So, what the f@#% am I doing with my life?

It rained again today and I feel utterly useless. Walking in the rain, I thought to myself, what the f*@$ am I doing with my life? Because I honestly can't think of even one little thing that has meaning in my life right now. I go to class, I study and work hard so that I can get a job where I will help other people do the same thing and then, at the end of the day, I'll go home either to be alone or to be with my husband who doesn't love me and thinks how boring life is with me and my kids who will probably think I'm annoying or stupid.

I feel like no one truly knows me. Heck, who am I kidding, I don't even know myself. I have forgotten who I am and don't know the person I have become. And I look at myself and see someone who I don't really like and who I feel other people don't really like and I just feel so alone. People tell me I should get a boyfriend. As if that would help. Then I'd just feel like someone was judging me and molding me into what they want me to be before realizing that it's not worth it and leaving me alone. Love is selfish. It hurts people. It gets your hopes up, puts on a mask of well-being, and then screws you over. All I want is to know who I am, to feel like I am doing something worthwhile with my life, and have someone to understand me without judging me. I want someone to stand by me, to hold me and tell me it's okay, to help me figure out what the hell I'm doing. Someone who's just happy to be with me and to understand me and look beyond my facade.

So, yeah. Basically, I'm don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life and don't have a desire to do anything. My mind is just floating away.

Sophomore year and my existential crisis

So here I am--almost one month into my sophomore year of college--sitting in my room as the rain continues to come down in the Bronx. Since my return to Fordham and my friends which I have here, I have made quite a few observations of myself and things I would like to change about myself.

I feel as if, in my freshman year, I sold myself a little bit short. I really liked the person I was at the end of high school. She was funny, smart, in control, and she knew who she was. She wasn't concerned about what other people thought about her because she knew she was doing what was right.

I feel like when I came to college, I lost a little part of myself. When you go to college, you come in with a tabula rasa; no one knows you. However, I find myself wishing more and more that people knew me and not the intimidated and odd version of myself which has come about. I feel like people don't know me and that I don't know how to change that. It's going to take a lot of work and a helluva lot of soul-searching. As Regina Spektor says, "You can write, but you can't edit." Once you establish yourself as a certain someone, you can't change it. I hope it's not too late for me to go back to that person I was and really show people who I am.

I had a really good Saturday last weekend. I hung out with some very good friends, whom I hadn't spent time with in a while. And I was just happy. I was myself, without reservations. I didn't feel like some fake semblance of myself. Sadly, I have realised that one of my closest friends from last year is not the person I thought they were. And I feel like when we are together I am compromising myself because I'm putting on an appearance of well-being and being someone I don't like and want to be.

SO: from now on, I want to be myself. Nothing more and nothing less. Just me. In all my nerdy, quirky, and genuine ways. That's all I want. Life is too short not to be happy with yourself.

No more selling myself short, no more pretending, and no more crap--what you see is what you get.

Sarko and Carla: New Hope for a New Europe?

As a French citizen, I am more interested than most Americans in the happenings across the pond with regards to France and Europe. Thus, naturally, when I heard the news of French President Nicholas Sarkozy’s messy divorce from his wife, Cecilia, and his subsequent marriage to Italian heiress and former-supermodel turned singer, Carla Bruni, I was to put it mildly, troubled. To me, it seemed like a Donald Trump-esque move from an already controversial president: trading in the older model for a hotter, richer, newer one.

Cecilia was no great favourite with the French—loud, unpredictable, and blatantly unfaithful, she told a reporter who asked her where she saw herself in five years that her dream would be to live in Manhattan and jog in Central Park. To be the wife of the French president and to have your ultimate goal in life be to leave France and “faire du footing” seems a little odd to me.

But back to the wedding of Sarko and Carla—After the marriage of the new president, France’s critical eyes were turned on Carla Bruni, the new Madame le president. What would she do? Was she just a pretty and—ahem—rich girl seeking to propel herself into France’s high political circles? Most importantly: How long would they last?

After several months of scrutiny, however, the French (including myself) have fallen in love with Carla. There’s a lot to like about her: she’s an elegant and fresh breath of air into one of Europe’s oldest and most unchanging countries and her influence over her new husband seems to be doing a lot of good. Sarko seems settled and content and, now that his PR nightmares have drifted away with his ex-wife, he has gained popularity. When in France visiting family, I spoke to family friends about the President’s new wife. From young to old, they all rave about her. “She’s so good for him.” “I think she’s good for France.” “Carla is a great face for France.” “I love her music,” one person told me. “She hasn’t much of a voice, but her lyrics are wonderful.”

And far from the typical celebrity (that’s what they are, isn’t it?) marriage, it seems like it might—dare I say it?—last. They seem so well-suited to each other and Carla appears to be a great calming influence. There are even rumours that she might be pregnant. For me, this is a whole new chance for Sarko to start afresh, get focused, and make France better. How often can people boast that they have hope in politicians? Also, as France tends more towards a European identity, a successful presidential couple with backgrounds representing the new and growing France (he is descended from Greek and Hungarian Jews and she from Italian tycoons), might be the best recipe for France right now.

In conclusion, I don’t know much about French politics. All I have to say is that I love Carla (I even bought her CD!) and I hope that she continues to inspire hope in the French.

Oh, and what happened to Cecilia? No need to worry; she's doing just fine. She married her lover shortly after the divorce and has since moved to an expensive apartment in Manhattan. Go figure...

Madame le President? Bah oui!

* * *

Je suis une enfant
Malgré mes quarante ans
Malgré mes trente amants
Une enfant
….
Mon âme conteste ma peau proteste
Moi je rêve de maintenant
Car je suis une enfant
Je tourne le dos au temps
Cheveux et jupe au vent
Une enfant

Copyright 2008, Teorema et Carla Bruni

The End of Summer

I looked at the calendar today and realized that it's just over a week until I move back to school. Now, I'm not going to say, "Gee gosh, this summer went by fast," because it didn't go by that fast. In fact, it was a very good summer, the best I have had in years.

Reasons why I had a good summer:

1. I feel like I accomplished a lot of things. I did a lot of reading--for example, I've read 18 out of my 23 books on my summer reading list thus far. I did some writing, gardening, took long bike rides, went to Europe, etc.

2. I actually saw people. This is a big change from the past. Usually, I don't see anyone my own age / my friends for the entire summer, and instead read all the time and get bored out of my mind. Not so this summer. I visited people, I made "hanging out" dates, I went to people's houses. Totally awesome.

3. I feel healthy. I've been eating well, taking care of myself, troubleshooting and I feel prettier and healthier than I did at the beginning of the summer.

I just realized that this post has been kind of lame. But it's all true. So there :)

THE END

Gardening with an English Major

My grandmother cultivated my interest in gardening from the time when I first learned to stand. She loved to garden and it showed. Her small dirt patch in the backyard of her suburban house was always brimming with beautiful blooms and even had a little kitchen garden at the back. After school, I would play outside and tend the patch for hours.

But if her garden in the city was good, her garden in Vermont was truly outstanding in its size and variety. Hundreds of feet in diameter, she successfully grew any vegetable you could think of. There were rows upon rows of carrots, parsley, pole beans, sunflowers, tomatoes, potatoes, and her specialty, zucchini. In addition to the vegetable patch, she had about an acre of raspberry bushes, with huge yields. By the end of the summer, we had a ton of produce: beautiful carrots, bushels of beans, lots of giant zucchini (I’m talking four feet long and half a foot wide), and gallons of raspberries for pie-baking and jam-making.

I never thought of myself as a gardener; I just kind of hung around in the back, watching and learning from my grandmother’s verdant thumb. I guess it must have rubbed off because I seem to have caught the gardening bug. One of my main summer activities is planning, planting, and caring for my garden which gets bigger and more beautiful each year. I have expanded the vegetable garden (though it is still way too small), now have a giant raspberry patch started from shoots from grandma’s garden (needless to say, they have flourished), and a steadily increasing number of flower beds.

I love my flower beds. I love seeing them look good and getting positive feedback on them. I love seeing the yard in perfect condition: trimmed, blooming, and weed-free.

I have been planning a theme for my garden for a few summers now. Being the epitome of a nerdy English major and a Jane Austen addict, I of course had to have a literary theme for my garden. Then I got an idea: why not plan a traditional English garden with plants mentioned in Jane Austen novels? I googled it. No one else seemed to be that crazy. So, I was on my own to create the perfect Jane Austen garden. But what to plant and how to plan it? Maiden pinks, foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and phlox were all on my short list. I then realized that it would be almost physically and monetarily impossible for me to do. So, I was to manifest my literary plans in another fashion.

In the middle of the night I woke up and was thinking about Jane Austen and how she would play into my garden. Then it clicked. Why not name my different flower beds after Jane Austen heroines based on the appearance and the nature of the flowers in them, distinguished by painted signs bearing their names? Eureka!

The first was “Elinor and Marianne” (of Sense and Sensibility), which would be on the right side of the bilco. The flowers there are very different and, yet, they work seamlessly together. I have giant hostas and rambunctious bee balms, as well as some false mallow and cosmos. The hostas and the cosmos are like Elinor: they are reserved, stable, and strong, but just when you don’t expect it, they bloom with stunning flowers. The bee balm and mallow are for Marianne: they’re bright, overflowing, and vibrant. The two work very well together, complimenting each other’s vastly different qualities in a pleasant manner.

Next, there’s “Anne” on the side of the garage, inspired by the heroine of Persuasion. Anne is patient, loving, and most of all faithful. So are the flowers in her bed. There are bleeding hearts (which I found particularly appropriate), heirloom peonies, and resurrection lilies. All of them are pink and feminine, but sturdy and beautiful. Most importantly, while mostly dormant and less than eye-catching, when they bloom, they create a show that is not to be missed. They are old faithfuls and continue to grow and become more beautiful with time.

I am planning a “Catherine” bed for Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey. Of course, I will be filling it with fantastical and eye-popping beauties, such as sunflowers, perhaps reminiscent of something Catherine would have read about in a novel or fantasized about while daydreaming. “Emma” will be stately and beautiful, and filled with feminine charm and grace. “Elizabeth” (and “Jane” I think) will be beautiful without being presumptuous, and filled with old favourites we might have found growing outside of Longbourn.

All in all, I think this English major has a great gardening season ahead of her.

Parisian Spree, Part 2: Arrival and First Day

ke I arrived at the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport at seven thirty in the morning on May 27, from whence I proceeded to take the Air France Bus to the Gare Austerlitz. Having arrived at the train station, I took the 91 bus which drops me off literally in front of my door.

I have always found that the best and most comprehensive Parisian buses all stop within a 3 block distance from my front door. There’s the 91, which connects you to all of the Parisian train stations: Austerlitz, Montparnasse (from where we take our yearly TGV train to the beautiful region of Brittany to visit my family in the good ol’ ancestral abode on the sea), and Lyons. That’s pretty convenient if you ask me. Then, there’s the 67, which runs to the Louvre, the Hotel de Ville (and drops me at the door of my favourite department store, BHV), Pigalle, and the Bohemian paradise of Montmartre. Finally, my favourite bus is the 27. The farthest away, it is by far the best, running to the Place Saint Michel, Notre Dame, the Musée d’Orsay, and the Jardin du Luxembourg. The best thing to do is to purchase un carnet, a package of reduced bus tickets, and to go wild. It’s fairly inexpensive, extremely efficient, pleasant, and scenic—everything that the New York bus system is not (hence why I don’t ride it).

However, I have gone into too much detail over my love of the Parisian bus system. I arrived chez moi, ready to collapse in a heap. My tante Eliane lives next door. Therefore, I was on my own for the first time in the petit studio. First thing, turn on the electric. Done. Turn on water. Okie dokie. Turn on the hot water. Hmm. How do I do that again? So after about 20 minutes trying to figure out how to turn on the hot water, I gave up and took a very cold and very refreshing shower. Tasty. Now to collapse. *Bring!* I pick up the phone, fearing that it’s Eliane, who likes to listen for me at the door. But no, it was Marie and Kempy asking whether I wanted to have breakfast.

“We’re at Montparnasse. How do we get to you?”

Heh heh, said I.

“You take the 91 bus and it drops you off in front of the door.”

Score. I salute you, Parisian bus system.

I hurriedly made myself look presentable, which is very difficult to do when one has not slept in about 24 hours, thinks that it’s 3 in the morning, was just dropped into a foreign country, and has to entertain ones friend’s abroad. I went out looking like a mole unhappy to see the light. It was also raining.

Breakfast was lovely and gloriously French.

“Kempy and I were thinking of going to the Musée d’Orsay. Would you like to come?”

I was feeling decent and wanted to spend time with my friends, so I agreed. We took the 27 bus (yesss) to the museum and waited on line in the rain for about half an hour. I felt faint. What I’ll do to peruse room upon room of expressionist art...anyway. We spent several hours in the museum, after which I felt like I was going to collapse. I also still had to go grocery shopping, unpack, and figure out how to turn on the hot water. I went home, ploughed through all of my chores, and died.

Please stay tuned forthe next and markedly more interesting and entertaining installment in my Parisian Spree chronicles.

Ooh la la! Parisian Spree, Part I

Thus begins the account of my Parisian adventure:

On Memorial Day 2008, I found myself aboard an American Airlines flight to the city of light—La Ville Lumiere. After a short sojourn in the Green Mountains of Vermont, I—like the migratory bird that I am—was to fly to Paris to visit my aged French aunt, Eliane, and also to celebrate the birthday of my best friend, Marie, in true style along the quais of the Seine. This was to be my first trip to Europe alone, as well as a true test of the quality of my language skills, considering that I would be unable to speak English for the majority of the trip.

Thus, my bag was carefully packed and checked, I was prepared with reading materials for the long flight ahead, and I anxiously awaited the beginning of my Parisian adventure.
Now, you would think that an American Airlines flight en route to Paris would be overrun with American tourists: Long-Guylanders off to see Paree, old fogies on grand tours of Europe (14 charming European countries in 10 days!), and unnaturally loud children armed with video games and travel gear. Not so; It turns out that the passengers were almost entirely French en vacances, that is, except for me and the crew.

Hmmm, an entirely French flight with an English-only-speaking crew and you have got a sitcom in the making. Case in point: apparently alcoholic drinks are no longer compris on the flight. Indeed, you can no longer enjoy a little bottle of wine with your pre-packaged food. Quel horreur! Needless to say, many Frenchies were obliged to whip out some cash to satisfy that familiar nightly craving. Ah, well. Ça c’est la vie.

Anyway, back to the flight. I found my seat with relative ease and apprehensively waited for the arrival of my neighbour for the flight. Would it be a tight-lipped French businessman? A quiet artiste? The handsome and charming French boy of my dreams? None of the above. Turns out that Travelocity paired me with my exact opposite. A young, Arab-looking man sat next to me and we sat in silence as we waited for the take-off. Suddenly, he turns to me. This might just have been one of the most interesting and, now, entertaining conversations of my life.

The following conversation was conducted in French and broken English. Lines stand for extremely long and awkward pauses in the conversation. He always initiates the conversation. It gets progressively more awkward as it goes along.

“So, you are French?”
“No, American. But my family is French.”
“From Paris?”
“No, from Brittany.”
“I am French—from Paris.” I did gather that you were French.
“Oh.”
“But I have been visiting my brother in Woodside. You know this?” Well, no.
“Yes.”
------------
“You have family in France?”
“Yes, my aunt lives in Paris. My uncle lives in Geneva.”
“And you are staying in France for how long?”
“Ten days.”
------------
“I have been to discotheques every night this week.”
“Oh?” Oh, Lord. He’s a party animal, is he?
“I got home at six in the morning today.”
“Oh my.” Gulp.
------------
“Do you work?”
“No, I am a student.”
“And what do you study?”
“I study English literature and French. I am thinking about doing my specialization in medieval studies.”
“How long will that take?”
“Three years.”
------------
“You speak very good French.”
“Thank you. I have been studying French for four years now.”
“I don’t like American girls.” Oh, good. My self esteem just shot up thirty points.
“Oh?”
“They’re strange.”
“Yes, they can be I suppose.”
“But you, you look French.”
“Well, my family is French.” Indeed.
“And your parents?”
“My mother is French. My father is German.”
“Ah.”
------------
“Do you meet good people in New York?”
“Yes, people are very nice.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived in New York?”
“All my life. I was born there.”
“So, you are English?” Hadn’t we determined this already?
“No, American.” As I said before.
“Yes, English.” Nooo.....
“Well, I am English as in from America. Not from Great Britain.”
------------
Now it gets awkward. The following remark was said in English.
“You are very white.”
Um, OK, then. “Umm, thank you.” How do you respond to that?
“When I was in New York, I didn’t see many white girls.” Pale? Fair? “You are the fourth blonde I have watched.” Wait, what?!? Let’s get this straight; confusing “to see” and “to watch” makes for some uncomfortable conversation.
“Ah...”
------------
“There are lots of blacks in New York.”
“Yes, we have people of all internationalities. Like Paris.”
“But you are very white.”
Hadn’t we determined that? Haven’t you been watching me?
“You look like a European girl.” Well, I am ethnically European.
“Thank you.” I guess.
------------
“Do a lot of people in New York speak Spanish?”
“Yes. English is becoming almost like a second language.”
“Do they speak what they speak in Spain?”
“No, it’s slightly different.”
With an air of finality and accusation, “It’s the Mexicans.”
------------
“Are you married?” Looking at my omnipresent claddagh ring.
“No.”
“Why do you wear that ring then? When we wear a ring there, it means we are married.” That is kind of international, no?
“Well, um. It’s the only finger it wouldn’t fall off of. It’s a Celtic symbol. If the heart is turned in, it means you are married.”
“Ah.”
------------
“How long is it since you have been in France?”
“A year.”
“And have you been to Spain?”
“Yes, I was there for two weeks.”
“Have you been everywhere?” Just slightly creepy.
“Certainly not.”
“Did you like the discotheques in Madrid?” Did I say I was in Madrid?
“I didn’t go.”
“No?!?” Is that such a surprise?
“No, not at all.” I am telling the truth.
“How strange...” Must I go to the discotheque?
------------
“What’s your name?”
“Sorry?” I hadn’t heard him the first time.
“What is your family name?”
“Metzler.”
“Metz-lair. Ah, nice to meet you! My name is Charles.” You said family name, silly!
------------
“Is anyone picking you up at the airport?” Lord, you’re some kind of sketch rapist. I am going to be molested and killed in a dark alleyway.
“No, I am taking the Air France Bus.”
------------
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Do you need to know this?
“No.”
“No?” Can’t you take “no” for an answer?
“No.” So there.
“So, you’re not getting it?” What?
“What?”
“So...you’re not getting any?” What the f#@k?!? How the hell, do you respond to something like that?
“Um.....no....um.” A-w-k-w-a-r-d.
“Hmm. No?” Don’t think you’re getting any, creeper.
“NO.”

And that was the last thing I said. This was all before take-off, which makes for a super-duper-awkward seven-and-a-half hours. I pretended to be asleep the entire time so that he wouldn’t talk to me. I did not sleep. I was not molested. I did not enjoy my dinner, which looked and tasted like tissues and paste. When the flight ended, I ran off the plane and bolted. Talk about an entrance. Bienvenue à Paris! *gulp*