In pursuit of my favorite cookie, the truth must be told.

Five years ago, I was living in New York. I had a birthday a month and change after September 11th. It was then that I got calls from relatives who otherwise don't know my phone number, cards, and emails. It was because I was having a "tough time" and needed encouragement. And I received this INSANE cookie jar filled with (mind you really good) chocolate cookies. In pursuit of my favorite cookie, this story needs telling.

The package came a couple of days before my birthday. It was gigantic and cumbersome and I felt oh-so-cool having to sign for it at the dorm (the dorm lovingly labeled the G-spot. I have the stickers to prove it.). Naturally, I had a small crowd opening the package due to its size and not much else going on at the time. It's amazing how my popularity is based on the boredom of others. I unwrapped enough to see the 1-800 Flowers brochure. This was it. This was my dozen roses from a secret admirer, I just knew it. I unwrapped more and I saw red and white stripes, and my heart sank. I knew then that not only was it not from a secret crush, it was from my mother. And my mother forgot that I wasn't six.

Standing in the crowd, I realized that I wasn't alone: none of us understood it. We knew it was a cookie jar, but anyone in the world knew that a nineteen year old college student doesn't want Cat in the Hat paraphenalia. It proved to be the most embarrasing gift on the eastern seabord that fall. It stood about 2 feet tall, and it just did not have a place in my dorm. I tried on my desk, but there were too many books. Then I tried the dresser, but it got in the way of the tv. It was either the windowsill or in the closet. It was eat or be eaten by guilt.

I was torn between two worlds that year. One world was a conceptual one inside that Cat in the Hat cookie jar, containing the love of a mother, the knowledge that she was just trying to make my world better, and the concept of those delicious chewy chocolate cookies covered in powdered sugar. The other was real. It was outside that cookie jar. It was loveless and heartless and filled with guilt. It was a collective New York shopping for size 0. It was family members who claim they love me enough to call on my birthday, but not any other day. It was a sister who swore she believed in me but didn't take the time to find out in what she was believing. It was a building that was still burning and a horizon changed forever.

Those cookies may very well have been the best cookies I ever had in my life, but they went for the most part uneaten. I spent years feeling guilty about not finishing those cookies. Because in not finishing those cookies, I was also not loving my mother enough; my blessings just weren't being counted. In not eating those cookies, I was acknoweding the change in horizon that had happened inside of me. No longer could someone fix my problems with sweets and a smile and a simple gesture. This was real and it hurt.

I threw out those cookies one short day before Thanksgiving. I felt sick. So sick and so guilty that I ended putting that cookie jar on the windowsill, and hoping that the plants would hide it just enough. When I looked at the window that year, if I squinted my eyes enough, the horizon still looked the same.

Something Inrcredibly Impersonal/Uncomfortably Personal

I don't know about any of you readers out there, but I'm so sick of not telling the truth. Sick of being fake and sick of having to put on a smile just because I feel I should (or some stranger actually tells me to "SMILE" which in my opinion is the worst interaction ever. You can't be polite and say to them, 'look there is a reason why I'm not smiling and right now you're it.'). I've had so many incredibly impersonal "friendships" in my life and I'm just tired. In the event that someone from the past contacts me, I wrote out an uncomfortably personal script, which should save me some time. I'll just send them this link and call it a day.

Hey there. How are things going?

I'm doing well. Yeah, the job's going great, thanks for asking. Yeah it's a great place to work, I'm really lucky.

Oh, I love my new town, it's not difficult at all knowing two people here, one of which is away a lot, and the other I didn't see for three months.

The band? We're on a break what with my moving and needing a new job et. al. Now that things are settled, I'm ready to get back out there! I'm not at all scared of the one thing I want most in this world.

My family? Oh they're super! Yeah it's great that I was so happy about what they did for me on my birthday, I cried literally all day! And I really don't think any of them noticed, which really warms my heart!

Jesus Dolls and Dirty Dancing

Well, the separation between church and corporation sure is getting small. We have http://www.cnn.com/2006/US/11/17/jesus.doll.ap/index.html. And then there is Wal-Mart saying Merry Christmas to its customers. Even though I celebrate Christmas, I just don't think I'd be one of those people that say, "what's wrong with saying Merry Christmas?! This is a time to spread joy of the season!"

I have worked retail too many Christmases to buy the fact that a Wal-Mart employee is going to define your holiday season. No, scratch that. I have worked retail too many Christmases to buy the fact that a Wal-Mart employee is going to define MY holiday season. There are enough insane frumpy women out there that actually DO care. It's not the Merry Christmas that bothers me, it's the people that made Merry Christmas happen. My answer to them:

The Ladies' Auxiliary. http://www.myspace.com/theladiesauxiliary

On a different note, I have officially decided that I'm not going to pretend anymore. I'm coming out of the closet as an official fan of the movie "Dirty Dancing". I really identify with Baby in a lot of ways. I think that there is some really clever symbolism in the movie (or maybe I'm reading too much into the parallels between Baby's character and the loss of American innocence?). However you put it, I just like it. I like the soundtrack (except of course the 80's song that just doesn't belong at the end). I like the character development. I like Jennifer Grey. I like the fact that I totally understand what it's like being the daughter of someone like Baby's father. I like the cars. And you know what? I think Patrick Swayze is really hot in that movie. Above all, I like that it makes me happy when I'm sad. Call me dumb, call me cheezy, call me a kindred spirit. I don't care, cuz Baby, I'm out of that closet.

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Freedom Tower

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/16/nyregion/16rebuild.html?hp&ex=1163739600&en=0546884f5d9e3c8b&ei=5094&partner=homepage

The above article is about how construction has finally started at Ground Zero. Here's my favorite part of the article:

Construction is not expected to be interrupted by the search for human remains around the edges of the site, prompted by the discovery last month of bones and bone fragments in an abandoned Consolidated Edison manhole. To date, 210 remains have been found in that manhole and two others nearby.

What?!? I guess they're leaving something for future anthropologists to do? Why aren't people's remains important?

But that's not what evokes feeling for me. What stirs my emotions is the fact that rebuilding is finally taking place; they are starting to fill that big hole in the ground. It makes me realize that I have not started to rebuild my life since then. Sometimes I just feel so locked in my own personal September 11, that it's hard to get out. Much like the remains of the people found in the ConEd manhole.

It's our job as survivors to let everyone out that needs letting out.

A reason to start blogging.

My cousin Anna http://onetoughvoncookie.blogspot.com made a post on her blog about blogging, and below is my comment. It got me so inspired, I decided to make my own.

Ugh! I just wrote a really long comment on the theory of blogging. It was beautiful, and unfortunately lost to cyberspace. It was all about how blogging is another way to connect with people. It is a hope that you will truly be understood without having to deal with potentially loaded personal relationships. It opens you to an entire world of people. It is a way to say things that actually mean something to you in a profound way in which you may be heard by people you never knew existed. It is a way to take control of your being and to create a new sense of self. There is a line in the movie "You've Got Mail" where he's talking about Starbucks, and how for $3.50 you get a new sense of self in those 6 decisions you make just to get that cup of coffee. When you say grande americano (wink wink), it means something about your personality to the person from whom you're ordering (and if you don't believe me look up the Starbucks Oracle). Basically, by blogging you're saying 'grande americano' only to a lot more people, and a lot more eloquently. You just don't get a cup of coffee at the end of it.

Going to shows solo. Robert Pollard. Mothballs. Second Life. Cookie update.

I wrote this one today, also on my myspace blog:
I am the type of person who goes places by herself if she really wants to. I don't need someone there with me, especially at shows. Last night I went to see Robert Pollard at World Cafe Live in Philadelphia. First of all, I love the fact that it took me fifteen minutes to get there and back (less than going to New Brunswick from my parents' house). The sound system in that place is wonderful. And I can't believe how old I feel.

Yes, the crowd was just as old and many were older than me, but a lot of people were drunk and acting really stupid. Robert Pollard had this gigantic tub of beer on ice in the middle of the stage, and he had a full bottle of Jose Cuervo, which he proceeded to share with the crowd. I have never seen so many people fall all over themselves just for a taste of alcohol. Is it because it is Robert Pollard's? I really hope so because seeing that kind of behavior made me sick. I just feel so old because I am just not a part of this culture of getting drunk anymore. I don't miss it, and the point of reporting this is that when it comes down to it, I wish that shows were less about booze and more about the music and performance. It makes me realize that when I used to drink, it was 90% about alcohol and about 10% about the music. What I have now is so much better. I don't need the crutch of the glass in my hand, and it's really liberating.

The crowd last night smelled like a mix of mothballs, tobacco, old lady skin, and of course beer. It was really weird. There were these really nerdy guys that were right next to me and I guess they were the ones that smelled. They even brought the liner notes to Robert Pollard's new album to sing along. They all looked like they were really into Lord of the Rings and played LARP.

This was the first show that I went to in a while where I didn't know someone playing. It was an odd feeling watching people I don't know at all. The whole experience was so much less personal. I have my own personal experiences attached to the music played last night, but I can't attach it to the people playing. I have to say I like it a lot better when I know X person playing on stage, even if they didn't write the music. I love knowing the backstory.

The opening band was SO not my thing at all. I can't stand it when people perform and they don't connect with the audience. They could have been practicing in their basement for all we knew. I mean, yeah it's really hard to be an opening band when not many people are there, but it's also not that hard to come out of your shell a little bit and make an impression on someone. And the music was just so long and drawn out and didn't really go anywhere. Ugh!

I just saw this thing on Good Morning America about something called Second Life. It sounds like an internet version of the Sims. The crazy part is that you can make money or spend money on this thing. I don't understand it. People are predicting that we're going to spend our lives on it, it's the new email. Like you can go to "shows", buy houses (with real money!!) and all sorts of crap. I can't wrap my brain around this. It's like video games for boring people.

I still don't know what kind of cookie is my favorite. I got a really awesome mixer for my birthday (From my boyfriend's parents who said "now you can make our son cakes". So funny!). Hopefully with the new mixer will come a new sense of self.

Reflections on the Ivy League and Cookies

I posted this on my myspace blog a couple weeks ago, I figure this is a good place to start:

I have been associated with the ivies for a little more than three weeks now, and here are some scattered observations:
1. Professors in the ivies really do have Austrian accents, and wear cardigans with patches on the elbows.
2. I keep forgetting my audience. Upper crust ivy people just don't laugh as much as us NYU folk.
3. Academia creates celebrities just as much as any other form of art. Only it's worse. I have a problem with art that isn't accessible, and the ivies are the epitome of that. These academic celebrites probably get just as much ass (and just as many people to kiss theirs) as any rock star I've heard of. Not that I know a lot of rock stars, but you get the point.
4. Those annoying kids in your classes in college who sat in front and asked questions not to ask questions but to sound smart, they turn into professors who either attend or hold lectures for colleagues, and they do the same thing. They're the same people, just older and have gotten laid more (see number 3).
5. Even if men are colorblind and still dress themselves, it's accepted in this culture. Women still have to look hot, even when you're really well-respected. Hot women get further in life. I'm not trying to go against my gender, that's just a fact.
6. This doesn't have to do with ivies, but I'm alarmed to admit that I don't think I have a favorite kind of cookie. Holy shit! I'm like that really bad Richard Gere/Julia Roberts movie where she doesn't have a favorite way of preparing eggs. I don't have a favorite cookie and I should really have one. My least favorite is Snickerdoodles because they remind me of cycle class in the 7th grade when I got made fun of for eating too many (I was LARGE). Dammit!
7. If I had gone to an ivy-league as an undergrad (I didn't even apply, I knew it wasn't for me then. And not because I couldn't get in), I would have been really miserable. Except maybe at Barnard, that place seems cool. But NYU was way more hip. I can play the game 6 degrees of Matador, and stop at 2.
8. One of my bosses looks JUST like Peter from the Guess Who game in the 90's (not the new version). Please tell me someone knows who this is.
9. It rocks that I have off the week between Christmas and New Year's, and I'm getting paid for it.
10. There are now a gaggle of medical students that are younger than me. If it were some other world, I would be a 3rd year med student right now. That means that if you were sick in a university hospital, I might have gone to your bed. Me. One of the first-years at Penn hit on me the other day. He looked like he was 19, and was just so damn congenial. I didn't have the heart to be the one to break his spirit and tell him about the real world.
11. There is a reason why I moved out of my parents' house. There are lots of them. One of which is that now I am a feather in my father's cap over at IVY LEAGUE. Before I was dust swept under the rug. Neither felt good, because neither is really me.
12. People sure are nice where I work. Maybe it's the free tuition? "Only the educated are free?"