In which I am temporarily nomadic

Sick of sitting around the house, abandoned by friends who are "in school" or "working" or "leading respectable lives" and globetrotting parents, I decided if the mountain would not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain, and headed to LA to visit those who had abandoned me. I would be making three stops: Los Angles, UCLA, and Pomona College in five days.
Day 1
It was with great regret that I left my beloved 1991 Volvo station wagon behind. My father put his foot down and was adamant that in order to drive 6 hour stretches, it was imperative that I have working headlights and be able to drive over 70 miles per hour without the aid of a steep downhill or a strong tailwind. Parents can be so controlling. So I set off in his car instead, stocked heavily with snacks and water bottles. The drive to LA is long, but for the most part very pretty. Rolling hills stretch skyward on either side of long stretches of highway and there was very little traffic. It wasn't until I merged onto I-5 that I realized why this drive can be a bit tedious. For almost 200 hundred miles, everything is flat and smells strongly of poop, grace à Cow-shwitz, the enormous feed lots that supply beef to (by the smell of it) the entire world. Driving past cows shoulder to shoulder (do cows have shoulders?) as far as the eye can see with little to no shelter is a sobering reminder of the flawed food industry we would rather not think about. Rant over.
Regardless, I made great time on 5, silently thanking my father for forcing his car upon me, and after driving through a surprisingly snowy Grapevine, I found myself in Los Angeles, about to reach my first stop. I was visiting a family friend my mother has known since junior high. Over the years, Robin has become a second mother to me, and I try to come down and visit her a couple times a year. I got to her house around 7, we had a quiet dinner, watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and went to bed.
Day 2
Robin works as a prop stylist on photoshoots for print ads and magazines, and she happened to have a job the next day, which she graciously allowed me to sit in on. We went to the photographer's studio, where they would be shooting the spring drink collections for a popular chain of coffee shops in Los Angeles. A staggering amount of work went into creating four different pictures, and Robin, the food stylist, the photographer, and his two assistants moved around in a flurry of artistic activity while I desperately tried to stay out of everyone's way with mixed success. As Robin, all five feet and 90 pounds of her, floated gracefully around the studio adjusting slices of fruit, I clomped around behind her like a hillbilly experiencing city livin' for the first time. They discussed lighting and the arrangement of the pomegranate seeds strewn around the table, while I nibbled a donut and tried not to somehow destroy everything they were working on. Once, while Robin and the representative from the coffee company were picking which of six identical glasses to put the drink into, I made the mistake of weighing in. "This one seems summery," I ventured. They both looked at me as though I had set fire to the table. "Its insulated" the rep said, looking at me as though I had just told her with great fervor that I enjoy the taste of human flesh. I decided everyone seemed to like it better when I just lurked over their shoulders, and vowed to do nothing but that for the rest of my time on set.
Minus the cup debacle, everyone could not have been more friendly, and seemed amused by how fascinated I was by everything, which to them was perfectly ordinary. I gushed over every new photo taken, even the ones that everyone else agreed were terrible, and I oohed and aahed over every new arrangement of peach slices or leaves or some combination of the two. At the end of the day, everyone thanked me profusely for "all my help," the grownup equivalent I suppose of giving me a sticker for being "such a trooper." Nevertheless, I walked away feeling very accomplished
Day 3
I left Robin's and went to see two of my good guy friends from high school, Brett and Luc, huge fratstars at UCLA. We passed a lovely afternoon together watching Sports Center and (for about three minutes before I put the kibosh on it) a very inspirational film about an interesting quid pro quo agreement established between the mother of a bully and his victim from the fraternity's online porn account. Then we parted ways so I could go to dinner with the one and only Stef "Koi Tillywater" Singer, Parker, and Goodman. We had a wonderful dinner together, though unfortunately my schemes to get them to come out afterwords to the bars were squelched by the working world. After dinner, Brett and Luc came to get me and we headed out to the bars in Westwood, forming the prelude of my horrific morning the next day.
Let me begin my account of the bars by issuing a formal retraction of the snide comments I've made about people who go to UCLA. I have made assumptions that they are twatty, and for that I am ashamed (also, sorry to Brett and Luc that I have been making these comments, they obviously did not apply to you). There came a point in the night when Brett was busy macking on assorted sorostitutes and Luc was called away to deal with some unforseen (but actually very forseen)circumstances, and I was left partially my own devices at a crowded bar in which I knew virtually no one. This could have spelled disaster, if not for the aggressive friendliness of my fellow revelers . I felt like an infant in some sort of experiment in collective living, constantly babysat by an intricate revolving door of conversationalists. After a while I was feeling like a true Bruin. Whenever anyone looked at me quizzically, I played my trump card: "I went to high school with Brett and Luc" and they would nod knowingly. So consider this my formal apology, UCLAians. You are not twats, far from it in fact. And that, is high praise indeed.
At the end of the night, Brett and I went home and fell asleep watching ESPN. A fitting end to a fratty day.
Day 4
I woke up several times during the night in a panic over where I was. When I remembered I was in a fraternity house at UCLA I briefly panicked again, before remembering this was exactly the plan. In the morning, I blissfully experienced that half hour period where you imagine that you have escaped your hangover just before it hits your like a freight train and you wish you were dead. The fraternity was having burgers for lunch. Brett had two burgers. I had one fry and vomited. Luc arrived sometime during this fiasco and he and Brett sat on the couch hashing out the details of the night before while I sat rigidly, clutching my head, where my brain was apparently trying to claw its way out. Finally I decided to just gut it out and make the forty five minute drive to Pomona. I bid farewell to the boys, (Brett helpfully cautioned me not to get pulled over because "you'd probably still get a DUI") and shakily got in the car. About a block away from UCLA, I vomited into my hand at a red light, casually tossed it out the window and solidly refused to make eye contact with any other drivers. Classy to a fault.
The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, and within about an hour I arrived at Pomona, greeted by Erin who rightfully assumed I would be driving around aimlessly, hopelessly lost, and was waiting to lead me to parking. Pomona has got to be the most idyllic campus I have ever laid eyes on. The weather is beautiful (60 and sunny for my entire visit), the campus is gorgeous (if only about 500 square feet), the dining hall looks like Hogwarts, and the school serves you free alcohol. The only downside: the disturbing amount of gingers....Seriously, its like there's a tractor beam somewhere on campus. While the twins were in class, I slept off the rest of my hangover, and awoke somewhat ready for the debauchery ahead of me. We started the night off wondering whether we should drink at dinner. I was solidly in the "against" camp, but was outvoted, and being the slave to peer pressure that I am, dutifully mixed vodka into my Fanta (remember what I was saying about being classy? I wasn't lying). Post dinner, we hit the Claremont/Pomona basketball game, aka the sporting event of the season, where I was introduced to Donald, the twentysomething freshmen with a British accent of questionable origin. I use the term "introduced" loosely, as Donald was on the court, playing basketball, and Erin, Emily and I were watching from the stands... After the game (Pomona won, GO SAGEHENS!) we headed back to the room to prepared for Pub. Every Wednesday night, Pomonans go to an on-campus bar, where they get in for free and the alcohol is provided by the University. Its a win-win. We spent the night there, merrily fistpumping the night away, enjoying the occasional Donald sighting, before heading to a suite where one of the residents had taken advantage of the high ceilings and constructed a second floor out of plywood, plexiglass, and (one assumes) willpower and balls. According to the twins the university deemed it "structurally sound" but I wasn't taking any chances, and kept my feet firmly planted on solid, building code-compliant ground.
Day 5
Due to the magic of Pomona, I woke up well-rested and hangover-free. One final breakfast and I bid a fond farewell to Pomona and the twins and got in the car one last time for a relatively quick, and thankfully vomit-free drive home.

Thank you to Robin, Brett, Luc, Erin and Emily for letting me stay with you. I truly have such wonderful friends and this trip only solidified that notion. The people you have chosen to surround yourselves are all wonderful, and they with welcomed me with such open arms simply because I was a friend of yours. I am so blessed to have you in my life, and I will miss all of you so so much while I am gone, but I'm so grateful to have gotten to sit in on your lives very briefly.

With that, Lathrop out.

In which I am inducted into the Secret Society of the Reckless Adventurer

So its been a bit rainy in California lately. Actually, that's something of an understatement. Its been pouring torrentially on and off since Sunday, and I've been going a little stir crazy.
Today I decided damn the weather, I'm going hiking. While it has been raining/hailing for three days, its fairly on and off, and I figured if I could time it right, I could dodge the downpour and make it, with little to no rain.
As I drove up it began to sprinkle and I noticed some ominous clouds on the horizon, but nothing seemed to be too bad, so I parked and walked through the gate. At the ranger station, a woman stopped me.
"Do you know if there's going to be thunder today?"
Now truthfully, I had no idea, and didn't even know how one would know such a thing without the weather section handy. But clearly, this woman had identified me as something of a wilderness expert, and I was not going to be the one to set her straight.
"Oh probably," I lied, looking at the sky in what I hoped was a knowing way.
"And you're still going to go?" She said, and I nodded, trying to come across as somewhat dangerous. "Well I think I'm going to turn back, I don't want to get caught at the top of the hill if there's going to be lightning." As a matter of fact, neither did I, and truthfully I hadn't thought of that possibility, but by this point I couldn't turn back and jeopardize my new-found reputation as a weather-reading adventurer, so I turned and headed up the hill.
It started to drizzle as I began my ascent, but I was still riding high on my new, albeit false credentials. Despite the weather, visibility was good, and when I reached the top of the first hill, I could see all the way across the bay. Also, apparently the possibility of being struck by lightning had frightened away other, less-hardy, hikers, and I had the trail almost to myself. Just before I hit the crest of the hill, I saw my first lightning, followed by a loud clap of thunder. My joy at having my prediction justified was slightly dampened by my fear of being electrocuted, but I pressed on. The wind began to pick up, and soon it began to pour. I put up my hood just as it began to hail, stinging my legs and face. My nose began to run with a vengeance and I inadvertently snorted a hailstone which judging by the sensation, lodged somewhere in my brain. The wind blew the rain all over the trail and seemed to do its darndest to shove me into the brush. I was completely soaked, and watched my shoes fill completely with water.
Through the wind and rain, the occasional fellow adventurer would approach, coming the opposite direction on the loop trail. As we passed each other, we exchanged grim smiles, with our hands up an exaggerated "ohh well" gesture, or gave each other the thumbs up, shouting encouragement that was borne away by the wind the second it left our mouths. I only passed about four people, but every time there was some sort of interaction. My exposure-addled mind began to roam as I trudged along through the deluge. I saw myself and my fellow hikers as secret society of adventurers, who couldn't be penned in by silly things like "rain" or "driving hailstones." We would have our meetings in an underground bunker, or an abandoned boxcar, and speak exclusively about our extremeness.
Right about as I was mentally designing our crest and secret knock, an opening appeared in the clouds and the sun began to shine through, saving me from my deranged ramblings. The rain began to abate, and (I'm not kidding) a rainbow became visible. I'm not saying that God came down to give me a high five for being reckless adventurer, but if He did, it probably would have looked something like that.

In which my parents are jetsetters

This morning, I dropped my parents off at the airport where they are headed to Austria for their 25th wedding anniversary. Austria is a bizarre source of common ground for them, but they've never been there together. My mother studied abroad in Salzburg as an undergrad, and my father spent two years in Vienna working at a research center focused on promoting collaboration between Eastern and Western bloc countries during the 70s. Over the next two weeks, they will be visiting Vienna and Salzburg, two places that had a lot of significance for them as individuals, now as a couple for the first time.
I'm so proud of my parents for making it 25 years in the marriage. I know that it hasn't always been easy but they made it and I couldn't be happier for them!
So, congratulations, Mom and Dad, here's to 25 more!

In which I muse on love, loss, and other things I am reminded constantly I know nothing about

I was so silly to think I wouldn't miss GW. My dear alma mater has been something of an emotional roller coaster for me, and I have spent probably 30% of my time there wishing I were elsewhere. Over the summer, when I was essentially a weeping bundle of exposed nerve endings, I pondered dropping everything and not coming back in the fall. I had had my fill of the people, the atmosphere, and this feeling that I should always be working towards things I wasn't 100% sure I wanted. After a particularly brutal semester in which I essentially lost my marbles, I returned home defeated to lick my wounds. I was in a funk to say the least. During the past year I had done so many things I wasn't proud of. I had hurt people who didn't deserve it for reasons I still am unsure of, and I had allowed myself to be hurt time and time again in the interest of preserving an unhealthy status quo. I wish it was as simple as stating that I was a victim of circumstances, but of course, I was not (as we never are). I had emotional support around me, and I rejected it. People were extending branches to me to pull me out of the river, but I decided instead to brave the falls. Bad. Call.
Upon my return home, I found myself in somewhat of a self-imposed hermitage. Though I don't think I knew it at the time, I was beginning the incredibly painful process of putting myself back together. At this time, I became so grateful for the people who still cared, and followed up with me. I remain so grateful for these tiny gestures of thoughtfulness that it floors me that I was ever so fragile. I returned to GW with a "stiff upper lip" mentality that I would just tough it out until I was able to flee abroad. Fortunately, this was not to be the case, and I was surprised time and time again at the love flowing my way from so many unexpected sources. I am so thankful for the continued and unwavering support of friends near and far.
So I will miss GW. I was silly to think that I wouldn't. I will miss the lessons that it has taught me, the people there who constantly surprise me with displays of both staggering twat-itude and shocking depth and breadth of genuine character, and of course, my sausage, egg and cheese from Ivory.
So I guess this is just kind of an ode to all the people who have touched my life over the past year, yes, even the bad touches, so to speak.I'm so grateful for everything that I have been through and the people who have scraped me off the pavement time and time again and reformed me into some semblance of a human being.

And finally, here's your shoutout, Andrew Sacks-Hoppenfeld. I love you very much and I wish you and Brant the best time while abroad. Thank you both for listening to me cry hysterically last year and for pretending not to be utterly terrified by my insanity.

In which I learn to appreciate life's "shortcuts"

Driving with my mother is always an adventure, from fielding questions as to who is on the radio (her guesses, in order, are bizarrely Coldplay, Linkin Park, and Green Day), to lurching to a stop anytime anything remotely resembling a squirrel appears in or near the road. However, one driving quirk is particularly prevalent: her love of "shortcuts."
After living in the same general area for 20 years, my mother has developed an affinity for the vast network of side streets that honeycomb Los Altos and Mountain View. She will veer off the beaten path at the drop of a hat, plunging into some new route she has concocted that she swears is faster than the usual one. These "shortcuts" generally involve a fair amount of driving as we twist and turn down various residential streets, perhaps leading an observer to wonder whether we are really saving time. That remains a valid question, though my mother will regale skeptics with endless theories on time saved by avoiding traffic lights, and the inefficiency of endlessly slowing down and speeding up. Personally, I have given up trying to reason with my mother and meekly go along with her, obediently following her directions left and right through maze-like backstreets. To her credit, the woman who remains perplexed by the spelling of the word "pickle" must have an internal compass that would make a Boy Scout weep with jealousy, because I have never gotten lost on one of these alleged shortcuts. I'll admit I have had my doubts, but though it defies all reason, we emerge time and time again, unscathed in the Safeway parking lot after 30 minutes of constant right turns.
These" shortcuts," aggravating though they may occasionally be, illuminate one of the finer points of my mother’s character. Her methods of saving time (term used loosely) do not include slamming on the brakes at the last possible minute when you can’t make a yellow light, or punching the accelerator the minute the light changes back to green. Instead, she takes the road less traveled. She stops to admire a freshly painted fence or a newly constructed house. Once, her desire to take a particular route stemmed from a street lined with huge poplars, whose changing leaves formed a vivid orange canopy over the car. Yes, it can be aggravating to wend endlessly through labyrinthine backstreets, but I have come to enjoy it as a reminder of my mother’s tireless ability to see the beauty in the mundane, and her desire to share that with the world. I hope to take her philosophy with me to Australia, and to explore my fair share of "shortcuts" down under. Here's hoping I inherited that sense of direction!

In which I have some time on my hands...

Exactly one month before my departure, I find myself with some time on my hands. After toying with the idea of picking up a part-time job to earn a little extra cash in my downtime, I finally decided against it. After months of scrimping and saving, I find myself with a substantial (by my meager standards) savings account the likes of which I have not seen since my ten year old self saved 89 dollars of lunch and chore money to buy a miniature stable for my extensive herd of model horses (yup...I was that girl). Despite having held some form of part-time employment since the age of 14, I never have been quite able to wrap my head around the concept of "saving," until I found things worth saving for. So as my reward for living like a struggling single mother for a semester, struggling to make ends meet by hawking nail polish and wiping up sweat at Relaxed, I've decided to give myself a month's leave of absence from steady (though part-time) employment. I'm still picking up the odd babysitting job here and there, but I'm taking this month to do things that I enjoy and that I will remember when I take off for my jet-setting extravagent lifestyle (......).
I'm going to watch movies, go for walks aka "the best form of exercise" -H. Spengler, catch up on my reality tv (DON'T JUDGE ME, they might not have it is Australia), spend time with my family, play/write music badly, bid for things on eBay I will not win because I remain inexplicably puzzled by the basic concept, teach my parents how to use Skype, and most of all, keep you all updated on my progress in these endeavors. Bolstered by my loyal readership of three (what's up Brett Perrotta, Eden Sutley, and Mom??), I will allow you to live vicariously through me as I embark upon my life of luxury. Beginning today:

Today I was awoken by a small earthquake. For those non-Californians, the vast majority of earthquakes are tiny. Miniscule. Most are so small you don't even feel them, and the rare few you do feel are just enough where you pause look around, and go "was that....?" and wait for someone around you to nod so you don't feel crazy. This one was kind of nice. I heard the light fixtures rattling for a couple second then a slight lurch, then one more. And then it was over. Nothing in the room even moved. Just Mama Earth going "Oh, hey."
From there I went with my sister to grab lunch with my grandparents at their retirement home. My sister and I talked with my grandfather about the weather (his topic of choice), Laurel assured him that yes, Upstate New York remains freezing cold, and I tried to explain that Melbourne would probably be fairly mild weather, while he maintained it would be "in the 80's. Its all a desert you know!" We agreed to disagree, while my grandmother asked, apropo of nothing if I had a boyfriend, presumably in the hopes that he would assist me in supplying her with grandchildren. When I regretfully informed her that no, I was baby- and boyfriend-free at the moment, she told me reassuringly that "it was better to play the field." After this uncomfortable announcement, we helped my grandfather wrap up the leftover grapes on our plates into ziploc bags he keeps in his pockets, apparently for just this purpose, and headed over to play a few games of Hearts.
For anyone familiar with the game of Hearts, it may not strike you as a particularly bloodthirsty game, yet in the company of my octogenarian grandparents, it becomes the perfect opportunity for soul-shattering strategy, designed to lure your opponents into a false sense of comfort, and then, at a moment of your choosing, drop the dreaded Queen of Spades onto their hand, costing them the game, their dignity, and your love. I can say with one hundred percent sincerity that I have choked back tears during family games of Hearts. This round I went into in decently high spirits, having won last weeks tournament by a substantial margin, though I probably should have been clued in by my grandfather's ominous mutterings of "Just you wait" that I would have a hard time hanging onto my title, or for that matter, my sanity. I made my first error when I declined to give the Queen of Spades to my Grandmother, who suffers from dementia, and ended up having to take it myself, costing myself the game. When my Grandfather realized I had, somewhat nobly I thought, fallen on the sword to save my ailing Grandmother, he crowed with laughter at my naivete. Turns out he was right, as she never thanked me, in the next round gave me the Queen, and ended up beating me overall. FINE. No good deed goes unpunished. Next time, you won't be so lucky, Grandma. A big congratulations to my sister, who ended up winning the whole thing, despite a lifelong hatred of the game and the treachery it generally entails, but Laurel, take it from a former champ: sleep with one eye open, glory is fleeting.

As for the rest of the day, I'm going hiking with friends, and then out to dinner with my family and my Aunt and Uncle. This evening, I'm debating either watching last night's episode of Real World: DC, or revisiting one of my favorite movies, "Last of the Mohicans" with Daniel Day-Lewis. As far as I'm concerned, they are about equal in terms of masterful storytelling, stunning visuals, and bicurious twentysomethings (maybe not the last one).

In which I am resolute

I've never really been a "New Year's Resolution" kind of gal. Then again, I've never really been a "go to Australia for a semester" kind of gal either, so what the hell, here we go:

1. I will say "yes" to things that I otherwise would have said "no" to not because I don't want to do them, but because saying "no" is easier.
2. My vegetarianism will no longer be conditional on my sobriety.
2a. Despite my vegetarianism, I will continue to eat breakfast sausage because I love it and it really doesn't count as meat, as I suspect it is mainly feet, eyeballs, and plastic.
3. I will not take advantage of the fact that my family loves me unconditionally.
4. I will try new things whilst in Australia, and provided nothing goes horribly wrong with that, I might even bring that one stateside with me.
5. I will floss.
6. I will not get eaten by a saltwater crocodile, and will not let the fear of such an incident keep me out of the ocean in Australia.
7. I will stop projecting positive qualities upon people who don't deserve them because its easier than admitting that people I love are flawed.
8. I will stop exaggerating negative qualities in people who don't deserve it because its easier than giving them a chance.
9. I will not let people stress me out by having "plans" or "knowing what they want to do in life." Overrated if you ask me.
10. I will CONSTANTLY remind myself how lucky I am for all the blessings in my life.

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE. 2010? You're mine, bitch.