Questa e la Vita

Every year, around this time…I become quite…what’s the word I’m looking for…crazy over watermelon. And every year it affects those closest to me. When summer begins to strip my pores of every last drop of hydration, my friends know what is to follow.

Obsessive watermelon consumption. Then I completely disappear.

Well, not completely. I’m just in the bathroom a large percentage of the summer. Special attention to the word: Water-melon.

Pants were a bad choice:

Earlier today I prepared myself for the journey from the campus to my car. Thankfully, where I park my car isn’t too far from campus. Unfortunately, I’m required to brave a concrete mojave desert if I ever want to taste watermelon again.

I prepped for the trek by grabbing a cup of iced water and securing my laptop in my backpack. I carried my collection of every single play Shakespeare has ever written with enthusiasm*. After all, I felt confident about the essays I just submitted, one touching on violence. (Violence I’d later consider in my delirium).

* Every. single. play Shakespeare has ever written. For the sake of weight, think: really chubby baby, with a full diaper, whose playing with a concrete block. 

Five minutes into the walk, I was sweating. Everyone’s armpits sweat, but do your mid-arm, armpits sweat? Today I discovered mine do. The unending concrete with no shade to spare began to work on my psychological stability. My inner monologue went along these lines:

It’s hot. It’s so hot. Why is it so hot. Your car is ugly, no sorry that’s mean, I’m just really hot and I want watermelon. Why is it so hot this can’t be humane, this can’t be real life, where did all my water go? 

Why isn’t the ice melting any faster?? I want to take my pants off. Why did I wear pants?? I’m just gonna take them off, they’re coming off, right here, and the light says walk. 

What if I was drinking milk right now? that would be awful, that’s SO awful, why did I bring milk into this? Why? THAT WOULD BE SO BAD.

Look at this girl, look at her just, just walkin’ on by me lookin all like she just, just likes this heat. She’s wearing jeans and they’re black! She’s not even sweating?! I think I’ve lost inches at this point, I’m back to only being 5’2 1/2 inches tall. The cover of my book is sticking to my arm, I need a shower, WATERMELON. 

Oh no. oh no oh no oh no. I can’t get in my car. IT’S GOING TO BE SO HOT! DEATH! who doesn’t have air conditioning??? I don’t want to answer that!! If I pass out who will find me? WATERMELON. 

The rest I don’t really remember. It’s a survival mechanism.

The next thing I know, I’m sprawled out on the livingroom floor with a tummy ache after eating 3/4ths of a baby watermelon.*

* 2 for $5 at Sprouts

Sincerely, 

La Farfalla

I’m sweating, blistering, nearly to the third floor of the library. One step, two, three, no turning back. Even though I know the odds of an available computer is enfantismal. I round the corner to a valley of computer cubicles. One appears to be vacant.

My momentary victory is depleted. Some girl is passed out in front of her laptop, in front of the computer. Oh life, how you laugh at me!

I’m fuming, panting, considering the elevator and defeat. My hair’s a lion mane by this point (the hair pins gave up by the second floor). I collect myself, leaning against a map. A kid, a mere boy, asks if I’m lost. I drop my bag (heavy with literature and reciepts from the coffees I can’t afford). I yell with unintentional spittle: “I’m a 5th year!”*

*An extreme exaggeration. (Extreme exaggeration to be defined as: didn’t exactly happen this way. Actually, didn’t happen at all).

All I wanted, all I needed, was internet access to research the color palette for my graduation brunch. I’ll settle for black at this point!

My desire is to find an infinite abyss and a conveniently placed trackter similar to the one in Garden State. I’d like to stand over such a natural marvel and scream at the top of my lungs.  I settle for calling my mom and telling her that I’m scared shitless at 22. That, and I shovel in tums like pez candy.

I leave the library and wander aimlessly. Literally. I walk into a bench. I make a ‘gufawing’ noise outloud that is intended purely for my own thoughts. I definitely make unintentionally invasive eye contact. Wrong day to forget my sunglasses at home.

Miraculously, I reach home. My cat Arnold greets me at the door. He prances into the living room and spontaneously falls over onto his side. I drop my bag and say:

“Excellent idea!”

I follow suit. I mull over my not-quite-epiphanies-but-I’m-calling-them-that-anyways of the day.

1. Vanilla latte’s taste remarkably like marshmellows. This is great news for people who like drinking foods rather than chewing them. Like older people without teeth. Or younger people without teeth (I don’t discriminate).

2. Holding eye contact with another person, sincerely and even with risk, feels like drinking a spoonful of icy-hot. With the after-feeling of goosebumps.

3. I remember getting lost trying to find a classroom in Olmsted at age 17, my freshman year. And then…only a few months ago, asking for directions to a classroom in Olmsted. This is only relevant to reinstate that I’m directionally challenged. Also, it’s personally relevant to reinstate that I never have to be 17 ever. again.

4. My dad brought up in conversation the other day, how in the Jewish tradition, in the natural order of things, first comes establishing one’s self. I’m about to accomplish this by recieving my BA. He explained that next, usually, would be finding a partner and in plenty of time starting a family.

(I’m subtle)

After leaving his conversation, I was processing this, when on the radio, Jason Mraz started singing his newest song. In the most honest and sentimentalist terms, it touched me.

Seeing as I don’t have a partner, I decided to dedicate this song to me, from me.

Sincerely,

La Farfalla

*If text in picture is eligible: “Believe in Sherlock Holmes”  “Seriously, can we make a I believe in Sherlock club, guys?”  ” [emoticon expressing one of the following emotions: dismissal/ anger/ constipation/ sleepiness/ a combination of all]“  “Please???”

I’m thinking: Where’s my phone, I’ll send Brit a picture text of this silly ‘Sherlock Holmes’ related convo in the bathroom stall, she loves that movie-Judd Law! Handsome! The lighting is really bad in here…I’m on the toilet and this is kind of weird.

I’m joyfully reading this  graffiti in the bathroom. On the lid of a bin. On the lid of the sanitary napkins bin, to be graphic.  My mind begins delighting in the ‘What if’ game. Location is irrelevant. What if a girl who has an obsessive compulsive tendency to wash her hands for extended period of time. In her ritual, she notices a pair of Jesus sandals (the pair I wear almost everyday) under the stall. Several minutes pass and although she doesn’t find it odd that she’s still washing her hands, she finds it a bit puzzling that I’m still in the stall.

I hypothesize that in this ‘What if” she may consider the following:

1. I’ve just eaten something with a large amount of dairy involved (this would require her to know my intolerance)

2. My boyfriend has broken up with me and I’m emotionally distraught (this would require a boyfriend)

3. I think I’m a character in Harry Potter and I’m trying to gain access to the Ministry of Magic (in this case, she might want to find another bathroom. After reporting me).

With Pen Pals, So Went Grammar

Admittedly, I’m hung up on the students lack of respect to the university. In their act of graffiti on public property, they wrote “make a ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes Club’ when clearly ‘an‘ is more appropriate.

Judging by the differing handwriting, pen coloring and pressure applied, I surmise that the four lines of conversation involve four participants. Unless, of course, this is one person with a personality disorder. In that case, dare I say, the plot thickens…

However, psycho-babble aside, I whole-heartedly believe, that 2nd-black pen and red pen have serious BFF potential. They share a natural enthusiasm. Evidence is found in  2nd black pen’s use of the  ”Seriously” (she wants to be taken ‘seriously’). Wise to the translations of punctuation, three ‘?’s at the end of ‘please’, by our lady of the red pen, screams: ‘DON’T YOU REMEMBER HOW CUTE JUDE LAW IS?

Speaking of Jesus sandals…

I’m reacting with a reflux of questions to the ’No’ and the weird line-face-thing-I’ve-yet-to-decipher. Who are you? Why do you get to make these decisions? Where is the nose on this emoticon? Do emoticons ever have noses? Watkins bathrooms are always cold? That wasn’t a question. You don’t feel like you need to explain your ‘no’? Is something wrong with Sherlock Holmes? That face! Why??

And why the “Please???” that followed? As if, these strangers who have an affinity for mystery and exquisite jawlines and things involving Watsons…(I have less knowledge of these stories than I’d prefer) must bargain with some other bathroom stranger. This emoticon did not have any control over this decision until the ‘Please???’ came along and gave it that control.

My phone beeped, alerting me that the picture message to Britney was successfully sent. I wandered out of the stall, bleary eyed, realizing that short of a minute had passed and that I hadn’t even gone to the bathroom.

Sincerely,

La Farfalla.

According to Urban Dictionary, a Bucket Listologist  is: “A person who has mastered the art of living their life through their bucket list”. (And all this time I assumed they were people who hid lists in buckets…) Nevertheless, I realized writing ‘Bucket Listologist’ on my resume would be unethical until I created a list to follow.

You won’t find skydiving or swimming with sharks on my list. I’m an unconventional adrenaline junkie, of sorts.

Megan L. Posner’s Bucket List

(Subject to change. Illegal activities have been omitted)

1. Make french toast with Dustin Hoffman. 

I understand that Meryl Streep’s character was emotionally unstable; however, making a pros and cons list before leaving him would’ve served her well. Con: She doesn’t love him. Pro: He makes french toast in a very individual way. Additionally, he isn’t resistant to try other…more hygenic…methods.

2. Travel to Bali and meet with a medicine man. 

3. Watch a football game and legitimately understand what’s taking place.

This one time, my friend…Marge, watched a football game with a group of genuine pigskin fans. She didn’t tear her eyes from the screen and shared in the hoots and hollers. After a while, she noticed the uniforms looked suddenly different. She enquired, “Is it just me, or did the uniforms change?” Someone informed her, after an incredulous sigh, “Marge, the Chargers game was over ten minutes ago”. *

*The above is marginally based on a personal experience.

4. Learn how to ride a bike. 

5. Provide Alanis Morissette with a list of ironic situations.

Respectably, she’s simply in need for clarification. 1. A death row pardon two minutes too late is unfortunate, not ironic. 2. Romantic involvement with Dave Coulier is unfortunate, not ironic. Also, when you’re looking for a knife amongst ten thousand spoons, you may want to evaluate why you have ten thousand spoons to begin with.

6. Move to Norway and go dog-sleighing with Britney Katz.

While there, I’d like to conceive a child so that naming him Jorgen (with a soft ‘J’) won’t be perceived as cruel.

7. Go on a yoga retreat. 

In all honesty, I’ve been entertaining the idea of eventually training to instruct yoga. Decision is pending on the day I successfully do ‘crow’s pose’ without cussing loudly. I feel, in the mean time, I can take a week or two of no showering and meditation.

8. Grow old with someone I love. 

9. Raise canadian geese and lead them south. Then, make a movie about it. 

Ok, ok…so it’s been done. But tell me without a micro-expression of deceit that you didn’t cry every time you watched ‘Fly Away Home’. Tell me, without your fingers crossed behind your back that you didn’t exclaim: I’m going to do that! All this requires is relocation, the discovery of Canadian geese and a pilot’s license.

10. Make three bean soup out of the Beanie Babies that were supposed to pay for my tuition. 

Now that I have the start of a list, I need to get off the couch and commit! Does anyone have Dustin Hoffman’s digits….or know where I can find a gaggle of geese?

Sincerely, 

La Farfalla

Dear Future Husband (hopefully Jason Segel…but with more facial hair),

Although I don’t plan on marrying you and making all your dreams come true any time soon, I’ve always believed communication is what makes a healthy relationship. That, and joining netflix accounts rather than bank accounts.

Obviously, I don’t know how or where we met at this point in time but please remember it. Even if it’s because you found my open-ended love note in a bottle while out to sea. Especially if it’s because you found my open-ended love note in a bottle while out to sea.

I must warn you of a few things, that, unfortunately, will not change after marital-bliss. Mostly because I will just refuse to change them.

1. I love onions. I eat them a lot. Raw, sauteed, whole-like an apple. But I also am fickle when it comes to the price of chewing gum. You see where this is going…

2. Even with make up on, I’ve blended in at a Middle School. There will be times, no doubt, when you roll over first thing in the morning and see me without make up and fear for a moment that you’ve acquired pedophilic tendencies.

3. Baking is a cherished hobby of mine. So you might want to consider a gym membership. If that is not your style, don’t fret too much, I’m quite fond of the Pilsbury Dough Boy’s bod.

4. I’m not a fan of yelling or arguments (unless it’s with people who state that Harry Potter is an immoral collection of books…when they’ve never even picked up the Sorcerer’s Stone). Therefore, by this time, hubby, I’ve probably learned insults in a multitude of languages. I’ll mumble them when we disagree. Or when you’re just being annoying. Dumkoph.

Planning our wedding…

I sincerely hope by this time the wankers who oppose homosexual marriage, which is no less marriage than hetereosexual marriage, will have gotten over their ignorant selves so that everybody can spend too much on cake and RSVP cards.

So, (insert pet name that corresponds with one of our inside jokes here), these are a few considerations for our big day to consider.

1. I personally believe that I photograph well in autumn lighting. Let’s plan accordingly.

2. Unlike Kim Kardashian, I don’t need multiple wedding gowns. However, Groomy, you’ll be expected to have a change of moustache throughout the reception.

3. Since, at this point, I’ll have a bachelors degree in both creative writing and theatre, a masters in writing for the performing arts and a television series people tweet about ; I’ll be writing my own wedding vows. If you’re not a writer, I’ll accept witty haiku’s. But please, whatever you do, do not, I repeat do not, serenade me at the alter. Serenades make me uncomfortable.

A few hobbies to acquire prior to meeting me:

1. Know how to make coffee. Or, know how to buy Starbucks.

2. Develop a British accent. Or, become an anglophile at the very least.

3. Learn to un-dance and un-sing. Simply put, I dance like an epileptic stork and sound nothing like Adele. Nonetheless, I love the dance flo’ and karaoke on the regular. Let’s keep the performance field equal.

I acknowledge that these terms and conditions may sound restricting. Allow me to conclude this letter with all the benefits that come with yours truly. 

I’ll attend sporting events with you although I know very little about the rules and teams and will scream out profanities that may or may not get you into a ‘let’s take it outside’ brawl with a 6 foot fella whose painted his entire body. I’ll diversify our dinner table by inviting all the elderly people who gravitate to me…hopefully you know how to cook mashed potatoes and soup. I’ll use up all of our hot water so that I can leave you love notes in the fog present on the mirror.

Much love, 

Your wife-y

P.S. I planted an avocado tree on the day we “made it official”…so unless you stay with me for at least ten years…no guacamole for you!…This is not  meant as an ultimatum.

I don’t wish to squander this entry with weather complaints. Or wind-related tragedies (don’t wear a dress…just don’t). Bear with me as I rewind back to the motivation behind this post. (I also only just now learned that if you say ‘bare with me’ you are asking for a whole other thing than patience. Nakedness. That’s what you’re asking for).

My skin is painfully dry and when my skin gets painfully dry, I get these cuts on my hands and then I do stupid things like make lemonade. I have procurred quite a severe cut on my index finger about the size of a microcopic ant-baby…but it hurts like…well there is no other way of putting it: It hurts like a mother effin’ biatch.

Since band-aids on index fingers last all of five seconds, I’ve derived an entirely new remedy. I’ve decided to stop whining about it. This is made possible only by making a list of completely random things that make me happy and not want to take a blunt machete to my finger.

1. I tripple dog dare you to find friends greater than mine.

I turned 22 this past weekend and celebrated in the mature fashion of a costume party fueled by booze. Literally, every human being I’d ever want to see (with the exception of crucial family members and Clive Owen) were in attendance. I clopped around in red heels as the ‘bad’ version of Sandra Dee, my brother wooed the crowd as a Hassidic Jew, and Where’s Waldo made it into over 95 percent of the pictures.

My roommate Britney took hotness to a whole other realm as a devil and my other roommate Kelsie made Egypt seem less controversial and instead just straight up sexy.

The Tennenbaums sulked provacatively, Joe Dirt wore a mullet like a boss, and tourists captured it all on camera. We had referees, hot dogs, and even Scuba Steve Jobs (too soon?). Minnie and Mickey gave edge to a PG rating, Joan from Mad Men transformed into Nitzche and Scott Pilgrim’s Ramona completed the evening with her presence. Moustaches were sported, lingerie and blood intermingled and an oppossum even crashed the festivities.

My friends possess both warm hearts and impeccable sense of comedic timing. Here’s to another year!

2. What I’m eating makes you cringe? Whatevs, more for me!

I love mini pretzels and oatmeal…but other than that, my palette takes some crazed twists and turns. I ate peanut butter and kosher dill pickle sandwiches as a kid, and now my selections have evolved to more sophisticated items on the menu. Such as…

Raw onions

I enjoy jarring all my senses at once. Eyes water, tongue sizzles, fingers sweat, ears numb. Really, it comes down to my impatience. When I’m cooking or making a salad, 70 percent actually goes into my meal, the remaining 30 percent of vegetables act as pre-meal sample.

Getaway french fries

I’m sure this one won’t be denied by any Riverside-veteran. I’d name my first born child after the chef for a basket of these salty angel fingers. They compliment a pint of beer like elevator music compliments awkward conversation. It’s a beautiful experience.

Gefilte fish

As a vegetarian with vegan tendencies, I realize the suggestion of white fish meatballs found in a jar of jelly seems…just perplexing. But I’m going to pull the ‘Jew’ card and argue: just go with it. This stems back to my childhood when my brothers and I would eat gefilte fish for breakfast the week following Passover. I literally can’t pass the Kosher section of Ralphs without grimacing at the $7+ price of a jar and yet still protesting- But it’s so worth it!

3. Unattractive male comedians

When a guy decides to re-enact a violent Mexican hat dance on your heart, the best mousterizer for the vital organs is a dose of comedy. I suggest Louis CK or David Cross. The combination of ginger hair, self-loathing and bald-but-bearded humour does wonders for the psyche.

Bonus? Netflix supplies the ‘pint of ben and jerry’s’ for the eyes by having both men’s hilarity on instant play.

4. Karma

Sometimes, life burdens me with changes and I want to throw a fit. If I brush my teeth three times a day, walk the old lady across the street and never swear in public I start to wonder: well, what are you asking of me universe?! Then, simultaneous moments crop up, and I experience that weird bliss that I’ve only just started learning about in my yogic/meditative practices. For instance:

I’d just spent 3+ hours by myself, painting a flower pot at Color Me Mine and therefore left with that disorienting feeling that other people exist. Earlier that day I’d decided not to care about my appearance and therefore looked like a just hatched baby dinosaur. On the sidewalk and neighborhood-woman stopped me. She looked sweet with greying hair and a grocery bag full of cookie dough and smiles for her grandchildren. And by stopped, I mean she actually touched my shoulder. She said: “I LOVE your sandals. You really wear them so beautifully”.

I’m learning in ‘Compliments 101′, that giving a genuine compliment means acknowledging the person and not the material item they happen to be wearing. I wear these brown Jesus-wannabe sandals everyday. Which is why I love them, they’re a part of me at this point. But her words made them shine like brand new!

Furthermore, just today I was enroute to Starbucks to meet a friend and my thoughts and nerves were a tight knot that only LOreal de-tangler could resolve. As I pulled into the parking lot a song from Grease sounded from the radio. I wanted to call Kola 99.9 and say: “Thank you. You just know.”.

5. Growing a year older

I’ll probably feel differently and cut my children/grandchildren at the core when they proclaim ‘aging is beautiful’ when I turn 60…but right now, I love the idea of a whole new year unfolding. As a birthday present to myself, I bought a book by Ellen DeGeneres. When I think about the transitioning periods of that woman’s life…I don’t get discouraged. Instead, it gives me such hope. Sometimes, at the ripe period of my early twenties, I believe I know the answers to everything. I exaggerate that my ‘check list of life experiences’ has been utilized three times over. But this journey is only at its beginning. Ellen’s book talks about how some people live their day-to-day like it’s the first, some like it’s their last.

Here goes my attempt at the in-between!

Sincerely,

La-la-la Farfalla

An unexpected twist in response to the question: “Sooo, how’s your love life?”

For years, the reflex response goes something like, “Ugh…what love life?” or, “Paul’s my new flava’ of the week” or, from those few, “Perfection! Delightful! Cupcakes frosted by rainbows!”

To be frank, I’m bored with my go-to response/ eye-roll reaction to the invasion of my privacy. From this point forward, I’m going to answer with honesty and that means shedding light on the fact that a ‘love life’ isn’t limited to a guy or a gal.

Here’s a practice run:

Friend: Sooo, how’s your love life?

Me: Fantastic. I’m head over heels for those pumpkin scented candles at World Market. I’m inappropriatly infatuated with my human sexuality T.A. (He complimented my scientific diagram of male genitalia…basically, we’re at an ‘It’s complicated’ on facebook). I’m in love with freshly laundered sheets and don’t even get me started on the Halloween section of Target. 

The feeling of ‘love’ or ‘like’ or ‘I can tolerate you most days of the week’ is such a pure, powerful and exceptionally unique emotion to put towards someone or something. It’s just straight-up silly to waste away in it while wrongfully believing it’s not recyclable. If your affection is not wanted or respected somewhere, pack it up and move to the next city.

Disclaimer: My words of wisdom break out of a few weak hours spent singing along to ‘Adele’ in front of my fan. That girl’s vocals, mmm, she knows what’s up. Also, an index card with a quote I found (or that maybe found me) is secure by my laptop:

“We can’t take back what we offered. But maybe the point is learning not to want to, because those moments were beautiful”. 

Anywho…

My encounter with a baby

Allow me to demonstrate my maternal instincts: When a baby is handed over to me, I react like someone determined not to lose a game of hot potato. Who can I pass it onto next? Granted, I fully intend on children in the future (far, far future) and anticipate being the kind of mother that packs my kids lunch with notes on the napkins (learning from great example). But right now, those fleshy beings with dimples and slobber and their ‘eee-ahh-ooo’ cooing…well they might as well be aliens.

Sure, I want to dress them up in ridiculous costumes and who doesn’t love those rubber-band rolls. But whenever someone tries to give over their baby, my body follows their suit and surrenders all motor skills. They’re such squirmy little worms with their adorable velcro shoes.

They smell my fear. These babies, they know. So they start a little tantrum that ultimately results in a diaper change.

Rantin’ and Ravin’ (Top 5 discoveries and obsessions of the week)

5. Unfortunately I discovered that Jonathan Rhys Meyers is my stalkers doppelganger.  In other words, this celebs goodlooks, innocent on their own, overwhelms me with nausea instead of lust.

Subsequently, this may seem like I’m complimenting my stalker. 

4. Grasshoppers get a personal kick out of scaring people. All I want to do is mind the tomato plants and pull red peppers when they’re clearly not ready. Why do you have to jump directly at my eyeball?! Don’t you remember when I purposively pointed the hose away from you so that you wouldn’t get scared?! Does that mean nothing to you, you weirdly long-legged-are-you-green-or-brown creature?!

3. February is a perfect and affordable time for me to visit England. (Made even more cost-effective if it’s one-way!?)

2.  Seasonal cabernet sauvignon named “Beloved Undead” will, in fact, taste like the warm blood of an alcoholic. Especially if you forget it by an open window on a normal 104 degree day in autumn.

1. Halloween is literally a blood-curtling scream away. I’d like to infect your with my obsession of everything that pertains to this holiday. This year I’m dressing as Lucy from I Love Lucy. Which excuses me from all future embarrasing endeavors like falling ungracefully or eating glorious amounts of chocolate…straight from the fountain.

A direct result of too much beer, too little candy corn.

Not animal abuse.

Let me just own a Halloween-themed bakery, already.

Why my babysitting profile gets zero hits on Care.com

I can rock it.

I leave you with a small homework assignment. Although Halloween is my FAVORITE holiday, I acknowledge that it causes some anxiety. I know a few people willing to sell over their slightly abused liver for a costume idea. Let your creativity do somethin’ crazy, and email me (at: megpos23@gmail.com) or comment with some suggestions! Otherwise…I may force my brother to fall back on his cactus costume. 

Sincerely, 

La Farfalla

The villains in my scripts are commonly plagued with a case of “short (wo)man syndrom”. When a bad guy clad in leather, forced to drag his enormous biceps while stepping over mountains shows up, you know it’s time to pee your pants and run.

When a wiry, seemingly innocent, may as well be a legal midget with a flower behind her earskips in…you laugh. She flutters her eyelashes and sweetly states “I understand you may not make it to my awesome birthday party. I’m just curious how attached you are to your kneecaps”.

Bad to the bone (on occasion)

Strangers lend me their bikes…without them knowing it…

Kind Klepto

Keep cool, I’m about to tell you something highly confidential. This something could permanently jeaopardize my customer-of-the-year standing at Sprouts Farmers Market (you may whine ‘no such thing exists’ but puh-lease, I keep their produce section afloat).

At least once, every time I go to the market-no…I can’t…it’s just-FINE…at least once, every time I go to the market…I steal one piece of candy from the bulk-bucket section. Dark chocolate dipped pretzel-sinfully delicious. That candied almond…I DON’T REGRET A THING!

It helps me keep my ‘edge’. I eat an apple a day and keep the doctors at bay, I pay my freakin’ taxes (I think…I don’t know, that long stint of unemployment makes things hazy), and for goodness sakes I apologize to spiders as I come at them with a paper towel.

My oldsmobile: bird droppings and bullet holes 

Allow me to paint the scene:

I’m on my way to class and feeling particularly sassy (probably because I lost track of time and was forced to down an entire coffee half way through some song by the Black Keys). I pull up to the longest red light of my life. The tatted-up fella next to me is clad in dark shades, wearing two full tattoo sleeves and taking advantage of his car’s vibrating rap. Our windows are both down and the traffic signal is mocking us.

I look at him, he stares straight forward. I look at him, his eyes remain locked on the cross sections. I look at him, this time peeping ever so slightly over my shoulder. My be-speckled presence is acknowledged. Challenge accepted.

I turn the dial to ‘bumpin’ bass’ and inch the volume up and up and up and up…until my rib cage is numb from the sound  motion…

At this point, I don’t even care about the expression on the dude’s face…I’m smiling like a loon, The Supremes dominating the intersection. The light turns green and my oldsmobile flees the scene.

What happens in [insert place here] stays in [insert place that's actually not far enough away here]

I moved to England for six months my third year of university. I learned how to handle my liquor, started traveling by train on my own, and even managed to try a vegetarian shepherds pie.

“So, how ’bout it then?”

Coincidently I went through my ‘I’m-gonna-kiss-boys-like-it’s-going-out-of-style’ faze while living in a country brimming with some of the most attractive gentlemen. And don’t even feign disbelief. If someone slightly resembled but definitely sounded like Clive Owen, you’d forgo etiquette lessons for French 101.

(Word of caution: If, unlike me, you’re easily embarrased/regretful, don’t attempt this act of rebellion if, like me, you anticipate moving back to this foreign country).

Like all of my decisions and practices in life, I claim that even kissing is a means of research. Like fashion, there are a multitude of styles.

Some are age appropriate (think jelly sandals or that first kiss on the cheek)

Some are downright miserable (pant rompers or that really dry kiss that when he goes in for another you accidentley grimace and say: “No thanks”)

Some are timeless (a pair of jeans that scream ‘baby got back’ or that kiss that interrupts a smile or laugh with someone you like)

Curiosity didn’t kill the cat

Deprivation did. I’m not advising you to go to such extremes as Walter White in Breaking Bad and set some douche-bags car on fire. I’m certainly not promoting street corners.

Exercise that ‘bad bone’ in small ways every so often. As a yoga-enthusiast, I highly doubt that I’d be able to balance without the mental stablitity gained by satisfying both the yin and the yang.

Sincerely 

La Farfalla

Holding your words hostage:

Come on…ya know ya wanna

I enjoy writing about the crazy/silly/wait-did-that-radio DJ-really-just-talk-about-ovulation moments in my life…but in effort to keep my ego at bay and not run out of material, I’m looking at you, kid! If you have a story/experience you’d like to share, my email address is a great listener. With your discretion, I’ll showcase them every so often on my blog! 

megpos23@gmail.com

***Disclaimer: If your arrest or career as a hooker is a direct result of reading this entry, I will not accept any responsibility. I highly advise against trying to pin the guilt on me. Ask my cousins, as a child, my hand was always in the candy jar but I spent very few afternoons on the timeout chair. 

Steve Jobs, if it weren’t for you, my blog would be written from a sad-excuse of a computer. Thanks to your dedication, I never fear that a virus will impulsively cut into my train of words and delete my work.

I’ll be cuddling up to my Mac tonight.

Here’s to a legend,

Sincerely, 

La Farfalla

I handled my first week back to UC Riverside like a nervy freshman rather than a Super Senior.

There is no shame in taking another year as a double major to finish a few requirements with grace rather than with impatience. However, my behavior defeated the purpose, and I forfeited the confidence due to someone who knows the lay of the land. I’d like to clear up some of the misconceptions associated with 17th graders.

Super Seniors don’t get lost. 

I dawdled on my way to my first Anatomy of Poetry seminar, knowing, unlike most first years, that the Olmstd building isn’t located in the Bermuda triangle, just in the farthest corner of campus. I grabbed a coffee, I perused the school’s newspaper and walked at a wanderers pace. 2pm approached and as others sped past me on their scooters, I planned to utilize every last minute of that UC-system grace period where classes don’t begin till 10-after.

For anyone who will ever need to find Olmstd 421…let me enlighten you, it’s not located in the Olmstd building. Blasphemous, right? Are they purposively hoping to insult a college students intelligence? How in the world am I supposed to know that this little heat-chamber of a lecture hall is located under the archway of a nondescript building beside but not within Olmstd? Ok, so it’s right next door to the studio theatre where I spend at least 80% of my time…but that’s not the point!

I didn’t break down and ask for directions until I ended up in the basement where I’m convinced they do under-the-table psychology experiments and their participants are exclusively lost students. As I sprinted away, trying to remember the left-right-left path to my destination, I said to the grad student who didn’t care: “Thanks! I’m just-really directionally challenged”. That wasn’t enough so I also said: “And it’s my first year so…”. Since I look about age 12, he probably believed me.

Super Seniors don’t show up late to class

More specifically, super seniors don’t show up a whole hour late to class.

Rather than elaborating in a paragraph of completely justifiable reasons as to why I was the girl in the BRIGHT blue dress who interrupted the flow of class…I’m going to be the bigger person. I misinterrupted the time structure of the workshop. I blame it completely on my excitement to take a set design class that stands between me and my bachelor degree in writing for the performing arts.

Obviously, an extra year at University isn’t such a bad idea for this girl…

A new school year fashion faux-pas 

The only science I really put my whole being towards is the chemistry of the perfect outfit for the first day of school. That skill is completely irrelevant when you are broke (and I know a lot of people say they’re broke…as they hang up a $60 shirt…but I literally went grocery shopping for under $10 recently). I’ve started ‘on-somebody-else’ shopping (similar to window shopping) and observed the most hideous new trend.

Tacky, not tactful eyewear:

No. Just no. You’re not Rihanna. You’re not a grandmother who legitmately needs to keep her glasses around her neck lest she forget where they’re placed. There’s no need to multi-task your accessories to such an extent that your sunglasses and your necklace are one in the same.

The times are changing

* for further explanation

Girls notice how certain jeans make a guy’s bottom look bootyliciously divine. We swoon everytime the plaid button up faze takes over the male population. We admire their skill of casually buying new clothes for the school year that make them look like they casually just grabbed a t-shirt from the laundry pile.

I’ve also realized the laws of attraction include smartly dressed wrists. A man avidly talks with his hands while sporting a good-size, professional looking watch, and I find myself interrupting the flow of conversation with an ‘I do’. For some reason this accessory turns me into the girl who wildly thinks: “Everything off, but keep the watch on…ok fine, and the socks”.

* There’s no further explanation. He’s just sexy.

Growth hormones for self confidence

As a freshman, I referred to this strip of land on campus as the ‘walk of shame’. This innocent concrete path by the belltower becomes more menacing with a gaggle of sorority girls or a gang of fraternity guys. In order to get to lecture, I’d have to pass through the looming greek letters with my eyes glued to the ground. Although I NEVER fancied myself as a sorority girl, I sometimes wished that these ladies would offer me a sign up sheet rather than the ‘full body look over’ of judgment.

Try not to misinterpret my absolute distaste with the participants of the Greek system. My cousin and best friend was once in a sorority and a few of my close guy friends rep AEPi. It wasn’t until recently that I realized my obsession with hating sororities and fraternities is more of an internal problem. Insecurity is like an unrelentingly hot day to a well iced birthday cake. Things melt apart.

For anyone who knew me at age 17 when I first started University knows I earn at least a nomination for ‘Most changed’ in the yearbook. External aspects aside, the part of me that’s nearly unrecognizable is my self confidence. This dawned on me this past week when I sauntered through the ‘walk of shame’ and didn’t even realize until well after the fact. I glided on this middle ground between wanting them to like me and fearing that they would never like me.

It’s the revelation that (for the most part) I like who I’m growing up into. Maybe I get the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed‘ speech as my professor hands me the syllabus an hour into lecture. Maybe I nearly land on my ass because a fallen flower trips me up shortly after immerging from the Greek letter tunnel. But a close friend of mine recently paid me one of the best compliments. In the bathroom of the dive bar Duke’s, just after singing karoke (Satisfaction-Rolling Stones), she said: “You’ve really blossomed into a great human being”. And I didn’t even have to endure hazing to get a friend like that.

Sincerely,

La Farfalla

P.S. Today is the first of October, hence, allow yourself a study break every other hour to deeply contemplate your Halloween costume.

P.P.S. Look for my next post:

How This Good Girl Gets Away With Being Bad