I'm listening to James Taylor's "Carolina In My Mind," and without fail, it still - every single time - brings a smile across my face. It still astounds me how much I've fallen in love with North Carolina and UNC. I don't even know how this happened, or why it endures. After 10 months here in NYC, I am glad that I have not completely reverted back to that city girl. I still have my inner Manhattan compass, and I no longer expect people to smile or say hi to me while walking down the sidewalk, but I still make an effort to talk to salespeople and cashiers, and hold the elevator if I see someone getting their mail. And when I go to NC in a week or two, I will, once again, be greeted with strangers striking up conversations at Starbucks or at the library, people smiling and saying hi at the park, running with my running group, and the slower, friendlier life in Chapel Hill. There is something about that that truly warms my heart, literally. It's funny, I kind of dread going down there, because I know it will be that much harder to come back to Manhattan.
Some things I want to do this summer:
- go to as many "movies and music on the green" as possible
- gluten be damned, eat my southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans at Top of the Hill
- sit on the rockingchairs at Maple View while eating homemade ice cream
- work on my thesis outside at the Carrboro Weaver St Market
- drink Diet Cheerwine ice cream floats and eat hush puppies (again, gluten be damned) from CookOut
- go to author events at Flyleaf and McIntyre's
- if I run into her, finally get my picture with Jill McCorkle at one of the events
- meet up with my MFA friends at NC State and UNCG
- go to a North Carolina BEACH!!!!! Would you believe I haven't been????
I can't wait.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
I am.
Ten years ago this weekend I graduated from college. Wow. In some ways, it feels like I have lived several lifetimes since then, and in other ways, it feels like it was just yesterday. Ten years ago, the night before graduation, we all got back our letters to ourselves that the school had us write, on a college notecard, the first night we got there. And then I proceeded to get drunk, along with the rest of my class and our families, in the tent party the school threw for us. I remember it as a good night, and I have the pictures to prove it.
Ten years ago, I thought, at the ripe old age of 21, that I had my life figured out. I was ahead of the game. Only 21 and heading to a doctoral program in clinical psychology, I actually had "Jaime's Life Plan" written out. I swear. Little did I know.
Back then, I was consumed with the need to avoid making "the wrong choice." Like my life would take an irreversible turn if I did. I had no idea that some of those "wrong choices" would ultimately show me what I was and wasn't good at, and where my passions were.
I had no idea that the surgery I would have on my foot two days later would be the first of three, and result in chronic pain.
I had no idea that my biggest fear at that time would ultimately come true - I would not be a doctor, ever. And I am finally okay with that. Although I admit, I envied the doctoral robes I saw graduates carrying around here, with those velvet arm stripes.....
I didn't know that I would lose an aunt and a cousin, or gain a nephew, in the next decade. I never would have thought I would lose friends to cancer or see many more live with it.
I never imagined I'd learn to think of myself as an adopted Southerner, or grow to dislike New York.
I'd have scoffed if you told me I'd still be single. But when I see my old friends and those who are significantly younger than me move to their second - and even third - marriages, I am glad that I am waiting to marry. I only want to do it once.
I would have laughed if you told me that eventually, I'd get to be what I'd always wanted to be, but never thought was practical - a writer.
At 21, I thought I knew it all - as most people in their early 20s do. At 31, I'm beginning to realize that I may just be starting to learn what's most important. I am growing into myself. I know what I want in life. I also realize that I may not be able to "have it all," as we were told we could in the 80s. I have struggled more than I imagined, and for longer than I expected. But I have also started to listen to that voice inside that says, to quote Sylvia Plath, "I am, I am, I am."
I think that's called growing up.
There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning. - Louis L'Amour
Ten years ago, I thought, at the ripe old age of 21, that I had my life figured out. I was ahead of the game. Only 21 and heading to a doctoral program in clinical psychology, I actually had "Jaime's Life Plan" written out. I swear. Little did I know.
Back then, I was consumed with the need to avoid making "the wrong choice." Like my life would take an irreversible turn if I did. I had no idea that some of those "wrong choices" would ultimately show me what I was and wasn't good at, and where my passions were.
I had no idea that the surgery I would have on my foot two days later would be the first of three, and result in chronic pain.
I had no idea that my biggest fear at that time would ultimately come true - I would not be a doctor, ever. And I am finally okay with that. Although I admit, I envied the doctoral robes I saw graduates carrying around here, with those velvet arm stripes.....
I didn't know that I would lose an aunt and a cousin, or gain a nephew, in the next decade. I never would have thought I would lose friends to cancer or see many more live with it.
I never imagined I'd learn to think of myself as an adopted Southerner, or grow to dislike New York.
I'd have scoffed if you told me I'd still be single. But when I see my old friends and those who are significantly younger than me move to their second - and even third - marriages, I am glad that I am waiting to marry. I only want to do it once.
I would have laughed if you told me that eventually, I'd get to be what I'd always wanted to be, but never thought was practical - a writer.
At 21, I thought I knew it all - as most people in their early 20s do. At 31, I'm beginning to realize that I may just be starting to learn what's most important. I am growing into myself. I know what I want in life. I also realize that I may not be able to "have it all," as we were told we could in the 80s. I have struggled more than I imagined, and for longer than I expected. But I have also started to listen to that voice inside that says, to quote Sylvia Plath, "I am, I am, I am."
I think that's called growing up.
There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning. - Louis L'Amour
Monday, May 14, 2012
does breastfeeding suck? (pun intended)
Okay. I'm sorry, this is going to be a rant. It's just bad timing that it's coming off Mother's Day weekend, and I'm sure not everyone will like this. But here goes.
By now, most people have seen the now-infamous TIME magazine cover with the 3-year old breastfeeding, and the cover line of "Are you mom enough?" First, let's just acknowledge that if you've actually read the article, it's more about attachment parenting and Dr.Sears - which really illustrates that the title is merely incendiary and targets women and perpetuates the divides among women and mothers. Attachment parenting is PARENTING - which includes fathers. So why is there only a breastfeeding mother on the cover? And why doesn't it say "Are you parent enough?" Just things to ponder. Women are already judged for every little decision they make about parenting - choosing to be a parent, choosing NOT to have children, choosing to be a single parent, adopting instead of biological kids, doing fertility treatments, working outside the home, putting kids in daycare...it never ends. Mothers are damned if they do and damned if they don't.
People are decrying this cover as so offensive and controversial....um, women's bodies are objectified and sexualized all the time in the media. Hello, Hooters? Maxim magazine? Almost any major TV show?
In my maternal-child health program, breastfeeding was seen as paramount. And yes, I've read the data. It's healthy. Breast is best. We get it. There was a professor who thought it was "every woman's duty" to breastfeed, and once said there is no reason why every woman shouldn't breastfeed. Well, to be honest, I wasn't breastfed. I think I turned out okay. All my limbs are intact, my IQ is up there on the charts, and I have graduate degrees. I think for all intents and purposes, not being breastfed hasn't hurt me.
Choosing to breastfeed OR NOT is a personal, individual decision. Women may not be able to because of mastitis, or work demands, or whatever - we don't know. Mothering is hard enough without being made to feel guilty about your choices on breastfeeding.
For me personally, even though my logical mind and all the knowledge I have tells me to breastfeed for the recommended year by AAP, I doubt I will last more than a month, when the time comes. To be perfectly blunt, I think I would feel like a cow being milked. I have NO PROBLEM with breastfeeding. It doesn't bother me to see it - every mom I've nannied for has breastfed in front of me, and I don't get offended or anything. It's what bodies are made to do. At any rate, I posted something on Facebook, and I pretty much explained my stance - I didn't understand why the cover is so scandalous, and in the comments, I explained that for me personally, I don't agree with the concept of breastfeeding past the first year, and I don't think breastfeeding will be what I choose. Well. Scandal. I wasn't saying other women were wrong, I was just saying I don't always agree. I'm not going to tell a woman they're doing anything "wrong" - hey, if it works for them, great. Breastfeed your kid til they're 10, I don't care. I just don't agree. And hey, there are actually a lot of articles that examine the idea that breastfeeding ISN'T all it's been said it is. There's a lot we don't know. I get my data from AAP. Some women get their data from nurse practitioners or mommy bloggers. And that's fine. You get your data, I'll get mine, and we each form our own approaches to parenting. What's the big deal?
One of my friends from college mentioned something to the effect of "maybe when you're a mother you may feel differently." Back the fuck up. First, I find that incredibly condescending, even if it wasn't meant to be that way. I've taken care of children and infants and newborns. I want almost nothing more than to be a mom. I have an MPH in maternal-child health, for Christs sake. I've thought long and hard about breastfeeding; it's not something I came up with on a whim. I plan to go back to work, and for me personally, I just don't think breastfeeding is for me. So yeah, I'm not sure I'll feel differently. In fact, I doubt it.
So you know what, Sanctimommies? (And I'm not saying this friend is a Sanctimommy - but other Facebook friends certainly have posted things on their pages that indicate that they are). How about we stop judging different kinds of mothering/parenting and realize women are in this together? Parenting is hard stuff - the last thing a woman wants is to feel ostracized on the playground or at Mommy and Me because her infant isn't hanging off her breast.
Whew.
On another note, a friend posted an article from salon.com yesterday, entitled "Why I Hate Mother's Day," by Anne Lamott - who is a mother and grandmother. She writes about how the holiday perpetuates the idea that individuals who are parents are more important than those who are not parents. And honestly, as a 31 year old who is not a parent yet, it feels like there is more than a kernel of truth to that. Kind of like how Carrie on Sex and the City says in one episode that there are no showers for those who are single - but there are wedding showers, baby showers...but no celebrations for other life choices/circumstances. I do think things have gotten better in some ways - Mother's Day should be a day where you celebrate all women who have mothered a child, even if they're not a mother. But we have a long way to go. It was just a really interesting article.
Anyway. I just had to get all that out. It's been bothering me. d
By now, most people have seen the now-infamous TIME magazine cover with the 3-year old breastfeeding, and the cover line of "Are you mom enough?" First, let's just acknowledge that if you've actually read the article, it's more about attachment parenting and Dr.Sears - which really illustrates that the title is merely incendiary and targets women and perpetuates the divides among women and mothers. Attachment parenting is PARENTING - which includes fathers. So why is there only a breastfeeding mother on the cover? And why doesn't it say "Are you parent enough?" Just things to ponder. Women are already judged for every little decision they make about parenting - choosing to be a parent, choosing NOT to have children, choosing to be a single parent, adopting instead of biological kids, doing fertility treatments, working outside the home, putting kids in daycare...it never ends. Mothers are damned if they do and damned if they don't.
People are decrying this cover as so offensive and controversial....um, women's bodies are objectified and sexualized all the time in the media. Hello, Hooters? Maxim magazine? Almost any major TV show?
In my maternal-child health program, breastfeeding was seen as paramount. And yes, I've read the data. It's healthy. Breast is best. We get it. There was a professor who thought it was "every woman's duty" to breastfeed, and once said there is no reason why every woman shouldn't breastfeed. Well, to be honest, I wasn't breastfed. I think I turned out okay. All my limbs are intact, my IQ is up there on the charts, and I have graduate degrees. I think for all intents and purposes, not being breastfed hasn't hurt me.
Choosing to breastfeed OR NOT is a personal, individual decision. Women may not be able to because of mastitis, or work demands, or whatever - we don't know. Mothering is hard enough without being made to feel guilty about your choices on breastfeeding.
For me personally, even though my logical mind and all the knowledge I have tells me to breastfeed for the recommended year by AAP, I doubt I will last more than a month, when the time comes. To be perfectly blunt, I think I would feel like a cow being milked. I have NO PROBLEM with breastfeeding. It doesn't bother me to see it - every mom I've nannied for has breastfed in front of me, and I don't get offended or anything. It's what bodies are made to do. At any rate, I posted something on Facebook, and I pretty much explained my stance - I didn't understand why the cover is so scandalous, and in the comments, I explained that for me personally, I don't agree with the concept of breastfeeding past the first year, and I don't think breastfeeding will be what I choose. Well. Scandal. I wasn't saying other women were wrong, I was just saying I don't always agree. I'm not going to tell a woman they're doing anything "wrong" - hey, if it works for them, great. Breastfeed your kid til they're 10, I don't care. I just don't agree. And hey, there are actually a lot of articles that examine the idea that breastfeeding ISN'T all it's been said it is. There's a lot we don't know. I get my data from AAP. Some women get their data from nurse practitioners or mommy bloggers. And that's fine. You get your data, I'll get mine, and we each form our own approaches to parenting. What's the big deal?
One of my friends from college mentioned something to the effect of "maybe when you're a mother you may feel differently." Back the fuck up. First, I find that incredibly condescending, even if it wasn't meant to be that way. I've taken care of children and infants and newborns. I want almost nothing more than to be a mom. I have an MPH in maternal-child health, for Christs sake. I've thought long and hard about breastfeeding; it's not something I came up with on a whim. I plan to go back to work, and for me personally, I just don't think breastfeeding is for me. So yeah, I'm not sure I'll feel differently. In fact, I doubt it.
So you know what, Sanctimommies? (And I'm not saying this friend is a Sanctimommy - but other Facebook friends certainly have posted things on their pages that indicate that they are). How about we stop judging different kinds of mothering/parenting and realize women are in this together? Parenting is hard stuff - the last thing a woman wants is to feel ostracized on the playground or at Mommy and Me because her infant isn't hanging off her breast.
Whew.
On another note, a friend posted an article from salon.com yesterday, entitled "Why I Hate Mother's Day," by Anne Lamott - who is a mother and grandmother. She writes about how the holiday perpetuates the idea that individuals who are parents are more important than those who are not parents. And honestly, as a 31 year old who is not a parent yet, it feels like there is more than a kernel of truth to that. Kind of like how Carrie on Sex and the City says in one episode that there are no showers for those who are single - but there are wedding showers, baby showers...but no celebrations for other life choices/circumstances. I do think things have gotten better in some ways - Mother's Day should be a day where you celebrate all women who have mothered a child, even if they're not a mother. But we have a long way to go. It was just a really interesting article.
Anyway. I just had to get all that out. It's been bothering me. d
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
writing block.
I just made some blueberry coffee, thanks to my Keurig - which has been a LIFE SAVER this semester. I am bringing it with me for my summer in NC, because I start to get separation anxiety when I think about not having the option to make coffee anytime I want. No doubt this will not help my insomnia tonight....I was up until almost 5am last night, and haven't really been able to go to sleep much before 2 or 3 for a good week and a half, two weeks now. I think maybe the stress of the end of the semester, the stress of the upcoming summer and my finances (or lack thereof), finding a job, thesis topics, writing, feeling like I need to Publish Something Amazing Now, etc, is not helping things and sending my bodily clock into confused circles.
Columbia is prepping the campus for graduation, we got an email about how the School of the Arts is locked down for a night next week so the Secret Service can sweep it for Obama's visit for Barnard's commencement, and undergrads and graduate students are showing their families around Morningside Heights and campus, giddy with what their next plans are (and quaking in their flipflops about paying back loans - oh, sorry, that's just me). I have been combing Craigslist for jobs, posted a thing about nannying, and applied for several jobs that ACTUALLY make use of my MPH. Who knew? Although to be honest, all I really want to do is go back to the bookstore. It was a community there, and I knew our customers, and loved interacting with the authors that would come to the store for readings. I loved chatting with the publishing reps, reading ARCs and getting to be around books all day. Sigh.
Last night was my party with my Narrative Medicine class, and a little more than half the class was there, and I had a great time, even if it WAS in Brooklyn. I survived the trip to the outer borough, and actually really liked it. I had a wonderful time at the party, and I have to say, I am really going to miss them. We're trying to put together a writing group in the fall, so hopefully this is not the end.
I haven't written in over a week. This is not good. I've just been so tired and, in my defense, I've been reading a lot. I've sold a lot of books back to the indie bookstore near my house, and gotten more, and then sold THOSE back, and with the credit, gotten more, etc. It's kind of cool that I can do that. The owner of the store is well acquainted with my reading habits, and just laughs when I bring my bag of books in.
I know I should start writing - just getting pages down, just putting my butt to the chair and pen to paper, but it's overwhelming, and this feeling of being overwhelmed paralyzes me and makes me just want to lay on the couch and think, or read. I don't think this bodes well for the summer.
Columbia is prepping the campus for graduation, we got an email about how the School of the Arts is locked down for a night next week so the Secret Service can sweep it for Obama's visit for Barnard's commencement, and undergrads and graduate students are showing their families around Morningside Heights and campus, giddy with what their next plans are (and quaking in their flipflops about paying back loans - oh, sorry, that's just me). I have been combing Craigslist for jobs, posted a thing about nannying, and applied for several jobs that ACTUALLY make use of my MPH. Who knew? Although to be honest, all I really want to do is go back to the bookstore. It was a community there, and I knew our customers, and loved interacting with the authors that would come to the store for readings. I loved chatting with the publishing reps, reading ARCs and getting to be around books all day. Sigh.
Last night was my party with my Narrative Medicine class, and a little more than half the class was there, and I had a great time, even if it WAS in Brooklyn. I survived the trip to the outer borough, and actually really liked it. I had a wonderful time at the party, and I have to say, I am really going to miss them. We're trying to put together a writing group in the fall, so hopefully this is not the end.
I haven't written in over a week. This is not good. I've just been so tired and, in my defense, I've been reading a lot. I've sold a lot of books back to the indie bookstore near my house, and gotten more, and then sold THOSE back, and with the credit, gotten more, etc. It's kind of cool that I can do that. The owner of the store is well acquainted with my reading habits, and just laughs when I bring my bag of books in.
I know I should start writing - just getting pages down, just putting my butt to the chair and pen to paper, but it's overwhelming, and this feeling of being overwhelmed paralyzes me and makes me just want to lay on the couch and think, or read. I don't think this bodes well for the summer.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
cost/benefit
I turned in my last paper of the year around 1am this morning and I have a meeting about another paper tomorrow at 1pm. And then I am done. Well, not really, since, as my workshop professor said, "Summers are not for relaxing anymore. Summers are for writing." Writers need to read, and my summer will be full of reading and writing, just producing pages and pages, some of which will be good and some of which will suck. As long as I keep writing.
A fellow writer in the program here wrote on his Facebook page that the cost of his first year here is equivalent to that of a Porsche 911. ouch. And depressing.
It is hard not to get depressed here if you're a student. An art student, at that. New York is for the very young and the very rich, as Joan Didion paraphrased in her essay "Goodbye to All That," and she is correct. The city was great when I was 23 and charging exorbitant amounts on my credit cards. But now I am paying it back and the city - and its resulting costs of living - has lost its luster. I knew this coming into it, which is why I was kicking and screaming, moving here. Was it worth it? Begrudgingly, yes. My professors have been amazing, I have found a few that I really admire and want to BE when I grow up, and the guidance here has been great. I enjoy what I am doing - sometimes I honestly think, seriously? I can actually WRITE for a living? But I'd be lying if I said I didn't get nauseous when I think that my rent could be a mortgage on a house in Chapel Hill. Or rent in Southern Village in one of the amazing lofts. Or that I don't lie awake at night, dreading when the Columbia loans come out of deferment. But I made these choices when I decided to come here, and I need to see it as an investment. I have to believe it will pay off. Maybe that's naive, maybe it's foolish, but it's what I have to do.
A fellow writer in the program here wrote on his Facebook page that the cost of his first year here is equivalent to that of a Porsche 911. ouch. And depressing.
It is hard not to get depressed here if you're a student. An art student, at that. New York is for the very young and the very rich, as Joan Didion paraphrased in her essay "Goodbye to All That," and she is correct. The city was great when I was 23 and charging exorbitant amounts on my credit cards. But now I am paying it back and the city - and its resulting costs of living - has lost its luster. I knew this coming into it, which is why I was kicking and screaming, moving here. Was it worth it? Begrudgingly, yes. My professors have been amazing, I have found a few that I really admire and want to BE when I grow up, and the guidance here has been great. I enjoy what I am doing - sometimes I honestly think, seriously? I can actually WRITE for a living? But I'd be lying if I said I didn't get nauseous when I think that my rent could be a mortgage on a house in Chapel Hill. Or rent in Southern Village in one of the amazing lofts. Or that I don't lie awake at night, dreading when the Columbia loans come out of deferment. But I made these choices when I decided to come here, and I need to see it as an investment. I have to believe it will pay off. Maybe that's naive, maybe it's foolish, but it's what I have to do.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
i can see the end.
One paper and one meeting stand between me and my summer. By 2pm on Thursday, it will all be over, except for the party on Monday my Narrative Medicine class is having, in Brooklyn. (My first trip to Brooklyn! Break out the hipster-wear!). I miss my NM class already - they were a great group of people, but some of us want to put together a writing group, and hopefully this will come to fruition. I mean, where else can I go to class, laugh until my stomach hurts, share my writing, have a friend bring me gluten-free Angry Birds gummies, and have a classmate try to set me up with her nephew's friend? (we're still working on that one). It was a rough semester personally, and that class helped make it so much better. I'm kind of dreading next semester, when I don't have that reprieve of a Narrative Medicine class.
My Narrative Med prof recommended Alison Bechdel's books, and her new one is called "Are You My Mother?" I've never read Bechdel before - she's a graphic novelist, and I usually find graphic novels too distracting, oddly. But lately everyone has been talking about this book - people in the NM class, people in the MFA program - so I figured I'd give it a shot. I was going to see the author at B&N but decided to do laundry instead. Such a glamorous life I lead. But seriously, the kid's book of the same name, was like, my favorite book ever when I was a kid. I remember holding it in my stroller. At least, I think I do. Hopefully it's worth the read.
I sold back a bunch of books today and got some new ones for the summer....very excited about that. "Ordinary Genius," by Kim Addonizio; "Girls in White Dresses," by Jennifer Close; and "Birds of Paradise," by Diana Abu-Jaber. Now if only I could stay awake to read them.....
My Narrative Med prof recommended Alison Bechdel's books, and her new one is called "Are You My Mother?" I've never read Bechdel before - she's a graphic novelist, and I usually find graphic novels too distracting, oddly. But lately everyone has been talking about this book - people in the NM class, people in the MFA program - so I figured I'd give it a shot. I was going to see the author at B&N but decided to do laundry instead. Such a glamorous life I lead. But seriously, the kid's book of the same name, was like, my favorite book ever when I was a kid. I remember holding it in my stroller. At least, I think I do. Hopefully it's worth the read.
I sold back a bunch of books today and got some new ones for the summer....very excited about that. "Ordinary Genius," by Kim Addonizio; "Girls in White Dresses," by Jennifer Close; and "Birds of Paradise," by Diana Abu-Jaber. Now if only I could stay awake to read them.....
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
retail therapy.
I don't know why I've been blogging/posting so much lately. Probably because I need to procrastinate. We're all a little manic right now, as evidenced by tonight's writing workshop and subsequent dinner/drinks with the professor. (In which I had two margaritas....I hate tequila, so my solution is just to gulp. Brilliant, right?). Workshop was filled with tangential conversations and uncontrollable fits of giggling, along with over-caffeinated, overtired, under-rested stressing over papers and work. I think once everything of mine is turned in, and all my conferences are over, I just want to curl up with my UNC fleece blanket and sleep for a week. And then go to Nellie's party that she's throwing for our class. And then I have to figure out my summer. Did you know ONE in TWO current or recent graduates is unemployed or underemployed? This little nugget of information came across my Twitter feed this morning.....makes me feel VERY reassured that I am getting that oh-so-important MFA, right? I comfort myself with the thought that at least I will be doing something I love, and combining all my experiences together to make something good. Surely that must count for something, right?.....right? I'm not sure Sallie Mae, Citibank and Nelnet would agree, though. They kind of like their monthly payments. In cash, not smiles and happiness.
ANYWAY. My point to posting? I love monograms. When I lived in NC, I was in heaven, because if there's anything Southern preppies love, it's monograms. (And Top-Siders. And unironic popped collars. And Jack Rogers.). Hell, people monogrammed their cars. Which is a little much for me. I'll stick with my LL Bean totes and the occasional oxford, thanks. But I have a weakness for monogrammed jewelry, and apparently it's become popular. (Which I didn't know when I ordered my necklace at the end of December, but now they're popping up on blogs everywhere). In my procrastination, I often stumble across fun websites. Moon and Lola make really cute monogrammed necklaces, and they're from North Carolina, which makes me want to like them, but my pink necklace broke. I have to say, they replaced it for free, although now the chain isn't right - but they want me to send it back and are very considerate and want to make things right. I also found BaubleBar, and they have necklaces that are a little bit less expensive than M&L. And, they have metal monogram pendants that are cheaper....and in rose gold. I am a sucker for rose gold. I am eyeing this piece for my birthday.....even though my birthday is in December. And if you sign up for emails, you get $10 off your order. I think this could be a great "you had a great first year of art school" present, too, don't you think? ;)
I'd also like to mention the passing of Adrienne Rich, the poet. She died late last month, and it truly was the end of an era. I remember she came to Muhlenberg one year, and I went to see her. Her poetry is beautiful, as is her prose, especially "Of Woman Born," a book about womanhood and motherhood. My favorite poem of hers is "Diving into the Wreck," and it may be one of her best known poems. Here are some lines from it:
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
ANYWAY. My point to posting? I love monograms. When I lived in NC, I was in heaven, because if there's anything Southern preppies love, it's monograms. (And Top-Siders. And unironic popped collars. And Jack Rogers.). Hell, people monogrammed their cars. Which is a little much for me. I'll stick with my LL Bean totes and the occasional oxford, thanks. But I have a weakness for monogrammed jewelry, and apparently it's become popular. (Which I didn't know when I ordered my necklace at the end of December, but now they're popping up on blogs everywhere). In my procrastination, I often stumble across fun websites. Moon and Lola make really cute monogrammed necklaces, and they're from North Carolina, which makes me want to like them, but my pink necklace broke. I have to say, they replaced it for free, although now the chain isn't right - but they want me to send it back and are very considerate and want to make things right. I also found BaubleBar, and they have necklaces that are a little bit less expensive than M&L. And, they have metal monogram pendants that are cheaper....and in rose gold. I am a sucker for rose gold. I am eyeing this piece for my birthday.....even though my birthday is in December. And if you sign up for emails, you get $10 off your order. I think this could be a great "you had a great first year of art school" present, too, don't you think? ;)
Also, in honor of my first year of art school almost being over, I'd like to return to something I posted at the beginning of the year. Sadly, life at Dodge Hall is not like this, but even now, sitting outside at a table, writing, I wonder what would happen if students spontaneously started singing and dancing on the steps. I would die. OF HAPPINESS.
I'd also like to mention the passing of Adrienne Rich, the poet. She died late last month, and it truly was the end of an era. I remember she came to Muhlenberg one year, and I went to see her. Her poetry is beautiful, as is her prose, especially "Of Woman Born," a book about womanhood and motherhood. My favorite poem of hers is "Diving into the Wreck," and it may be one of her best known poems. Here are some lines from it:
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
Monday, April 23, 2012
dating: another word for hell.
Ah, yes. Online dating. Never fails to take my faith in humanity down a notch or two. Today I got a message from a guy that said, "Nice body, babe." Disgusted, I looked at his profile, and on it, he said that "we all know women are shallow and superficial" and they only care about looks, so why bother pretending? (Oh, and apparently, he's got the looks). This is who is attracted to me. I sent him a concise email explaining that mature women with more than a brain cell or two generally appreciate a different kind of initial email. And then I blocked him. sigh. I am thinking I should just put this on any future dating profile:
“Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”
(taken from http://themonicabird.com/post/3273155431/date-a-girl-who-reads-date-a-girl-who-spends-her)
Sunday, April 22, 2012
last year.
Yesterday marked a year since my car accident. I think that was the scariest day of my life. I was sitting at a stoplight, on the phone with my dad, when suddenly a car plowed into the back of my Jeep at 45 mph, pushing me into the car in front of me. He never stopped. Turns out he had had cataract surgery the day before and just wasn't paying attention to driving. I don't remember my face hitting the wheel (yes, I was wearing my seatbelt), but I do remember my BlackBerry flying out of my hand and screaming. My poor dad had no idea what was going on. He thought I was getting carjacked. The phone had slid under the passenger seat, and a Good Samaritan helped me out of my car. My nose was bleeding, my shins were already starting to bruise, were cut and sore, my whole body was shaking from shock.....I realized I needed to find my phone, and told my dad what had happened, then I called my mom and my brother. I think I was crying - but I remember very clearly thinking, shit. I cannot afford this right now. My car was so smashed up that it had to be towed, and the policeman took me to the hospital ER. We found my license plate bent in half under another car - the impact had ripped it right off. Long story short, I had no concussion, my shins were nicely bruised, I needed an MRI to see if my calf muscle had been torn because I was in so much pain, and I wound up with a bruise the entire length of my calf that took weeks to go away. I still have an indentation on my calf muscle that might take even longer to fade. Of course I made the requisite jokes that I felt like I got hit by a truck, which no one but me found funny.
I still sit at stoplights and make sure the person behind me is slowing down. For weeks afterward, in my rental car, I'd panic at stoplights. I hated driving. Unlike the accident in FL, when I *saw* the guy 2 cars behind me not slow down and braced myself for the impact, I was totally caught off guard with this one, and it was terrifying. I shudder to think what if I'd had my nephew or the kids I nannied in the car with me. Thank G-d for small miracles, I guess.
Months later, my nephew said to me, "were you bleeding, JJ?" I asked him what he meant, and he said, "When that car hit your car, were you bleeding?" This kid remembered my accident. The night of my accident, he had called me and told me he hoped I felt better, and that did wonders to ease my bodily pains. (well, that, and the pain meds I got).
I woke up yesterday thankful that it hadn't been worse, and so grateful for the past year. So many times we don't realize what we have until later. I know it could have been worse. If I'd been in a different car, if he'd been going even faster, if I hadn't been the only one in the car.....there but for the grace of G-d go I.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
five years is a lifetime.
First time holding him.
So, today was Trey's fifth birthday. So much has happened in the last five years, it's crazy to think about it. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I'd spent the whole previous night in the hospital waiting room, going for coffee and Red Bull runs with my brother. I went home around 8am to catch some sleep, and about an hour or two later, my brother called and told me to come back to the hospital. And eventually, from the waiting room, I saw my brother walking down the hallway with a doctor, who was pushing a little plastic incubator/isolette thing. We all crowded around it and I remember looking at this tiny baby with squinty eyes. Newborns kind of all look alike...I feel like it takes a day or two for their features to settle in or something. But regardless, I fell in love hard-core. Instinctively, I felt this need to protect. Protect this little being I had known for less than five minutes. I've always felt maternal toward kids, but this feeling was different. This was almost animalistic instinct. And just like that, I was an aunt. I was an aunt. It was so odd to think about, me being an aunt at 26. Now, five years later, it's odd to think I am the only aunt in the family now.
The next day, at work, I got a phone call from UNC, telling me I was off the wait list and did I want to come there, and of course I said yes. After work I went next door to the hospital and held my nephew for the first time, telling him I would make him a little Tar Heel. Holding him was....a turning point for me. I know it sounds cheesy and trite, but it's true. I know babies can't see/focus at first, but believe me when I tell you this little kid actually looked like he was observing us all and taking us in. He was so small - 6lb, 11oz and 20.5 inches long - and he fit into the crook of my arm perfectly.
As the months went by, before I left for North Carolina, I actually got to take care of my nephew a lot. My brother and his girlfriend still went out with their friends a lot and I'd have my nephew several times a week, sometimes overnight on the weekends. He slept in his bassinet basket on the floor next to my bed, and I'd wake up at night just to watch him sleep, or to rest my hand on his chest to make sure he was still breathing. I'd wake up and feed him when he cried. He would laugh out loud in his sleep, I swear to G-d. I learned what songs soothed him and the perfect angle at which to feed him, to minimize the spit up that would happen. To this day, he still falls asleep when I play "Baby Mine" on my iPod, and still loves Sheryl Crow's version of "Sweet Child O'Mine." When he was a baby and I'd be driving in my Jeep, if he would fuss, I'd put that song on and sing along, and he'd quiet down. It was the funniest thing.
But I never could have imagined the extent to which he'd change our lives. Do we ever, with children?
And now, five years later, I'm out of North Carolina, back in New York, at Columbia, and Trey is getting ready to start kindergarten in the fall. He named me Aunt JJ (he couldn't say "Jaime", so he said "JJ"), he has a way with animals, and he can be wise beyond his years sometimes. When my brother told the family he and his girlfriend were expecting, my family was upset, to be honest. But sometimes things have a way of working out for the best. This certainly did, and I wouldn't change a thing.
In other news, in two weeks, my classes will be over. And my first year will be done. I remember when I got in, my friend Natalie (also an MFAer, in fiction) joked that MFA stands for More F*cking Around. Yeah, well, this year was no joke. And this semester in particular. Definitely not a slacker time. So I like to think of MFA as something else: MotherF*cking Awesome. As in, that's what I'll be when I snag my book deal.
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