Driving through University Park to West Philly the other night, I noticed it's new moniker flying from street lamp flags lining Walnut: Left of Center. The joke being that it's west of Center City, but really, the political implication tending to apply as well. It was almost cutesy and clever enough to make me move to University Park, but, while "almost" counts in horseshoes, it certainly doesn't in living arrangements, and so I press on in my pursuit of the perfect apartment.
I realized in this whole process that my living requirements border on insane to the "normal" people in my life (e.g., my parents), and so I thought I would post them for the rest of the world to either balk at or confirm. I hope it's the latter. I so loathe my parents being right.
- Shared walls! If there's not a person on the other side of that wall, I don't want it. Sure, one exterior wall, maybe even two (am I worthy of a corner apartment??), but I require at least one plaster connection to life outside myself.
- No yard. I can barely keep myself alive, let alone green things.
- No excess space. And by excess, I mean existent. I don't like a lot of space. I want to feel cozy in my apartment. Otherwise I feel I might have a tendency to rattle. And who wants a rattling Caitlin? Not I, I say. Plus, I am yet to own furniture to fill space with.
- Access to public transit. I hate my entrance into the world of designated drivers. Can't we all be civilized and take busses and taxis home? Until someone gets pregnant and is therefore forced into DD-dom, I dread living in a place that requires one to "designate" and, in doing so, hope that they do not drink so much as to totally obliterate themselves, as everyone seems to have a different definition of what it means to be safe to drive.
- Nice walking. I have to have a neighborhood I can walk around. I am very fond of walking. (And don't hate on the P&P reference.)
- Parking. I have finally succumb to the need for a car in this crazy city we call that of Brotherly Love. So if I need a car, I need to be able to park it. Gone are my days of driving around for 45 minutes looking for a spot among all the suburban vehicles, visiting my neighborhood for a concert or a bar. (My life every weekend for the past year.)
[Note: Some might say to me, given your hatred of designated drivers, driving in general, and parking, why not live in Center City? You could choose not to have a car there...the only neighborhood in Philadelphia where you would be able to reverse-commute to your suburban job via: public transit. My answer to you is the next bullet.]
- Cost. I must be able to live in my apartment without going into debt. (Center City-ites pleased? Come on, I teach in a private school.)
- A notable absence of rapists and serial sexual offenders. As my current neighborhood seems to be the new hot spot to wait in your car for 20-somethings on their way home from work (see the 4th and Kater rape), or to break into women's homes and climb into bed with them (last summer's offender), I'm checking out crime rates in my new neighborhoods pretty closely.
- City. While I'm coming around to slightly more residential areas within the city, my address better end in "Philadelphia, PA 191xx". I can't say I understand it myself, but something within me feels so much more alive in the city. I want to walk to the corner to buy my milk, and have access to endless bars (did you think alcohol would have no part in this list?). And this requirement would seem to encompass many of the others: limited space, no yard, shared walls... I'm just not sure if it can sustain some of the others, such as parking and cost.
Right now, I'm pretty much decided on Manayunk. Sure, it's considered Philadelphia, but outside the bounds of the more urban parts of the city, but it would seem to meet most of my other requirements. Additionally, it would cut my commute to work in half from the South Philly-Suburbs commute, a major plus. And I can actually afford to live there, a huge bonus. If you have any other brilliant ideas, though, send 'em my way.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Popularity vs. Self-Hatred
I'm doomed.
There is a difference between popularity and self-confidence. Obviously, I knew this before, but I felt the two really had a lot to do with each other.
The above article lured me in with its promise that teenage popularity was not all that important. In fact, it had little to do with success later on in life. "Yes!" I thought, "One day I will go back to my high school reunion to find that those who were cruel to me have landed suitably unfulfilling careers as retribution.
No, that was just what the article hoped I would think. It went on to describe that while it did not matter if one was popular in high school, to attain life success, teens did have to be comfortable with themselves and happy in their group of friends. This is a tough one. I certainly was comfortable with my friends in high school and found my niche in music, AP classes, and reading on Saturday nights. But comfortable with myself? I'm never going to be comfortable with myself. All of a sudden my dream of waltzing up to some frighteningly fast food (because nothing prepared that quickly can be good for you) counter and requesting that a former social barracuda pass me a medium fries slipped away.
Damn my own self confidence. I started building it up again in college -- being one among other nerds helps that -- but this regression in to high school life through teaching has only hurt me. Is there hope for the self-loathing dork? I can only hope I actually love myself more than I let on.
There is a difference between popularity and self-confidence. Obviously, I knew this before, but I felt the two really had a lot to do with each other.
The above article lured me in with its promise that teenage popularity was not all that important. In fact, it had little to do with success later on in life. "Yes!" I thought, "One day I will go back to my high school reunion to find that those who were cruel to me have landed suitably unfulfilling careers as retribution.
No, that was just what the article hoped I would think. It went on to describe that while it did not matter if one was popular in high school, to attain life success, teens did have to be comfortable with themselves and happy in their group of friends. This is a tough one. I certainly was comfortable with my friends in high school and found my niche in music, AP classes, and reading on Saturday nights. But comfortable with myself? I'm never going to be comfortable with myself. All of a sudden my dream of waltzing up to some frighteningly fast food (because nothing prepared that quickly can be good for you) counter and requesting that a former social barracuda pass me a medium fries slipped away.
Damn my own self confidence. I started building it up again in college -- being one among other nerds helps that -- but this regression in to high school life through teaching has only hurt me. Is there hope for the self-loathing dork? I can only hope I actually love myself more than I let on.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
My Big Fat Serbian Mothers' Day
Every family has one member who seems to bear the brunt of the family pain. And whether through this pain or through some sad neurological development, this family member winds up just a little on the wacky side. Meet my maternal grandmother. Serbian to the core, g-ma's Mothers Day was made perfect by our taking her out to a Serbian restaurant in South Philly last Thursday night.
We walked into the restaurant, complete with patriarch portrait directly above the bar, and the owner and his wife immediately greeted and conversed with G-ma in Serbian. You could almost hear them thinking, "No, don't bother trying with those Serb-Irish mutts, they know not of the Serbian language." Which was correct, none of us do, though I tried to make my Russian pass. (Poor, CMac, piss poor.) We took up the whole front window with our table, which wasn't saying that much as it was not an especially large restaurant. And we started the wine flowing. Because when you have dinner with G-ma, it's best that wine be served.
Even little Banana had a small sip of wine. We figured we were caught when the owner's wife said, "You are not of drinking age..." but she just wanted to see if the little one wanted a Sprite with her underage sip. G-ma started in on painful childhood stories (it's not a holiday dinner without painful childhood stories), the highlight of which was a (I kid you not) 10 minute detailing of how all the family's graveyard plots were purchased.
G-ma loves jewelry, and noticed Al's turquoise bracelet in the middle of all the fun storytelling. G-ma asked if she could try it on. She kept it on, hoping Al wouldn't notice, for 10 minutes, until Al took a break in the grave plot story, gently grabbed her wrist and removed it.
Perhaps my favorite personality trait of the K-vich (g-ma's maiden name) family women is that we are totally unable to deviate from whatever plans we set in our heads. Even when these plans are crazy. The best demonstration of said quality went something like this...
G-ma (to waitress): I'll order once you bring out everyone else's dishes, so I can see what I like.
Mom: Just order now, Mom. Get something. If you don't like it, we'll trade.
G-ma: Okay, I'll order when I can see what everyone else's looks like.
Mom: They can't just wait and put your order in last, Mom. Just get something.
G-ma: Well I either want [insert Serbian dish #1] or [insert Serbian dish #2], so I want to see what the other dishes look like first. Go ahead, (to the waitress), take their orders.
Me: G-ma, I'm getting #1, so why don't you get #2?
G-ma: I want #1. It'll be softer on my sensitive teeth.
Waitress (heretofore silent): #2 is actually softer, and very flavorful.
G-ma: Oh, I don't know.
Waitress: I think you'll really like #2...
Mom: Go ahead, Mom, order now...
G-ma: Okay, I'll have #2.
Everyone Else: (Sigh of relief.)
The whole night ended with some very "smooth" homemade Serbian shots, of which G-ma took multiples because Dad and Al thought they tasted like shoe polish. She pretty much giggled as we cheered her on. Then she demanded that someone help her get up and get out to the car. She was a little too tipsy to manage that one on her own.
We walked into the restaurant, complete with patriarch portrait directly above the bar, and the owner and his wife immediately greeted and conversed with G-ma in Serbian. You could almost hear them thinking, "No, don't bother trying with those Serb-Irish mutts, they know not of the Serbian language." Which was correct, none of us do, though I tried to make my Russian pass. (Poor, CMac, piss poor.) We took up the whole front window with our table, which wasn't saying that much as it was not an especially large restaurant. And we started the wine flowing. Because when you have dinner with G-ma, it's best that wine be served.
Even little Banana had a small sip of wine. We figured we were caught when the owner's wife said, "You are not of drinking age..." but she just wanted to see if the little one wanted a Sprite with her underage sip. G-ma started in on painful childhood stories (it's not a holiday dinner without painful childhood stories), the highlight of which was a (I kid you not) 10 minute detailing of how all the family's graveyard plots were purchased.
G-ma loves jewelry, and noticed Al's turquoise bracelet in the middle of all the fun storytelling. G-ma asked if she could try it on. She kept it on, hoping Al wouldn't notice, for 10 minutes, until Al took a break in the grave plot story, gently grabbed her wrist and removed it.
Perhaps my favorite personality trait of the K-vich (g-ma's maiden name) family women is that we are totally unable to deviate from whatever plans we set in our heads. Even when these plans are crazy. The best demonstration of said quality went something like this...
G-ma (to waitress): I'll order once you bring out everyone else's dishes, so I can see what I like.
Mom: Just order now, Mom. Get something. If you don't like it, we'll trade.
G-ma: Okay, I'll order when I can see what everyone else's looks like.
Mom: They can't just wait and put your order in last, Mom. Just get something.
G-ma: Well I either want [insert Serbian dish #1] or [insert Serbian dish #2], so I want to see what the other dishes look like first. Go ahead, (to the waitress), take their orders.
Me: G-ma, I'm getting #1, so why don't you get #2?
G-ma: I want #1. It'll be softer on my sensitive teeth.
Waitress (heretofore silent): #2 is actually softer, and very flavorful.
G-ma: Oh, I don't know.
Waitress: I think you'll really like #2...
Mom: Go ahead, Mom, order now...
G-ma: Okay, I'll have #2.
Everyone Else: (Sigh of relief.)
The whole night ended with some very "smooth" homemade Serbian shots, of which G-ma took multiples because Dad and Al thought they tasted like shoe polish. She pretty much giggled as we cheered her on. Then she demanded that someone help her get up and get out to the car. She was a little too tipsy to manage that one on her own.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
America's Next Top Teacher
or, how I managed to walk down a runway, as a teacher, and not make a fool of myself
The short answer to that quandary is, I have no idea how. I think the blinding lights may have had something to do with it, or the surprisingly approving applause. Who knew that seeing a teacher take a risk and do something totally frightening would excite such approbation?
As posted earlier, I was a model in the school's fashion show, the final exam, if you will, of the fashion design elective at school. It turns out I was the only teacher model. Yikes. I wish I had pictures to post; if I get some they'll go right up. For now, the picture I paint in your mind will have to suffice. My designer had the self-described "crazy" line. She likes goth-inspired concepts, which went hard core into my dress. It had a red and black satin bust. The waist began immediately below and involved layer upon layer of black satin and red and black tulle. The top red layer of tulle was cut at the bottom to resemble flames extending downward. The back laced up with a ribbon. It was all very medieval meets rocker chick at the prom. My hair was spiky and my eye makeup smoky with a touch of red.
As someone who can now speak from experience, here are a few things to remember when asked yourselves to model in a fashion show.
1. If the designer tells you there will be no pictures, she is hiding the truth from you to calm your fears. In other words, she is lying. Fashion is pictures. There's no avoiding them. Even if there had not been a photographer hired for the evening, the parent and student newspaper flashes going off would have been sufficient to blind me had the spotlights not been so extreme.
2. If the designer tells you that all you have to do is walk, she obviously is overlooking the fact that posing and walking are not the same thing, you do have to walk and pose, therefore you have to do more than just walk. In other words, she is lying. Again. It's not her fault. She doesn't realize that the idea of "striking a pose" terrifies you, even when posing for cell phone contact pictures. Do not take it out on her. Make your own mental adjustment. Because when she tells you to pose-two-three, walk the corner, pose-two-three, walk to the other corner, pose-two-three, walk back up the runway, pose-two-three, that's four three-second poses there. That's twelve seconds of posing you need to be mentally prepared for. So gear up.
3. If possible, find out where your principal will be sitting during the show, and look anywhere but in that direction. If his is the only face you make out through the bright lights, it might bring on sudden shortness of breath and heart palpitations, not to mention fear of loss of professional dignity, which greatly interferes with any mental preparation for the aforementioned 12 seconds of posing.
The most exciting (by which I mean terrifying) part of the evening was attempting to speak seriously with parents who had come to the show. I think I pulled it off with minimal awkwardness... for me at least. The bottom line greatest benefit to come from the whole experience was to show students that even teachers do things that frighten them, and they can have a blast doing it.
The short answer to that quandary is, I have no idea how. I think the blinding lights may have had something to do with it, or the surprisingly approving applause. Who knew that seeing a teacher take a risk and do something totally frightening would excite such approbation?
As posted earlier, I was a model in the school's fashion show, the final exam, if you will, of the fashion design elective at school. It turns out I was the only teacher model. Yikes. I wish I had pictures to post; if I get some they'll go right up. For now, the picture I paint in your mind will have to suffice. My designer had the self-described "crazy" line. She likes goth-inspired concepts, which went hard core into my dress. It had a red and black satin bust. The waist began immediately below and involved layer upon layer of black satin and red and black tulle. The top red layer of tulle was cut at the bottom to resemble flames extending downward. The back laced up with a ribbon. It was all very medieval meets rocker chick at the prom. My hair was spiky and my eye makeup smoky with a touch of red.
As someone who can now speak from experience, here are a few things to remember when asked yourselves to model in a fashion show.
1. If the designer tells you there will be no pictures, she is hiding the truth from you to calm your fears. In other words, she is lying. Fashion is pictures. There's no avoiding them. Even if there had not been a photographer hired for the evening, the parent and student newspaper flashes going off would have been sufficient to blind me had the spotlights not been so extreme.
2. If the designer tells you that all you have to do is walk, she obviously is overlooking the fact that posing and walking are not the same thing, you do have to walk and pose, therefore you have to do more than just walk. In other words, she is lying. Again. It's not her fault. She doesn't realize that the idea of "striking a pose" terrifies you, even when posing for cell phone contact pictures. Do not take it out on her. Make your own mental adjustment. Because when she tells you to pose-two-three, walk the corner, pose-two-three, walk to the other corner, pose-two-three, walk back up the runway, pose-two-three, that's four three-second poses there. That's twelve seconds of posing you need to be mentally prepared for. So gear up.
3. If possible, find out where your principal will be sitting during the show, and look anywhere but in that direction. If his is the only face you make out through the bright lights, it might bring on sudden shortness of breath and heart palpitations, not to mention fear of loss of professional dignity, which greatly interferes with any mental preparation for the aforementioned 12 seconds of posing.
The most exciting (by which I mean terrifying) part of the evening was attempting to speak seriously with parents who had come to the show. I think I pulled it off with minimal awkwardness... for me at least. The bottom line greatest benefit to come from the whole experience was to show students that even teachers do things that frighten them, and they can have a blast doing it.
