Boxers, or Briefs: Women No Longer Need to Guess

Just recently, I went on a cruise to Bermuda. Yes, it was lovely. Yes, I met a ton of good-hearted people. Yes, the sand was indeed tinted pink.

But one of the many interesting segments of the trip involved an onboard comedian, who kept his act clean and managed to attain the attention of the audience. He submitted a few statements about my generation and the differences between his and our's. As I lay in our cabin that night, I started to conjure a few aspects that actually bugged me to the core about our generation. Don't dub me a Carrie Complainer, but some truly evident nuances about us just made me question "WHY?!" in the most agitated way.

1. Why do some boys feel the need to show their boxers and leave their pants hanging low, belt still intact? What is the use of that belt? And why not just wear your boxers outside of your pants if you're that interested in letting the public know if you're a Joe Boxer or Hanes proponent?

2. Why does "badass" have to be defined by rappers and hip-hop artists, who hold guns sideways and think this angle is the most efficient way of shooting? Isn't it harder to target someone or something? And what about their dance moves? They just move their arms in high, robotic manners, so where's the talent? Can't we return to the days of Mo-town?

3. Why is rap music even called music? Why is most of it about sex in the club, shooting up your brother, and earning money from drug-dealing? Did anyone notice how pessimistic and negative their lyrics are, that the message doesn't actually make you happy? When you attend their concerts, they just walk around stage and point in an authoritative manner: how do you still dance to this? Life isn't all sunshine and rainbows, but their lives must SUCK, despite the fact they live in mansions and actually pay to have real gold teeth?

4. Why is "emo" music becoming such a fad? Why does each singer from those bands, and each melody they create, sound the same? Why do we label that "music," when they whine about "oppression" & their "broken hearts" & only appeal to that group of unappreciative teenagers still going through puberty? If these kids synced some Temptations or even The Doors to their mp3 players, maybe their "depression" would disappear and they'd realize that more than half of them actually live the good life?

5. Why are we so addicted to Facebook? Yes, I have one, and who doesn't at my age, but how many of your Facebook friends out of 400, 500, 700, 1000, can you actually refer to as a "friend"? If we all weeded out our good friends on Facebook, wouldn't we be down to at least 50 people on whom we can rely, and do we avoid doing this entirely because we fear losing the popularity contest?

6. Why is dancing from the 2000's consisting of the ability to just pelvic thrust and to line dance? Where's the talent? I can grind just as well as the next girl, but I'm not going to deny how stupid I feel in comparison when I notice my mom and dad salsa dancing, or ballroom dancing, or even just doing the twist. When a guy asks you to dance at a party, why does he immediately grab your waist and turn you around so you aren't facing him and then proceeds to move his hips back and forth while pressing them to yours? How can you even form conversational topics when all you feel is that guy's erection?

7. Why is chivalry almost dead (and I'm not saying the independence of women is grossly unimportant, merely that the lack of respect we receive from the opposite sex, whether earned or not, is appalling)? Why do my boobs and vagina label me as just a commodity for a good portion of the male population? Sure, men of the early 19th century noticed our skinny waists (thank you, corsets) and thought, "That's the girl I want to marry," but they also pulled out our chairs, respected our space, refrained from always asking for a "blowie," and occassionally recited some half-decent poetry? Nowadays, if man not laid by woman by/during college, man big pussy.

Granted, none of the above include the positives about our generation. I will admit that those can be listed just as well and as often as the negatives.

But really, guys: why buys jeans with built-in boxers that reach right below your belly-button?

No Monkeys Were Harmed in the Baking of This Dessert.

When you mention devouring and loving "monkey bread," you receive a lot of suspicious and concerned facial expressions. What is this dessert, and why call it "monkey bread"? It's asking for trouble from PITA, right?

Nope. Monkey bread is the entertaining dessert that tastes like a cinnamon bun, only better. Tastebuds are intrigued, as the nuggets covered in cinnamon, sugar, and butter are pulled a part and popped into your mouth. For kids, the mess is fun: fingers drenched in gooey and sugary splendor!

In some ways (and this may be a stretch), monkey bread can be used as a metaphor for life. You have to keep eating until it's all gone, because if you don't finish each 25-calorie nugget, someone else will. Savor each, and possibly dip it in cream cheese icing to add some pizzazz. The message is a lot like carpe diem, or carpe noctem, to cherish each second/mouthful as if it's your last ... nugget of monkey bread.

And that one nugget is highly unhleathy. Once a health nut indulges and frees his/her troubled spirit, he/she has surmounted various obstacles--fears of weight gain, heart failure, cavities. Nothing can prevent them from picking away at the best stuff on Earth. After all, if you can laugh in the face of danger, then aren't you living a full life?

Terrible thought: in Disney's Beauty and the Beast, what if the rose were actually a full cake of monkey bread, and when the last nugget was eaten (rather than the last petal), then he would remain a monster for eternity? The following scenarios are likely:

1. The beast would accidentally speed up time because he would constantly face the temptation to eat it.
2. When Belle illegally explores the West Wing and happens to find the monkey bread, she would no doubt have a morsel...or ten.
3. The monkey bread would spoil and slowly deteriorate. A mortal sin, to be sure.
4. The enchantress might have poisoned it. And the beast would die.

These ramblings are the consequences of what occurs when you monkey around with your food.

Do you have a "FOE-bia?"

Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.
Bogyphobia- Fear of bogeys or the bogeyman.
Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women.
Dutchphobia- Fear of the Dutch.
Euphobia- Fear of hearing good news.
Gnosiophobia- Fear of knowledge.
Hobophobia- Fear of bums or beggars.
Ithyphallophobia- Fear of seeing, thinking about or having an erect penis.
(J options were too rascist.)
Kosmikophobia- Fear of cosmic phenomenon
Linonophobia- Fear of string.
Myctophobia- Fear of darkness.
Nostophobia- Fear of returning home.
Ommetaphobia or Ommatophobia- Fear of eyes. (Well, that's a huge issue...)
Paraskavedekatriaphobia- Fear of Friday the 13th.
Quadraphobia- Fear of the number four.
Rhytiphobia- Fear of getting wrinkles.
Staurophobia- Fear of crosses or the crucifix.
Taphephobia- Fear of being buried alive or of cemeteries.
Uranophobia or Ouranophobia- Fear of heaven.
Vestiphobia- Fear of clothing.
Walloonphobia- Fear of the Walloons. (Wikipedia that.)
Xerophobia- Fear of dryness.
(Y-phobia has yet to exist. Conjure something.)
Zeusophobia- Fear of God or gods.

2 Years

Two years ago from April 22, I left school on time and drove to my grandparents' house not 5 minutes away. Poppop was dying, and he was in good, caring hands back in the very house in which my dad, uncles, and aunt had grown up and cultivated so many memories. That house hosted so many family reunions and Christmas parties that it was forever associated with joy, but on that day, I remember being so afraid of walking through the door, as if one could sense an impending separation from that indoor sunshine. The mood was light, only because Poppop always considered himself a "burden" & wanted to, despite the situation, maintain a level of calm.

So when I walked upstairs to see him, I had no expectations for the site. They had him propped up in a hospital bed. My grandparents' bedroom was all disheveled. Aunt Mary & Mommom were there as Poppop asked how my day was, how the boyfriend was, etc., all of the normal inquiries. Of course he wasn't the same, but he still tried to wear a smile, my Poppop who was known for his riddles and his jokes, his unconditional love for his grandchildren, his paternal passion for his children, & his eternal love for his wife.

When I say Poppop cannot be compared to any other grandfather, I'm not exaggerating. He battled cancer like no other, and he was strong throughout. He always sported that smile, and he always bought these crazy mugs against squirrels and their thievery of his birdseed. We all loved him very dearly.

I know for a fact I did not know him as well as I could have. For some reason, as a child, I always felt vastly inferior to everyone around me, and I had a fear of disappointing my grandfather. We grew up in a family of accomplishment, and there were times when I felt I didn't even meet the average. Though it's obvious that Poppop didn't care, I allowed the pressure to overwhelm me.

I really, really, really should not have.

He said he loved me, and this seemed like a sign in which he was trying to say his final good-bye. I, the non-believer, just smiled and said, "I'll see you Thursday, Poppop," and then kissed him good-bye.

I really thought I'd see him that Thursday. I really thought Tuesday wasn't the final good-bye. We were wrong.

That Thursday wasn't such a bad schoolday. I had checked my phone in the morning only because I liked to wish my boyfriend of the time a good day, and used to love receiving those little surprise texts from him. If I had only checked it passed a certain point, I might've realized my mom had called me. Once the 3 pm dismissal bell rang, I didn't check my phone, but instead hung out with my friends until the crowds in the hallway dispersed. I then called my mom back, and she told me as calmly as possible that Poppop had passed away not a few hours before. She tried to reach me, but alas, "I was in school."

It's another one of those moments people believe they may never have to experience. And me, sheltered little, in-a-bubble-at-the-Mount girl finally dove head-first.

I remember a lot of wailing, a lot of tears, a lot of me sliding down my locker and not knowing what to do, and pressing my legs to my chest, and only looking up when Sister Kathleen asked me what was wrong. This nun was my favorite; the president of our high school, she had the heart of the Mother Teresa herself. She stayed with me for a while and got me back on my feet--"He loved you very much, sweetie, I know he did"--and made sure I made it to the car.

The next destination was Poppop's. The drive is hard to recall, but when I finally reached the house, I remember walking in and first seeing my Aunt Mary, and breaking down yet again--"I never really got to say good-bye, I never really got to say good-bye" "He knew you loved him, and he loved you, too".

The viewing, the funeral, and everything afterward--nothing felt the same. My dad delivered the eulogy at the funeral. He had cried before, and I'd only seen him cry twice in my whole life--this time, and another time when a family member basically took my dad's love & threw it back in his sweet face.

When your mom cries, you don't think as much of it as when your dad cries. He's the strong, rational, "masculine" one. He holds your mom while she cries, not the other way around. It broke my heart to say him so emotionally-drained, and I remember he grabbed me and one point and sobbed, and I sobbed with him.

All I know is, I miss my grandfather more than anything, and although I always preach the antihesis of the following statement to my friends: I have regrets, and I wish I could rewind time.

But Poppop wouldn't want this. He would want us to live our lives to the fullest, which is what I will strive to do. In his honor. As my dad wrote in his eulogy, Poppop showed us how to live and how to love. We should always and forever emulate that.

"When you cry, you cry alone, but when you smile, the world smiles with you."

-R.I.P. Robert

The Egg-sperience

In the world of breakfast foods, eggs can assume many forms, specifically:

1. Scrambled,
2. Hard-boiled, &;
3. Sunny-side-up.

Personally, I used to avoid eggs at all cost, until the day an ex of mine made me scrambled eggs one morning. Graciously accepting the meal rather than politely declining, I finally tasted the eggs without so much as turning up my nose. They were phenomenal, as heavenly as bananas' foster french toast, as delectable as the crowd-pleasing monkey bread, and as sensational as my mother's critically-acclaimed cheesecake.

Really, they were darn good eggs, and to this day, I have not had a plate of scrambled eggs please me as much as they did that morning. Kudos to the chef, of course. Without him, I would never have the moxie to try them.

So, after tasting this fashion of cooked eggs, I developed an affinity for tasting eggs in all sorts of manners. As a result, I came to the conclusion that eggs can be a nice metaphor for people and personality types.

For example, let us begin with scrambled. When you hear the word "scrambled," the following adjectives quickly resonate in one's mind: "struggling," "scurrying," "muddle," "confusion," and "scrabble."

So, someone who cannot manage to find their path in life--someone who suffers from an identity crisis--are very much like scrambled eggs. They are facing the identity moratorium stage of life. Picture one of your friends, quite probably an excessively indecisive one, who has no motivation simply because he/she cannot find motivation. As a flibbertigibbet, this person may be a little scatter-brained, since so much is thrown upon them that their Life Code, if you will, can't be deciphered despite trying many different combinations. Your friend couldn't tell you what he or she wants to do in the future, much less how he or she likes his or her eggs. Of all the egg forms to be categorized as, this sounds like the most internally aggravating.

Hard-boiled eggs avoid the kerfuffle of scrambled eggs. They're pretty black-and-white, usually possessing a tough outer shell that, once cracked, will reveal a soft and vulnerable interior. These are the people whom you can just observe in passing and think to yourself, "Well, someone thinks he's/she's just the bees knees, as strong as 300 Spartans and as emotionally stable as a robot!" Well, ponder again. Inside, you might find a stormy and subfusc individual. Put them in a situation in which their one fear is present, and they may break completely.

If hard-boiled eggs are like ticking time bombs, then the sunny-side-up folks are clones of Po, the Teletubby. As the description implies, such people seem to carry a smile through all manner of circumstances because their core is like the sun, brightening the earth and keeping the rest of us from experiencing a serious emotional ice age. These are the people whom you aim to stick around, and these are the people whom you aspire to be at all times. Optimism is a cure for the worry-wart: for the most part, sunny-side-up kids are just glad to be alive, and that's all they require as a driving force.

But the question is, which are you? 

Ladybugs

This year, two friends had a ladybug infestation in their room. They multiplied like rabbits. Of course, the girls expressed their trepidations about the rapid proliferation of ladybugs.

Ladybugs are virtually docile insects, and have a tendency to be synonymous with luck. Why would an infestation be so troublesome then?

Well, if ladybugs are generally associated with luck, then these beautiful critters can be applied to the dating world.

For example--and I swear my grandmother either fabricated this tale, or stole it from elsewhere--my grandmother uses ladybugs to describe the opposite sex. She claims that one day as a little girl, she chased ladybugs. After being unsuccessful, she fell down in the middle of a field and allowed herself to slip into a slumber. When she awoke, she was covered in ladybugs.

The lesson? Expect the unexpected: don't spend life waiting around for good to fall upon you. Rather, just FORGET ABOUT IT, and all of the sudden, you will be blessed.

After my grandmother enthusiastically divulged this piece of her childhood (in a desperate attempt to teach me a high school lesson), I experimented with this theory. Most of the time, it worked. The problem? Don't snatch each ladybug that lands upon you; the ladybug world is vast and for the most part unexplored, so you should probably welcome some other guests.

And if that ladybug actually turns out to be a hostile bumble bee, do not simply stand rigid and await it to leave your presence. Take action; grab a massive fly swatter and some bug repellant, and end that sucker's buzzing. Come on. Do you really want a bee sting?

Of course, if you're brave, and quite vindictive, perhaps you would rather be stung by the bee, which will die instantly post-stingage. Justice! Theoretically, you're liable to "win" either way.

Lately, the bee population triumphed over the ladybugs. From a positive viewpoint, the abiliy to distinguish friendly bug from a foe gradually became clearer. After a few ladybugs and/or bumble bees, you suddenly realize that once those ladybugs land on you in that dreamy field, you can flick a few away and allow the others to remain. Hopefully, the ones you might desire to stick around won't fly away so soon. After all, ladybugs are decently difficult to ensnare once they fly away, and if you chase after them, well ... don't be selfish.

"Nicoletta, you just wait. You just wait, and you'll get that ladybug."

Thanks, grandmom.

P-a-n-t-s ... + -l-e-s-s.

Let's talk about pants.

Men have wore them for the past few centuries. Before that, pants were formally known as breeches and were much, much tighter, and consequently, much, much more attention-grabbing (or they would be, if time-traveling were possible).

But now, women can wear pants, too. Equally tight, if not more so. Maybe a little loose, a little baggy.

Say what you will, but this demonic clothing type is restrictive, kind of like the disciplinary doctrines of Catholic elementary school.

Now, consider skirts or dresses. When spring hits, you can break out these comfy and quite feminine articles of clothing. You could do so now, in the dead of winter, but then you also feel inclined to purchase stockings or pantyhose, therefore defeating the purpose of the aerodynamics of dresses, & missing out on the reason as to why they are sheer awesomeness:

FREEDOM.

If it hasn't occurred to you yet, I am a big proponent of warm weather. They say mankind is more content when the flowers are in bloom and everyone can shed their layers, scarves, gloves, hats, mittens, hoodies, sweaters, so-called "puffer" jackets, trench coats, etc.

As a woman, you could just wear a dress, a single article of clothing--now, I am assuming you're wearing panties, perhaps a bra, too. Regardless, experience the liberation of feeling the sun's rays beating down on your uncovered legs (please wear sunscreen), the joy of a breeze upon your skin, the instant gratification of being able to shave your legs and actually have everyone recognize it.

This is true happiness. This is independence. This is ...

not going to happen for at least another two mind-numbingly cold months.

Food: Consoling Even the Worst of Worry-warts

Mmmm. Bagels.

They don't have them in Italy. Quite frankly, they don't need them in Italy; their stock of baked goods, pastries, and delectable treats could eradicate hunger in Haiti.

But still. Bagels.

The cure for depression, cibophobia, and frustration? Very likely. This breakfast food is liable to rid you of those Monday blues. Try a wheat bagel toasted with cinnamon rasin cream cheese. Remain in awe while your taste buds experience ecstasy like never before.

This particular Monday ended with the aforementioned statement. What a terrible blow to your academic self-esteem when, after a week's painstaking preparation, an Astronomy test does not go according to plan!

Sure. This occurrence does not mark the apocalypse or a permanent, heart-breaking change in your GPA; yet you muse about what might have happened had your handy-dandy calculator been by your side.

You also wonder what might happen if you stopped observing human behavior.

Consider the following: You see someone with whom you have recently been acquainted. You're walking toward one another. Suddenly, you are met with a debacle: do you say hello, meet his/her eyes, stop and chat, high-five, hug, or wave?

So many options present themselves within those 5 seconds.

You say hello: the receiver takes no notice and proceeds onward, while you are left feeling either indifferent or ignored (more precisely, decidedly stupid).

You meet his/her eyes: this action lasts a mind-blowing second, and then you're on your way to class.

You stop and chat: "Hello!" "Hey, how are you?" "I'm good, you?"... But you are still walking away and are out of proper ear-shot to respond...

You attempt a high-five: let's be serious, this rarely happens unless you are more acquainted with the subject.

You hug: how sweet, and cute, but is it one of those half-ass hugs, or squeezing-the-life-out-of-your-lungs hugs?

You wave: a pretty conventional decision you've just made! Simple, quick, and liable to receive the attention of the other, depending upon the vigor with which you gesture.

But why worry about human behavior when you could simply enjoy a heavy snack?

Mmm. Bagels.

Che cosa?

This blog is just about a few months old. Only three posts exist. Why?

Because during the past few months, I delved into the dark recesses of my mind in a valiant, but futile, attempt to find an interesting topic.

I can't think of a single subject.

Some under consideration ranged from very mundane to decidedly frivolous:

- the benefits of coffee
- the unattainable
- sunsets vs. sunrises
- prejudices
- snowmen revolts
- the greatness of Brandon Boyd
- Dresden's inability to purge itself of Nazism
- the creation of sporks
- laugh boxes
- Muse's theory to change/improve the world
- human behavior
- gobar gas plants
- trivia books
- science-fiction
- Valentine's Day, from the POV of the singles and the taken
- miscellaneous information
- the latest Disney animated princess flick
- competition
- "brambleberry"

...the list continues.

Maybe there doesn't need to be a focus. A "theme." Maybe the writing should be as such:

just polished my nails Oh my i do love the color purple, though this hasn't changed since Melissa colored my face that beautiful shade using sharpies in the first grade If Anne Frank survived the war would she still have published her diary or produced another work Dresden saddens me with its past Wow if that guy kissed me right now i'd probably faint from shock A solar system is a gravitationally-bound system composed of the Sun and all of its satellites If someone concocted that love potion from Harry Potter and attempted to seduce me using its power, then i would smell something akin to Arielle's hair pervading from the cauldron...oh yum The girls next to me are actually shorter than i am Why did J. D. Salinger have to pass away The cover for this issue's The New Yorker is so comical especially the (is that a...) baby elephant wrapped up in a sheep-like puffer jacket Hey I almost spelled 'elephant' wrong Why did TCNJ accept me again?

And the stupid banter continues.

I'm just expressing a point: who cares what I write here? More than likely,
1. No one will find this blog,
2. My own friends will be nice enough to avoid judgment, and
3. I'll clear up that muddle everyone creates in their own minds, you know, the muddle of ideas and thoughts and desires and fears. Sometimes you just need an exterminator for those crazy pests.

Cheers to 2010, the first actual year of this girl's blogging career.