Maybe I've been watching too much Girls and really just want to be Lena Dunham, or maybe because reading 50 Shades of Grey convinces me anyone can write as long as they talk about weird enough stuff... Long story short, I decided I was in the mood to blog once again.
I've been considering writing a post for a while, but I didn't know where to place the post. I felt that writing about the mundane hilarity of being home was too... NOT COOL ENOUGH for the "globe trotting blog" and I felt as though the Jambo NUC was a little too high school after reliving some of the posts at a barbeque. I apologize for mocking the La Canada experience so publicly on my blog. Actually, sorry I'm not sorry. I'm a Altadena girl/ NEW YORKER/ global citizen now BITCHES. HAHA. I'm sooooo pretentious.
So, here I am, tacky giraffe print and url still the same. Oh well, jambs. Even I thought it would be too ANNOYING to have three blogs.
HERE I AM, AT HOME.
Which after my year abroad, is pretty weird. I find myself having the same conversation every time I go out. I am REALLY flattered that everyone looked at my facebook pictures and is interested in my travels. Its almost overwhelming when random people tell me they've been stalking me all year... Like, HELLO, I didn't wear make up in any of my photos and wore hippie pants in various prints. By the way, if you've seen those pants, Indian/Cambodian people (where I purchased the pants) don't actually wear them. Its the white tourists that rock them so they can feel more... down to earth. Enough about the pants though. The worst questions I get are:
"What was your favorite place?"
I don't even KNOW where to start with that one. I usually say India because it was the most mind boggling, and I admit to disliking China. But what was my favorite place? I don't think I'll ever know. Every place I went was an expansion of thought, of deep reflection, of something new and exciting. Its not like asking oh, whats your favorite color or ice cream flavor (btw, purple and cake batter from coldstones).
The other really bad kicker is the "Tell me a story". When people say that I want to say, once upon a time there was a man who stumbled upon a tribe of native American peoples. He befriended a wolf named two socks and saw some weird stuff happen to a woman in the tribe. He became friends with the leader and had an odd and enriching life. Later, this story was made into a movie with Kevin Costner....
I'm not sure what that the "story question" even means! A STORY? And by the way, I was referring to the story of Dances With Wolves if anyone missed the reference. Reoccurring theme of that book: Rebirth. 8th grade lit for the win. For the record, my best stories from my trip involve poop, and no one wants to hear about explosive diarrhea between games of BP.
The worst part about being back though, is having a job. Its hard because three months ago I was shadowing a caretaker in a township in South Africa, meeting people with the most interesting stories, listening, learning, cleaning bed wounds of the sick and helping to distribute medicine, discussing the social causes of disease and the problems with patenting medicine. Now, I'm a Swim Instructor. I decided just like college majors (which I shall design my own and make an incredibly lengthy title for at NYU's Gallatin's School of Individualized Study) the longer your job title is, the cooler and more enjoyable of a job it really is. Swim Instructor buys me two words, which I guess is a step above Janitor (which really could be called Maintenance Personnel and then I'd be tied)...
I can't decide if it is any job I'd struggle to find joy in, or if its just the two word one I have now that is painful. Gold Digger is also two words, so I figure worse comes to worse, it can't be anymore painful gold digging than teaching swim ;). I teach parent infant classes, which is cool, except I have to sing, which I don't do well. And hello, my ego is out of control, I have to do everything well. It really blows though because I have to shout to have my class of 48, 24 parents (actually sometimes more like 35 parents because parents don't get that its really crowded and the class says parent infant not mom, dad, aunt, and grandma and infant) and 24 infants which leaves me with a voice of a chain-smoker of thirty years by the time I'm done on Saturday. I also teach preschool 1, also known as "the class for kids who have never swum before in their lives and are terrified of the water and have parents that think the best technique is to shove them into the instructors arms and assume the instructor can hold their one hysterical shrieking kid the entire class time and coo to them even though the instructor can't because she has four other kids waiting on the step yelling that they are bored". Oh, and that is if the other kids bother to stay on the step. Kids this age, ages 3/4 either think they are invincible and know how to swim and jump off the steps and nearly drown every five minutes or are watching the kids nearly drown and are afraid its going to be them and don't move at all. Oh, and everyone, fearless or not, kicks and scratches.... and occasionally grabs nipples as knobs of support.
Enough about nipples.
Being home though, does have its novelties. Like In and Out, the HBO I recently begged my mom for so I could watch Girls (once again Lena Dunham=life), facebook, and of course my bitchberry. Its hard to believe that just a few months ago I was easily satisfied with four crappy nokia phones split between 11, and now I can barely stand my bitchberry because it doesn't have instagram. Luckily, spoiled little me has an iPod touch and can still be part of the instagram community. Except my instagram isn't epic because I never even HAVE my iPOD touch with me. Gah. White Girl Problems. Don't judge me.
Now, if you'll excuse me, since I'm sitting at home, I'm going to try and instagram a great picture of my tan lines, courtesy of my two-word job.
I've been considering writing a post for a while, but I didn't know where to place the post. I felt that writing about the mundane hilarity of being home was too... NOT COOL ENOUGH for the "globe trotting blog" and I felt as though the Jambo NUC was a little too high school after reliving some of the posts at a barbeque. I apologize for mocking the La Canada experience so publicly on my blog. Actually, sorry I'm not sorry. I'm a Altadena girl/ NEW YORKER/ global citizen now BITCHES. HAHA. I'm sooooo pretentious.
So, here I am, tacky giraffe print and url still the same. Oh well, jambs. Even I thought it would be too ANNOYING to have three blogs.
HERE I AM, AT HOME.
Which after my year abroad, is pretty weird. I find myself having the same conversation every time I go out. I am REALLY flattered that everyone looked at my facebook pictures and is interested in my travels. Its almost overwhelming when random people tell me they've been stalking me all year... Like, HELLO, I didn't wear make up in any of my photos and wore hippie pants in various prints. By the way, if you've seen those pants, Indian/Cambodian people (where I purchased the pants) don't actually wear them. Its the white tourists that rock them so they can feel more... down to earth. Enough about the pants though. The worst questions I get are:
"What was your favorite place?"
I don't even KNOW where to start with that one. I usually say India because it was the most mind boggling, and I admit to disliking China. But what was my favorite place? I don't think I'll ever know. Every place I went was an expansion of thought, of deep reflection, of something new and exciting. Its not like asking oh, whats your favorite color or ice cream flavor (btw, purple and cake batter from coldstones).
The other really bad kicker is the "Tell me a story". When people say that I want to say, once upon a time there was a man who stumbled upon a tribe of native American peoples. He befriended a wolf named two socks and saw some weird stuff happen to a woman in the tribe. He became friends with the leader and had an odd and enriching life. Later, this story was made into a movie with Kevin Costner....
I'm not sure what that the "story question" even means! A STORY? And by the way, I was referring to the story of Dances With Wolves if anyone missed the reference. Reoccurring theme of that book: Rebirth. 8th grade lit for the win. For the record, my best stories from my trip involve poop, and no one wants to hear about explosive diarrhea between games of BP.
The worst part about being back though, is having a job. Its hard because three months ago I was shadowing a caretaker in a township in South Africa, meeting people with the most interesting stories, listening, learning, cleaning bed wounds of the sick and helping to distribute medicine, discussing the social causes of disease and the problems with patenting medicine. Now, I'm a Swim Instructor. I decided just like college majors (which I shall design my own and make an incredibly lengthy title for at NYU's Gallatin's School of Individualized Study) the longer your job title is, the cooler and more enjoyable of a job it really is. Swim Instructor buys me two words, which I guess is a step above Janitor (which really could be called Maintenance Personnel and then I'd be tied)...
I can't decide if it is any job I'd struggle to find joy in, or if its just the two word one I have now that is painful. Gold Digger is also two words, so I figure worse comes to worse, it can't be anymore painful gold digging than teaching swim ;). I teach parent infant classes, which is cool, except I have to sing, which I don't do well. And hello, my ego is out of control, I have to do everything well. It really blows though because I have to shout to have my class of 48, 24 parents (actually sometimes more like 35 parents because parents don't get that its really crowded and the class says parent infant not mom, dad, aunt, and grandma and infant) and 24 infants which leaves me with a voice of a chain-smoker of thirty years by the time I'm done on Saturday. I also teach preschool 1, also known as "the class for kids who have never swum before in their lives and are terrified of the water and have parents that think the best technique is to shove them into the instructors arms and assume the instructor can hold their one hysterical shrieking kid the entire class time and coo to them even though the instructor can't because she has four other kids waiting on the step yelling that they are bored". Oh, and that is if the other kids bother to stay on the step. Kids this age, ages 3/4 either think they are invincible and know how to swim and jump off the steps and nearly drown every five minutes or are watching the kids nearly drown and are afraid its going to be them and don't move at all. Oh, and everyone, fearless or not, kicks and scratches.... and occasionally grabs nipples as knobs of support.
Enough about nipples.
Being home though, does have its novelties. Like In and Out, the HBO I recently begged my mom for so I could watch Girls (once again Lena Dunham=life), facebook, and of course my bitchberry. Its hard to believe that just a few months ago I was easily satisfied with four crappy nokia phones split between 11, and now I can barely stand my bitchberry because it doesn't have instagram. Luckily, spoiled little me has an iPod touch and can still be part of the instagram community. Except my instagram isn't epic because I never even HAVE my iPOD touch with me. Gah. White Girl Problems. Don't judge me.
Now, if you'll excuse me, since I'm sitting at home, I'm going to try and instagram a great picture of my tan lines, courtesy of my two-word job.
