Signature Scent

(image courtesy of: http://johnniecraig.files.wordpress.com)

My friend J.D. lamented the loss of her Dolce & Gabbana perfume this weekend. A casualty in the 4th of July weekend, its whereabouts are unknown after a BBQ and one too many glasses of summer ale. I first didn't grasp the severity of the situation (didn’t I see three other sprays in her room?!) until I realized the importance of a woman's signature scent.

Everyone remembers the scene in 'How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days' when Andie's crazy friend's boyfriend of a nanosecond comes crawling back. He realized he missed her when the scent of her perfume wore off his pillow. Although cheesy (and okay, cute, because I doubt any guy would ever say that), it’s true. Scents link memories past to the present. My mother wears Anice Anice - and the mere name brings me back as a five year old watching her apply her perfume in the small, blue bathroom adjacent to her and my father's bedroom. I sat, hoping to steal a smear of her Cover Girl foundation - nevermind the fact that we're two completely different skin tones. The scent of cucumber melon from Bath & Body Works takes me to high school era joyrides (and covering up the scent of teenage rebellion). Juicy Couture's signature perfume sends me to my 4th floor dorm room, eating take out, drinking wine and watching Sex & The City or The Hills with P and our friend and T.

As I fully emerge (and ok, finally accept) myself as a full fledged adult, career-working, no-longer-a-child woman, I think its time for a true signature scent for myself. My almost final decision? Delices de Cartier by Cartier.

-M

I’d Rather Wear Shoeboxes On My Feet

(image courtesy of listentoleon.net)

I distain Crocs. When they first appeared on my friends’ feet, they claimed that they were comfortable. My friend C said they were the best shoes to have when she crewed during college. “They’re light and feel like nothing on your feet!” I maintained that they look like gardening shoes, that only my mom (who I love, but only recently tuned herself into the world of trendy fashion) would wear in her tomato patch on summer days. Crocs are best paired with graying hair and tacky rubber gloves. Not designer handbags and daisy duke shorts.

I gave in a year ago when I found a pair of Boston Red Sox themed Crocs in a random boutique on Washington Street. I had on the most uncomfortable pair of ballet flats and my feet were screaming for anything that wouldn’t pinch or blister. I paid the inflated twenty-something dollars for the two red and blue pieces of rubber in hopes of comfort. I soon learned that every single one of my friends that said they wore them for comfort lied. The footbed is prickly, the holes give an unnecessary draft into my foot and they’re cut so wide that a shoebox would be more comfortable. My pair of Crocs had a lifespan of 30 minutes that day, was worn once during Opening Day 2009 at Fenway Park and now collects dust underneath my bed.

Today, good news out of the Washington Post for myself and fellow anti-Croc fashionistas. The trend is over. Tired. Dead. And the company is broke. Long live the standby flip-flop as the summer shoe of choice.

-M

Twitter-holic

(image courtesy of: http://scottwesterfeld.com)

My name is M, and I am a Twitter-holic.

I have an unfortunate habit of creating social media obsessions. Facebook landed on the mainstream internet radar during my freshman year of college in 2004. I was the first of my friends to join. I check Gmail non-stop (literally, with my iPhone synced to my account). I was a Livejournal addict during high school. I owned a Casio My Magic Diary during second grade. My mother claims I played with a Sesame Street Big Bird “computer” as a toddler. I have technology obsession issues (but so does my Dad. He still owns the original brick-sized iPod).

When Twitter came around, I joined for the sake of this blog. I thought it’d be a good marketing tool to keep readers up to speed with new posts. I initially scoffed at my personal account. Who really cares if I just ate sushi? Just took a bubble bath? Likes that it’s a sunny day? Has a case of the Mondays?

Who cares, I ask? I do. Apparently. After a few weeks of neglecting my Twitter account, I started updating on my iPhone on the subway ride to work. Then I linked it up to my Facebook status so the pesky, always-crashing Facebook mobile site is nothing but a distant memory to me and my iPhone. Mom told me that my aunt reads my Twitter page regularly. This kind of scared me and I went back through to make sure that all tweets were family-appropriate (a good idea for anyone who hasn’t done so already).

Then I started following celebrities on Twitter. Pete Wentz (who seems to never log off of Twitter, does anyone think this pesters Ashlee?). Kim Kardashian. Paris Hilton. Lindsay Lohan (a personal favorite of mine and friend L). I tracked down old friends, exes and friendemies alike on Twitter. The best (and worse) part? Like my aunt, I can read their tweets without even adding them as a friend, (or “follow them” in Twitter-speak). It’s the ultimate stalking tool. This makes me wonder who is actually reading mine. Are you?

Now I tweet throughout the day. I tweet when I’m bored. I tweet when I’m eating. I tweet on dinner dates with my boyfriend. I know it’s rude, but he’s used to it. “My little online socialite,” he told me yesterday when I quickly hopped on Twitter before leaving the apartment for a day trip. Hearing that was nothing but music to my ears.

-M

People In Boston...

(image courtesy of polyvore.com & Google image search)

Do not know how to dress.

I know, this is a generalization. A blanket observation. An untrue one at that, since I am a Bostonian and I know how to dress. Quite possibly it is that Bostonians don't know how to appreciate fashion. Specifically, unappreciative towards those who are fashionable. Case in point.

My outfit today. Black Theory sleeveless top with a decorative side neck bow tie. Black footless tights (aka thin leggings, or tights with no feet, however you choose to describe them). Olive green and black Mary Jane heels (they are tall, granted, maybe about a 3.5" heel). And this Forever 21 skirt (which I love about 100x more in person than on the website).

Situation. Grabbing a 2:30pm coffee with co-workers because it's a dreary Monday and none of us can quite focus (plus, we don't really need an excuse for an afternoon coffee, other than we want one, so we went to get one). Walking out of Borders, a man (not skeezy looking) says that my outfit looks nice. Gee, thanks. Compliments. I love compliments like I love Skittles, so that's cool. Then we cross the street to get into my office building. Out of the elevator stumbles a middle-aged woman with stonewashed (ew) jeans that looks straight out of a 1980s music video. Cute for a themed party? Yes. Cute for the office? No. Appropriate for Stacy and Clinton on What Not To Wear? Yes. But I don't judge. She, however, takes no hesitation in judging me. Eying - and then scowling at my outfit! I'm sorry if I'm channelling my inner Lauren Conrad and look cute at work today. I'm sorry if I decided to not pick up the first ratty pair of jeans I saw in my room. I'm sorry if I work in a fashion-based industry where I like to look like a million bucks. Actually, I'm not sorry. Just frustrated. Do all fashionistas encounter this? Is it just me? Is my makeup smudged and I'm unaware? Answers? Anyone?

-M

April Fools Day - Ick.

(image courtesy of: http://blog.supportspace.com)

For those who 'celebrate' April Fools Day, Happy April Fools Day. I am not a celebrant, for the record. In fact, I really detest the idea of April Fools Day. I always appreciate gmail's efforts to celebrate the holiday, but other than that, the rise of social networking brought the fall of April Fools jokes. I am sick of seeing fake Facebook statuses today and it's only 2:30pm. Why would one joke about being pregnant? Married? I saw a Facebook friend of a friend who had posted a fake photo of an ultrasound, proclaiming his excitement to be a father in a few months. Gag me. We at Pop Culture Paradox do not condone lying. Talk about ruining the former-lighthearted mood of the holiday. What happened to middle school pranks as April Fools jokes? I'd gladly take those back.

-M

How Facebook (and nice people!) Saved My Wallet

I have found that Facebook has many uses -- not just good for stalking ex-boyfriends and former frienemies.

Case in point...

While driving back from Florida this weekend, I slept for hours in the backseat of my boyfriend's little Honda Civic. The only time I woke up was when it was my turn to fill up the gas tank, found myself in some middle-of-nowhere gas station in Virginia. I filled up the tank, half-asleep, and rolled back into the car.

Fast-forward a dozen some hours to New York. Back in the Northeast of the US and I dig through my Juicy Couture Daydreamer tote to fork out my id case for some cash. It's nowhere. I make my boyfriend pull over the car, empty out the backseat, all bags and purse. Nowhere. I lament over the loss of my cash, my credit cards, my license and my favorite Coach ID holder, and call it a day. The only casuality of my vacation was my wallet, and I guess in the grand scheme of things, it could be worse.

I'm getting over my loss, until last night when I log onto Facebook, when a good samaritan tracks me down and sends me a message saying that he, too, was from New England, travelling back from Florida on vacation, and found my wallet at a random Virginia gas station. My wallet, as in fully intact. Cash. Cards. Cute Coach holder. He's sending it back to me today, and I told him to keep some of the cash as a thank you. Just when I've lost hope in humankind - a good person who deserves all the great karma possible crosses my path. Consider this girl's hope restored.

-M

Reality TV: My New BFF.

(photo courtesy of: http://www.courttv360.com)

A minor (okay, major) announcement. Myself, and my two prep school best friends - A and K (I'm sure you recognize their acronyms) have been casted for an in-production reality show that we auditioned for. While I'm not at liberty to give out details (no, I haven't signed anything, but don't feel like spilling everything so soon!), I dedicate this post to my love for reality television -- and a few rules... commandments, so to say -- that I (and A and K!) vow to live by with cameras in our faces in the not-so-distant future.

#1: Thou shall keep all clothing on. The first thing my father told me upon receiving the good news yesterday via phone. He said he was proud of me and the girls, excited for us, but then made me promise to 'not get naked.' I promise Daddy. I'm not 18 anymore - I'm 23. I do not get drunk and naked - I'm a smart cookie, I know I still need a job upon returning home.

#2: Thou shall not aim for stardom. There's nothing more annoying on television than that girl (or guy) who is just so obviously pining for the next star on the Hollywood walk of fame. Although it is so difficult to not envision the beautiful faces of my best friends on the cover of US Weekly with me. Would we wear our hair up or down? Should I wear Seven for all Mankinds or Rock and Republics? Black nail polish or apple red? Oh dear - see how easy it is to get caught up in these thoughts? My thoughts break this commandment at least 100 times a day.

#3: Thou shall stick together with my besties at all times. A and I talked about this on the phone last night. We need to stick together through this show, no matter what. If we all go out for a night to a bar - we stay together. We do not stray. We do not let sketchy men hit on us on camera (which is inevitable). We say, 'Oh. Sorry! This is kind of a girls only night out.' Last resort, A becomes my lesbian girlfriend and we drive guys away -- or to us. Maybe that plan won't work...

#4: Thou shall not give into random people suddenly wanting to talk to us. We're waiting for it, and it's already started. Exes calling us upon hearing the news through the grapevine. People we really don't like suddenly inviting us out for drinks and dinner. Yeah, right, we see right through your act. Don't even try - although we might not be able to pass up a free martini or two.

#5: Thou shall not glorify those in our past that we despise. Will we share past experiences regarding people that we don't necessarily like? Yes. Will we glorify them in a way that somehow would make them happy about the attention? No. It's a fine line girls that will not be crossed.

And, of course, all typical rules go into effect. No cheating on boyfriends. No excessive drinking (I don't even know what would appear on television if they fed me one too many sangrias). No smoking. No talking about past 'experiences' -- and those who know me know what I mean. With all of this in mind, yes, we're excited - and ready to hold on really tight for maybe the most crazy thing we've ever done in our lives.

-M

Out of Sight, Out of Mind?

Last night, while on a conference call with two friends, my bestest A, mentioned an incident that occurred during our freshman year of college. All my life, I was a journaler. Everywhere I was, so was my notebook, from the time I was 12 to 18. I wrote down information about boys I liked, boys I dated, and chronicled my first serious relationship. It was when that relationship went down the drain (you never really forget the first time you walk in on a significant other in bed with another person), that I went home for a weekend, on a rampage, and shredded every journal from my adolescence. At first I started putting page after page, then pages after pages through my parents' shredder. Finally, when I broke the shredder after trying to push through too many pages of my scrawled writing, I sat in my room and started tearing up the remaining journals by hand. I considered it a purging of all my memories with boys from the previous few years. A walked into my room, take-out dinner in hand, to find me amidst hundreds and hundreds of torn pages.

Somehow, I thought tearing all of those pages to bits would let me forget. More importantly, I thought forgetting would allow me to not hurt anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. A few years later, after a particularly nasty breakup, I went through and detagged every photo of us on Facebook. As if pushing the black and white image of us smiling and laughing would make the hurt go away. A year later, still not completely letting the relationship die due to mistakes on both of our parts, I continued to delete every Facebook message from him. I still thought the further I can push the memories away, the easier it would be to forget.

2009, 23 years old, and I've come to realize that no one ever forgets (didn't I just say above how I'd never forget the image of a boyfriend in bed with someone else?). Hurt still hurts and feelings just might never go away. Maybe it's a grown up way to look at the demise of relationships; far away from the idea that one day you will wake up and feel okay again because you just erased the person from your life -- in written, electronic and communicative form. While discussing this with P, she brought up the very valid point that regardless of the state of the union of each other now, there was once a point where an ex-couple made each other happy. Very happy, most likely. Isn't it a bit unfair to simply forget, erase, delete to trash and not acknowledge each other?

-M

How To Rally Against Those Sick Days

(image courtesy of seethecup.com)

Remember when being sick was fun? It meant a few days off from school with minimal work to catch up on and all day marathons of Jerry Springer. It meant napping all day long and those candy-like 'Feel Better Bear' lollypops and Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup. I remember my mother used to set up a turquoise antique television table (the kind that I'm sure people used to eat their TV dinners on back in the 1950s) with every remedy needed for my ample recovery. Feel Better Bears. Soup. Haagen Daaz sorbet. Ludens Berry cough drops. Vicks chest rub. Vitamin C drops. Puffs tissues with aloe infused into the paper goodness. It meant getting whatever you wanted to eat when recovery finally arrived because Mom was just too happy to see you feeling better, so she could get her life back to normal again with the sickly one back at school. Those were the days that are no more.

Today, while everyone and their mother within a 30 mile radius of the city of Boston is coming down with some nasty cold, let Mommy M give you a few tips of what to do and how to act around those who are feeling a bit congested, cloudy and sniffley. I can't provide you a tray of feel better goodness, but this is second best, don't you think?

1.) As seen below. Teavana. Wherever you are, go out or send someone out to get you a hot cup of their White Needle/Rooibos/Peppermint tea blend. With lots of honey. It costs a pretty penny but the 45 minutes I spent drinking my cup were the most bearable 45 minutes of my workday.

2.) Airborne. A lot of it. Buy it. Take it. Love it.

3.) Don't try to engage in any serious conversation. You'll find that you hear things wrong, pay no attention and generally make a fool of yourself if you try to.

4.) Take a walk! I forced myself out for a hour this afternoon into the nice, brisk, forty-something degree (ooo heatwave!) Boston afternoon. And you know what? I felt better.

5.) Skip the after-work festivities to relax in. Afterall, The Millionaire Matchmaker is on Bravo tonight, and that is reason enough to not go out and drink.

Enjoy. Stay healthy and send some anti-germ filled wishes my way!

-M

In the words of Carrie Bradshaw...

(photo courtesy of: ourweddingplus.com & Google images)

“Maybe all men are a drug. Sometimes they bring you down and sometimes, like now, they get you so high.” - Sex and The City

In honor of Valentines Day (our culture's consumerist and flower-filled holiday that I now detest despite the fact that I have a so-called valentine), I have given great thought to relationships and what they mean to us, the twenty-somethings of the early 2000's. In my parents time, about half a century ago, dating had a standard definition. My dad would drive, pick up my mom (in a town about 35 minutes away from his!), without complaint. They would go out to dinner, have some sort of conversation (about what, I do not know since they're basically polar opposites), see a movie, window shop, enjoy each other's company, have a goodnight kiss and part ways.

In my decade (yes, decade) of "dating," I can count the number of standard dates I've had that fit the above description on one hand - no exaggeration. I've had four serious relationships. One from ages 15-18. One from 18-19. One from 19-21. One from 21-present day (23, for the record). Please don't take note of the overlap, it's not my fault. Anyway, I found myself in all these serious relationships craving dates. Old fashioned, quality time together. Instead, I found myself as an undergraduate student in college in Amherst, Massachuestts during a time where hooking up (with a fuzzy definiton of what 'hooking up' even is - but you can take a sociology class for that) was dating. No guy (or excuse me, boy), takes a girl out for pizza and a nice artsy independent flick, pays, and then goes home -- separately. Dating in this time comes with all of these backhanded assumptions of what's to happen after the movie, after the martinis and after the walk back to your dorm, apartment, house, whatever. Whatever happened to romance? Somewhere Cupid is weeping in a corner over not just my love life, but all of our love lives.

Another thing about my generation and relationships? We have ADD. Literally. Love and sex are drugs and more potent than any grade narcotic. We're told in fourth grade to 'Say no to drugs.' I don't know about you, but no one ever warned me about love. We float from partner to partner, crush to crush, in hopes of feeling butterflies and passion at every moment. The instant that feeling of hope, the sense of, "oh my gosh, this could be the one" leaves, so do we. Mentally, physically, psychologically. However you choose to leave, we do. We're like love junkies, going from one high to the next. And that high is so addictive, there's nothing like it. When your stomach flip flops when you steal a glance across a table or at an event. When you gasp (even silently) when you see the name of your chosen pop up on your caller id or text message. When you look at photos of the two of you and think that there it is. Your future right there. But we're flighty as a generation. The moment that things get tough, we run. Fast. We leave quickly and commit quickly. We move in together out of convenience without thinking of consequence. I hate to say it but my mother has always been right about her disapproval of how we, as a generation, lead our love lives. Irrationality is the way, and regret is inevitable.

I encourage all of you, Pop Culture Paradox readers, think hard this Valentines Day about the committments you've made while you munch away on those tasty candy hearts (I always only pick out the white ones and eat them. Delicious.). Be careful who you choose as your valentine and what it could all mean.

-M

Coffee Cult(ure)

Have you ever noticed how some of the best, most intense and informative discussions take place over coffee?

Maybe it was all that caffeine or perhaps something about the elevator-like jazz playing in the background, but I had the strangest thoughts at Starbucks recently...Is the concept of long term commitments slowly dying out?

As a generation, we have been brought up to be extremely selfish...right from when we were kids, our parents, who taught themselves parenting 101 on new-age books that touted philosophies radically different from the approach taken by our grandparents, gave us a ton of options. Of course, for the majority of us, the freedom to make our own choices when it came to colleges, majors, and careers remained too...I think we all grew up with a sense of entitlement in terms of making choices... "Just do what makes you happy..." Ok, but what if every time you stop being happy with a certain decision you've made...does that entitle you to go ahead and change it the moment things seem difficult...or leave you unhappy/unsatisfied? This is where relationships come in...my parent's generation was all about making compromises...if you're not happy in the marriage/relationship..."ADJUST"/ "COMPROMISE"..."No person is perfect; no relationship is perfect!" etc etc...
For us, with our well-documented short attention spans, constant craving for new and exciting experiences and selfish attitudes...could we handle the idea of giving up all the possibilities for one person, one family for the rest of our lives...? Is that kind of forever-commitment just too much for us to handle? Would we not always be thinking, somewhere in our heads, I shouldn't compromise or settle the moment something went wrong? Would we want to work hard to remain happy?

Could we ever eliminate all the other possibilities and just hope that we've made the right decision with picking the person we want to be with?

The romantic in me would like to think so...the realist in me is not so sure...

Playing House?

(photo courtesy of Associated Content)

Quick all of you blog readers. A little pop quiz:

You find out that one of your exes (fairly recent, nonetheless, with a lot of history behind it) is basically married. What do you do?

A.) Get mad, angry, break a few Tiffany's wine glasses and then sulk and eat a lot of Ben & Jerry's ice cream (I'd recommend the 'One Sweet Whirled' flavor)

B.) Get sad, feel nostalgic, and watch 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' and wish that you were Holly Golightly (and wondering where in hell is your Paul Varjack).

C.) Feel completely thrown off balance and hope that they all fall off of a cliff. Or the Tobin Bridge. And wonder why you aren't the one that gets to write 'Mr. and Mrs.' since you're the one that put up with all of his childish behavior anyway (P.S. It's totally true, you deserve to, not that skank).

OR

D.) Get even. Look hot. Know your current boyfriend is hotter, and tell the world to suck it.

My opinion? All of the above. Breakups are a bitch and exes should be sent to another planet - preferably Pluto -- that is the smallest planet? Yes? Because we all know that where there's a small planet, there's surely small... well you know what I mean.

Which brings me to the point of my relationship based blog post. As a twenty-something that recently graduated college, there is a boom in couples that I know (some well, some not so well, some that I would rather not know at all) that are suddenly 'shacking up together' (to use my conservative father's terminology). Some couples have been together for years - and I understand the need for your own place. Some couples have been together for about a year - and that's okay, I guess, as long as you know the reprecussions. And if you dont, FYI, breakups are a lot more difficult to do when your name is signed on the dotted line next to your forever and ever (or until a better one rolls around)'s. Some couples have been together for a matter or months. For all of you that fall into this catagory. I have no words.

P and I strongly believe in the one year curse of relationships during this time of our lives. It's proven true for us and all of our friends. One year hits, and so does the drama. The questioning of whether it's worth it. Or we meet someone cuter, funnier, smarter, more intellectual and we relapse into sixteen-year-old girl mode. Acting like this is normally temporary, and should be if the person is, you know, the one. If the person is not the one, well, you know how that story goes -- and it involves crying, saying 'it's not you, it's me,' wondering if you'll ever be alone, and a whole ton of listening to 'Screaming Infidelities' by Dashboard Confessional. It's okay, I've been there. It happens.

This all being said, consider this a warning - a public service announcement of sorts. If you've been with your other half for less than twelve months, rethink before signing on the lease. We've all seen the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda has Steve sleeping on her couch for a month because he has nowhere else to go. There's no satisfying rebound in this universe with your ex sleeping a wall's distance away. If it's too late and you've already gone ahead, moved in, bought Kate Spade flatware, make sushi on Wednesdays together, and pretend you're married, well good luck to you. No, actually, not good luck to you, because chances are I know you and maybe dated you and think you're stupid for doing so. I dont' care if we were together when we were 15, 18, 20 or now. Do. Not. Care. I'll be there when it crashes and burns -- not for support necessarily, but simply to say, 'I told you so.' I always did love saying that anyway.

-M

An Open Letter to the Boston Area Guys That Ride the Green E Line Subway from the Prudential to Park Street Every Night At or Around 5:03pm

Dear Boston Area Guys That Ride the Green E Line Subway from the Prudential to Park Street Every Night At or Around 5:03pm (in particular, you, the one in the black North Face nylon jacket that looks worn from your sophomore year of college. It's time to upgrade, btw):

I don't know what has gotten into you. Have you all seen that scene in Billy Madison (heart Adam Sandler, my Jewish boy crush), when he gets dared to 'bump' into the hot teachers' boob on the school bus? No, you haven't? Well, you should probably On Demand that movie right about now. Anyway, I just had that happen to me, only standing, on a subway. Not cute.

All I ask for after a long, stressful day (or rather, for right now, make that week) of work, dealing with my personal life and trying to piece everything together, is some me time. For me, that time is during my commute home. Prudential to Park Street. Park Street to Kendall. Main Street to Plymouth Street. I listen to Lil Wayne on my iPhone, zone out, and occasionally glance at my reflection in the subway's window.

In no way does this me time include being bumped into you, North Face jacket man. And no, your little apologetic and flirtatious smile doesn't help. And no, you looking at me for the rest of the subway ride doesn't help. Creeper. You violated my personal space, and in the mood I'm in, that was so way unwelcomed.

I mean really, where are your manners men?

-M

P.S. I know dear readers, after a week away on vacay, and then a week to get myself back together, there's been a shortage of posts. Be patient, we'll be back to normal in no time (I hope). For now, just relax, I know I am with my glass of riesling and PF Changs leftovers. :)

Public vs. Private?

Newsflash! Word got out on Friday that the Obamas have chosen the prestigeous Sidewell Friends School for their daughters Sasha and Malia to attend come January. While some feel that the Obamas should attend public schools in DC for whatever reasons, I, personally feel the Obamas side of this situation. As a child bred in private schools (Kindergarten-12th grade, the first public school I set foot in was my first day of college at UMass Amherst), I have always (and probably will always) be an advocate for a private school atmosphere. The smaller class sizes, the closeness to teachers, the community that's built. It all sounds very cheesy, but I swear that it's true. Also true, however, the pricetag that a private school holds. Sidwell clocks in at about $29,000 per student for the academic year (the girls' current school, the Chicago Lab School, clocks in at a little under 20k/year -- note, most New England area prep schools clock in at about 30k-ish).

Elitest much? Yes. But, do we, and should we, expect much more from families that can afford the private school tuition? With the advantages that private schooling gives to students -- I can attest to a great work ethic, creative thinking, and an emphasis to detail -- why wouldn't the Obamas want the best for their girls?

-M

Damn you public transportation.

Let me state, for the record. I am not a morning person. If it were up to me, the workday would start and noon and end at 8pm. I like, love, enjoy, cherish my sleep. I requre a full 10 hours to feel my absolute best - and that rarely ever happens.

I hate waking up in the morning. I hate rolling out of bed after 5 snoozes (as it was the case) on my iPhone alarm. I hate stumbling to my bathroom, groggily brushing my teeth, washing my face, and being so tired that I can't even muster up energy to put on a layer of Make Up For Ever foundation. Even worse, I hate morning after morning, sleeping too late to make coffee before I walk out the door, leaving my morning commute caffeine-less. Even worse is mornings like this morning, where my commute takes a whopping two hours.

For those who don't know me, I live in Cambridge. About 25 minutes of walking and subway riding from the middle of downtown Boston. 25 minutes is a manageable commute. I love my commute actually. I read the Metro. I listen to the new Britney Spears album on my iPhone. I look at my reflection in the window of the red line and green line subways. I occasionally have a cigarette before I hop on the subway (no caffiene means I need some sort of savior to get my day started). And that was my commute today until I felt an unnecessarily and unusually forceful jolt.

My green line train died. Disabled. Whatever you want to call it. It wasn't moving anywhere, anytime soon. I'm packed onto a train, tighter than a can of sardines, and I realize that I'm going to be late for work. And not just late, really late. As in, I probably shouldn't take a lunch break kind of late. To top it off, as MBTA workers tried to revive my dead subway car, it jolted forward six inches, and then richoeted back. Ouch. That was a heel that juat poked my UGG boot. Ouch, that was a elbow to my head. Thank you everyone. I know you're angry Bostonians (after all, remember Ben Affleck's quote, "The Boston accent is more of an attitude than an accent. Underneath everything you say has to be the attitude of: You're an asshole, I know better than you, fuck you."), and I am too, but can we not cause physical injury while I'm trying to just stand and sit there. Claustophobic. Trying to not jump out of the window.

Obviously, I eventually made it to my office, at 9:30am. But MBTA, why do me wrong like this? I've been a loyal T rider since I was thirteen (even younger, if you count all those trips into the city with Mom and Dad). Red line. Blue line. Green line. Every color of the rainbow line. You've never died on me before, and now that you have, you've caused me such agony this morning. I pay you 60 bucks a month out of my paycheck for my T pass to get me wherever I need to go. Can you not let me down like this again? Pretty please? Because although I do need to get around somehow, I can think of other ways to spend sixty bucks every four weeks.

-M

You can take away my dignity but you can't take away my takeout!

No Slate.com! I will not just give up my takeout orders because you say so! What kind of world is this for non-culinary inclined individuals? Make my own lo mein you say?! Because it's more energy efficient?! Yeah, okay, freakshow - because I clearly have the secret MSG that my favorite take out place adds in to make it extra yummy, and I clearly have a wok in my kitchen (Sarcasm. I hardly own a frying pan - thanks to the boyfriend for picking that up for me...) and a stomach that can handle me trying to cook lo mein over and over before finally getting it right and eating it. I don't think so.

I promise my takeout habits are not ruining the Earth. And if anything, I consider myself on a takeout diet. If you think the environment is hurting from my food orders now, then you should have seen me and P and our friends in college. Chinese food Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays. McDonalds delivery (yes, there was a company that delivered delicious Big Macs and milkshakes to my dorm door!) on Tuesdays. Brunch leftovers in apparently Earth-unfriendly plastic to go containers on Sunday afternoons. Here and there we'd order in the occasional burrito from Amherst's favorite Mexican joint, or maybe pizza from the only place that it's really worth getting pizza from. That's write, Slate.com, I would eat take out almost every frickin day in college and I do not feel guilty about doing so. Oh, and did I mention the countless (sometimes 3x a day) Starbucks drinks in (GASP!) disposable cups that I'd drink? Tall. Grande. Venti. Hot. Cold. Iced. Canned. Whatever. Just call me Britney Spears.

The Earth's layers (and my tummy) love me and my takeout. They told me so. Forget lecturing me Slate.com. Now excuse me, where is my iPhone? I need to order some Thai for lunch...

-M

"I had often fantasized about running into my ex and his wife. But in those fantasies, I was running over them with a truck."

One of my closest friends from high school, K (that's right, we go way back), were gmail chatting online today during a lull at work. We have drawn to the conclusion that somehow, somewhere, exes everywhere are like Big Brother. Lurking on you until you have your life somewhat stabilized, happy, fulfilled, and poof. There they are, blowing up in your face, telling you they still love you, wanting you back, etc. Common sense says that jealousy (and sometimes a picture posted on the internet or a relationship status change) is the reasonable and logical explanation for this. After all, if they broke up with us, why would they come crawling back? They made it clear that they don't love anymore. They need to be alone. They need space. They need, they need, they need -- without any regard for what we need. Afterall, if they really ever cared in the first place, or had some dramatic revelation where a lightbulb went off and they decided they care once and for all, I don't think the trigger would be seeing our beautiful faces next to another dude. I could be wrong though. It hasn't been the first time. I guess the question is of sincerity or jealousy. And does jealousy ever bring sincerity out of a person?

Anyway, what we need. We, most likely, need space. Time. And that means space and time apart from you, jealous man. I would be inclined to say that friends with exes never really work - at least for me, that is. Especially with the ones that you would most like to stay friends with. Those are always the ones that you know, deep down, you, once upon a time long long ago, cared about the most. Maybe even loved the most. Loved in a way that you can only really love when you've never really been hurt before. I would have to argue that it's love in a way that no one every really loves again. That crazy, unrestricted, ohmygod i love you i love you i love you and you'll never hurt me because i've never been hurt kind of way. It's like Carrie and Big a la Sex and the City. Only, life isn't a movie or a really great tv show, and Big doesn't just call your best friend and show up in Paris and save you from an annoying (and boring, and old) Russian artist.

Does anyone really ever end up with their Big in real life? Maybe there just aren't any real Prince Charmings and you just settle for the hand you've been given. You find new people, and you love them - but never like that Prince Charming slips the shoe onto Cinderella kind of way. Maybe that's why Carrie ended up with Big. It gives hope -- but when you realize it's just not real, the false hope is just disappointing. And it's disappointing to know that it'll always sting a little bit. Or a lot a bit. Just look at this week's NYTimes Modern Love column. Holding on isn't always the best thing, and sometimes no response is just the perfect response.

-M

Which one does not belong?

Isn't it a little strange that all of Vogue India's Indian cover girls have been pictured wearing (western) haute couture and pretty little dresses...and the second white woman (Posh) they've had on the cover (Gemma Ward was on the first-ever cover) is in a sari...? Hmm...maybe Indian women in traditional Indian clothing don't sell magazines in India? Why the need to exotify a garment that is from to the area?

"Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. "

Last night, while forking through racks and piles of costumes, accessories and clothing with my friend K at the Garment District in Cambridge, I came to fully realize how skanky halloween is as a holiday. In true Mean Girls quotage (see title), all I could find are costumes that show a lot of leg, a lot of boob, and require a lot of makeup. I decided to take my friends' idea of going as "jailbait," since I look like I'm twelve anyway. Fishnet knee-highs, black micromini skirt, tied up oxford shirt, cross necklace, fake lollipop and stuffed animal later, and I look like I belong on my street corner (if you all know what I mean). While I'm more than happy to say that I think I can pull off such a costume, it disheartens me that this is what halloween is for young women. It's either you dress like this and 'be cool' or you wear this and look kind of dumb (no offense gwen, i love you, just not as an egg). This isn't really my idea of empowerment or feminism. Instead, halloween is just another night for guys to gawk like puppy dogs, only this time it's somehow excused. Hmm.

-M

If I Knew Then What I Know Now... Preachings of a Twenty-Something: Version 2.0

There's something about music that ties me to every major events/season/moment/feeling, of my life. Two nights ago, I realized that one of my childhood best friends and I have tickets to a Dashboard Confessional show in Lowell, MA next week. In preparation, I promptly opened iTunes, and clicked on the 'Dusk & Summer' album -- by far, my favorite of Dashboard/Chris Carrabba's work. I've lost count of how many times I've seen them since my days as a freshman in high school. I'm well into double digits, and every time I see them, I love it. The concerts go on like a sing-along, and Chris is not too bad on the eyes.

While listening the other night, however, I realized that I had stopped listening to them for a good year and a half. Completely stopped. Like cold turkey quitting - which we know I'm incapable of for any other vice in my life. And then, in this weird, nostalgic instant, I got brought back to two summers ago -- and remembered why I stopped listening to them. I remembered bus rides out to Amherst. Hot, sticky summer Saturday afternoons, walking downtown with my then-boyfriend. Ice cream outings at Bart's in downtown Amherst, MA. I remembered feeling the happiest that I had in a very, very long time, and thinking, 'This is it. This is my life. This is what I want my life to be. With these people and these places and these things.' This album is the soundtrack to that summer, and to those feelings. Although happy, it hits me that I'll never feel exactly like that again. I'll never have those moments again.

Maybe I'm having a bit of another quarter-life crisis that P wrote about a few weeks ago in a blog post. Maybe it's me having too little to do when I'm not slaving away in my corporate America office world. But I find myself rethinking my life -- and not in the way that I'm questioning past hairstyles and fashion choices (but for the record, I take full, guilty ownership of the short haircut of 2006). I think that I'll never again be able to relive the summer that I reminise about. If I knew everything that would happen after that summer, I wonder if I would have ever let myself be that happy in the first place. I guess everything looks as clear as a Swarovski crystal in hindsight, but it's all so much more complex than that. Regardless, I'll never have those conversations with the same people -- if any conversations at all. I think it's the finality of never that irks me. Never scares me more than forever (although I'm flat-out not a woman of extremes). I will never again live at home with my parents. Never be a little girl playing on the swing set, wearing a pink dress, my hair in pigtails and patent leather mary-janes. I'll never again go to senior prom, or be on a varsity sport team. I'll never again swipe my student id at my favorite cafe on campus at UMass, never again go to a fraternity party (although that's probably for the better). Never again see a new millenium be brought in on January 1st. Never again graduate from college. Never. Never. Never.

Is this what my dad told me when he said that things change after college? That things start to look different and feel different because you miss things that you never thought you would? Maybe this blog (and a post that started out being about Dashboard Confessional and oh-so-dreamy Chris Carrabba) isn't the proper soapbox for me to shout on, but oh well. This is growing up, and it feels weird and awkward and kind of sad. I want to be careless, irrational, and happy for the moment, in the moment. Life all of a sudden isn't about songs that make me want to daydream about my future ('Stolen' by Dashboard, for the record, if any of you all wanted to know my secret spacing out and thinking song). Now, life is planning my future -- living my future. And I feel unfulfilled and cheated by my past. It swept by without warning me that it was going to feel too fast. Can someone just give me one day as a five-year old again? I want to go back to schoolyard crushes, Play-Doh, and hoping for the day when my parents would let me wear nail polish and a boy would kiss me. Life was so simple then, and now it's filled with rent, voting, jobs, responsabilities, debt and drama. What the hell happened to me and the world in 18 years since my 5 year old days? Being 5 doesn't seem like that long ago, does it?
-M