When “human-animal” takes on genuine significance.

I will be the first to admit it: I vehemently detest Jersey Shore. The thought that unattractive individuals with little intellectual prowess and even less emotional substance receive checks large enough to pay for my future brownstone is simply absurd.

And when the Jersey Shore premiered and litte Guidos and Guidettes were popping up everywhere I turned, I determined to give it a chance– to watch one complete episode and reserve my preliminary judgment until its conclusion.

About 12 minutes into the first episode I turned off the television. Seriously, the amount of times the words “boobs,” “six-pack” (both in reference to body and beer), and “hairspray” were used was astounding. These men and woman had little ambition and were content to drink, sleep– preferably with each other, and engage in an activity they claimed resembled dance, but I consider sex on the dance floor.

When I dismissed the show in its early stages of airing, I thought I had wiped my hands clean of these human-animals. But last night I took a train from Connecticut to New York that reminded me the Jersey Shore mentality is alive and well. And any of us with an ounce of human intelligence should be afraid, very afraid.

One said human-animal– we’ll call him Tony– decided to seat himself next to me. His first comment: “Want to feel my arm muscles?” And before I could say no, vomit in my mouth, or locate my middle finger, he assumed the flex-press-and-burn position.

“They’re rippling, no?” I gave him the disinterested glare, but he proceeded, “Not getting any, huh?” Holy Moses, Tony was already asking me the intimate details of my non-existent romantic life.

To send a message, I removed my clean and crisp copy of The New Yorker from my purse and began perusing the “About Town” section. Tony, now joined by two friends who had enough grease into their hair to fry a diner’s worth of eggs, did not seem deterred. Perhaps he was illiterate, but turning to his fellow Guidos, he exclaimed, “I hope ‘Bad Romance’ is playing when we get there. I always get the booty during that song.”

My inner feminist was enraged. Lady Gaga is a symbol of female empowerment– not a means to attain a cheap sexual thrill. I decided to initiate conservation with the human-animal and said, “Are you familiar with the tenets of post-modernist psychology?”

Tony responded, “Um, what? I only got ‘are,’ ‘you,’ and ‘with.’ Are you one of those smart types that, like, reads books and s***?”

“You mean, am I one of those girls who views Lady Gaga as a modern day example of contemporary post-feminist ideals and you as a classic case of the human-animal, composed of human flesh and animal impulses?”

I had silenced the beast. He was completely and utterly speechless. For the remainder of our ride into Grand Central, he spoke only to his fellow human-animals about the ladies and their dance floor bodies. Occasionally, he would shoot me a frightened glare or two. But mostly he cowered in the cage I had strategically cornered him into.

The Beloved Roommate, whom I consulted upon my return to the City, reaffirmed my faith in humanity by providing me with another example of my post-feminist ideals. I was quite intrigued by this example largely because she, like many a Jersey Shore aspirant, was from Staten Island, New York. And despite this geographical correlation, she- Ms. Ingrid Michaelson- had employed her intellectual capabilities in pursuing her musical genius:

“You’ll be married by August 31st.”

Yes, I knew that title would grab your attention. It certainly grabbed mine, when my employer, a highly successful journalist, bid me adieu on Thursday with those parting words. On route to Chicago to relive a summer gone by, and perhaps introduce myself to Ms. Gaga, I departed from my internship with a new understanding of myself and the impression I make on others. Apparently, when people think “Yaffa,” they think New York’s most eligible bachelorette. And by eligible, they imply the kind of desperation I feel between the time I awake and the time I arrive at Starbucks– the period of severe caffeine deprivation during which I may not be held accountable for any of my actions or decisions.

And while I know a good ten matchmakers in Brooklyn who would agree with that assessment, or at least the desperation part of it, I am not sure that accurately describes where I would place myself on the relationship spectrum. In the past few weeks, I have experienced a new round of shidduch (matchmade, in this case by friends) dates. Though they have been entertaining, and provided much fodder for future blog entries, they have also reaffirmed the fact that I am definitely not ready to make a death till us part vow, not now and not in the not so distant future.

This recognition– of my own position on marriage– came to me in the middle of a Chicago karaoke bar, during which I found myself on stage belting out Aretha Franklin’s “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” to a crowd of rowdy Midwesterners, shocked that a white girl like me would tackle a classic Motown song like that. I must admit, if you had told me a year ago, I would ever agree to sing in public, on stage, with a live band, I would have thought you had lost your mind. But somehow, with little to no alcohol in my system, I believed that Saturday night would be the perfect night to show the world that Lucy Ricardo and I have a little more in common than a propensity for 50s housewife dresses– we also lack the ability to carry a tune.

Energized and inspired by my first attempt at live performance, I also proceeded to do a rendition of  Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me.” What I didn’t realize was that a certain someone was watching me with innocent ex-Amish eyes, and he was planning to engage me in conversation upon the conclusion of my second and final performance of the night.

Ex-Amish boy– we’ll call him Daniel– greeted me, as I exited the stage and said, “You and me, we’re a lot a like.” Assuming this was a pathetic attempt at a pick up line, I nodded politely and moved in the direction of the bar. But he pursued the topic further. “No, seriously, I can tell you grew up in an insular world not so dissimilar to my own. The way you started out the song, really unsure of your surroundings and questioning how you actually got there. You’ve got the look of a girl raised in an Orthodox setting.”

Though it is entirely possible Daniel tells all the ladies he stalks at karaoke night in dingy pizza bars this line, my curiosity was piqued. We began a lively discussion about the challenges of balancing our traditional value system with a fairly secularized culture, and indeed he was correct– we faced a similar daily dichotomy. In his case, he had chosen to leave Lancaster, PA behind at age 18 because his father had arranged a not so pleasant marriage for him and a girl he could only describe as “dull and with child-bearing hips.” After chastising him for criticizing a woman with a little extra junk in her trunk, I let him continue.He basically did not want to marry; he knew the world beyond his Amish bubble had something to offer, and until he fully explored and discovered it, he would be discontent settling down into any marriage, Amish or other.

I completely empathized. Even though no one had arranged a marriage for me, I had certainly had my share of bad dating experiences, i.e. a boy who kept exclaiming, “Oh, you’re too cool. Too Cool. Too Cool.” Yes, he was a tool. And I learned from those experiences that I was far from ready to wed, start a family, and put my child-bearing hips to good use.

Appreciating each other’s similarly awkward positions, we agreed to let go and for one night only, “Just Dance.” And yes, ladies and gents, I did see Lady Gaga up close and personal at Lollapalooza this weekend:

The Woman, the Myth, the Legend.

Librarian is my backup career.

I used to think if the whole politician/Supreme Court justice/kick-ass tort lawyer career didn’t work out, I would open up a cupcakery. At age seven, I thought it was a rather original idea. Only Magnolia’s existed in New York at the time. Crumbs and other such West Coast chains had not yet opened on the East Coast, and I was convinced I had discovered an under appreciated foodie niche.

Then, of course, cupcakes became a pop culture phenomenon, with entire feature sections of mainstream newspapers devoted to revealing the best frosted baked goods in town. Shortly thereafter, however, Slate issued a statement: The cupcake crash is coming. The bubble, it posited, would shortly burst, and all those seeking careers in the high powered, artery-clogging industry would soon be feeding their delectable delights to pigeons in the park.

Always the realist, I understood that an alternate back-up plan would need to be determined. As a previous post indicates, housekeeping was out of the question. Any sort of sport related activity was physically impossible. And firefighter was off limits– especially given my pyromaniac tendencies.

Today– in the midst of scouring the web for unique and interesting content for my internship– I happened upon an answer. I noticed an NPR article, arguing that like cupcakes, libraries should become the next socio-cultural phenomenon. Conveniently, said article linked to a video of librarians at the University of Washington parodying Lady Gaga. Needless to say, it was magical.

It also established a clear alternative career choice: college librarian. My love of the written word combined with my creepishly good internet search/stalking skills, and I have the perfect resume for the job. In some ways I am more qualified for that career than my first choice– chasing down evil corporations that contaminate small town drinking water with carcinogens, while simultaneously authoring groundbreaking editorials for The New York Times or some such publication. Regardless, I will shoot for the stars, and if I don’t actually reach them, well, then at least I know there is a building not far below begging to be alphabetized.

When Anything West of New Jersey is Afghanistan…

According to my Upper East Side partner in crime, you know a true New Yorker when you mention a state beyond the Delaware River and a puzzled/deeply concerned/slightly paranoid expression forms. It is the look I received today upon informing one of my fellow interns that I could not attend an August 9th wedding in Brooklyn Heights. My reason: I would be in Chicago… just for fun. Last summer I interned at WTTW, the PBS affiliate in Chicago, and met some incredible individuals, who I was seeking to reconnect with.

Even after informing said intern of my previous summer experience, his bewilderment persisted. He exclaimed, “But, Yaffa, why would you go back? I mean, it’s the Midwest. There are cows everywhere.”

It's raining cows, hallelujah!

Ignoring the fact that only minutes away from New York City there are both small and large-scale farms, where many a cow resides, I responded by listing for him the many merits of the Midwest– chiefly affordability and Lady Gaga. Now, yes, Lady Gaga is a New Yorker and an Upper West Sider at that. However, she, too, is willing to overlook the obvious setback of Chicago– that it is not New York– and venture to Lollapalooza for a two-hour stage show shenanigan. As a sign of appreciation, I planned on exhibiting my best Poker Face, and perhaps playing a Love Game or two.

“After all,” I muttered, “it’s only one weekend. What’s the worse that could happen?”

My fellow intern– we’ll call him Bill–didn’t miss a beat, “You could be mauled by farm animals.”