Old people and the internet

I recently attended a writer’s conference, where I took a workshop titled “Navigating the Digital Age”. Any inclinations towards technology or today’s generation has me piqued. That’s because I’m 18, I have a profile under every social networking site available, and I even blog under an alias.
When I walked into the conference room, I was the only one that looked under 40 years old.
A white-haired lady in a matching pink blouse and pants struggled into a plastic chair. Another woman, with thick spectacles on the bottom of her nose, gave a start when my macbook gave the ominous “ohmm” of turning on. A man crossed his arms in an elbow-pad jacket, and a cane rested near his seat.
The woman holding the workshop was a petite, young literary agent.
“Now today I want to give you a few ways that you can use the internet to promote your book and gain readers,” she said. “Let’s start with blogs.”
My face relaxed, I might have given a small smile. Oh, blogs, that’s what we’re talking about here. This was comfortable territory for me.
By the perplexed faces I saw around the room, it clearly wasn’t for everyone else.
“A blog?” whispered a woman.
I leaned forward. “All you do is create a blog on some kind of blogger forum. And you can blog about anything really--gardening, fashion, fiction, whatever you want. And you can follow other people’s blogs.”
“So you look at blogs?”
“Yeah, lots of them,” I said.
“But how do I find them again after I see them?” The woman was so blank faced and confused. It dawned on me how some things don’t click with the older generation. For them, the internet is something that you can get lost in and never be able to retrace your steps. You only have one chance to look at an interesting website because who knows how you will ever find it again amongst the millions of websites on internet.
“On blogger, you just click follow and every time you log in there are updates on who has posted. Personally, I subscribe all my blogs on google reader, but you need a gmail account for that.”
“Oh honey,” she laughed, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Then we moved onto twitter.
A woman near the back started talking. “You know, I tried to make a twitter thing the other day. So, I made an account, but then I sat there for two hours trying to figure it out.   And I just couldn’t! By that time, I needed to make dinner, so I handed the computer to my husband, and he’s really good with internet stuff. And you know what? He sat there for another two hours, and he wasn’t able to do a damn thing.”
By the tone of her voice, she was making twitter out to be utterly unworkable. No hope, completely futile.
“You know,” boasted the woman in the matching pink blouse and pants, “there are classes you can take for twitter. My senior center has offered them.”
I then realized another thing about the older generation on the internet: they treated the internet like it is something that can be broken. If you tweet incorrectly, if you don’t hashtag correctly, you run the risk of breaking twitter. For them, the internet is like a car. You need driving lessons or you’re likely to crash. There is no manual on the internet. I treat every social media site with absent-minded curiosity. I play around with it, and if it strikes my fancy I will stick around.
“A niece of mine got a twitter and she had 10,000 followers in a week,” said the woman in thick spectacles.
“If she has 10,000 followers, she is at least following 30,000 people,” I said. “Because most people just follow you back.”
“But I don’t know 30,000 people.”
The literary agent couldn’t help but give a small laugh.
“On twitter,” she explained, “you just follow anyone that interests you. I personally follow celebrities I like. It’s interesting how the barrier between celebrities and everyone else has broken down since twitter.”
“So these people you follow just write little things?”
“Yeah it can be anything like a joke, news update, a picture, question.”
“Well, I don’t have time to read all that. I have better things to do with my time.”
“I agree,” said the woman next to her, “I’m not going to be spending all day doing that.”
Mumbles of agreement swept the room. I wondered what was so important in their days.
My third realization came with their collected pride. They thought all the information offered on the internet had to be read. That is, you have to read every single tweet of every single person you follow, every single status update on facebook, every single blog post. Us, the younger generation, can recognize that it’s impossible to absorb all of the internet’s contents because it’s constantly multiplying. Thus, we skim through what we can. I’m never burdened about the hundreds of updates that pile up every hour.

A few days after the workshop, when I was fooling around on google+ for the first time, my mother peeked over my shoulder.
“What the hell are you on now?”
“Google+. It’s newer than facebook.” (which my mother had been acquainted with only a few months ago)
“Ugh,” my mother sneered.
“What can’t handle it?”
“Maybe I don’t want to expose everything on the internet. Maybe I understand the consequences of the internet. Maybe I have more dignity than that.”

It’s no use trying to explain the internet to the old.

my twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/carmella_mingo

The Shamed Customer

 

It's in Italian bitch!

The "customer is always right" has never sat well with me.
I make a very self-conscious customer, in fact. Maybe because I have never been employed in a typical sense. As an 18 year old, I have never worked on a wage. I write for a small town newspaper, so all the grandpas that read every inch of the newspaper really love me. My cat lady neighbor also calls me to tell me how delightful I am.
Because of my unconventional job, I am enamored by minimum-wage workers. I just think about how they stand there all day, answer the same questions all day, and deal with the dumbest rednecks and/or sorority girls.
I really feel like they work harder than I do, and I   also think they have gained wisdom from their trials on the underbelly. Thus, I, the customer, am inferior.

One time in Starbucks, I said, "I would like a medium chai latte, please."
"I don't know what you mean," said the barista, who had a bitch glare that melted through whatever self-confidence I clung to.
"But-but it's there on the menu."
"I don't know what you mean by medium," she said, as her eyes lowered to their size chart.
It was a model of a small, medium, and large coffee cup, but underneath the cups were the size labels of: tall, grande, and venti.
"Oh, I guess I want a grande chai latte," I said.
"Alright, that will be $4.70."
When I recounted the story, in shame that I wasn't aware of correct coffee terms, I got a different perspective.
"You should have called her a fucking bitch, and told her you wanted a fucking medium," said a friend.
From now on, I only use the words small, medium, and large in defiance.

My other incident with customer embarrassment was at the pharmacy. I needed two prescriptions that dealt directly with my vagina. 
I walked up to the counter, praying to whatever God would listen, that a female would take my order.
"Hey! What can I get you?" said a cute, young, and flirty guy named Brad.
"Um, I would like to pick up my nuvaring prescription and, um, I don't exactly know the name of the prescription but it's something like flaan-a-cole or fluc-a-na-zaa." 
I looked like a toddler sounding out words and he only gave me an empty look in return. 
"It's for yeast infections." The secret was out. I just knew he was picturing my sad vagina, as he walked back to fill my prescription. It's human nature. If some guy asked for me to fill a prescription for genital warts, the image of his infected wang would pop into my head uninvited.

Another time, my aunt and grandma surprised me with a full body massage. It was a sweet gift of them. I squealed in excitement and gave them tight hugs, but all I was thinking about was my unshaven legs and armpits. It was the dead of winter in the midwest, I was hibernating.
As I lay on the massage table, with mystery cream covering my face and a zen music playing in the background, I echoed silent apologies to the masseuse.
My legs aren't normally like this, trust me. Go to a happy place and forget about the leg hairs you are now stroking. God and Jesus love you for your selfless acts. 

So, to all the minimum-wage retail and food industry workers out there, you do have a customer who thinks you are probably right.

I can't handle this

"I do do cocaine."

-words from a person I love and believe in

Make a wish. Break my leg.

My wish, as a child, was to have a broken leg.
Traditionally, in children's books and such, children are thought of having innocent and generic wishes to become princesses or superheroes. Looking back on my childhood, almost all of us were warped in the mind. All of us latched onto some ideal that looked magical in our eyes, but negligible or dreadful to the rest of adult society.
My wish to break my leg began when my best friend Christina broke her leg. We were seven years old at the time, and in the same 2nd grade class. Secretly, I knew she was cooler than me, even before she broke her leg. In my front lawn, she would do one cart-wheel after another. She made it look effortless, as if she was a windmill with a soft breeze blowing her along. I, on the other hand, feebly tried to do a somersault, but every time I ended up with a mouthful of grass clippings and a sore neck. We were both adventurous, but she always outpaced me. Christina broke my handlebar record on the playground, one which I had coveted since kindergarten. Christina could also jump farther than me. She had a loft bed, and we would spend hours jumping from it onto the floor of her bedroom. She always made a graceful arc through the air.
I remember one day I arrived at school, and Christina's desk was vacant. The teacher explained she was at the doctor's because she had broken her leg while jumping off her bed.
I was shocked and sad, but, secretly, I thought about how she wouldn't be cart-wheeling, jumping, or winning in handlebars any longer. I wondered if her popularity and grace would fall to me, her natural heir.
I was wrong. Christina arrived to school with a pink cast on her leg and a story to tell.
All day I reheard the tale, "I was trying to do a flip through the air, and I almost got it, but then I landed wrong. You wouldn't believe the pain. My leg was like this--" She tried bending her hand backwards, and everyone winced.
I was the only one who noticed the smug look fleeting across her face.
If I thought a cart-wheel would make you noticed, an injury made you a star. Lines would gather to sign her cast, and circles would form to hobble around on her crutches. She laid around all day, like a gluttonous queen, asking people to fetch her crayons, carry her bookbag, and finish her craft projects.
I was no longer Christina's best friend, considering she now had a group of doting servants.
I remember, in class, while we were learning how to multiply, Christina raised her hand.
"Mr. Stevens may I go to the bathroom?"
"Sure," he said, and returned to the board.
She made a slight huff. "But--"
"What is it Christina?"
"I can't get there by myself," she tilted her head towards her cast-bound leg, which rested on a pillow.
"Then what are your crutches for?" I grumbled under my breath. I few people laughed.
Christina shot me a glare.
"I don't see why you need any help," said Mr. Stevens without looking back at her.
"My leg is broken! And my doctor expressly told me--"
"Fine, whatever, someone go with Christina. Don't be gone long."
Christina gave a haughty smile. She waved for one of her servants, and theatrically proceeded to wobble out of the room with grunts of pain.

That afternoon, at recess, those who laughed at my remark found me at the playground. We were finished with Christina. Our plan was this: either prove her broken leg was a fraud, or break our own legs.
We spent a few evenings huddled together, in closets with flashlights, trying to figure out how Christina had faked a broken leg.
"Maybe she threatened the doctor to give her a cast!" suggested one girl.
We nodded in thought.
"Or maybe she swapped out the x-rays."
"Or maybe she bent her leg in a weird way, so it looked broken."
We never found anything conclusive, so we proceeded to phase two: attempting to break our legs.
I drug out my life-size plastic doll from my playroom, and henceforth it was the test dummy.
We would climb to the top of swing sets, soccer goals, tree houses, and tool sheds, and throw the doll off. Then we would inspect, if it looked like she had broken her leg. If yes, we proceeded to jump, if no, we jumped anyway.
But none of us ever broke our leg. We must of been drinking our milk and taking our vitamins. I got bruises and grass stains, but otherwise I was a healthy child. The only excitement we had was when a mom would give a startled scream from the window, and run out trying to stop us.
But I didn't give up on having a broken leg. I, instead, resorted to playing the part. My friends and I would rummage through my dad's socks and start putting on one sock on top of the other. After ten layers of socks it looked like I had a cast. I would then find a long stick or pole and hobble around on "so-called" crutches.
When I and three other girls wobbled into the kitchen, my mom look at us oddly.
"Do you guys have a cast on..?"
"Yes!" we squeled.
"Alright," my mom gave a small laugh and went back to scrubbing a pan.
My mother's acceptance was good enough for me. For the rest of the day we laid around like gluttonous queens--eating cookies and watching movies.

A profile of the most unique valedictorian you will ever know

 

(Imagine this is your high school valedictorian, at 2 am on a Wednesday night*)

Alexandria is a girl that no one will forget.
It doesn't matter if you only heard the rumors about her, or if you first heard her name when she was giving her valedictorian speech at graduation. 
People will always have something to say about her.
For years, I had been intrigued by her.
It started in 7th grade when I heard she lost her virginity. Then she went by the name of Alex. The news was spread mainly in the handicapped stall in the girl's bathroom. Throughout the day, all the girls would synchronize their visits to the bathroom to congregate in that stall. I've gotten math test answers in that stall, had mini dance parties in that stall, and I also got the latest gossip in that stall.
"His name was Flame," said one girl, who was fixing her hair in front of the small mirror above the handicapped railings.
"You've got to be kidding me," said another girl leaning against the wall.
"That's actually his name. I think his parents are weird."
I stood against the locked door, and listened ardently. Flame. The name rolled around in my head. I imagined him as a disco-dancing gigolo in a white polyester suit.
"They did it at a party," said the girl in front of the mirror. A disco party, I thought.
"Well, she's masturbated with a toothbrush," said the other girl.
The bell rang and we filed out of the bathroom.
For the rest of middle school, Alex only got a worse reputation. She embodied the twisted queen bee of middle school. Just the way people would say "Alex" it translated to bitch. She walked in a pack of girls who only wore Abercrombie, Uggs, and glares on their faces. 
One time I ended up at their lunch table. I was lazily drawing circles on a sheet of paper, when Alex said, "You know what is also the shape of a circle?"
She laughed. "Your vagina."
Then everyone else laughed. I felt like I was on the outside of the joke. Was I the only virgin? I thought.
As with all queen bees, gossip was always buzzing about her. One time I heard she got paid to give blowjobs, another time I heard she had sex on a front lawn of a random house in the middle of the night. I heard all of these rumors so many times, that I took them as truth. 
When she walked down the hallway I couldn't help but stare.

When Alex started high school, she insisted her name was "Alexandria." Everyone scoffed.
"A new name won't change what she is," said everyone I knew.
The name "Alex" embodied what she was known for--being a slut and a bitch--and no one wanted that power wrested from them.
But Alexandria was reinventing herself. She would correct anyone who called her "Alex" without fail, and soon enough people began calling her Alexandria.
I never hated her, and I never smeared her. Rather, I was mystified and intimidated by her reputation. One day during my freshman year, when I was doodling in a sketchbook, she leaned over and looked at what I was doing.
"Wow you are amazing at drawing," she said.
"Thanks," I said, and kept drawing.
"What's that?" she pointed at a string of words at the top of the page.
"It's a quote from a book."
She studied the words. "That's beautiful," she said, "what book?"
"A Million Little Pieces by James Frey."
"Can I borrow it?"
In three days she was finished with the book and asked me for another. After she had gone through three books of mine in a week, she asked me for my sketchbook.
"I want to write you a note," she said. She found the page, where she first saw my drawing, and in the corner she wrote the words, with an arrow pointing to my drawing, "this is super fucking crunk. if you draw anything else on the front or back of this page that doesn't touch greatness, I will take it upon myself to hunt you down and slit your throat." 
She was harsh, as always, but it touched me.
But not everyone changed their thoughts about Alexandria. At the end of freshman year, the class rankings were released. And guess who was number one in the class? Alexandria.
For days, the goody-goody kids stewed over the news.
"She doesn't even deserve it! I actually stay home and study," bemoaned one girl who still wasn't allowed to watch R-rated movies.
"All she does is party,"said the resentful number two in class.
"Did you know she has done cocaine?" chimed in a kid, who most likely didn't know the difference between crack and blow.
I only respected her more, and from then on I was her lone defender.
When everyone else bombarded the conversation with words of dissension I would say something like "Isn't it remarkable that she can come to school hungover on a Wednesday and still have better grades than you?" or "So you've snorted cocaine with her before?... No? Never? Then you can't really say anything."
It wasn't until junior year that we had another class together, American literature.
In the first week, when we were discussing Nobel laureate Ernest Hemingway, Alexandria rose her hand and announced to the class, "If anyone is going to win a Nobel prize, it's Carmella." 
We still understood each other perfectly.
She was the first to wear leggings as pants at our school. Along with sheer shirts, fur jackets, and nerd glasses. For months, every girl (and even most guys) would make fun of her clothes, but soon enough they would start wearing the style themselves. By that time, Alexandria was on to something else.
She also turned in assignments early. Essays would be stapled and on a teacher's desk a week in advance, study guides would be completed just in case, and she copied down every word the teacher spoke. She was still number one in the class, and still everyone hated her for it.
I guessed that she, amongst the rest of the top 5%, only ate, studied, and took tests. I was wrong.
One day my friend found her planner in the bathroom. We poured over it later that night. Not only did Alexandria hold top billing in the class, but she also managed a popular fashion website, woke up at 5 am to run every morning, and somehow she still found time to party and get drunk. Let me add, she made baked goodies for my class bi-weekly and she was still asking me for books to read.
She was the most fascinating person I had ever observed, and I dreamed of the chance of being a fly on the wall in her life.
And my senior year, I had exactly that chance.
We had the same government, economics, and literature class. There was no need to pay attention to the government class, so all we did was sit in a corner and talk for the next straight hour and a half. She was still the dynamic and brutal person I knew her to be, but in that semester I also learned she had a soul.
One day the topic of sex came up. I was ready to hear about her many partners and escapades, with a few words of regret.
"So, I slept over with this guy last weekend," she said.
"I didn't know you had a boyfriend," I said.
"We aren't technically a couple, but we will be soon. It's pretty funny. I was out-of-my-mind drunk downtown one night and I just walked up to him and told him he was hot. I think I actually yelled at him that he was hot."
"How's the sex?" I asked.
"Oh my god! I'm not having sex with him!" She looked shocked.
"But you said you slept over with him."
"I just slept in the same bed as him. I've only made out with him," she said, as if this was obvious.
"What?"
"I'm not going to have sex with him for a long time, maybe never. I have barriers, you could say."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I've only had sex once."
"What?" I couldn't believe her. "I mean, I thought, you had, well, I've heard rumors."
"I don't know what you've heard, people are always spreading shit about me, but I've only had sex once."
"But why?"
Her voice lowered. "Honestly, I was kind of taken advantage of. It was the summer before 8th grade, and I was dating this guy. We went to this party, and I got drunk and I passed out in a bedroom. When I woke up I knew I had lost my virginity."
"Do you remember any of it?"
"No. I don't even know if I was conscious."
"Oh my god. That's rape. You were raped."
"I actually changed for the good after that. My life was heading down a wrong path at that time--parties, drugs, bad people--but after that happened to me I started to focus on academics. I always knew I was smart, but only after that I started applying myself."
"So all of the rumors," I said, baffled.
"Aren't true."
It was hard to reverse her reputation, upturn all the rumors, and see her as the strong, but broken, girl she was. 
When Alexandria began her valedictorian speech, on graduation day, I listened to her as one of her few lone defenders. "Some people think I socialized too much to deserve this," she said to our entire class and a stadium of parents. The kid sitting next to me tried to whisper something in my ear, but I swatted him away. "You should listen," I said.

And like she left me note in my sketchbook four years ago, she wrote this to me:
"I regret I didn't pull you in closer when I had the chance. You are going to conquer the world one day because nothing will get in your way or be good enough. You are going to be my inspiration forever. Until the day I die, maybe longer. "

This is coming from a person who outshines every celebrity and icon I have ever met.
We are each others life inspirations.
Love you, girl.
Carmella

*That picture is not of Alexandria, but it does capture her spirit. Actually Alexandria is not even her name. I choose to keep everyone anonymous on this blog :)

When I was a Lolita

 

(The 1960's version. The millennium version is torn mini-skirts Hollister camisoles)

It wasn’t until I read Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita that I understood where pervert men came from. No, it wasn’t that I understood them but I saw, for the first time, how severely misunderstood and confused girls are at the turn of puberty.
Nabokov’s Lolita is about a man, Humbert Humbert, who becomes obsessed and sexually involved with the 12 year old Dolores Haze (who goes by Lolita). In the book, Lolita is the type of girl, who at an innocent age, has a sense of provocation and even flirtation. From her perspective, her skimpy clothes and playful taunts are sirens for attention, especially attention for her beauty. From Humbert’s perspective, she is a sexually-charged young girl who is interested in him.

I know this because, when I was at the precocious age of 12 or 13, I was a Lolita. I didn’t realize my misplaced signals and vain ideals were possibly alluring to a dangerous lot until I read Nabokov’s book in horror.

When I was around 9 or 10 my body started changing. I grew hair in odd places, I gained weight, and my feet looked clownish on my short frame. I wasn’t batting my eyelashes at anyone for attention. All I wanted to do was sit on a couch and find a pillow large enough to hide behind.

But, as if by magic, around the age of 12 I began to fill out, and in the right places. I could fit into a B-size bra, my gender was clear in a bathing suit, and I had a lean frame. These changes were analogous with boys giving us new attention.

At that age, all I wanted was for people to think I was pretty, so I turned to America’s conventions of beauty. The background on my myspace profile was a montage of Victoria’s Secret model pictures.
I remember my mom glancing over my shoulder, at the computer, while I was on myspace, “Why do you have Victoria’s Secret background? You’ve never even shopped there.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have it as my background!” I exclaimed, as I closed the screen.
“Hey, what kind of information do you have on that web-site thingy?”
“It’s called a myspace, mom.”
“Yeah, and I’ve heard some pretty sick things about it on Dateline.”
On my myspace, I had my middle school’s name, date of birth, full name, city, and state.  Also a picture of me in a bikini with a wad of cash in my hand.
It’s hard for me to explain why I took that picture, subliminal media influences were at work I’m certain. I was with a friend, a Lolita more advanced than I was. She talked to strangers online, and then invited them over to hang out. Well, I was sleeping over with her and we decided to get in our bikinis and pose like the girls in rap videos.

Now, whenever I watch Oprah do a show on molestation or online predators, I cringe. The “grooming process” is a term used to describe a predators manipulation to making a young girl trust him and love him.
I remember someone on the show said, “It’s surprising that girls can just fall into it.”
Actually, it’s not surprising at all. At that age, if anyone told me I was pretty and funny, I would be clueless with glee. I would online chat with the stranger for untold hours, and I would feel pride, no matter what age he turned out to be. I would be the one desired, and that is all that mattered.
Thank god I never had the chance to get groomed.
But one time I did encounter something even worse.
On a Friday night when I was 13 years old, I went mall shopping with my two best friends. I bought my first thong that night, and I felt half-embarrassed and half-sexy. After milling around for hours, it was 9pm and the mall was closing. My friend, the advanced Lolita, called her dad to pick us up. He said he was at the Burger King at the end of the parking lot and told us to just walk over.
We stepped out into the spring night. In mini-skirts, small tank-tops, and Victoria’s Secret’s bags around our wrists, we walked across the empty parking lot.
Then an old, beat up, pick up truck came crawling up to us. I immediately felt uncomfortable. The pick up truck halted in front of us and inside were two men in dirty work  clothes.
“You girls need a ride,” said the man in the driver’s seat. The other one leaned over and gave a long look at us.
I felt my skin prickle and my hands clenched my shopping bag.
My friend laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know..”
My other friend shifted so her long, thin legs were in full view.
I met eyes with the man, and something came over me.
“We don’t need a ride from you!” I screamed, with my eyes bulging.
“Hey, lady,” he said, “we’re just trying to be nice.”
“Yeah,” my friend said, “why are you freaking out?”
I didn’t leave his eyes.
“Get the fuck away from me! I don’t need a ride from you!”
“What the hell is your problem?” he said angrily.
I didn’t answer him.
“Fine,” he grunted, “we’ll just leave.”
“Good!” I yelled as he shifted the truck into drive and sped off.
I gave a long breath.
“Why did you just freak out?” said my friend.
“They were just being nice,” said the other.
And I couldn’t explain what had came over me. All I knew was that I wouldn’t have gotten in that truck over my dead body. It was a gut feeling.
After that, I wasn’t friends with them any longer. After that, I didn’t need the attention.

How to annoy a journalist

My brother's girlfriend, Mary, was recently interviewed for a local newspaper I work for. I actually organized the interview for Mary, unbeknownst to her, by mentioning her name when a fellow reporter was working on a study abroad assignment.
Normally when I get a friend or relation of mine in the newspaper, I feel like I am doing a good deed by recognizing their achievements.
But today, Mary came to the house with only complaints.
"She called and said we could do the interview today or tomorrow."
"That must have been inconvenient for you," said my mother.
"It's like she didn't even give me a choice if I could do the interview or not!" Mary exclaimed.
"You know," I said, "we are given our assignments on Tuesday and we are expected to have them finished by Friday. So, it really was today or tomorrow."
"That's not my fault!"
"But was it really that painful for you? I mean it's more inconvenient for us if we don't get the interview because that means we piss off our editor, and get a sizable chunk out of our paycheck."
"Still it's not her fault," my mom said.
"Well it sounds kind of pathetic," I said.
"And then when she did the interview, she didn't even ask me questions. She just told me to talk about it, she didn't even ask me anything interesting."
"She didn't ask you any questions?" I asked skeptically.
"She was just like 'talk about it'. I bet she is only going to put in the dumb things I said," Mary said.
"Why would she do that?"
"Well people always get me wrong in papers," she said.
I rolled my eyes.
"All she could say was 'what was your first impression?' 'what was the food like?'"
"Those sound like questions to me," I murmured.
"It would have probably been better if she did the interview in person, but, then again, I wouldn't have wanted to actually go somewhere for it."
I had to leave the room. After being editor for my high school yearbook, working for a newspaper for an upwards of 6 months, and conducting over a 100 interviews, I had experienced almost every annoyance imaginable. And Mary named almost every one of them.
First off, people treat me like my time is meaningless. I normally have a three to four day window to do multiple interviews, cover events, and write the assignments.  And during the school year, I have an even smaller time window. Which means, the time we agreed on to do the interview is the time we need to do it. One time I scheduled a video interview with a group of people at my school. It was after school and I had planned to meet them in the parking lot. They said "fuck it" and left before I had time to walk there. Another time, I was scheduled to interview a kid going to military school. He delayed the interview 3 hours so he could sleep in before his work out.
Secondly, people take it as a personal affront when we make a slight mistake. I remember multiple people coming up to me the day the yearbooks were distributed to tell me about minor mistakes. One kid complained that I got his bible verse for a senior quote wrong (4:11, not 5:11). All I could picture, when he told me, were the little scraps of paper people submitted their senior quotes on, and a yearbook staffer having to sift through and hand type each one. One girl bitched me out on facebook for quoting her badly. The words from her lips, in the interview, were "If you don't have a tan, you don't have a chance". I didn't get one syllable wrong.
And thirdly, people think we are responsible for you talking eloquently. You saying something dull like "the experience was great", is not my fault. Normally, in that instance, I follow up with "why was it great?" and if you answer "I can't find the words to describe it" then it really is your fault. You are in an interview for christ sakes, you find the words. If you answer "I don't know" or "um sure" to every question then you won't sound that enlightening. All I can do is fluff up my descriptive prose, but otherwise it is you hanging dry. Also, if you are in an interview and the journalist doesn't ask the perfect question to what you are thinking, then just say it!

But I will say, in contradiction to my complaints above, I have met wonderful people through my interviews. Most people are thankful and eager to tell their story, and help me along the way. A kid at my school committed suicide this year, and through my interviews with his friends, I learned what kind of beautiful person he was. I talked to a local strawberry farmer, who took me with him on his land and gave me one of my most entertaining interviews to date. I interviewed a daughter and mother about a mission trip they went on, and although I didn't agree with the objectives of the mission trip, they still sent me a pie, a hand-made purse, a note, and multiple voice mails to express their gratitude for being interviewed.

I will keep writing and interviewing, but hell people! Get some manners!

Confession: I have a vamp-crush

I have grown up in the second millennium, so yes, I am aware of the vampire craze. I have not read Twilight, mostly because I grew up with Harry Potter and it would be a capital sin to convert to a vampire series.
Actually it is quite funny to listen to a group of Harry Potter fans discuss the Twilight series.
It goes something like this:
"Do I read Twilight? Fuck no."
"Really? I thought since you liked Harry Potter, you might like Twilight too,"
"Are you fucking crazy? I have taste. I don't read something about sparkling vampires, that's gay. Plus, do you know what J.K Rowling has done for literacy in the world? Are you even aware of how prolific her writing is? No you don't because you have mentioned Twilight in my presence."
"So I guess you haven't seen the movies."
"Sure I did, but only to make fun of them."

So, as a die hard Harry Potter fan, I have not crossed the line to the teen craze of vampires. That is, until I started watching True Blood. In a nutshell, True Blood is a tv series on HBO that is about Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress from a podunk town in the south, that starts dating a vampire and all this crazy shit happens. Before every episode there is a caption that reads: graphic violence, graphic sex, graphic nudity, and graphic language. This encapsulates why I watch the series.
But there is one other thing that makes me watch True Blood, and that is Eric Northman.

Say hi to Eric Northman.

So this is why I am really lame. I have a celebrity crush on a vampire.
The last time I had a celebrity crush I was in 5th grade, and it was for Orlando Bloom. At that age I would dream that Orlando was looking at me, then he would put his arm around me. My heart would beat like crazy just by his hand on my shoulder. Then he would lean forward, eyes closed and lips puckered comically, and just before he was about to kiss me, I would wake up. For the rest of the day I would walk around in a daze.
Now, since I'm a bit older and the show features at least one pornographic scene of sex a week, my dream of Eric Northman was little different.
This is even more embarrassing, but I had a sex dream with a vampire. So, in the dream, I was having sex with him, but when I looked down he didn't have a penis. It was just skin, like a ken barbie doll. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

One thing that makes me feel a little bit better, is that most of my friends harbor a similar crush on Eric Northman. So, I guess no one is too good for a vamp-crush. At least I hope so.

A kiss remembered

I still think of him.
Yesterday on a walk through my empty neighborhood, near midnight when the summer bugs were filling the dark with noise, I remembered the first time we kissed.
I was at a reunion, and he was there too. I knew what he thought of me, and he knew about my feelings for him. We were trying to act normal, but I was doing a bad job. My heart beat was on the fritz, my stomach was curling and folding, and I couldn't keep a steady conversation with anybody.
I stood up and walked out of the room, towards the bathroom. I needed to clear my head, hear my voice rationalize things. The bathroom was down a few long hallways. I was in a vacated skyscraper, late at night, in a city. How wild, I thought, coming from a girl with cow pastures outside of her high school.
I stepped into the bathroom. A row of ten stall doors stood still and halfway open. I stood at the mirror, and gave myself a hard look. Stop trying to make something happen in your head. I fixed my hair, straightened my shirt, and left the bathroom.
I turned the corner of the hallway, and he was there. He reached for my hand, and told me to follow him. I did, unbelieving.
He opened a door, it was a small empty room with the electric box on the wall. The overhead light was florescent, and it bathed the moment in a blinding glare. I could see everything happening at that moment, but I was only guided by his hand.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he said back. He leaned forward and gave me my first kiss.

I laughed out loud, in the humid night air, as I passed another mailbox.
That does count as a near perfect first kiss. 
But then my mind fast-forwarded through the rest of the story. When, nine months later, he sat on a park bench and told me, "That was the best kiss I've ever had."
Then he leaned forward, and put his lips on mine. I turned away, with tears in my eyes. I knew it was over, but I couldn't say it out loud. I couldn't even say it to myself.
On my neighborhood street, I felt my throat squeeze with tears, and I said, "I can't do this."
I couldn't reminisce about those beautiful moments, where I felt like my life was taking a spin in a new and irresistible way, because I knew if I thought harder I could track how my life ended up spinning out of control. "I can't do this," I said again.
I heard a movement and a thud. I gasped and froze. I turned and saw a small Asian man, putting his recycling bins onto the curb.
I swallowed my hysterics, and started down the road at a faster pace.

My first bar experience

I am 18 years old, and this is my last summer before I start college. In the town I live in there is a famous music festival every summer, and every summer I attend a few outside concerts and I wander throughout the booths. But that is not the true experience of the music festival. The true experience is going to bars, seeing the bands on a little stage, and dancing half-drunk in a haze of cigarette smoke. Every year before I arrived home at 11 pm,  before the pub crawlers came out. I wanted something different this year.

On Saturday afternoon I asked my brother, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
He is 20 years old, and a junior in college. At his age, you might expect him to be guzzling beers and hitting on sorority girls, but he is quite the opposite. He is still dating his high school sweetheart, and his weekends are normally filled with date nights, new movies, and hanging out with his family. He has never recounted a drunk tale to me, except for the time when he admitted "I had been out for awhile" when he verbally harassed the cook at 5 Guys for getting his order wrong. Other than that, I have only seen him awkwardly hold a beer at the dinner table when my dad decides to be father-son like.
Yet when I asked what his plans were, he said, "I'm going to the festival."
"Who are you seeing?" (as in, what bands)
"I don't know, I'm going with a big group of people."
"So,  you are inviting me to come?" I asked with half-sarcastic doleful eyes.
"Absolutely not," said my brother, without looking from the television.
"Aw come on! Don't you want to show off your little sister around your friends?"
"No, I do not."
"So, I will be knocking on your dorm room at 8?"
"No, you won't," said my brother in the same flat voice.

I didn't expect an invite from my brother. He is a secretive person that doesn't like me to know anything about his college life. I remember when I was a freshman in high school, and he was a junior, I begged to go see Pineapple Express with him and his friends. He gave a similar resolute no, but I gave a hysteric performance to my parents, so ten minutes before he was leaving my dad told him that he was taking me because "it's the right thing to do."

After my brother's rejection, I sauntered into my bedroom. I flopped on my bed, and stared at the ceiling. For years now I had received the same rejection from my brother, and it was expected. I was underage, so the bars were closed off to me. But not this year...
I reached for my cell phone and texted my best friend Megan.  We should go out tonight!!!
Megan has been my best friend since 8 years old. We cast spells on each other, went through awkward puberties together, and got through failed crushes together. Now Megan is 19 and living on her own, which means we go through different things together now. Like she held my hair back when I was puking in her bathroom. That was nice. Or, she totals her car and I haul her around town for the next 2 months. And general boyfriend nonsense, except now it's more serious than crushes.
I texted her at 5:30 in the afternoon, but she didn't respond until 9:30 p.m. I expected that, considering that the thrift store she works at treats her like a slave mule. (for instance: 7 1/2 hour shifts with only a 15 minute break. Where she shoves cheetos in her face and calls me to complain about her job)
Anyway, at 9:30 I am in my pjs, no hope of going out, and looking at college courses I could take next semester. I get a phone call that goes like, "Hey Carm! Just got off work, sorry for not texting. I've rounded up some people, and we're going out! Come downtown!"
I got up from my nest of blankets and laptop, and yelled into the hallway "I'm going out!" to my mom.  She gave a sleepy murmur from bed. I slipped on my red dress. The one that fits me perfectly, that has the adorable cutouts on the chest and back. The last time my dad saw me in the dress he said he never wanted to see me in it again, which means it is perfect for going out.
I could feel my heart buzzing. My hands could only fretfully put on makeup, and I had to fix my mascara multiple times. I'm actually going out! I'm actually going out!
On my way out of the door, my mom called for me. I went into my parents bedroom. My dad was brushing his teeth for bed and saw me. He didn't say anything about my dress. He probably understood. I got a short speech on "No drinking, no drugs, tell us where you are!!" I gave lots of positive replies, and headed out to my car. On the drive downtown I listened to blasting techno, for mood's sake.
When I found some parking--sketchy but free!--I called Megan. No answer. I started walking through downtown. On most nights it's a vibrant college town, but tonight it was a crazed college town.  Every bar was packed, the street was filled, and I saw way too many people I knew. Whenever I saw a group of girls with straight hair and booty shorts, I knew about half of them from my senior class. I even saw a few high school teachers of mine, which were nice and said hi. I kept calling Megan every 4 seconds or so, and I never got a reply. I was beginning to feel awkward because I was alone and walking around, especially when it felt like everyone knew who I was. So I creeped around for a solid 10 minutes, until Megan texted me to let me know they were at The Diner, a classic restaurant of downtown that has the best milkshakes in the south. So I made the trek up to The Diner (a good few blocks uphill). When I entered the restaurant I saw Megan, her boyfriend, her friend from work, and a guy who was the friend's boyfriend (which I based off his arm around her).
I will admit that I am awkward when I meet new people. Upon first meeting me, most people think I am a prude of sorts, but it's only the awkwardness. In a booth meant to comfortably sit two, four were crammed, and I was added on. Megan's boyfriend Brandon put his arm around me and made room for me.
"Stop looking at Carmella," Megan said. Brandon turned to Megan and gave her a kiss.

Megan's friend from work gave me a slight wave, and I remembered her name was Jackie. Her boyfriend reached across the table and introduced himself as Nick. His baseball cap was on backwards and he wore a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, to show off his large build.
"Actually just call him pool boy," Jackie laughed. I figured it was an inside joke.

 The setting was a diner from the 1950s--black and white tiled floor, jukebox, and classic-cut french fries on every plate--but the locale was fast forwarded two generations. A kid in a large panda hat was eating at the table next to us, the waiters were adorned with piercings and tattoos, and the two couples at my table couldn't help groping each other.
They kept making sex jokes that were somewhat serious. I already knew I was acting awkward. I was teetering off the booth, no boyfriend was hanging off my shoulder, and I had no somewhat-serious-sex-joke up my sleeve.
Also, everyone was acting drunk, and I am the most awkward when I am the sober one amongst the intoxicated. After two minutes of giggling that I couldn't find the source of, I asked "Is anyone sober?"
Megan laughed. "I am completely sober."
"Me too," said Jackie.
Nick took a drink from his beer, "Only a light buzz, if that."
Megan pinched Brandon's cheeks. "Now are you drunk? I saw you drinking whiskey earlier."
"Trust me, you would know if I was drunk. I live with an alcoholic."
"Eric?" I asked.
"Yeah. My rent is to supply the alcohol."
"That's it?"
"You would be surprised to see what we go through. You don't know drunk until you keep up with an alcoholic."
I laughed. "Doesn't that make you an alcoholic?"
"No, I just keep up with one," Brandon said.
Megan started laughing.
"Wait, wait. That just sounds bad."
"Yeah, it does!" Jackie snorted into her hand.
"I know you're not an alcoholic honey," Megan said, with laughter in her eyes.
"Because I'm not!" Brandon exclaimed.
"I know baby." Megan then kissed him.
Jakie rolled her eyes. "Let's go."

When we were out in the street--amongst the sorority girls stumbling in heels, and every guy in the same outfit of polo shirt and khakis--we stood around unsure of what to do.
"What do you guys want to do?" asked Brandon.
Everyone shrugged and said something along the lines of "I don't mind, I mean, whatever you guys want to do."
"Well Nick wants to drink," Jackie piped in.
"But we need to get in a bar that lets 18 year olds in." (as in us three girls)
"It's all 21 and up here," said Megan.
"No it's not," I said.
Megan gave me an odd look, considering I've never been in a bar before, and said, "You'd be surprised."
"I'm pretty sure the Reptilia Lounge will let us in," I said.
"Really?" Brandon asked.
"Yeah...someone told me once." Actually, I had done some online research before I left. I could list every bar in the area that was 18+, but I didn't want to sound nerdy or desperate to anyone. I wanted to seem like a natural.
"Alright let's go there!" Megan said.

And we started walking. Jackie and Nick led the way, while Megan and Brandon took up the rear. Since I was a lone body, I oscillated between the two groups.
Brandon put his arms around Megan and I. "It feels like I have two dates tonight!"
"Stop touching Carm," Megan said.
I walked up to Jackie and Nick. We gave our little histories. I am off to college, recently single, and writing for a newspaper. Jackie moved recently from Washington, lives with her sisters, and doesn't have clear plans for college. Nick didn't give his history. I don't know if really said anything. He's from Chicago. I remember that.
We arrived at the Reptilia Lounge. My stomach felt uneasy. Their website said 18+, I was 18 years old, there should be no issue, but I was still worried that I would be denied entrance. Maybe because I still felt like a kid. I felt like the bouncer would see beyond my pretty red dress to my child brain, and say "No, little girl, this is not the place for you."
I handed him my i.d. He dropped it, and apologized profusely as he bent over to retrieve it. He gave a glance at it, handed it back to me, and asked me to hold out my hands. He stamped each hand with an orange circle. I was in, albeit branded.
When I suggested the Reptilia Lounge, there was no specific reason, other than their age policy. My lack of knowledge of the bar was made aware to me when I stepped inside.
Everyone wore black, had sloppy hair, and had multiple tattoos. It was mostly guys, who looked unshowered and half-drunk. The few girls I saw looked like they could fuck me up. They were all bone skinny, but had that druggie-strength look to them.
Jackie leaned over to me. "It doesn't look like we belong here."
Although we looked like fairy godmothers compared to the rest of the bar crowd, we arrived fairly unnoticed. Brandon and Nick headed to the bar to get beers, and the rest of us made our way to the live band. It was a hard metal band. The lyrics were unintelligible, but the vocals were a delightful mix of anger and loudness. Yes, I do mostly listen to bitch music (imogen heap, regina spektor, the cranberries, among others), but I do have a soft spot for screaming-sorts of rock.  That is because I have a confession to make. I, myself, enjoy to do the vocals for hard metal. If I feel particularly uninhibited I will channel an alter-ego where I swing my head around and scream out improvised lyrics. One time my french class got me to do it. Bobby, a classmate who only listened to hard metal, sat stunned after my performance and said I was actually quite good.
Yet the only hard metal performance available to me was to join the mosh pit, where everyone's unshowered bodies intertwined with shoves, kicks, and punches.
Oh hell no. 
Don't get me wrong, I love a good musical release, but, as a girl, I want to dance, not get the shit kicked out of me. What I really wanted was to get up on the stage and start sing-screaming. We stood at the periphery of the mosh pit. Occasionally we would shake our hair around, and once I even did the air guitar. After the 3rd track, Megan poked me and pointed to the patio outside. I followed her out.
 We found a corner to stand in. The night air was a mix of humidity and cigarette smoke, which created an odd atmosphere to breath in. At least I could hear my own voice out on the patio. Soon enough the rest of the group found us.
 Nick looked around at the bar crowd, and said to me, "Would you ever get a tattoo? Like down your arm?" He ran one finger down my shoulder to my wrist.
I was beginning to think that an ethic of partying was flirting with the single girl, just to be nice.
"I plan on getting a tattoo someday, probably not down my arm though. I'm very picky."
 Brandon said, "I could see myself getting a huge ass tattoo when I'm 30 or something."
"Like what?" Megan said.
"I don't know, maybe a dragon." He laughed, but Megan looked at him skeptically.
"Are you religious?" Nick asked, facing me.
I always feel uncomfortable when someone asks me about my spirituality preferences, especially upon meeting someone for the first time. One time I lied and said I was Christian, and this old lady bought me a pizza slice from Sam's Club. Another time I was honest and said I wasn't Christian, and my friend had her church try to save me.
"No," I said.
"Awesome!" Nick exclaimed, and reached to high five me. "You know, I thought you were religious."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you seemed all straight-laced and Jesus friendly."
"That was just me being awkward."
"Yeah, Carmella, is definitely not straight-laced," Megan said.
"I think it's because your so well spoken," Jackie said.
Nick nodded. "Yeah, that's it. The only time I hear someone talk as well as you do, they are normally a prude."
I instantly felt more at ease, my awkwardness left me. I saw a glimpse into these new people, and saw that they were genuine.
"So what are you?" Nick asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Like are you Atheist."
"I think Atheism is a bit harsh--"
"So, you're agnostic. Hell yeah!" He gave me another high five.
"I really don't know what I am," I said.
"Or maybe you just don't care," said Jackie, with a smile.
I think when you are at a bar, or any other party atmosphere, the socially-avoided conversations are the first to be brought up. For instance, a few minutes later Jackie asked me, "Are you a virgin?"
"No," I answered.
"See, I thought you were a virgin! How many men have you been with?"
"Just one."
"Yeah you come off all well-spoken and straight-laced, but you're actually a closet whore!" Nick laughed.
"I don't know about a closet whore..." 
"You know what I meant!"
Jackie then followed Nick back to the bar for a beer or two.
I don't remember what Megan was doing, but I turned to Brandon and said, "So, I ended it with him, but you probably knew that."
"I did know."
"You were probably expecting it, especially with, you know.." Last time I was with Brandon, I was drunk and crying into his arms about my boyfriend.
"I didn't expect it to last, but that was long before that."
"Oh, yeah, I guess so." Since my breakup, almost every friend of mine came out of the woodwork to tell me they had their doubts from the onset. "I think he's still in love with me though."
"And it shows how mature you are that you're not in love with him."
"Yeah, I guess. I just really miss the male attention, you know?"
"Trust me, when you start college you won't miss out on attention, but I will warn you now, they will only be interested in everything below your head."
I smiled at him, and then he gave me a very nice hug. "By the way," he said, "you look very pretty tonight."
"Thanks," I said. He felt like a brother at that moment.
Megan came back with Jackie and Nick. "I'm ready to go," she said.
Everyone murmured, "All right." And then we left.
"Hey, can you drop me off at my car?" I asked.
"No shit," Megan said. "I don't want you to get raped."
When I was dropped off at my car, and I was waving goodbye to everyone, I thought about the amount of sex that was about to be had between those two couples.
I got into my car, completely sober and with no male companion. For most, this would be a failed night on the town, but when I was driving down the empty streets at 2:30 a.m. I felt quite happy.

Braces: vain memoirs of a thirteen year old

Today I was getting braces.
On the ride before my appointment, with my face leaning against the passenger window, my mother told me, "Carmella, everyone gets braces eventually. You will be just as beautiful as you are now, and just think about when you have a beautiful white smile."
I ran my tongue over my teeth, tracing the grooves and dents. I had two "snaggle" teeth that protruded out like a vampire's fangs, and my front teeth looked like two hands shaking, considering one front tooth overlapped the other. My brother told me once that it looked like someone fucked my mouth up with a hammer. I could admit to myself that, yes, my smile could make a British man grimace, but no amount of crooked teeth could prepare me for braces.

The day before, the last day of having the teeth God intended, I went to Chukie-cheese with my friends. The afternoon was spent squeezing through play tubes that were designed for 5 year olds, eating shitty pizza, and posing in the photo booth over and over again.
My friends kept refilling the token slot to try another contorted face, but I kept handing over my tokens to preserve the last moments of my smile. Each time the countdown started I would smile as prettily as I could, trying to consciously hold my face in equal proportions. After the photo was taken, chukie-cheese would appear on the screen before us with a paintbrush. As he waved his furry arm across the screen, our photo would gradually appear. The photo was done in an illustration finish, which blurred out all the details--moles, pimples, stray hairs, and even crooked teeth.

When the photo printed, my friends would grab for it and shriek in laughter over their bulging eyes, double chins, and waggling tongues. Eventually I would take the photograph and stare at my image. My smile was straight and flawless for the first time. I looked like a pretty teenager, instead of the awkward-looking 13 year old I was. I slipped the photo into my pocket. It was like a blurry snap shot of me in a prettier future.
On the drive to the orthodontics office, with my cheek against the passengers window, I thought about that photo. One day I will smile again, I thought, One day I will feel pretty. I know this sounds melodramatic, but even years later, I can distinctly remember the feeling that my life was over.

I sat in the waiting room, lazily flipping through a Seventeen magazine, listening for my name to be called.
"Carmella Mingo?" said an overweight lady in scrubs. I got up and followed her down the hallway.
"This must be a big day for you," the lady said, in a southern-bell accent, "you must be excited about getting braces!"
I looked at her with a perplexed expression, and said nothing.
"It's not going to be that bad, honey!" She tossed her hand, as if getting braces was a trivial phase of life.
I laid down in the dentist chair.
"I will be right back hun, with Dr. Miller," said the lady, as she walked out with a clipboard.
An hour later they returned to me dozing off in the dentist chair.
"Hello," Dr. Miller glanced at the computer screen for my name, "...Carmella Mingo. How are you?"
"um, fine," I muttered.
"Good, good, that's good to hear," said Dr. Miller distractedly, as he glanced through my records. He turned towards the southern lady and said a few things in orthodontic jargon. Then he wheeled towards me with his swivel chair, and the lady situated herself against me so my face was mashed against her soft breasts.
"Now Carmella, I want you to open wide and tilt your mouth back." With a flashlight he prodded around my mouth.
This is it. This is it, I thought. The only view I had was the lady's cleavage and the underside of her double chin. I could also see up Dr. Miller's long nostrils, which were quite sterile looking.
I laid there helplessly as he requested for tools, drilled into my mouth, and made offhand comments about my teeth.
At one point, when he was fastening braces onto my back molar, the drill caught my gum line and I squeezed the hand-rest in pain.
"Does that hurt?"
I nodded my head, and made a strange gurgle sound from the back of my throat.
"I'm sorry dear," he said, and continued drilling. The tear that slid down my cheek went unnoticed.
A few minutes later, Dr. Miller, with his eyes still concentrated on my mouth, said, "So guess what I had for breakfast this morning?"
I raised my eyebrows in confusion.
"I don't know! Tell me!" said the lady in her chipper southern voice.
"I had--can you hand me another wire? thanks dear--I had a chicken biscuit, but with jelly on it."
"Oh, that's odd," the lady gave a laugh, and leaned slightly forward. Her breasts consumed my cheek, and my eyesight was overtaken by the flowery print of her scrubs. "I mean, I've had chicken biscuits before, but never with jelly on it."
"Oh you've got to try it, it's actually quite good." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance across her chest.
"There are so many things I've got to try. You know, so much to experience." She gave a soft laugh.
He looked up from my mouth, and said with a suggestive smile, "Yeah, I will have to get you one of those biscuits."
If one of them bothered to glance into my eyes they would've seen a look that translated to What the fuck? Are you serious? Flirting about chicken biscuits, while you shackle me to years of ugliness!?

Eventually he leaned back, and gave my mouth a final look.
"It looks like we are finished! Yep, they look good." He pulled the latex gloves off his hands, tossed them in the trashcan, and left the room.

Slowly I closed my mouth. I felt like a chimp with protruding overbite.  I ran my tongue over my teeth. The feeling was horrid. My smooth, yet flawed teeth, were now jagged and metallic. It reminded me of the unpleasant sensation when you slide off the concrete ledge of a pool, your wet skin meeting the friction of the rough surface.
The lady shuffled around the office, cleaning tools and setting up for the next patient.
"It's all finished hun, so I can take you back to the lobby now."
I followed her down the hallway. Before we reached the lobby there was a large mirror with sinks underneath, for people to brush their teeth before appointments. I paused, and turned towards the mirrors. With my mouth closed, I still looked like myself--long dark hair, pale face, large green eyes, small nose, and full lips. The words I'm still pretty, I'm still pretty thundered through my head as I slowly stretched my face into a smile. It took only a few seconds for me to start crying. I couldn't tear my eyes from the mirror. I was transfixed by my new, ugly portrait. Now the words thundering through my head were I'm ugly, I'm ugly. And as I stared longer, the uglier I became. My eyes were red and filled with tears, my skin was blotchy, and I had this frozen smile.
"What's wrong?" I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder.
I turned to her. "I'm ugly," I said, "I am so ugly." I fell into her arms and started crying harder.
My mom ran her hands through my hair, and said, "No you aren't, no you aren't."
I heard someone say, "Come here, honey."
I let go of my mother, and before I could orient myself, my face was mashed into the lady's breasts.
"Now baby doll, don't you worry. You are getting pretty, straight smile. Don't you want that?"
I stood there awkwardly wondering when she would let me go.

For the next two years, I never smiled in a photograph. For the next two years, I never flirted with a boy. For the next two years, I lost the confidence it would take years to regain.
I might sound melodramatic or vain, but when I wrote the words 'I'm ugly' I couldn't help crying. I think every woman has a tenderness for the self-consciousness they felt when they were a developing girl. The tenderness resurfaces whenever I feel rejected or vulnerable. Sometimes when I talk to guys, I find myself trying not to smile. Sometimes when I smile before a camera I feel so exposed. Sometimes I still blame things on the words 'I'm ugly.' 

But that blurred Chuckie-Cheese photograph is now a reality. I do have a nice smile, and last night a guy friend of mine told me that I looked the prettiest he ever saw me.

Dad? Brother? What the hell?

I just ate dinner in front of the television with my mother and brother.

My mother walks over to the sink and starts to wash her plate off.

She tells me in an irritated voice, “Carmella, you need to look at the list I made for you. How about you start by cleaning off your desk.”

I am playing Angry Birds on the family Ipad, and I still have two more birds to throw. I make a small groan and launch a bird into a wooden fortress. I kill one pig.

In a similar voice of irritation, but much deeper, I hear, “Carmella, why don’t you get up and do what you are told.”

I look up from the Ipad to the armchair next to me. It’s empty. A few seconds ago my brother was sitting there lazily stretched out, pants unbuttoned, and twirling noodles into his mouth.

I look into the kitchen and my brother is helping my mother load the dishes. That’s odd, I think.  He steps over to the list my mom has written for me.

“Let’s see what you’ve done so far,” he says.

“What the fuck is your deal?” I interject.

My anger is immediate, which is unlike me and especially unlike me if I am directing it towards my brother. In the past, he would still be in the armchair, rubbing his belly, and looking for another Colbert Report on DVR. In the past, we would groan in unison and begrudgingly lift ourselves up from the armchairs.

He scans over the list.

“It looks like you haven’t done much of anything this week.”

“I cleaned out my shower, so you can cross that off,” I respond.

“No, you haven’t.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

“I was just in your shower.”

“Why the hell were you in my shower?”

“I was looking for you. Mom and I had no idea where you were.”

My mom brings a bowl to the sink and starts washing it.

“Yeah, we came downstairs and we had no idea where you were,” she says to me, “your car was still here, so we thought you were abducted by aliens or something.”

“I was walking the fucking dog!” I scream.

I normally don’t swear this often. I haven’t said fuck this much in concentration since my car broke down on the highway because my gas tank was empty.

My brother looks at me with disdain and says, “You are just trying to make an argument so you can avoid getting up.”

“I mean, really, Carmella,” my mother says in a tired voice, “guests will be here in a few days, and I really need your help.

I am fuming now. My brother is standing there, dishrag in hand, smugly looking at me. We are only two years apart but somehow he is acting the part of rational adult and me the screaming teenager.

The longer I sit in the chair, the more selfish I look. I can’t argue myself out of cleaning. I have to help my mom clean to get ready for all my relatives to come to my graduation, but I know if I budge from that chair I will give my brother authority paramount to my father.

I sat there in disbelief and in anger. I know my brother as the one who would risk anything to avoid sweeping the kitchen floor. I know my brother as the one who would dirty every pot and pan in the kitchen to make macroni and cheese, and when asked to clean it, his response would be, “fuck it.”

I point at my brother and say, “I’m not fucking listening to you.” Then I turn to my mom and say, “What do you need help with?”

“Why don’t you start by cleaning you desk, like your brother said.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. I storm off down the hallway. As I do this, I realize I am fulfilling another teenager cliché.

“I’ll be checking your progress in a few minutes,” my brother calls out.

“Fuck you!” I yell over my shoulder.

Now I am at my desk. I have moved some papers around, but other than that I have spent my time writing this.

It’s as if my brother stole my dad’s script for the evening---the tone, the words, the reasoning, everything. Since when does he care what my desk looks like, let alone care where I am? He struts around with the belief that “I’m the adult, so I can tell the kid what to do” just because he is two years older and living on his own.

My whole life my brother and I have been equals—equal in our resistance to chores, and equal in our punishment. Yet today he was handed parent authority, while my mom looked on proudly with a glimmer in her eye that said “you are my favorite child.”

I just keep thinking, I’m his sister after all, he’s supposed to be on my team.

How I became a Feminist: A True Story of Puberty and Intellect

I could equate my body at age 11 to Picasso's artwork. Priceless to it's maker, my mother, and odd to everyone else.

For a writing contest I wrote about what I know best: my body and my mind.
I won the contest, and now everyone knows about my first period. What joy.







Little boys and little girls go to different bathrooms. When I was a kid, I knew my bathroom was the stick figure with the triangular body.  I never noticed the difference between me and little boys, unless our parents wanted us to look nice. For me, stockings were tugged onto my limp legs, and for boys, sweaters were shoved over their heads. I don’t remember the first time I heard the word feminism, but from an early age I associated it with burning your bra, not looking pretty, and not believing in happily ever after. I thought feminism was an over-reaction until I became a woman myself.
I grew up a princess. I was my daddy’s little girl, and I thought my mother was the prettiest woman alive. Often I would send a little prayer thanking God for making me a girl. And why? I could walk in gym class, my brother could never hit me no matter what I said, and in every Disney movie prince charming pursues the girl, not the other way around. I was living a charmed life.
Everything started to make sense when I hit puberty. It began with my first bra. In the dressing room, my mother stood back and told me, “What a pretty young lady you have become!” I felt like an alien. The next day in class, while learning long division, a boy leaned over and snapped my bra strap. He yelled, “Guess who has a bra!” Already, I was willing to torch them.
The next year, I got my first period. I thought I was dying, and when I learned that it happens to every woman every month, I still thought I was going to die. The princess of my fairytales was no longer so pretty when she a dirty little secret to clean up after. Since when are there tampons in Wonderland?
 
​From puberty, I have also learned that natural beauty is a work in progress. While the boys smelled like sweat after recess and mixed their cafeteria food into nauseating concoctions, girls had to learn how to be pretty. No longer was I thanking God for making me a girl, but instead wondering why God didn’t make us hairless except for our precious heads. I, along with every 6th grade girl, was shocked to realize that every 8th grade girl shaved their legs and armpits, plucked their eyebrows, and straightened their hair. Every woman can remember their first shaving experience. It’s catastrophic. A young girl handling a razor to achieve beauty has hazardous results. I remember a girl that shaved her eyebrows off. The same goes for makeup. A girl equipped with eyeliner, powders, and lipstick for the first time can make a sweet-looking girl into a painted lady of the night. On the first day of 7th grade I was determined to be one of those “pretty” girls, especially after my summer crush called me a bookworm. That morning I slathered onto my face whatever I could find in my mother’s bathroom. When I stepped onto the bus the first boy to glance at me shrieked in horror and exclaimed, “My God, what happened to your face?”
​Apart from my rookie mistakes, I came out a better looking person with more self-confidence. While the boy’s voices cracked and awkward dark hairs hung over their lips, I was proud of being a girl again. Yet, it seemed, a girl’s evolution ended at puberty, while chimps grew into men. Escaping puberty with only a bruised ego did not make me a feminist. I’m not in the streets burning my bra nor do I announce makeup is the poison of pop culture. After the emotional and physical overall of puberty, the girls are expected to wait for the boys. The girls with patience laugh at their inane jokes and act like the “ditz” they are called. The impatient girls are the feminists, the ones unable to let a poor joke go without criticism and the ones who can’t act dumb.
​There is an integral shift in females, after the first bra and new curves, which has gone unnoticed. Females either fall back or plough forward. The girls that fall back let their pretty, shaved legs be a product for the boys, while the girls that plough forward let their pretty, shaved legs be a source of self-empowerment. I began to notice the integral shift at the beginning of high school. The boys, or young men, were still scrawny and rude. For them, flirting with a girl meant calling her dumb. I had a choice: I could play the part of dumb and simple and hopefully get a boyfriend, or I could have an opinion and pursue what I loved. After being an ugly duckling with a passion for words, the choice was made for me. I was to be a feminist.
​I have not burned my bra, I try to look pretty, and I still believe in happily ever after. As a little girl I did not know being a princess meant being a feminist. After a childhood, I learned the boys and girls bathroom is just the beginning of differences.
After four years of high school, some guys still call us dumb while other guys enjoy a conversation. As school policy, girls cannot have two male dates to prom yet two girls can accompany a male to the dance. The females at the top are perceived as ruthless over achievers, while the males are perceived as naturally talented. There is still injustice, but at least I can send a prayer to God saying, I love who I am---a girl.

radiation makes you glow

A few goals for the listless

I am a senior in high school, and I have gotten lazy. Isn't this expected? That's what I assumed so I lavished in Sex and the City reruns and going out for good coffee with my boyfriend. The other day my mother said to me, "You have no more ambition." A few days later my brother told me, "You seem half yourself these days." And I knew something was wrong when my friend admitted, "Carmella, I just don't want you to settle."
Thus, a revamped life perspective has been furnished.
And this is what made my mind boil:
So, on Sunday morning I was lying in bed with my ipad reading a local newspaper. This one isn’t about snow day festivities or repaving roads, it’s the counterculture counterpart of my city—rock bands, indie movies, environmental activists, and vegan recipes. I read an interesting review on a documentary and at the bottom of the page was the journalist biography. To my horror it was a high school intern, and she was the editor of an award-winning student magazine. That leads to my first resolution.
 
1. Rekindle my jealousy
​That girl, that high school intern, has sniffed out and taken the opportunities I have been too lazy to look for. I am editor of my school’s literary magazine, but have we won awards? No…I mean, not yet. Am I an intern for the coolest publication in a fifty mile radius? No.
​My jealousy does not spawn stalker tactics, self-loathing, or denial of meaning in the world. My jealousy ignites the fire for my own progress. I have already compiled the phone numbers of all the publications in my city, and I am actually writing for my blog. So, for all those high school literary laureates, I’m gonna catch up.
 
2. Stop worrying about my reputation
​I went to a writer’s conference and an author said, “My first book was co-written by my mother. That is, her voice was always nagging in my head. Whenever I tried to write a sex scene it felt like my mother was in the story, sitting on the edge of bed glaring. Eventually, I had to flick her off my shoulder and write honestly. Now I write sex scenes so honestly I need a cold shower afterwards.” I have a pseudonym to protect my reputation, but I still carefully toe the line because most of my readers know me personally. Right now all of you are loitering on my shoulder. Saying, “that’s mean”, “that’s too sentimental”, “you did that?”, “does your mom know about that?”.  You have invaded, interrupted, and deleted my words too many times. As of 2011, you are being kicked out.
 
3. Embrace the present
​I spent over an hour today imagining my future life. Today I was leading an anti-corruption media campaign in Burma. I was investigating military leaders and heads of state, and I discovered they are buying nuclear warheads from North Korea. In one scenario, there is an assassination attempt against me. The bullet grazes my shoulder, but the friend,I was having dinner with, Aung san suu Kyi was shot in the stomach. Somehow we flee the scene and I administer care to Aunng and I. I call a doctor I can trust (what if the assasins find me at the hospital?), the doctor arranges for us to be flown out of the country. I carry Aun< g into a deserted field were we are picked up by a helicopter, and flown into Thailand. Scenerio number two, is that I am kidnapped and held hostage by Burma military when they discover that I know about their nuclear warhead trading. While I am in prison, NATO arranges for a covert band of spies to free me. I successfully escape prison and flee the country. In both scenarios, I am flown to Washington D.C and inform the president about the Burma and North Korea alliance. (I imagine and plot multiple future escapades a day.) ​This took up half my morning. My resolution is to live in the present, and embrace my reality. Make more friends, have adventures, and reach for those opportunities.

 
Aung San Suu Kyi: Nobel prize winner, political prisoner, symbol of peace, my BFF!!!

Because my friend is racist

 

(I'd like to be Obama for a day--sure, being president would be nice, but I just want to be black for a day)

This is my friend's secret. She is white and jewish. Innocently enough, she wants to be black, and out of all the blacks of course she chose Obama. 

According to certain persons, especially old southern ladies, this is racism. In their minds if you mention black, especially if referring to that monkey president they hate, you are then racist. 

I guess I'm racist, as well, because I want to Oprah for a day. 

I am like clay

I applied to Emerson College this year, and I was asked 'what would the title of your life be?'
And this was my take...
The title of my life story would be, The Clay Phase. No, I am not a renowned sculptor; my greatest achievement in clay is a thumb pot I mashed together when I was eight years old. “The clay phase” is a term coined by mother to describe my puberty. At age 11, I was an awkwardly shaped kid—overweight, boat anchor feet, and not even five feet tall. In middle school, no one wants to be a ‘unique’ shape, but the same shape as everyone else. My mother tried to explain that I was growing, morphing like clay, to become a tall, thin, and beautiful lady. At the time, the words “clay phase” made everything worse. Clay is shapeless, squishy, and an artistic word for mud. Eventually I did grow into the lady my mother described, and now I look onto the term, “the clay phase”, with new eyes. It wasn’t just my body that has been morphing over these past 18 years, but my morals, passions, dislikes, and decisions. I am still in my clay phase, and I always will be because, no matter how hard I have tried, I have always been a ‘unique’ shape amongst the ordinary.

Artistic portrayal of my puberty