Home (?) sweet (?) home.

Home feels surreal. As I walked up the front path to my house last night, I thought, “This is like a dream.” How could I have woken up in New York that morning, been at a Mets game only 24 hours before? Apparently, the 12 hours of travel did not convince me that I was actually going home.

Home, too–that’s a weird concept. This time, I think, was the first time that I was less excited about seeing my family than sad about leaving New York and friends. Instead of counting down the days until I left, I was dreading it, so much so that I called the airline to try to push my ticket back. “Dread” sounds bad. But that’s how I felt. I did not want to leave.

I’m in California about 4 weeks a year. Does it still count as home? Don’t get me wrong. It was fantastic to sleep in my own bed with my own pillow (although my appreciation of that may be due to the fact that I spent my last two nights in NY with no sheets and no pillow. Which=no fun). It was nice to be fed by my mother (and, yeah, to see my mother). But I kept thinking, “I wonder what everyone is doing in New York right now.”

I don’t think it helps that I’m going to be a senior next year–or I guess that I’m officially a senior now–and that so many of my friends will only be juniors. I can’t believe that I only have one year left. I remember when I went to Abby’s graduation last year, I was jealous of her: not that she was graduating, but that she was sad to be graduating. I wanted to love Barnard/Columbia as much as she loved Smith. And then this year happened–where I made more friends, took classes I was passionate about, got out into the city more on countless excursions–and now I think, “I’m supposed to leave this all behind next year? Hellll no.”

But I guess California still has to count as home because I’m still an official resident of this golden state–see the driver’s license I just renewed. Fun fact: you have to retake the test to renew your license, if you’re a young folk like such as me. I was not expecting a test (Me: “Wait. I have to take a test?!” DMV lady: “Duh.”). I was allowed to miss three and I missed two. So, I almost didn’t get a new license. Fun! They also didn’t tell me which ones I missed. Isn’t that weird? Shouldn’t I at least learn from that nervewracking experience? Regardless: I passed, I am allowed to drive, I have a new license, and a new picture. Goodbye, 15-year-old Anna on the I.D.

Final thing about home: at my house, we have dial-up internet. I have no cell phone reception. And my mother’s new car is stick shift, which I can hardly drive. So: except for times like now, where I borrowed my step-mom’s car, I am completely cut off from the world. Lovely.

Of kids and mothers

Today, the child I babysit made a phone call. Here’s why that is, in any way, notable:

He made it on a cell phone.

He made it on his cell phone.

He made it to his friend who was literally 10 feet away.

His friend did not answer his cell phone because he was too busy texting.

In my day… Well, as I told my charge, texting didn’t even exist. I feel so disconnected. Do 4th graders everywhere have cell phones? Or is this a New York thing?

I mean, don’t get me wrong–this kid is amazingly intelligent and precocious and hilarious and awesome–not to mention better at soccer than I ever was/will be. But he’s also 9. His school curriculum still involves decorating flower pots for Mother’s Day. (I then carried around said flower pot for two hours while the kid was at soccer, waiting to run into someone I knew so that I could explain that I was babysitting a plant for the kid I babysit. And yes, I did get to have that moment.–twice.)

Speaking of Mother’s Day, let me talk about how I think I got a bum deal. I mean, I guess I got an awesome deal in that I have a mom and a step-mom, both of whom I love and who raised me pretty equally from age 9 on. So I have two mommies, but without the issues coming with my mother coming out of the closet. Don’t worry, I have plenty of other issues. But: here’s where the bum deal comes in. The two of them share a birthday. So on March 16, I send two heartfelt cards, make two heartfelt phone calls–totally fine, no biggie, cosmic coincidence that I can laugh about. (Fact: my quasi-step-father and my step-mom’s ex-husband also share a birthday. Whoaaa.) But then: just six weeks later, it’s Mother’s Day (make that “Mothers’ Day”). And once more, I try to send two heartfelt cards, two heartfelt phone calls. Here’s where it’s tough, though:

Cards for step-mothers are awful.

At Duane Reade, Rite Aid, even Cardomat, they have one million cards for Mother’s Day. Cards from the cat, from the dog, in English, in Spanish, for sisters, for daughters, for wives, for godmothers, for new mothers, from the both of us (in case you and your siblings are too damn lazy to get multiple cards). And then all of those categories but “funny.” I put “funny” in quotes because in most cases, to actually call them funny would be a disservice to humor.  And they do have cards for step-mothers, too. But the step-mother cards’ preprinted messages fall into two general categories:

1. Thanks for marrying my dad, yo

2. You’re okay, I guess.

In either case, they’re weird and ungenuine and a little passive aggressive, and pretty heavy on the sense of “My dad made me give you this.” So not what I want to convey to my step-mom, who long ago became more to me than “my dad’s wife.” And I can’t just give her a regular Mother’s Day card (as if that even exists, anyway, within all those subcategories–I always give my mom a card from the little kid category, in a total cop-out from having to choose between all the stupid grown-up cards) because those all say MOM or MAMA or MAMI or MOMMY or MA. None say ANNE. None say, STEP-MOM, ONLY HALFWAY IGNORE THAT STEP PART.

What I’m saying is, my family seems to have adjusted to this divorced-but-happy thing. And now, it’s just a matter of waiting for the cardmakers to catch up.

+/-

+ I’m halfway done with finals after my anthro final this afternoon.

- It was the hardest final of my life. I opened it and literally laughed, because that’s how little I knew.

+ So I went to Absolute Bagels afterward to salvage my day.

- But it was raining on the 10-block walk over.

+ The bagel was fresh out of the oven (FOTO, if you will. It’s kind of like FOB).

- Now, I’m left with only memories of said bagel.

+ Classes are over.

- My internship is not.

+ We talked about feminismo in my Spanish class.

- Someone started off a comment with, “No soy sexista, pero…”¿Cómo se dice “tool” en español?

+ Speaking of feminismo, someone gave “an impassioned defense of feminism” in his C.C. class. This means that my attempts at brainwashing are working.

- I sat next to said someone at the Varsity Show and it looked like he was in literal, physical pain. No, really, it was that bad.

+ But it was prefaced by Italian food and a first communion party.

- But I was working said communion party, not partying said communion party.

+ And I earned lots of dollars per hour and  a fancy, expensive leftover chocolate cake.

In conclusion:

+ food and money and feminism

- rain and sexism and finals

Blogiatus Over!

There’s a 98.7 percent chance that everyone (all three of you) has given up on me ever returning.

But hey! Would I renege on a promise? Answer: no, not usually. Unless that promise was made under duress, like, I don’t know, torture. Advanced interrogation techniques. Or, as I like to call it, peer pressure.

(Wait, I’m hearing that waterboarding is significantly more painful than peer pressure. But when was the last time THEY were teenagers?).

The point is: I am here now! My blogging for Barnard is over! I’ll be honest–it was not nearly as fun as might have been expected. Unless one expected that it wouldn’t be fun at all. Then you’d be just about right. I’ve also realized that I was helping to recruit a class that I don’t want to come. No offense, 2013s, but your arrival means my senior year. Aaaah! Also, you have to be the class of unlucky ‘13, so like, do you even really want that?

No, I take that back. Class year is entirely insignificant. The class behind me in high school referred to themselves as the double-oh-sevens. Infinitely cooler than double-oh-six. So: class year, schmlass year.

(I’m realizing how much music I have on my iTunes that I hate, and that I skip every time it comes up in shuffle. Yes, Usher, Confessions, I’m talking about you.)

Speaking of high school, speaking of my childhood–I was talking to Abby last week and she told me how she’d talked to our mom and mentioned her Tide (tm!) pen, and M-Dog said, “Abby! You’re the neat one! You don’t need to carry that around!”

To which I responded, “Has she met you?”

Isn’t it weird how in your family (or at least my family), you get a reputation at like age 3, and then you can NEVER EVER shake that? For example, in addition to being the neat one, Abby is:

*the cautious one (there was a whole theory that Abby and I downhill-skied in ways to match our personalities. I’d go straight down, never turn, going as fast as possible. Abby would plan ahead, pick out the perfect route, and wend and weave her way down the hill, always going a perfectly safe speed and never accidentally finding herself on double-black-diamond hills)

*the picky one

*the pukey-in-the-car one

*the singing one–the one for whom the no-singing-at-the-table statute was established. Eensy Weensy Spider just had too many hand gestures.

I, on the other hand, am supposed to be:

*reckless or impulsive (see: skiing theory)

*iron stomachy (because I’d read in the car when I was little. This one is especially awful now because I do get naseous–nauseated?–in the car, and my mother will not believe me). Not to be confused with iron lungy.

*The eat-anything one, since I ate my aunt’s notoriously bad cooking EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO.

*The messy-as-all-hell one

Ok, that last one has some merit, and necessitates that I, too, carry around a Tide pen (tm!). I brought it to the seder I went to (I’ve been on blogiatus so long that I missed Passover and my chance to pass on my newfound knowledge of the scientific explanations for all the miracles and plagues), and was mocked for it. BUT: guess who got the last laugh? ME. Because it turns out, no one can eat brisket neatly and EVERYONE needs some good Tidings (tm!). Get it?
Wow. Maybe all of us would have been better off if I’d just continued this blogiatus.

Sorry!

Ok, I’m on a mini blogiatus induced by some mofos named school and blogging for the ‘nard to recruit next year’s incoming class.
I will say OMG I can’t believe it’s April. Tax season! Hahaha, jk, like I pay taxes. Fraud is my name/game. No, again, jk, IRS! I just don’t earn enough money to pay taxes.
Anyways. Also this is the season of papers. I have to write something like 50 pages in the next 4 weeks. That is terrifying. I will not think about it. Until it’s like, “I have to write something like 50 pages in the next week.” And then I will have a panic attack and y’all can talk me down.
In other news, I have an internship! In other other news, I have no money for an internship! So I guess we’ll see how this all pans out? The answer better be: perfectly; without a hitch; best summer ever.
Unrelated: I just gave away 2 bags of clothes to the clothing drive. This means:
a. I am a good samaritan
b. Jeebus H, I have too many clothes, if I have 2 bags worth that I don’t even wear.
c. I am a victim of this culture of materialism (and also holidays like Christmas) so don’t blame me!

(I’m sorry if postings continue to be sparse. I will be back in top form by May 1 at the latest–that’s when I’m done blogging for the ‘nard, and also, when my last paper is due. Yessss!)

Guest Columnist

Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote this mofo and had my two minutes of fame?

And how all the comments on my story–fact: every comment is from someone I know, and 6 out of 7 are from people from home–were like, “Anna! Send this to the Express!” and how I talked to my mom and said, “Here’s what I don’t want: for anyone from Winters to ever read this”? And how my mom kind of hemmed and hawed and said, “But Anna! It’s lovely!” but eventually was like, “Your call, boo”?

And my call was “No effing way”?

Now that we’ve got all that background, I’m sure you can see where this is going.

Here’s the conversation my mother and I had today.

Ma: Guess who’s the guest columnist in the Expressss?
Me: Oh no. Who sent it in?
Ma: Remember how five people told you to?
Me: And I said no? Who. sent. it. in?
Ma: Well, I sent it to Debra [the editor]. But I didn’t think she’d priiiint it.
Me: [crickets chirping]
Ma: No one thinks it’s offensive, like you do!
Me: [waves crashing]
Ma: Hahahaha!
Me: Don’t they need, like, my permission? [Also, probably don't they need Spec's permission, too, thinking back over this farce?]
Ma: One would thiiiink, but…. Are you mad?
Me: Um. Mad. Hm. That’s a word.
Ma: Funny thing! So it says “By Anna A.” But at the bottom, it says, “ABBY A. is a junior at Barnard College majoring in urban studies. She is an associate copy editor.” Associate copy editor of what?
Me: Ohh my lord, this is the only redeeming factor. They copied and pasted, and were like, “Anna? She couldn’t have done this. Who isss Anna?” Even though I went to preschool with Debra’s daughter. “Ohhh, they must mean Abby.” 20 years in, and I’m still overshadowed by my sister.
Ma: But at least you got top billing!

I talked to my sister after. She was like, “Oh my god, I’m going to die. Why couldn’t you just leave me blissfully ignorant? Should I write a letter to the editor?” and we had a great laugh. (No, really, we did. But I’m still processing. I don’t know if I’m angry. Or bemused. That it got credited to my sister might be the most telling, fantastic thing that ever happened.)

But still.

Jeeeezus.

FB with Father

The dam has fallen–my family is Facebook-connected now. As soon as my step-sisters friended my step-mom, I knew that resistance was futile, and that I would have to give in and friend my dad after 2 years of avoiding it.

(What really broke me down? That my dad sounded so sad and confused over the fact that one of my step-sisters had not yet accepted my step-mom’s friend request.)

So I did it. And found out that on all of Facebook, there’s one other guy with my dad’s name. And he also lives in Austin. Weeeird.

And then my dad sent me this 2-line message:

“Hi Daughter,
I will try not to stalk you.”

So I called him and told him that that was the creepiest thing I’d ever read, starting with the “Hi Daughter.” He said, “What? You call me Father!” Yes. But the difference is, that’s normal.

His next comment: “I don’t even know what Facebook-stalking is!”

So I laid down some ground rules. Feel free to use them with your own parents.

1. You cannot use anything you find out about me on Facebook against me or to make fun of me. E.g. if there’s a picture of me drinking a beer, you cannot bring that up in real life. If you read something on my wall, we cannot converse about that outside of the medium of Facebook.
2. Refer to rule 1.

Friday the 13th

Here’s what happened on Friday:

My sister got into her master’s program. I’m so happy for her. Once, Simon Cowell said, “I don’t get this ‘happy for’ thing. How can you be happy for someone… oh, silly Americans!” (That was paraphrasing). Anyway, I thought about that for awhile at the time, and was like, “Simon, maybe you have a point.” But then, on Friday, I thought about that again, and thought, “Wait, Simon, I don’t think you have a heart and/or feelings–you can totally be happy for someone.” Like, when I found out about my sister and her grad school, it put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, even though nothing good had happened to me, per se.

Also, I was in a good mood because we went on an adventure to Flushing and had delicious food. A rundown of what I ate:

*A cannoli
*Tiramisu
*Bubble tea
*Lamb, crab, and rabbit (aaah! Chocolate Chip!)
*1,000-year-old egg
*Soup dumplings (here’s a peek into guys’ brains: “Now I know what he’d look like with balls in his face”).

This was followed by 4 guys looking to me kind of guiltily and saying, “This is what we talk about. What do girls talk about?” and me realizing that I have no idea. I’ve never thought of my topics of conversation in terms of, “I’m a girl, talking.” It’s just been like, “I’m talking.” I’m thinking now that a better question would be, “What don’t you talk about?” Answer: extended, Blackberry’d arguments about who scored the winning goal in a hockey game 12 years ago.

And: last excitement of Friday. We were on the train, and this kind of hippieish homeless guy was playing “Midnight Toker.” (You know, “I’m a drinker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker…”) So he finishes, and is walking through asking for money, and before I know what’s happening, he and the guys I was with were yelling obscenities at each other.

HHG (Homeless Hippie Guy–although he apparently hasn’t accepted that peace and love thing completely): Hey, you suck!
Friend 1: Fuck you!
HHG: No, fuck you!
Friend 2: Whoa…
HHG: I FUCKING OWN THIS TRAIN. I WILL BASH MY GUITAR OVER YOUR HEAD.
F1: Then you wouldn’t own the train.
F2: Yeah, without your guitar, you can’t own it.

Clearly, they did an excellent job of diffusing the situation. Luckily, HHG got off at the next stop. And what set this off? That Friend 3–who was completely unaware this whole time, letting the other guys defend his honor, while having no idea that it was his honor being defended–was on his iPhone, instead of listening to the performance. So: either HHG was high/crazy, or he really, really hates materialism and the bourgeois tools of society, like iPhones.

That was a convoluted story. But while we’re on the topic of confusion:

Kevin Richardson–Backstreet Boy or Lion Whisperer? (Or both?)

Doesn’t it look like we maybe caught them in the midst of a private moment?

Name Nerd

Something I noticed while in my colloquium yesterday: there’s like 15 people in that class, and only 4 names.

*2 Annas, 1 Ana, 1 Anne and 1 Diana
*2 Katherine Annes, both of whom go by Kate
*1 Erin and 1 Aaron

That’s 9 people, and basically, 3 names. So that 15/4 thing? Hardly an exaggeration. This probably says something about diversity at the ‘Nard/the ‘Lumbia. But I’m just going to look at it as an amazing coincidence.

(And there are no Rachels! Or Sarahs!)

Definitely a Freak, Not a Geek.

If I were to see James Franco asleep in class, I would maybe take a picture. But I like to think that I would not send that pictureto TMZ, my least favorite of the (many) celebrity gossip sites.
Especially now that James and I are so close–we did be in 209 at the same time, and we did make eye contact as I walked past him. But! I did not stare at him. Or “casually” walk by his table over and over, carrying a different food item each time (and all the while, looking very Homer Simpsony… because to add to the weirdness, it was a guy, not a girl). And no, I didn’t even take a picture.
However. My Francostory–the best genre of Columbia stories–pales in comparison to that of a certain friend. Who shared a bathroom with Sir Franco. Like, a men’s bathroom. The kind with the urinals. I’m getting conflicting stories on if any surreptitious…um…peeking occurred. As soon as I find out, though, I will let you know. Or maybe I’ll let TMZ know. It depends on how I’m feeling.