My Dad, the Superhero

When I was younger, I use to pretend that I was a cat, and I'm meow all day and then cuddle my dad, who would pet my head and scratch my chin. He was the person I talked to about first kisses and crushes. He was my king, and I, his princess.

We've always had that kind of relationship, and though I no longer pretend to be a kitten, I'm still his princess. There are lines that we don't cross in conversations, certain subjects we don't discuss, secrets we don't acknowledge... because I want to forever be Daddy's little girl.

When I was growing up, I dragged him to shop for prom dresses, and we went to baseball games together. We got pedicures. We went on ski trips. We saw Jewel concerts and Cyrano de Bergerac and movies.

In my head, I viewed him as a superhero. I thought he was forgiving, because he had let go of his own father's mistakes, and forgiven my mom for hers. I'd heard stories of his childhood, and he was always the "good kid:" Senior class president, athlete, private school kid, conscience for all his friends. He made fresh lattes and a hot breakfast almost every morning and listened to Jewel with me. Plus, he loved my mom.

I've since—you know—grown up (though not that much), and I know my dad is plagued by mortality just like the rest of his. His loved ones die, despite his efforts to "save" them. He breaks bones and grinds his teeth and can't touch his toes. Sometimes his smoothies aren't stellar (but I drink them anyway). And I steam my milk for lattes better than he does.

He's no superhero, I have to confess. But that doesn't take away from how spectacular he is, or the incredible bond we're lucky enough to share. He inspires me to pursue things that make me happy, and his moral compass typically points north. He may not be a superhero, but he is my hero. An everyday hero. A cape wouldn't look good on him, anyway.

And the Winner Is...

I mentioned before that I was on the search for my January co-op. As I said before, I applied to numerous positions and have since followed-through and heard back from many, as well. I haven't yet been declined by any companies, but did opt not to interview with some that I thought I might not fit well with. During this co-op round, I opted to only pursue companies that I thought I would genuinely enjoy working at. After some disenchanted experiences at my last co-op, I wanted to make this one a 100% positive experience. I am confident that every single one of the following would have been that for me.

But now for the exciting news...I received offers from (in alphabetical order):

• The Boston Globe
• Farm Aid
• Jill's List
• The San Diego Union-Tribune
• TheStreet.com

And the winner is... (drumroll, please)...

What Lies Within the Lines

Original graphic courtesy/Edwin Morris

My final paper for my ethics course. PLEASE NOTE that my citations didn't transfer into HTML, but I'm more than happy to supply them if needed.

In radio and television, quotes are captured, edited down to a short segment, and interjected into the program between lines of analysis and contextual information. Slang, grammatical imperfections and language quirks are all captured; and in the case of Antoine Dobson, who was interviewed about his sister’s assault, may even be auto-tuned and reproduced in a viral YouTube video. When multiple senses are involved in interpreting an interview, listeners and viewers are better able to immediately understand the content of a quote. Though there may be grammatical errors in much of what the interviewee says, the quote is still decipherable because the viewer or listener is able to take other factors like context, inflection and tone into account.

But in writing, the tools for capturing and communicating quote are not so intricate. Rather than recorded sound bites or video, journalists utilize quotation marks, tiny little squiggles of lines that some call sacred. They are meant to take recorded interviews, cut them down and translate them into organized key points that can be read, interpreted and understood by the common reader. “Wuz” becomes “were;” excessive use of “like” is limited; “Ums,” “uhs” and “you knows” are cut. But at what point does a quote no longer reflect what was uttered by its owner? At what point does a quote become paraphrased? How much tampering can be permitted without eliminating those sacred quotation marks?

“The words we live by are not always the words we see in print,” said Philadelphia Inquirer journalist Doreen Carvaja in a piece she wrote for a journalism ethics newsletter about quotes in the press. But there is a fine line between fixing and altering, as Carvaja acknowledges in her piece. Fixing subject-verb agreement is different than opting for a fancier word, which is different than a completely fabricated quote. “[J]ust how sacred are the sentences between quotation marks?” Carvaja asks.

"The rough draft of history is still history."

Journalist Bob Steele evaluates the issue of fixing quotes from a unique perspective. As a journalist and writer for The Poynter Institute, he’s considered an expert on journalism ethics. Oftentimes he’s the interviewer, but he’s also oftentimes the interviewee. As such, he’s seen his own quotes altered and corrected and even butchered.

Sometimes, he said, there are minor grammatical corrections when he knows he said something incorrectly. And sometimes he’s quoted using words he doesn’t even know. “ The reporter either wasn’t listening well or took bad notes.” But, he said, “Sometimes my ‘quote’ is a composite of several things I said at different times in the interview. The words may be accurate but the reporter is playing loose with the context, perhaps the writer’s way of tidying up my thoughts to tighten up the story.”

Dissonance, or The Numbers of Art

Rothko, No. 2

Speaking of art...I was talking to someone a ways back about art, and we got into a debate about it. I actually started arguing that art is math. And in many ways, it is.

Think of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, perfect and beautiful because of his proportions. Everything that is beautiful is numbers.

Music is nothing but rules, knowing which chords sound right together, and how they pair well together. And yes, sometimes there are dissonant pairings, or two notes that shouldn't go together and evoke a sense of stress to the music. They stretch a note and make it deeper and tense. But you can't get a dissonant chord without knowing which rules to break (Think Eric Whitacre). Notes are numbers. Solfege is often in numbers. Time signatures are in numbers. Note lengths are in numbers. It's all math, albeit emotional, beautiful math.

And art. So much of drawing and painting is about the geometry of the contents. Modern art would be the exception, but as my boyfriend likes to say, modern art is just one big "F you" to the art industry. It isn't that the rules for aesthetics aren't there; they're just deliberately ignored in order to prompt an emotional response in the viewer.

I was walking through MoMA with my grandmother (who, it's worth mentioning, is very old-school, Catholic and traditional). Nearly everything that I enjoyed—Rothko, Warhol, Klimt, photography—she said was ugly. She didn't even recognize Van Gogh's "Starry Night." It isn't art, she claimed. And she even left the room at one point, while I stood there trying to decipher Rothko's abstract lines and dots. But that kind of response is art, no? Art can and should evoke a response, good or bad. Any artist that is featured in the MoMA knows the rules. They've studied art presumably all their lives. They know the rules, but deliberately break them.

The MoMA is a building of dissonance, echoing off the exhibit walls. But it's still all math.

(By the way, this is one of the most incredible songs ever.)

There's No Place Like Home

And again... I managed to neglect this blog.

Things have been really hard lately. I've never been so challenged as I have the past several months. After my uncle killed himself, my grandmother died. And then her body was looted and all her jewelry (wedding ring included) stolen. My brother's friend overdosed on heroin, and I've never been so desperate to rally around my family as I have this semester.

We're a unique bunch...Never confused for some 1950s model family, but we work well together. We balance each other in an intricate way, and are never lacking in love. Needless to say, I've been homesick; there's something terrible about grieving alone 3,000 miles away from my family. But I'm trying to take care of myself (with the help of a supportive group of friends).

I recently made several calls looking for a therapist, and am meeting with various people to find the right "fit." I also quit my internship at Latitude because I just don't have the time or energy to perform well. I'm sleeping more (and by that I mean all the time. I could sleep for 12 hours straight every night), and drinking more tea. I even went to the gym yesterday.

I'm also seeking art. My boyfriend dragged me into the MFA the other day, but I've been dancing and singing (and heck, even writing) more. There's something about art and beauty and the aesthetics of it all that I'm inevitably drawn to.

I was seriously considering my co-op opportunity in San Diego, because it would provide me my last opportunity to live at home. I could support my father, and pick up groceries, and jacuzzi and tan. I could wear shorts in February. But then I stumbled upon this quote...

‎"A ship in port is safe; but that is not what ships are built for." -Grace Hopper

Going home feels safe, and it's what I (for the most part) want. But I don't know how much I'd grow from the experience. I outgrew San Diego a long time ago, and while I love my family dearly, I wasn't built for being "safe." I was made for exploring.

But still...There's no place like home.

Snowtober

This is how I feel about snow in October (though I must say, I love books). "POO!"

Ventfest: Trivial Problems

I've been worried about my dad, lately. When I start adding up the unfortunately events that have played out this year, it's overwhelming. In addition to the deaths of three family members, we also have a verbally and emotionally abusive neighbor that's been threatening my family. And sometime between the time of my grandmother's death, and when her body was cremated, her jewelry was looted, literally yanked off of her cold, dead fingers.

It's difficult to remain optimistic about little things in the wake of such tragedy. In the past month, I've grown up more than I would have liked. And I'm not the only one; I've watched my dad grow in numerous ways. He's recognized the importance of family, and—as I understand it—has renewed his commitments to himself, his happiness and his family. And he's been rattled.

And all that is just his personal life.

So when people come to me to discuss problems and drama with their relationships or how they're so stressed and busy, I'm inclined to turn and walk away. I don't know where I'm going with all that, but it's overwhelming. Never before have I been so intimately touched by death. So pardon me that I can't be bothered with the superficiality of temporary inconveniences.

While I Was Out

Oh, hello there...

It's certainly been a while since I wrote here. I have a confession to make. I've been cheating on this blog.

What started off as a class assignment has turned into a genuine passion and interest. I've been blogging about organic food in Boston on my new(ish) blog, MetrOrganics. Catchy, right? Basically, I eat, breathe, smell, cook and shop organic food in the Boston metro area and—guess what—write about it. It's fantastic, and I've finally succeeded in creating a singularly focused blog. But at the expense of loving this one.

So, some catch-up work...

• I've been taking much better care of myself and living by the notion of loving myself first and others second.
• But I have been loving others. Remember those angsty, hyper-transparent posts about a certain boy who was unavailable? Well we've been exclusively dating for a couple of months now, and he's provided all the support I could ever ask for. He also serves as a guinea pig for all my organic cooking experiments.
• My family has been in shambles lately. Following my uncle's death, my grandmother just passed away a little over a week ago. That makes three deaths on that side in the last year. Needless to say, I've been extremely homesick.
• I accepted and started a new internship at Latitude News, an international news site/magazine that makes international news more digestible and applicable to American readers by establishing the context of the issues and providing parallels in the United States.
• I'm on the hunt for my January co-op! I've already been offered a position at the San Diego Union-Tribune and am waiting to hear back from (in alphabetical order) The Boston Globe, Boston.com, Daily Item, Farm Aid, Jill's List, OurStage Inc., Second Nature, Tech Target and TheStreet.com. I'll keep you posted.
• WOOF Magazine is up and running (sort of). We have our website and twitter going strong and have set our fall print date!! Glad to see my ideas finally panning out.

He keeps me sane and puts up with my freakouts :)

I Now Pronounce You (Wo)Man and Life

I've hit rock bottom. Somehow in the last week, I've managed to upset pretty much every person that matters to me. And the root of all my problems is that I'm working too much.

I've been averaging a little over 30 hours per week because I've been feeling the stress of paying my rent, of buying new computers, of covering sorority dues, of buying groceries. I'm working because there's nothing else to do and because I feel the dire need to be self-sufficient. I'm working because in some sick and twisted way, I crave the numbness that can only come from brainlessly folding thousands of over-priced sweaters for eight hours.

But the aftershock of all that work it whittling away at me. I'm not working out and I'm not eating right. I'm not spending time with my friends or with myself, and when I do have a free second, I would run away to my boyfriend's to escape the reality of my exhausting routine.

But I've come to the sobering conclusion that this is not okay. My friends have complained for as long as I can remember that I don't have enough time for them. For as long as I can remember, I've been working by butt off and struggling to beef up my resume. I've given 100% to too many things and the mathematical impossibility of that is killing me.

I don't sleep, I don't eat right, and ultimately, I'm not happy. Not like I should be at least. So I've opted to make a change.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I'm on a search for balance. I want to adequately balance my work, school, social, personal and love lives. I want to sleep and maintain my sanity. So I am cutting my workload in half, and contemplating taking out a small loan to help offset the deficit. I am trying to eat better and trying to give myself the extra tidbits of time that I deserve and need.

I'm starting an early morning bootcamp in a week and am clearing time on the weekend for my boyfriend and fun activities like apple picking and finally actually visiting the Athenaeum. I want to read for fun and write a letter once in a while.

It's like a breakup makeover. A breakover. Only, I'm breaking away from the former half-life that I was allowing myself to live. I'm taking myself for pedicures and sushi dinners when I feel the need. I am sleeping in later than 8 a.m. I am living.

My mom has always preached that I need to have a job while in school. It builds character and responsibility and whatnot. But "Alexandra's" mother tells her that if she has enough time to have a job, she ought to spend that time in the library. And I think both mentality's have merit. But somewhere in there,  I want to fit fun, as well.

My big brother says that I should do what I love, even if I've forgotten that I love it. At the time, it kind of upset me, but there's a lot of truth to what he said. So I got thinking about what makes me happy. And it's the little things... a good book, a surprise from a boyfriend, a text from a friend, a call from a family member. I like a clean pedicure and the slight discomfort of a full stomach. It's cooking and cleaning and running. I even want to take a spin class.

I'm renewing my vows to myself, to my life. I'm choosing to love myself for time and all eternity, and to practice what I preach. I choose to live and love and sleep, and to devote my time to all the people that matter to me. I am again married and committed to my life. Please, presents are not necessary.

Nothing like a pedicure to cheer a girl up.

Ladies and Gentlemen, May I Introduce...

Sorry it’s been a while… there’s a lot that’s happened in the past several weeks. I concluded my time in San Diego, I flew home to Boston, I worked (a LOT), I moved into my new apartment…

I also managed to shatter the screen on my laptop. And no, I don’t know how it happened, though I suspect I sleepily stepped on it as I got out of my bed. But suffice to say that Lloyd, my beloved and loyal companion these past several years, is dead.

I’m so tempted to write an obituary…

But alas, there is some sort of good news in it all, as well. Because I have a new companion. She’s round and shiny and lights up when she sees me. I’ve known for a long time that my next computer would be a Mac. With my passion for photography and my need to be multi-media-oriented, it was an obvious step. I had just anticipated that it would be another year or so before I converted.

And though the timing was rather unfortunate for a variety of reasons—mostly financial, I now have a new MacBook Pro. And her name is Charlie.

Charlie’s personality is already coming through—she’s intelligent, friendly, useful. And undoubtably stubborn (even with Macs, technology hates me).

She’s named after Charlotte York. Yes, that Charlotte York, of “Sex and the City.” She’s classy and intelligent and quirky, just like my Charlie. And she’s a sorority sister, albeit fictional.

So, ladies and gents, I’d like to make a toast. Here’s to Charlie and the beginning of a beautiful, aesthetic, multi-media relationship for years to come. Somehow it only feels appropriate to toast with a cosmo.

The lovely Charlotte York.