A bean burrito with queso, please

I'm afraid my earlier post about following your impulses may have been slightly misleading, as I am not as ballsy as I imagined myself to be. I came to this conclusion while standing in the cosmetics aisle at Walmart for an entire five minutes of my life that I'll never get back, debating over whether to go with the same tube of mascara I'd been using, or to try the "dramatic effect" version. 'How dramatic is dramatic?' I asked myself. 'I have enough drama in my life as is. I know my mascara works. But this mascara could be the best mascara ever invented! Or it could be a waste of five bucks...' This is literally the carousel ride my mind went on until I finally walked away with the same old, undramatic tube of mascara. (Did you know undramatic was a word? Me neither.)

Sure, if my gut tells me to pack up and leave my life, I oblige happily. But if my gut doesn't give two cents about my cosmetics choices, I'm entirely unwilling to take a risk. And it's not just mascara. Anyone who has ever eaten out with me on multiple occasions knows that I have one dish of choice at each restaurant, and that's what I'm sticking with. Going somewhere new is a nightmare. Before my last date, I actually looked up the online menu so I could take as long as needed to find something my bland taste buds would approve of. (This completely backfired when the restaurant we planned on going to was full and we were forced to relocate, but I made do.) I will not try something new if I can help it. I had myself talked into getting bangs the other day, but after losing half a night's sleep over it, I dismissed the idea. If it's not broken, why fix it?

I'm prone to overanalyzing why I tick the way I tock, but maybe the answer here is that I'm just a giant pansy. Or maybe it's okay to pick a dish and stick with it. Because quite honestly, that's the only thing I've ever been able to decide on. I've enrolled at five colleges but attended two, changed my major a dozen times; take one look at my closet and you won't be able to figure out if I'm a kindergarten teacher or rock band groupie. So yes, I will take a bean burrito with queso at El Charro and the Key West chicken and shrimp at Cheddar's...please give me a bowl of buttered noodles at Noodles and Co., and Hotbox -- well you don't even ask what I want anymore.

In other news, happy 80th birthday to Marlene Crane, and if you're ever driving to or from St. Louis on I-70, stop by her restaurant off Exit 161 North and get an ice cream cone. (And a pulled pork sandwich with a side of cottage cheese. That's my usual.)

A little Saturday night sentimentalism

"I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

-When Harry Met Sally

Favorite quote from my favorite chick flick. Home and ill on a Saturday night. Why do I not own this movie?? Guess I'll settle for something else from my Meg Ryan collection and dig into my spinach pizza. Cheers!

A lesson in cross cultural affairs

Yesterday I took my first Cross Cultural Journalism exam, which consisted entirely of essays. I was totally stumped on the last essay prompt, because of course it just so happened to be from the one lecture I've missed so far this semester. But I am an expert BSer and a fairly decent writer, so I launched into a heartfelt essay about how we need to let go of our stereotypic thinking and move away from prejudice, and how as journalists it's our responsibility to bridge the gap, etc etc.

Now, I'd like to believe I'm open-minded when it comes to cross cultural issues. (As I've learned in this class it's wrong of me to say that I'm not prejudiced because we all are, and admitting it is the first step to moving past it.) My best friend in elementary school was a Muslim, and she took me to her mosque and taught me about her culture. Later on, at my first college, I befriended a group of Chinese girls and drove them to the airport over fall break and learned about their culture, also. I make it a point to be friendly to international students. If I'm homesick, I can't imagine how they feel. This is all to explain why when a young man from the Congo (whom I later found out to be 26 - not quite so young in comparison) asked if he could take the seat next to mine at the piano bar last night, I welcomed him to our table warmly.

I don't know my African culture too well. Maybe I smiled too much or held eye contact for an inappropriate amount of time, or did something American that led him to believe I was interested. (Keep in mind, please, that this was after an earlier conversation with my friend about if I should respond when a random guy at a Chinese restaurant says hi to me. I argued that if I answered, I opened myself up to more conversation. She reminded me to be polite.) Anyway, I've always been very interested in the Congo, so when the conversation steered towards things like, "You're very beautiful. I'm going to request a song for you," I tried to steer it back to things like, "How long have you lived in the US? What's the Congo like?" With my essay freshly penned, I forced myself to keep an open mind and continuously reminded myself that because his English wasn't so hot, he wasn't communicating exactly what it was he meant to say. So I smiled and nodded along and even felt slightly flattered when he took off his hat and said that it was a sign that he respected me, like his father or mother. But then things got a little weird. I believe the actual quote was, "I wish you could have my children."

Say what!?!?!?! If any other guy had said that to me, I would have slapped him across the face. But STILL I tried to be understanding and bridge the gap. Surely that was not really what he meant to say. I shot back with, "What are you studying?" (Smooth, I know.) His answer: to be a gynecologist. I might have vomited in my mouth a little bit. But still, I told myself, gynecology is a valid profession, even though I will never understand why any man chooses it. He went for a new tactic at this point, writing on a slip of a paper and passing it to me. It read, "Eli, I need a white girlfriend. Can you help me with this?" I tried to ignore my friends who were laughing hysterically on my other side (thanks for having my back, guys), and explained to him innocently and non-commitally that I was too young. To this he asked if I had a sister. Charming. He started complaining then that he had been here for four years (four!? I was less forgiving of the cultural gap at this news), and still he could not find a white girlfriend. I tried excusing us all with the fact that we're focusing on school right now. "But if you find a man with enough money," he says, "you wouldn't need school." Ha. I laughed at the thought of what my mother or former women's studies professor would have to say about that, and did my best to convince him that I would still want a degree no matter what. (Which he did not believe, and maybe subconsciously I don't believe either. A life of travel rather than studying? Gee. Tough call.)

Despite my best efforts to rein in the situation, he began to lean over me and introduce himself to my friend, setting his hand dangerously close to places where he will spend a majority of his time if he in fact becomes a gynecologist. At this point I excused myself to the bathroom.

I convinced my friends to finish their drinks and escape the bar shortly after, assuring Dr. Congo that I would be back next Thursday. (Which of course isn't true in the slightest; I can never return to the piano bar on a Thursday night again.)

After much karaoke, a long stroll to the diner in the slush and snow, a parking lot dance-off and sprinkle-covered chocolate chip pancakes, I managed to shake off the odd encounter. I'm still not sure where I went wrong and how to avoid a repeat scenario in the future...maybe my cross cultural professor can teach me a thing or two. For now, I can only hope not to run into Dr. Congo again. Especially at a future gynecology appointment.

Impulse: [im-puhls]

-noun

1. sudden, involuntary inclination prompting to action

2. a psychic drive or instinctual urge

3. an impelling action or force, driving onward or inducing motion

I'd like to argue that good things always come from impulses. You might think this is naive of me, being the silly 21-year-old I am, but in my experiences thus far it's proven to be correct. Take, for instance, me moving here. Total impulse. I can't recall the actual timeline, but I feel like I decided it and was here two weeks later. In fact, I was on an entirely opposite path at the time, but now here I am. And I think it's safe to say it was probably the best life decision I've made so far.

Also take into account my last two New Year's, which have both involved impulsive roadtrips and ended up pretty fantastic, thus kick-starting both 2010 and 2011 with a bang. Basically every pair of shoes I own was bought on impulse. I'm sure I could compile more evidence but my brain is a little fried after this week. Just suffice it to say, I am always happy with my impulses. Even when they seem like the wrong choice at first and I can't help but wonder if I royally screwed up. At least I learned from them, right?

Impulses are genuine. Words spoken on impulse are always true -- even if you want to bite your tongue later, and even if you didn't realize they were true at the time. My professor once said that our true selves are hindered by our need to rationalize everything or by our fear of failure... like when you have an impulse to help an old lady with her groceries but you don't offer because you're in a hurry, or you figure she'll turn down the help. (Am I the only one this happens to EVERY time I'm at Walmart?) Your true self may be compassionate and all, but your rational self is kind of a selfish jerk. Anyway, my professor challenged us to go one week without thinking everything through and to just DO. I helped a lot of ladies with their groceries that week.

My long, rambling point is... follow your impulses. They're good for the soul.

(I wish I could say this was an impulsive post, but it wasn't. I thought about it on the bus this afternoon.)

Tattoos and other distractions

What happened to my valedictorian habits? Now every time I crack open my laptop to get a little studying done, I end up on Facebook or catching up on blogs. I have a major exam tomorrow that I am not prepared for whatsoever... let's just say an all-nighter is in my future.

My current distraction: I have tattoos on the brain. I blame my sister. It's her day off and she's been texting me about her latest tattoo itch. To be fair, I've known for years now that I need to get my silly sun tattoo fixed because I'm pretty tired of people asking if it's a sticker or if I drew it on my foot. Why they think I'm that weird person who draws on my feet, I haven't the slightest. (Although I did tell my grandma once that my friend Ariel drew it on my foot...sorry Ariel. She forgot fifteen minutes later anyway.)

I got the sun tattoo because my dad always called me "Sunshine" when I was little. But now I'm thinking about replacing the sun with a rose (or roses) because one of my first memories in life (possibly the very first) is sitting on the porch between my grandad and his friend Alf, who became my surrogate grandad after mine passed away. Alf called me "a rose between thorns." I've clung to that phrase and always thought it a brilliant way to live your life. My mom has a couple rose tattoos also. I won't disclose where. So it's either vamp up my silly sun tattoo, or replace it with the roses. Decisions decisions. Either way, it isn't going to feel very good.

Here's the rose design I like:

I highly doubt I could fit that whole thing on my foot, but you get the idea.

I half wish I had no tattoos at all, but it's a little late for that. Ah, the things we do when we're young. I have a Hebrew tattoo on my wrist, and I assured my mother that it was fine, I would cover it up with a giant watch or bracelet whenever I went in for a job interview. Now I completely forget that it's there. I've still been offered several jobs since, though, so apparently I'm not being judged too harshly for it. Whenever someone spots it for the first time, the first question is always, "What's it mean?" (The answer being "life.") The second is inevitably, "Are you Jewish?" I had no idea that only Jewish people are allowed to get Hebrew tattoos, but it's totally acceptable to get Chinese symbols drawn all over yourself. Oopsies. Like my Auntie Gwynn said, Jesus grafted me into the Jewish family.

Anywho. While you all are spending your night at church services or watching Modern Family, I will be studying cross cultural journalism and brushing up on my grammar. I had to laugh when my Chinese friend Youyou got a 98 on our practice grammar exam, and I got a 78. Us Americans don't speak English too good.

Drum roll please...

...it's my first post as a 21-year-old!

Well, the new freedoms are dandy. You know, finally being able to tag along on Thursday nights when my friends go to the piano bar. Or being able to rent a hotel room when I HAVE to get out of the house and have nowhere else to go. (I'm not sure how often I will do this...but I enjoy having the option.) But for the life of me, I cannot shake the feeling that I am OLD. My youth has escaped me. My carefree days are over. I'm at the top of the hill. Et cetera, et cetera.

Hypothetically speaking, of course, I might have had a momentary quarter-life crisis and cried all the way to the highway when I left home this weekend. I also might have wailed to my sister about how I wanted to be sixteen again, that I'm not ready for adulthood and it's all going to go downhill from here. (She's about to turn 27 and doesn't have much patience for me, though.) But am I right?? It's not like I haven't had my fair share of grown up problems...I've become intimately acquainted with the three D's: divorce, death, and disease. I have more life experience than some 40-year olds, but that's enough for now! I look from little Marcela, who cries when you cut her fingernails and throw away the clippings before she gets to say goodbye to them, to my beautiful and unnamed cousin, only 30 and battling breast cancer. I am 17 years Marcela's senior and only nine years away from my 30th birthday bash; something tells me it's only going to get hairier from here. (Ironic...the Harry Potter ice cream cake my mother ordered me said "Harry 21st, Eliza!")

Anyway, enough with my freak-out session and on to a little Kodak action.

(Disclaimer: I am 100% sober in this picture. Cross my heart. I just have a goofy smile.)

Birthday dress: $70

Sparkly shoes: $40

Ridiculous birthday hat: $9

Three birthday cakes: A million calories

Clinging to your youth with ring pops and a Harry Potter ice cream cake: Priceless

Grandma Flo-isms

Today is my grandmother's birthday. I'm fairly certain she's 81, but don't quote me on that. She's pretty colorful for an old broad... one of her coined expressions is "well, shit a brick." (Sometimes she replaces brick with gumdrop. I've never caught on to the reasoning.)

Another fun fact: she has Alzheimer's. Therefore I despise Alzheimer's. Not that I wouldn't despise it otherwise, but something about watching a loved one forget you really ups the ante. She used to call me her "baby grand"... not because I resemble a piano (although maybe I do?), but because I'm the youngest of her grandchildren. The last time I visited she introduced me as her niece. She rarely has those moments, but they're zingers.

Lately I've had a major sweet tooth. I don't allow myself to regularly keep chocolate in the house or I would gain twenty pounds in a heartbeat. (I did make a batch of brownies tonight, but I forgot to spray the pan and I can't get them out. Tragedy? Indeed.) Anyway, I've resorted to grabbing the bag of brown sugar and treating myself to a spoonful. I just realized yesterday that this was a habit that came from my dear old grandma. Whenever I was sick (and I was sick often), she would drive up to take care of me. She let me watch cartoons all day and fed me spoonfuls of brown sugar. Consequently, I didn't recover very quickly.

My favorite Grandma Flo-ism: "Don't do anything you couldn't do upside down a bicycle." She still says this to me every time I leave. Some things never change.

Buy me flowers, go to jail

I am not entirely sure what the purpose of this blog is. I mean, I'm trying to maintain some level of commitment because roughly 95% of the internships and jobs I've looked into applying to have asked for writing samples and a blog address. I feel like I need some sort of angle or theme, but I guess I'll stick with my boring ramblings for now. Onward!

Today I walked into a grocery store and saw all the pretty Valentine's Day flowers and had a quick, "Aww, I wish I had someone to buy me flowers" moment. I'm a total sucker for flowers. Then I realized that the last time someone bought me flowers was my birthday, almost exactly a year ago. They were from my friend Brady, but on the way to my apartment he got pulled over and I guess he had some sort of outstanding warrant for not showing up to court, so he got arrested. I wound up going downtown with my roommate to bail him out. Moral of the story: buy me flowers, get arrested.

I think hardcore, bitter Valentine's Day haters are kind of amusing. I do plan on beating the crap out of a piñata, but that has less to do with my feelings towards Valentine's Day and more about my need for stress relief and candy. I miss living with my mom because she would always get me something cheesy. Last year's gift was the best: build your own boyfriend magnets. My magnetic boyfriend still lives on my refrigerator. He generally hangs out in boxers and a tie, but occasionally someone will come along and dress him up in his leather jacket and/or cowboy boots.

A random girl I went to high school with just left for Rome yesterday with her boyfriend. (Thank you Facebook, for status updates that make my life pale in comparison.) It was a surprise trip he planned for her. She had no idea until they were on their way to the airport. THAT'S the kind of boyfriend I want. Someone who will take me on a spontaneous getaway to Italy. That's not too much to ask, is it? I'm allowed to have ridiculous standards. I'm still young.

Words of advice from a cool, albeit crappy, hairdresser

This evening, I forked over my used and abused debit card for quite possibly the worst haircut I've ever received. I've been consoling myself with food and Hulu ever since.

Although she royally blew at cutting my hair, she did give me some pretty good life advice: "You just have to figure out who you are and stop fighting it, or you'll make yourself miserable."

This shall be my mission.

Facebook, four-year-olds, & chocolate pie

I recently came to the decision that Facebook is not the place to communicate with my mother and her somewhat nosy friends, among other people. This idea manifested shortly after a little girl I used to babysit friend requested me. (I feel old.) Let's be honest, college kids say and do stupid things. And it is downright exhausting to censor myself and three hundred other idiots my age. So I made use of the unfriend button, upped my privacy settings, and changed my name. I'm now doing intense research into how exactly prospective employers hack into your page... not that I have any notion to job hunt in the near future, seeing as my new life plan is to be a starving artist.

It was my inconceivable joy to watch the girls today for nine straight hours. My goal was to keep the seven-year-old, home sick, from moving...convince the recently contentious four-year-old to listen to me...and keep the impossible-to-please baby from screaming her cute little head off. This proved to be a tall order. I had to put Marcela, 4, into time-out for only the second time in the five months I've been watching her. Her new favorite word is no, and her new favorite look could kill. I told her she could come out when she was ready to behave, but she lasted thirty minutes in self-isolation. I'm oddly proud of her stubbornness.

At one point, I was carrying the screaming baby around while Marcela knocked a glass of water over onto a pile of paperwork just as Isabel started to throw a tantrum because her bun was coming loose and she was leaving for ballet class in two minutes. I'm not entirely sure that motherhood is for me. At least not motherhood of multiples.

By the time I left, I actually looked more haggard than I did when I showed up this morning. I did sneak a piece of chocolate pie before I left though. Pie makes everything better.