How not to write a successful thesis.

In my house the word “failure” has always been banned. Even when we don’t succeed, we most certainly do not fail. Rather we learn– learn from our mistakes and, ideally, do not repeat them in future endeavors. Therefore, the following is not a guide about failure, but rather a guide regarding how to scurry away from potential success.

As a masochist of sorts, I determined senior year would be the perfect opportunity to put my love of African politics to the test. Enter senior thesis on HIV/AIDS public policy in Botswana, South Africa, and Uganda. At the time of its conception, I was nestled in the ivory tower of great metaphors: Oxford.

In Oxford, I began to believe any academic pursuit was possible. And more importantly, that my individual explorations were beneficial– not just to the institution, but also to myself. I subsequently endeavored to compose a thesis prospectus to send to Wellesley, beseeching them to offer me a position in the honors thesis writing program.

With neither the Beloved Roommate nor the Wandering Asian Gnome to convince me of the sacrifices– both socially and physically– that I would be making in submitting said prospectus, I hit the send key. And with my Oxford college behind me, the Wellesley Political Science Department soon agreed to my request.

Fast forward to the present and I have a well-written thesis chapter, in which I outline my five explanations for African health policy choice– each one more cynical than the next. My thesis advisor even describes me as “the witty, yet bitter old Jewish lady who sits on her front stoop every night and spews sarcasm at those who pass by.” The only part he left out: the cats.

But I digress from the task at hand. Below are a few simple steps you, too, can take should you find yourself in a deep, Starbucks-less thesis-ridden hole. (These last two days of blizzard conditions have prevented me from indulging my coffee addiction, so please excuse my bitterness).

1. Forget Victorian literature. Indulge in something far less intellectually intensive: Jane Austen cartoons, courtesy of the lovely Kate Beaton.

2. Acquire all requisite items needed to write the thesis, such as a Kate Spade laptop case– a throwback to the days of typewriters gone by. Perhaps, if you are feeling particularly daring, learn how to use a typewriter. You’d be surprised at how useful a skill it may be. Imagine typing a typo-less paper…

3. Earn money. Writing a thesis won’t pay my Starbucks tab, but editing high school seniors’ college essays most certainly will. And given my New Year’s Resolution: to consume only one Starbucks venti a day, I may even be able to save a dollar or two to put towards decorating my future cardboard box beside the F train.

*Note: For those wondering why I have chosen the F train, it is because of its convenient location to this. The motto of this aforementioned establishment, “One world. One taste. One knish. That’s it.”

4. Read past issues of The New Yorker, which inevitably have collected dust in my dorm room. And remember, since the weather outside is frightful and the fire is so delightful, I’ve had quite a few hours these last few days to play catch up– at least until the New Year, after which I become a slave to the Madeleine Albright Global Affairs Institute. Details on the Institute to shortly follow.

5. Indulge in an actor-specific movie marathon. Pick one actor, preferably one to which you have had limited exposure and rent all the movie said actor has starred in on Netflix. I opted for Spencer Tracy, who I adored in “Woman of the Year,” but have not had the pleasure to experience beyond a 1942 frame. Whether he is wooing Katharine Hepburn or prosecuting Nazis, Tracy manages to bring an incredible magic to his performances.

A man who knows how to make the ladies swoon.

And if all else fails, and the guilt begins to consume you, consider a future beyond your April due date and start applying for jobs. Or sleep. There is always sleep.

Christmas: A Day Devoted to Stereotypes

As Elena Kagan, the newest member of the Supreme Court, proclaimed in her confirmation hearing, all good Jews eat Chinese food on Christmas. And as Senator Schumer, a Democratic senator from New York, then explained, it’s because those are the only restaurants open on the birthday of the Christian savior:

Like Kagan, a Jew of New York origins, I fulfilled my stereotypical duty last night and consumed my body’s weight in MSG-free Chinese food. As a semi-health conscious person, I– in consultation with  my mother– determined that vegan Chinese would be the best option for both our mental and physical states. And, as per the Kagan saying, when we arrived at Veggie Heaven, we encountered a wave of other health conscious and slightly famished Jews.

Of course, our little edible rendezvous followed another memorable Christmas past time for my people (and by “my people,” I imply Jews, not Starbucks): going to the cinema. My mother, learning to never challenge a film major, agreed to my selection, The King’s Speech. As an Anglophile still bitter about my absence from England, I opted to introduce my mother to the wonders of Colin Firth, both as an actor and a physical specimen. He is one of the few British men I know who ages gracefully. And his performance in Tom Hooper’s film is evidence of that fact.

However, beyond food and entertainment, there is a tradition common in many Jewish households– an untold stereotype that brings out the inner stalker in each and every one of us. I refer to it as “Christmas Light Peeping,” or the act of slowly driving by the residences of Christians, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of their holiday decorations. My mother and I have a particular favorite– a house in East Rutherford, New Jersey– covered from roof to foundation in lights:

This magical house, a thirty minute journey from the City, boasts a rather pretentious collection box. It’s purpose: to collect donations from holiday light peepers, like myself, in an effort to cover the costs of the home’s exorbitant electric bill. Though I frequent the home each year, I have yet to pay my dues. A part of me feels a tinge of guilt, as I have a tendency to linger around said home– staring longingly at a world that will never be my own. But then I regain consciousness, recognize that this home owner lives in suburbia (I shutter at the thought of it!), and assume my coffee-drinking position.

On becoming a nun.

Since beginning the “networking” process, whereby I attempt to hobnob with the rich and the famous in the hopes of procuring a job that will enable me to acquire the brownstone of my dreams, I have returned to a former realization. Instead of seeking temporary employment in a high powered industry, I can secure permanent placement in a religiously driven corporation.

Furthermore, in devoting myself to said corporation, all my  marital woes would be over. Instead of spending endless hours searching for stray cats on the streets of New York, I could settle into a steady and lifelong relationship– with G-d, that is. Yes, the position to which I am referring is nun and the location is a convent yet to be determined.

Who says nuns can't have fun?

Granted, I am Jewish and my closest connection to Catholicism was a trip I took to Rome at sixteen. And granted, said trip was a Jewish history tour of Rome, in which we sped past the Vatican in the pouring rain. Somehow, though, I believe that I could be both Jew and nun simultaneously. And, perhaps, if I am a particularly devout and silent nun, I might even be canonized into sainthood.

The woman, of course, who has inspired this trip down rosary bead lane is Edith Stein, a German-Jewish nun, now referred to as Saint Teresia Benedicta of the Cross. Yes, John Paul canonized her in 1998 (46 years after she passed away). Born into an Orthodox Jewish household, Stein joined the Catholic Church in her twenties. Legend, and by legend I mean devout Massachusetts Catholics, has it that Stein immediately began performing miracles– resuscitating those near death back to life.

Though Stein perished in the Holocaust (apparently Hitler was not very accepting of converts), she left behind an important legacy for young women contemplating the Divine Sisterhood. Only in her twenties, Stein forewent the possibility of marrying an eligible Jewish bachelor and pursuing a college degree in philosophy for the sake of G-d.

As a recent story on NPR indicates, this is no longer the norm. Fewer and fewer women are willing to make the “sacrifice,” and hence the average age of a nun in the United States has risen to 76. The thought of waving goodbye to all forms of modern technology– cell phones, laptops, iPods– is beyond any Millennial’s comprehension.

However, I would be willing to make all these sacrifices if the convent were willing to make one itsy-bitsy accommodation: Starbucks. I know the Catholic Church doesn’t make a habit of indulging materialism (well, not intentionally anyway), but I am requesting just this one capitalist form of compensation. Provide me with a daily latte, and I promise to pursue otherwise spiritual pursuits.

Or, perhaps, taking a cue from my favorite cinematic nun, I can start a Motown-esque choir and raise funds for underprivileged youth:

Dear G-d, It’s me, the grounded one.

And just to clarify, I don’t mean grounded in the rational thinking sense. I mean it literally. While I generally avoid the country  music genre, in the  midst of my canceled-flight-to-England despair, I turned to a country-only playlist on youtube. Most country music is about accidentally getting pregnant or furtively getting rid of a pregnancy– both of which are sorry mistakes for which there can be little relief, except perhaps in a recorded and heavily edited musical number.

When I go into my dark and twisty place, I crave musicals. Though country is a far cry from Broadway, I did happen upon one song that provided a perfect synopsis of my rather pathetic flying experiences. Sung by the country-pop crossover sensation, LeAnn Rimes, who rose to fame at the tender age of 13 and has never experienced a moment of normal American existence since, it is a ballad for those who did her wrong:

“Baby shame on you, if you fool me once
Shame on me if you fool me twice
You’ve been a pretty hard case to crack
Should’ve known better but I didn’t
And I can’t go back”

Yes, this is a song that I dedicate to every British airport that ever did me wrong. A canceled flight due to unsafe flying conditions is acceptable, but when those conditions are a result of British bureaucratic incompetency, it is worthy of an embittered musical number.

After my experience with volcanoes spontaneously combusting/erupting, I thought I had seen my share of crazy weather conditions and flight cancelation causations. I mean what could be more absurd than a volcano that has been dormant for 200 years suddenly erupting the day I am to take off for my Barcelona-Lisbon excursion? And that said volcano, despite being hundreds of miles from my point of departure– England, should disrupt my travel plans?

Enter the worst four letter word of them all: snow. Apparently neither the conservatives nor the liberals included acquiring shovels and melting ice in their campaign platforms. Apparently neither party thought that snow, which just happens to fall on a yearly basis in England, would cause any disruption to any holiday travelers. Apparently, as my cynical self is discovering, they simply didn’t think.

As a result, I will be forced to spend the holiday season in the best city in the world. Yes, there is a silver lining in all of this. After two hours on the phone with representatives from Continental, I rescheduled my flight for spring break– ironically, on the anniversary of the Icelandic volcanic eruption. And in the interim, I will participate in spectacular New York holiday events.

My first stop: Bergdorf Goodman Holiday Window Display. Harrod’s has got nothing on Bergdorf, as evidenced below.

Also, as I am biologically incapable of taking a complete break from reality, I have scheduled my staycation. It will involve a tea tour of Manhattan, a stop at my new favorite store on Broome St, a Spencer Tracy-Katherine Hepburn rom-com marathon, and a bit of work on my senior thesis. Because in the words of Ms. Rimes herself,

“Oh Life goes on
And it’s only gonna make me strong
It’s a fact, once you get on board
Say good-bye cause you can’t go back
Oh it’s a fight, and I really wanna get it right
Where I’m at, is my life before me
And this feelin’ that I can go back”

“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

Instead of bemoaning my singledom or my failed attempts to find romance with a heterosexual male, I am embracing my crazy spinster aunt status. And by embracing, I mean procrastinating on my film paper by watching 27 Dresses, a rom-com of mediocre, yet memorable quality. And one, which with every bridesmaid’s dress I procure, I find myself identifying with more and more.

The tagline of the film– “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride”– is clearly going to be my Wellesley yearbook quote. Perhaps instead of the requisite baby photo, I will substitute in images of me in some of  the artfully crafted dresses that have graced my body (and now grace the cyber walls of e-bay). In the meantime, I have resigned myself to over-analyzing the following sequence from 27 Dresses, which juxtaposes two of my favorite men– one gay and the other married with two kids: Elton John and James Marsden.

Katherine Heigl, the lead, forms an attachment to both men, and a pattern emerges– her desire for both the biologically (Elton) and the morally (James) unattainable man. It may be a classic case of wanting what we can’t have, but I have a theory, as a woman of the Heigl variety, that another psychological principle is at play. Watch as her alcohol-induced stupor leads to musical shenanigans and see if you can decipher an alternative principle.

Bagels and lox cupcakes, or, the reason I will need to diet before my wedding

Now I must preface this entry by saying I am not planning on wedding in the immediate future. However, I recognize that the caloric decisions I make at 21 may adversely affect my marriageable opportunities. To cite my biology lab partner, “Fat is the substrate that prevents you from mating.” Her prescription– building protein or lean body mass.

Sadly finals has resigned me to a sedentary state, in which I  refrain from exercise that builds the aforementioned lean body mass while consuming foods of the fatty acid variety. On this particular day, when I am homesick and in desperate need of a bagel with lox and a schmear, I have determined to craft the Bagels and Lox Cupcake. Though, in theory, it sounds like a horrific amalgamation of two delicious lipid-filled food products, I can assure you that the title is anything but literal.

Taking my cue from Hello, Cupcake!, a wonderful cupcake blog and book, I  have devised a baked good guaranteed to induce hip-expansion upon first taste. The recipe yields 24 cupcakes, each featuring a sliced mini-doughnut, sprinkled with poppy seeds on top of its base. The doughnut–designed to mimic the bagel– is filled with Starbucks fruit chew, which serves as the “lox” and adorned with strands of green Twizzlers, or “lettuce.”

Laptopistan: Where Fun Goes to Freelance

For those of you not currently in the midst of finals or fellowship deadlines, let me inform you of an age-old tradition that transpires around this time of year. It involves creative forms of procrastination, including but not limited to, discovering you inner Martha Stewart. In this capacity, you decide to adopt a DIY (Do It Yourself) personality and begin to create pieces of modern art that only your mother would let grace her fridge. You call it your “personal touch,” but soon realize your friends would rather refrain from physical contact. And so you ultimately resort to a classic means of wasting time: reading the New York Region section of the New York Times.

In this weekend’s edition, I happened upon an article that seemed to encapsulate my future. The story transpires in some anti-establishment cafe in Williamsburg, where people prefer their MacBook Pros to verbal forms of communication. Said people consume $12 worth of caffeinated beverages a day, all the while completing work on various freelance projects– ranging from documentaries on telescopes to marketing alarm clocks on wheels.

Despite the diversity of projects, they all share a common bond– or at least place of residency between the hours of 9 to 5: Laptopistan. In this wondrous technology driven community, oration is reserved for power cord negotiations, as these freelancers clamor for electrical outlets. Occasionally, dates are arranged in the process of the negotiations, but as the experience of one freelancing astrophysicist indicates, romantic liaisons are not the norm– and they have very little long-term potential.

The entire world is within reach in Laptopistan.

Perhaps I am fascinated by Laptopistan because I believe that even though I have yet to enter the realm of unemployed, university-educated freelancers, I have already assumed said residency as my own with the advent of finals. During daylight hours I can generally be found in some coffee-serving establishment (traditionally, Starbucks), consuming dangerously high amounts of caffeine as I attempt to balance my actual academic work with my countless forays into online procrastination.

And I must say that despite the inevitable feeling of insurmountability that accompanies this time of year, I kind of enjoy my time in Laptopistan. As one resident of the aforementioned Williamsburg cafe phrased it, “Here, people have ambitions… they are not looking at a particular ladder to climb, they’re looking at a mountain to climb.”

As a proverbial mountain climber myself, I feel an instant connection with the freelance medical writer, composing a piece on the 1000 Genome Project, and the tortured ex-hippie screenwriter, working on a “black comedy for your grandparents’ generation.” Both characters, who seem to grace the Starbucks I call my own, have big dreams– even if in the case of the latter, they are of the pipe dream variety.

And together we form a community of “climbers,” guarding each others’ laptops when we take the inevitable bathroom break.

The true source of my procrastination: my mother

I could blame the endless coffee blogs I frequent for my failure to complete work efficiently and effectively, or even  my propensity for checking the Anthropologie online sales rack each morning (even though new merchandise is placed on sale only on Tuesdays), but the truth is neither one is the actual source of my problem. In fact, the root cause: the daily bombardment of emails I receive from my mother.

The subject of the aforementioned emails vary. Some are tagged: “interesting article,” “petition you MUST sign if you love Israel,” or perhaps my personal favorite, “Who said Jews don’t have rhythm? Feast your eyes on the Maccabeats.” Yes, for the sake of Chanukah celebration, which is a vital component of  the Blumenthal-Fredrick household, my mother has made it her mission to send me a daily youtube video related to the Festival of Lights.

The common denominator between these videos– aside from their seasonal theme– is that they feature yeshiva boys in pseudo-pop star mode, crooning their largely female audiences, while attempting to rhythmically sync their otherwise basic choreography. And taking their cues directly from the chart-toppers of today, they customize current pop music– providing a Jewish twist on the likes of Enrique Iglesias and Taio Cruz. Imagine “Dynamite” as an ode to the miracle of oil that lasted eight days and nights:

Or Justin Bieber as a member of the Tribe in a National Dreidel Association t-shirt.

It is no wonder my lesson plan for my Teach For America interview is far from complete. I am distracted by the men in black slacks and budding beards.