Wendy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory

and other tales of cocoa-based goodness to follow in an upcoming post. I apologize for my lack of blogging these last few days. I have been absorbed in issues regarding the economic costs of polygamy in West Africa and the psychoanalytic realities created by Federico Fellini in his 1963 film 8 1/2. I will return to the land of the cyber-living shortly, at which point I will discuss the wonderful Wellesley tradition– LAKE DAY (involving the aforementioned chocolate) and another less well-known Wellesley past-time, celebrating the fall equinox via the magical, mystical tree tour.

Dear G-d, It’s Me, The Caffeinated One

Well, really, I should say the highly under-caffeinated one, as I am foregoing the chemical wonderland known as Starbucks in order to comply with the fasting requirements for the Day of Atonement.

The saddest sign in modern history.

Despite my lack of energy, though, I plan to use the fast day as one of serious contemplation. In the last twenty four hours, I have participated in a few unusual conversations– the punch lines of which I am still trying to decipher– and imagine will fill the moments I am not begging You to be sealed in the Book of Life.

Let us begin with the Natick taxi driver, who drove me this morning to Boston South Station so that I could once again return to the Empire State.

DRIVER: Good morning, my dear! Better to be early, rather than late. So where are you headed?

PRE-STARBUCKS ME (PrSM) Um, New York for a–

DRIVER: Wedding, right? You seem like the type.

PrSM: (nervous and fidgety) What type?

DRIVER: The type that hasn’t been jaded by marriage yet. The type that still sheds a tear every time another one of her friends walks down the aisle. The type that hasn’t been married and divorced twice, and still believes that the legalized union serves a purpose besides the production of three daughters– all of whom you cannot afford to actually support.

PrSM: Oh, I shed tears, but not for the reason you think. It’s more of a “bloody, Moses, now that she’s married, I have acquired another bridesmaid dress for which I have no purpose or space.” Also, I’m going home for Yom Kippur. It’s like a wedding, only without food or drink.

But seriously, is the taxi driver and father of three, actually on to something? Yes, he is bitter and cynical and old, but perhaps those are the requirements for a wise man these days. And frankly, I am certainly a member of the former two categories, and feel like I have the body of a senior citizen most mornings. What is the purpose of marriage, and why do all of my high school friends feel the desire to rush into it? Lord knows I am not ready for my uterus to open up shop.

And the second conversation– between my editor and myself– in an adorable Greenwich, Connecticut cafe that I stopped off in on route to New York.

EDITOR: Yaffa, you’re wearing comfortable shoes.

POST-STARBUCKS ME (PoSM): Indeed I am. I am a fan of boots– in all shapes and sizes.

EDITOR: You need to learn to walk in heels.

PoSM: I am in the process. In fact, I have finally acquired a comfortable pair that I use for the myriad of weddings I frequent.

EDITOR: You need multiple pairs of heels, dear. And you need to master the art of walking in them– confidently and gracefully. It’s the only way to make it a male-dominated media industry.

Ironically, my editor is a woman raised in the 1960s, when Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem were advocating equality in the work force and bra burning on the streets of every major North American city. You think she would argue for a dismantling of the patriarchal hierarchy. But perhaps she is onto something– in order to break the rules, must we first master and abide by them? And what rules should I be looking to break in my final year of college– the last year I can blame my missteps on the cult classic “Animal House.” Oh no, now I am going to be daydreaming  in synagogue of a twenty-year old version of Kevin Bacon (a lead character in the aforementioned movie). Is is wrong to contemplate a future with a man whose name is infused with porcine?

Living the 90 year old blogger dream.

Amidst all the panic that is senior year– will I have job in June? will I get the fellowship in the UK? will I pass my pesky lab requirement and graduate?– I have taken time to consider what I truly want out of life. And while I have yet to achieve complete clarity, I now have inspiration.

Meet Phyllis Greene, the 90 year old blogger, currently in hospice care in Ohio. To cite one of her wonderful entries, “When I was 80, I became an author.” In the sense that she finally took control of her narrative and started sharing it with a wider audience. Well, I might have been 70 years ahead of her, but her story resonated with me. It gave me something to aspire to– I want to be blogging when I am 90 and can’t remember the name of  my first born child anymore. I want to be blogging when my diet consists of sugar free jello and prune juice. I want to be blogging long after I retire from the Jewmba/zumba business and embrace a world of stationary activity.

And like Phyllis, I want to be making sexually inappropriate comments about my love of men young enough to be my grandsons– namely, Michael Buble:

Why I signed up for an I-Banking recruitment session…

Now I know what all my idealistic readers are thinking, “she’s sold out, in the classic money-grubbing, Park Avenue penthouse sense.” And perhaps I have sacrificed a piece of my soul to capitalist gods of Wall Street. But, in all honesty, it’s just an information session, where I will likely learn that without having ever taken an economics class, I am most certainly not qualified for investment banking.

However, should the recruiter permit me to justify why I have chosen a career for which I have little qualification, I have compiled a list of the benefits to be gained from the experience.

Personal benefits:

1. A continuous, unlimited supply of Starbucks. Even if and when my magical Starbucks card goes into retirement, I will be making enough money to practically buy my own personal Starbucks barista. He– likely a gay New York actor wannabe type (GNYAWT)– will follow me from client meeting to client meeting, brewing and perfecting my lattes before my very hyper-caffeinated eyes.

2. A killer Banana Republic/J.Crew/Anthropologie inspired wardrobe. For all those who hate on the working woman and her propensity for heels, I say, “you’re just jealous you can’t afford her garb.” And, if and when I become an I-Banker, I will no longer be one of those resentful girls in a sundress and flats because, well, I’ll own the sleek black wrap dress and Jimmy Choo heels.

3. Master the art of being a night owl. Sometimes I feel like I am an 80 year old woman trapped in a 21 year old body. I just need so much sleep and at such ridiculously early hours of the night. As I-Banking will require me to work until at least midnight each day of the week, I figure I will learn the art of never sleeping before 2 AM. And a built in perk, I’ll also learn to be a morning rooster, as I’ll be up at the crack of dawn to begin my work day.

Company benefits:

1. A zumba class for all my fellow employees. Yes, there is a little spot on my resume under which I list my special skills. One such skill: ability to zumba– meaning teach all those without rhythm how to dance in spite of their hips, which not only don’t lie, but don’t seem to move or groove at all. And let’s be honest, most I-Bankers are not future Shakiras. They could use a little help in the hip shaking department.

2. A built in matchmaking service. Between my mother, my married-with-kids high school friends, and the astrological calendar, I am a lean, mean matchmaking machine. And as I-Bankers have little time to play the field, they need some outside assistance– to speed up the process, wedding ring and honeymoon in Hawaii and all.

3. Cupcake Fridays. We all know cupcakes are alive and well, and this little New Yorker is attempting to master the art of cupcakery. After sampling quite a few such locations this summer, I believe I may well be on my way to having a mix next to Betty Crocker in your local Stop ‘n’ Shop. In the interim, though, I propose practicing my craft on my co-workers every Friday. I think of it as a delectable way to kick off the weekend, which knowing the profession, will likely involve a Saturday and Sunday spent in the office, slurping up the remaining contents of the latte my GNYAWT left behind before departing for his RENT audition.

Resolution 5771: Bring Oxford to Wellesley, Booze and Boys and All

And Year 5771 Begins...

Apparently Oxford and its 75 page readings lists were not nearly as time consuming as I remembered them to be. Upon arriving at Wellesley and entering the dreaded biology lab, which I had stealthily avoided for the last three years, I was reminded why I never became a science major– I actually want a life.

Since Tuesday, the start of my lover’s quarrel with SCI Room 384, I have shirked by blogging responsibilities, and instead embraced a world of Excel histograms and bar graphs. In place of drinking copious amounts of caffeine and documenting each cup, I am now bound to a room in a building that I had nightmares about as a first-year– the most frightful involving a snake experiment gone awry and an anaconda on the loose.

And those few minutes I manage to escape the confines of the center, which eerily resembles a 1920s insane asylum, I stare blankly at a computer screen, trying to form a convincing argument as to why a committee of intellectuals should grant me an exorbitant amount of money to traverse the globe, commitment free. Thus far, I can honestly say I am failing. Which is odd, as I know I am not ready to make the 9-5  work day shift just quite yet. Perhaps I need another few cups of java to clear my head, or at least give  me a small inspirational adrenaline rush.

In the meantime, or in the spare moment I now have, let me offer my Jewish New Year Resolution. And no, it does not involve a new weight loss program or commitment to finding a husband. Those ships have sailed, and I’m waving at them from the dock. My resolution, aptly numbered 5771, as that is the year on the Jewish calendar, is to learn to apply the lessons learned from my time in England to my Wellesley experience.

Thus far, I have failed to do so. Let me offer an illustration: It’s Tuesday night. I have completed my first day of class, and instead of drinking in the pub with every other legal senior, I am staring at an Excel spreadsheet, contemplating historical means of heart rates per minute. Simply stated, I am obsessing over my bio lab homework, which counts for 0.012% of my entire Human Biology grade. Yes, I am obsessive compulsive enough to have calculated the percentage, and even after having completed said calculation, to still be obsessing over the data on the screen.

The Oxford version of myself would have given the assignment– at max– an hour. Whatever I completed at that point of time would have been submitted, and then I would have spent the latter portion of the night in Anna’s flat, cooking and eating and laughing. Perhaps we would have even downed a foofy cocktail or two.

Now given Wellesley is a dry town and my grades at Wellesley may well determine whether I get into my dream law school [whose identity shall for now remain a secret], I am content to live without the excessive amounts of alcohol. However, I want must learn to be satisfied with the degree of effort I invested in my work at Oxford, in Wellesley as well. I am a perfectionist, and this year, I intend to let that part of me go, ala Gone With the Wind, but hopefully minus the bloody four year civil war bit.

For those of you who know me in a non-cyber sense, you will be well-aware of the fact that this is the most challenging goal I have ever set for myself. To accomplish this feat, I may have to sacrifice some of my Starbucks– which fuels my drive to perfection by providing me with a constant supply of energy and cocoa beans.

I am willing to make the change, though; to acknowledge that I have a problem– I place too much emphasis on numbers and letters, and too little emphasis on personal/spiritual (in a non-drug induced sense) growth. I have less than one year until I enter the real world. Let the under-caffeinated games begin.

The Almighty and His[Her] Peaches

True to my word, I present you with this weekend’s guest blogger. Nestor, a two time contributor to the Green Straw, delves into the intricacies of peach-picking and Jesus-loving in one entry centered on his home ‘hood: Harlem.

I was awoken this morning by a call. A call for peaches. The Harlem Farmers’ Market was in town, as it is every Saturday, and my family wanted peaches badly enough to call me at 10:30, an ungodly hour, so that I might go fetch them. They want peaches? Fine. Let them eat Clingstone!

Although I only had a few dollars, I figured it would be sufficient. After all, thems just peaches from Virginia, and that’s only the next state over, right? Kinda near Philly?

Not really. West Virginia might as well be in the EU for the price I had to pay for those goddamned fruit. Though the farmerguy who sold them was nice enough, a lanky tattooed white guy who sounded like a meth freak when he talked. I guess that’s what they do during the off season down there.

The only thing better than peaches: Peaches and sugar, or peach crumble.

Near the market there was a little revival going on, typical Saturday in Harlem kinda thing with singing and praising and free food and what not. On my way over I had accepted several “pieces of literature to read in my leisure time” from the old ladies who line the many churches in my community. These usually read “Love: Jesus has it,” and “Alone? Good Christians aren’t.” I take them without protests when offered because I want to seem like a nice polite white boy, and its hard to say no to an old lady. But by the time I was nearly home my pockets were stuffed. On my block there is a big, powerful church (the one Denzel gets arrested outside of in ‘American Gangster‘) that is literally a fixture of the neighborhood; take it away and the surrounding buildings would crumble.

In front of this fortress of the lord were more old ladies. One approached me with an outstretched hand and  asked, “have you talked to Jesus today?” and for the first time in my life I said, “no thanks, I’m a Quaker.”

That’s not really true though. I went to a Quaker school for some 13 years and do adhere to some of their ideals (embracing silence and being reasonable) but I am not religious in any real sense. So what am I, spiritually or religiously? Having spontaneously declared my religion I didn’t know I had to a stranger, I was confronted by some deep questions– given I hadn’t had any coffee yet. What are my beliefs? Where do I stand on the status of the soul and god and stuff? Philosophically I know my answers, but spiritually I am bereft of belief. I go through the Christmas and Easter motions with the rest of my family but don’t actually observe anything. Can I have a crisis in faith when I don’t have a faith?

Apparently not; the distress left my mind with lunch. However, us young heathens do have a secular equivalent, the mid-life (or quarter-life, if you’re optimistic) crisis. The absence of an overriding reason to life forces a search to create one, and when that’s found in something temporary like work or money, well, its disappointing when found to be just that.

I guess I’m a little jealous of the strongly religious. It must be nice to not have to make certain big decisions or ask some hard questions for oneself, to have the way and answers provided externally. But crises in faith seem so horrible (from what I’ve read and heard) that, to be honest, our secular version seems quaint and preferable. To have one’s world-view shaken, and not just about personal values and individual goals, but about the entire universe, is frightening to say the least. So I guess I’m not that jealous of the religious, when that danger is present. The weight of centuries and of the absolute rests upon them, and the strength to deal with it when it comes crashing down is quite admirable. While I will not be taking their literature any more, those old ladies will always earn my respect, almost to a point of fear.

To close, Nestor would once again like me to take the opportunity to promote his twitter, which I define as a “20-something’s commentary on contemporary New York living.”

Serenades in the Spanish ghetto and other tales of spontaneous end-of-the-summer activity

Ok, well maybe the trip to the barrio was not so spur of the moment. In fact, it was quite carefully planned and less interactive than the title might indicate.

Cooper– the aforementioned Stern rockstar– and I decided to celebrate the end of my internship by taking a trip to Broadway and playing the role of obnoxiously overly enthusiastic tourists experiencing the theater for the first time. We even took the requisite photo in front of the stage:

When New Yorkers play out-of-towners.

We opted for In the Heights, a tale of three store fronts in the ever popular Latino quarter of Manhattan– Washington Heights, which as some of you may remember, was also my humble abode this summer. Complete with the requisite corner store bodega and rusty red fire escapes, as well as continuous song and salsa, the show– and the neighborhood in which it was set–lived up to my every expectation.

It also reminded me that I could easily settle amidst the Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and Mexicans, and not feel ethnically awkward. I admire their soul, their passion, and their natural ability to move their hips in an oh so rhythmic fashion. The Heights is the one part of New York, where despite my pastiness and high school level Spanish, I feel so completely at home and at ease.

Of particular importance: It’s a neighborhood in Manhattan where money is not the object or end goal. Instead family is a priority and coffee is a necessity. Even though I spent only a few short weeks in the Heights, I felt a significant loss when departing. The people, the familiar faces that rode the A train with me each morning soon became a distant memory, and I could do little except plot my inevitable return post-grad– with the Beloved Roommate, of course.

Now despite the fact that I currently find myself amidst dorm room furniture and assorted first-year t-shirts (remind me why our class color is yellow, and not my preferred black), I take comfort in knowing I have found a place. Perhaps not a permanent residency, but an area of the magical City I call home, where I can see my life unfolding, as I plunge further in the 20-somethings.

I sold my soul to the Blackberry gods…

and finally it is paying off. Introducing the new Starbucks Rewards Blackberry application, which allows caffeine junkies like me to track my rewards on my mobile, while simultaneously locating the nearest Starbucks within a 100 mile radius.

The Magical Caffeine Card

To cite my favorite 1930s jingle, “Happy days are here again!”

And while this wondrous discovery does not merit its own blog entry, have no fear, lengthier posts are in the making. Somehow between tonight– which shall involve cocktailing and mocktailing with my favorite Stern girl, Cooper– and Saturday night, the point at which I will load the gigantic Theatreworks van with all my worldly possessions, I must pack, pedicure, and prepare for the imminent start of Senior Year. In my absence, another guest blogger may make a special appearance. I make no promises, though, as I am not a politician vying for re-election this November 2010.

The lady with the crucifix, or, the long-awaited third guest blog post.

Nestor Bailly, a previous Green Straw blogger, has recently embarked on a new financial venture. Rather than elaborate much further, I will preface his second guest post by simply saying it involves New York, a video game centered on deer hunting, and a Russian with a questionable career choice. (This entry is rated PG-13, thanks to the Russian.)

Emerging from the subway, sunglasses already equipped, I confronted Union Square on a sunny summer afternoon. Tourists, hipsters, and normal people mill about, browsing art vendors’ wares and farm food brought in from the provinces. Various street urchins, of both the skateboard and ghettofab variety, weave in and out of the crowd, coalescing on the southern steps to see and be seen. A drunk Afghan vet accosts passerbys with tales of horror and savage brotherhood. Just another day on the town.

I was among among this seething mass of downtown humanity waiting to meet a special someone. Someone who I would never, ever have any contact with outside of this rather precise and absurd context. I was going to see a Russian Stripper. Not just any Russian Stripper; no, this one was referred to me by a family member. Highly recommended, and with a good rate.

I had a few minutes to burn so I walked across the park to the Starbucks, where I stood out front and stole wifi. As I checked my email, my imagination ran wild with the best possible (and very sexy) results of this meeting (“Oh Nestor, I don’t have money today, I’m sorry!”; “Well, maybe we can work something out.”), while reeling at the consequences if she was here on mob connections. The latter definitely being more likely, I decided not to act a fool. At least not yet.

After all, I haven’t had a great track record with Russian girls: One broke my heart, another was fun in the tent but got married two weeks later, the latest infuriated me beyond all measure. Why was I involving myself again? Every experienced man I’ve spoken to always says the same thing, “Watch out for those Slavic women; they get their claws into you and use you like a puppet! But damn, they’re hot.” Call it the male condition, but there’s something about that exotic eastern charm.

The actual reason, I convinced myself, was that I needed money. Beer is not cheap and Big Buck Hunter is expensive, as are hot dogs these days. I was not about to stoop to doing retail or going on dates just to have someone else pay for my booze. I also needed the experience, since a significant portion of my short-term future hinges on meetings like this. It had to go well enough that she would want to see me again, adding to the pressure.

A New York City Dive Bar Staple, Apparently.

Again and again I imagined the planned stages of our encounter. Introduction, to build trust and learn about each other. The lead-in, to interest and engage her. The pre-activity play exercises, to get her ready and excited. The rest I was going to improvise, based on my impression of her and what she wanted. I pride myself on being able to give what they want while achieving my goals at the same time. That’s the kind of ability you’re born with; I didn’t learn it during my training.

As her lateness dragged into the 10th minute, I began to get nervous. What if I’ve misjudged her experience? She is a stripper, but that doesn’t necessarily mean much beyond that, right? How long has she been in this country? Why is she even here? Is she blonde? These questions raced through my mind as I tried to find her in the crowd; “No, she’s too lanky. That one? Nah, too uncoordinated and too pretty. What about her? Well, it is dark in those clubs… Her? God, I hope so.”

Wishful thinking for the most part. Her tardiness approached unprofessional levels and as I prepared to text her and leave I felt a slight touch on the arm. I turned around and was confronted by something…totally understandable. Totally predictable, the very Platonic image of Russian Stripper. I was a fool to imagine anything else, and now cannot do so.

Jet black hair, straight and flat as pleather jeggings. Total babyface complete with the meaningless, on-command smile. Enough eye contact to effectively feign attention.  Thankfully, a well-toned body tastefully adorned with the obligatory small crucifix necklace and a ‘Liquid Space Team’ Armani tank top, balancing atop what looked like two jean-wrapped pipes where her legs should be. Aww yea.

“Nestor? Hi, I am here for English grammar lesson?” Yes you are, yes you certainly are. Just don’t forget to pay me.

To close, Nestor would like me to take the opportunity to promote his twitter, which I define as a “20-something’s commentary on contemporary New York living.”