i'm running away from home, but my parents will pay my credit card bill

The reasons why I love my parents, why I prefer them to any others, have become the reasons why I am running away from home tonight. Well, I am sitting in the dorms right now, waiting for my laundry to get done, but when I go home this Sunday, I am going to turn right back around and run towards Glen Rock. My parents want me to have fun and not worry about money. It infuriates me.

I was on the phone with my mother a few minutes ago, and we began to talk about summer plans. I mentioned one of my very close friends decided against a certain program that cost money to volunteer; my mother thought that should have never even been a consideration, for students are already giving their time, and should not have to also give their money. While I whole-heartedly agreed with her, and have always thought that paying money to volunteer was a luxury, I mentioned that I was doing the same thing for my Global Outreach trip. She said it was entirely different because I was going on the trip mainly for fun, adding that my father wanted to get me a better camera so I could take pictures, since my trip would be very "scenic." I told her, for the nth time, that this trip was not all fun and games, and that, while I was looking forward to gaining a new community of friends, that this wasn't simply a hippie road trip with my closest friends to celebrate graduation. She remained silent, and then asked why I don't do Habitat for Humanity in Paterson and then go to Spain for the rest of the month, to finally embrace my dream of spending time aimlessly in Europe. I paused, and told her that besides that issue, I was also extremely stressed about gathering funds for the trip.

She laughed.

I emphasized that I thought I would be able to gather much more money, but the only thing anyone was doing was to send letters for donations. I then hinted that I had no one to send letters to, alluding to the fact that my parents completely rejected the idea of my sending requests for donations to anyone. It is an Indian pride issue, which I have never really understood. We can't ask for money from anyone. Yes, Indians can count very well, and I am sure the numbers are crunching in everyone's minds, but we won't ever ask for money. My mother continued to giggle, acknowledging that I had sent out about 3 letters (2 of which I did in secret for fear of her tampering with the mail).

The funny thing is, my parents are extremely generous, compassionate, and very liberally donate their money to all sorts of charities and fundraisers. In this specific case, they are willing to fund my western rural poverty antics. However, I decided that this project would be my own; I wanted to take complete control of it. I didn't want my parents to just fund what they thought was a post-graduation, peripherally service-oriented trip focusing on cowboys and mountains. I wanted to be independent, raising enough money on my own to completely take charge of myself on this trip.

She continued to laugh. I knew what she was thinking--why start now?

My family has always been very communist about our money; there is no concept of ownership with our money. Mine (which is none) is my mother's is my father's is my sister's (which is surprisingly a small fortune.) This time, I wanted the trip to be funded by the capitalist version of myself.

I told my mother I had decided on many ventures to raise the funds, ventures that failed before they even came to fruition.

I thought about writing papers for people, guaranteeing A's for $50. But, I haven't been writing my own papers; I have barely read a thing since Spring Break, and should probably guarantee a passing grade for myself before raising everyone else's GPA for $50.

I thought I would vacuum people's apartments for $20. But, my own apartment remains completely filthy, and I decided that I should probably attack the monsters under our couch, first.

I thought I would tutor people in French, teach Bollywood workshops, thread people's eyebrows. And then I realized I am barely articulate in French, no one cares to pay to learn Bollywood dancing as long as they can pet the dog and screw the light bulb, and my own eyebrows need tending to.

I thought I would cook for people, and even bring them food to their rooms. I have not eaten a hot meal in 3 days. I am still wondering whether or not people would pay for me to pour milk in their cereal.

My mother continued to laugh. She told me I shouldn't worry; I would definitely make the $800 in 3 weeks. Between her chuckles, I could make out the words "resourceful" and "busy" and "youth." I appreciated the essence of what she was saying, but I was still mad that I was so crippled, that I had such generous and supportive parents. Then she told me to have a good night, and not forget my allergy medicine.

This Sunday, I am going to give my parents the silent treatment. That's what they get for paying for things and forcing me to have fun.

the anti-Globalization movement vis-à-vis Downward Dog

Yesterday, I threw away all previous notions and values about the spread of ideas and commerce, about the elevation of all peoples through a global network, about the destruction of arbitrary political borders for a universal acknowledgement of the human race. I went to a Yoga class at Bally's. I discovered the most detrimental effects of Globalization. And I decided that people can stay localized and segregated, as long as the ancient spiritual, even ascetic, discipline of early Hindus isn't reduced to a "embrace the present, but tighten those glutes!"

While I have always taken issue with Yoga, as an exotic franchise, I can never claim to know any more than the instructor. I know as little, or even less, about Hindu philosophy than the next unfortunately confused immigrant child. This Yoga teacher in particular, however, gave me some confidence in my religious illiteracy. She was around 50 years old, and thought she was 30; her hair was streaked with different colors and messily tied up in a knot at the top of her head. She had a look of forced relaxation on her face, which would tense up every time we did not properly execute Upward Dog.

She murmured into the mic, so that instead of counting down from 100 and "breathing in the present moment" and "breathing out regrets of the past and anxieties of the future," I kept looking around to see what I was supposed to do. I assume I have just become slightly deaf because I have been playing "Say Ahh" on repeat for the last 3 weeks; the tranquil instrumental she played confused my eardrums, which have habituated themselves to trashy, PG-13 lyrics.

When we started doing the poses, she told us it was the Year of the Tiger, so that we would start with the Tiger Pose. I stared into the mirror in disbelief, as she started tensing up her back like a large cat, ready to claw at the air. The Year of the Tiger is a Chinese categorization. While she was in the general area (Asia), India and China usually don't get mixed up. One of them has Slumdog Millionaire and Red Dots on Foreheads, and the other has Communism and Fried Pork Dumplings. Either way, we did not do a Tiger Pose, and moved on to the next move.

At one point, we held our arms together, as if in prayer, and raised them high above our heads while arching our backs. She described this to be "the way we pray to the Great Spirit." Again, I looked around, hoping someone would ask her to clarify. What Great Spirit? Who is "we?" Are you part of this community of believers who prays to this one Spirit? Are you conflating Cherokee (perception of Cherokee) with Indian? She then told us to recruit the muscle fibers in our abs to pray to the Great Spirit even deeper.

Finally, towards the end of the class, she explained the significance of the cow in Hinduism. We were all contorted in a position she claimed to be "the Happy Cow," though it looked more like we were all holding in our pee. She explained that Hindus don't necessarily worship the cow, but that they consider "the cow to be like a mother, for she gives milk and butter and cheese and ice cream." And her trance-like voice faded away, and everyone began to dream of a mint chocolate chip cow being milked by a shriveled Indian man with a long white beard, all the while chanting to the Great Spirit.

No matter how many Yoga classes you avoid, you can't hide from Globalization. Its effects are everywhere--Whole Foods, 99-cent stores, hybrid children. It's powerful, it's tyrannic, it's unstoppable. There are legitimate reasons people collect themselves to prevent the expansion of telecommunications and commerce that has enabled the diffusion of ideas and cultures and peoples. The phenomenon has essentially subverted any notion of culture, defined as per religion, locality, family, sexuality, etc..., and simultaneously deconstructs and reconstructs borders, as stereotypes are both dissected and propagated. Some argue for labor rights and for cultural relativism. However, I personally fear Globalization because it has turned history into a myth and people into spectacles. But more importantly, as a child of this phenomenon, I reject it using my own myths, my own notions of the truth, of culture, of myself. In fact, the Happy Cow may be the closest I get to finding my own history, which I have frequently romanticized when eating chutney sandwiches.

Regardless of how I feel about the commercialization of Yoga, or rather, the unfortunate conflation of distinct cultures and histories legitimized by an enchanting voice and streaky hair, Globalization happens. The Year of the Tiger will soon pass, and Yoga will continue to gain in popularity. Now all I have to do is pray that my thighs won't be so sore tomorrow.

tribute to Freddie Prinze, Jr.

I'm not a stalker. I just like to use the internet to its fullest capacity. It would be a waste of modern day technology if I didn't Google image "Freddie Prinze, Jr.," "Freddie Prinze, Sr.," "Freddie Prinze, Jr. with Sarah Michelle Gellar," "Freddie Prinze, Jr. with new baby." It's perfectly legal to Google my interests, as long as I am not in China searching for "Freddie Prinze, Jr. in Tiananmen Square."

I have been told I have an obsessive personality. I get addicted to some good things, like bananas and working out and 24, and I get addicted to bad things, like chasing things I've lost and yogurt-covered pretzels and Facebook. Sometimes, I see myself becoming consumed with something, with someone, and know enough to stop myself, but I let myself be completely devoured by my own passion for the object of my obsession, be it Nutella crepes or 1990s mediocre teen romantic stars.

There was a period of time when I completely forgot about him. It was between 2000 and 2010, the end of the 90s until now, when I am about to embark on a new journey into the real, grown-up world when she isn't really all that and people aren't just head over heels.

I just started watching 24 this season, and my passion for Freddie has been rejeuvenated. He's the sole force of goodness in my life, the only solace I have after a hard weekend of enduring senioritis and seasonal allergies. Cole Ortiz starts and ends my week.

I don't really need a diagnosis, and I have finally accepted the fact that there is no solution. Who says an obsession is an obsession? I call it love.

Freddie, if you are listening, if you are out there, if you have access to this blog, then know that I am here if you need a summer catch.

Manana Culture

Sometimes in Rincon, the water is "just out." You can't pee, you can't drink tap water, you can't wash the sand out of your butt. No one frets or worries about the arbitrary lack of water because when it happens, it just happens, life goes on, and you can just pee in the ocean. Take shots to dehydration, and worry about it manana.

We befriended a bartender, Maria, who had sold everything in the United States just to realize her fantasy of living on a tropical island. She wore colorful wrap around tops, took care of an old man in order to live rent-free, and never created more than one tab because it was too much work. We asked her what she wanted to do next; she shrugged, and said, "St. Thomas, and at some point Spain." We asked her where in Spain, and Maria didn't know. She would figure it out soon enough.

Her boss, Miserable or Mad Mike, was the owner of Casa Vieja, a small, hot, dingy tavern in a small alley. He was American, old, grumpy, and had lots of opinions and cheap drink and food deals (buy one burger, get one free). Casa Vieja played only 70s American tunes and catered to a unilingual population--American expats and tourists. We went to Casa Vieja every night, for french fries and margaritas and the grumblings of an old man.

Antonio, the bartender at our resort had a soft voice, soft features, and would hydrate us with ice water and stories of his life. His favorite vacation was his trip to Spain and Portugal; he enjoyed himself so much that his 2 week vacation became a 2 month vacation, and he lost his job, spent all his money, and "had to start all over" when he returned home. We sat in a stupor, drunk from the blazing sun and exhausted from our 8 mile walk. He saw all of us staring at him in bewilderment, and said, "It's a once in a lifetime experience."

After we parasailed, we walked back to our resort. We wanted to save money, save the environment from CO2 emissions, and just explore the little rickety fruit carts and fried chicken trucks en route to our hotel. The drive seemed short, (it was 15 minutes), and we wisely concluded the walk wouldn't be that much longer. It took us 3 hours, much of it uphill, to get back to the resort. After two hours, we were unsure whether or not we were wet from parasailing or from sweat. People in cars would slow down, stare at us, honk, and sometimes even yell indiscriminate things in Spanish. We even caused a traffic jam, for one car stopped and then every car behind it stopped. People honked not out of impatience, but to add to the grand orchestration of cat calls. We weren't sure if they were giving us attention because we were girls or because we were tourists, but soon we figured out that our peeling faces, our sweaty backs, and the limp with which we dragged on spoke volumes about our gringa nature.

The Chinese restaurant we passed on the way home had a simple and direct title--"China Rest." They seemed to have gotten over the last 6 letters of the word, and decided a period would suffice to relay the message. However, unlike the other letters in the title, the period didn't light up, and so the restaurant simply read "China Rest" and it still managed to attract a few unaware customers into its abode.

Elaine, our driver on the last night, told us that Puerto Rico may never become its own sovereign because the people are too scared to let go of the US, that the island would have to learn to grow on its own. Right now, she explained, everyone just worked and partied. There was no unified strength, no sense of ownership--just $1 Medallas on the beach. She then dropped us off to Tamboo Tavern, so that we could engage in that culture, too. Work, party, and repeat.

In Rincon, everything moves at the pace of the waves. There is no agenda, no stress, no days of the week--just sun and blue drinks and iguanas. We thought our fantasies would be dispelled when we finally arrived on the island; instead, every dream of island life was true to life, realized by our 4 nights of non-stop nothingness and laughter. It is manana culture but people live today. It is like existentialism turned upside down, transformed from a Frenchman shooting Arabs to Americans getting sunburned. And we could have walked in the sand declaring carpe diem, except that we were always feeling too lazy to seize anything, and simply allowed the waves to wash our footprints away.

Puerto Rico, Day 1

We knew that our spring break in Rincon wouldn't be the classic college kids gone wild intoxication fest, given that our resort is known for its family appeal, but we were excited nonetheless. In fact, we were eager to be released from the confines of our own youth, and to simply live our fantasy of an island vacation with dresses and blue drinks.

Though we barely slept the night before our flight, (I napped from 2-3, and Asal and Bianca just didn't sleep), and barely slept on the flight (I was scared to miss the free plantains/chex mix and pineapple juice/sprite), we dove into the ocean almost immediately after arriving to the resort. The water was warm, blue, and friendly. We swam for a few hours, got out and got some blue and red refreshments, swam some more, and then passed out on the beach. I woke up to a hostile sun, which had already managed to sautée my skin.

The entire day we ate cookies, crackers, cereal bars, and apples. In the evening, our bodies finally revolted, unable to tolerate the burns and the sporadic snacking, and we headed into town for some hot food and coconut drinks. The hotel to which we were directed by our hotel (attempt to make a cut) was famous for its "pirata especiale," which were sweet cinnamon concoctions in fresh coconuts, which the bartenders and waiters sliced (hacked) open with axe-like knives, spurting coconut water everywhere.

Like true gringas, we ate rice and beans, chicken alfredo, and french fries, listening to the black waves crashing against the beach in between bites. We laughed, we swung on our chairs, we took pictures. We stopped pretending to mingle with Puerto Rico, (except when Bianca speaks Spanish) and colonized the island with our foreign, youthful playfulness and curiosity. The seniors smiled at us and moved away, making room for the three college kids we saw across the room, who became the first group we could finally call our peers. We all decided to hang out the rest of the week, and to explore Rincon nightlife and surf and make bonfires.

And spring break was officially brought to Rincon.

this is why you don't play with fire

Looks can be very deceiving. Unfortunately, whatever impressions people get about me from the frazzled state of my bangs truly speak volumes about my personality, my behavior, and my currently frazzled state of mind.

Two weeks ago, I thought I should get a haircut to look presentable for all the meetings and interviews and appointments that I have to have to secure a socially acceptable future (apparently Neverland does not exist). One week ago, I burned my bangs, which are now so short and frayed that it will be impossible to get a haircut without scarring my forehead. I was taking notes by candlelight, for the soothing smell and ambience, on the Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women, and got a text message from Patrick. It was a picture of a cat with the text, "hey there frenchie!" I wanted to reply with an equally nonsensical message, and tried to take a creepy picture of myself behind the candle, hoping that my face would be aglow.

I heard a crackling sound, as though something were burning. I leaned in closer. I couldn't see anything but heard the crackling sound grow louder. I shrugged, took the picture (twice, because the first one didn't come out well), and sent it to him, with the message, "can't wait to punch you in the face! miss youuu." I continued to do my homework. 15 minutes later I went to the bathroom.

I saw mysterious brown bits in my hair when I looked in the mirror. They looked like dead grass. I pulled one out, and saw that I had in my hand what looked like clumps of limp hair. I yelled out in shock and disgust. And suddenly, that putrid smell of burning consumed my nose, my lungs, my flesh, and I realized that that crackling sound had been my bangs on fire.

I look like a cross between Albert Einstein and Kelly Osbourne. And I have not gained the fame to pull off a look of electrocution. I am the ordinary New Yorker, student, girl, all first impressions gone to ashes.

If I don't find a job, I won't be able to blame it on the economic recession. I will, however, blame Pier 1 Imports' line of buttercream vanilla fragrance.

I never turned six years old

Last night, I decided to renege on all responsibilities and obligations (does my GPA truly matter?) and go down to the East Village to eat couscous in celebration of Lindsay's birthday. The couscous was delicious, small in quantity, and expensive. Everyone wore shiny bangles and eyeliner, and the small restaurant was dimly lit and red and crowded. I ate, I smiled, I chatted. But all I wanted was a piece of caramel.

I don't remember when I discovered caramel, but I have not grown since that one moment. I am still five years old (or seven, or ten, or whenever I first experienced that sweetness). Like everyone else, I pretend to be a grown up and pay my credit card bill and read the Gotham Gazette, but in reality, all I want to do is eat caramels on my front steps in the summer.

When Bianca and I left the dinner last night, we decided to head home to finish some homework. We both needed some candy (her candy of choice was Riesen.) On the way to the F train, we stopped at a Rite Aid, which had already put bars on the windows. The guy in the store told us it was closing in 5 minutes, in hopes that we would turn around and leave. Instead, we raced around the store, breaking a sweat, looking for the goods. We found lots of easter eggs and nail polish, but kept running past the candy aisle. "Why the hell do easter eggs get their own aisle?!" Bianca was screaming and I was flailing around the store. Everyone was staring at us. We thought we were beautiful. They thought we were criminally insane.

Once in the candy aisle, we scrambled through all the piles of candy, rummaging through the bins and the hanging bags, until finally we realized that what we were looking for was right before our eyes. And then we ran to the counter. The cashier had resorted to banging against the cash register instead of tapping her long fingernails. Bianca's credit card had to be swiped 5 times before it registered. Everyone was waiting for us to leave. Our mouths were watering, our foreheads were drenched in perspiration. And as soon as we ran out of the store, they turned off the lights.

We ripped open our bags of candy as soon as we stepped into the frigid night. And then all the purple people in the East Village and the wind and the cigarette butts converged into one single bite of bliss. We held hands as we crossed the street and walked underground, so we could catch our train home.