With a little elbow grease

Becoming the person you want to be with the things you want to have. Could it really be as easy as making clear what you want in life? I'll tell you what. I really believe it is as easy as admitting what you want and then doing some work to achieve it.

I wanted, since I was a senior, to intern at two.one.five magazine. I repeatedly applied and finally got it. After writing multiple times about what I wanted in a lover, I found one who is at least most of those things. When I was a junior or senior in high school, I pasted pictures on my agenda book of items that I wanted to own and the above Prada purse was one of them. Now, I finally worked to have enough money to buy myself one. I also decided I wanted my very own e-reader and mentioned it to Dad. He bought me a Kindle for Christmas.

With a little bit of elbow grease -- or the occasional green ink -- I tend to get what I want.

While I may not be able to fix my broken family, which is the one thing I can say without a doubt I never pictured for myself at 19, I can build the life I want, and get the things I want. While I realize that there shouldn't be much emphasis placed on material goods, it's fun to amass such pretty, fun objects.

I'm feeling pretty blessed, and it's not often that I've said that.

On women, superficiality and the new Prince Charming

A friend posted this question on Facebook: "Is it OK for a guy to be sensitive and caring for other people, or does that make him look like a sissy and a punk?" I was not the only one who responded to the question asked, but the dialogue quickly turned from the idea of the sensitive man to a derision of women as wholly superficial.

While I've always had a Twisted Sisterhood-type relationship with women, I don't think we're all that superficial and even if we are, it's not entirely our fault. When it comes to each other, yes, we're superficial, and, sure, we're a teensy bit superficial when it comes to guys, but I don't think it's because we're mean. We certainly don't realize that our "superficial" expectations or needs of men won't and can't be met; these preferences are bred in us from the time we are infants. Cinderella marries the handsome and perfect prince, so we're convinced from a young age that we must and will find our own Prince Charming.

It's a plight we're not exactly the creator of. The images we have of the perfect man to be with come from the media, and as much as it disgusts me, the media is largely controlled by men like Rupert Murdoch who have their own biases and, on some level, will do just about anything to sell their product. It began, I believe, when someone recognized that giving women a book or movie where the female protagonist ends up living the perfect life with the perfect man on her arm would sell a lot of those books or movies. Women are still, despite being 90 years removed from the struggle for suffrage, fighting tooth-and-nail for everything they want and it's in our nature to want everything, and as this is the case, the movies that show a successful career woman ending up with a good, kind, sensitive but strong man automatically appeal to women. The problem lies in the fact that we're now so overloaded with these images and presentations that it's hard to separate fact (that all men are imperfectly perfect and even if a guy knows what to say and when, he's probably a player) from fiction (Prince Charming).

Alas, after things like the TV show Sex and the City, which so many men defame, at least some of us have come (or are coming) to the realization that men are not perfect but that one who loves you and supports you, even if he is so strong-willed that he won't tell you when something's bothering him, is the new Prince Charming. Sure, he may sit butt-naked on your white couch or leave his used teabags all over the house, but if he makes you feel happy, even for ten seconds, every day, then you've got a winner. This, my dear readers, I am happy to say I have found.

A small victory

In a fit of ambition this weekend, I submitted various short stories of mine 36 times (I submitted multiple stories to certain outlets). Since then, I've received four rejections and one acceptance. The email from Fresh! Literary Magazine announcing they'd published my short story "Urgent Care" on their website was my first acceptance from a literary magazine. I felt like a balloon set to burst when I got that email on my beautiful little BlackBerry. Not only was it published online, but it will be considered for publication in their February anthology.

This reward for all of my years of laboring over my fiction (and my intensified efforts over the past few weeks) has not indicated to me that I've made. Surely, I'm not that naive, but how refreshing it is to have an objective third party confirming my greatest hopes and granting my dearest wishes.

It's like winning a huge battle in a war you thought you had already lost.

To stop beaming is hard. I love writing; it's the one thing I've always been good at and the one thing I've always wanted to do. If I want to continue getting my fiction published, I'd better get back to writing it.

If you read the story and want to share your thoughts, feel free to email me!

xoxo,
R.E.L.
rosellaeleanor@gmail.com

(pic from weheartit)

The problematic point of view

Lately, and especially when it comes to this blog, my baby, I've been worried that my writing is hitting too close to home. I do not wish to make people look bad, as a lot of my writing is simply meant to be therapeutic, a tool to help me work through my world and to put things in perspective. My views on things are not necessarily the truth -- it's just a point of view and I know that. Still, I have occasionally gotten myself in trouble with friends and loved ones for the things I write. Now that I'm reading Susan Shapiro's Only as Good as Your Word, I feel a bit better.

Shapiro writes, "When students express fear that their family will disown them if they divulge too much, I tell them to just make sure they become successful, since most people are starfuckers and vanity often overrides privacy."

Since I will stop at nothing until I am a published author with plenty of assignments rolling in (and this is already kind of happening, thanks to The Juniata News, The Temple News, and StudentCoupons.com, for which I'm doing a little editing), I'm pretty confident that any anger or resentment will be short lived.

(Image courtesy of weheartit)

Shout out

Quick note. I interviewed author Beth Kephart for two.one.five a few weeks ago and today, I got a shout out on her blog. Check it out here. Pretty cool.

God rides the 3?

Every day I go to Temple, I ride SEPTA's bus route 3. And nearly every single time I'm on that bus that goes from the Frankford Transportation Center toward Strawberry Mansion, someone is preaching about God. Typically, it's an old black woman talking to another old black woman or maybe a young person who she thinks is especially deserving of her sermons.

The thing is, I really struggle to believe in God. At least in the way that these women view him, as someone you devote your life to. I live according to different beliefs. The overarching belief I live by is that I can do anything I want to. The power, I like to think, is in my hands.

And even if there is a God, I imagine that the optimal relationship with him is more like the relationship between an employee and their employer. The more you put into your 401K, the more the company will have to match.

I think this is exactly how one should think of God's gifts to him or her; God will only match the effort you put into your life. If you do nothing to lead a good life, to achieve the goals you have, then God will not help.

More than this, I believe that the Christian notion of God as this all-mighty being that you must serve all of your life is a farce. What a selfish God he or she would have to be to expect every single human to live their life in service of him. I do believe in being a good person, in being righteous and accepting and forgiving. I just don't believe in serving a master. Honestly, when you think about it, Christianity is a system of slavery to a master that hardly anyone has ever interacted with. And after all the lectures and classes I've taken on the enslavement of Africans in America, I just can't subscribe to such a belief system.

So, old ladies on the 3, the next time you want to lecture about God, I will whip out this sermon of mine.

(The above picture was taken by Lauren Townsend, in the Woodland Cemetery in West Philadelphia.)

Dream come true

I finally got it: the internship I've wanted for two and a half years. Ever since I attended the two week long Urban Journalism Workshop at Philadelphia's Daily News and heard one of the publishers speak, I've wanted to intern at two.one.five magazine. I applied right before my senior year and actually even got an interview. Unfortunately, I didn't get the position because the editors thought my school schedule would prevent me from really learning anything.

I sent my resume a couple of times last year and never really heard back, although I did profile their fashion and music editor Abigail Bruley for Motivos magazine.

Finally, after talking with my beloved professor George Miller about how I was getting shot down everywhere and didn't know what to do next, emailed two.one.five's editor-in-chief Piers Marchant. After some back and forth and submitting a 330-word review of the Australian indie Candy, I was asked to interview.

That interview was Friday and I got the position!

Piers looked through my clipbook and said "It looks like writing comes easily to you, whether it does or not. It's a good thing... And I'm not just saying you're good. I make it a point not to tell students they're good writers if they're not."

He told me about the new website the two.one.five team is working on and what he'd like me to do (cover film reviews and write some fashion-related content). He asked when I could start.

"Monday's good for me!" I exclaimed.

So tomorrow at 11:30, I will show up to the magazine's office and introduce myself to the other editors (all of whom were mysteriously missing on Friday). I even get to sit in on a staff meeting.

It's amazing when you take a giant step toward your dream. After the interview, I couldn't stop smiling and I could hardly breathe. Maybe that's why there were stars in my eyes.

Rejected reject.

When I approached my supervisor at work this morning, she said, "I heard you had something in the paper."

"Yes, actually I've had something in both editions published so far and something in each of the next few editions. I counted the other day and this is my 20th clip for The Temple News," I said with a smile.

"That's great, you know you could add that to your resume," she said, eyes wide and mouth pulled up and out in a wide grin.

If only she knew what my resume looked like. It would blow her mind. And yet, I'm faced with writerly rejection almost every day. Today I received an email from the head of Temple's Writing Center that read:

Hello Rosella,

Thank you for applying to be a tutor in the writing center. Our hiring committee has carefully reviewed all of your application materials, but I'm sorry to say that we will not be interviewing you for further consideration. As in every semester, we had many applicants for a very small number of positions. We must review these applications relative to one another, placing specific emphasis on papers that reflect the kind of carefully researched, problem-posing approach to writing that is most valuable to a tutor in this center. You might consider reapplying when you've had the opportunity to write more in-depth papers in your major, and review the guidelines for writing samples on the Writing Center's website. I apologize for having to deliver what I'm sure is unwelcome news; we wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors at Temple and beyond.

Not only did I receive that today, but I received what has to be the 20th rejection of my fiction (which pales in comparison to the 800 rejections Ray Bradbury got before publishing his first story, but it is no less painful). Furthermore, I queried 5 agents back in March or May and only heard back from one (clearly this was a rejection email).

Also, I've submitted my resume and clips for what is probably the fourth time to two.one.five magazine where I have wanted to intern since the summer before my senior year, and after the editor-in-chief reviewed these things, he said he needed to see more -- a 300-word review of something -- (this is pretty customary, actually) and I have yet to hear from him. This was last Thursday night that I sent my 330-word review of the 2006 movie Candy.

I don't know how much more rejection I can take without knowing what's wrong with me. Because that's the thing -- every rejection I receive is as uniform and vague as the email quoted above. I can see the tears welling up. Writing is the one thing I'm good at and which I love to do. If I can't make it in writing, I'll die.

I feel like part of me is dying.

Frustrated. ARGH!

Back to School. Those words and the subsequent sales on notebooks and new pens and other supplies used to make me sublimely happy. Even if only for the first few weeks of school -- until the normal bitching began.

This year, as I prepare for my second year of college (even armed with cute new Harajuku Lovers school supplies), I couldn't possibly dread anything more. I can't even quite tell you why.

I do know that I wish I was done already; that I wish I was living my life outside the realm of classes. I hate that I have to pay to subject myself to the whims and fancies of professors. I'd rather be subjecting myself to the whims and fancies of a boss and getting paid for it.

Perhaps my apathy toward school is also wrapped up in my recent failure to snag a rad internship or other writing-related gig. I recently took a fact checking test at Philadelphia Weekly, where I've been dying to intern since I met contributor (and beloved professor whose magazine writing class I didn't get into) George Miller in July 2008, only to be told there wasn't room for me this semester. There was no room for my proposed column on affordable living while in college for The Temple News' Living section. Oh, and the status of my application to be a writing tutor at Temple's Writing Center is up in the air.

As the handwriting analysis guy told me on campus on Friday, I'm feel frustrated and am only 75-85% of the way to reaching my goals. Which is pretty outrageous and annoying when I put in a thousand and 1 % effort.

And the one thing that's going well -- my relationship with Chris -- is being put under pressure from all sides.

I'm under pressure from all sides.

And I really don't want to have to worry about what other people -- except possible employers -- think of me. If only I had some marginal journalistic achievement to help me feel like I do in fact know what I'm doing and that even though this is slow and painful, I'm headed in the right direction.

Gah. I kind of just want to SCREAM!

Reticence on the subject of your relationships, or lack thereof

 Why can't we just shut our big, fat mouths about our coupledom?

It's a particularly pertinent question for a journalism student who, taking every job offered her no matter the pay, took a position writing about relationships for HOSTAGE magazine. Five posts a week means you've got a lot of material to create and as has always been my modus operandi, I turned to personal experiences for the bulk of my posts -- even when it's just a little anecdote to open a piece about a post by another writer.

What does this mean for my relationship with Chris? I've never asked specifically if he minded being written about, I guess I figured he should expect it as a fellow writer and, honestly, I was scared he'd say no. Then what the hell would I write about? I've sort of made it a rule not to disclose very personal matters -- and I stray as far from personal sex stories as humanly possible -- and I like to keep stories of whispered sweet nothings and impromptu slow dances to myself.

I'd like to think I succeed at writing Carrie Bradshaw style by relating personal experiences and those of friends to diatribes about overarching themes -- and I seek to answer questions and solve problems most people might encounter in their own relationships. See, I feel relationships are a huge part of who we are -- whether they're familial, friendly or of the romantic nature -- because we spend so much time surrounded by other people. Of course, our relationships with ourselves are majorly important as well -- and that's what I try to focus on in this blog.

So, I turned to CB for her thoughts on the matter. There's an episode in season two of the fabled TV series where my hero just can't shut up about her failed relationship with that unicorn, Mr. Big. "Really, I pity him," she says a little too emphatically before her three girlfriends launch an intervention ("[S]top her before she obsesses again," as Miranda says). It's not about the state of their relationship -- or that it's ended -- the thing is Carrie always talks about Mr. Big -- and Aidan, and Berger, and Petrovsky -- to her girlfriends and to readers in her weekly column.

When they intervene, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte suggest a therapist. Carrie asks why she needs to pay someone when she's got them. "Look, we're as fucked up as you are. It's like the blind leading the blind," Samantha responds.

What really sparked my investigation into this topic was Lesley Dormen's article "Secrets and Lies" in the August issue of ELLE magazine. Dormen, a happily married woman for the past 14 years and obviously a writer, encountered a very similar question. "When is it okay to talk about your marriage, when isn't it, and who decides? Is privacy a trust issue, a loyalty issue, or more about context and intention--invasion of marital privacy versus lunch with your best friend?" Dormen wrote.

Further on, she wrote, "Why is marriage so determined to close the door behind itself? Are we ashamed of ourselves, of our messy married lives? What is it we're hiding? Or protecting?"

I've been guilty of invading married privacy out of curiosity. As a young person who has been in only a handful of relationships, I'm always wanting to know how marriage works. I've read that in order to help your relationships, it helps to talk to your married friends. And when one website listed the ten things every single person must do, on that list was "Talk to someone your age who is married."

It seems human nature to talk to at least our girlfriends about our relationships, writes Dormen. "The freedom to exchange private information about boys is one of the first ways we declare our independence from parents. We learn early on that boy talk is a social lubricant."

Even Drew Barrymore, cover star of ELLE's August issue isn't immune to boy talk with the girls. "I talk shit with my girlfriends, and it can get dirty."

If everyone does it, is it so wrong? Why do we do it? Is it that boy talk is one of the oldest ways of fulfilling our desire to be seen and heard, a desire so prevalent in today's reality TV obsessed culture? Is it that boy talk is the only topic everyone has an interest in and that everyone has something to say about?

Are all guys as reticent about their relationships as Dormen's husband? I know Chris asks guys at work for advice about sex things... the nature of which I won't divulge here. But how much does he tell buddies about me? He's often professed how differently he acts at work. So is he more talkative or more quiet? Who knows.

Because of popular movies and such, most women have a concept of men as vulgar pigs on the subject of sex (Barrymore said in ELLE, "In a lot of ways, I feel like I have a little bit of a dude inside me--except mine happens to be a 13-year-old boy, not a full-fledged man.") but what about the regular stuff?

In the end of "Secrets and Lies," Dormen writes about the benefits of sharing your marriage with others. "The telling," she writes, "lifts the veil from no one's eyes but your own." Producing a narrative surrounding your relationship, she says, whether to friends or in writing, helps the sharer to better understand him or herself and their partner. The pulling away actually brings you closer Dormen states.

For now, I'll continue doing what I've been doing, writing about us without delving too far. Because as Dormen writes, "for me, as for many writers, private life is my material."

(The above image is a closeup, shot by me, of a token card and tickets from Dave & Buster's at the Franklin Mills Mall where Chris and I played skee ball before seeing a movie.)

Further notes on mission impossible

In my last post, I wrote about how, no matter how hard I try, I can't be perfect. The one thing I realized that night, along with that, is the second you think you've got yourself figured out, the second you think you've worked through your issues, new ones crop up and you've still got something to learn.

I am not complaining -- I actually find it comforting to know that life won't (maybe ever) hit a wall and never change. It's nice to know that everyone can continue to grow and change without having to force it.

It gives our interactions with others more dimension, as well. And in terms of romance, who wants a static relationship?

Perfection: Mission Impossible

I apologize for the rambling that was my last post. I'll have to edit it a bit. But when I posted it, from my friend's iPod Touch while on Percocets after my wisdom teeth extraction on Wednesday (all four and they were impacted). I believe you'll understand even if it kills me to not write perfectly -- at least to my usual standards.

Speaking of aiming for perfection, readers who've been with me on this journey for a while probably know how I want everything and want to do it with poise. If you're a newer reader, I've now told you (instead of showing, oops, another writing boo-boo).

Yesterday was the height of this. After a night with very little sleep -- I'd slept from 11:30 p.m. till 4:40 a.m. waking once in between time and as 5 a.m. approached, my dad turned on the light in the living room where I slept and after that, I couldn't sleep a wink -- I accompanied my dad to a surgical checkup. See, five years ago, he had bladder cancer. It's back and this checkup, the second with a month's time, was to see how bad it is.

So I went to the hospital with him and when he was back from the recovery room, they let me see him. He didn't look good. He was shaking and they'd had to leave a catheter in with a bag to collect urine. I got scared. He said they'd had to take a good deal of tissue. He started to grow perkier and he smiled even though we all knew he was in pain -- the most he'd ever had after one of these surgical checkups -- and my nurturing instincts kicked in.

When we got home, I made sure he had what he needed. Because I can't drive yet, I had to wait for Chris to get off work so I could go to a grocery store and CVS to get his prescriptions filled. But it wasn't very long and when Chris came and got me we headed to the CVS.

Of course, I sucked at directing him where to go. We found a route that was pretty quick actually and not really out of the way but it wasn't the way I normally go. And when we got there, they wouldn't fill dad's Percocet prescription because the doctor didn't put his name on it. I almost had a fit although when I called my dad he was calm about it.

Then we went to ShopRite and because I rarely ever go grocery shopping and they keep changing around the store, I had no idea where anything was. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Thank goodness for Chris who helped tremendously.

When I was almost done, I realized I hadn't placed my order for seafood -- dad wanted shrimp (although I was a tad nervous in his condition) and that I'd now have to actually stand around waiting for it. To top it off, Chris was tired and ready for bed and I wanted to get done so he could go to bed.

I was a mad woman last night. Of course, after stopping at Wawa to get cigarettes and coffee for dad and Chris, we got home and brought the bags in (or should I say, my boyfriend the HULK, who did it in one trip). There I realized we'd forgotten to get the prescription.

On the way to CVS again, I realized something. I was trying to be my mom who has always been so put together, doing everything for everyone.

It's impossible to be Wonder Woman. I try. But it's impossible. I just have to come to terms with it.

Absense made me feel lucky

This weekend I spent time with my family -- my Grammy, Aunt Cindy and her husband Ed -- down in North Wildwood. This meant I was away from Chris for just about the longest we've been apart in the two months we've been together. We were going out of our minds being apart. Every phone call we made, we said a thousand times how much we missed each other. A couple times I actually felt physically ill!

I couldn't wait to get back to his arms and kisses. Still, I was almost scared by how much I missed him because the other thing his trip threw into sharp relief was how I rarely feel like I'm surrounded by people who see the real me. It worried me that I feel I have so few friends (there's Ashley and Michele but that's about it). I then told Chris that I was terrified of becoming the girl who only has her boyfriend.

I think this offended him a tiny bit but then he said something that made a shitload of sense. He said that the only difference between a boyfriend and a best friend is that you kiss -- and do other stuff with -- your boyfriend. Suddenly I realized how right he was and that I should be thankful because I've got a relationship that other girls would kill for. I'm kissing my best friend. It doesn't matter that we don't know each other's every story yet but we're happy and comfortable enough to tell each other anything.

I'm so thankful to have the few great friends I've got and I now know how lucky I am to have
boyfriend who is in my corner. I'm happy he's not the only friend I've got but I know I'd be lucky to have even just Chris.

Impressions

Last Saturday was spent in Atlantic City with the family of one of my best friends. Ashley and I have been friends since we met in 8th grade at Conwell Middle Magnet School here in Philly. We were both part of the Principal's Leaders Academy and were stationed at the ladies room, patrolling the kids. Most of these periods were spent working on my valedictorian speech, which I was chosen to deliver at our mutual delight. Then we went to the same high school and through ups and downs, we've always come out of it together.

Then, last weekend was only the third time I'd seen her since we went to separate colleges. She's at the University of Pittsburgh's Bradford campus while I'm still here in the City of Brotherly Crime.

On Saturday, a major theme of our conversations was how glad we were to have left high school behind. She told me how one of her former teachers -- who I'd never had -- was talking to her on Facebook about who she had stayed friends with from high school. There were, like, four of us, she told him. He asked who. When she got to me, he said something about how I'm a girl that's going places.

I was surprised he even knew who I was. In retelling their conversation, Ashley said that our freshman year English teacher had told this other teacher that she and I were his favorite students.

It's funny how you can leave impressions on people you had no idea about.

(The above image is of me and Ashley on my 17th birthday. 2008.)

Home isn't just a Glee episode

Yesterday, Michele and I had a conversation about our favorite Glee episodes -- yep, your favorite blogger here is far from immune to its musical pleasures -- and mine were Wheels and Home. Probably because both episodes touched on major themes or experiences I've had. The former is pretty obvious but maybe not the latter.

The thing is, for longer than I'd like to remember, I have felt out of place in the various living situations I found myself in. When I was fifteen years old my parents separated and my mom moved me and my sister to an apartment roughly a half hour from our childhood house.

Then out of the blue, she had a serious boyfriend. And quite quickly, I felt really out of place. They played his reggae music really loud and turned sporting events so loud that I couldn't hear the movie I was watching. To my eyes he was treated like a king, while she acted like his handmaiden.

I made it clear that I disliked the situation -- and him -- and I was the one who was ostracized. I spent whatever time I could in my room -- whichever makeshift room it happened to be at the moment -- and hoped for someone to rescue me. 

A story that needed to be told

A while ago I was reading Melissa Blake's Psychology Today column Disabled and Thriving and left a comment on her "Disability 'Dating' Rules?" about my experience dating someone with a disability. She loved my story so much that she shared it on her personal blog as part of her Tales from the Trenches feature. The story received nine comments before I saw that she'd reposted it and everyone seems touched by my story. As a write whose aim is to inspire, inform and entertain the public, knowing that my story has touched them is the greatest compliment of all.

Click here to see the full post on So about what I said...

STAND UP, FOOL

I have four words for you, whoever you are: Stand up for yourself.

It sounds so simple, but you can't expect someone else to stand up for you. And no one should be expected to stand up for you, with the possible exception of your parents. But even they fail to do so half the time. Hence, you gotta do it yourself.

Posting might be sparse for a little while. Going through some things -- and need to sort them out in my head before I can tell all here. Don't worry about me though; I got my own back.

(Image via weheartit)

Another inch...

I've been googling freelance writers after reading their articles in national magazines to see what else they've got going on. I've been shocked to find that most of the time, about three of the top ten results are actually about or by the writer whose name I typed in. When I google myself (yeah, kind of pretentious, I know), all of the top ten results are about or written by me. Perhaps this in and of itself is not a measure of success but thinking about what this early exposure could mean for my career has my blood pumping! I just might be writing for national magazines in no time...

(Image via weheartit)

Measures of success

Ever feel like you're actually achieving your dreams? If you have, you know that it's like a drug; it's the best possible high. Well, I can only imagine since I've never actually been high. But that doesn't negate the immense rush I get looking over my portfolio of published clips (which contains upwards of 35 clips), just one measure of my writerly success a la Carrie Bradshaw.

Another measure: I was recently hired as a relationship writer for HOSTAGE magazine.

And another: I got an assignment from and was published in my neighborhood newspaper The Juniata News for which I will receive my largest paycheck to date (for something I wrote, I mean).

And another: This blog has gotten a few comments of late from people I'm not biologically related to or Facebook friends with (because you know I inundate my virtual friends with reminders to read my humble life-and-love blog).

And another:  I got an email today from an admirer of my online portfolio (which I've already plugged once in this post) inviting me to join a fashion website that is sort of a mix of Twitter, Facebook, and answers.com. This website is still in beta and you can only join by private invitation from a founder or an 'in' person.

Sorry if this post is more self-congratulatory and pompous than usual. I'm just so excited and this excitement -- when not being overshadowed by the normal, run-of-the-mill, everyday stresses of life -- has been a really big thing lately.

My career goals for the near and far futures:

- Get accepted as a contributor to Sex, Etc. while I still can; they only take people 19 and younger and as my 19th birthday's approaching, my time is waning.

- Write some essays for Metropolis (for which I would be paid, which is always nice).

- Perhaps get a column in The Juniata News (as guaranteed and continued income is always nice too). Or maybe write a relationship column for The Temple News. (Both clauses of this bullet point are wholly dependent upon how much material I would have left over after fulfilling my duties for HOSTAGE).

- Pitch articles to more magazines (even the national glossies -- although of course I don't expect they'll be accepted).

- Be named as a Blog of the Note.

- Perhaps, someday, get a book deal (either for my novel or for turning this blog into a book). Although this last thing coming to fruition isn't exactly something I can ensure.

Well, there you have it. Things are looking up for me, romantically and career-wise. Let's just hope this doesn't send other things to shit!

Every day is my birthday

Today, Chris asked me what I'd like for my birthday. Honestly? I have no clue. The only possible gift idea I've come up with being a Patricia Field for Payless Shoe Source shamrock necklace. But I thought that wasn't the right gift suggestion for my honey. All I really want for my birthday is to spend it with family and friends and possibly a trip to the beach.

Perhaps this is what it means to be a grown-up; realizing that the material things aren't so important -- and that anything you want you can buy yourself -- and that time spent relaxing with loved ones is a precious commodity.

I didn't know what to ask of my parents for Christmas either. And my last birthday? Of the few material gifts I received, I think I knew of half of them beforehand.

But that doesn't solve my problem of what to tell Chris to get me. What is a girlfriend supposed to want? Maybe I could ask him to buy me a teddy bear. Or jewelry. Or lingerie.

I honestly don't want anything more than to spend time with him. And I get that quite often. So it's kind of like every day is my birthday.

Die, you stupid Xerox machine

I'm going to say the thing that everyone is thinking but maybe doesn't want to say, maybe won't even dare admit it to themselves. I hate being a working adult. It blows.

I only work two days a week and for five hours. It's nowhere near as bad as working five or six days a week, I know. But when you're doing work that a monkey could easily handle and being treated like you're incapable of doing said work, there's nothing to do but bite down the scream clawing at your throat.

Every morning I have work, I wake up ten, maybe 20, minutes before my 9:30 a.m. alarm, worried I've missed it. I am not even sure that I don't wish I would miss it. Then I get up when my alarm rings, go to the bathroom, and hop back in bed for 11 minutes (until 9:45 a.m.).

Then that alarm goes off and I've got no choice but to force myself to throw on some clothes -- I'm supposed to follow our strict and grammatically incorrect dress code -- and grab whichever purse I need that day and run out the door. Then of course, I have a tendency to miss the 3 bus that comes at 10:12 a.m. when it comes a few minutes early and I'm about 50 feet away from the bus stop.

Then I get to work a few minutes before 11 a.m. and yet, the computer I use to log on to record my time stamp, always takes a few minutes to load -- meaning I stamp in at 11:01 a.m. and, according to my supervisor, have to wait until exactly 4:01 p.m. to log off. Because that one minute will make a difference in my pay. Christ.

I try to get through each day by remembering that working here gives me money so that I can go out with friends and Chris after work and on the weekends, etc. It's a struggle but it helps a little.

Now.. it's 1:30 p.m. I get a half-hour break for lunch and then it's two more hours till I'm on my way to Chris'. I can't wait.

Grief and prayer

A friend I graduated with lost her 3-year-old daughter on Friday. I'm speechless. Losing someone you love is hard, whoever it is and whatever your relationship. Chris said today -- about a different situation -- that grieving is a process and eventually you get over the loss. I'm not sure that you do. Another friend of mine lost his dad and he and his mother have not and say they will never get over his death.

More than that however, I question the merit of prayer. My friend who lost her daughter asked for the prayers of her friends through Facebook. And while I will pray for her because she asked, I wonder what good it will do. I guess I could pray that she "gets over it" but will she? I doubt it.

After disaster struck Haiti in January, Christians in all places were holding prayer circles for the Haitians. After hearing about one such event, I asked "What the hell is prayer gonna do?" My grandmother said, with great disappointment in her voice, "It helps, honey, it really does."

This coming from the same woman who later that week took one look at a bumper sticker that read "I'm blessed," and said, "I wonder what makes her think she's so blessed."

Clearly, my Grammy's religious beliefs are as deeply rooted as my own.

Whether prayer works or not, I hope that my friend will find a way to get through this ordeal and even if she never gets over it.

(The above image is of Susan Sarandon.)

Amen, sister!

"Women are innately self-conscious. This is not a choice; it's a genderwide condition. On a bad day, I look in the mirror and see my ten-pound-heavier alter ego. Her name is Bertha. On a really bad day, Bertha sees her two-hundred-pound-heavier alter ego. Her name is Brian Dennehy." - Alyssa Milano

To read the other 74 things guys don't know about women, click here.

(The above picture was taken in 2008 when I interviewed Milano for a summer journalism workshop.)

Putting the 'merry' in 'go round'

Wednesday night I was talking with my friend Michele about life... I told her about taking my sister for a manicure and pedicure in preparation for her prom and Michele said that for all of the good I do, I don't deserve the shit that I've had to put up with. And that she thinks Chris, who is turning out to be everything I said I wanted in a guy, is just the beginning of my lucky streak. Sometimes my life feels like it circles back around to the same problems, the same crap. Here's hoping the go round gets even merrier.

(The above photo is from Le Blog de Betty.)

Learning curve

I can't hold my breath for very long underwater. This is unfortunate when your family insists on torturing you for all of your shortcomings. I can't serve a volleyball. I'm not athletic. As a kid, I was always chosen last for teams in gym. And I'm okay with this.

Except when my mother and sister take to teasing me for this inability to punch a white quilted ball at my boyfriend on the other side of the pool.

See, in celebration of Memorial Day, my family had a pool party on Sunday at my Aunt Cindy's and it was the first time I'd taken a boyfriend to meet my family. Chris held up better than I did, I'd say.

They didn't hassle him much. In fact, most of my family probably said less than 10 words to him. But everyone seemed content with belittling and teasing me in front of him. Some people -- not me -- can let this kind of thing roll off their backs. I've always held the opinions of my family members in high regard and hate that nothing ever seems good enough for them.

My Aunt Cindy and Grammy told me I need to work harder in college (I got one "C" and three "B"s this last semester) while they announced to everyone my two male cousins' very high GPAs. Not that I'm not proud of Danny and Eddie. I truly am. But there was a time when my family even questioned whether the boys would ever go to school (my cousin Danny is 26 and just concluded his first semester), so clearly their excellence in school is a delightful surprise. But for me, the girl who graduated seventeenth in her class, not only was it expected I go to college, now I'm expected to get straight A's. It's too much pressure for one person.

And this lecture from my elders on doing well in school came in front of Chris.

I've never had to worry about what my family thought of a guy -- at least not my extended family. Chris is the first guy I've ever dated to even meet my dad and now he's met the rest of my family. And all in one day he's seeing how they see me and the way I see myself in my family's funhouse mirror.

I can't even begin to imagine how bad I looked, ducking under the water to avoid the barrage of comments about my failed attempts at athleticism. I am simply embarrassed by myself. It's hard when you want to control how someone sees you because you just can't. You can only hope that they find your faults endearing and that they will appreciate you for everything you are -- and everything you aren't.

In the end, I tried following my sister's advice and sent that volleyball soaring over Chris' head at least once... But it didn't feel good as I hadn't done it on my own.

(The above picture is of Robert De Niro and Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents.)

More time than he's worth? Look again.

I wrote in April of my increased ability to maybe not forgive but certainly quickly forget boys. I had taught myself to pick apart a young man with the skill and precision of the finest surgeons in the world. With my scalpel in hand -- or eye or ear -- I had the ability to quickly decide that a guy was not what he had appeared to be and that I would be better off not wasting my time or attention on him any longer. I also predicted that this would be a dangerous thing.

Turns out I was worried for nothing. Apparently I also have the ability to pinch myself and remember that people are more than they appear and they can certainly be more than just the sum of desirable (and undesirable) parts.

My new boyfriend Chris is proof that a guy can be more than you'd ever imagined. When he took those first steps up to my house, I got worried. He wore a fitted cap; something I considered, as the result of having two male cousins who purposefully bent their brims and adjusted size of the hat with Velcro strips, odd and possibly a sign that the wearer considered himself gangster (or gangsta as I've so disdainfully been reminded by peers). I don't do gangster/a.

Despite this, I reminded myself of his mastery of words so beautifully displayed in those OKCupid messages and texts. This was a guy worth taking a closer look at.

But isn't everyone? I guess one could argue that with as busy as our world is, as much as we juggle on a daily basis, it is uneconomical to spend an hour on someone we're pretty sure, five minutes in, is all wrong for us.

I don't know. I have always sort of given guys who seem all wrong for me more time than most girls probably would. And while, for instance, learning how O.U.A.T.B. rolled was by no means a waste of time, I have certainly spent more than a few hours on guys I wish I'd never bothered with.

This is how we learn, I suppose; the way we discover what's right and what's wrong -- at least for us in terms of relationships. And who would deny themselves an opportunity for growth?

And I have grown. I have learned from every botched relationship -- some of them lessons like: the pasture isn't always greener on the other side and some guys really just like to play games without concern for the heart attached to those strings they're pulling.

Best of all, I have seen hearts of gold in people who are a little -- forgive the overused expression -- rough around the edges. And I'm a lot different from the girl who loved Ben Swann, the kindergarten heartthrob who crushed on the thumb-sucker. Amen to that.

As it turns out, Chris is far from gangster/a. He's kind of a big softy while maintaining a knack for brutal honesty. He's even self-actualized enough that, had I not seen it with girlfriends, he would have sat through Sex and the City 2 with me.

I can only hope that my family will have a good first impression -- and that my cousins don't break his back over the fitted hat.


(The above photo is of Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big in Sex and the City 2. The photographer is Craig Blankenhorn. Source: allmoviephoto.com)

Good things do happen

It seems as though whenever I wonder how much more I can possibly complain about things (particularly romantic endeavors), something good happens.

Yes, I've got a new beau. And boy, did I have a lot of people demanding details when I changed my relationship status on Facebook. It seems every one of my friends thought they should have been the first to know. I know my sister was shocked and awed by it.

Within the span of a few days, I went from no real romantic possibilities to having a cute guy text me first thing in the morning just to start my day off on the right foot. I too am still in disbelief. Just a little.

But I'm happy. Chris is slightly older and he's mature. He's a total cutie. He holds doors and smothers me in playful kisses. I like the way his hand hovers at my back as we walk together and how he sends me less-than-3 hearts over AIM. And I can wear high heels and don't tower over him!

Oh, and he too is a writer. He uses proper grammar. Hallelujah.

Despite outward appearances and my mother's initial reaction ("Who's that?" she whispered to me as Chris stood in the other room. "My boyfriend," I answered. "Oh boy," she said), I think I may have found a really good match for once. He's someone who wants to make time for me and I am really comfortable in his presence.

I always thought that relationships with boys are like a driver's relationship with cars. There's the car you learn to drive in -- the male equivalent lasts you a lifetime only if you're super lucky. Then there's your next car, the one you own when your parents still want to know where you're going and when. Then you get a fairly nice car that you worked for and bought and with which you're pretty much free to do what you want. You might even get to take it on a road trip.

Of course there are the cars you admire -- the ones in your neighbors' driveways and which you see only through the dealership's glass doors (think Porsche or Lamborghini). For the male equivalent, think Gerard Butler or Bradley Cooper. You can drool over him all you want but sometimes all your hard work won't even afford you a pen with which to sign on the dotted line.

Whichever kind of car I'm in now, I'm not sure. But I'm going to enjoy it before I have to make my first payment.

(The above picture is from 2004's The Notebook.)