Holiday time makes big kids seem not so big.

My coworker Mary Ann loves to refer to the Managing Editors as “the big kids.”

I was thinking about it, and according to rules of proportions; they mathematically are the big kids.

OK, this is my prime those-are-the-big-kids memory. Sitting in the Cheltenham Elementary cafeteria: the older you got, the further you shifted to right side of the room (the less supervised side). I remember being in Kindergarten looking to the other end of the lunchroom, and thinking those fourth graders were overwhelmingly old and huge. And, percentage-wise, they really were. I was 5; they were 10: double my age. The EAs range in age from 22-24. By the Law of Big Kids, our fourth graders are about 44-48: about on target for the ages of our bosses.

Math saves the day yet again.

My Literary Best Friend

My good friend Lee Fiora and I just had a major reunion. I laughed; I cried; I remembered how it used to be. She may have experienced these emotions too, but she always just looks like this

so I couldn't really tell.

It had to end though. We bid farewell for the second time this past weekend. Like most hearty reunions, we shared some nostalgia. We thought about where we were the first time we shared her poignant adolescent life moments: in the bath during spring surprise, on my mom's couch during Assassin, NJtransit to NY during the completely unnecessary but entirely welcome Sin Jun revelation, in my bed during Cross's first visit (juicy), on the R5 coming home from Philly during the painfully degrading in-the-classroom scene.

And we made some new memories too! Remember that day in Starbucks when I sipped peppermint mocha and slurped down your delicious words? I sat at my favorite relaxspot in Philadelphia: the brown lounge chair that allows me to simultaneously people-watch everyone that passes the corner of 15th and Walnut.

Last year in Hava Java Andrew asked me and Jackie what single item we would bring with us on a deserted island. We were sitting at the table closest to the door. I was facing the window, Andrew was to my right. Like my original reading of Prep, every sensual memory associated with this conversation is stamped on my brain. The obvious answer was another person. Living things are exciting and frightening all at once, because they are unpredictable. Especially humans. There is an infinite number of responses within someone else's head. Hence the constant pursuit of conversation. I think that's what I love about Prep so much. Reading it feels like having a cathartic neverwantittoend conversation. Thus, my definition of one type of ideal book (or any art for that matter): one that feels alive. Not in and of itself. But with me.

I have a huge crush...

On the movie Juno. I am listening to interviews while I work, and my stomach feels silly and excited. Perhaps this chemical reaction to listening to people speak about a movie I have not yet seen is evidence supporting a theory out there for why I do not have a significant other? Dopamine gets used up.

That boy from Superbad is so cute and awkward; I want to take a big chomp out of his face. His eyes are always smiling.

I am excited for:

-An intelligent take on teen pregnancy. Teen mom status automatically drops you superfar down the social hierarchy. Lez de-stigmatize it. Awesome.
-Cute boy from Superbad to awkwardly smile a lot and talk in that pleasant tenor monotone that he sings so sweetly.

I guess two things don’t justify bullets. Anything that emits the essence of Freaks and Geeks makes my heart skip.

Delicious.

“I want to have a boy and a girl. The girl is going to be named ______”

Girls love to talk about their favorite names. These conversations quickly veer into the discussion of potential names for future babies, desired number of children, wedding fantasies, ideal dress, etc, etc...

Because these conversations come up so frequently in girlhood, I always have a few names ready to pull from. When I was 12 I invented the name Camarie and debuted it to the world as "my favorite name." It's ugly, and I knew that. And it was quickly pointed out to me that Toyota already makes a very popular car with an almost identical name. I didn't care. I stuck by Camarie, and to this day I still can't shake Camarie1085 from following me as my semi-permanent online identity.

I stopped saying Camarie was my favorite name about 5 years ago, and started adapting regular but not-so-popular names. Natalie was a big one. I never really cared about the names I was saying, unlike some girls who felt so sure of their choices. It was kind of like how I felt about talking about boys in high school. Umm, I guess I like him? Sure, I'll say him.

But recently I've finally discovered my name niche in the world: Vintage.

Names like Eleanor (Ellie), Edith (Edy), Beatrice (Bea), and Winifred (Winne).

I find these all insatiably adorable. They're like floral silk scarves and gingham wasp-waisted dresses. So vintage they feel fresh and modern. They convey the history carried in a grandmother but embodied in a youthful mold.

We'll save my insecurities with the rest of those recurring girl conversations for another entry.

Name: CHECK.



Postscript: according to facebook there are at least 23 people named Camarie.

Julie + Project Runway: A Punctuated History

Underground art scenes tend to wither or commercialize. The good news is that Project Runway hasn't done the former. The bad news is that it has succumbed to the latter. (Bluefly.com?! How I miss the classy days of Banana) But alas, such is life. If TV is life. I mean it mimics life, thus creating life (a la The Hills). I digress. Back to Project Runway. I still derive (loads of) pleasure from it, but about 33.33% of the affection is out of nostalgic dedication (similar to my feelings about Megan McCafferty's J. Darling series from my adolescence). We go way back.

Here's a timeline explaining how:

12/04: first viewing. Julie and Mother consume three consecutive episodes of engaging new television program. After viewing Austin Scarlett's ingenious corn husk dress in the Supermarket Challenge, said viewers are declared fans. Project Runway becomes a key bonding instrument between Julie and Mother.

1/05: Julie unsuccessfully tries to introduce Project Runway to her roommate and hallmate friends. Friends whine and say the program is "boring." Julie questions quality of friends.

1/05- 4/05: despite Muhlenberg's poor reception of Bravo, Julie watches the rest of season one in solitude. She feels invigorated by the creative energy and forms minor parasocial relationships with the contestants who are quirky characters without being edited caricatures. She is pleased with reality television.

--Hiatus--

12/05: Season 2 begins. Reception still poor. For an inexplicable reason, Bravo comes in beautifully off-campus. Julie enlists Albright Streeter, Julia Zur, to tape show on weekly basis. Life comes into focus.

2/06: Julie finds a fellow fan in advisor and neurobiology professor, Favorite Person (Muhlenberg Alpha Male, i.e. - gay and fabulous). The two discuss the latest ProjRun in Neuro lab. Julie is thrilled with strong new rapport with FP.

3/06: Favorite Person informs Julie that one of the current season's duds, Marla, is a local and had been spotted in the Student Union buying coffee and around campus walking her dog. Julie and friend visit Marla's store in Bethlehem and chat it up. Julie was not in a state to process information, so she regrettably can not share any of the gossip that she learned, as she forgets it.

4/06: Julie writes an article for the Muhlenberg Advocate dissecting the show's appeal and equating the characters to those found in Muhlenberg's theatre department.

4/06: Julie attends talk given by Marla meant for business students, and Marla points her out to the audience as someone who has visited her store. Shame and embarrassment ensue. Superfandom has peaked.

--Short Hiatus--

7/06- 3rd season begins, albeit a little prematurely.

9/06- Julie notices that "Project Runway!!!!" is beginning to appear every Wednesday in away messages of friends who formerly declared show "boring." Signifies demise. How much of what we believe we like is constructed by societal trends?

?? - 10/06: Julie finds that it's a little too hard to follow the program what with Muhlenberg's poor Bravo reception and the lack of a far off-campus taper.

Which brings us to present day. I now have terrific Bravo reception and a surplus of time to dedicate to Project Runway. Hello, Season 4.

I <3 Cow

To ignite my spirit this holiday season, I would recommend giving me a smoked meat/cheese basket. I am currently paging through a catalog at work (my boss got it in the mail...I have to approve it as worthwhile pass-on material...definintely salaried work), and in spite of being completely full, I am drooling. That's how much I loved smoked appetizers.

I never considered my love for smoked meats and cheeses until Julia expressed her hatred for such delicacies. It is only in times of great opposition that we realize what we truly believe.

What more could a girl want?

Tights are not always sensible, and here's why.

If your mom's glass door shatters and you forget and fall backwards through the door frame while locking up, your left (unprotected-by-pants) thigh might scrape against a pointy shard resulting in a bloody gash. Pants, however, would not have prevented the deep violet, baseball-sized bruise from forming on the westernmost peak of your butt.

This tragic story happened to me just this Saturday. Here's a paintbrush reenactment:

Seriously, this is not your average black and blue. This shade of purple should only come in a paint can. Julia thinks it’s beautiful; Adam gave me a maternal, “you really hurt yourself!”; my mother refused to look.

While I was falling, I actually screamed. It wasn’t a high pitched shriek of fear. It was an alarmist, “I’m hurt; help me!” scream. Totally my survivor instincts kicking in. I give myself an A+ for natural selection abilities. My friends/family would zoom right over in the wild, and the butt-wounded Julie would NOT become prey.

Overall, I’m deriving more pleasure than pain from this injury. I totally blew it when I tried to tell the story at work though. Too much mental rehearsal. No laughter. Planning will always getcha. Maybe I’m even blowing it now. Was the paintbrush reenactment too much?

In other weekend news, Adam Neal made a stunning Edward, the pampered, girlyman half of the brotherhood in the Suffern Playhouse's production of Blood Brothers. To see a video of him rehearsing (British accent and all), please consult this. Don't mind his lack of eye contact with the camera. (Isn't he cute?)

I need to nurse my bottom (aka: lay on the couch and watch The Hills). The one-time-only Broadway Dance Work Out is this Wednesday at the gym, and I can NOT miss it.