The Tofurkey Squawked During the Meal
Thanksgiving was pretty decent this year; it started wonderfully and ended with me being quite pleased to come back to P-town. So all around: a smashing time.
On Wednesday night I bolted from work and caught 6 different trains in 4 hours to make it home by 9:30, whereupon my mother materialized like a ghost in her nightgown, pointed to a fabulous dinner on the table, said goodnight, and retired back to bed. Nuts, the family is nuts.
But I truly felt like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. When my dad drove my sister and I home from our tiny train station, I saw all the old trees, the postboxes, the wonderful big Connecticut homes lit with candle clusters, and felt very very glad. In a totally unexpected way. I’m usually very opposed to returning to the parental abode, but I genuinely felt like the pines along the driveway, my books (!), and even my rose-patterned bedroom were chorusing a welcome. I sifted through my poetry books, re-read my favorite sections of Possession, and slept like a child. When I woke, I heard my family loudly debating downstairs about everything from estate planning to Turkish carpets and the next election. It was amazing. Snow had quietly fallen the night before, and I regressed into my sixteen-year-old self and surreptitiously ate little shavings of ice on my balcony. The landscape was stratified into layers of fresh snow, mulch, and glorious green pine. I live in Princeton, certainly not the least tree-laden environment, but there’s nothing quite like admiring your own backyard.
Anyway, I can’t stand thanksgiving shopping. After ten hours I had a new coat, shoes, sweaters, and...tragedy...a pair of trousers. My sister muscled me into the store and bought them, so there was no chance to put up a fight. Brawn and cash: an unbeatable combination.
Being home reminded me of how much I loved winter break last year when I was back here, slowly burying myself in Austen studies. Before leaving this morning, I looked through all my books – in my room, my parents’ bedroom, my sister’s bedroom, the basement, etc, and saw all of them collected together like old, brave comrades. Maybe I miss academia and should head back soon. I definitely felt tinges of warmth and nostalgia for all those weird winter days when I drank tea and ate piles of clementines, getting more and more absorbed in my thesis. You can't hibernate in the real world, it would seem.
11.27.2005
11.22.2005
Piggy & Me
I’ve been languishing over a guy who’s about as useless as they come. I’ve run the gamut of DABDA, and am back on “anger” – although I think I bypassed “bargaining” the first time round and never quite reached “acceptance.” I’m invariably the queen of having crushes. At certain rare periods in my life, I’m interested in nothing but work and my own routine. I fly solo, enjoy independence (or at least the idea of it) and walk around with my eyes trained on the ground, totally engrossed in my own existence. At other periods, such as the current one, I run through lovesick dreams about one man after another, erecting them on pedestals and attributing sickly love songs to each. The current object of my affection has ruined Belle & Sebastian for me. I sing along to their songs and fantasize about him in the vein of Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. The disappointing reality is the fact that my romantic tactics are on par with a 16-year-old: I obsess, languish, and day-dream instead of taking action and getting over myself.
But rage at being the woman scorn’d has its benefits. As I told Katy, it’s a good thing I haven’t heard from this guy since I’d probably take a punch at him and crack his glasses as they did with Piggy in Lord of the Flies. Katy responded by saying that I often cite the Piggy incident in times of stress and woe, a fact that I hadn’t picked up on. I guess it must be because of all our similarities: Piggy and I are indiscreet, lonely, and brutally victimized by society for our sub-par looks. Years from now when I complete my opus, I’ll entitle it “Remember Piggy,” in the hopes that the ominous thrill of those two words will resonate with a generation of homely men and women whose glasses (real and metaphorical) were broken.
What with cheerful messages from Lina, Steph, and Katy, I decided not to take my usual turn around the cemetery tonight and went instead to the gym. Tomorrow I head back to mater and pater for thanksgiving in CT. It promises to be quite the stay: a visit to Costco, purchasing a winter coat (my current number bares a tantalizing 4 inches of wrist), and driving my beloved car around town. Bonbons and bon-mots to ease the ailing heart; I’ll give thanks for those anytime. :)
I’ve been languishing over a guy who’s about as useless as they come. I’ve run the gamut of DABDA, and am back on “anger” – although I think I bypassed “bargaining” the first time round and never quite reached “acceptance.” I’m invariably the queen of having crushes. At certain rare periods in my life, I’m interested in nothing but work and my own routine. I fly solo, enjoy independence (or at least the idea of it) and walk around with my eyes trained on the ground, totally engrossed in my own existence. At other periods, such as the current one, I run through lovesick dreams about one man after another, erecting them on pedestals and attributing sickly love songs to each. The current object of my affection has ruined Belle & Sebastian for me. I sing along to their songs and fantasize about him in the vein of Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. The disappointing reality is the fact that my romantic tactics are on par with a 16-year-old: I obsess, languish, and day-dream instead of taking action and getting over myself.
But rage at being the woman scorn’d has its benefits. As I told Katy, it’s a good thing I haven’t heard from this guy since I’d probably take a punch at him and crack his glasses as they did with Piggy in Lord of the Flies. Katy responded by saying that I often cite the Piggy incident in times of stress and woe, a fact that I hadn’t picked up on. I guess it must be because of all our similarities: Piggy and I are indiscreet, lonely, and brutally victimized by society for our sub-par looks. Years from now when I complete my opus, I’ll entitle it “Remember Piggy,” in the hopes that the ominous thrill of those two words will resonate with a generation of homely men and women whose glasses (real and metaphorical) were broken.
What with cheerful messages from Lina, Steph, and Katy, I decided not to take my usual turn around the cemetery tonight and went instead to the gym. Tomorrow I head back to mater and pater for thanksgiving in CT. It promises to be quite the stay: a visit to Costco, purchasing a winter coat (my current number bares a tantalizing 4 inches of wrist), and driving my beloved car around town. Bonbons and bon-mots to ease the ailing heart; I’ll give thanks for those anytime. :)
11.18.2005
Janus
Today officially marks six months since I graduated college. I wish I could offer some pearls of wisdom about how grand the trajectory has been from where I began (unemployed, Austen-peddling leper) to where I am (...Jersey...), but let's face facts -- you don't want me as your life template. I didn't set this day up on my calendar or anything. I've been panicking about getting cut off from Columbia's email server, and it broke in upon me that not only does November 18th mark the day I told computer services to kiss my ass, it marks the half-year anniversary of one of the most stressful days of my college career.
I never once looked forward to graduation. I didn't have that great, progressive, "screw all this reading! I'm off to wall street to make sure that the rich get richer" mentality that characterized so many classmates. I preferred moping and reading for 4 years and then whining extensively about how unfair it was that I couldn't continue to mope and read in peace. How I remember the details of May 18th! The stress-induced rash on my face, the weird crease in my blue gown where I had set the iron too high the night before, the sudden nausea and hysteria. Our commencement speaker's less-than-praiseworthy speech ("think big, guys" -- thanks dude, I tried), tawdry comments from the guy in the row behind me, the last visit to Philosophy Hall, holding Chris' hand very very tightly. I was conscious of missing my friends already, though they sat clustered around me en force. Most of all, I was mourning myself -- the passing of my own life which suddenly bloomed into all the loveliness of the past four years.
I want to say something meaningful about how everyone (from Jackie & Vanni to Ben & Ling) and everything (Carmen 7 and the hacky-sack to River 2B and thesis angst) changed me into a better person. But I can't. For now it strikes me that six months isn't long enough to have stopped missing any of it, to stop needing the reassurance that post-college, it's all going to be OK. Because the "all" just keeps looming larger, and I'm still definitely poised here, Janus-like, looking forward -- and looking back.
Today officially marks six months since I graduated college. I wish I could offer some pearls of wisdom about how grand the trajectory has been from where I began (unemployed, Austen-peddling leper) to where I am (...Jersey...), but let's face facts -- you don't want me as your life template. I didn't set this day up on my calendar or anything. I've been panicking about getting cut off from Columbia's email server, and it broke in upon me that not only does November 18th mark the day I told computer services to kiss my ass, it marks the half-year anniversary of one of the most stressful days of my college career.
I never once looked forward to graduation. I didn't have that great, progressive, "screw all this reading! I'm off to wall street to make sure that the rich get richer" mentality that characterized so many classmates. I preferred moping and reading for 4 years and then whining extensively about how unfair it was that I couldn't continue to mope and read in peace. How I remember the details of May 18th! The stress-induced rash on my face, the weird crease in my blue gown where I had set the iron too high the night before, the sudden nausea and hysteria. Our commencement speaker's less-than-praiseworthy speech ("think big, guys" -- thanks dude, I tried), tawdry comments from the guy in the row behind me, the last visit to Philosophy Hall, holding Chris' hand very very tightly. I was conscious of missing my friends already, though they sat clustered around me en force. Most of all, I was mourning myself -- the passing of my own life which suddenly bloomed into all the loveliness of the past four years.
I want to say something meaningful about how everyone (from Jackie & Vanni to Ben & Ling) and everything (Carmen 7 and the hacky-sack to River 2B and thesis angst) changed me into a better person. But I can't. For now it strikes me that six months isn't long enough to have stopped missing any of it, to stop needing the reassurance that post-college, it's all going to be OK. Because the "all" just keeps looming larger, and I'm still definitely poised here, Janus-like, looking forward -- and looking back.
11.15.2005
Let Me Hear Your Body Talk
My bones and muscles are aching. Can bones ache? I doubt it, but everything's creaking. Some days I get off the treadmill and my body is in a satisfied and exhausted glow; every bead of sweat, every tiny twinge of pain is a source of triumph. Not so today.
This is my third or fourth week of being a gym rat, and not only has the pain failed to diminish, it's mounting. It's incredibly frustrating to have to pause while running (or very very slowly jogging) because everything hurts too much and you feel like you're on your dying breath. It's also quite humiliating to have this happen while lithe asian men and anorexic women skip at 9 miles an hour next to you. I'm trying, people! Fuck no pain no gain.
Besides all this, the gym is quite the social scene. One of the production editors, whom Clara is busily seducing, comes to do his regular 10 mins on the elliptical and then grunts in a manly way at the weights machine. Shani has started to go too, and even one of the English professors on our editorial board is frequently to be found madly gesticulating at the stair-master. All in all, quite a gathering.
My bones and muscles are aching. Can bones ache? I doubt it, but everything's creaking. Some days I get off the treadmill and my body is in a satisfied and exhausted glow; every bead of sweat, every tiny twinge of pain is a source of triumph. Not so today.
This is my third or fourth week of being a gym rat, and not only has the pain failed to diminish, it's mounting. It's incredibly frustrating to have to pause while running (or very very slowly jogging) because everything hurts too much and you feel like you're on your dying breath. It's also quite humiliating to have this happen while lithe asian men and anorexic women skip at 9 miles an hour next to you. I'm trying, people! Fuck no pain no gain.
Besides all this, the gym is quite the social scene. One of the production editors, whom Clara is busily seducing, comes to do his regular 10 mins on the elliptical and then grunts in a manly way at the weights machine. Shani has started to go too, and even one of the English professors on our editorial board is frequently to be found madly gesticulating at the stair-master. All in all, quite a gathering.
11.13.2005
A Thing that Matters
Last weekend I spoke to Katy on the phone (I heart skype), had an enthralling and disturbing conversation with Mike & Steve about straight men and their internal dialogue, and had Abby come to visit on Sunday. So overall, it was good.
I saw a Persian movie called “The Lizard” with Reza on Wednesday evening. It was actually a neat experience – the movie was a comedy/religious satire about a thief who escapes from prison and goes around town disguised as a Muslim preacher. The main premise, which they ram home repeatedly, is that there are as many paths to God as there are people. An interesting – and succinct – theory. I was wondering how Reza, who was choked on religion during his childhood, and is therefore a practicing atheist, would feel about all this, but he seemed to enjoy the humor and disregarded the morals. An apt way to respond to the world.
I got asked a bunch of times if I too was from Iran (the entire contingent from Princeton turned out for the screening), and for once decided to stick with the truth. It’s too bad really, because I’d love to speak Arabic and I felt a certain air of frigidity when my companions realized that I wasn’t of their tribe. So much for global culture.
On Thursday Karin and I had dinner together in Princeton. She came to learn more about the History of Science dept. here and to inquire into the Ph.D. program. We discussed how engaging we find interdisciplinary work, and why the intersection between the humanities and sciences is actually a very cool field unto itself. I told Ben that the quietest place in the world is the eye of a tornado (apparently this is horrifically wrong), so my scientific knowledge is at an all-time low, but Karin knows what’s what, and I find this comforting. As long as I surround myself by bright and accomplished people, I’ll be about 70% satisfied with myself. And really, who can afford to worry about the remaining percentage?
Vanessa drove me into the city yesterday so that I could hang out with Ben. We pottered around the Angelika and caught a screening of The Squid and the Whale. Let me just say that I love this movie. My favorite character was the little boy Frank who was easily the most screwed up. He kept masturbating, yelling “cock, motherfucker, fuck!, etc” and smearing his semen over various public spaces. Horrifying but hilarious. Or maybe I have a penchant for the perverse.
We then pottered around the city and finally settled on an obscure diner – the silver spurs? – and caught up for a little while. Ben and I seem to have settled into a comfortable dynamic of making one another acutely uncomfortable and pushing each other’s buttons. I don’t really feel up to articulating why this is the case.
Later I had a quick dinner with Ling and took the train home, feeling as I haven’t felt for a while now: tired of the city, tired of sensory overload and crowds, needing self-assurance, disgusted with myself. Ling says it all comes down to being OK with the fact that life can suck sometimes. I’ve never been very good at being alone – forget solitude – and as a result, I tend to make my relationships with other people these forums for self-discovery and self-actualization, when in fact it seems that such epiphanies are supposed to be private experiences. I feel like Clarissa when she learns about Septimus’ death and Woolf writes, “A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved.” I can't top Virginia Woolf, so I'll stop here. Sometimes the words just confuse things even more.
Last weekend I spoke to Katy on the phone (I heart skype), had an enthralling and disturbing conversation with Mike & Steve about straight men and their internal dialogue, and had Abby come to visit on Sunday. So overall, it was good.
I saw a Persian movie called “The Lizard” with Reza on Wednesday evening. It was actually a neat experience – the movie was a comedy/religious satire about a thief who escapes from prison and goes around town disguised as a Muslim preacher. The main premise, which they ram home repeatedly, is that there are as many paths to God as there are people. An interesting – and succinct – theory. I was wondering how Reza, who was choked on religion during his childhood, and is therefore a practicing atheist, would feel about all this, but he seemed to enjoy the humor and disregarded the morals. An apt way to respond to the world.
I got asked a bunch of times if I too was from Iran (the entire contingent from Princeton turned out for the screening), and for once decided to stick with the truth. It’s too bad really, because I’d love to speak Arabic and I felt a certain air of frigidity when my companions realized that I wasn’t of their tribe. So much for global culture.
On Thursday Karin and I had dinner together in Princeton. She came to learn more about the History of Science dept. here and to inquire into the Ph.D. program. We discussed how engaging we find interdisciplinary work, and why the intersection between the humanities and sciences is actually a very cool field unto itself. I told Ben that the quietest place in the world is the eye of a tornado (apparently this is horrifically wrong), so my scientific knowledge is at an all-time low, but Karin knows what’s what, and I find this comforting. As long as I surround myself by bright and accomplished people, I’ll be about 70% satisfied with myself. And really, who can afford to worry about the remaining percentage?
Vanessa drove me into the city yesterday so that I could hang out with Ben. We pottered around the Angelika and caught a screening of The Squid and the Whale. Let me just say that I love this movie. My favorite character was the little boy Frank who was easily the most screwed up. He kept masturbating, yelling “cock, motherfucker, fuck!, etc” and smearing his semen over various public spaces. Horrifying but hilarious. Or maybe I have a penchant for the perverse.
We then pottered around the city and finally settled on an obscure diner – the silver spurs? – and caught up for a little while. Ben and I seem to have settled into a comfortable dynamic of making one another acutely uncomfortable and pushing each other’s buttons. I don’t really feel up to articulating why this is the case.
Later I had a quick dinner with Ling and took the train home, feeling as I haven’t felt for a while now: tired of the city, tired of sensory overload and crowds, needing self-assurance, disgusted with myself. Ling says it all comes down to being OK with the fact that life can suck sometimes. I’ve never been very good at being alone – forget solitude – and as a result, I tend to make my relationships with other people these forums for self-discovery and self-actualization, when in fact it seems that such epiphanies are supposed to be private experiences. I feel like Clarissa when she learns about Septimus’ death and Woolf writes, “A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved.” I can't top Virginia Woolf, so I'll stop here. Sometimes the words just confuse things even more.
11.10.2005
11.05.2005
Narly Times
I’ve been asked to update, and as I hate to disappoint my paltry public (faithful and appreciated though you are), what the heck, I’ll do it. Especially all those stay-at-home mothers who can’t seem to get enough.
I wish I could say that the reason I haven’t posted in a while is that I’ve been out frolicking, being young and giddy. So much for that. Work went into overdrive this past week *I use the phrase “this week” loosely, being that today is Saturday and I just returned home from the office, staggering through campus like a pregnant refugee* as each of the assistants were asked to cover for 4 editors.
As far as Friday went, it made Thursday look like a goddamn dress rehearsal.
So my solution to all of this last night was to
a) watch hours of Laguna Beach. Very intellectual, I know.
b) get trashed at the trashiest bar in town: “The Ivy.” Sure, I love a bar where everyone knows the lyrics to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” but after my third gin & tonic (gone off the gimlets, back to basics these days), as I was peer-pressuring one of my 38-year-old colleagues to do a tequila shot, I suddenly felt that it wasn’t the most mature reaction to an awful work week. Maybe a quiet glass of wine, a glance through the New Yorker, eating a slab of cheddar...but forcing an unassuming colleague to do shots runs counter to my regular philosophy. I also started to talk a bunch of crap around 11, giving off the impression (all false) of being: too hot to handle, a real booze-hound, and several other clichés. By any and every standard, I defied the parameters established by the Modern Girl. By midnight, the male gathering had parted like the red sea and unanimously acknowledged my supremacy in social/sexual (yup, I went there)/alcohol-related activities. I was so high on myself that I almost believed it too. Less so when I flounced home and caught sight of myself looking like Barbara Cartland on crack. This morning I just felt like an idiot.
Other Headlines
1. As you can tell, Maureen Dowd’s article sort of took me by storm last Sunday and punctuated my mind for a large part of the week. Yes she's a raging alarmist, but she shook the oftentimes complacent way I think about feminism and its application, particularly given my present circumstances of living with 3 very masculine and self-claimed progressive men.
2. I took a walk with Mike earlier this week, which was fun, just to admire the leaves changing. Princeton is kind of amazing for its foliage; maybe I just never bothered to notice or appreciate it during my CT high school experience. Everywhere I turn there are crisp yellow leaves spinning in the air. Have you ever seen Hero? There’s this great scene (all yellow) in which they fight in the woods as the leaves are falling. Princeton, though by far less romantic than wherever the hell that movie was shot, comes a close second. It’s just unbelievable. You know how I love words and articulacy, and for once, I don’t know just how to describe what it’s like to watch the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
3. I licked a tree during the walk...a swift, lusty lick. For some reason, though not a big deal at the time, in retrospect I find this rather bizarre. I am happy to elaborate, but only in person.
4. I’m worried about work. And I keep hearing about other job offers and wonder if I’m being inopportunistic and naïve by not responding.
5. Lina came to visit me this week! Which was so much fun! Though she seemed to have mixed feelings on the curried chickpeas I presented at dinner, and I’m already harboring resentment. :)
I’ve been asked to update, and as I hate to disappoint my paltry public (faithful and appreciated though you are), what the heck, I’ll do it. Especially all those stay-at-home mothers who can’t seem to get enough.
I wish I could say that the reason I haven’t posted in a while is that I’ve been out frolicking, being young and giddy. So much for that. Work went into overdrive this past week *I use the phrase “this week” loosely, being that today is Saturday and I just returned home from the office, staggering through campus like a pregnant refugee* as each of the assistants were asked to cover for 4 editors.
As far as Friday went, it made Thursday look like a goddamn dress rehearsal.
So my solution to all of this last night was to
a) watch hours of Laguna Beach. Very intellectual, I know.
b) get trashed at the trashiest bar in town: “The Ivy.” Sure, I love a bar where everyone knows the lyrics to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” but after my third gin & tonic (gone off the gimlets, back to basics these days), as I was peer-pressuring one of my 38-year-old colleagues to do a tequila shot, I suddenly felt that it wasn’t the most mature reaction to an awful work week. Maybe a quiet glass of wine, a glance through the New Yorker, eating a slab of cheddar...but forcing an unassuming colleague to do shots runs counter to my regular philosophy. I also started to talk a bunch of crap around 11, giving off the impression (all false) of being: too hot to handle, a real booze-hound, and several other clichés. By any and every standard, I defied the parameters established by the Modern Girl. By midnight, the male gathering had parted like the red sea and unanimously acknowledged my supremacy in social/sexual (yup, I went there)/alcohol-related activities. I was so high on myself that I almost believed it too. Less so when I flounced home and caught sight of myself looking like Barbara Cartland on crack. This morning I just felt like an idiot.
Other Headlines
1. As you can tell, Maureen Dowd’s article sort of took me by storm last Sunday and punctuated my mind for a large part of the week. Yes she's a raging alarmist, but she shook the oftentimes complacent way I think about feminism and its application, particularly given my present circumstances of living with 3 very masculine and self-claimed progressive men.
2. I took a walk with Mike earlier this week, which was fun, just to admire the leaves changing. Princeton is kind of amazing for its foliage; maybe I just never bothered to notice or appreciate it during my CT high school experience. Everywhere I turn there are crisp yellow leaves spinning in the air. Have you ever seen Hero? There’s this great scene (all yellow) in which they fight in the woods as the leaves are falling. Princeton, though by far less romantic than wherever the hell that movie was shot, comes a close second. It’s just unbelievable. You know how I love words and articulacy, and for once, I don’t know just how to describe what it’s like to watch the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
3. I licked a tree during the walk...a swift, lusty lick. For some reason, though not a big deal at the time, in retrospect I find this rather bizarre. I am happy to elaborate, but only in person.
4. I’m worried about work. And I keep hearing about other job offers and wonder if I’m being inopportunistic and naïve by not responding.
5. Lina came to visit me this week! Which was so much fun! Though she seemed to have mixed feelings on the curried chickpeas I presented at dinner, and I’m already harboring resentment. :)
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