elitist snob

trying to be a part of it

2006-06-09T21:09:00.000-04:00

So, I am in New York. Or perhaps more appropriately: I am in New York, so?

It's not that I'm having a horrible time here, it's just that it is not what I expected. All I hear from everyone around me (friends, family, strangers) is how wonderful it is in New York City. How everyone loves it. How it is the only city in the world.

As I was telling my friend S last night at dinner, I'm not in love yet. At this point in my relationship with this sparkling city, I am unsure about our future together. I'll go out on a second date, maybe give it a kiss Codington, but I am not in love. I arrived here almost one week ago, and since then I've had mixed feelings. Sometimes I answer the phone when NY calls, sometimes I want to screen. The rain hasn't helped. Last night almost felt right, but only for a moment. Only when I looked up at the light as I was crossing Park to get the subway at 33rd. For that small moment I felt like I belonged.

I'm not sure how long it will take to adjust. How long before I am the girl reading a book on the subway, not even looking at the map? How much longer before I am the well-dressed woman carrying a Bergdorf Goodman bag? I doubt I will ever be her, but it's nice to dream.

When I arrived in my dorm room, the walls were empty, except for a handwritten sign that reads 'I love you.' It seemed a peace offering from the city itself. So I will give NYC another shot. I will get dressed up and make small talk over drinks in the hopes that I will someday return the feelings.

Spring Cleaning

2006-04-25T16:37:00.000-04:00

Coming back to DC from New York this past weekend was a breath of fresh air. The streets of the district were crowded with trees and leaves, rather than people, tulips rather than puddles. And that made me realize: it is undeniably Spring.

Spring is the time for metaphorical renewal, and all those sorts of symbolic events, but it's also the time for the tangible. It's time for shaved legs and painted toenails. It's time to let my hair air dry and wear a skirt. It's time for the reappearance of shoulders. It's time for the coconut scent of sunblock barely rubbed in, and the coconut scent of Malibu liberally poured into sweating glasses of juice. It's time to take a book outside and walk to Adams Morgan instead of Metro. It's time to open the windows and turn off the AC. Switch from the heavy comforter to a light blanket. Drive through the suburbs with the windows down and sun roof open. Rent bikes. Make iced tea and fruit salad. Eat hot dogs smothered in ketchup and dripping ice cream cones.

It's also time to graduate, and suddenly, it really feels like it's time.

Masquerading.

2006-03-27T13:08:00.000-05:00

I was born with black hair. I don't mean that fuzz that newborns usually have, but black, comb-able hair. And then it fell out. What grew in was a shock: blonde. Nordic, white, blonde hair. And it's been that way all my life. I am no yellow California blonde, I am Irish, never see the sunlight blonde.

I recently died my hair brown. The first time it came out auburn, but I died it even darker. The box says hazelnut. I met up with a friend that night who refers to dying blonde hair brown as 'pulling an Ashlee' (as in Ashlee Simpson). This friend dyed her last year, and has loved it. I worried about her reaction. The first thing she said: "Apparently, blondes even do brunette better."

As a blonde, I felt big. I was obvious, buxom, Bardot and constantly proving my intelligence. As a brunette I am a secret. I am mysterious and powerful and worth a second, even a third, look. I am coy and cool and soft words that flow off the tongue rather than stumble out. And I am really enjoying myself.

It was worth it.

2006-03-24T10:55:00.000-05:00

Last night, after an incredibly long day, some friends and I went out to Apex to celebrate the emancipation (more on that some other time). It may have not been my best plan, since I'd been up since 8 am, gone to the gym, walked 2 miles to and from work, and then worked at Coney (an ice cream store) for four hours before heading out to dance like nobody's business. And yet, I did. That's just how the emancipation works.

Also, I was hoping to find a cute girl to make out with, but no such luck. More on that later as well. It was mostly guys, which makes sense, since it's primarily a guy's club , but it was fantastic nonetheless. Wonderful remixes of Kelly, Deborah Cox (that song will never die) and the requisite Madonna. We made friends because guys kept asking if we were lesbians or if it was someone's birthday. We said neither, and then they asked if we ever made out. Apparently straight guys are not alone in wanting girls to make out with each other.

And now, by body aches in places I didn't know existed. I'm being bad and skipping class, but there's no way I can get out of interning and working tonight. Oh well, it was definitely worth it.

Own It

2006-03-20T15:46:00.000-05:00

I was watching a rerun of Top Chef the other night, and one of the contestants brought her plate out to the table, explaining that she had hoped it would come out differently. One of the judges remarked that when you bring out a plate, you have to be completely behind it, whether it's what you intended or not.

And that brings me to this post. I don't want to live my life the way that chef cooked. I don't want to get to the end of my life, and present my past and say, "Well, I hoped it would come out differently." I am deeply flawed, tragically even, we all are. But I want to own every flaw, every mistake, every action and every regret. I want to own every minute of my life.

The past is prologue, and I don't want to be caught up in it. Eventually, we have to let go of the things that have happened to us. We have to let go and move on, or it owns us, instead of us owning it. The past is just what happened to us before this moment, and this moment is the only one we can live in. That's what I'm trying to do, I guess. I won't be perfect at it, but I'm going to try.

Don't be jealous...

2005-06-08T14:50:00.000-04:00

I'm seeing the Killers tonight in Maryland, and I'm almost more excited for the other bands playing: Keane, Louis XIV & Regina Spektor & Maximo Park. I don't know much about the other bands besides Keane, but I've been hearing buzz about them for months. TSM wrote an article about Louis XIV when they played DC a few months ago, so obviously I've been intrigued.

I'm not planning on taking any pictures, but if there's anything worth saying about the concert I'll update about it.

a horse and buggy in Philadelphia

2005-04-25T17:10:00.000-04:00

a horse and buggy in Philadelphia,
originally uploaded by Elitist Snob.

I spent the weekend in Philadelphia, visitng friends and spending time with the fam. One of the things I've always loved about Philly is that, decrepid and filthy though it may be in places, it still maintains the atmosphere of an old city. Philadelphia used to be the capital of the United States. And while DC may be better suited architechurally for the task, what city could be better for the capital of the country than the City of Brotherly Love?

Maybe I'm biased.

Things fall into place

2005-04-18T17:11:00.000-04:00

I can always count on Stereogum to come through. I had been trying to find the song in a Dockers commercial forever...and today I find that it is posted: The The - This is the Day
You should really check it out.

In other news, this DC-an is still looking fruitlessly for a summer job. I'm in a vicious cycle where everything I apply for wants experience, but I am unable to get experience since I can't get hired because they all want experience, which I can't get because...

You see my conundrum.

paying homage

2005-04-05T08:24:00.000-04:00

Mitch Hedberg died over the weekend. V. sad. He was my favorite comedian, and I'm so glad I got to seem him live at least once.

And now, a little quote from Mitch that was hilarious at the time, and even more meaningful now:
"I can't wait 'til this set is over 'cuz I've got a roll of lifesavers in my pocket and pineapple is next."

With a capital e Part 2

2005-03-24T22:42:00.000-05:00

In my Philosophy and Film class today (which is usually a bunch of bullshit) we were discussing morality. He brought up that evil comes from a root word ubel in German, which stems from uber, meaning 'over.' So in his thinking, people who are evil are those who put themselves about others, or assume that they are better. Basically, people are evil if they believe themselves to be superior to others. You may have noticed that the name of this blog is Elitist Snob.

Morality, to me, is nothing more than self-preservation. Perhaps this cynicism comes from reading Ayn Rand at too young an age, or too often. The objectivist in me, (beyond that, the egoist in me) cannot help but see morality not as a matter of what is the right thing to do, but what can I get away with? We are not so "good" as to ask Kant's ever present 'What ought I to do?' Rather, we make decisions, rationalize them, and wonder if we will get caught, and what our consequences will be if we do get caught.

I keep thinking of this PSA on the Disney channel, which featured the genie from Aladdin saying that great minds don't think alike, great minds think for themselves. I know I'm meant to distill from that message that I should think for myself and not rely on other people's ideas, but it seems that the message could be that great minds think only of themselves. I'm going with that translation.

Maybe I'm 'evil,' maybe I'm amoral, but I never said I was nice. Just remember, at the table of life, if everyone was an altruist, passing along the bread before taking some themselves, no one would ever eat.

Video Hits 1 misses the mark again.

2005-02-17T15:04:00.000-05:00

VH1 named Kool and the Gang's Joanna one of the top 40 Awesomely Bad Love Songs. This is uncool for pretty obvious reasons, the first being that my name is Joanna, and I am not awesomely bad.

Customer Service

2005-02-14T18:16:00.000-05:00

If you happen to call one of the offices I work at, and you are snotty to me on the phone, I reserve the right to lie to you and do everything I can to keep you from talking to whoever you need to talk to. When you call, you need something from me, you aren't doing me any favors by interrupting my perusal of the New Yorker. So act like I'm your best friend and ask your questions politely.

Also, it is hard to work for people you are smarter than.

Not today, not on Rex Manning Day!

2005-02-14T09:08:00.000-05:00

Just kidding, it's not Rex Manning Day, it's Valentine's Day.

Elitist Snob would like to take this opportunity to wish each and every one of you (all 5) a very happy, and sexy* Valentine's Day. May you consume your weight in chocolate, red hots, and conversation hearts.

*Yesterday one of the fraternities on campus delivered roses to all the sororities. It was my job to receive them since we were in the middle of meeting. A v. attractive guy handed me the roses and a card and wished me a very happy, sexy (wink) Valentine's Day. So therefore, I am passing on the sexy part to you.

And in case you're feeling lonely, I hear a rumor that the Loews Georgetown is holding an Anti-Valentine's Day screening of Constantine, or perhaps you might Click at a Flick.

For all of you out there, single or no, take this advice from my dear friend Frank, "The best is yet to come and babe won't that be fine...."

Cinema Paradiso

2005-02-05T19:23:00.001-05:00

My philosophy and film professor is University professor, which means he can teach any course he wants at the University. It is with this in mind that I completely trust his opinion (not that those given authority always deserve it), and also, he's British, which automatically makes his opinion better than other people's.

Every week we watch a movie, this week was Cinema Paradiso. It was incredible. Not just your average 'oh that movie was nice'-- but sighing, breath catching in the throat incredible. It truly is a movie for people who love movies, and despite its sometimes overwhelming sentimentality, I'd recommend it to anyone.

I always have to leave film class really quickly after the credits, because otherwise people start talking and that ruins it. And this week I made it out in time. Thank goodness for small favors.

The self-centeredness continues.

2005-02-01T09:11:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,
(First, please note that I have capitalized 'Reader'. Which is correct grammar, because correct grammar is an effort I make for you, darling Reader.)
You may have noticed the abundance of blogs out there that focus on current events and politics. Sure, there are plenty of things going on outside my little sphere of life that I could write about. But I just want to assure that we here at Elitist Snob (and by we, I mean me) will continue to write about topics that effect me, that is our promise to you.

There is nothing more important to me than you getting your deserved dose of, well, me. So my promise to you for the month of February, is that I will continue to focus on myself, make up words, continue to be the fabulous person you know I am.

On that note, feel free to check out photos I have taken at my flickr page: Elitist Snob Photos.

Enjoy.

Yours,
Elitist Snob

The day that cost 40 million.

2005-01-20T10:13:00.000-05:00

I am back in DC, living in my sorority house(craziness, I know). I am also minus my partner in crime, A, who is abroad in London this semester. And let me say, I'm miserable without her. Especially P is being a jackass and ignoring me to hang out with his semi-girlfriend.

Just got back from the gym, which is usually really frustrating at the beginning of the semester. Everyone tells themselves they're going to go to the gym every day so for the first couple weeks, it's v. crowded, but then people get lazy and stop going. But this morning(probably because we have no class and everyone was sleeping) the gym was pretty empty.

I've never made a point to be political, but I will say this: the only inaugural requirement, according to the constitution, is a 35 word oath of office. Everything else is social masturbation.

If you had plans for the next sixth months, you may want to change them.

2005-01-14T15:09:00.000-05:00

Doctors freak me out. Especially doctors with no personality beacuse they seem so inhuman.

Yesterday was my first time seeing this doctor, as I don't really have an official doctor because, have I mentioned?, I don't like doctors. He spent so long examining my left ankle that I swear I thought he was going to tell me I had ankle cancer. Seriously, five minutes on one ankle seems a bit overboard for a physical for a learner's permit, especially since you're not supposed to use your left foot when you drive.

H and I had a blast coming up with ways the doctor would have broken my ankle cancer to me, since he had no bedside manner. H wins with: "Do you know anyone who could use a left shoe?"

Well I thought it was funny.

Let's Get...

2005-01-13T13:33:00.000-05:00

I've decided to get my driver's license this semester, given that I'm 20 years old and still don't drive. But first, I need a permit. (insert long story about how I had one before but it got stolen) So I have to take this test identifying school crossing signs and how far you have to park from train tracks, etc. But that is not the worst part.

I have to get a physical.

So today, H will be coming home early from work to take me to a doctor that I've never met before to be poked and prodded all in the name of some adolescent right of passage that I am trying to rectify having missed. (Does that sentence even make sense?)

But the horror doesn't end there. H has a dentist appointment today also, so I will have to accompany him to the dentist and sit while he has a crown fixed or something.(H has awful teeth but it's not his fault because he grew up when there wasn't fluoride in the water.) While I won't actually be having anything done at the dentist, I will still be at the dentist's. And that itself is traumatic.

I plan on bringing the iPod and catching up on Highlights magazine.

"Hey, what's that crazy lady doing talking to her hand?"

2005-01-05T19:41:00.000-05:00

I'm beginning to see the appeal of carrying around one of those mini tape recorder thingies (that's their official name, I googled). Sometimes I encounter the problem that I am thinking far too fast to act on any of my thoughts. Or I want to remember a slew of things that leads me to another million things to remember or research to do.

Simply put, I am too smart for my own good.

The only problem is that if I had one of these tape recorders I would constantly be talking into it, and children would stare at me as I wandered through the park (see title). This is how I envision myself. Efficient, but crazy.

Perhaps I could get a little notebook. People will think I'm a v. busy reporter or writer or other such notebook worthy person. I can get a pair of smart glasses to enhance the image. Yes, I think that's what I'll do.

Hello, 2005.

2005-01-04T17:25:00.000-05:00

Dear 2005,
Welcome! I just wanted to extend a hand of friendship early, rather than later. I hope we can be friends, you and I. I know it's only 4 days into the year, but I like you already. I don't know what you heard about me from 2004, but I assure you it's all lies.

Let's be honest. In the next 52 weeks we may have our differences, but I want you to know that I've got your back, as long as you have mine. You haven't been as snowy a year as I would have hoped, but I'm looking to look past all that. I think it's going to take a lot of hard work on both our parts, but I think we can make this relationship work.

Yours,
Elitist Snob

PS - You look fabulous!

Dear 2004,
These past 12 months have been major, but we're through. It's not me, it's you. I need to move on. I'll never forget all the good times we had, and all the bad. In memory of our year, I've composed this haiku:

Fifty two weeks long
Through happy times and sad times
Please send back my stuff

I've never been a poet, but I think you get the drift.

Sincerely,
ES

PS - I've been cheating on you for 4 days with 2005.

So mature.

2004-12-31T16:28:00.000-05:00

On a list of things that I will remember having enjoyed this Winter break are the following:
1. Eating Nilla Wafers and Cool Whip in the Movies w/ M
2. Hearing my dad(H) sing West Side Story songs about the geese overhead.
3. Coughing loudly and immaturely with H in order to get the Hoover guy's attention when he would not sell us a new vacuum belt.

It really is the little things in life that make it enjoyable.

An Elitist Snob Christmas

2004-12-28T14:18:00.000-05:00

...One in a series of posts summarizing holidays, Elitist Snob style.

One thing you should know about me is that I'm a cashew. Not sure how this term came about, but as I understand it, it means I'm half catholic and half jewish. (Although, technically I'm catholic, since my mother is of that holy sect, and religion passes down through maternally. I know this because I was told I'm not jewish enough to date....more on that another time.)

We're a surprisingly traditional family, given how liberal we are. Every year we do the same thing at Christmas: Christmas Eve dinner at Aunt S's with the smaller extended family, and Christmas Day dinner at Aunt P's with the entirety of the extended family. We're Irish and Polish...it's a large family. We hold a traditional Polish Christmas, and we take our traditions v. seriously. We're crazy and overwhelming and I would never subject an outsider to us, but we're family, and I love every single member.

Two years ago, my cousin P brought his girlfriend, E, from New Jersey. I wasn't in attendance, but I was told that E seemed a nice girl, at first. A little full of herself, but what can be done? Problems arose during dinner, when my grandmother (whom I usually refer to by her Polish title, but I'll spare you) brought around the Oplatek (don't bother trying to pronounce it), which is basically a Christmas wafer. My dear 85 year-old grandmother offered her the wafer, intending to include her in the family and wish her well. E refused. She said she was jewish and therefore could not participate. Though I wasn't there, I can imagine the collective gasp. When one is honored by my grandmother as being of age to receive the Oplatek, one does not refuse it. But E did. A brave, foolish soul.

E wasn't at Christmas the next year, but this year she made a reappearance (we fear that my cousin will marry her, but as his father said, 'There's always divorces and second wives.'). E was back, and I got the chance to meet her. I don't like to speak badly of others (a lie) but I am forced to agree that every mal-intentioned word spoken against her in the past two years is true. My grandmother looked to my father (as a jew) to set an example for E and participate in the Oplatek, as he always has. But at the last moment she decided to cancel it. For the first time in who knows how long we did not uphold one of our most important traditions. I, personally, was appalled.

And my appallation(? appalledness?) (a word I have just now made up I believe) was directed not at my poor grandmother, forced to abandon her traditions in the name of Political Correctness, but at E, for disrupting our Christmas. Honestly, I'm not sure what she expected, stepping into a Catholic Christmas celebration, but she should have been more sensitive. She was a guest, and she was rude and disrespectful of our family.

-----------

But enough about her. Christmas was wonderful, as always. My 12 year old cousin L beat everyone except my Uncle J in pool, and no one had to dress up as Santa Claus. We sang Christmas carols and ate thousands of Christmas cookies, and drank enough alcohol to float one of the ships in the harbor. And the best part: talking about everyone on the car ride home.

God bless us, every one. If you made it through the whole post, good on you. Merry Christmas from Elitist Snob.

Though I spend my life in contemplation

2004-12-21T19:54:00.000-05:00

"You always did go for the wussy intellectuals." - my mother

And she's right. Do I ever fall for the jock? The guy's guy who watches football and drinks beer and cheeseburgers?

No. I fall for the wussy intellectual who can quote Aristotle and watches PMQs on CSPAN with me(translation: Prime Minister's Questions on the government TV channel) and understands my obscure book references.

Or I fall for the guy who is completely perfect for me except that he's slightly unattractive, yet still wussy and intellectual. Of course I am referring to JP, My Future Husband.

Perhaps this is where my love life has gone completely wrong. I am looking for the wrong sort of guy. I should be spending my time with the kind of guy that is impressed by blonde hair and a great rack. Both of which I am in possession of. Note to self.

5.5/35

2004-12-13T20:23:00.000-05:00

I am slaving away over Antonioni movies and this paper, and my roommate is sleeping. The one who doesn't wash her dishes and gets water all over the bathroom. The tall, model thin one who auditioned for America's Next Top Model. She's sleeping. Who does she think she is, enjoying her bed when the rest of us are suffering?

It's a good thing I'm a lot smarter than her, otherwise life would be really unfair.

Thanksgiving Wrap-Up

2004-11-29T17:26:00.000-05:00

My family is Irish, have I mentioned that? And Polish, and Russian. I hate to propagate the drinking Irish stereotype, but as I've always said, stereotypes come about for a reason. (If I haven't always said that I'll certainly start now.) My parents, two uncles, one aunt, a grandmother, close family friend and older sister were all drunk by 5pm on Thanksgiving. At one point I looked over to my aunt at the stove, just in time to see her knock back the bottle of sherry for a moment after pouring some into the gravy.

If Thanksgiving is not the time to get smashed with the fam, then when?

One of the highlights of the evening had to be my aunt(still drunk) reciting The Children's Hour in its entirety from memory.

The fun really began when my uncle P started playing piano. At this point, my grandmother started on the Russian and Polish songs, my mother joining in when the mood took her. The whole group collaborated on a rousing version of Randy Newman's Political Science, before launching into Man of La Mancha, 'the only good musical ever written' according to uncle P.

No one likes us-I don't know why
We may not be perfect, but heaven knows we try
But all around even our old friends put us down
Lets drop the big one and see what happens

We give them money-But are they grateful?
No, they're spiteful and they're hateful
They don't respect us-so lets surprise them
We'll drop the big one and pulverize them

with a capital E

2004-11-23T09:06:00.000-05:00

evil(see title)

I hate communal laundry rooms. Not as much as I hate communal bathrooms, but since I've never had to deal with them, they are not as much of a concern to me, because after all, if it doesn't affect me, I don't really care how bad things are.

But back to laundry rooms. My roommate and I did our laundry yesterday, we arrived back to the laundry room promptly when our laundry should have been done in the washer, only to discover that both my loads of laundry had been removed from their cozy washer homes and dropped unceremoniously on a wooden table. I turned, a look of shock on my face, to discover that the culprit was still there, putting his boy clothing into the washing machine I had used. A BOY, with his dirty boys hands that have done god only knows what WAS TOUCHING MY UNDERTHINGS.

I kept it relatively together while he was in the room, but I quietly plotted my revenge. As soon as he left, his sullied clothing safe(or so he thought), stewing in it's own filth I opened the door on his washing machine, stopping the entire operation. I put part of his laundry bag under the lid to make it look like a mistake, then went about my business putting my clothing(TOUCHED BY A BOY) in the dryer. My roommate was shocked and amused, and had it not been for her sense of decency, I probably would have left the little brat's washer stopped. But I didn't. At least now he would still have to wait an extra 7 minutes or so, 7 minutes in heaven pour moi.

To quote a classic: "Just like the prodigal son I've returned, anyone stepping to me you'll get burned."

Thank God for the Moon

2004-11-21T01:54:00.000-05:00

I've always believed that a happy life is an honest life. I realize how contradictory this statement may seem considering a certain previous entry about my lying habit. But seriously. It's time to be honest with myself.

I will never be that girl that people see across a room and want to talk to. I will never be that girl who looks great in pictures. I'll never be any taller than the 5 feet I am now.

I often hear it said that it's hard to people to be honest with themselves, that once one learns that, they'll be set. But the thing is, it's easy to be honest with myself. I think the hard part comes in accepting the truths I can so easily recognize.

Admitting your limits is a rough thing to do.

House keeping

2004-11-04T13:52:00.000-05:00

Status of my shower: large whole in the wall, covered by black plastic bag and blue tape.

Status of patriotism: non-existent. I hear Toronto's lovely this time of year.

Status of GPA: abysmal.

Status of room: messy and hateful.

Other things I've been doing:
-counting down the minutes until R gets here
-praying for a new place to live, campaigning like mad for sorority president(ie smiling and being nice to EVERYONE)
-listening obsessively to Freedy Johnston's 'Bad Reputation', wishing I could find the heartbreaking Death Cab cover

addendum: I just made the blogger dictionary 'learn' the word GPA. I'm sure it will come up again.

2004-11-02T09:05:00.000-05:00

a car

Instant karma.

2004-11-02T08:53:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I was too harsh on the administration when our water was off. Because now, the faucet is leaking. And by leaking I don't mean a few drip-drops now and then. I mean that it is running. A steady stream of water is flowing, and has been doing so for two days now. It mocks me.

On a different note. I took a picture of a car.

Happy Halloween.

2004-10-31T23:03:00.000-05:00

Two posts in one night? Unheard of.

As I was the elevator, making the long trip up to my floor, and 4 drunks stumbled in. Two guys, two girls. I was listening to the ipod, as usual, but I could still hear them. After dropping her purse and almost losing her pants, one of the girls gets her heel stuck in the elevator. It's going to be a long trip to the 12th floor, I thought to myself. The other girls turns to me and say something, but I couldn't hear since I HAD MY HEADPHONES ON. Clearly it was a question, because she looked at me....questioningly. I removed the headphones. "What?" "Isn't it funny? He's our boss and we're his secretaries." I'm assuming she was referring to their pathetic attempt at costumes, either that or she really was with her boss and found that situation funny. No, I thought, it isn't funny. It doesn't look like he's a 'boss' at all. He's wearing chinos, a button down and a loosened tie, which is practically the uniform at GDub. And you're dressed like a skank. I guess that tweed mini skirt is supposed to label you as a secretary. So no, it isn't a funny costume. But instead I said "It's really...original." And then I replaced my headphones.

Honestly. Why do people think that they are worth my time?

I'm obsessed with a stranger.

2004-10-31T19:28:00.000-05:00

I never 'partied' in high school. Probably because I moved around a lot and never got the chance to put down roots, etc, etc. Even though I have never attended a 'high school party', I can say pretty confidently that the party I attended last evening with A and P was the equivalent.

P and I stood against a tree, two of the only three people in attendance not in costume. And by costume, I mean the guys were dressed in white t-shirts with black marker writings, and the girls were dressed in as little as they could get away with without MPD arresting them for indecent exposure(which has actually been a problem on my campus). We all held red cups, P and I watching drunk girls stumble around on high heels in a muddy back yard. It was the highschool experience I missed out on.

P: So, who are you taking to the prom? (he leaned over suddenly...this is why I adore him)
Me: Timmy from 6th period French.
P: Oooooh, I heard he's going to be starting quarterback at next week's game.
Me: Not the big game!
P: Are you going to hold his hand?
Me: Maybe. We might make out under the bleachers.

In other news, I am obsessed with Rich in 807. I've never met him, but judging from his iTunes music collection, I think we could really hit it off. It's not only that he has every David Bowie, Dave Matthews, and Pavement song ever recorded (to name a few). He has the soundtrack to Waking Life. I always thought I was the only person who had ever seen it, let alone bought it on DVD, but here he is. Rich in room 807. I must meet him.

And you shall know us by the trail of unwashed...

2004-10-28T09:43:00.000-04:00

There was just a knock at the door. 'Perhaps it's someone coming to fix the water!' The water has been off for the past two mornings in my building. But no. These kind men were not here to fix the water. They were here to check that the fire extinguisher was up to date. Because clearly, the fire extinguisher is the emergency situation this morning, and not the fact that THERE IS NO RUNNING WATER. I can safely put out a fire, but I am unable to brush my teeth, shower, or use the facilities. I have had to use showers in strange places. It's a v. disconcerting way to start the day.

On second thought, I suppose it's best that the fire extinguisher works. Because if there was a fire, we wouldn't have water to put it out.

In case anyone missed it, the title of this entry is a shout out to And you shall know us by the trail of dead

Useful Advice

2004-10-23T16:26:00.000-04:00

"IF SOMETHING HAPPENS IT DOES, IF IT DOESN'T IT DOESN'T."

Goal of today: think less, do more.

A friend got tickets to the sold out Death Cab show this evening at the 930 club, so I will be clearing my social calendar to go. It must be Murphy's Law that most weekend nights I have no plans, but then whenever I do have plans others will pop up, and then there will be several things I want to do, but can't.

That was not as coherent as I would have hoped.

Happy 20 to me.

2004-10-23T01:52:00.000-04:00

I smell like mango rum and a cigarette I shouldn't have smoked and the lotion and mint I used to cover up the cigarette smell.

I would rather not write in a bad mood, so I'm not going to write. Suffice to say, I don't like birthdays.

8 Minutes of Teenagerdom Left

2004-10-21T23:52:00.000-04:00

Things I am thinking on the eve of my 20th birthday:
1. I have not accomplished anything.
2. Look at what I have accomplished.
3. I should really sleep as I have to wake up early.
4. I hope the 20s are as good as people say.
5. Does this mean I have to grow up?
6. I'm not ready to grow up.
7. I wonder what he is thinking.
8. I wish I was with friends.
9. I wouldn't turn down a cigarette right now.
10. Life isn't fair, but that doesn't mean it's not supposed to be.
11. That last thought was crap. Life isn't fair. Period.
12. 20 is going to be a good year.

"I want to go home." "I think your frozen yogurt would melt."

2004-10-17T21:02:00.000-04:00

My parents were here for the weekend. I know some students hate when their parents visit, but I personally love it. Free food, a car, parental love and approval, and a guaranteed trip to the grocery store, financed by the Bank of Dr. and Dr. Elitist Snob, Sr. (That's right, my parents are both doctors. Psychologists, at that. Go ahead, ask me how weird it is. )

They left today. When we hugged goodbye it was for a little longer than normal, a little tighter than normal. As we pulled away from our 'three-way hug' (a term I coined circa age 6) I felt a pain in my chest and throat and realized I was trying not to cry.

I watched my father open my mother's door, and help her with the seatbelt so she didn't have to use her bad arm. I smiled to myself, hearing her complaints that 'I can do it, I'm not an invalid.' and still letting my father help her. I stood inside the doorway of my building and waited as they got sorted to leave, waited while my dad turned on the car, waited while my parents waited for traffic to slow so they could pull out. I was rooted to the spot, ignoring the people coming and going from the building, bumping into me on their way out the door into the world. I couldn't move until the van had turned the corner and I could no longer see my parents.

When I got back to my room it felt like I had already cried. I sat at my desk and tried to shake off the almost constant feeling of late that time is approaching an end.

And This is How Defeat Sounds

2004-10-12T09:27:00.000-04:00

"Human beings are creatures of habit." I can't remember who said this, but I believe it was someone smart, and so I will attribute it to my eleventh grade English teacher.

"Human beings are creatures of habit," he said as we all took our usual seats in class. "I have never assigned your seats, yet you return to the same ones every day."

If it was true in eleventh grade, it is certainly true now: I am a creature of habit. I have a routine in the morning, any deviation from this routine causes stress and upsets my day. I wake up two hours before anywhere I need to be because I like to take my time.

Usually, I'm the first (and only) one awake in the room, but this morning both of my roommates have tests, so they're up studying. One of them decided to shower earlier than normal, during my usual shower time.

Keep it cool, I thought to myself, you still have plenty of time.

Half an hour later (what could she possibly be doing in there for so long?!) she emerges, gets clothes from her closet, and goes back in to get dressed. Another 10 minutes she emerges to hang up her towel.

"I'm going to shower, does anyone need anything first?" I ask, regretting the words even as they leave my mouth.

"Oh, just let me do my makeup real quick and then I'm out of there." I cringe. My roommate is under the mistaken impression that it doesn't take her long to do her makeup, while me and the other roommate know it is at least a half hour long process. We share a look of exasperation, and both say ok.

elitist snob is on the lookout for new digs.

Adventures in Getting a Life: Part 1

2004-10-09T01:23:00.000-04:00

...Wherein our heroine gets stepped on by a stiletto. I think my toe may be broken.

I went with one of my roommates to a house party on N Street in one of the most amazing townhouses I've ever seen. It was New Year's themed, which meant that every half hour approximately 50 drunk college students shouted out a countdown, sprayed champagne all over, and then sang what I can only describe as a stirring rendition of Auld Lang Syne.

Some random guy(I think he lived there. He was smiling a lot.) offered my roommate and I some champagne. To which I replied with some incredibly witty retort about cheap champagne which unfortunately I can't remember right now. So this guy(smiley...that's a Sesame Street reference if you didn't catch it) says to us: "Naw dudes, this isn't cheap, it's Cristal." And it actually was.

That's my story.

a text message from a friend

2004-10-05T10:26:00.000-04:00

"God, I have never seen so many ugly people as in my film class right now. I hope it doesn't rub off on me."

mooooooooooooo

2004-09-30T09:56:00.000-04:00

I left Anthropology class after 30 minutes. We started watching a movie, and it seemed to be about nothing but bleating cows. (Do cows bleat? moo?) It was like listening to babies cry in slow motion. I couldn't listen anymore and the people we were supposed to be watching and studying and learning from were tall and skinny and naked and kinda scary looking. The thing about anth class is that we're supposed to be above immaturity in college now, learning from other cultures in Africa and the rainforests of the world. We are supposed to do this without giggling and pointing and whispering to our neighbor 'hey look, that guy's really naked.' But we can't. We are still children, in college, and I would not want things any other way.

turn smile shift repeat

2004-09-28T16:51:00.000-04:00

I am in a sorority. I know...it's a shocker. This week is formal recruitment. Not rush. The word rush somehow implies hazing and fat circling. Each night for 5 nights hundreds of girls circulate through each sorority's 'party.' We are apparently trying to change the definition of 'party' to '50+ girls in one room, all in the same outfit, with no alcohol and bubblegum pop music.' I will be sure to post a link to Webster's revised definition.

There are rules to how one should behave at recruitment. Because I am spastic, I must pay attention to my behavior so much that my inner monologue takes on a life of it's own. Smile, don't touch your hair, don't blink too much, stop, you're blinking too much, don't stare, make eye contact, act interested, uh huh, yeah definitely, stop fidgeting, your shirt is fine, what was her name? quick, look at her name tag, ok, Emily, oh geez I hope she doesn't think I was checking out her rack.....and so on for hours every night.

I enjoy being in a sorority, I do. But recruitment is completely unnatural. And no, it's nothing like in Pledged.

I do not take part in that procedure

2004-09-22T20:43:00.000-04:00

I was reading through Dooce, as I usually do, oh, every hour or so, lest I should miss an anecdote so funny it makes me snort when I laugh. Anyway, I was reading, and the latest entry is about reconvening the procedure, 'the procedure' being sex. Heather and her husband apparently had not had sex in over 6 months. Which apparently is a lot.

I feel like I am The Last American Virgin, the last semi-naive college student holding down the abstinence fort, in short, the last. I used to be proud of my virginity, but it has lately become a stigma. Who would want to date me when I've never had sex? Guys (or at least the uber sensitive guys I know, hah) do not want to deal w/ all that comes along w/ a virgin.

It's as though my virginity is a big neon sign flashing 'Eat at Joe's!'...only no one's eating at Jo's.*

*by the by, my name is Jo, and I am tres hilarious.

it's because he has a symmetrical face

2004-09-21T23:44:00.000-04:00

Someone once told me that the reason people like Denzel Washington is b/c he has a v. symmetrical face. I looked at it, and it really is quite balanced. There's a point to this, read on...

In anthropology yesterday we watched a National Geographic film. The best part of those is always the themesong at the beginning, w/ all the little yellow magazine borders doing their own sort of cross cultural synchronized dance. It was narrated by Denzel Washington. And I still liked him, even though I couldn't see his face. He has a comforting voice, and trust me, when you're on the edge of your seat b/c an African rainforest native is climbing 140 feet up a tree for honey, comfort is a good thing.

The film was a fantastic parallel to a book we're reading, and I'm sure I was meant to learn quite a bit from it, but all I could think was...'wow, there's no toilet paper in the rainforest' and 'geez, i'm really glad that here in america we have underwire brassieres, i am suddenly appreciating that support'. I'm just glad that by the time I'm 20 I won't have really floppy, sagging boobs. I'm also glad that I won't be about to give birth to my third child, w/ only the 'medicine from the tree' rubbed on my stomach as anesthetic.

dude. i need to find some people to read this blog.

it's not a hobby, it's a religion

2004-09-19T13:30:00.000-04:00

Last night a couple friends and I went to Kramer's in Dupont Circle. While waiting for our table to get some late night pie we picked up a few books in the 'self help' section, which is where one ends up standing if one is waiting for a table. I think maybe Kramer's is trying to send some sort of message....but I'm not sure what it is.

I picked up The Rules, which I've clearly heard of a million times but never read. Some of 'the rules' seem a little ridiculous, such as 'Don't stare at him, don't call him, and don't return his calls' seem a little ridiculous. Readers are also told to 'follow The Rules even when your parents and friends think you are crazy' and reminded that 'following the rules isn't a hobby, it's a religion.' Do these rules really work? Is merely the effort and psychological energy spent trying to land a man what ultimately leads to one landing said man? Or is the adult singles world filled w/ woman averting their eyes and ignoring their cell phones?

I had the genius idea to buy the book and follow 'The Rules' for a while to see if they really worked. Then perhaps I could make some sort of reality documentary, or perhaps 'True Life: I'm a bored college student who comes up w/ stupid ideas'. Unfortunately, my friend alerted me to the fact that How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days is based on that concept.

So I guess the point of this post is to reaffirm what a certain professor of mine says....'there's nothing new under the sun'..and once again, I am completely unoriginal.

something that made me happy last night: a friend saying he was majoring in me.

2004-09-18T13:49:00.000-04:00

ithaca is gorges...it is true

too much thinking on a thursday evening

2004-09-16T21:11:00.000-04:00

When I came to the age that I could intelligently rationalize my behaviour I came up w/ a variety of theories about my life. One of the most repeated theories goes something like this...'If I have something mean to say I may as well say it, b/c even if I kept it to myself I'd still be thinking it, and that would just be hypocritical' Hypocrisy is something I profess to find distasteful. And I do. But I am one of the worst hypocrites I know. I say I hate lying, and yet I lie as though I were speaking the truth. And people believe me. A lot. My friends an acquaintances invest a substantial amount of trust in me, and they believe every word that comes out of my mouth. Are they ignorant to the lies? Or do they like my version of life better... I sometimes wonder whether I am a compulsive liar...The thing I actually hate is being lied to. I demand a double standard in life....what it's ok for me to do vs. what it's ok for everyone else to do. I wonder...am I the only person like this? Or is everyone lying?

Most conversations I participate in focus on talking about someone else. I won't call myself a gossip. Not b/c I don't fit the description, but b/c I'm not sure my delicate ego could take the blow. Sometimes I try to stop myself from talking about others....but then I think, geez, what would I talk about? What can people possibly be talking about all the time? What can these hours of conversation be filled with? Is that shallow....

Sometimes when I'm talking to someone, I think of something nice that someone else has said about them. Some compliment that would put a smile on their face. Or some other comment that I think of that I know would really make them feel good, that they'd love to hear, that would reassure every doubt they're having right now, justify their life. And then I don't say it. I consciously think of it, and then make the decision not to tell them. I am not a nice person. And I never claimed to be one. I think that I am in some way better than most people. I am petty and I am deceitful. I don't like children.

And I don't care if you don't like that.

this is what happens when i watch drumline in the dark in then listen to more elliott smith than is healthy.

an essay(ish) on drugs(sorta) and harvey

2004-07-16T11:32:00.000-04:00

Upon reading http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2004/07/13/drugs/index.html" 'Do you puff, Daddy?' I was struck w/ a few realizations, mostly about my father. If you can make it through this entry I am thoroughly impressed.

My father was in his late teens and early 20s during the 60s, which, if you ask me, was probably the best age to experience that infamous decade. He got suspended for smoking in high school, had to go home and change one day b/c he was wearing jeans, and he was there when Temple University's dress code was abolished(I use the word 'abolished' b/c of it's strong connection to the word slavery, which is a word that my dad has used to describe said code). He joined the reserves so he wouldn't have to go to Vietnam, but he missed Woodstock b/c he was at basic training.

He was a slacker, but a skilled one. He was president of his class in highschool and played soccer. He got into Penn but couldn't afford it, so he went to Temple on a full ride. He was a smart guy. He knew he'd get drafted, so he joined the reserves. Some may call the cowardice, I call it self-preservation. During an exercise at basic training in which the trainees had to slither along the ground under a cover of machine gun fire that was approximately 1.5 ft off the ground, my dad told the supervising officer he was having leg cramps, and if he got one during the exercise he might seize up and, well, get shot and die. He got out of the exercise. Natural selection, but not how we tend to think of it.

What does this have to do w/ drugs? Everything. I don't know how old I was when I realized that my dad had done drugs, but I do remember when I realized just how much of his early adulthood he spent stoned/on lsd/etc. My dad's side of the family was assembled for my paternal grandmother's funeral. We were having brunch after the service in one of those diners which, for some reason or another, is always packed. The walls were highly mirrored and everything was piped in chrome. The fair was bagels and lox and all the accessories that go with such a jewish brunch, b/c, after all, this was the jewish side of my family. (the other side is catholic...imagine how disturbed I probably am) It's an impressive turnout for the funeral of a woman, who, in her dementia, was convinced that my mother was actually her daughter, and that her other son, my Uncle Arthur, had killed the president. Most of these people we had not seen hide nor hair of since the last funeral, but everyone had turned up, including our cousin Gerry, the one who goes by the mispronunciation of our last name b/c it was easier than correcting people. (This is a point of embarrassment for the family, much like cousin Geoffrey, who changed the spelling for the same reason.) Somehow the subject of drugs came up, or maybe it was the sixties, or youth, or who knows what. Suddenly someone was telling the story of the first (and only) time Uncle Arthur smoked pot. It was with my dad, and I have to say, i was expecting it to be one of those, 'older brother smokes up little brother stories'. Not that you hear many of those....but anway. The story goes that Arthur(12 years my dad's senior) approached my dad(Harvey) and asked if he could smoke pot w/ him. At this point some of the older folks are glancing questioningly at me, wondering if maybe they should cut the story off lest they ruin the image of 'my father, the hero'. Apparently, after one hit, my uncle started to have a panic attack, and freaked out. He wanted to go to the hospital, or call 911, or something for the love of mike. Harvey kept him from doing something stupid. All the adults laughed, good naturedly. And I pretended that I didn't think my uncle was a tool, an act I had perfected over the years b/c even in my earliest memories of him my uncle is a tool. Since I appeared to be reacting ok, the whole long table launched into an anthology of stories revolving around my dad and what a stoner he was. It was a veritable 'Best of Harvey' Marathon, w/ my dad in the starring role and my mother looking appropriately catholic and stunned. It was at this brunch that I realized, without a doubt, that my dad had done a lot of drugs.

This fact was confirmed when we were packing up the house to move(again). I picked up a long pipe that I remembered from my childhood as being in the office room (next to one of those german beer mug thingies). "What is this, anyway?" I asked my mother. "That's your father's opium pipe." "I think that's Rappaport's, honey." The guilty man replies. "It's not Rappaport's, Harvey, it's yours. Can you pass me the box of Gourmet magazines from 81? I think they'll fit in the box with the 70s."

Since then, my parents have been known to tell, completely unabashedly, stories from their youth. "Patty, remember that New Years when we all dropped acid and we were at Susan's? And there was that girl there, remember? Susan's friend. What was her name? Jill? Cheryl? Annie? And she kept talking to me, but I was so fucked up I had no idea what she was saying."
"That was before we were together."
"Oh. Well it was pretty funny."
"We know. You've told this story before.'
"I have?"
"Yeah Dad, when we were driving to Aunt Phyllis's for Thanksgiving. And we passed that car dealership and you and mom talked about how you wanted to buy some other car but it was noisy so you bought a Nissan." (I have an impeccable memory.)

There are countless stories like this. I feel as though I am just scratching the surface of my parent's lives.

The point is(however poorly proved), that doing drugs was just as big a part of my dad's life as joining the reserves or going to college. Drugs influenced his decisions and his life in ways that I will never know. Did hearing all these stories and knowing that my dad was a bonafide hippy make me want to do drugs? No. Did I eventually do drugs? Yes. When upon finding pot in my drawer freshman year of college, did my father ask 'Is it fresh?'? Yes, yes he did.

Scary as it is, our parents had lives before us. They did things they weren't proud of, or things they'd rather forget. They made mistakes. There can be no blanket rule about what to tell your kids concerning drugs. My suggestion would be to tell them not to do drugs, b/c they're a real drain on your bank account.

dad wisdom

2004-07-15T21:36:00.000-04:00

"you see life the way you see it, kiddo, and there's nothing wrong with that."

most of the time i think my dad is brilliant. sure, i have parent issues, but i'm also obsesed w/ my them. they are fantastic people, and prove time and time again that they love me unconditionally. i'm feeling sappy today, in case you hadn't noticed.

note to self: be better

2004-07-13T11:18:00.000-04:00

once upon a time, junior year, at my second of three highschools, i was in a play. we would all get notes from the director at the end of a rehearsal, and it seemed as though the only advice i ever got was so vague that in my head it became: 'can you just be, better? or something? just....better...than you are now.' so now, whenever anyone asks me what my goals in life are, i tell them, 'better. i'd like to be better.' the truth is, i don't give a flying cookie about 'better' or other such self-improvement goals. it seems to me like goals should be redefined based on the situation, the moment. for example, my goal right now is to be more articulate and less pitifully vague. and less repetitive(see previous sentence).

insert painfully hip title here

2004-07-12T13:34:00.000-04:00

there is nothing quite like the refreshing new feeling of something. when this something seems full of possibility, and you are completely motivated to follow through w/ said 'something'. being a libra, i tend to start new things frequently. i think it has something to do w/ indecisiveness, and needing options. whatever the reason, the result is this: a blog. a blog w/ (hopefully) a purpose. one that i would hope will not revolve around me, but being as i am probably an incredibly self-centered almost 20something, i'm not making any promises.