Rain is Mother Nature’s way of saying: Write your thesis.

Or it is an excuse to catch up on my google reader subscriptions, while consuming my necessary morning beverage:

The "J" stands for Jew.

Though some might argue that I have fallen behind on both the academic and blogging fronts because I’ve been engaging in another activity for which I deserve to be judged– a “Miami Vice” Marathon. I’m the first to admit that my obsession with a television show glorifying undercover cops, whores with hearts of gold, and pastels is hardly commendable.

In fact, given my distate for all colors except black, I am quite surprised how attracted I am to white pants suits. I almost feel like I should surrender my New Yorker badge to the fashion police that be. Or, perhaps, just trade it in for a Miami version, embracing hues of pink and blue.

Furthermore, the show glorifies sex, drugs, and Ferraris– the epitome of hedonism. As an Orthodox Jew, a show based on such material pleasures should disgust me, irritate me, lead me to a session on the rabbi’s couch. And yet, I keep coming back for more. If Moses were alive, he would no doubt be shaking his head.

And then, of course, there are the musical numbers– including the infamous Phil Collins “In the Air Tonight” sequence in which two cops, seemingly living on sub-par government wages, drive down the streets of downtown Miami in a black Ferrari. The implausibility of the entire four minute clip defies verbal description: 

Given these egregious narrative flaws, why, then, do I keep returning to the show? Why, after only a week of viewing, am I up to the season finale of season one? Some might consider this just another strategy of procrastination that I have employed to avoid my number one priority– my thesis. However, there are plenty of quality television shows, such as “Twin Peaks,” that I could expend my brain power on. Why do the cops in pink t-shirts take priority?

I believe the answer revolves around a classic cinematic notion: escapism. In the midst of my senior spring, replete with jobs application and thesis chapters that won’t write themselves, I am seeking an outlet removed from my material reality. “Miami Vice” serves as that outlet. It does not require the aforementioned brain power.

Instead, it provides neatly packaged 48 minute episodes that demand little to no mental energy. As the characters pursue drug dealers, assume the role of drug dealers, or prostitute themselves to– you guessed it– drug dealers, the Billboard 100 Hits of 1985 play distinctly in the background.

It’s a show where characters die, as they often do, but I feel no loss– no emotional attachment or concern for their demise. I am removed from the conspicuously fictional narrative, and yet can bask in the absurdity of the action-packed sequences. So without further adieu, I now begin season two…

Taking my cues from Tina Turner

In every personality quiz a Facebook friend has sent my way, I have been asked to respond to the following question: What is your favorite song of all time? And, of course, being the special snowflake that I am, I always respond Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got To Do With It.” Yes, I select a song dedicated to the man that did Ms. Turner wrong.

And this is not a recent musical selection. In sixth grade, my English teacher required each student to compose an essay about her favorite song, detailing her reasons for her affinity. I chose the aforementioned R&B number, and needless to say, Mrs Newton-Reis wanted to have a “conversation” with me about my selection.

“Were you ever physically abused by a drunk man, Yaffa?” Mrs. Newton-Reis had a way of getting straight to the point. I responded honestly, “No, I just don’t believe in love.” Her flittering eyebrow stopped flittering uncontrollably. I had alleviated her fears regarding domestic violence and replaced them with something she deemed much more “palatable.”

I was a skeptic. Perhaps that was typical behavior for the daughter of divorcees. Mrs. Newton-Reis reasoned that upon meeting the right person, my skepticism would cease to color my belief system. I, however, well acquainted with Ms. Turner’s history of physical and sexual abuse, argued that such a shift in thinking was unlikely.

Ten years and two gay boyfriends later, I am still doubting my English teacher. Having only dated Mr. Right Now, rather than Mr. Right, I have not experienced that tingly sensation that Meg Cabot, in her infamous tween novel All American Girl, referred to as “frisson.” According to the Oxford English Dictionary, frisson is a sudden strong feeling of excitement; a thrill. Simply put, I have yet to be thrilled.

Unlike in middle school me, though, I believe that thrill is possible, but that I have yet to experience it. And I am certain this has been a blessing in disguise. No man has interfered in my academic or professional development. I have been able to climb whatever intellectual mountain I have so desired without the guilt of leaving a special someone behind.

On the brink of graduation– and with the prospect of a few more free moments in the not-too-near future– I have decided that my musical selection likely needs to be updated to reflect my less cynical take on romance. In revisiting the work of Tina Turner, I have selected a new anthem: “Till The Right Man Comes Along.” The gist of the song– enjoy Mr. Right Now until Mr. Right passes through.

Sing it, Sister! (Can you tell I excited for the Broadway premiere of Sister Act: the Musical?)

The 24 Starbucks Detox

I know I blog quite a bit about believing in the impossible, but when push comes to shove, I am a realist. I dream big dreams, but all of my dreams are carefully crafted fantasies– often involving Excel spreadsheets and complex mathematical formulas. In other words, with the right amount of caffeine, all of my dreams are achievable.

There is one exception to my caffeine-driven aspirations: my thesis. In fact, when constructing my initial thesis prospectus, I was under the influence of my Oxford vice– the tiramisu cocktail. And if there is one lesson my college experience has provided, it is that I should never make major life decisions after consuming alcoholic beverages–even ones with espresso shots in them.

And now nearly a year later, I am paying the price for my alcohol-induced decision. While schmoozing  with Kathy, a fellow classmate, my thesis advisor began to walk in my direction. Spotting him from the corner of my eye, I did what every thesis student a chapter behind on her thesis would do, I hid. Mid-conversation, I sprinted towards a nearby office.

Then, reaching out from the confinements of my hiding spot, I began dragging Kathy to my place of refuge. I informed her that all future communication would need to occur out of my plain sight of my advisor, who would likely be sending me a rather hostile email in the next half hour with the subject line: “Young Lady, You owe me South Africa.”

Kathy, well acquainted with my advisor, found my reaction comical– if not entirely perplexing. Despite my admission that I was far from the ideal thesis student, Kathy could not believe the depths I had sunk to. Not responding to email was one form of avoidance, but physically removing myself from a situation of potential interaction– that was an entirely new low.

I, too, was surprised at my knee-jerk response. Though the thesis dash was an activity I had considered partaking in more than once, I never suspected I would actually engage in such physically intensive behavior. There could only be one explanation: I was not thinking rationally. And as I’ve discovered, there is usually only one reason that I act irrationally– not enough caffeine.

Of all days, I chose Wednesday to be my caffeine-free day. Well, actually, I made it my Starbucks-free day. As of 7 PM, I had consumed three cups of tea and two diet cokes. And with a thesis chapter yet to be complete, I am sure those numbers will continue to rise. The point, though, is that at the moment in which I decided to test my skills at marathon running, I had no coffee in my system.

And like the Starbucks baby featured above, I have learned a valuable lesson. I cannot and, frankly, should not engage in the Starbucks detox ever again. If I sprinted from my thesis advisor today, there are few absurd behaviors I am incapable of engaging in.

So here’s to grande skinny vanilla lattes that help me function as a happy and healthy human being!

What to do when your Longchamp starts chirping.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the National Audubon Society. Having been raised amidst concrete, any remnant of nature– grass, tree, or bird– is not the least bit of interest to me. However, while I can, in theory, appreciate the role greenery plays in perpetuating a self-sustaining eco-system, the purpose of birds completely perplexes me.

Granted, my experiences in both New York and Oxford have involved the worst member of the Audubon family– the pigeon. While in Oxford, one tripped me and then proceeded to eat the remnants of a granola bar from my coat pocket. And while I did not necessarily need the 140 carbohydrate-laden calories, I objected to its behavior on principle. I subsequently set out to drown it, and only partially succeeded.

On my return to America, though, I thought I was past my homicidal bird days. I was wrong. Yesterday, while waiting for the 1 train, a sparrow decided to take up residence in my Longchamp bag. Despite the fact that my bag was almost entirely closed, it managed to wiggle its way into the contents of my Kate Spade wallet and leave its imprint on my French New Wave readings.

It was not until I boarded the train that I realized the chirping emanating from my handbag was not a consequence of an iPod on loud. And somewhere in between 18th and 110th Streets, I was forced to contend with the little maniacal bugger.

Now I’d like to believe there is more than one way to skin a cat, or in this case, silence a sparrow. And being a resourceful Wellesley woman, who has developed formidable critical thinking skills, I ran through the many options in front of me.

A. I could scream bloody murder and hope that the attractive Columbia grad student absorbed in electromagnetic theory would come to my rescue. In this scenario, he would woo the sparrow out of my bag and free him into the deep dark underground subway tunnels.

However, a boy who prefers abstract physics to human interaction didn’t quite seem like the Don Juan type. And even if he was, I suspected he might have more in common with the bird than with a fellow human being.

B. Perhaps I could unzip my bag, grab the sparrow by its beak, and throw it halfway across the subway car. That would likely result in a few terrified children and cries of “terrorist,” as I unleashed my beast on the New York City underground. And frankly, while I am on the hunt for a job, the last thing I need is a criminal record.

C. Or, I could attempt to lure the beast from my bag using my weapon of choice– caffeine. If this bird was attracted to me, he had to be a Starbucks lover. Coffee is my signature scent, and those who loathe it generally loathe me as well.

Now in this particular case the benefit outweighed the cost: If I underwent the aforementioned mission, a  few subway riders would give me some perplexing looks but quickly return to their personal conversations. Yes, there are perks to living in a city where the absurd is socially acceptable.

So with a half-filled Starbucks grande skinny vanilla latte in one hand and an open Longchamp bag in the other, I began waving the cup wildly in the vicinity of the sparrow– who from the looks of it– was thoroughly engrossed in the cinematic analysis of Agnes Varda’s 1962 films.

Intrigued by contents of my coffee cup, the sparrow glanced up and slowly but surely followed the familiar scent from the interior of my bag to the external reality that was the subway car.

Once I had lured him out of the bag, the subway doors abruptly opened. As if in a semi-comatose state, the sparrow fell out of the car and onto the tracks. I watched him hobble a few steps before suddenly becoming aware of an oncoming subway vehicle. He fluttered away, but not without losing a feather or two.

The moral, readers, is simple: Caffeine cures all. It treats hangovers, exhaustion, and bird-induced trauma. However, Joe– as I came to call the sparrow– and I did have a moment of unity because of said coffee cup. I therefore ndedicate my new favorite song to the sparrow that got away:

Determined, Bold, Apparently Cool.

I am not an atypical college student. When I return home for long weekends, I bring my laundry and my appetite. After satiating both my demand for clean clothes and my desire for my mother’s home cooked meals, I then engage in the traditional reminiscing one does when she finds herself sipping hot cinnamon spice tea at the kitchen table.

Last night my mother and I engaged in a conversation typical of the times- that of marriage. A girl I used to tutor and occasionally babysit for had just held her engagement party. My mother’s response, “Wow, everyone is so grown up.”

ME: “Um, are they? And if they are, does that mean they are also ready to assume the role of baby manufacturer?”

MOTHER: “Well, clearly you are a long way from engaging in large scale production of Jewish children.”

Clearly. Amidst said conversation, I began flipping through my 8th grade yearbook and happened upon a caption of me diligently working on my Jewish law report. It was an analysis of the biblical law to kill witches. I was analyzing its significance in relation to contemporary literature. Would Harry Potter, which encouraged the wonderful world of witches and wizardry, fall within the Old Testament delineated understanding of witchcraft? Though I am certain my conclusion was no, and that my rabbi vehemently disagreed with my conclusion, this is just an aside.

The caption– the relevant portion of this narrative– read, “Determined. Bold. Apparently Cool.” And at 13 I was the epitome of first two descriptors. Convinced I would someday be a senator from New York, representing both Jewish and female interests in a male dominated political arena, I was definitely an audacious middle-schooler. But the “apparently cool” bit caught me off guard.

I recognize I was hardly Miss Popularity in those awkward tween years, marked by bulging braces and acne worthy of a game of connect-the-dots. However “apparently” was an odd modifier. I was either cool, or, well I wasn’t.

My mother, as she often does, launched into a lecture regarding my daily dichotomy– how I juggle and juxtapose two often contradictory realities: secular and Orthodox. As a result I am hard to define. Words, such as apparent, reflect a certain modality, a particular hesitation to characterize me as one way or another. I defy the norms, and as my mother concluded,  that made me “kind of wonderful.”

In returning to the theme of this week’s entries– relationships– I began to realize that my dichotomous character might be contributing to my single status. In pitching me to potential contenders, as my grandmother does, she often struggles to find the appropriate adjectives. Every adjective is preceded by some carefully selected modifier.

I used to believe this made me intriguing. I now realize that intriguing and marriageable are two very different categorizations. I have become the girl you date for intellectual amusement, but I am most certainly not the woman you introduce to your parents. “This is Yaffa, and well, she is kind of hard to define” does not spell Mother of My Future Children.

Instead, it calls into my question my domestic housewife duties. Can I assume a Donna Reed identity, or will I– in a desire to climb metaphorical professional mountains– resemble this gem:

Confessions of a Five Year Old Kissing Queen

In the days before if you like it, then you should’ve put a ring on it was my mantra, I engaged in an activity that would make any rabbi frown: elementary school kissing. In fact, by age five I had merited the nickname, “Kissing Queen.”

The boys on the playground, still in the cooties stage of their thought processes, would flee from me upon sight. They even had secret codes, such as “The Macker is in the house,” and “Lady Smooches is on the premises,” to indicate my arrival at recess.

I used to take particular pleasure in my ability to repel any and every boy with the subtle movement of my lips. Sadly, my kindergarten teachers did not find it nearly as amusing. They would give me constant lectures on respecting individuals’ personal spaces, as well as warn me of the dangers of transmitting germs should I persist in my hormonally driven ways.

I, being a defiant kindergartener, would rarely heed their warnings. There was something so thrilling about engaging in the chase, especially when I had no particular target. Any boy was fair game; I didn’t discriminate on the basis of pre-pubescent squeakiness levels.

While listening to my grandmother lecture me on the drawbacks of spinsterhood the other day, I was reminded of my five year old antics. I stopped her mid-sentence and said, “Would you prefer I go around kissing every single boy I see? Aside for the fact that I would inevitably contract mono, herpes, and other diseases transmitted via saliva, I would be fulfilling your hope for me– to not be single [or "barren" as she more commonly refers to me].”

There was a pause, and then she said, in her oh so subtle manner, “It is better to have kissed and lost then never to have kissed at all.” Avid readers, I believe I was just given permission to be a kid again. Let the (kosher) games begin!

The Valentine’s Day Epiphany.

Last night I accompanied the Beloved Roommate and the Wandering Asian Gnome to a free screening of the classic rom-com When Harry Met Sally (1989). Though I generally reserve this film for New Year’s Eve celebrations, I understood how it might be fitting for a pre-Valentine’s Day fete, and so I indulged in a screening two months too late.

As every Cinema and Media Studies major will tell you, each time you watch a film over again, you notice something new. Sometimes it’s significant to understanding the narrative discourse, like the continuity disjunction in Agnes Varda’s Vagabound (1985), but other times it is limited to your personal cinematic experience.

Last night, I had the latter sensation. While watching Harry, Billy Crystal’s character, dispel of the notion that men and women can ever truly be platonic friends, I realized that his speech was familiar– and not just because I had seen the film ten times before– but because a certain high school teacher had used similar language when dissuading us from fraternizing with fifteen year old boys.

Rabbi F, my tenth grade Jewish Law teacher, said, “Ladies, boys won’t ever want to be your friends. Platonic relationships are a myth. And you know why? Because boys have one thing on their minds.” Now as a conservative pedagogical figure, Rabbi F did not explicitly state the s-word, but rather used the term “electricity,” which till today remains a euphemism in my vocabulary for sex.

His point, like Harry’s, was that men and women are biologically programmed to reproduce. And as a strict adherer to Jewish law, I was in no position to be engaging in said programming while a sophomore in high school. Harry, equally incapable of tackling the responsibility of reproduction when making his speech on relationships, eventually evolved into a marrying man.

Rabbi F, who I recently crossed paths with, noted that I, too, had evolved into an “eligible young woman.” This, of course, is rabbi speak for “the biological clock is ticking; wed immediately.” I grimaced when he made the comment, but upon reflection I realized that Rabbi F might be highlighting an idea Harry recognizes in the final scene of the film, when he reveals he loves Sally despite her overt obsessive compulsions.

I am not fifteen anymore. I no longer blush when someone says sex in public. I am capable of engaging in a mature and healthy adult relationship. And in seeking to do so, I have discovered my means of entrance into such a relationship– through my biggest compulsion: Starbucks . The post card, courtesy of the Beloved Roommate and Post Secret, reveals the means I intend to use in future romantic endeavors:

Because the truth is if he doesn’t love coffee, he cannot possibly love me.

Believing in the power of unicorns.

As a second semester senior I am constantly asked, “So what do you want to do when you graduate college?” Whether it’s my Starbucks barista, neighborhood manicurist, or grandmother who thinks I “prefer” women asking, I am forced to grapple with this question on a not so irregular basis.

In the midst of one such career-motivated inquisition this afternoon, I recalled a response I gave my second grade English teacher when posed with the classic “What do you want to be when you grow up?” homework assignment. While most responses in my class fell into one of three categories– ballerina, teacher, or doctor– mine defied the standard responses.

A bit eccentric even at age seven, I answered, “A unicorn.”  I wanted to be a mythical creature, or as my teacher commented, I “wanted to be the impossible.” My fellow classmates, lacking filters as most children do, stared at me incredulously. I should note this was only the first of a series of life-long goals which would generate such vivid facial responses.

Nonetheless, I persisted. Not only did I want to be a unicorn, but I believed every one of my female classmates should strive to achieve unicorn status. Launching into an extemporaneous speech on the benefits of life as a legendary horned animal, I espoused a view that Slate and npr have since corroborated: Girls have an inexplicable connection or admiration for unicorns.

Though various theories are proffered as reasons for the relationship between young women and unicorns, including the infamous Lisa Frank designs, I believe the answer is generationally specific. As a daughter of  a second wave feminist, I was born into a world where I could dream the impossible into existence.

Further, the father of Modern Zionism, Theodor Herzl, remarked, “If you will it, it is no dream.” As a woman and a Jew, I carried with me– though a prepubescent version of myself perhaps was unaware– a history of repressed people fighting for a voice in mainstream political discourse.

And as a result of their efforts, I can dare to be the impossible. I raise this point because this week I experienced one of those momentary liberal arts college-inspired panics where I believed I was completely under qualified, unaccomplished, and unemployable. In fact, I almost passed up a wonderful career opportunity in Washington DC because I thought, “What makes me so special?”

Aside from my rather unusual (and potentially unhealthy) relationship with a certain coffee establishment for which the Beloved Roommate now refers to me as a “special snowflake,” I realized this afternoon there was another reason.

When rethinking what inspired my second-grade unicorn answer, I neglected one detail. That same year I had entered a contest, for which my chances were 1 in 100, to win a piece of modern art. Despite my odds, I entered and won a lovely painting, which featured a certain mythical creature, front hooves raised proudly in the air. Said creature has since hung prominently on the wall opposite my bedpost.

I am special because every morning I wake up and see unicorns– literally and metaphorically. I begin my day by staring a mighty myth in the face and saying, “Here’s to impossibilities,” or as one Wellesley sister– Hillary Clinton– once phrased it, “to shattering glass ceilings.”

What happens in the library, stays in the library.

While I  attempted to compose a semi-intellectual response paper to Jean-Luc Godard’s “2 or 3 Things I Know About Her, ” my iTunes Awesomely 80s playlist happened upon Madonna, circa 1985. For those unacquainted with her fishnets and denim vests phase, this was the period of time in which Madonna experimented with the outer limits of hairspray and provided America with  some of the quintessential pop anthems of the decade. One such anthem–”Into the Groove”– even became the title track for the cult classic “Desperately Seeking Susan“:

Well, after nearly three hours in a deserted nook of the library, I was suddenly inspired by the Queen of Pop to put on my dancing shoes and break out into a spontaneous groove. However, before I could indulge in such boisterous behavior, I needed to ensure there were no individuals within ear shot range. Lord knows the last reason I want to be rejected from a job is because a certain compromising youtube video of me, ostensibly quite rhythmically challenged, has gone viral.

A quick turn about the floor and I realized two items of relevancy. First, I was, indeed, alone. The library was my dance floor, and I was free to make a fool of myself on it. And second, there were leftover brownies; a sign attached to them read: “Please eat me. If you don’t, I’ll go stale.”

Food porn at its finest.

The artery-clogging pressure was on. I didn’t want to be responsible for generating unnecessary food waste, and so for the first time in nearly a year I indulged in a chocolate cheesecake brownie. After three bites the waist band on my skirt began to expand, and so I abandoned the baked goods for an exercise routine I had been itching to attempt since Madonna crooned,  Music can be such a revelation, dancing around you feel the sweet sensation.

With my shame neatly packed away, I replayed “Into the Groove” and let the music guide my moves. It took me a song or two to fully warm to the idea that I was hosting a Madonna-inspired dance party in an institution founded on academic rigor.

However, when Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” began, I let go of all my bookish ambitions. Jumping on top of a nearby table, I grabbed hold of my diet coke bottle. Transforming from caffeine receptacle to microphone, it became the object into which I  sang (if you can call it that): Some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world; I want to be the one to walk in the sun; Oh girls they want to have fun.

Of course, I saw said girl as a metaphor for myself, and those boys as the Wellesley professors whose homework assignments required my presence in the library. But I must say, as a result of this momentary identification, I experienced a cathartic release of sorts. I had chosen the sun, if you can refer to low-watt institutional lighting as such.

Stated simply, I can’t wait for my next trip to the library.

Little Miss Sunshine, Where You At?

A friend in Argentina recently asked me what winter in New England resembles. My response, “Like a month without Starbucks skinny vanilla lattes.”

This is, of course, an embittered simile designed to represent the geo-physical reality in Wellesley. The sun has gone on an extended holiday in the Bahamas– pina colada and itsy-bitsy yellow polka dot bikini and all. In its place, ice, sleet, and snow have become the daily obstacles I must tackle to procure my necessary caffeine shots.

Slightly depressing? Perhaps, but I have taken to developing an in-door holiday of my own. Like any party planner, I have searched for inspiration in creating the perfect, light-filled staycation, and in Kate Spade advertising, I believe I have found some: