I am the green bean casserole

Looking for this picture made me really hungry...

As with most things, I blame my mother.

She's always been the queen of grammar, scolding innocent passersby for their ignorant misuse of lay and lie. I would never describe her as "subtle;" she used sexual references to teach her eighth grade Catholic class ("'Lay' needs an object. You can only 'lay' someone or something...")

Lately I've been referring to her as "The Tornado." Wherever she goes, whatever she feels or thinks, she whips everyone and everything within arm's length up into her wild tempest of feeling. I've been spinning around in her stormy wake since conception, and I can't get enough... but I digress.

When I had trouble sleeping in high school, she asked me why. I explained that I had so much spinning around in my head: music and feelings and stresses, oh my. And she told me to write it all down. So I did.

Sometimes when I have a stray thought, I like to entertain myself by tracing it back through the conversation in my head, charting how I got to thinking so intently about, say, why green bean casserole has those oniony chips in it.

Suppose I am the green bean casserole right now, sitting at my desk at one of the most highly acclaimed papers in the country. How did I get to this point, why am I writing?

And it all comes back to her. There have been others along the way—teachers and mentors and authors and experiences. But it all started with an overly loud head, a brown lined leather notebook, and my mother.

First Boston Globe Bylne

And on a somewhat related note, my first Boston Globe byline came out today. About David Bowie, of all things. Page 23... and they spelled my name right. Here's the full story... NIGHTWATCH: Third Annual Videodrome Discoteque David Bowie Birthday Party.

More to come!

WOOF Magazine - Issue 1

It's out, it's printed, it's full of mistakes (I used "shared oxygen" twice in the same paragraph, and somehow my self-deprecating humor comes off more like a snobby know-it-all), but I DON'T CARE!! Ladies and gents, the first issue of WOOF Magazine is printed, disbursed on campus and live on the Internet. I couldn't be more proud or more exhausted.

Open publication - Free publishing - More college

2012 Bucket List!

So I have this tradition... In 2009, I celebrated the new year with my close friend Casey, and together we crafted "Bucket Lists" of things we hoped to accomplish that year. I loved it. New Year's resolutions stuck me as half-assed attempts at changing oneself. It was almost negative: what is wrong about me that I ought to change (but don't really want to).

But the lists were different. They were optimistic, and proactive. It was less about What can I improve about myself? and more What can I hold myself accountable for? What can I accomplish this year?

There are some big things—highlights include "Go to college" (2009), "Go to Europe" (2009, 2010), "Start a blog" (2010)—but I balance them out with smaller items that are still great experiences. It's all about being realistic about what I can do that year. By putting a few big items on the list, I hold myself accountable.

And not everything gets crossed off. Throughout the year, my wants and goals change. But the point is to write it down. As I learned from my mother, unless I write it down, shit don't get done.

Check out the full list.

The Year in Review

2011 started with my moving to Manhattan to work at Marie Claire.

As 2012 approaches, I reflect on the past 12 months. Sometimes, last Christmas seems likes a lifetime ago, and other times, I feel like so little time has passed. But it's been a full year when I think about everything that has happened.

I moved to New York and worked for six months at Marie Claire. I explored the city and spent a week in the Bahamas. I moved back to Boston and lived off campus (my first big girl apartment!). I worked at LOFT and am in a great relationship. I also dyed my hair about a dozen different colors.

But then we had three deaths in the family, and a could friends as well. Only one was from old age. We've faced financial stress and law suits, and the general crappy-ness of some people. It's been a challenging year, but we'll grow from it all, as well.

Click for more to see what I crossed off from my 2011 Bucket List.

Today's Obsession: Kate Spade

To start, a few philosophical musings...

I have this theory that all women should wear sexy underwear, regardless of whether or not they plan on showing it to a third party. Sexy undies make a girl walk taller, strut just a little, and feel completely and utterly beautiful.

Well I also maintain that during the winter months, it's helpful to wear bright colored nail polish on your toes. No one has to see it (though I have no problem showing some toe in January), but coming home and taking off your boots, only to be greeted by perfectly kept bright pink toes... that's a good feeling.

Kate Spade kind of takes that concept and runs with it. Everything in her line is colorful and upbeat and vintage and chic all in one. I'm mildly obsessed with her weekly organizers, and have cases for both my new Macbook and my iPhone. Both have a discreet message hidden in/on them that greets me just like brightly painted toes. "Have Courage."

And how can I say no to that. Though the cost of much of her stuff is—how we say?—steep. But even a lowly college fashionista can afford (or splurge) on a collection of her idiom bracelets. Her decadent bangles come in both classic silver and gold, as well as colorful designs. And all of them include idiom-ic sayings to inspire and cheer up a Yankee girl with Southern aspirations. My favorite? It's a toss-up between "Heart of Gold" and "This is the year to..." Obsessed.

Kate Spade's idiom bangles would pair effortlessly
with my Michael Kors watch, dontcha think?

48A

I walk past the front door with the broken lock and handle,
the door that only ever opens to welcome in 3 a.m. cream cheese wontons,
and head right into the back yard like I live here.
I do live here.

I walk up the rickety porch steps where I sat crying into Geddes' drink
before stealing it and using it as a numbing chaser for my heartbreak,
past the circle of chairs where I rebelliously took a drag on a cigar
Backwards.

I stumble over the piles of recyclables, and the uninvited resident possum
and walk through the back door and into the kitchen...

I love this house,
With its chandeliered ceilings, mile-high floorboards,
forest green granite countertops and a lone stained glass window--
Outdated embellishments from former tenants,
haphazardly shielding the grime of beer-laquered floors.

I sit on this familiar, disease-ridden couch,
my toes tucked under to keep from freezing...
this is where I was first introduced to the classics
like "Superbad" and "Zoolander."

Here, over beer and tequila and cheap peach champagne,
and endless games of Kings and chandeliers,
pregaming turned into midnight turned into New Years.
Before I moved away.

Somewhere buried under the piles of mail and hooker cards,
there is a ripped up Bud Lite Lime box where I scribbled an apology,
a thank you to the boys for their hospitality and hair holding.
And a Christmas card.

Here, we spent lazy Sunday afternoons watching the game.
I cleaned the kitchen with bleach only to dirty it up again with enchilada sauce,
the smells of soap mixing with onions and chicken.
Or Bolognese.

It's funny in a house of boys, I managed to be surrounded by sisters.
We "guy's girls," a breed all our own, laughing and bonding.
And sharing Alec's clothes.

The boys used Best Buy's "No questions asked" return policy
to equip the gritty, sound-proof basement with the best sound system on the hill.
And there, next to the "sex couch," and under the blacklights,
Dez taught me how to dougie.

This is the house that raised me from GDI to TFM, from princess to squalor,
this is where I lick-shot-lime'd my semester away,
learning more and growing more from lazy conversations
over Crispy Dough.

I found this poem in my email drafts. I probably wrote it seven or eight months ago, but just rediscovered it.

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.”