Bah Humbug

The head cashiers at the bookstore started wearing a variety of Christmas-y hats during the holidays, so we can find them more easily (they have to give out change, do returns, deal with yellers, etc.) Anyway, a few days ago one was wearing a Santa hat which had "bah humbug" written across it. My Dominican co-worker turned to me and said, "what is bah hoombug? I have no idea what that means."

Now, try explaining Ebenezer Scrooge, the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future, Tiny Tim, and Bob Crachitt to someone who has no reference for them at all. It's like when David Sedaris moved to France and a Morrocan woman in his language class didn't know what Easter was, and they were trying to explain crucifixtion, rabbits, and resurrection in a really limited vocabulary (I think the best line was, "and then he died, on two morsels of lumber"). I didn't have the vocabulary problem, but I did have a time problem, since we were checking out at the same time. So I am babbling about, "well, he was bad, and all he cared about was money and he was SO mean to poor Bob Crachitt and wouldn't give him any coal, and then the ghost of his employer shows up and then more ghosts show up and then he is changed..erm." Sounds pretty feeble, and she said as much. "It sounds like the Grinch, but not as good." He's the *original* grinch, I said. She just looked at me dubiously. Dickens probably rolled over in his grave.

But no bah humbugs from me! I am home, home, home, for the first time since June. And so far I have baked, slept (lots! in my own bed!), and decorated (well, put up ornaments and then watched my mom move them around). I will write..sometime..about the NYC Blizzard, which made my last day of work very interesting, and made getting to Metro North pretty crazy as well (and I have the bruises on my knees from hauling my suitcases over snowpiles to prove it!). Now I have to go frost some cookies.

Merry Christmas to all of you. And in the words of good ol' Dickens,
god(dess) bless us, every one!

Guest Blog, or Why it is Nice to have Talented Friends

I was able to sucker one of my friends into writing a post for me, because 1. she is a very good writer, and enjoys it, 2. she and I are in similar situations, but in different spots, 3. she is going to be the next Sharon Creech, and 4. she has the best rom-com collection of anyone I know. Also, I didn't so much "sucker" her as "ask" her, and she said yes. Enjoy. I know I did.

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First of all, a big thanks to “Ahhna” for letting me guest blog. I am very honored. I did have a Live Journal in high school (which a friend is still trying to stalk out—I haven’t deleted it yet because I like to read it from time to time and lament over how ridiculously superficial I was), but have always been a fan of the world of blogging. Needless to say, I am loving this.

So, being a 22-year old female having just graduated from college last May, I have been thinking a lot about my future.

Turns out you can do that, when your current existence consists of retail, trashy TV and the occasional chip binge.

You see, the future to me was always this semi-tangible thing, looming somewhere out in the distance. In high school, and then in college—where I really started to become aware of these things—I would think about “the future” from time to time and then turn my thoughts to whatever trivial event was happening at the moment.

But the future is here. Now. I’m living it. And I can’t say that it has (so far at least) been what I expected.

The summer before my group of high school friends left for our respective colleges, we made a “life goals” list of sort. We predicted where each member of the group would be when we turned 30, and pledged not to remove the list from its home (with one of our most trustworthy friends) until then.

I can’t remember what the predictions for myself were exactly, but it definitely had something to do with marrying a rich Hobart boy and not having to work the rest of my life.

Which, you know. I could definitely handle.

As of now, however, that hasn’t happened. I’m not sure it will either, as my perceptions of all types of people have changed dramatically over the past five years.

Anyway. The high school friends I speak of are currently in all sorts of places. One is studying at Oxford, one won a $30,000 grant to travel the world and do research, one is working an AmeriCorps job near Seattle, and one is out in Los Angeles being brilliant….

And I am here. Living with my parents.

I try not to compare myself to others. I really do. I know it will only lead to a deep spiral of depression. But from time to time, when I’m dealing with a ridiculous customer, or seeing someone from my town that I really don’t want to be seeing, it happens.

Which is why, I’ve decided, that life would be so much better if there was a soundtrack to each of our lives. Awesome songs would play in the background during epic moments that we experience, like in the movies. Think about it. Wouldn’t that be the best?

Of course, I’d want to pick the songs myself. And the music gods would have to make sure that they were soft enough that you could hear whatever was actually happening to you.

So, as a way of entertaining myself (and you as well, hopefully), the following are my top ten song choices for possible future epic moments.

“We’re Dancing” by PYT. Right after I tell my evil boss off (in an extremely witty manner) and storm out of the store, with my fellow employees clapping and cheering.

“Inner Smile,” by Texas. I envision this song playing as I walk around the Thames in London. Part Bridget Jones/Bend it Like Beckham moment. Maybe I had just clinched something career-wise. Alternately, it could be playing during a moment of sports drama. (This is a slim chance, considering I no longer really play sports…at all.)

“All the Above” by Maino ft. T Pain. Because you have to have one rap-ish song in there somewhere.

“Alone” by Heart (although I really love the Glee version too). This would occur after a disappointing break up, where I realize the guy I thought I liked was a jerk, and then this other guy (!) swoops in and saves the day.

“Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. It would be great if this song could happen something like that “Say a Little Prayer” scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding, with everybody singing and totally in the moment. This actually DID happen at my cousin’s wedding, but I’d like to do it again.

“Everything” by Lifehouse HAS to play at some point. Preferably as I walk down the aisle at my wedding.

“Someone Like You” by Van Morrison is my go-to wedding song, though. We might have to squeeze in both.

“Black Balloon” by the Goo Goo Dolls. Not sure when this song would play, as I am not a heroin addict. However, as it is my favorite song, if it means taking up drugs in order for it to feature in my life, so be it.

“Only Hope” by Switchfoot. I could see this song playing as I’m sitting in a park or at a restaurant and a bunch of people are walking by. A good thinking/mulling over/gathering strength before the climax of the movie song.

“I Want it That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. I don’t care when or where it plays, as long as it plays. True friends of mine will attest to that fact.

As I’m reading this over I’m realizing that the list sort of transitioned from my life to complete fictional romantic-comedy movie. I can’t help it. If life was a movie, we’d all have neat and tidy endings, our problems would only span about two hours, and we’d at least know that my romantic prospects would be a main plotline. It would be quite epic.

On the other hand, when the movie is over in two hours, so are the characters. It’s kind of exciting to think about all the time I (and we) have for our lives to unfold. Kind of exciting that we aren’t allowed to see the plot synopsis of our lives before we’ve lived it.

And with that being said, I’m feeling like optimism is the only way to go from here.

Now, I will go eat more chips.

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And here is my question to all of you--what songs would you have on your life soundtrack?

Assimilating, Sorta

I am going home in eight days (as we used to say in college, "home is in the ten-day forecast," which is weather.com's farthest date, and we were always on there checking driving conditions.) I can't wait. I really do love it here, but it's been six months since I've been in Jamestown, and that is a long time. I had to "give notice" at the bookstore since they don't give time off for holidays, at all, but that is ok (and there are far more important things than work. Aw.). However, I will miss my co-workers tremendously.

I bemuse (and amuse) my co-workers, as a recent Brooklyn transplant (I mentioned in a previous post about how they kept asking me what nationality I was, and it's still a popular conversation starter.) I say things like, "it wasn't far, I walked for 2 miles" and they will say, "ooh sweetie, where are you from? We don't measure in miles here. We measure in blocks." And don't even get them started on sub/hero differences. Thank goodness I've avoided the WNY pitfall of saying "pop" for "soda." One of the policemen on duty told me, when asking (again) where I was from, "Buffalo? How do you people get AROUND? I was there once, and there was an IHOP across the street, and I was real hungover and that's all I wanted, but I would have had to walk across the highway, so I said fuhgeddaboudit. [note: this is exactly what he sounded like. Not resorting to ugly NY stereotypes here.] Went to the Irish bar next door instead. Buffalo has got some good bars." And another co-worker, "is Jamestown near Utica? I was in Utica for 3 weeks. Never again."

On the subject of bars, it was probably my first week at work, and we were talking about good drink specials, since drinks are so expensive here. Offhandedly, I said, "there is a place in my hometown that has 25 cent drafts." It got dead silent and everyone was staring at me. One of them said, "why would you ever LEAVE there? Maybe we should visit." I tried to explain that there is not much to do, otherwise ("no really, there aren't any buses. Or subways. Or Indian restaurants.") Another co-worker told me recently that she wants to move somewhere where she can drive. "It must be so cool to have a licence," she said wistfully. Is it? Maybe it is.

I was talking about holiday-stuff with one of my favorite co-workers, a totally sweet Pakistani girl. "You're so lucky your family doesn't live here," she said. "I live with three generations and brother-in-laws and random cousins and I just want to be someplace where people just know me." I told her that it's just as bad in smaller towns, too, if not worse. And being away from my fam does mean that when we do get together, it's more exciting than if I saw them all the time. Hence: eight days. The countdown starts now. Yay!

P.S. Happy Sankta Lucia Day to all you Scandinavian folk! (yes, I know we stole it from the Italians.) Apparently there is big doings in Manhattan, my Swede co-worker told me today. Maybe next year I will check that out!

A Night at the Opera, Round 2

You're willing to pay him a thousand dollars a night just for singing? Why, you can get a phonograph record of Minnie the Moocher for 75 cents. And for a buck and a quarter, you can get Minnie.
--Groucho Marx, A Night at the Opera, 1935

(Susanna and Cherobino. Thanks to NYTimes online for the image!)

Today is my Name Day, which doesn't really mean much. I'm assuming it goes back to Saint Days, although we celebrate it in a Scandinavian vein; meaning, if I were home, that I would be having a cupcake from Ecklof's Bakery (actually, I would be having half a vanilla cupcake and half a chocolate cupcake, because that is the protocol on one's Name Day.) Today is also the day that my student loans become due. In honor of that, I would like to quote David Sedaris, who so often articulates what I am thinking: "I came home this afternoon and checked the machine for a message from UPS but the only message I got was from the company that holds my student loan, Sallie Mae. Sallie Mae sounds like a naive and barefoot hillbilly girl but in fact they are a ruthless and aggressive conglomeration of bullies located in a tall brick building somewhere in Kansas. I picture it to be the tallest building in that state and I have decided they hire their employees straight out of prison. It scares me." (from the Santaland Diaries.)

So in honor of my impending debt, and just because, last night I went to see my favorite opera, The Marriage of Figaro (or Le Nozze de Figaro.) And it was wonderful. I waited in line for rush tickets again, although the basement of Lincoln Center is not heated, as it turns out. I did make an older-lady friend in line, although she was NOT as much a Mozart fan as I was. She has been coming to the opera with her husband since 1968, and so has seen her fair share of Figaro's...I still don't think I would ever be sick of him. She suggested some modern operas to me, which is good, because I definitely tend to the classical and need to branch out. We ended up getting seats next to each other (Row K!! For $20!! Rush tickets rock) and afterwards she patted me on the arm and said, "here's to many more years of your opera viewing, dear."

I actually think that Figaro works better in a smaller theater, since Mozart's music is so crazy good that some of the intricacies get lost or swallowed up in a theater as huge as the Met ("it sounds jewel-like in Prague," said my old-lady buddy. Good golly!). But, no matter. The sets were nifty, the singing was glorious, Susanna (Danielle de Niese) was pretty and her comic timing was great, Figaro (Luca Pisaroni) was charming and smart, and the Count and Countess (Ludovic Tezier and Annette Dasch) were smarmy and wounded, respectively, although I think the stand-out was Cherobino (Isabel Leonard) who played the dippy lovesick nobleman to perfection. There wasn't as much chemistry as there could have been between Figaro and Susanna, but I was too high on Mozart-joy to care. The conducting was also speedier than I'd heard before (the overture especially) but I actually kind of liked that--it made it especially energetic. The story, originally by Beaumarchais, tells of infidelity, intrigue, baby-snatching, cross-dressing, more intrigue, scheming servants, double weddings, and apologies. In short, it's a big ol' farce. Plus, it is funny...I think when people think "opera" they don't often think about how funny it can be. True, the misogyny in this one is pretty heavy, but I think Mozart and DaPonte were making fun of the men for being self-righteous, and anyway, Susanna slaps Figaro, like, 5 times, so it all evens out in the end. (Although, I'd like the Count to have more of a comeuppance.)

The opera ends with apologies from the Count to his long-suffering wife, who forgives him. And Figaro and Susanna forgive each other. And all is well. I would nominate Act IV's finale as the greatest music ever written; it is so manic but controlled, and fast and contemplative and lovely. Ahh. For a pretty good clip from the Met's '99 production, you can watch here. The sets appear to be the same now, or very similar. And the text of the finale states that, "This day of torment,
Of caprices and folly, Love can end, Only in contentment and joy." Forgiveness and love reigns, at least for a little while. Not much better than that, although it sounds less banal in Italian.

Click here for a review and some audio clips from this season (Figaro's aria where he's talking to Cherubino about getting ready for the military, and the Countess's hauntingly sad aria from Act III that always makes me kind of tear up.) For a review plus a little plot exposition, click here. For my past blogging about the Met, click here. For one of my favorite arias (Bartolo's La Vendetta), click here. (Although this guy has a super cheesy moustache.) For one of my favorite duets (Susanna and Countess strategize and letter-write), click here.

That Mozart. He's one of the few people I would be willing to risk pneumonia in the basement of Lincoln Center for.

Hello, I Love You...

...won't you tell me your name?

I have this game I play on the subway, where I look out the window when we pull into stations and make up stories about the people on the platform. Last week I was somewhere in Manhattan on the 4 train, which is express. Traffic was backed up, so we were going slowly past one of the stops that the local makes. We were moving, but I could still see the few people waiting for the 6, although they were a bit blurry. And sitting on the bench was a well-dressed, middle aged woman with short dark hair and a snappy green blazer, who was sobbing. I thought at first she was just blowing her nose, but I started to see her shoulders shake convulsively, and then we turned a corner and I couldn't see her anymore. Not a good game to think about why someone would be that upset on a subway platform. I thought about her all day.

One thing about the comfortable anonymity of a city is that you can do whatever you want, as long as it's not overly illegal or violent, and there is a good chance that people will remember you for a little bit and then forget whatever you did. And I've cried (or laughed loudly, or whatever) in public, of course, but there is a feeling in a small town that people are looking at you and wondering why. Not so here, except, obviously, I notice these things, or else I would not be writing about them now. A while ago I was walking home from work and a woman, probably my age, was having a mega-fight with her significant other. She was screaming, sobbing, and arm-waving, even though he was on the phone. All the proper biddies in Park Slope were tongue-clicking at this display. I felt bad for her, but at the same time, kind of jealous. I have never had a fight with anyone on the street, and it must take some degree of self-confidence to do so and not care what people thing. Or some degree of self-absorption, I guess.

I think cell phone usage prompts these displays too. I've had people at my register who are fighting on the phone, or yelling at their kids on the phone, while I'm trying to check them out. It's super annoying for me, but they don't really care. Is this a phenomena of the world nowadays? Or is it just here that people are so open about airing their dirty laundry? Is this openness a bad thing? In any case, I can't help but listen in.

Anyway, the title of this post (courtesy of The Doors. Watch the song here.) doesn't really refer to love in a particular sense. But isn't it a weird feeling when you see someone on the train/street/bus/store, and you know you will never see that person again? And yet, you know something about them, something private, about their grief or love, which makes you feel like you sorta know them. And it's hard to forget.

The Melancholy Dane

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
--Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

Yesterday, my friend J visited, which was very fun. (she is an '08 WSC grad who I haven't seen in over a year). And we went to see Hamlet! I have never been an "oh-my-gosh-Shakespeare" person, but Hamlet is my favorite. The lovely (and talented, I guess) Jude Law was playing the lead. We thought it would be unlikely that we would get the cheap-seat, day of performance student tickets, but we decided to try. When we got to the Broadhurst theater, there was a tiny line, and we got the tickets with no problem (seriously, I can't recommend enough the day of performance tickets--the seats are good, and the price is SO much better!!)

We had a few hours to kill before the matinee, so we walked by Rockefeller Center where they were setting up for the Tree Lighting, window shopped along 5th Ave, and got sandwiches from a deli to eat in Central Park. I dragged her to the Frick, which had a special exhibit on Watteau drawings. After the show we got some ice cream (healthful, yes) and appetizers and drinks, saw a mass exodus of people en route to the tree lighting, and witnessed an anti-war protest in Times Square. There weren't that many people, but megaphones tend to make me skittish (my friends and I were accidentally in an anti-police brutality riot in Montreal while on spring break, long story). Nothing too crazy happened though.

As for the play--well, it was awesome. Jude Law was good, if different. His Hamlet was mad, not in a crazy sense, but in an ANGRY sense. And with good reason--his father dies and his mother marries his father's brother not 2 months later. What I didn't realize from just reading the play is that it is really funny at certain points, especially in the scenes between Hamlet and Polonius. I thought this Polonius, Ron Cook, was very good. Ophelia was beautiful but ho-hum...I wasn't overly sad when she died. (Hamlet, however, died very beautifully.) The sets were cool too, very minimalist, dark, and gulag-like, as were the costumes, and there were occasional pops of color, in a red carpet, glowing purple thrones, or gleaming white of The Players costumes. There was also fake snow during the "to be or not to be" soliloquy, which looked neat.

The audience, which was a lot of high school kids, was generally well behaved, with only a few cell phone buzzes. The guy behind me kept falling asleep, but he left after intermission. I admit to feeling a bit sleepy myself, as the play is 3 1/2 hours long, and towards the end the soliloquies pile up. What was wonderful is that it was enunciated well and I could hear everything; even if it didn't register what the words meant, exactly, they just sounded lush and elegant. And sure, Hamlet is misogynistic and kind of a pill (I wrote some paper in high school on Misogyny in Hamlet, but I don't remember what I said, except I was angry at how he treated Gertrude), but he is also pitiable and sad. It was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.

Here we are looking cute, if damp, in the rain:

But we don't look quite as cute as this guy (even if he is anguished):


Here's a story on it all from the NY Times, and an actual review from that same august (read: pretentious?) newspaper here. And here's "What a Piece of Work is Man," from Hair, a gorgeous string of words from ol' Shakespeare himself.