Are You an Innie or an Exie?

Two blog posts in two days?! What is the world coming to?

My coworkers and I were having a discussion about introversion and extroversion the other day. It was prompted by this article, which was featured in The Atlantic in 2003. Oh gosh, I just realized that was eight years ago. Now I feel old.

Anyway...

In case you didn't read the article before moving past that link (it's really short, I promise), the basic idea is that introverts and extroverts are practically two different species: while extroverts get energy by being around people, introverts are drained by social situations and need time to recharge. On this count, I definitely agree with the author.

Almost all of my friends are extroverts, and while I love them all, I just...need a break every once in a while. Many of them cannot comprehend the fact that I actually enjoy being by myself. I'm not by myself because I don't have anyone to hang out with; I'm by myself because, after a day of interacting with my coworkers for eight straight hours, I don't have the energy or the desire to be around other people. All I want to do is sink into my chair and watch Netflix movies. Is that really so strange?

I loved almost everything in the article, but I did have a problem with one assertion: the idea that extroverts are easy for introverts to understand. Maybe the author meant that extroverts as people are easy to understand -- they often wear their hearts on their sleeves and are not shy about expressing themselves -- but I took it more as an assumption that extroversion as a concept isn't hard to figure out, which I do not agree with at all.

I just don't get it. How in the world can a person spend every waking moment with other people? I have friends who, during the summer, would just hop from group to group. The only time they would spend at their own houses would be the eight hours or so that they needed to sleep, and the only waking minutes they would spend by themselves was the time it took them to arrange another outing. I never understood how a person could do that, and I probably never will.

So, while I agree that extroverts will probably never understand introversion, it's also pretty hard for us introverts to wrap our heads around how you extroverts do what you do. Maybe we can all just make a pact to be a bit more understanding of one another. World peace and all that jazz. Because I'm certainly never going to change.

My Life, In Numbers

Quite the eventful week this week:

One surgery avoided, thanks to my negative MRI results.

Two computer monitors that are all mine. My new dual system has exponentially increased my productivity, which was the whole point, I suppose.

Three different burrito places visited for lunch. We're on a quest for the best burrito. We will not stop until we find it.

Four(th) hockey class missed. Looks like I'm officially out for the season.

Five new projects at work. The next few months are going to be fuuuun.

Six-month anniversary at my first real job. I've now officially broken my previous employment record. What. Up.

Seven sodas enjoyed over the past seven days, despite my intention to "cut back." No sleep + no caffeine = zombie. No sleep + caffeine = productive zombie. I'll have to work on that.

And, I couldn't think of anything for eight, so I guess this experiment is over.

It's almost the end of July, and I haven't even gotten a chance to enjoy my summer yet. I want to go to the aquarium! And the zoo! Have to go to the zoo.

Serial (Comma) Killer

Dear Oxford University Press,

I was about to sit down and type up a missive on my love of the Oxford comma, but then I discovered that you were absolved of this oh-so-heinous murder. So, my apologies. I should never have doubted you.

But there goes my brilliant idea for a blog post.

Things in my life are about the same as usual. However, I have this overwhelming feeling that a storm's a-brewing. I haven't decided if it's a good storm or a bad storm, but I can definitely feel the rumbling. And yes, that was oddly vague.

In other news, I'm currently in love with Bruno Mars' album, Doo-Wops and Hooligans. Maybe it's just the name - or the fact that I can't get enough of his Rockabilly style - but I've had it on repeat for days.

Sorry for the drive-by, but I have warm weather and cool tunes. Can't get much better than that.

Happy summer!

Hey-Oh!

I was about to wonder aloud whether it had really only been two weeks since I posted last, and then I realized that I completely forgot about the month of April. Ah, the joys of working until my brain turns to mush...

And yes, another redesign was in order, thankyouverymuch. I was getting a little tired of my...whatever I had before...and decided to change my background to SPAAAACE. The final frontier. Blogtier? Doesn't matter.

I missed so many things while I was away: Bunsen Burner Day (March 31st), Draw a Picture of a Bird Day (April 8th), National High Five Day (April 21st), AND Save the Rhino Day (May 1st). So many bizarre and wonderful holidays, so little time.

This post was really just intended as a brief blog-and-run, but I guess I do have one thing to discuss: the concept of "overtime guilt."

I think it's a term that I just made up. And a quick Google search confirms its originality. Suck it, Merriam Webster.

Overtime guilt is a thing that I had never really experienced until I started working 80-hour weeks. Basically, it rears its ugly head whenever I don't work 80-hour weeks. It hits whenever I take a weekend off or whenever I work an 8-hour day. I can't help but feel like I'm slacking off. Which is a) ridiculous, b) totally insane, and c) some other closely related word that I can't think of right now.

Bonkers?

No, too adorable.

Whatever this is, it's definitely not healthy. That's the problem with taking your work home with you, I guess. Even when you're at home, it still feels like you're at work.

The one thing I can't figure out is why I never had this problem in school. I did all my work at home, and yet...never really felt compelled to check email hundred of times a day or go to class on a Saturday. Ever.

Maybe it's because I'm getting paid now. Yeah. That's probably it. Now that I'm making the big bucks, it's messing with my mind.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm thinking of starting a new blog about the trials and tribulations of my hockey class. I know you guys wouldn't be super intrigued, but someone might be. I can call it "Get the Puck Outta Here." No, maybe not. "The Puck Stops Here"? Ugh. I think the part of my brain that comes up with horrible puns is officially broken. Good riddance, I say.

What, Me Worry?

All right, I'll admit it: I am freaking out a little. 

Crazy huge earthquake in Japan = my very first tsunami warning in California. Um...

I was getting ready to go to sleep when the Emergency Alert System bust in on my Man vs. Wild and warned all of us San Francisco Bay Areans (wow, we need a better name) that a tsunami with "significant widespread inundation" was imminent.

I spent my evening watching Japan become the next Atlantis and then was told by the nice newsman that we were about to get some of that action. UM...

The previous hour has been spent researching every possible tsunami inundation map in existence, and my house appears to be out of the splash zone; however, these things are notoriously unpredictable, and I live really freaking close to a body of water that is connected to the Pacific Ocean. SWEET BABY JESUS I AM GOING TO DIE.

Okay, I'm not going to die. Our elevation is about 100 feet above sea level, and the experts seem to think 50 feet is plenty to avoid the brunt of the surge. The water in the delta might rise a bit, maybe some minor flooding, but I don't plan on waking up tomorrow morning knee-deep in tsunami run-off. Still, I'm thinking I'll move my laptop to higher ground. Just in case.

Can't even imagine what people in Japan are dealing with, though...

Get a Life

I think I'm in an abusive relationship.*

Horror of horrors, thy name is Calculus. Last week, it was all butterflies and rainbows. This week...not so much.

We broke up. It was a mutual thing. He thought he could find someone who would appreciate him more than I did; I thought he was too arrogant and egotistical for his own good. We agreed to go our separate ways. I didn't spend a week under the covers, hoarding empty tissue boxes and watching cheesy romantic comedies until I could quote them word-for-word. In fact, I was relieved. Glad to be rid of him.

And then he threw himself back into my life. He tried to convince me that we should get back together. He kept pestering me at work. He started following me home. Calling at all hours of the night. Expecting us to hang out on weekends, just like old times. He went from "socially incompetent" to "class five stalker" in a matter of days.

The worst part about it is that I think his shock and awe campaign is finally starting to pay off. I think about him constantly. I find myself blowing off my other friends just to spend time with him. I even lose sleep.

Something needs to change, so here's an open letter to Mr. C., from me:

Hey buddy, you want to back it up a little bit? I think I need my space.

*Note: I am not actually in an abusive relationship. It's called an "extended metaphor," ya dig?

Life Is Like a Hurricane Here In Duckberg

I'd say my life right now is about a category four, but I expect it to increase by a few kilometers per hour and hit category five in no time.

The last time we spoke, I mentioned that I was going to become a full-time employee at some point in the near future. I still had to put the finishing touches on my guide, but it was expected that I would start once that was wrapped up. Namely, I had planned on becoming a grown-up on February 1st.

Yeah...aboooout that...

I'm a full-time employee! And I have been for five whole days now. (It would have been three, but I had to work the weekend. Both days. So it totally counts.)

Long story short (partially because of my non-disclosure agreement and partially because I have been on this stupid computer all freaking day), I got an email on Tuesday night asking me if I could start "tomorrow." I could feel the desperation in The Editor's keystrokes (yes, I'm calling everyone by their titles). I was kind of burning out on my project anyway, so I agreed. Unfortunately, that meant a little less than 12 hours of freedom before officially becoming an adult. I had a minor freak-out along the lines of "oh my gosh, this is going to be my life now," but with that behind me, I was ridiculously excited to start work.

I won't bore you guys with the details of my first few days (actually, I had kind of an awesome time), but here are some observations for you:

1.  There seems to be a clear divide between the "creative types" and the "engineering types." I know that's probably the case in every office, but it seems especially stark at my company because there's actually a physical barrier: a giant glass wall. The writers are all together in "the pit" (which is basically just a room with a giant table) so we can talk to each other, and the non-writers are all in the cubes. I've never even been to the cubes. I just look at them from afar and wonder who's back there. I'm thinking about bringing cupcakes once this project is finished, though. Maybe that will help bridge the gap. 

2.  Something needs to be done about the key situation. Right now, I think there are three keys milling about: an Engineer has one, The CEO has one, and The Editor has one. This would work out just fine if they were the first ones to arrive in the morning, the last ones to leave at night, and just stayed in the office all day. But they aren't, and they don't. So, on my first day, I was locked out. And on my third day, I was locked out twice! I'm going to need to figure out a way to get me one of those key cards.

3.  My office is one exit away on the freeway. One exit! If I ever have time to get to the bike shop and get a new headlight (and maybe a bell, just so I don't die) for the ol' velocipede, I think I'm going to start cycling to work. I've gotten - how do I put this delicately? - squishy since coming back from school. I didn't know it at the time, but riding my bike to class was the only reason one delicious Chipotle burrito a week didn't leave me buying new pants every other month. Not that I've had to buy a whole lot of new pants or anything, but the ones I do have are fitting just a little tighter these days.

I'm sure there are other things, but I can't remember them right now. All I can say is that this job is even more perfect for me than I thought it would be. I get to spend all day nitpicking other people's work, and whenever I need to write something of my own, I get a subject and a length and then get to do whatever I want with it. I also get paid to research things like Horatio-isms (from CSI: Miami) and the Guinness World Record for skipping stones (51). And I get coworkers! Coworkers who don't smell and who don't sneeze on me or creepily read over my shoulder. It's amazing.

Don't Rain On My Parade

Before I begin, I just wanted to ask (both of) you for some feedback on my new-ish layout. I, personally, think it's pretty and relaxing and makes me want to take a vacation to Hawai'i, but I'm not the one who has to stare at it for minutes at a time. So, thoughts? Is the background too busy? The font too Times-New-Roman-y, perhaps? Or maybe just too small? Let me know, and I will gladly make changes.

Now, back to business. It's November! And you guys know what that means: my favorite food-based holiday is right around the corner! Ahhhhh Turkey Day, the crown jewel of holidays for gluttons everywhere. Okay, just gluttons in America, I suppose. Anyway, this time of year always makes me think about how much I love food. Seriously, guys, I love it a whole lot. I wanted to be a pastry chef for the vast majority of my childhood, and I would drop everything and go to culinary school in a second if I could actually afford it. But, sadly, I can't. So, I've been looking into the next best thing: working in a bakery/cafe/patisserie/chocolaterie. Surprisingly, there are a lot of them around here. A lot. (Sidenote: why haven't I ever been to any of these places? How could I have missed all the dessert-alicious wonder??)

So here's my dilemma: as a UC Berkeley graduate, can I bring myself to work a job where the only requirements are being able to stand for eight hours and lift ten to fifty pounds. Did I really go to college for four (and a half) years, and pay tens of thousands of dollars into the system, only to return to the types of jobs I was working back in high school?

Maybe I sound ridiculously haughty and pretentious, but I feel like the minute I hit "submit" on that online application, I'll be flushing the last five years of my life down the drain. No one will care that I majored in political economy if I'm working the counter at Starbucks. No one will care that I studied abroad in Germany if I'm restocking the display case at the local cafe. And that's the scariest part: no one will care. The glorious Berkeley degree for which I worked so hard, the thing I was told was a fail-safe even in the toughest of economic times, won't matter. In fact, not only will it not matter, it will be considered a hindrance; on my so-called "retail resume," my "education" section has now fallen all the way to the bottom.

I know that I'm not the only one facing this dilemma, and I know that my first job won't be the be-all and end-all of my career, but still...I don't want to go down that road. Not yet. Not after all this time. Have I really exhausted all of my other options?

And then an awesome (and, at times, super necessary) part of my brain breaks in with a little optimism. It says to Debbie Downer over here that it loves food, particularly dessert-type food, and it likes people, particularly dessert-type people. Would working in a chocolate shop really be that bad? Wouldn't walking into your office and smelling cupcakes wafting through the back of the house be kind of awesome? And Debbie Downer stops...and thinks...and says, "You know what? It would be."

Pub Parables

Well, guys, today has been quite a day. But more on that later. I thought that, for this month's post, I might do another pub tale, since the last one seemed to go over so well. Join me, won't you?

You guys know me--I'm not a big trier-of-new-things--but when I heard about $5 pitchers and beer pong at a recently-opened bar in Redwood City, I couldn't resist. I made the decision to take the train; since I wouldn't know a single person there, I figured that commuting with others would be a way to avoid an awkward entrance. Basically, I had this vision of me, relegated to a corner, slowly sipping my warm Rolling Rock, while everyone else was laughing like old friends and reveling in how much more awesome they were than I. And all just because I had driven my car. Definitely didn't want that vision to become a reality.

So I caught the train. Actually, I was running super late, raced to the station, parked my car in a questionable area, hoped that I wouldn't have a ticket waiting for me when I got back, ran to the automated ticket dispenser, tried to pay with my credit card, had my credit card rejected (the reader was broken), tried to pay with cash, had my bills rejected, dug around my bag for exact change, finally got my ticket, and ran across the tracks with the safety gate horns blaring and seconds to spare. And then I caught the train.

It had been decided that we would all meet in the rear car. And by "it had been decided," I mean that other people had posted on the discussion board that this was where we were meeting, and I just assumed that I would run into them there. (This assumption will come back to bite me in the ass later, don't you worry.) But then I got on the train, and, surprise surprise, there was no one in the rear car. I had the organizer's phone number, but I was already so far out of my comfort zone by just making the decision to go to this event that I couldn't bring myself to call him. I ran through so many scenarios in my head. The best one being me wandering around the train aimlessly, looking like an idiot, asking anyone who seemed to be around my age if they were part of "the group," and then being secretly kidnapped by the CIA. (Okay, I wasn't really worried about being kidnapped by the CIA, but honestly, I spent the first ten minutes of the train ride weighing the pros and cons of a text; I'm constantly surprised by the fact that I occasionally manage to get over my near-crippling social anxiety enough to do anything but sit at home in my jammers.)

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the ride by myself. My only entertainment was listening to the lady in front of me eat slurp a nectarine and suck her teeth in an apparently vain attempt to remove stone fruit remnants from her pearly whites. The joys of public transit.

After what felt like hours--but was really more like 20 minutes--we finally arrived. Redwood City: the city of...redwoods?* I stepped out of the train into a balmy, early-October evening...and directly proceeded to walk in the wrong direction. You see, thinking that I would meet people on the train, I hadn't bothered to look up where this place actually was. Once I realized that things were not quite right, I stopped to get my bearings and noticed a young-ish gentleman who looked almost as lost as I did. "This guy," I thought to myself. "This guy is definitely going where I am going, and I'm going to follow him." And follow him I did! I actually managed to end up on the correct street somehow, at which point the guy and I went our separate ways. Guess he wasn't going where I was going after all.** I walked and walked, convinced that I was going to be murdered but trying to look super nonchalant about it; and then finally, like a message from above, I saw the London Underground sign peering out at me.

The pub is called The Underground, but I didn't really make the connection until I saw that sign. It was at that very moment that I knew: this was the pub for me. I walked up to find a couple of old-timey regulars sitting out front in their jaunty, plaid wool newsboy caps and cable-knit cardigans. Thinking about it now, that sounds a little too perfect and might all have been a figment of my imagination. Regardless, I felt right at home. The downstairs portion of the pub was deserted, but to my right was a staircase. I started to ascend, thinking that this was much much too easy, but when I got to the top of the stair, there they all were. In all their recent graduate glory. It actually felt a bit too much like a high-school dance for my liking. The girls were on one side, doing their makeup; the guys were on the other, punching each other in the arm for some unknown reason. And then there was me. Smack-dab in the middle. Instead of pulling my usual wallflower stunt, I got two jello shots and wedged my way into the guys' group. (I mean, makeup? Please.)

Thankfully, someone dragged me to a beer pong table, where I was introduced to my teammate. We'd own the table for the rest of the night, thanks, in part, to the fact that I was on fire at least once per game. Then it was time for flip cup, and despite one ignominious defeat, it was a lot of fun. I met people, made new friends, and the bartendress didn't even give me dirty looks when I switched to water! Who could ask for more?

I promised more on my eventful day, but honestly, this kind of took on a life of its own. Long story short, I may have shot myself in the foot re: the job hunt due to the sending-out of unopenable resumes, and I spent about an hour today thinking that someone had stolen my cell phone. They hadn't, but you know, it's the thought that counts.

*The city motto is actually "Climate Best By Government Test." Apparently, in the 1920s, the US and German governments started accumulating and analyzing meteorological data, determining that Redwood City was at the center of one of the world's best climates. You're welcome.

**Actually, he was. I saw him later that night at the pub and, after admitting to seeing him on the train, he confessed that it was a good idea I hadn't followed him, because he was lost for a solid half-hour. Yes...wouldn't that have been awkward. *shifty eyes*

Life Less Ordinary

I never realized how much time I wasted on the computer until I got my new one. During the six months I had to go without, I attributed my overabundance of free time to things like not having to go to class or being unemployed (which, granted, are both viable excuses); in actuality, however, my lack-of-internet was the culprit all along.

Not being wired for a pretty substantial length of time gave me a chance to do other things -- like read. I hadn't read for fun (at least not more than a book or two) in years, and yet, I found myself checking out things from the library in double-digits and demolishing three or four good-sized novels every week. On top of that, I also watched tons of movies I'd never seen -- some good, some not-so-good -- and caught up on all the TV I'd missed while I was pretending to be a busy busy college student (well, at least the stuff I could get for free).

Now, the five minutes or so that I used to spend on the computer daily (just to check my email and such) often manages to stretch into hours. When I think back on where that time went, I can't even remember what I was doing half the time. You know how microwave minutes are always longer than regular minutes? Well, I'm pretty sure you can fit about ten internet minutes into one normal one. Don't ask how or why...that's just the way it is. I do know that I spent four hours the other day playing stupid games on Yahoo. FOUR HOURS. How does that even happen?! (I'm ashamed to say that I'm kind of addicted to the time-management/own-a-restaurant-and-serve-your-customers-the-correct-things ones, which is weird considering that I would never in a million years want to work in food service.) The fact that I somehow fall into a time-sucking vortex every time I turn the computer on means that I am so much less productive than I used to be. I'm down to one book every two weeks, if I'm lucky, and my ability to watch an entire season of something in one day? Gone. (I know that it doesn't sound like I was being super productive in the first place, but at least it felt like I was getting things done, even if those things were only polishing off season three of Rescue Me or reading a memoir in two days.)

I've decided that something needs to be done about this nonsense, so I'm going to limit my computer access for a while...I'm not sure how yet, but it's going to happen. (By the way, that four hours I spent playing games took place while I was "taking a quick break" from the job search. My brain clearly doesn't want to continue with this charade.)

Speaking of jobs, I have job-related news! I've been volunteering with a campaign since I hit the 6-months-post-graduation mark (which also coincided nicely with interviewing for the position with CC...imagine that). Anyway, the organizer (/speechwriter/volunteer coordinator/policy analyst/research fellow) was conspicuously absent from the wiki for a couple of weeks, and I was a little concerned because he usually updates daily. Having checked Google News and not finding his name in any incident reports (what? I said I was concerned), I shot him a quick email asking what was up. He responded a few days later saying that he had actually decided to transition out of the campaign and that they were looking for a new organizer (duhn-duhn-DUH). He didn't offer me the job or anything, but he said that if I was interested, he would recommend me and get me on the short list, which is better than nothing. Also, they're looking specifically for someone with event organizing experience, which I have. We'll see. This all happened towards the end of the workday on Friday, so I'm thinking no one's even going to be looking at candidates until Tuesday or Wednesday at least, but it's exciting nonetheless! I'm not getting my hopes up though...I learned my lesson after last time. The jobs itself looks pretty intense -- the only paid employee, 50+ hour work-weeks, commuting to SF pretty often, and minimal pay -- but it's actually something I could see myself doing as a career, and you can't get much better than that.

Other things: I'm trying to get out and be more social. I'll hopefully be joining a Stammtisch at some point (it's like a language club...you just go to a bar and drink and practice German with other people who are learning); I also found a group of recent grads that meet up all around the area, and they seem really cool. I'm not sure whether I can bring myself to go alone though, since they seem to all know each other already. But if I bring some friends along, there's no way I'm going to meet anyone new. Quite the conundrum.

Well, happy September! It's starting to look like Autumn here, but it certainly doesn't feel like it with massive heatwaves and such. We're having a Labor Day BBQ tomorrow to enjoy the weather while it lasts.

The Candy Man Can

Hello to all of you lovely people out there. I decided another update was in order, as my previous post wasn't very informative. Also, there are pictures (!!!), so read on...

Things to which I have been up (it doesn't sound right, but it is grammatically correct):

• NightLife at the Academy of Sciences: Museums are probably second on my list of "favorite things ever" (trivia capturing the top spot, naturally), so when I heard that the Academy was hosting weekly after-hours parties for the drinking-aged set, I was so in. It wasn't quite what I was expecting: I naively assumed it would be a bunch of like-minded twenty-somethings who showed up for the learning and awesomeness instead of being in it for the drinking, but I was wrong. Still, it was pretty cool. The highlight of the night was some guy hitting on me in the "Extreme Mammals" exhibit. I totally shut him down without realizing that he was attempting to chat me up, and I felt really badly after I figured out what had happened. Oh, me.  

Tree frog!

Jellyfish are so photogenic.

Overlooking the aquarium walk-through.

Lepidopterophobia: fear of butterflies.

• I HAVE A NEW COMPUTER. Also, a new printer/copier/scanner thing and a new iPod (of the Touch variety). There is too much technology around me! I can't possibly handle it all. I haven't even delved into the mysteries of the iPod yet, but my MacBook and printer are both amazing and I love them. I also love the fact that I no longer feel disconnected from the world and everyone in it. It's pretty awesome. 

• I went to the Boardwalk! A little history, for those of you unfamiliar with the wonder: Built in 1907, the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk is California's oldest amusement park. It's one of those parks where admission is free and each ride costs a certain number of tickets. Basically, it is pretty much amazing, and every week during the summer, they have 1907 nights where everything only costs a dollar. So we decided to go. S and I went early to avoid traffic and hit up Capitola on the way. The only affordable thing in Capitola: salt-water taffy. We bought almost a pound and a half. Then it was off to downtown SC (which is a lot like Berkeley, only cleaner and less frightening) for some dinner. Delicious dinner, might I add. No I did not have the Skippy Burger. And then Boardwaaaaalk! We had to ride The Giant Dipper twice because it's my favorite and also the best ride there. (Oldest roller coaster on the West Coast. For some reason my friends didn't really want to know that fact. I have no idea why.)

 

SO GOOD.

Deliciousness.

Please note: Skippy Burger. Ew.

 

 

YES.

• News from the job front: The organization with which I interviewed updated the job listing to extend application dates, which, I'm assuming, is their not-so-subtle way of telling everyone who has already interviewed (see: me) that they haven't found the right person yet. Thanks for that, CC. Sure, I would have given up my hopes of going abroad so you could overwork me for what was sure to be less-than-minimum wage, but why should you email me to tell me you're not interested? Why would that be necessary? No, I wasn't waiting by my computer, obsessively checking the listing for any changes, just in case. Where did you get that preposterous hypothesis? It's very frustrating, although I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir. Just...how hard is it to send an email? I mean, really? Stupid. Anyway, I'm applying for a job in the language lab at one of the community colleges around here. It's not quite full-time, but I would still get benefits (awesome) and I would have time to continue volunteering in the political scene if I felt so compelled. I'm actually kind of qualified too, so I'm hoping I'll at least get an interview. We'll see.

I guess that's it for now! I hope you all enjoyed this photo-heavy post. It was kind of hell to put together, so I might keep updates to one or two pictures from now on.

Happy August!

People Are People

For the past couple of days, I've been helping my friend, S, with a little art project. Maybe "little" is the wrong descriptor; let's try "preposterously huge and insanely difficult" instead. She's moving into her very first apartment in a couple of weeks and has been going a little crazy with the decorating ideas. The most recent one was a coffee table. But not just any old store-bought coffee table. This one was going to be custom-made, collapsible, and the tabletop was going to be a black-and-white photo collage of her and her boyfriend, D's, favorite moments. (Okay, I know all of you know who I'm talking about, but just humor me.) My description makes it sound kind of ridiculous, but it actually looked amazingly cool when we were finished with it. Anyway, helping her cut, paste, and place all the photos from their respective childhoods and beyond made me a bit nostalgic for my own past, so I paid a visit to my grandparents' garage.

Why my grandparents' garage, you ask? As it turns out, I don't actually have any baby pictures of myself. Actually, I don't have any pictures of myself before I was about nine years old. Unfortunately for me, neither do my parents. It seems that in the hustle and bustle of post-divorce changes of address, all of the boxes containing my childhood photos were lost, never to be seen again. Sad, but true. Luckily, my grandparents were ardent pack rats and saved every single photo my parents ever sent them. (Not-so-luckily, my parents were less-than-diligent about sending photos after my brothers were born, but I'll take what I can get.) So, today I made my way over to the house to see what I could dig up.

I didn't really know where to start, but after some searching, I found some of the photo albums I was looking for. Of course my brothers had a whole scrapbook, but baby me was conspicuously absent. More searching revealed a couple of "cards and letters" boxes that looked very promising, so I dug into those too. Sadly, no photos, but, elbow-deep in spider webs, I discovered something even more precious: I managed to catch a glimpse of my grandparents as real people.

They both died when I was young. Not super young, mind you, but they passed before I was old enough to consider them as anything other than "my grandparents." Digging through the correspondence they'd sent each other over the years, I realized that they were real people who were really and truly in love with one another. I know it sounds stupid -- of course my grandparents were real people -- but I honestly never even considered the fact that they had lives before they were grandparents. People tend to think of time in terms of their timeline, as in "oh, that happened before I was born" or "yeah, I think I was about 7 when that happened." Even as a student of history, I find it really hard to come to terms with the fact that people were living tens of thousands of years before I even existed. Grappling with the idea that my grandparents were living lives and experiencing things ridiculously similar to my life, 60 years later, really rocked the metaphorical boat. I read through what might possibly have been the very first letter my grandfather ever sent my grandmother: one in which he explained that he had broken off his four-year relationship to a girl he didn't love, a girl his family expected him to marry, and requested permission to take my grandma out on a date. I spent hours reading those letters. I experienced their lives as they got married; their trials and tribulations as my grandpa was drafted into the Navy during the Korean War and as he tried to comprehend the senseless violence that was occurring all around him; and the eagerness and hope that kept him going as he waited for the day when he would be discharged, so he could build his dream house and be with the woman he loved. (It sounds like one of those sappy historical dramas, right?) I even found their wedding photos and the bible that was used during the ceremony, inscribed with the phrase "May you live a long and happy life together." And they did. At least, I think they did. Like I said, I never really knew them as people, but finding all this stuff -- all these memories that had been literally just gathering dust for years -- really makes me wish that I had. You can't change the past though. For now, I'm just thankful for the fact that I have a second chance to get to know them as people and not just as my grandparents.

Also, in case you're wondering if I was successful in my original quest, I was. I did ultimately find a handful of ridiculously adorable photos of me, and since I've been told that a picture is worth a thousand words, I'm including one of my favorites.

I originally had a different photo in mind, but baby me was nakey, and I wanted to preserve at least some of my dignity.

A legitimate update later, I promise!

When You're a Stranger

I love trivia. I mean, I love it a whole lot. I could regale you for hours with little tidbits of information I've picked up in the twenty-two years I have been on this planet. It's one of the reasons I'm so good at all things historical; I just remember things: names, dates, places, sequences of events. I have no idea why my brain works the way it does, but I love it. (This savant-like tendency applies to song lyrics as well, but that is slightly less handy and a lot more annoying for everyone around me.)

Still, even though I watch Jeopardy religiously and worship Alex Trebek like he is the modern-day equivalent of the golden calf, I recently had to come to terms with the fact that not everyone has the same kind of respect for useless knowledge that I do.

Case in point: pub quiz. My passion for the trivial has made me a stalwart devotee of Quiz Night at the local bar. Every Tuesday, rain or shine, win or lose, I am revved up and ready to go, but my teammates have become slightly jaded. It's understandable, naturally; I mean, I think the best we've ever done is second-to-last place (unless you count winning for "Best Team Name," which is sort of an honor but doesn't really make anyone feel less dumb). Long story short, after weeks and weeks and weeks of losing horrendously, and in the spirit of communal sacrifice (on my part, at least), it was decided that pub quiz would be forsaken in favor of something a little more appealing to the rest of the group.

With that, I was on the hunt for a bar that would satisfy all our needs (cheap beer being top among them, I'm not gonna lie). I found a few that looked promising, the reviews made the rounds via email, and last night we hit up a place called The Oasis. Sounds relaxing, right? Um...wrong. It was loud and kind of dingy with a not-so-prime strip mall location and a loyal group of middle-aged regulars in various states of inebriation -- basically everything a dive bar should be. The barkeep swore like a sailor, we were constantly harassed by one particularly stubborn drunk (he was hitting on one of us...we just never figured which one), and there may or may not have been a fight in the kitchen during our brief stay. Still, despite all this, it was one hell of a night; I mopped the floor with the opposition at pool (sorry, guys) and learned a whole lot more about some of my friends over a pitcher at the local watering hole (which, in my opinion, is really the best way to get to know someone); honestly, what could be better? Let's just hope next week can measure up.

In other news, there's still no word on the interview front. People keep telling me that they're jealous that I have this very specific idea of what I want to do with my life, but outside of working for this particular organization, I'm really pretty clueless. I mean, where do you start looking for a job when your goal is to change an entire political system? Should I try to worm my way into the bottom rung of the political food chain or should I head straight to the source? Should I accept any old job just to make some money or should I hold out for something I'll actually enjoy? There are just so many questions. Anyway, I'm giving them until Friday, and then it's open season on the job front. I'm being a bit pessimistic at the moment because being pleasantly surprised is a lot better than being bitterly disappointed in the end, so I'm just trying to keep my options open.

What else? I'm still rock climbing, and I've managed to keep myself relatively healthy somehow. (For someone as injury-prone as me, that's saying a lot.) I'm also in the throes of summer and am trying to soak up as much sun as humanly possible with camping and BBQs and trips to the park. It's working out pretty well too. Oh, and I made cupcakes! Peanut butter cup cupcakes, to be precise. If there is a more perfect combination than peanut butter and chocolate, I certainly haven't found it.

Happy July, everyone!

The Song Sings Itself

I didn't realize until a couple of weeks ago that I've been keeping a pretty regular pace of one blog per month on this thing. Unfortunately, once I realized that, all my attempts at updating for May failed. (I currently have three other posts "in progress" and unpublished on my dashboard, and who knows when, or if, I'll ever get around to finishing those.) Anyway, here is one last-ditch effort.

It's been a particularly drizzly month in the Bay Area. The way the local meteorologists are telling it, you'd think we were bracing for a flood the likes of which only Noah has seen. As it stands, however, we're just experiencing a bit more weather than usual. Personally, I couldn't care less -- I love the rain -- but as May bleeds into June, I find myself missing the sun.

In an effort to escape the nimbostrati* that have been hovering over my beloved hometown for the past few weeks, it was decided that a road-trip to Santa Cruz was in order. Google Weather for the area was holding steady at a sunny 73°, and although the Northern California coast is famous for being a bit finicky, we figured we would give it a go nonetheless.

We hopped in the car in the early afternoon and made our way to Natural Bridges State Beach. I'm still not really sure why they call it that, because I didn't see any bridges (natural or otherwise), but it was a nice beach all the same. After laying out the towels and getting all sunscreened up, I began my most recent library find -- Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer by Chuck Thompson -- and let my mind wander. It naturally made its way across the Atlantic and wound up smack dab in the middle of the Cote d'Azur. Don't worry, I'll spare you the details of my month spent backpacking along the Mediterranean (I know, even I'm jealous of me), but I can't help but think back on that time whenever I find myself face-to-face with The Big Blue. And when I do, I start missing it more than ever. I'm not really talking about the places I went, although each was amazing in its own right (even Florence, despite the fact that it was never under triple digits, temperature-wise, when I was there); it's more a feeling that I miss: the feeling you get when you're traveling without any reservations or set plans. It's a feeling I had after graduation, when it seemed like the whole world was at my fingertips, but it's gradually begun to seep away. Now that I've completed my resume (it took me a whole week, but I did it!) and have started sending it off to potential employers, the world available to me seems to be shrinking by the hour. I started with all seven continents (alright, let's be realistic and say six...you couldn't pay me enough to go to Antarctica), but the radius has now narrowed to "commuting distance from my dad's house." Sometimes it feels like I'm suffocating in this town, which is an odd feeling for someone who had only been out of the United States once, and only for a day, before a year ago.

That little bit of mental meandering somehow managed to color the rest of my time in Santa Cruz. We headed downtown once we'd absorbed all the vitamin D we could and spent the few daylight hours we had left window shopping (actual shopping was avoided on my part, but not for lack of trying). I couldn't enjoy it properly, though. There was always this little voice nagging at my subconscious: you should get a real job before you buy anything. But what if I don't want a real job? What if I want a job so spectacularly amazing that I won't even care about buying things anymore? Well, who doesn't, right? Even in bookstores, we somehow always managed to end up right next to the travel section; Europe was literally staring me in the face. I just couldn't get away. We had dinner at a tiki bar, and all I could think about was dropping everything and just moving to Hawai'i. It's a pipe dream, sure -- I mean, what would I even do there? -- but it's been done before, and I don't see why it couldn't be done again.

I guess I'm just wondering if this level of dissatisfaction is normal. There must be people out there who are happy to just go from college to career and then work their way on up to retirement and beyond. Should I be one of those people? Or is it okay to want something more?

Am I some sort of travel-crazed mutant who needs changes of scenery to grow strong? Is the prospect of adventure my radioactive spider? (Wow, that was nerdy.)

It's all too much to think about right now. I really wish someone would just grab me by the shoulders and point me in a direction, any direction. But I guess being a grown-up means there's no one around to make my decisions for me anymore. This song, sadly, won't sing itself.

*Yes, it is a real word, and yes, I did do research to figure out a fancier way of saying "rain cloud."

Life or Something Like It

Warning: this post is a bit more intense than usual, full of revelations and whatnot. Continue reading at your own risk.

The long-time drama teacher at my high school died yesterday. It was sudden; he was teaching class on Monday, and by Tuesday he was gone. Heart attack. And that was it. Word spread like wildfire -- I got phone calls, facebook messages. His online profile was overwhelmed with memories from his students, both past and present -- stories of the impact he had on the lives of each and every one of them. The facebook group created in his memory went from sixteen members to over a thousand in the span of twelve hours. And I didn't feel anything. After all, I had never taken drama. All of my friends had been thespians, so of course I spent the majority of my time in the drama room with them, but I had never actually known the man. Spoken a few words to him, maybe, but I had never really known him.

It hit me like a freight train this morning: even though I had never taken his class, never had a conversation with this guy, he had more of an impact on my life than possibly any other person I had ever known. He never judged me. He never asked what I was doing in his office or why I was hanging out in the theater after hours; he just accepted that I was there and, since I was going to be there anyway, put me to work. By giving all of us, the so-called outcasts of the caste-like system present in most high schools, a place where we could be ourselves and stay out of trouble, he opened doors that never would have been opened otherwise. I met best friends and boyfriends in that office. That 16'x10' room, plastered from floor to ceiling with the marks of a beloved teacher -- senior portraits, thank-you notes, and of course the belongings of students who enjoyed a brunch or lunch spent in Tim's office more than almost anything -- turned my slight curiosity about theater into a passion and a love. I have so many good memories of my senior year because this man let an inexperienced newbie (me) who had never taken a stagecraft class in her life, who didn't know a thing about building a set or running the fly, work on one of the biggest productions our district had ever put on. I had finally found a place where I felt accepted for the person I was, not the person I thought people wanted me to be, and Tim made it all possible.

Drama simply won't be the same without him, and I consider myself very lucky to have had the chance to know this amazing person even just a little. I hope he knew what an impact he had and how loved he truly was.

The Little Woman

It's amazing how comforting baking can be. I think it's the fact that, no matter what, you will always get a concrete result, which is something that can be said for very little else in life. I always feel accomplished after a date with the stand mixer, and in these uncertain times, I definitely appreciate the little victories.

On the menu today: apple turnovers. I've been attempting to recreate some of the foods I loved in Germany, and near the top of my to-do list was a little pastry called an "apfeltasche" (literally: apple pocket). Every time I walked into the Innenstadt in Göttingen, I would pass this little bakery that had the most amazing goodies: raspberry-and-creme-fraische-filled scones, cheesy bread, marinated chicken pockets...I'm drooling just thinking about them. If I had a choice, though, I would always grab myself an apfeltasche. There was something about the combination of the flaky croissant-like crust and the warm, gooey, cinnamon-apple-y innards that could brighten up even the gloomiest of gloomy days.

I decided that today was the perfect opportunity to try out the recipe I found in my new cookbook, How to Cook Everything. It has recipes, as you would expect, for practically anything you could possibly imagine. I've already tried out a few and it hasn't failed me yet. I figured today would be the perfect day to try out another -- all of my friends were working, it was pouring rain, and my car was on the fritz. Little did I know, apple turnovers weren't going to be the easy-peasy dessert I had thought them to be.

Step one: Core, peel, and grate four tart apples. -- Simple, right? Coring was the first problem. There is actually an implement in my kitchen, purchased long ago, called an "apple corer." You'd think it would have been specially designed to perfectly core an apple, but it wasn't. It's basically a ladle, but instead of a spoon at the bottom, it has a metal ring (supposedly the size of an apple core, but in reality, much too small). At the bottom of the metal ring, it has tiny teeth to eat through the skin and flesh of the apple. Of course, it managed to cut through the skin and flesh of the baker as well. After I bandaged myself up (clumsy people really shouldn't work in the kitchen, but I can't help myself), it was onto the peeling. You'd think if coring was an issue, peeling would certainly give me a couple more band-aids here and there, but I made it out alive. Lastly, the grating. For those of you who don't know, apples are slippery. Apples are especially slippery without the skin. Add a box grater to that mix and you have a recipe for disaster. I'll just leave it at that and let your imaginations run wild from there.

Step two: Mix in fresh-squeezed lemon juice, lemon zest, cinnamon, sugar, and corn starch. -- This step was easy enough, but naturally some of that fresh-squeezed lemon juice managed to leak into one of my freshly-applied bandages. Nothing stings like lemon juice on an open wound.

Step three: Cut sheets of puff-pastry (homemade in theory, but I took the easy way out and purchased some from the store) into squares, place a spoonful of the apple mixture inside, and seal into triangles. -- Also, not as easy as it sounded. My apples were apparently extra juicy (that's what she said) and the mixture kept spilling out over the sides of the puff pastry. I ultimately had to suck it up, dirty another dish, and strain the bejeezus out of that stuff. Once I had solved the seepage problem (I know, I'm making this super appetizing), I sealed everything up, sprinkled sugar on the top, and scored them so they wouldn't explode in the oven.

Step four: Bake in a 350-degree oven for 40 minutes and eat. -- The baking part was a piece of cake, but of course I had to fail in one more way before my baking journey was done. Apparently I was a bit too eager and managed to burn myself on, what I can only assume was, 350-degree apple goo. It was worth it though. The apple turnovers were mouth-watering, and although I didn't manage to perfectly replicate my beloved apfeltasche, I still managed to find a base recipe with which I can experiment. I'm sure my friends and family will be more than willing to taste-test all my attempts.

Olympic Feevah!

Hi, my name is Allie, and I'm addicted to the Winter Olympics.

Yeah, I admitted it. That's the first step, right? I'm on the road to recovery! Two more weeks and I'll be back to normal. For now, though, I'm glued to my television every day from 2-6pm and 7-11pm to watch whatever crazy event NBC decides to throw my way. Yesterday, it was biathlon (or as I like to call it, "rifle cross") -- a grueling 12.5km cross-country ski with little breaks thrown in to shoot at a teeny tiny target 50km away. At the time, I thought it was perhaps the most boring spectator sport I could have imagined, but then curling came along. You'd think the rules of curling would be relatively simple -- hurl the rock down the ice, getting as close to the center of the house as possible, while your teammates sweep to create friction, melt the ice, and prevent your throw from picking (thank you, Wikipedia) -- but I can tell you, after studying it for over an hour, the intricacies of the game still managed to elude my grasp. It was quite frustrating.

The one thing I've taken away from watching non-stop for the past few days is this: Winter Olympians are craaaaazy. I mean, they're legitimately insane. Particularly the lugers -- 90mph, are you kidding me?!? Oh, and the speedskaters -- the bronze medalist in the men's 1500m impaled himself with his own skate last year. Mogul skiers too -- one of the Americans had had 6 surgeries on her knees. Actually, let's throw in all the skiiers -- I can only imagine how fast they go during the "Super G" event. Can't forget the snowboarders -- Shaun White smacked the edge of the halfpipe with his face one time. Even pairs figure skating has its perils -- at least for the ladies, who get tossed and twirled around like rag dolls. Winter Olympians are a special breed, I tell ya. Maybe that's why so many people are drawn to this event. It's like waiting to see someone crash in an Nascar race, multiplied by infinity. And I must admit, this morbid curiosity seems to have gotten the best of me. I'm sticking to hockey today though; it's seems to be much safer.

In other news, I'm still not doing much of anything at home. The allure of laziness is too powerful to overcome. I'm thinking I'll go abroad though. The only question is where to go (and what to do there, of course, but I've decided that's less important). Thoughts?

Seek What They Sought

This past month has consisted of hellish fluctuations between doing too much and doing too little, of bouncing between 4 hours of sleep a night and 10, of falling behind and working my butt off to catch up again. Now that the semester is almost over, I feel like I can take a bit of a breather.

.....
*phew*
.....

I graduated from college on Sunday.

The ceremony itself was a bit chaotic. We were moved from Zellerbach to Haas Pavilion because of a (paying) event taking place at the same time. The class of 2009 shared the stage with former UC Berkeley students whose education had been interrupted in 1942 by Executive Order 9066, the ordering of Japanese-Americans into internment camps. Chancellor Birgeneau condemned the recent attack on his house by a group of radicals who smashed windows and threw torches at police. The student speaker reassured us that "si, se puede" (yes, it can be done). Norman Mineta advised us to "stay loose" and be ready for anything. And after over an hour and a half of speeches , all 400 of us were cattle-called up to the podium to receive our scrolls. I got my 5 seconds on stage, and then it was over. It didn't feel over, of course. I still had finals to take (3 down, 1 to go!), things to pack up, memories to stow away...

It didn't hit me until hours later, after everyone had gone and I was left in my room to ponder and reflect, that in the eyes of my university and my family, I was an alumna. School had always been something I could depend on and even, on occasion, look forward to, and it was over.

And then came the even bigger realization: my future is a blank slate for the first time in my life. It's equal parts exciting and terrifying. I have no idea what I'll do. Work or grad school? Stay local or go abroad? I don't even know where to start looking. I guess for now, I'll just take it easy and keep my eyes peeled for something intriguing. After all, 4+ years of college have taught me two important lessons: 1) no one can make your decisions for you and 2) the best experiences are often found when and where you least expect them, by stumbling upon something extraordinary. And as anyone who knows me can attest, I am an excellent stumbler.