edition with whiter pages would not have the same familiarity, would not tell the story in the same way. Those books in the bookstore belonged to someone else, would be read by someone else and interpreted by someone else. I wanted <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> books, <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> stories. Those, to me, were truly irreplaceable.<br /><br />I no longer have those BSC books. They were lost to the attic or to yard sales after I grew out of them and moved on to such rich literary classics as Christopher Pike’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Remember Me</span> and Lois Duncan’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Stranger With My Face</span> (don't worry, my taste in books got better in college). That sense of ownership remained, however, and is probably a contributing factor to my very packed bookshelves. Once I love a book, how can I let it go? It’s mine, after all. All mine.Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-13063447239703503472011-01-05T06:45:00.000-08:002011-01-05T07:04:55.759-08:00New Year's Scream2011 is a weird year, there's no getting around it. All the "00" years seemed kind of cool because we were still in that "It's the new millennium!" excitement. You know: "I can't believe it's 2005!" Then 2010 came along, and it's such a nice number, so round and bouncy. Sure, it's kind of square but even so it seemed like a really partial number, an even keeled one. A number that could see all sides of an issue, wouldn't judge you, and would totally be willing to help you move that couch.<br /><br />And now it's over and it's...2011. You can't make funny New Year's glasses with it. It's a prime number, which either makes it very cool and exclusive, or the sad loser year that no one wants to hang out with. Either way, it's odd. (Ha ha. Sorry.)<br /><br />Looking down the barrel of this year from January is kind of intimidating. You know that scene in Home Alone (the first one) (great movie) where Kevin has his hands to his face and is screaming? The scream is actually in response to aftershave and therefore ripe for a metaphore about growing up, but that scene became representative of the whole movie, of Kevin's feelings about two burglars trying to break into his house and ruin his already-terrible Christmas. And it's how I feel right now, like I need a moment of unbridled screaming to calm myself before tackling the bear that is 2011.<br /><br />Like last year, I'm not doing resolutions this year but rather listing things I'm looking forward to/need to focus on.<br /><br />1) Women in Children's Media<br />I'm now the V.P. of an amazing organization, which means it's time to quit making excuses, put my big pants on, and get shit done. Those are all things I'm telling myself while I panic about how little I know about how to host media online.<br /><br />2) The Work Move<br />Our offices are shifting around inside our building, and it's going to put a strain on pretty much the entire company. This year will require a lot of patience, flexibility, and some really great noise-cancelling headphones.<br /><br />3) The Wedding<br />Anyone who had fun planning their wedding must have had a much bigger buget than we do, as I've spent the last 2 months either overwhelmed by guilt for how much we're spending or in a total panic that no one will have any fun because we aren't spending enough. A lot of deep breaths (and about 10 excel spreadsheets) will help. Also, I need to keep in perspective the best part of all this: marrying Dan.<br /><br />Also, I guess I should blog more. Or just write more. And start getting to work on time. And stop eating so many bagels. And run more. Train for a half marathon. Talk to my friends more. Clean the apartment more often and dust more than once a year. Call my mother weekly and talk to my siblings more and see my new nephew and be more organized and oh my God the closet shelf needs work and AHHHHHHHHHH. Hands on face!Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-53932490245576921882010-10-04T13:06:00.000-07:002010-10-15T07:45:17.400-07:00Toast and BananasIt is fall and I am upstate, driving west on Route 17. Mid-afternoon sunlight saturates the car, tumbling unfiltered from a brilliant blue sky that is trimmed at the bottom with riotous leaves: some still green, but most yellow, orange, and the deepest, darkest auburn red. I guide my boyfriend’s car—a very responsible sedan—off the highway and towards 208, checking my speed just as a 30-year-old who is more concerned about car insurance than looking cool should. At the stop sign, the car is silent for a moment as my iPod switches tracks, and in that pause I hover between present and past, between the time I am in now and those years I spent on these roads as my character was shaped and formed. The speakers open up and a pop punk song from high school spills out, filling the car as I make that hazardous left onto one of the most familiar roads I know.<br /><br />Suddenly, I am 17 and behind the wheel of the boxy, hopelessly dorky white LeBaron that my parents insisted on and that I was both embarrassed by and enamored of. It’s very hard to hate the vehicle that is your means to freedom and possibility, but it’s also very hard to love a practical white car with a thin blue and red stripe running along the length of it. It was just so <span style="font-style: italic;">wholesome</span>.<br /><br />My shift at the Bugle Boy clothing store—at the bottom of the social hierarchy that is life as an employee at the Woodbury Commons— is over and nothing else matters but getting to my best friend’s house. The night, the world, and my whole life unfurl in front of me as I round a bend and dive into a straightaway, and my entire body pulses with joy. It’s not the actual plans for the night that make my heart sing, but the possibility of what will be. This could be a night where <span style="font-style: italic;">something</span> actually happens, and to a suburban teen girl, the possibility of <span style="font-style: italic;">something</span> is everything.<br /><br />For a moment, self-awareness takes hold and I am fully alive to how young and fresh I am, how little I have lived and how much time I have ahead of me. My adrenaline spikes and giggles involuntarily escape from my lips and I am simply—and please forgive the cheese—high on life. I crank the volume knob, knowing the music can never be as loud as I need it. I want it to surround me and suffocate me, seeping in until it’s sweeping through my veins and coming out my pores. It should be so loud that I can’t hear myself belting out the words, so loud that my ribs vibrate to the bass line, so loud that the car can’t contain it and the music pours out through the cracks. If I could just make it loud enough, the song will overwhelm me and permanently infuse me with its magic.<br /><br />In the present, in my 30-year-old body, I wonder at the power music from adolescence has, its ability to transport you. I can feel the youth and naïveté of my younger self, that skin I shed years ago. I can reach out and touch it from enough of a distance that it seems sweet instead of sad. It makes me a little wistful—not enough to actually want to be 17 again, but enough to remind me how powerful music can be and how what you experience when you are young affects you in ways nothing ever will again. <br /><br />[I think I need to lay off dashes for awhile...]Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-51559348665614389572010-09-27T18:30:00.000-07:002010-09-27T18:36:25.517-07:00Next on the Life ListLife List #...er, I'm not sure because the list is at work and I'm at home: attend a TED conference.<br /><br />I mean, how amazing does <a href="http://conferences.ted.com/TEDWomen/">this</a> look??<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyN-VFxKrn3p9yPhVakyH3v9eKqjpCjKMrIt-ST7UnScq-edFWBHhS65DT8o6rhvaInvce2aHYRU9d682pK-nZkyiMt7zvNKDycM_BCsxV6GmwRTH_8QYLVhYfUhBNpCn5FjJ4jmw-UI/s1600/ted+women.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyN-VFxKrn3p9yPhVakyH3v9eKqjpCjKMrIt-ST7UnScq-edFWBHhS65DT8o6rhvaInvce2aHYRU9d682pK-nZkyiMt7zvNKDycM_BCsxV6GmwRTH_8QYLVhYfUhBNpCn5FjJ4jmw-UI/s400/ted+women.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521771399582701858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The price tag is a bit out of my reach, but there appear to be "watch parties" akin to those live broadcasts of the Opera that the Met has been doing lately. Until I have $2,200 burning a hole in my pocket, I'll make do with watching the talks in a movie theater.<br /><br />As always, thanks to <a href="www.mightygirl.com">Mighty Girl</a> for the Life List inspiration...Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-19878718781212973472010-09-14T19:19:00.001-07:002010-09-14T19:28:56.922-07:00Life list: Ride my bike to work? Check!Five things I learned while biking to work today:<br /><br />1) Safety before pride.<br />It really doesn't matter if you slide through that yellow light or beat out that cab if it leads to you getting squashed by a bus. There is no prize for getting to work 3 minutes early.<br /><br />2) NYC needs to put in some cross town bike paths in Manhattan.<br />The 20s and the 90s? Really? Nothing in between? That's like 70 blocks of heart-pounding, terror-filled, small margin of error bike riding. Give me just one lane somewhere in the 50s!<br /><br />3) Streets are safer than sidewalks.<br />Intimidating though they are, biking in the streets is still more predictable than going up on the sidewalk. Also, pedestrians don't have to roll down a window to yell at you.<br /><br />4) In NYC, there's even construction on the bike paths on the bridges.<br />And it requires a large van that forces everyone to dismount and walk their bikes, which always feels alien after having ridden for so long.<br /><br />5) I love riding my bike.<br />This sounds much more new-agey than I usually go, but I truly end up feeling at one with my bike while shooting through intersections and navigating around potholes.<br /><br />I may just make this a regular thing...until the sun starts setting at 5pm. But that means it's boot weather, which is a fair trade to me.Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-55433762714487148202010-08-12T10:12:00.000-07:002010-08-12T10:54:17.855-07:00Leave a Light On...Last night I had “Leave a Light On” by Belinda Carlisle stuck in my head, and it kept rattling around in my brain while I lay there, trying to sleep.<br /><br />That song reminds me of a video I saw when I was twelve. I had to endure the unique brand of religious torture that public school children of Catholic parents are subjected to: CCD class. Mine was a class of 10 middle school kids fervently trying to make sure that everyone knew how little we cared about religion, how cool and above it all we were.<br /><br />We watched a lot of lame videos, but for some reason the ending of this one stuck with me. It was a classically cheesy story in the vein of after school specials: a boy who seemed much older than me at the time—meaning he was probably 17—gets into a fight with his parents and decides to leave home. I remember that he left with just a backpack, and I thought, “That’s not nearly big enough to fit all my stuff.”<br /><br />At some point he decides that he misses his family and would like to return home. I think there might have been a priest involved, some kind of counseling. The boy calls his parents and ends up leaving a message on their answering machine (the kind with a tape—I miss those).<br /><br />The gist of his message was this: “I want to come home. I’m going to walk by the house tonight. If you want me to come home, leave the lamp in the living room window on. If it’s not on, I know to keep walking.” Cheesy, right?<br /><br />So, there he is on the top of his street, backpack slung over his shoulder. It’s dusk, and most houses on the block are dark. Except his—his house is lit up like Christmas, light blazing from every window. He walks to it and stands outside, drinking it in.<br /><br />And I, straining to remain cool and detached, was horrified to find myself crying.<br /><br />I still get a little misty-eyed when I think about the story. All those lights! They really wanted him home!<br /><br />Wonder if it’s on YouTube…Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-69412937463478712412010-07-17T21:03:00.000-07:002010-07-17T21:09:27.294-07:00ChipmunksOn a road trip with the fam, and we stopped the car on the side of the road to Estes Park, Colorado, which sits on the eastern edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. This little pull off is home to the sweetest and most polite chipmunks in the world. They run up to you, stand on their hind legs, place their little paws gently on your hands and take the food you've offered them.<br /><br />Seriously, I want them as pets. Here's what might just be the best picture ever.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbgtAqDtCLZtakXQvNXij36xZHsONm01PYoNIMwjubBMrSDPzzVBFzcrO0BBJhsQ_gnsQRYAIWIkT7exopYAnw7_9qsab2ksY8ZWlLIqp8huWntWNVdu81fqFAzuVqfQqnlbi9X7Vi5U/s1600/S7302513.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbgtAqDtCLZtakXQvNXij36xZHsONm01PYoNIMwjubBMrSDPzzVBFzcrO0BBJhsQ_gnsQRYAIWIkT7exopYAnw7_9qsab2ksY8ZWlLIqp8huWntWNVdu81fqFAzuVqfQqnlbi9X7Vi5U/s400/S7302513.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495093003624789394" border="0" /></a>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-38934329457882828662010-07-14T07:10:00.000-07:002010-07-14T07:21:42.666-07:00I think that the ability to publicly compare Obama to Hitler and Lenin without fear of government retribution completely invalidates the point of this billboard.<br /><br />After all, it wasn't so much their <span style="font-style: italic;">fiscal</span> policy that was the problem. I think it was the mass murders and the wars and the media control and the closing of the borders and the brutally violent repression of opposing ideas...and kind of the overall crazy-pants dictatorships that were the problem.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSbj1kHqygqbF92uJp7HnvWUodJz8QwgcdBuc4H5MJMjKrrhKe3N2vdDPTOxlsel4dEgTfFGBALUi2DwA0lsgevimJyKKJO0RACtnCLJt65BODtYRWO1UYUZNdnRTu0tV6ghwtNUfio8/s1600/obama+hitler+lenin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSbj1kHqygqbF92uJp7HnvWUodJz8QwgcdBuc4H5MJMjKrrhKe3N2vdDPTOxlsel4dEgTfFGBALUi2DwA0lsgevimJyKKJO0RACtnCLJt65BODtYRWO1UYUZNdnRTu0tV6ghwtNUfio8/s400/obama+hitler+lenin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493765226293204194" border="0" /></a>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-22007782549110417282010-06-08T13:16:00.000-07:002010-06-09T12:13:08.586-07:00America: College Drop Out of the World?You know that stereotypical happy jock character in popular culture? This kid, we'll call him Brad, was the king of high school. He was confident and nice and a bit incorrigible, did mediocre in class but amazingly well on the football field.<br /><br />Teachers always forgave Brad his transgressions because he was just so damn charming and funny. His main goals were playing a sport, dating girls, and getting drunk with his friends. He was all about having fun and enjoying himself. Brad sounds like a pretty cool dude, right?<br /><br />But then, as high school came to an end, Brad didn't really have much direction. Most of the kids who spent high school working hard and studying went off to great colleges, but Brad's grades left him no choice but a community college.<br /><br />Perhaps Brad quickly realized that he should put some effort into his education, right? No, he partied too much to actually learn anything, and didn't really get why he needed to take all those "dumb liberal arts" courses. Brad ended up dropping out and getting a low-wage job, maybe as a salesman in a sporting goods store or a similar position that requires charisma but not skill.<br /><br />Perhaps Brad worked really hard at this job and quickly advanced, right? No, Brad didn't really want any responsibility, and, anyway, he didn't really get how to use the computer system and didn't want to learn. He spent his free time hanging around, watching TV and amassing a pretty amazing empty beer bottle collection. But man, did he have some fun times.<br /><br />All the nerds coming home from college--and eventually from their high-earning jobs--kind of felt bad for him. All the confidence he had that his charisma would get him by, that he could continue to float on the good feelings people had about him, have finally bitten him in the ass, and he didn't even know it.<br /><br />Those kids, the ones who worked really hard in high school and college, went on to get jobs creating new software platforms, launching companies that change the way people do business, researching how to cure diseases, or being Steve Jobs.<br /><br />But what happened to Brad?<br /><br />Sometimes, I feel like America is Brad, with India and China looking at us with pity as their stringent academic standards allow their citizens to take over all the high-tech jobs. America had such potential after World War II, full of booming factories and a great education system. But in the intervening decades, the country has gone from sweet high school jock to over-confident college drop-out.<br /><br />Our academic standards are slipping, with some school districts tightening their belts and meeting budgets by <a href="http://wvgazette.com/News/201006040505">shortening the school week</a>. Forget not getting new books, or cramming too many kids in a room. There are schools where kids are losing entire DAYS.<br /><br />If we truly allow the education of our children to become such a low priority that days begin to fall off the calendar, that we'd rather invest in less taxes than a population that can find their country on a map, we're going to go from that over-confident yet low-paid college dropout to an illiterate migrant worker...working on Chinese and Indian farms.Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-14802199413997752852010-06-04T08:15:00.000-07:002010-06-04T08:51:21.584-07:00Fancy Pants and DressDan and I got all dressed up last night for our dinner at Babbo -- he in dress pants and a black and gray striped shirt, me in a dress with heels that aren't really logical for walking (but they have ruffles on them!). First thing I have to say is that they give you a large piece of really incredible Italian bread that they continually replenish throughout your meal. This should be industry-standard as far as I'm concerned.<br /><br />I did not take any pictures, but I did bring the menu home. Behold:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQw7VwnCi6cnONIYQwSGwj2ae70ITiq5aJp5hCuuPju2zGooa4QrQJVWJ_X018B9Htaf_4u3qd_dB4aQhqAKfuJiJ4KfibyHrUsz0YTUviPI_BKA2BUgwC-Qw7x1M8H65w797X1cxHLdA/s1600/KarenBabbo001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQw7VwnCi6cnONIYQwSGwj2ae70ITiq5aJp5hCuuPju2zGooa4QrQJVWJ_X018B9Htaf_4u3qd_dB4aQhqAKfuJiJ4KfibyHrUsz0YTUviPI_BKA2BUgwC-Qw7x1M8H65w797X1cxHLdA/s400/KarenBabbo001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478938402168776674" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As you can see, there's a lot of Italian on there. Here's my translation:<br /><br />COMPLIMENTS OF THE CHEF<br />(not on the menu)<br />Chick peas marinated in some kind of balsamic-y vinegar and oil with some herbs, sprinkled on top of tiny toasts.<br />Verdict: good<br /><br />FIRST COURSE<br />Sweet peas whipped into a tiny little cake-looking mold, covered in carrot vinaigrette with slices of duck meat laid next to it. I think this was one of the best examples of flavors melding together to blow your mind.<br />Verdict: very good<br /><br />Wine: a light white wine that was very, very good. And I don't even like white wine that much. Looks like I've been buying the wrong kind.<br /><br />SECOND COURSE<br />Wide pasta noodles with tiny mushrooms in a garlic, butter, and olive oil sauce with thyme sprinkled on top.<br />Verdict: OH MY GOD<br /><br />Wine: bolder white wine that felt like it was a touch carbonated. Good, not my fave.<br /><br />THIRD COURSE<br />Duck meat in folded pasta that looks kind of like tortellini, covered in red sauce that has been cooked with pancetta. Very bold sauce that also had a lot of oil in it.<br />Verdict: very, very good.<br /><br />Wine: really nice red wine, my favorite of the night.<br /><br />FOURTH COURSE<br />Small slices of steak covered in a sweet and sour sauce that actually tasted a bit like A1, sitting on roasted turnips and mushrooms.<br />Verdict: the steak was a little rarer than I usually like it, but it was all really amazing. Great sauce.<br /><br />Wine: really bold red, good but not what I would normally go with.<br /><br />FIFTH COURSE<br />Cheese! Goat cheese with peppercorns in it, with some fennel honey on the side. I love goat cheese, so this was perfect for me, though I am still kicking myself for not even noticing the little toasts on which to spread some cheese. I just ate it all with a fork.<br />Verdict: mmmmmm....<br /><br />Wine: Champagne. I normally don't really like champagne, but this stuff was amazing. Dan left the table for about 3 minutes after this course and I came thiiiiiiiiiis close to finishing his off.<br /><br />SIXTH COURSE<br />Dessert! A fig cooked with a wine reduction, served with marscapone cheese. The fig was good, but I was all about that cheese.<br /><br />Wine: our first dessert wine, a really sweet red. Not my thing. <br /><br />SEVENTH COURSE<br />More dessert! Hazelnut gelato covered in very, very good chocolate with a cherry in the center. Apparently this is a very traditional dessert in Italy.<br />Verdict: Would move to Italy to eat this more.<br /><br />Wine: white dessert wine, too sweet for me. Sweet wine makes me ill.<br /><br />EIGHTH COURSE<br />2 dessert: one from the tasting menu, and one a surprise from the chef.<br />Chestnut cake with a cherry sauce, some roasted nuts, and some kind of whipped cream on the side. The second <span style="font-size:100%;">was <strong style="font-weight: normal;">Saffron Panna Cotta with "Tre Agrumi" which is a panna cotta with orange sauce, pieces of grapefruit, and grapefruit sorbet.<br />Verdict: Both were incredible...but I'm all about the cherry stuff. <br /><br />Wine: peachy and appley dessert wine. Still not my thing.<br /><br />COFFEE<br />Dan got espresso while I got a decaf cappuccino and these came with biscotti and tiny cookies. The coffee was amazing, but I'm not a big fan of biscotti. I ate it all, though.<br /><br /><br />Final verdict? Great bread (I would go back just for more of that bread), good coffee, amazing food. Worth a month's wait for a reservation? Maybe. It's casual enough that you don't feel pressured to act perfectly, but it's still pretty damn fancy. I look forward to going again, but as far as becoming my "favorite" goes? Nah, I'm a casual girl, so I'd rather go to <a href="http://www.vestavino.com/">Vesta</a>.<br /><br />Sometimes, though, it's nice to get fancy.<br /></strong></span>Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-57630949244135109732010-05-17T10:49:00.000-07:002010-05-17T11:14:20.122-07:00Becoming a BikerMy last post was Feb 8th. That's just embarrassing.<br /><br />I spent this past Saturday riding a bike around Queens. My bike is an old Giant, rescued from the refuse pile and fixed up by my mechanically-inclined boyfriend. It’s not shiny or pretty, but the worn body makes it look like I’m much more of a biker than I am, like I’ve been riding for ages and know my way around the city’s bike lanes. Which I don’t, at all.<br /><br />The Giant is quite a step up from my first and second bikes, both of which were pink. My first had a white banana seat with pink polka dots on it that I absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">begged</span> my parents for, and thin white streamers coming out of the soft white handlebar covers. It was a single speed with pedal brakes, and I’m pretty sure it came from Target.<br /><br />The second bike, which I graduated to in Texas, was a pink ten-speed, though I never actually used the gears—I mean, I flipped the little switches, but couldn’t figure out what they did beside make it much harder to pedal. On this bike I moved up to handle brakes, and I remember the amazing feeling of coasting around corners in Texas, the hot air suddenly much cooler as it blew through my sweaty hair.<br /><br />The Giant is a city bike, covered in dings and with some of the paint peeling off. It’s the first bike I’ve owned that doesn’t have a kickstand but does have a lock attached to it. The grip tape is dingy and some of it has slipped off, but there is a light on the back that blinks for when I’m riding at night. I’ve become familiar enough with the gears to use them all, but I still need a little reminder on how they work (“Go UP for downhill, and DOWN for uphill,” I sing to myself).<br /><br />This it the bike I rode up and down the hills of New Paltz, through the busy streets of Park Slope, over the Pulaski Bridge from Queens to Brooklyn, and along Vernon Boulevard and the East River. This is the bike on which I rediscovered that wind-though-my-hair feeling, that freedom that comes from using your own human energy to propel yourself forward, and the feeling of coasting—which might just be the most delicious reward in the world.<br /><br />What I have been missing, up until now, is a helmet. Rest easy, Mom, I bought one.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHU9l99HIKAMtln7cn0zV88SBkM_m2lyAfpJ-io_TtWEvtWaRVotY3udDA2Y0Ae0WcPTZ9NI0BNPPA3wY1wKHMqJiKB3MxN4AnYpjAArfHqIvOS8z90eJF38t0r_LXScT7S1vEiatnLq8/s1600/helmet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHU9l99HIKAMtln7cn0zV88SBkM_m2lyAfpJ-io_TtWEvtWaRVotY3udDA2Y0Ae0WcPTZ9NI0BNPPA3wY1wKHMqJiKB3MxN4AnYpjAArfHqIvOS8z90eJF38t0r_LXScT7S1vEiatnLq8/s320/helmet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472303551892176034" border="0" /></a><br /><br />On the back it says “I love my brain.” I should add “and my bike.”Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-35686963442412747832010-02-08T20:38:00.000-08:002010-02-08T20:44:36.258-08:00Books in the AtticDue to a very long story, I was recently up in my parents' attic in Florida, digging through some old boxes of my books. My main goal was to rescue a few old copies of my Baby-Sitters Club books, but I stumbled on some old favorites as well, including:<br /><br />The Kid in the Red Jacket<br />Ramona Quimby, Age 8<br />Katie the Pest<br />The Boxcar Children<br /><br />I loved, loved, loved books with multiple children -- whether they were all main characters, like in Boxcar Children, or just the foil, as in Katie the Pest. Living with several siblings leaves you predisposed towards books like this, I guess.Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-23084675008113620302010-01-22T12:34:00.000-08:002010-01-22T12:45:49.813-08:00Life List, Part 5Part 5? Really? Hm...perhaps I need to stop spending time thinking up things to do and start spending time doing them. Which reminds me of what I keep telling myself recently: "Stop being so lazy."<br /><br />41. Go back to Finland in warmer weather<br />I visited Helsinki while I was studying abroad, but had the bad sense to do it in February. Even though I spent most of my time trying to get warm (except for the time in the sauna, when I was trying to not die), I was totally charmed by the city. It's somehow modern and quaint at the same time, and I image it would be an amazing vacation during summer.<br /><br />42. Go back to Prague with Dan<br />He was supposed to visit me when I was studying abroad, but his car burst into flames one day and effectively put an end to that plan. I'd like to go back and spend some time there without having to think about the paper that's due in my Media and Communications class.<br /><br />43. Own one amazing dress<br />At the moment I own about 5 mediocre dresses. I want one that takes my breath away. In my head it has a very full skirt.<br /><br />44. Own one pair of designer shoes<br />I'm not one for buying stuff just for the name, but I would like to own one pair of really special shoes.<br /><br />45. Throw a fancy-dress dinner party<br />For my 30th birthday, we all got drunk in a bar. I'd like to do something a bit classier, though I might have to wait until we move to an apartment that can accommodate more than 3 people at a table.<br /><br />46. Take a tour of the Library of Congress<br />How have I not done this??? I only live 5 hours away from it! I really need to make friends with someone who lives in or around DC.<br /><br />47. Take a tour of the White House<br />Apparently this is harder than just calling and making a reservation. It stays on the list, though, because it's not impossible.<br /><br />48. Visit Mount Rushmore<br />Sometimes I get all dreamy-eyed thinking about all the other countries I want to go to and all the things I want to see there, and I forget that we've got some pretty cool stuff here, too.<br /><br />49. Go to Montana<br />I've been to a lot of states in my life, but there's an entire swath that I haven't stepped foot in, and I'd like to change that. Plus, I imagine its really beautiful.<br /><br />50. Camp in Yellowstone<br />So long as I do it in the Montana section, I can hit 2 goals with one trip. Of course, after learning that Yellowstone is a GIANT VOLCANO, I might rethink this goal.Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-13483510679353598752010-01-21T14:28:00.000-08:002010-01-21T14:39:01.864-08:00Not enough distance...Kudos to <a href="http://www.pamie.com">Pamie</a> for having the courage to post her <a href="http://www.pamie.com/archives/2010/01/20-nov-1990.html">high school journal entries</a>. I was also fortunate enough (or...really...is it "unfortunate enough"?) to have rediscovered all my high school journals in a box at my parents' house.<br /><br />She has this to say about her vantage point:<br /><br /><blockquote>I don't know how many of you out there are fifteen..And know that in like, ten years you'll find these letters and it still won't be funny, and in like, fifteen years you'll find them again and someone will laugh and you will be like GET OUT OF MY ROOM, but right around the twenty year mark you might see a couple of these letters and be like, "Wow. Okay, maybe that one went a little too far."</blockquote><br />So...yeah, I'm just at the 15-year mark for most of what I wrote in high school, and it's still cringe-inducing enough that I can barely bare to read it, much less release it into the wilds of the internet. Maybe in five years my self-indulgent anger, ill-advised crushes, wandering poetry, and haughtily judgmental ramblings will seem charming.<br /><br />For right now, however, stay out of my room.Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1676925375473114757.post-59927102682456589122010-01-05T12:52:00.000-08:002010-01-05T13:08:33.260-08:00Things To Do In 2010You might recall (all 3 of you) that I have been posting pieces of my "Life List" (tm <a href="http://mightygirl.com/">Mighty Girl</a>) for the past few months. This post will be another list, but a much more short-sighted and immediate list: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Things To Do In 2010</span>.<br /><br />This is not a list of resolutions, because I don't really like making resolutions for the same reason I don't like giving things up at Lent: I tend to forget promises I've made to myself, then I do things/don't do things I promised to I wouldn't/would do, then I remember how I forgot, then I feel bad.<br /><br />I have a really good feeling about 2010. 2009 felt like a strange, twisted, hard, uncomfortable year -- a 365-day struggle to stay afloat. I'm happy to leave that all behind and look forward to what's up ahead. Perhaps the optimism has to do with the feeling of a new decade starting (I know, I know, it's actually the end of the last decade, no year 0, etc, but whatever: there's a zero on the end of it, it FEELS like a fresh start), or perhaps I'm actually redirecting my "I just turned 30" anxiety. Regardless, I'm excited.<br /><br />Things To Do In 2010<br />- run 2 1/2 marathons<br />- ride my bike to work one day<br />- see my brother get married<br />- go on a road trip with my family<br />- get my finances in order (I'm looking at you, small-but-annoyingly-hard-to-kill credit card debt)<br />- focus on creating amazing events for Women in Children's Media<br />- focus on saving money wherever and whenever possible<br /><br />Not exactly the most ambitious list, but who says everything has to be a list of goals? Can't we make a list of stuff we are really looking forward to, rather than a list of crap that we need to fix about ourselves?Life in Pennieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00549166232344292688noreply@blogger.com2